A/N. This is a canon divergent version of season 2. Henry didn't get kidnapped by Greg and Tamara (they fell into plot hole No3597746758), there was no Neverland. Instead, Regina fell into a coma when her body broke down after two days of torture and using all her magical strength on the trigger, and Robin was in Storybrooke during the first curse. This story features Regal Believer feels, Swan Queen feels, Snow Queen feels (and a cake for you and you and you!), a rewriting of Outlaw Queen as something potentially better than what the show did, angst, angry/desperate sex, family bonding and Christmas lights.
Enjoy ;)
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There is a room in Storybrooke General Hospital that no one ever comes near.
Inside lies a woman sleeping her life away.
They used to call her the Evil Queen.
They still do.
They whisper the name intently as they walk past the windowless door concealing the monster's lair.
They grumble the name with a frown when Nurse Ratched enters to check her vitals and care for the unconscious body—she's been the only one willing, and for that show of allegiance she's been ostracized by the hospital community. Not that she seems to care.
They gossip the name hastily when a ten-year-old boy comes for daily visits—sometimes in the company of his blonde mother, sometimes not.
But they keep quiet when they see the Evil Queen's son crying in the waiting room.
Mute and merciless, the crowd watches.
.
Robin sees her son first, a tearful little lad sitting in one of the waiting chairs, his knees tucked under his chin, his body curling up into himself as if seeking for warmth. Robin's drawn to his loneliness even before he recognizes him.
"Henry?"
He remembers the name just as he sits down next to him, and the boy looks up with a wet eye and a frown that reveals nothing about being pleased or disturbed by his appearance.
He's seen him a few times around school when he went to pick up Roland after work.
He's seen his mother too—always on time (always early), black tailored suits without a crease, sharp heels, sharp smile, distant, icy eyes, perfectly blow-dried hair that the wind didn't dare tousle.
He remembers smiling at her—he remembers her look of astonishment, hurriedly merging into disdain.
"Hi," Henry finally says. "You're Robin Hood, aren't you? You're teaching archery for the kids now."
"Robin will do," he smiles, extending his hand, keeping it up with ease while Henry looks at it with a confused expression, until he decides to timidly slide his own in it, and give an evasive handshake.
"What are you doing here all by yourself, Henry?"
The boy's eyes look as hard as his mother's for a while, their edge gleaming.
"You haven't heard about my Mom?"
"I'm afraid I am not well-versed into gossip. I mostly keep to myself."
"She won't wake up."
Henry looks at him with the face of the lost, the face of an orphan—a kind of look he only knows too well from his past, piercing at him above a hungry mouth, and dirty, outstretched hands, pleading for alms. Robin feels something—a tide rising and churning in his heart, weighting it down with sorrow. He thinks of a woman with sharp, sharp eyes, and lips parted in a silent gasp as he treated her like a person, by acknowledging her with a simple, easy smile.
He swallows.
"What happened?" he asks gently, his hand coming to rest on Henry's forearm, comforting but not invading. The boy looks at it, and keeps staring as he speaks. "She used too much magic. She tried... she tried to stop the town from being destroyed. But she... fell. Emma told me she was already really tired because my dad's girlfriend and that man who was in an accident at the town line hurt her really bad. She just fell. And she didn't get up."
Even with Henry's head bowed down, Robin can see his eyes wide open on that impossible vision. His mother falling. His mother defeated.
He thinks he understand. There's nothing quite like seeing the powerful women in your life crumble down to make you grow up. Nothing like watching your hero fall.
"What do the doctors say?"
Henry shrugs, worrying his lips, now looking at the ground.
"They don't know. They don't care."
There's bite and spite—helplessness and guilt—nothing that a boy this young should be feeling. Anger rises in him, slowly boiling, dull but deep. There's a son with blotched cheeks and a runny nose drowning in a waiting chair, there's a mother made of iron wasting on a hospital bed, and somebody should care that the world is collapsing for someone.
He finds a tissue in his jacket, and some coins as well. He gives the first to Henry, waiting for him to finish dabbing his nose before handing him the money.
