A/N: Merry Christmas, you all! I wish this to be an amazing holiday, for all of you – I wish you to find hope, courage and light, to stay with your loved ones, and to have a great time, because we are tougher than the rest, aren't we?
This fic was inspired by the beautiful song "Fairytale of New York" by The Pogues featuring Kirsty MacColl (the lyrics you'll find are borrowed from that song); from the awesome movie "Colonia" with Emma Watson, and from the recent events in the world.
However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light.
Robin Locksley hates Christmas.
Christmas is, normally, a wonderful time. Who doesn't love it? Snow, lights, hot chocolate, presents, and that cheerful atmosphere glowing above the world. Everyone is happier, and hopeful, prepared to enjoy some time with their loved ones. Prepared to kiss a lover under the mistletoe, and watch the kids run excitedly around the house. Children have, at Christmas, the bright gaze that could melt the coldest heart. They tear the paper away from their gifts, letting out delighted squeals, so pleased in seeing that their believing and hoping has come true.
He misses it. He misses the simplest of things. Sitting there, on the couch, and watching his children find joy.
They should have the right to this, he thinks bitterly.
He used to love Christmas.
Now, when Halloween ends – yes, that he can live with, with pumpkins, gloom and fog – when Halloween ends, there's Thanksgiving, and that's the first stab of pain across his heart. Because, deep down, he knows he has something – someone, his family – to be thankful for… but it's not enough.
Then, it's Christmas time.
He used to love it. It was a special day.
Their special day.
But now, the closer it gets, the more he feels a dreadful cloak of sorrow descend upon his soul.
Christmas is when he has lost her.
His love, his friend, his wife.
His Regina.
#
you were handsome –
you were pretty,
queen of New York City –
when the band finished playing
they howled out for more
Their first Christmas together, they were twenty, stupidly in love and reckless. He has met her at college, as it always goes. Coffee, books, a common assignment, and common friends – Emma was her roommate, Killian was his, and how many times he has met her outside of her room, when they weren't together yet – she was always locked out, sitting on the floor, muffled noises of love coming from behind the door.
One night, he has taken her hand to help her get up, and he's brought her to the movies – as friends, obviously. "Come on, Mills, let's leave the dirty birdies to their nest." But he doesn't even remember which movie it has been. He was stealing glimpses of her during all the two hours and forty-two minutes.
One day, he has found the courage. And he has asked her out.
She has laughed, looking at him with an incredulous glare, then realized he was serious, and she has smiled. "Well, okay, then," she has said.
It was November, and it was the month of movie dates, of long conversations and walks, of studying until 3 am, and having awkward double dates with their friends (who were totally making bets about them ending up together for real).
They did.
She liked to write, his Regina.
A passion that didn't waltz very well with her studies – Economic Sciences, her mother's idea, and she'd dutifully complied… oh, she wasn't happy of it. He has brushed away her tears, helped her repeat the concepts, and prepped her coffee, grids of numbers lost between his own books.
And still, at night she liked to stay up late, scribbling down on her notebook. He's loathed that black, battered notebook – he used to tell her to just leave it and come to bed. He can still picture her, perched on her chair, one feet brought up to rest her chin above her knee, hair pinned up in a messy bun, and the subtle string of smoke curling up from her cigarette.
They were young, in love and reckless. They were students in a scholar system crumbling to its bones, they were part of the Ivy League, and the revolution grew from the bottom, strong and climbing up, until it reached the point of no return.
He remembers to have loved it. He has loved to be there with her, taking pictures with his father's camera, holding her hand between the other students, a flower in her hair, the New York Police Department deployed in front of them.
He remembers the thrill, the adrenaline. The deep certainty to be doing the right thing, and running away, fast, and then developing his photos in the darkroom. His Regina, up all night writing, then printing little manifestos. His friends, all part of that subterranean flow of loyalty and union, united in a common goal – to dismantle the system.
At Christmas, it was cold. All it took was a blanket and some good wine in his apartment – they've made up a poor excuse of a dinner, with Emma, Killian and other friends. There has been singing, laughs and a guitar, in that bohemian yet lively atmosphere of their twenties.
