49 Robin Bestows His Wisdom

August 15th

I knocked loudly on the front door of Apartment 203 of the Briars complex. Place your bets: How long will I have to do this before Armand wakes up?

I'd tried calling him several times while I was waiting around to speak to campus police, but with the understanding that he was Armand, and it was morning, and there was no way he was going to answer. I was secretly glad he hadn't picked up; we hadn't spoken since the night before, when I'd been crying about Skyler and he'd basically called me a creep. If things were going to be awkward between us—and they definitely were—they might as well be awkward face-to-face rather than over the phone.

I went to knock again, but the door creaked open. Armand was pale and—I'd never even thought this word before—wan. He looked wan.

I couldn't help it; I immediately stopped being mad at him. This beautiful, giant man was the most pathetic thing I'd ever seen in my entire life. "Armand? Are you okay?"

He nodded stiffly and moved aside so I could head past him into the apartment. I studied his face as I went by—he didn't look mad at me anymore, or mad at anything really. He looked like a man waiting to be pressed into a meat grinder. But the apartment was strangely clean with no lingering smell of booze; if anything, it smelled of coffee and ...

"Did you make croissants?" I whirled around to stare at him. "From scratch?"

Armand had closed the door behind us and was now leaning against it, arms crossed tightly over his chest and brows furrowed, cheeks pink. "I bake when I'm upset," he said, like that made any kind of sense.

"It's going to be fine. You and Lucas are gonna hit it off," I told him, grabbing a warm, golden crescent from the big plate on the kitchen island. It felt like a cloud. I took a bite and then leaned against the counter with my eyes closed. "Oh my god, your pain tastes amazing."

The silence that followed had a stinging brightness to it, like an overexposed photo. I turned to him again, raising my eyebrows questioningly. "Okay, what."

"Urgh"—his voice was thick and timorous—"it happened. We met."

"What happened? Who did— Oh my god, you met Lucas! When did this happen? Oh my god, oh my god, tell me, tell me, tell me!" I stuffed the last of my croissant in my mouth and ran up to him, grabbing his hands. "Wha' haffened?"

He gave a full-body cringe but didn't pull his hands away. "It's a long story."

"Then get started!" I glanced at my watch. "We don't have to check in at the convention center for a few hours."

Armand was shaking his head and pulling his hands away. "I ... I'm not sure he'll be there. Er. Or even wants to see me again. At all. Ever."

"Oh?" I held on tighter.

He stopped fighting and wilted. "I was, well, ehrm, I stepped on an inkwell ... w-while n-no-not wearing much, and there was blood a-and ink and, well, hurmmpphh never mind."

I let that mess of an explanation hang in the air between us for a few moments, then I said carefully, "You stepped on an inkwell?"

He shut his eyes and didn't respond, so I knelt down and wrenched up the leg of his pajama pants, nearly tipping him over.

"Gnrrchkt?" he said in protest and grabbed the wall for balance.

"This isn't so bad! We can work with it." The bandage on Armand's foot looked like a pretty professional job. "Did you go to urgent care? Wait—" I gasped "—did Lucas do this?"

I'd never seen Armand Demetrio so red or so wretched, and in both cases that was saying something.

"He did, didn't he? Oh man, I would have paid money to see—"

"Titch, stop it," he groaned, rubbing at his hairline. "I need to get ready."

I stood up and gave him my most pitying pout. "No, what you need is an emergency makeover. Don't get me wrong, first impressions are important, but that doesn't mean you can't drown them out with a really, really spectacular second impression!"

His eyes widened in horror "An emer—? Oh no, no no no no!"

"Yes yes yes yes yes. Now go to the kitchen and get me tea bags, lemon juice, olive oil, and—why not?—cucumbers."

He blinked at me. "A-are we making a salad?"

I stared at him. How could one man be so completely and wonderfully ridiculous? "Maybe later, but for now? You, good sir, are going to, dare I say it? Exfoliate!"