"Why don't you go grab something at the vending machine lad? I'm going to have a talk with the doctors."
Henry closes his fist on the coins, but shakes his head.
"Emma already tried."
"Well, sometimes it takes more than once. And I've been known to be a very stubborn character."
He winks and feels a small victory when Henry's lips quake into a smile.
The boy jumps off his seat and takes a few steps towards the cafeteria, stops, and turns around with inquisitive eyes.
"What are you doing here Mister Hood? At the hospital I mean."
"Unfortunately one of my friends fell and broke his leg while he was fixing the tiles on his roof. But knowing Little John, even with a cast he'll find a way to climb back up there tomorrow, common sense be damned."
He sees Henry tuck his head in and mouth the name with a childlike glee, and Robin smiles in response. The whole town knows of the lad's obsession with their world and everyone takes pleasure in his wonder at meeting his story book's heroes. Though some distrust him for having been raised by the Evil Queen—the children in particular can be quite nasty, as Robin had the displeasure to witness a few times—most recognize the key role the boy has played in their liberation, and they willingly indulge his curiosity. Robin is glad to see this part of Henry shine through the cloud of his sadness, even if it is but a flicker of light.
"Robin?"
He holds back another smile at having gone from Mister Hood to Robin in a couple of seconds – not that he minds, he already told the boy that no formality was needed—and he sees in his earnest face that the question about to cross his lips is the one he'd truly wanted to ask in the first place.
"Yes Henry?"
"Why would you want to help my Mom?"
The answer doesn't come so easy this time.
When he first met her—actually met and interacted with her, creating a memory that would remain, not one of those hazy, vague images and impressions from the Curse—she'd been drinking alone in the Rabbit Hole. The sight of Regina Mills entering such a place would have been enough to give him pause—seeing her knocking back shot after shot froze him in place for a solid minute.
His eyes roam over the strained shoulders to the tense back and up to the bowed head again, and it's—wrong, everything's wrong with this picture, the Mayor still in her day clothes, or so he guesses, the strict and fitted pantsuit, the murderous-looking heels, the bold but stern makeup, her presence here is like an unprompted mistake, a dribble of cold winter light into the mire of this place of debauchery.
She's drinking so much, too fast, and the bartender is providing her with an endless stream of drinks, his eyes wide with fear, his brow glistening with sweat, and he won't say anything, no one will dare advise the Mayor who looks like she's at least going through her second bottle of tequila to stop, and before he can ask himself what the bloody hell he's doing, he's walking towards her, the world whirling fast past him while his legs seem to be working in slow-motion.
"Mayor Mills," he greets her as he takes a seat on the stool next to her, purposely ignoring the askance looks and intensified whispers behind them.
She slowly turns her head to look at him, and he feels it—something that hits, bites and tears at his heart, something he doesn't understand, a silent, shivering secret that hides its key in the depth of her soulful eyes.
Today, the streaks of darkness and turmoil he's always seen brimming have exploded to the surface, spilling their foul ink in the golden blackness of her iris.
"That's Madame Mayor to you."
He sees her briefly squint, as if she's trying to figure out his name, then shrug, not finding him worth the trouble.
But he intends to be trouble.
He extends his hand to her, his smile unfettered and his eyes searching.
"Lockwood. Tom Lockwood."
She eyes his hand with a mixture of suspicion and disbelief and doesn't make a move to shake it. He knows she won't indulge him much longer, and for some strange and unexplainable reason that has very little to do with his honorable intent to prevent her ethylic coma and everything to do with his desire to not see her slip away from this moment, he feels compelled to speak, to keep her attention focused on him, and he says the first thing that comes to his mind, the only reason he can think of why the Mayor would be getting drunk in a sleazy bar after midnight.
"I wanted to tell you—I am sorry for your loss. I've heard—it seems you and Sheriff Graham were close."
She clenches her hand around her glass and the sneer on her face is violent.
"Oh, you've heard," she drawls, and he feels an odd tingle run over his skin, half-dread, half-arousal. "And you've thought that, since my private life has become so public recently, the gentleman thing to do would be to come and speak to me about it, in this very suitable place for an intimate conversation. Such delicacy."