They were happy. They went out together, on Christmas Eve – she has worn a red scarf, and her eyes were shining, and she has kissed him, at Rockefeller Center, near the glittering and enormous tree.
Because when Regina has taken his hand, during their first Christmas together, he already knew he was never going to leave it.
- § -
It's 4:23 of a chilly morning, in the middle of November, when he gets the call.
"H-hello?" he answers groggily, voice still raspy after his interrupted sleep.
"Robin?" her voice his distant, but well known, and his heart skips a beat. This means news.
"Emma?"
"Sorry for the wake-up call, here's ten in the morning, but I needed to reach you as soon as possible," Emma breathes. She's talking quickly; as if she wants to burst it all before it's too late. "We – we think we can get her out, Robin –"
"What?" he pulls back from the bed, assuming a sitting position, now completely awake. "How? When? How?"
"Wait, hold on," Emma says, her voice a bit far and metallic. He hears her speaking with someone, but he doesn't understand the words – It's French, maybe? He doesn't recall where she's gone since the war has ended – and she's back on the phone. "Apparently, our new president – she has started working through some old stuff she doesn't like, not in the slightest… stuff the dear old ex-dictator has done, just because he could – like some imprisonments for treason, you feel me?"
"And?"
"And we think – we think – we could get her back home as soon as the president is inaugurated, in January…"
He takes a breath, his heart racing. His mind is foggy, he absolutely can't think clear, there's nothing but a pulsing, enlightened thought: we could get her back home. Back home.
Emma lets the silence fill the numerous miles between them, giving him space to absorb the information. "It's just a hope, Robin," she says, almost sorry. "But I have a good feeling about this, and you know I wouldn't have called without a reason, don't you?"
"Yes," he exhales. "Thank you, Emma – really."
Emma's voice softens, all of a sudden. "I miss her too, you know," she says, melancholic, and he feels that he's not the only one who's been affected by Regina's absence. He misses his wife, the twins have missed their mother, and Emma misses her best friend.
"I know, believe me," he says, sympathetically, wishing he could hug her. "We'll keep in touch?"
"Of course," Emma bids her goodbyes, he tells her to say bye to Killian from him, and ends the call. The phone goes silent, he slides it above the night table, and he goes back to lie on the bed. He stares at the ceiling without seeing it.
Could it be real?
Could he really get to hold her in his arms, after almost three years?
Because this would be the third Christmas without her, but it will be the best Christmas ever – if only he'll be able to get the greatest gift of them all, in January.
#
Sinatra was swinging,
all the drunks, they were singing
we kissed on a corner
then danced through the night
Their third Christmas together, he has brought her to meet his family.
He remembers his car has decided she was too tired to function on Christmas Eve, and he has had to ask his best friend Will for his old pick-up. He has arrived at her flat, slightly late, the brakes screeching creepily on the slippery ice.
She was at the window – waiting for him, a worried frown marring her features, then a smile opening brightly. She's turned towards Emma, the curtain sliding at its place. The door has opened after a few minutes, and she was beautiful. Royal blue dress, high heels and long hair pinned on a side of her head, twisted and curled down, silver sparkling earrings and her double-breasted coat.
"You're late," she told him, climbing up into the pick-up. "What happened?"
"A mild inconvenience with the car, babe," he has said, starting the engine. "Who told you it was okay to be that beautiful?"
"I'm quite sure there was a chapter about it, in my Meeting-Your-Boyfriend's-Family manual," she has clutched her purse, smiling nervously. He has turned, meeting her eyes.
"I promise, you don't have to worry," he has said. "They'll love you."
.::.
And she remembers he was right. Robin's old grandma, arrived in New York straight from the West Coast, has been everything but intimidating. "Oh, dear," she has said, meeting her, "and this is Regina? And just why did you keep her hidden all this time?"
It has been a fancy party, that evening. An elegant dinner in an elegant restaurant, where Robin's uncle made a point to reserve a room to celebrate his daughter's engagement. Anna was his youngest cousin, just shy of twenty-four years old, and his aunt Gerda has cornered Regina, at some point. "So, my dear, I take my nephew is quite taken with you, isn't he?"
