A/N: So I've had this sitting on my computer for a while and I figured I'd publish it since I'm on FF again. My friend Lauren and I were discussing OutlawQueen headcanons, and she came up with this and she let me write it (bless her 3). Please let me know what you think and I hope you enjoy. :)
A rogue arrow soars past its defined target, blitzes through branches in a wavering dance, and falls into the brush.
"This is completely unnecessary." Regina snaps. She lets the bow fall to her side so she can swat her hair out of her face. Even through the leather of her gloves, she can detect the scent of the forest on her. Her mind returns to the prior evening when a loose, warm shirt tickled her nose and she was enveloped in the smell of mint and moss. It was comfortable and tender, not early and tense.
He, contrariwise, is completely at ease, standing off to the side with his legs set shoulder-width apart and arms folded across his chest. He breathes with the wind's rhythm. The sunlight filtering through the canopy finds him in the midst of it all, casting a glow on his skin that would pull at her at any other time. But, now, it's a mere hour after daybreak on a Sunday morning and he's dragged her out of bed into the windy, cold forest when they could've stayed in and made breakfast with Roland. And it irritates her how he blends in with his surroundings as she is excluded.
He doesn't try to hide the smirk that crosses his lips. She levels her gaze with his. He challenges her, keeping his voice confident and level, "What if you're without magic?"
A scoff stoppers her throat. She presses the curved end of the bow into the fresh, damp earth and entwines her fingers over the top. Her words are few; she communicates her skepticism in her rigid shoulders and languid stance. The breeze-persistent, however feeble-catches her hair as she tosses him a dubious look with her eyebrows perched high on her head.
He concedes with a sigh, "Just...try once more. Please," he tacks on in afterthought, flashing the queen a pleading look. It's gone when she blinks, but the image is burned into her head. It's satisfying.
With a smug grin hinting at her lips, she turns her head and scoops down to pluck an arrow from the plethora piled at her feet. She tries to copy the stance Robin demonstrated earlier and wishes she had paid more attention rather than let her mind wander to promiscuous places. The task of shooting a bow it couldn't be so difficult she figured. It seemed like a simple device-a piece of string attached to a large sliver of wood. Stick an arrow in the groove, look at the red target painted on the trunk of a nearby tree, and let the projectile fly. But she's glaring at that teasing target now, elbow quivering, arrow trembling in her amateur fingers, and she'd rather burn the forest down around her and throw the offending weapon into the conflagration. Her focus shifts as she's consumed by thought. She feels the crack of air against her cheek as the arrow slips from her grasp into the green oblivion.
Grinding her jaw, she lets her trembling arms fall to her sides with a thick thud. Robin's behind her in a few, long strides, bending down for another arrow that's sure to join its companions in the distance. Her mouth stills, but she refuses to so much as glance back at him. Even if his breath is warm against her ear and the mixed aroma of forest and mint is intoxicating.
"This is nonsense," she insists, fingers flexing at her sides.
When he shakes his head, his cheek brushes against her hair. His stubble just scrapes the tip of her ear. A breath of a chuckle blows by her, "It's simple. Here," His hands find her waist. They're still for a moment, their melded bodies frozen as his hands ask permission. Only when she breathes does he envelop her, mold his body around hers, fold their individual bodies into one. His chest presses against her when he takes in air, but he's close enough so she can absorb the warmth radiating off his jacket and beneath the layers of fabric. Her hair moves with him as he shifts his head and directs her, "Fix your stance." He nudges her legs apart with his, "Square with your shoulders." He cements her in place, sliding his boots into the ground next to hers. He breaks the contact between his hands and her waist for a brief moment. When they reconnect, his palms are sliding down her arms, guiding them back up. "Adjust your grip," His arm, stretched around her, doesn't quite reach her fingers, so his hand is splayed across her concealed forearm. His fingers squeeze the leather tight around her skin there. Their eyes together shift to his opposite hand, which travels down her left arm, the one closest to him. He follows the sinuous shape, saying right into her ear, "Because you're a woman, your arm curves in-"
"Excuse me?" She interjects. Her voice brings his hand to a halt on his path down the sleeve of her jacket.
A tilted smile presses to her head. His mouth moves, pressing his words just behind her warmed ear, "It's a matter of anatomy. See-" He shows her his right arm. Instantly, her body is cold with the absence of his presence there. Her eyes follow the shape of him, starting at his fist and traveling up beyond his shoulder, past his neck, and to his face. They keep their eyes locked as he continues, "how my arm is straight? It doesn't curve." Without acknowledgment, she turns her head so she gazes straight ahead. Her insides hum when he slides his hand back to her, leading it in a simple dance. "Move your arm so it won't get caught by the bow." He fastens his grip around her elbow, instructing all the while, "The arrow is positioned correctly. Now, just pull back. Slowly," He guides her arm back and moves with her as she twists in his hold. He continues, "far enough so your hand brushes against your lips." The grin is evident in his voice. Two fingers settle at the edge of her mouth. She can feel their shared pulse. He drops his voice to a whisper, "Aim-be patient." Part of her can't wait any longer. She can't breathe like this. Not when him so close, everywhere around her. The scent filling her nose is overwhelming her head like strong whiskey. At the same time, she doesn't want to go back to a place, a time, where she's not safe in his arms, enveloped in warmth, breathing with his body held against hers, shielded from the playful breeze. She doesn't want to be without his breath in her ear, his whisper encircling her head, "And release."