He knows he should withdraw, escape her bite. He can feel how ready she is to cut him in half with her words. He doesn't owe anything to the woman, he doesn't even know her and her fearsome reputation precedes her, leaving him to wonder why on earth he would try to make a gesture. But even right now, he doesn't see what everyone tells him to see. He doesn't see the ice, but the fire; he sees her pain taking over her cruelty. He wonders how anyone can oversee such suffering, when the agony of it is carved on her every feature. She strikes him as one of those wounded animals dragging themselves on the ground, baring their teeth at every living souls to scare them away, concealing how defenceless they actually are.
She's a woman driven wild by the stench of her own blood.
"I apologize if my forwardness has hurt you in any way. I was merely trying to offer you my sympathy. And someone to talk to, if you wish."
"I don't," she snaps, her upper body turning fully towards him. "I want neither one nor the other. I'm already in perfectly good company."
She chugs down another shot and raises the glass to prove her point. She gives him a bewildered look when he starts to chuckle, endeared despite himself by her pig-headedness.
"You. You are the one who smiles at me when I pick up Henry at school," she says carefully, sizing him up, slowly setting her glass back on the counter.
He sees the question written all over her face, but he can guess she's too proud to ask him why. She'd rather reroute the conversation on another path.
"You have a son."
"Elliott. He's five."
"A great age."
She's smiling now, something distant and quiet, but it sets a different light on her face that transforms her radically. He nods, humming his approval at the back of his throat, answering her smile with one of his own, and he sees her glimpse at his mouth.
"He's not so clingy anymore, now. He's made friends at school, he's starting to be more independent, wanting to have his own life... I don't think I'm ready for that," he laughs lightly despite the very real heartache of his little boy growing up, and her face closes up, her eyes cloud over and the glimpse of softness is gone.
He could punch himself for his stupidity. No one in town ignores the complicated history between Regina and Henry, and the painful recent development of the birth mother coming back into the picture. He nibbles his lip as she wraps her arms around herself, sinking into this poor pretense of an embrace.
"How's Henry?" he asks gently, and she answers with a politician smile without looking at him.
"As fine as the circumstances allow. Or so I've been told. He's been staying at the Nolans for four days now. Says he doesn't want anything to do with me. He thinks I'm responsible for Graham's death."
Her voice is weightless as she speaks so casually of her son's hatred for her, a light tone that can only be acquired through habit. A light tone that is only pretense, because her words are raw and stretched thin to the point that they shake like feverish leaves in the autumn wind.
"Children can be cruel," he says clumsily.
"Children can be right," she counteracts, giving him such a foreign and intense look he almost recoils from it, unable to sustain its weight.
But the glistening tears at the corner of her eyes replace this momentary unease with a surge of protectiveness.
"Madame Mayor, I can tell you are a lot of things, but I don't think a murderer is one of them."
He can't make sense of her eyes as they suddenly dull and wither, nor does he understand the underlying meaning her cautious words are veiled in. "Yes. That would be absurd, wouldn't it? Such fairy-tale monsters wouldn't exist in this world."
He frowns, parts his lips, wondering what fairy-tales have to do with any of it, but she suddenly shuts her eyes and wobbles on her seat.
"I feel sick," she breathes in a painful gasp, standing up on shaky legs, and she all but run to the bathroom.
He watches, stunned for a minute as she leaves, and hesitates.
It's really not his place.
She could actually murder him for this.
But he's gotten himself involved when he decided to give his hand to shake to the woman feared and despised by all.
It wouldn't be honorable to walk away now.
He joins her in the bathroom at the back of the bar, carefully closes the door behind them to keep her away from prying eyes.
She's bent over the sink, bracing herself on each sides, her chest heaving and her breathing ragged, but nothing comes out of her mouth. Slowly, he peels off the scarf from his neck, pours some cold water on the tip and brings it to her forehead.
"What are you doing," she rasps, pressing against his hand nonetheless.