His shoulders slumped. "I am?"

I nodded, hair bouncing, and headed back into the kitchen, rooting through the drawers by the sink until I found what I needed: a plastic bag and saran wrap. "Now get over here so I can wrap your foot."

"Wh—"

"So you can shower, Stinky."

He keened softly like a creaky door or air being let out of a balloon. "This is so bloody inappropriate," he muttered.

I rolled my eyes, grabbed another croissant, and crouched down to start waterproofing his injury. He stood there and took it, holding his pajama pant leg up and out of my way. After a few moments, he harrumphed and straightened up, fisting a hand in his hair. "Titch, thank you for, ehrm. This isn't your job."

"Isn't it though?" I asked through a mouthful of heaven. "Do you know what ‘liaison' means?"

"Truly—" His voice went terrifyingly earnest, so I did us both a favor and cut him off.

"Just go, get in the shower, Mandy, and don't make me come in after you!"

"On one condition." He sighed. "You never, ever call me that again."

"No promises. Now get in there!" I used the tube of saran wrap to give him a motivational fwack.

He glared at me, then simply gritted his teeth and hobbled into the bathroom.

While he showered, I took the opportunity to run out to the pharmacy on the corner and pick up a few supplies, including a plain black walking cane. The convention center was huge, and the idea of Armand limping along sadly was a bit too much.

I got back just as he was coming out of the bathroom and nearly gave him a heart attack.

"Not yet." I handed him several bottles. "Go back in there and use these."

He stared down at them like they were mysterious potions. I had to quell the urge to start singing "White Rabbit"by Jefferson Airplane. "This one's a pomegranate face peel, and this one's a shea butter firming body lotion. Ooh, and this is some under-eye cream. For those dark circles, you know? And the puffiness, and the lines—"

He shut the bathroom door in my face.

But when he ventured forth again, his skin was practically glowing. He looked like someone who occasionally got eight hours of sleep. He was rubbing his smooth cheek a little self-consciously, and there was definitely a lessening of the raccoon effect around his eyes. "I feel raw," he grumbled.

"Good. Hopefully it'll make Lucas want to eat you up like cookie dough."

"I told you, Titch, I don't think he's coming."

"You said he's seen you, right? Trust me, he's coming."

Armand scowled. "Ti—" But then he unclenched a little, and his grumpy mouth twitched into a brief half smile. After a moment, he seemed to have worked up the nerve to say, "Have you spoken to Skyler at all?"

I froze. "I thought that was none of your business?"

"It isn't," he growled. "This really is deeply inappropriate. You both have technically worked for me—"

I rolled my eyes. "We worked for the school, you egomaniac. But no. We haven't talked." I shrugged, hoping it made me appear casual rather than devastated. "I don't think there's anything to talk about. Except—" I pointed at Armand's head "—what the hell we're going to do with your hair."

"My ha—" He sighed heavily.

Smart man.

"Fine."

Sure enough, there wasn't another outburst till the time came to choose an outfit.

"Ooh, you should wear these!" I held up a pair of dark, faded, and very narrow jeans for his inspection.

Armand eyed them warily and shook his head. "No, Lakshmi bought them for me, and they're far too tight in the ... Eerhm, they don't fit."

"All right, you've just convinced me, you're definitely wearing these." I tossed them at his head and turned back to continue burrowing through his suitcase.

"Titch!" There was a strangled bark behind me, and I turned again to see him gripping the jeans with both hands fisted, the color rising clearer than ever in his recently exfoliated face. "No. This is—arrgh— Listen to me: My goal is not and never has been to show off my arse, all right? That is not how I want to impress Lucas." He cringed. "I mean Drake House. Bloody hell."

I folded my arms over my chest and gave him a long perusal, head to toe and back, just to see if I could make him go any redder. "Forget Drake House. I told you, Lucas will be there, and would you rather he associate you with a bloody foot or a tight keister?"