"Mom, for God's sake," Robin's other cousin, Elsa, has elegantly come in her aid. "You've just met her, don't you start with embarrassing questions!"
"No, it's okay," Regina has smiled. "I guess you'll have to ask him, right?"
"Ask me what?" he has smiled, circling her back from behind. She has leaned onto him, feeling grateful he was there, and the small talk have seemed to flow more easily then. The festive atmosphere was captivating – the engagement just a welcomed addiction to the general good mood.
She has swirled midnight eggnog in her glass, laughed at one of Robin's little cousins, who has insisted for them to kiss under the mistletoe she was wobbling around. The little girl has given a delighted, high-pitched squeal of happiness, watching them when Robin has complied with a peck on her lips. Then, when the zone has returned children-free, that simple peck has been followed by him dragging her behind a column and starting to snog her properly.
The Christmassy music has mingled with Robin's uncle and dad's voices, both made graver and pleasantly soft by the not-so-poor amount of alcohol they have drunk.
"Did you send your last piece to Mal?" he has asked, kissing the side of her neck – she has hummed in response, her hand sneaking up to his jaw…
She remembers they were happy, that Christmas. Hardest times were to come – also other joyful times, their wedding, two years after that moment – but that Christmas, she hasn't let dreadful thoughts creep up into her mind… that Christmas, she has ignored the anonymous letters that have started to reach her house, the letters against her clear standpoint and her protests about the corrupted political system of her country.
That Christmas, she has pretended they were just a normal couple, young and in love, and she has had a blissful holiday. That Christmas, she has let herself forget her troubles, and danced till dawn.
- § -
It's a late evening in early December, when she gets a visitor.
"Mills," her guardian's voice is raspy and almost bored, when he gets closer to the steel bars that keep her apart from the world.
"What," she answers, equally bored – she's splayed on her cot, her foot dangling down from the mattress, and she's trying to keep herself occupied with a stupid crossword.
"I don't know why on hell they have allowed it," he says, "but you've someone here to see you," he ends, as if the very thought pains him.
She looks up, suddenly interested. Then, she remembers, and her hopes fall down again, as usual. "Yeah, sure, as you say," she nods, eyes glancing again at 17 across.
"I'm serious," he snarls. "Get your ass up, come on."
"I'd rather stay here," she says softly. "We both know it's another trick, my dear Hyde, and there's only a limited number of times a woman can be played."
"You've become awfully cheeky since the war has ended, haven't you?"
"I do what I can," she replies, scribbling something on her crossword.
"Well, you could get up, for starters," he repeats, sounding deeply annoyed by her reluctance. When she doesn't move, he pulls closer, shoves the key into the lock, and turns. "Come on, get out," he says, with the voice of someone who won't repeat his words again.
She rolls her eyes, but finally rests the crossword on the pillow, and throws her legs on a side of the cot, rubbing her palms on the orange fabric. "Okay, I'm coming," she tells him, with a defeated shrug of her shoulders. She follows him through some corridors, places she's never seen before, and thinks.
This has been her reality for years now, and how many times they've played this little trick on her? Letting her believe there was someone waiting for her? During the first months, her heart would immediately race, her mind believing them, to be disappointed every time.
Not to mention the other kinds of tortures she has endured during the war – she doesn't want to think about them, because it's awful enough to wake up at night screaming. It could have been much worse – at least, there was some kind of decency, maybe someone from the outside protecting her – her mother's status, maybe, she doesn't have a clue. Besides – she reasons as her boots take a rhythm against the cold tiles of the floor – she has gotten better since the war has ended. She was close to lose her sanity, when they've graced her with the news.
She has tried to hope. For her freedom. But the end of the war is a thing, and regaining political stability is another thing.
They get to a new room – the words Allowed Visitors elegantly emblazoned on a panel. When her guardian opens the door, her heart skips a beat.
"Mal?"
#
you scumbag, you maggot,
you cheap lousy faggot –
happy christmas your arse,
I pray God it's our last
Their seventh Christmas together, they've fought. The door has slammed, powerless to resist the furious strength of painful words. They were never keen on insulting the other – but this time, this time it was different.