"The same thing I do when I smile at you in front of the school gates," he replies calmly. "Being a decent human being."
"You hold our miserable race in very high regard."
"And you think a little too lowly of the rest of us."
He delicately dabs at her neck with the wet cloth and she lets out a noise between a sharp intake of breath and a grateful moan.
"Most people aren't as bad as we make them out to be. You said so yourself. There aren't monsters in this world. No heroes either. Just regular people trying their best at doing right by others."
"And some fail spectacularly at it," she whispers, lowering her head, short, raven locks stealing her eyes away from his inquisitive gaze.
He catches her just as her arms give out, and stops her from banging her forehead against the tap by bringing her back into his chest, closing his arms around her frame to keep her steady.
It takes him a few seconds of slow breathing to realize he's holding her in his arms.
She's resting her head back against his shoulder, her lids heavy, her mouth parted slightly, and before his brain can yell at him for this reckless move, he slowly lifts his hand to brush back the curls sticking to her sweaty forehead.
The look she gives through the mirror him pierces his heart open.
Next thing he knows she has turned in his arms and she's bringing his mouth down on hers in a bruising kiss.
There's very little grace to it, heat and hunger vibrating in every clash of their teeth, every stroke of their tongues, he can feel her nails digging into his shoulders, her breasts soft against his chest, her thigh pressing into his crotch, and he's lost in the wet and warm world of her mouth, burying his fingers into her hair to keep her close, closer, the silky strands filling his hands with an exquisite and forbidden pleasure.
Her hands trail over his body as the kiss lingers, softens, gentle nipping and slow consumption, and as the first button of his shirt pops open under her clever fingers, he circles her wrists and stops her, but she's the one pulling away first, violently, and pushing against his chest.
"Get the hell away from me!"
He catches a glimpse of a sneer and very wet eyes – then she's out in a flurry of wild hair and ruffled clothes, the bathroom door slamming loudly behind her.
When he cautiously makes his way back to his seat, she's gone already, money haphazardly thrown on the counter.
He sits down and orders a drink.
But it does nothing to erase the taste of hunger and desperation that lingers all night on his lips.
"Robin?"
He blinks, slowly focusing back on the ten-year-old's face brimming with curiosity.
"Why do you want to help my Mom?"
He smiles, like it's not hard.
"Because it's the right thing to do, Henry."
As he watches the boy make his way to the vending machine, Robin thinks back to the time when he used to trust that truth was whole and permanent, and not a half-lie with obscure areas and impenetrable realities.
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In the end, stubbornness doesn't lead him anywhere. The doctor – whose beady eyes and unempathetic face he dislikes instantly—outright laughs at him when he tries to ask questions about Regina Mills—or the Evil Queen, as Dr Whale keeps calling her, sealing Robin's contempt.
"I fail to see how it's any of your business," the man sneers after a few days of persistence, and Robin braces himself.
"It's not. I just don't like it when people with power take advantage of a distressed child to get back at their mother. Whatever grievance you have against the queen, it hardly concerns a ten-year-old boy."
"Whatever grievance? That woman cursed all of us. She killed thousands! She's the scum of this earth. She should be lucky to be given a bed at all and not be murdered in her sleep. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other patients that are worth my time to—"
Robin doesn't let him finish, crushing Whale's windpipe with a strong grip, watching him squirm uselessly. He doesn't raise his voice, nor take pleasure in this action, entirely possessed by disgust and righteous anger.
"I think you have misunderstood me. You're going to check what is wrong with the woman and why she doesn't wake up. Then, you're going to explain it to her son, and tell him exactly how much hope he can have of her waking up. I'll be watching you through every step, and if you do something that displeases me, the Evil Queen won't be the only murderer in this hospital. In fact, she already isn't. Am I clear enough for you?"
He waits until Whale's eyes start to bulge under the pressure, and on a last squeeze the doctor nods frantically.
Robin releases him, gives him a pat on the shoulder.
"I'm expecting you in her room at 8 sharp tomorrow morning."
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The next day, Whale arrives early at the meeting.