He sputtered at me for a few seconds, then hung his head, shoulders sagging.

"Good man."

When I was done with him and he re-emerged from the bedroom, he looked a lot better than he had any right to expect, especially considering how much resistance he'd put up. It was like he had no sense of self-preservation ... which, considering his lifestyle, shouldn't have come as a surprise.

Though I couldn't help noticing he smelled a lot less like whiskey than he usually did.

"Okay, let me see." I grabbed Armand's arms and tried to get him to straighten up, then stepped back.

Oh yeah, I was good. I'd found a tight black turtleneck in his suitcase, and I'd gotten his curls to do this swoop thing, and now that he'd shaved, he resembled a movie star in their second week of rehab. Seriously, if you didn't know him and he never opened his mouth, you'd think he'd stepped off a runway somewhere.

Speaking of ...

"You got your speech?" I asked, like a mom asking a toddler about their lunch bag.

He glared, but then tellingly patted his pockets. "Aye."

"You're going to do great, I promise." I glanced at the kitchen clock. "The organizers wanted you to be there by one, so we've got some time to burn. What do you want to do? Go scream under an overpass?"

He bit his lip and shook his head at me. "We could go to campus," he said, his rumbly voice weirdly soft. "To see the dean."

I blinked at him. "We ... could do that. I don't know why we'd do that, but—"

"So you could tell her about that boy. The one who hurt you." His voice was getting stronger even as his face looked more tortured. "I don't want to pressure you into anything, but if you wanted—" Then he broke off into a horrified squeak as I hugged him. "Titch!"

"I know, I know, this is inappropriate." He definitely smelled less like booze. "Forget the dean. I filed a report with campus police this morning. I promise. They said they can't do anything after the fact, because the attack was interrupted, but it'll be on record in case ... in case he tries it again."

"Brilliant." I felt him swallow, still stiff as a board. Then he gave a helpless sigh and looked up at the heavens. "Can you let go of me now?"

I stepped back and grinned at him. "Man, poor Lucas has his work cut out for him."

He glared at me and ran a hand through his hair, destroying the careful, purposefully tousled style I'd achieved and sending it straight back to just plain tousled. He was impossible.

"S-since we're ignoring the basic tenets of professionalism," he began, and hilariously tried to shove his hands into the pockets of his very tight jeans, "may I say something about what happened between you and Skyler?"

"When have I ever been professional?" I pointed out. Be a man about this, Robin. "Yeah, okay. But don't be mean."

Armand nodded and bit his lip. "I know you think he's ... meant for you. Or some rubbish like that."

"I said don't be mean!"

"Aye, sorry." He rubbed one of his eyebrows, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. "Would it really be so horrible to simply be his friend?"

"Would you want to ‘simply' be Lucas's friend?" I snapped.

He widened his eyes at me, eyebrows converging in concern. "Yes. I ... I'd be a bit disappointed, aye, but if that was what he wanted, absolutely."

"Well, okay," I huffed, "I guess you're a better person than I am."

"That's not what it's about," he insisted. "Wanting to be with someone is more than wanting to have sex with them, for fuck's sake!" He seemed to catch himself, taking a deep breath and unclenching his hands. "O-or even wanting to romance them. If you like Skyler, the nature of your relationship shouldn't bloody matter. You wouldn't want him to do anything that makes him uncomfortable, would you?"

Armand was right, this was none of his business—and he clearly didn't feel about Lucas the same way I felt about Skyler. No wonder he'd managed to procrastinate meeting him for so long.

I checked the clock again. "We should get going, just in case there's traffic."

Armand kept watching me for a few moments, probably hoping I'd say something like Oh yeah, pssht, no, it's definitely fine that Skyler—along with the rest of the world—sees me as some kind of sexless, unattractive comic relief, but eventually he sighed, seeming to give up. "Aye," he rumbled sadly, and ran his hand through his hair once more, ruining every last bit of my good work.