"You know what the solution is, don't you? You can stop being an ungrateful, complaining –"
"I think you love your job a little more than you care about yourself!"
"If you weren't so damn stubborn, so full of yourself –"
"Well, you always know what to say, don't you? Of course, Her Majesty, Miss Perfection –"
"You are insufferable, if you wanted a table ornament as a wife, you should have said it –"
At some point, that night, after the umpteenth slammed door, the mistletoe they have hung up on a more cheerful day, (decorating, between excited giggles and sparkly lights) – their mistletoe has fallen down, silently.
"If you don't want to let me do this, why have you agreed to marry me?" she has screamed, on the edge of tears, stopping near the Christmas tree. He has stayed silent, trying to recollect his thought. Her next words have been low, and have bruised his heart.
"I'm leaving, Robin."
"What?"
It has been like a knife, her voice, a sharp and fluid instrument of pain. Funny how he used to love her voice, the dripping honey of intimacy, the raspy quality of the morning, the sultry tones of that flirting that hasn't faded, even after seven years together.
Funny how things can change. How things ruin themselves if you use them too much, if you don't care for them – if you care too much. That's what he has done. He has cared too much.
He has overstepped, he has tried to protect her from the evils of this world. Has opened hate letters, and frowned, he has being soothed in his worry by the casual brush of her fingers against his arm, her tranquil Babe, I'll be fine.
He always knew his wife had a dangerous job. Seven years, (two of marriage), and his Regina is a well-known name around the world, loved by the masses, hated by the politicians. Because she tells the truth. Oh, she's not alone into this. He would have never imagined her young passion and rebellious heart to combine into a mature job of tell-tale articles, of frequent trips, and calls with Mal or Ursula that have her running into the bathroom not to be heard.
It is dangerous, it has always been.
"I'm moving at my sister's, I don't know for how long. I can't stay here, because I'm not certain of this."
"Of me?"
His voice has gone out as an outraged, choked breath. He still sees her, his Regina, hugging herself in his own long sleeved hoodie, the one he still kept after all those years, the one with their school's name. She looked so small, so angry.
Under different circumstances, he would have kissed that pout away with a well-placed joke. But not today. His shoulders have fallen, in a defeated movement. "You aren't sure of my love?" he has whispered.
"I know you love me!" she has hissed, exasperated. "But, Robin, we need – "another sigh, she has passed her hand through her hair. "We need to sort this out before we go any further. We need balance, and this isn't it. I'm… I'm sorry."
He has let her go.
Because she was right. If he could have been able to choose, he would have practically locked her into the house, at that time, when he didn't know better. Because she was right, and he was suffocating, and maybe his protection would have saved her, but also killed her. She has always been a wild, untamable woman, a woman you can't cage. She needs air and freedom, like the horses she's always been fond of.
She has packed her things, and it was Christmas Eve's morning. She has left at dawn, after a probably sleepless night – he wouldn't know for sure, he was on the couch. The roads were icy and slippery. His heart has hoped she'd arrive safe, he has prayed she'd be able to hug her sister after the four-hour drive.
.::.
She has cried, on the road. Her hands have gripped the steering wheel in an effort to stop, she remembers. Her heart wanted nothing more than to turn back and reach him, but her mind, that traitorous, stubborn mind, her mind wanted her to wait and see and take some time.
She has always been good with words – it's her job, it's one of the activities that make her life worth living. She considers herself as such – one hell of a writer, literally, one who can turn even the harshest of truths into a fascinating story.
She has always been good, from the A's she got at school, to the late night articles of her present, but in that moment – in that moment, she was lost.
Her thoughts, she remembers, were like a whirlwind of chaos, a vortex of rage and fear. Fear, because she was going away, the car speeding, going on and on, with the annoying rhythm of jazz music as background. Fear, because she has left him alone.
Not even her words could have helped her now.
She has arrived at Zelena's at noon, finding her sister happy to let her in, finding her brother-in-law Greg bouncing an excited one-year-old on his hip. Baby Dorothy has let out a delighted, bubbly sound, when she has seen Auntie Gina, trying to launch herself from her father's hold.