Emma and Henry are standing by one side of the bed, Robin on the other. The Sheriff has raised an eyebrow at him when she saw him in the room, but kept her mouth shut when Henry told her, "He's a friend."
She didn't ask of whom.
"So. What's her deal?" Emma says, her arms wrapped around her middle, clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation, once Whale's thorough and deliberately dragging examination is over.
The doctor waits a few seconds,perhaps for dramatic effect (Robin manages to loathe him even more) and finally shrugs.
"I have no idea."
He recoils as Robin flexes his fists threateningly and throws his arms in the air.
"I really don't! I mean the woman has undergone electroshock torture for two days, then she used an insane amount of magic, it's enough to kill anybody. Physically, she's well enough—there's a couple of minor muscle breaks in the limbs due to the shocks, but nothing that would prevent her from waking up. Her brain works just fine. I simply have no explanation as to why she's still alive or why she doesn't wake up."
Henry's eyes widen and he turns towards Emma, tugging urgently on her sleeve, his voice wobbling.
"What does he mean she's been tortured? What did they do to my Mom?"
Of course, the Sheriff hasn't told him the whole story—who would?—and they both glare at Whale who gives them a nasty smirk in return.
"You told me to make a diagnosis. Sensitivity wasn't part of the deal."
"What deal?" Emma says suspiciously, but Henry sniffles loudly, tilts up his chin and stares hard at Whale, looking every bit the Evil Queen's son for a few seconds.
"So there's nothing you can do to help my Mom, is that what you're saying?"
Whale's tone gentles a little when he takes in the pale face and the tears threatening to fall.
"I'm afraid not, Henry. My guess is this is a magically induced coma. Maybe a magical solution could help but I am not a wizard. I can't help you on this."
Henry lowers his head, hiding his trembling lips. Emma puts her hands on his shoulders and kneads them gently, looking at Whale.
"What about... that thing my parents do. True Love's Kiss? Maybe that can work?"
"Well, it's hardly a curse, for one. And I doubt you could find someone in this town that would truly love the Evil Queen."
"I do," Henry says forcefully, lifting his head up, his eyes blazing with indignation. "I love her."
Whale looks at him with a strange mixture of pity and disgust.
"And that, my child, is your curse."
The doctor leaves without further comments, and they all gather around the bed, quiet, lost in thoughts.
Henry slowly takes his mother's hand where it lies limp on the bedding, shyly stroking it.
"You'll wake up, Mom. I know you will."
He bends over to kiss her on the cheek, then waits a second with bated breath, for something that both Emma and Robin know won't happen.
When it doesn't, he lets himself be guided out of the room, his whole body sagging like a stringless puppet.
"Come on Henry, it's time for school. We can visit her tomorrow all right? Thanks, er..."
"Robin," he supplies helpfully with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and Emma answers with a nod that's only half-hearted, navigating a dazed Henry out of the door.
Then Robin is alone in the room, and with shallow breath and a hard thumping heart, he takes the time to look at her, at last.
If the sight of the Mayor drinking her sorrow away in a shabby bar was disturbing, that one time, the one he has to endure now is like a physical punch to the guts.
This is wrong.
She looks so frail and small on the hospital bed, her skin ashen against the white sheet, her lips parched dry, her hair lacks their usual luster, and her eyes, closed, conceal the tormented soul behind it, the strength of her emotions, an intensity of feeling he's never seen the likes of. All that life, erased and slowed down to barely functioning, barely breathing, and he feels like he's going to be sick.
Instead he straightens the covers around her, then takes a step back.
He doesn't touch her.
He thinks of her alone in front of the school gates, everything hard about her but those bleeding eyes while she waits for her son. He thinks how strong and vulnerable she had seemed to him then. How very much beyond his reach.
But here, she's close, and defenceless, and unaware.
He thinks how easy it would be to do now what he had come to do in her garden not a few months ago.
She had been planting seeds in her backyard, in comfortable slacks and a scoop neck T-shirt, the fabric still looking expensive, but she seemed relaxed in a way he'd never seen before.