The trio of feathers zip from their hands to the ridge of red on the trunk of the tree a few yards before them. Its shining tip is hidden beneath the bark, eagerly showing off to the both of them. For a moment, her mind isn't occupied by thoughts of magic, irritation, or fatigue. For a moment, her breath hitches in her diaphragm and exhilaration shoots through her veins. She can't tear her eyes away from the feathered spectacle against the white and red paint.
Barely audible, Robin murmurs, "There."
She turns her head toward him ever so slightly. Just enough so that she can glimpse at his wide smile in the corner of her eye. Just enough so he can get a hint of the grin tugging at her own lips. Just enough so their breaths mingle in the air. Just enough.
His eyes smile at her as his mouth slides open. The words swim on his lips. She wants to take them from him. It's a physical endeavor to keep her own jaw shut as he starts a path up her arms and down her sides. His hand moves up and down her hip like gentle, lazy waves kissing the smooth sands of a beach.
"Papa! Look at me!" Roland bursts into the clearing, dashing to them with his bubbly gait, unfazed by the rogue shoelaces swinging by his feet that snap on sticks and discarded branches.
She lets the bow slip through her fingers and pulls her jacket tighter around her as he takes a step in his son's direction, breaking their connection. A shiver sweeps down her from the instant loss of warmth. She lifts her gaze to meet Robin's for a ghost of a moment before turning to greet the beaming boy.
A squeal echoes off the forest's walls when Robin scoops the child up and away, bow and all. Regina lets a grin slip onto her own face. Roland waves his arms as though he's a bird poised for flight on the tip of a tower. The new height doesn't intimidate him-it never does. To him, when he's that tall, he's closest to his papa and the woman he so affectionately refers to as "Gina".
"I can shoot the bow, Gina! See? See?" His little arm waves at a target behind him that they can't see. Nonetheless, she follows the direction he points her with her head, glancing back at the small glade where he played. Her hand lifts, only to fall into the groove of Robin's elbow. Pride and exuberance wink at her in his eyes.
When she speaks to Roland, her voice is animated, but the amazement is genuine, "Yes-that's very impressive, dear. You must be very strong." She gives Robin a pointed look. "This is certainly exhausting for the arms."
"You're sure to be sore when morning comes tomorrow," Robin says with a slanted smirk aimed at her.
She has a suggestive look ready for him when a growl beckons their attention. The child's fallen silent in his father arms. He's stopped flailing and, instead, he beats his hands on his stomach like a drum, his bow discarded on the ground below. The rhythm is indiscernible and hollow; the irregularity of it makes him shake with laughter. A chuckle fills her chest. "Are you hungry, Roland?"
His head snaps up. He's got a wide, gaping grin just for her. Brown tufts of hair dance on his head when he nods. "Yeah!" He's a lively boy with few words to say. His focus is on his surroundings rather than conversation, which makes him deliberate in everything he says. It's one of the endless things she adores about the child.
"What say you to Granny's for a proper breakfast? And back here after?" Robin asks his boy, forehead tilted against his. Roland gives no verbal response. Rather, he hums and smacks his lips in approval. "I do believe that's a 'yes'." He says to her, adopting an innocent look to obviate the chance of a wry glare. Indeed, she doesn't jump at the idea of returning to the nippy clearing, but, for an hour with her boys, she'll compromise.
Roland stirs in the arms of his father, his legs stretched for the ground. Robin's quick to read the actions of the boy and lowers him down with maternal caution. The child's grown since they've come to Storybrooke-his stomach's fuller and his legs are almost too quick for him now. He's stronger and asks to be carried less. His sense of adventure and curiosity has only grown in this world, which has gotten him lost in the concrete maze of the town and, consequently, has had Robin and Regina worried on several occasions. They had gone out in her car, which intimidated both father and son at first, to search for him each time. She was determined to teach Robin how to drive after Roland tried to climb into her lap when she was driving him home after one of his first excursions. She wanted to feel his big heartbeat in his tiny chest as he curled up against her, tired from his escapade. He won't want to be held soon. It was the same way with Henry. With Roland, evident in his recent actions, she fears his independence may come earlier than it did with Henry.
Slipping his hand around hers, Robin reigns her back to the present. Roland's already scampering ahead of them, bow in hand. He must've picked it up while she was lost contemplation. A smile spreads across her lips. She looks at Robin and tangles their fingers together. What the future has in store is much less menacing when she has someone to hold on to.