"I'll explain later," she has quietly promised to her sister, before sliding her niece into her arms.
She has texted her husband – the tiny, hard ball of rage inside her chest hadn't agreed, but she has been quicker than her stubbornness, and pressed Send before she could regret it.
The atmosphere, in the Mills' household, has been tense all afternoon. Before dinner, unable to bear the pressure for one minute longer, she has sneaked up in her room, to take a shower, and she has opened her suitcase.
.::.
He has spent the day alone.
He could have called Killian and Will, but it's the 24th of December, and it's a day for families. It's a special day where you stay around the fire, and you enjoy your loved ones' company, and you don't want sorrow to join the party. Not even a friend's.
He didn't want to intrude.
So he has stayed alone. A tiny fragment of the ice that surrounded his heart has melted when his phone has buzzed. Her text, she was safe and sound, and he was immensely relieved.
He has waited. Has cooked himself dinner, and missed her, and dragged himself to sleep, but sleep hasn't come.
It was 1:16 am, when the doorbell has rung. He has slammed the door open, to find his wife trembling on the doorstep, her wool scarf all wrapped around her.
"Regina?"
Just a heartbeat, after his incredulous murmur, and she has thrown herself against him, blowing his breath away with a kiss, and he has almost been knocked back from the energy and strength of that kiss, and by her rushed whispers in between. "Merry Christmas, I'm sorry, Merry Christmas, my love," she has breathed, almost laughing, and he has hugged her, there in the snowy porch.
They have found themselves inside, her suitcase forgotten on the floor – they've curled up on the couch, a cup of hot chocolate between their hands.
"What changed?" he has asked.
She hasn't answered just yet, but placed her head on his shoulder, let out a quiet breath.
"I found your gift," she has simply said.
He has nodded, his hand passing behind her shoulders.
"I didn't want you to be alone," she has added, almost shy. He has immediately reassured her with a kiss atop of her hair.
"I'm sorry too, my darling."
While they've made love, that night, on that couch, after lighting up some candles – while they've made love, her suitcase was still on the floor. His gift inside, small but powerful.
A simple, ivory card, with a poem, penned with care.
"A happy marriage is about three things:
memories of togetherness,
forgiveness of mistakes,
and a promise of never give up on each other."
A little box, tied up with a ribbon. Inside, three things: an old picture of their first Christmas together, the pen her father had given her when they'd graduated – she thought she'd lost it – and his wedding ring.
That Christmas has been hard, and then full of love. One month later, she has discovered she was pregnant.
And in September, during the following year, she has had the twins.
- § -
"So you saw her?" Robin whispers on the phone, alone in the bathroom. He was in the middle of lunch with his children, and they don't know anything, he hasn't told them. They are seven, and he absolutely doesn't want to gets their hopes up for nothing, he doesn't want them to be disappointed, their heart to be crushed under the harsh reality.
"Yeah," Mal says over the phone. "She's fine, Robin, she sends lots of love, to you, to the kids –"
"Oh, my god," he exhales, sitting heavily on the edge of the bathtub. "She's fine."
"Yes," Mal answers, and her voice has a shaky quality he doesn't think he's ever heard from her. "I wish I could get you here to see her, but you know, only the Secret Services and representatives of the government –"
"Yes, yes, I know," he cuts in. He knows, he knows he should be grateful his wife has gotten the chance to see someone, an old friend, but it pains him, it hurts him so much. Suddenly, the month and a half he has to wait to see her again seems like a lifetime. He knows it's nothing, if compared to the years they've spent apart, but having her so close and yet so distant…
"Did Emma call you?"
"Not yet," he answers. "She told me she'd call when she'll have news from the Embassy – I think they need to get her a new passport and a lot of bureaucratic stuff, before she can come back as a free woman, you know –"
"Okay, I get it," Mal says quickly. "Listen, I have to go, text me if you have news, okay? And for the love of god, when this has ended, I really need that old bottle of cognac you keep hidden in the closet."