Maybe this was what had set him off, made him burn with anger. The casual, ordinary action. The simple enjoyment that must come from caring for your garden.
He'd thought that no murderer should be allowed such simple pleasures.
It had been a few weeks since the Curse broke.
A few weeks of him having to remind Roland that his name wasn't Elliott, a few weeks of him having to come to terms with the thought that he'd been turned into a tax collector for 28 years as a cruel joke, a few weeks of him debating whether or not he should finally go after the woman who had sentenced his Marian to death.
She was stranded, alone, had just lost her mother and whatever support she could have counted on. It was only a matter of time until she made a mistake that would have her locked away for good—or killed. He would probably never have a better opportunity to avenge his wife than here and now.
He'd nocked an arrow in his crossbow.
He'd breathed.
He'd waited.
That was his first mistake.
His second mistake was to give her the time to lift her head.
He should never have looked into her eyes—they wielded on him the same power they had when her lips had been inches from his in the dank bathroom of the Rabbit Hole.
He faltered.
She smiled at him, a smile he saw clearly despite the distance between them, as if she'd been expecting his arrival all along.
"Well. If it isn't our famous archer. Robin Hood, I presume? Or maybe you'd rather go as Tom Lockwood here. I heard that some people chose the name I gave them over their own. Quite flattering I might say."
He slowly walked out from under the cover of the trees, walking towards her, his grip tightened over the crossbow, his rage flared up, but still, he didn't shoot.
"So. Are you here for vengeance? Or is it a matter of social justice? You hero types mistake both so easily."
"You killed my wife."
She blinked—barely a moment of confusion—before the mask fell in place again.
"Your wife?"
"Marian. She was in your dungeons last I heard of her."
The Queen cocked her head to the side with an indecipherable smile.
"I see. Then I must have killed her. I never kept prisoners for long. Not worth the trouble."
He didn't see even the slightest flinch of remorse, not a single inkling of care in her voice.
She looked dead. Dead and monstrous.
"What did she even do to you?"
She shrugged.
"Does it matter? Helping Snow White, saying the wrong words, wearing the wrong outfit... when did I ever need a reason to kill someone? I've always been a monster."
She was still kneeling on the floor, her hands smeared with dirt. A fitting tableau for an execution, perhaps.
But there were those eyes, overflowing, reaching out to him even as she stood straight and withdrawn, seemingly untouchable, but he knew better. He'd been there for the break that night, and he could feel her, even now, just on the verge of shattering.
"What are you waiting for, outlaw? I haven't got all day. I'm sure there's a long list of wannabe-avengers just waiting for that same opportunity. Do you really want to let the chance to get justice for your wife's murder slip from your fingers?"
"If I release this arrow now you'll use magic to stop me."
She raised her hands, slowly, surrendering.
"I swear I won't. I can even close my eyes if you want to be sure."
She closed them, but the spell wasn't broken over him. And the sense that he was making a mistake wouldn't let go of him. He was trapped, utterly trapped, both by her mystery and his conscience. By the too human cracks he'd seen in her soul and by his helpless desire to touch them.
If he'd truly listened to his heart he would have understood he was done even before he could try.
He lowered his crossbow and took a few steps forward. Closer.
She opened her eyes as she heard him coming towards her.
Immediately her stare hardened and she jumped to her feet as she saw him giving up.
"Is that all your justice is worth? You come into my house, you threaten my life and you don't even have the guts to go through with it? I killed your wife! I made your life miserable, I made all your lives miserable, and you're gonna have feelings about this? Stupid, spineless, weak man!"
"You said so yourself," he spoke calmly. "You can't even remember if you killed her."
She sneered at him. "And that makes it so much better, doesn't it? You can all just forget about the other countless lives I took as long as it doesn't impact you. What a hero you make."
He was close to her now. He could see the brown stains on her dark pants where she had wiped her fingers, the slight smudge at the corner of her nose where she must have scratched it. The few tendrils of her hair coming undone, sticking to her cheeks. She looked so ridiculously domestic. So helplessly human.
"You want me to kill you."