He holds back a laugh, and tells her Yes, I think you've earned it, before she ends the call.
When he returns back in the kitchen, Henry pops his chin up, and notices his smile. "What's up, Daddy?"
He chuckles, at his son's antics – he totally got this one from Ella, his neighbor, who usually comes and babysits them while he's at work. Ella is nineteen, and he can really see the shades of her behavior filtering through his children.
"Nothing, son," he answers. "I received some good news, that's all."
"About mom?" Roland chirps happily, holding his spoon as if it's a sword. "You always get that smile when you tell us stories of mom."
He takes a breath – his hand goes up to ruffle his son's hair. It's extraordinary how much they don't look alike, his twins – Roland gets after Regina's side, curly hair and olive skin – Henry has the same chocolate brown hair of his own dad, and his mother Helen's eyes.
"No, not about mom," he lies, and it's not right, but it's the lesser of two evils, and part of his job to protect his children's heart. "Now, why don't we go and buy Christmas presents, this afternoon?"
(And if he spends a good hundred of dollars for his wife, who could blame him?)
#
you took my dreams from me
when I first found you –
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own…
can't make it all alone,
I've built my dreams around you
Their twelfth Christmas together, he has lost her.
The twins were four years old, at the time. The war, instead, was one year old.
War, in that century, was subtle and tormenting. It was made of spies, of threats, and hacked computers. It was made of stolen weapons, dirty bombs. It was made of him coming home, in the middle of the night, after an infructuous day at the black market – back to his very famished family.
At four years old, the twins were already signed by horrors that no one should be forced to see, ever. They were good kids, and way too used to a weird quietness, totally out of place in someone of their age.
But life was good, quite good. Life was illegal under a hundred aspects, so many that he couldn't distinguish or remember what he was allowed to do anymore.
Dictatorship, was not so good.
He remembers Regina has stayed hidden in some safe place for some months, to escape the threats. He has gone with her, of course – he remembers very little, of that time.
He has grasped some details, like small USBs hidden in deep pockets, cold feet, journals and an old radio when they've cut the internet. He can still see the drawings sent by the twins – who were away, in the country, with their grandparents…
His favorite memory of that period was one particular evening, in December, when he has lit candles and they've eaten sliced peaches submerged in syrup – a particular treat Anastasia has managed to slip through their door.
That evening, he remembers it, the orange glow of the candles and the sweetness of her lips when she has kissed him…
After she has broken the kiss, she has looked at him, with that hard and bright gaze he loved so much.
"Listen," she has started. "I… I don't know how much this will last, and I can't bear knowing you're in danger because of me."
When he has started to shake his head, she's placed one finger on his lips for an instant, then she's taken a breath. "What I wanted to say is… if you want to turn back…"
He has lifted his hand to take hers, he has brought it to his lips, kissed her knuckles. "I'm with you," he has promised. "Always."
It was one of their last good moments together, and he's still holding on it. He has placed it in a deep, secret place of his heart.
After that moment, everything went downhill.
It has happened two days before Christmas. It was nearly dawn; he knows it, because he remembers of a detail – the first rays of sunshine starting to shine through the small window, in their refugee in the basement. The old mattress has squeaked as he has turned to pass an arm above Regina's shoulders. She has smiled in her sleep, then blinked, with slurry, sleepy eyes. "Good morning," she has whispered.
He has nuzzled her cheek with a light bump, and answered, "Good morning to you, too," kissed her lips once, before starting to get up.
He remembers to have slipped into an old pair of jeans, and retrieved the thermos of coffee he made the evening before. Regina has pulled her hair back into a ponytail, worn a blue sweater and sweatpants, and she has joined him at the wobbly camping table. He has pecked her lips again, taken a sip of coffee, and smiled at his wife, before his whole world turned upside down.
A loud bang! at the door, his heart jumping in his chest – a horrendous, cold shiver down through his spine, a dreadful sensation of danger.
That moment, the instant between the noise and the door slamming open – it was like when you jump into a pool. A second of terrified excitement, when you're suspended in that fraction of time, when you have done it, and you can't go back, but you fear the impact with water – will you freeze? Will it be too deep?