It wasn't even a question. She came at him with a feral snarl, grabbing him by the collar, almost tearing his shirt off in the process.
"How dare you. You don't know the slightest thing about me. You're nothing but a cowardly bastard who doesn't have the balls to do what he knows to be the right thing."
"Killing is never the right thing. Even as I was walking to your house, I knew that. I knew that what I was doing was wrong. And I didn't care."
"Then you had a coming to Jesus moment. How very sweet," she spat, her eyes roaming over him as if trying to cut under his skin.
"I simply realized one thing. I don't want to be you."
He could tell the words hit a special place in her heart as she recoiled, bringing her arms close to her chest, as if trying to deflect the blow.
"You're into so much pain it's terrifying," he whispered, and she gasped.
Then she laughed. Loud and shrill, the glass of her mind shattering everywhere.
"You pity me? I'm the most powerful being in this town, I could kill you all in an instant and you pity me?"
He shook his head, almost gently, looking at her as you would a child throwing a tantrum.
"You're not powerful, Regina. You never had the upper hand in all of this and I see it now. I see you. And I do pity you. I feel sorry for you, because you're putting on a show no one believes in anymore. The Evil Queen is dead and you can't even see it. You're holding on to the corpse of the monster you used to be. And you'll never move on as long as you don't let it go. But you should. I don't know if you deserve redemption or a second chance, and it's not for me to say it, but there's a little boy counting on you in your life. I've known dreadful people who changed for the sake of a child. Maybe you could to."
He dropped the crossbow to the ground, and his hands felt strangely free, his heart strangely light.
"But right now you're not worth the arrow I'd shoot you with. There's no sense in beating someone who's already down."
He turned away and meant to leave.
He felt invisible strings wrap around him at the speed of lightning, constraining his lungs and throwing him onto the grass, head first. He grunted as he tried to fight his magical bounds, uselessly kicking his legs as Regina turned him on his back, her long nails digging into his flesh as she bent over him to cup his jaw in a mock tender gesture.
"Now look who's down. That's where you look good, thief. Down at my feet."
She snapped her fingers and the strings disappeared, replaced by her heel—she was the only woman he knew that would garden in stilettos—pressing on his chest.
"You've had your fun. I'd say it's my turn."
He didn't give her time to act. He locked his arms around her leg and pulled it out from under him, causing her to tumble forward and land hard on him. He quickly rolled them over, pinned her arms over her head.
"Stop that. I'm not going to fight you. I'm not going to give you what you want."
"I'm not letting you a choice," she hissed, striking and barely missing his groin with her knee as she tried to kick her legs up, the unexpected strength of the attack making him lose his grip on her wrists. She punched him in the jaw and he rolled off of her.
He spat blood where the blow had made him bite the inside of his cheek and he glared at her, now slowly getting on all fours, cheeks flushed and breathing hard.
"You're insane."
"Well, are you going to do something about it or do I have to make you spit your teeth one by one?"
He lurched at her, but too late. With one gesture of her hand she sent him flying back, back towards her house, crashing through the bay window, shards spilling everywhere, tearing through his clothes and skin. Before he could gather his wits, she hoisted him up by his shirt thanks to the added fuel of her magic and shoved him hard on the chest, making him stumble a few steps into the living-room.
"I don't want to hurt you," he panted, and she laughed at him again.
"How very hypocrite of you, considering you were going to kill me a few minutes ago."
She was on him in the blink of an eye, twisting his arm, finding a large piece of glass stuck into the skin and digging it further.
Blood invaded his mouth once again as he bit down hard not to scream.
"Thankfully, I don't share your sensibilities."
He let out a guttural groan and suddenly squirmed out of her grip, gritting his teeth against the pain, grabbing her hair with his free hand and pulling her down on the ground roughly.
She went with a shout of surprise and he craned her neck to wrap his hand around her slender throat, forcing her to look up at him, feeling his blood pump madly into his veins, his muscles twitch with the ache to rip a body apart limb by limb, something he hadn't felt since the war. He struggled to calm down, breathing through his nose, just looking at her, at her eyes. Squeezing enough with his hand to discourage her from any other trick, but not enough to strangle her.