In that moment, his hand has flown up to take Regina's hand, which has done exactly the same, as if their extremities were able to think in sync.
As he already knew, they were here to take her.
"Regina Mills, at last," the bigger one has said, tightening his grip on the gun. The satisfaction spilling from his words was like viscous poison. "If you don't put up resistance, it will be much easier for all of us."
He has glanced at her.
And he has glanced at the other end of the room, where his gun was hidden.
What a fool, to think the hideout could have saved her.
He has glanced at her again, and felt her fingers slip away through his. "I'm sorry," she has whispered.
"No," a broken sob has escaped him, and it was too late. Too late, because one of the men was already dragging her ahead. Too late, because he has lost hold of the warmth of her hand. He has seen her, before she rounded the corner, he has seen her slowing down to turn around and look at him one last time.
That look still haunts his dreams.
They haven't let him say goodbye.
And he hasn't seen her ever since.
- § -
The morning of Christmas Eve, he wakes up at nine, his hand going automatically to check the phone. No one has searched him, and he can't help that little pang of delusion. He's been ten days since Emma's last call, more or less, and he hasn't heard from Mal either.
He exhales, his mind still lost in his dream. It happens more and more often, lately – he dreams of her, of Regina, then he wakes, and he remembers there's still a month to wait, and his world falls again, every morning. It's a fast, painful torture, which dulls as soon as he's with the kids.
He carries on, during the day, with a sort of tired aura which surrounds him, and listens to Roland and Henry's excited blabbering about Santa and their present. She should be here, he keeps thinking.
"Do you think he'll bring me a magic wand, Daddy?" Henry asks, his eyes full of hope.
"I want a laser sword," Roland declares. Robin already knows – he's helped them pen their letters, and a thought about How will we do next year, when they'll start writing them in secret slides through his mind. But next year, he knows it, his wife will be here, and she'll know what to do.
He thinks he has managed, during these years. He has had to become a single parent, after all – he has had a lot of help too, that is true. The kids' grandparents, then Ana, Will, Ella, everyone's been kind and compassioned for his twins who had to grow up without Mom.
He has remembered her. He has showed them pictures, videos – in their favorite, she's playing the piano at her mother's house, blushing when he gets closer with the camera.
"She's so pretty," his children whisper every time. They're in awe for this woman they remember in their subconscious – they know she felt like safety, love, perfume and warmth. It's the image, the physical presence they miss. One month, he repeats to himself.
Later that day, he's managed to settle dinner ready, just in time for when the twins come back home after an afternoon with their grandparents. He has placed candles around, the Christmas tree shines in a corner, and – he couldn't help himself – a branch of mistletoe, hung up right after the door.
"You've outdone yourself, son," Robert exclaims. "How many people are we expecting here?"
"I don't even know," he says. "As much as we can, I guess."
It's a bunch of them, in the end – it's him and his parents, the twins, Ana, Will, their daughter… he's invited Regina's sister and his brother-in-law, their daughter Dorothy… Ella and her boyfriend Sean, his neighbor Ruby (she's the other babysitter, when Ella can't manage to drop her evening classes) and her grandma… he watches, as this dozen and more of people are eating in his dining room, some sitting on the floor, the kids running around in the sugar rush of too many brownies.
He watches them, and his heart clenches a bit, because he's missing some people – Emma, Killian, Mal, and above all, his wife.
"So, a toast!" his father exclaims, and he turns his head towards him, shaking his mind from his sad thoughts. He nods, meeting his eyes, and his dad must know what his son is thinking, because he lifts his glass, and speaks. "I would like you all to cheer with me, in this day of… joy. To the present, here in this room, to the bonds we have built, even after some tough years. I'll be forever grateful the nightmare has ended. And… a mention of honor, to those who are not here, because they're out there working to build a better world. They're not here, but always present in our heart."
He inclines his glass towards his wife's, and everyone follows. Ana glances at Robin – she's always been good at keeping him grounded – she smiles, her hand rubbing his forearm. He nods appreciatively, covering her hand and squeezing a bit.
The clock strikes ten, after a while – but he doesn't hear it, because the doorbell rings.
"It's Santa!" Dorothy immediately chirps out, her excited cry followed by the other kids' echoes.
"It's too early for Santa, my little pea," her mother laughs. "He comes at midnight, remember?"
Robin laughs, tugging playfully at his niece's ponytail while he passes her to get to the door. He glances through the peephole, recognizing instantly the mane of blond hair. His fingers work fast to unlock the door, and when it swings open, it's Emma, standing on the doorstep, with a bright smile and holding Killian's hand.
"Sorry, we're late," she says, shaking off some snow from her winter boots. "We had to go retrieve a very special gift, you see."
"Is it a puppy?!" Roland is practically bouncing on his feet, but basically all the children are watching Emma as if she's an angel.
"Not exactly, darling," another voice comes from behind Killian, and it's Mal entering the room. "It's better."
And before anyone can let out another word, the trio shifts on a side, revealing a very tired, but immensely happy Regina.
The room freezes in motion.
All that comes next, for Robin, is a complete blur – their eyes lock, for an instant, and suddenly he's covering the distance that separates them, and enveloping her in a bone-crushing hug – he holds her tight, feeling her hands press on his back, he inspires her scent – oh, he has missed this, three years, three bloody years, and only now that he has her in her arms he wonders, how has he survived for three years?
"You're here," he whispers against her neck, "you're here," and hears her bubbly laugh, her tears wetting his skin, and a sob wracks his body. He thinks his heart could explode, right here, right now – he pulls back, to watch her, and she's smiling, and everything goes right again.
He has lost all the exclamations from the others, he knows Will has screamed Bloody hell!, he knows Zelena is crying, but they'll have to wait, because –
"Mommy?"
It comes slow, from behind him. The twins have never looked so alike, their eyes so big and surprised. Regina is still holding her hands on his forearms, but she shifts him gently, and looks at them. "My babies," she exhales, and goes to kneel on the floor, as the twins engulf her in a hug. He sees her cry on their shoulders, crying and laughing.
He watches, after that. He watches as his wife is being hugged and kissed on her cheeks by everyone, he watches the tearful hug between sisters, the moment when she embraces Ana and Will, and when she meets their daughter for the first time. There are tears, and laughs, and more tears, and he finds himself collapsed on the sofa, overwhelmed.
He's barely managed to talk to Emma, to thank her and Mal, to tell her he understands and appreciates their way to cover the surprise – to guarantee his family a few days of peace and domestic bliss before the press knows.
He watches, as Mal gingerly opens his cupboard and retrieves the cognac he has promised her, and he laughs.
When Regina comes to sit next to him, she's holding a cup of hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon, put together by Granny in a minute, and saying something like Oh, I've missed this.
He can't stop smiling.
He smiles through all the evening, listens to Emma, who talks about them waiting for Regina to exit, and taking a plane to New York, and Mal's influence to keep her trip under secrecy. He listens and holds her, eyes closed, lips pressed on her hair, fingers curled around her shoulder, as if he has to make sure she's really here, it's not one of his dreams. She's back.
It's 2 am when they finally manage to enter his – their – room. Regina goes to sit on the bed, looking around, taking in her surroundings.
"I have no words to express my happiness right now," she tells him, smiling. "It's so good to be back."
He's still standing – he tilts his head, studying her, considering. At some point, he bursts into laughter. He takes two steps, and goes sit next to her, then pushes her down, her back going to rest on the mattress. "Merry Christmas, my love," he says, looking at her in the eyes, intently.
It's her who initiates the kiss – it's tentative, at first – their lips reconnecting after such a long time, and yet is as if she's never left. Her arms go circle his shoulders, her hands then guide him down, down to deepen the kiss.
"I've missed you," she whispers against his mouth. "So much."
He doesn't answer, because what could he possibly say, what words could express what he feels – instead, he goes to lie next to her, peppering kisses on her lips, on her brow, and at the end, he rests his forehead against hers. She is back, and this is their fifteenth Christmas together, and the best, so far.
so happy Christmas,
I love you baby –
I can see a better time,
when all our dreams come true.