"Do it," she finally whispered, and he could see her lips tremble. "You know you want to. You know you crave to. That feeling of righteousness as you take your revenge at last, all that pain and all that rage that won't be in vain, your memory pure again with the knowledge you made that monster pay for the death of your loved one… you can have all of that. You can have peace. You just have to kill me."
Slowly, she raised her hands to his own, covering it, forcing it to tighten around her throat.
"Gods," he whispered as he saw her eyes fill with exhausted tears.
"Just do it. Just do it, do it, just-"
He shut her up with a kiss, rough, demanding, hungrier than the one they exchanged before, suddenly desperate to breathe life into her. She kept pleading against his lips—though never actually saying the word that would give the final blow to her pride—and tugging at his clothes, hitting him on the chest, scratching him with the claws of a jungle cat, biting him with the teeth of a famished wolf. He held her gently, as gently as he could with both the primal need he felt for her skin and her heat and the terror and awful sorrow she inspired him.
The thought of Marian crossed his mind as plump, hard, so different yet so delicious lips moved under his own, and something snapped in him.
He lifted her up unceremoniously and began feasting on her neck, her cleavage, a hint of a shoulder, tugging so hard at her collar the fabric started to rip.
She gave him as good as she got, hands grabbing his hair, hips rolling, obscene sounds flying out of her mouth, she let him lift her T-shirt above her head and then reached in turn to rip open his shirt, buttons soaring, her nails immediately rippling over his muscles, going down to tug at the belt of his pants, making a quick work of freeing him as she popped open the button of his jeans and pulled down the zipper, gripping his already rock hard cock through his boxer.
He hissed as her other hand found a bleeding spot on his back and she hushed him, her voice almost kind as she lifted her bloodied fingers to stroke his face.
Then, mercurial as ever, she pushed him over the arm of the couch.
She moved over to him, jumped on to straddle him, her thighs strong around his waist, her center pressing against his crotch, making him forget about the pain. He rose up to meet her, all but tearing her bra off of her, bare flesh finally slapping against bare flesh in the most delightful blow.
He forced her to lean back as he latched his lips onto her breast, moaning at the perfect fill in his mouth, the hardened nipple a harsh jewel for his tongue to worship.
She threw her head back, holding on to his nape, pressing him harder against her chest, breathless noises escaping from her lips. She started to rock into him as he took care of both her breasts—swirling his tongue around them, giving a final bite on the nipple before moving on to the other, and back, never allowing her a break, relishing the near-screams he drew from her with his teeth—and soon her reckless grinding against him was a teasing he couldn't take any longer. His hands reached for her pants but she slapped them away, getting off of him, standing tall on her legs, her bare chest heaving, the pert breasts glistening with spit.
He looked up at her, still lying down, as she slowly unbuttoned her pants, glided them along elegantly toned legs, stepping out of them and out of her shoes, standing before him in nothing but her panties.
Then she looked down at her hands still covered in mud, and his blood.
"My hands are dirty," she breathed with a faraway look.
He laughed, and she glared.
"Is that a confession of guilt, your majesty?"
She snarled at him and picked up one of her shoes that she launched at his head—he dodged it just in time by rolling off the couch onto the floor, missing the coffee table but by an inch. He jumped quickly to his feet, and marched on her. She didn't back down. He didn't expect her to.
"How does it feel, kissing the woman who's responsible for your wife's death, outlaw?"
He grabbed her by the shoulders, lifting her in his arms and slamming her body into the nearest wall, inserting himself between her legs, both his arms caging her.
"Shut up."
"Just imagine how miserable you'll feel after you've fucked me," she murmured with a strange sort of desperate glee, and she cried out as he slipped his hand into her panties and thrust two fingers into her without warning, her walls seizing around him.
"I said shut up," he hissed in her face, setting a punishing pace with his fingers that had her wincing and gasping in pain at first, until he began to nibble on her ear, his other hand brushing every now and then against her clit, changing her dry sobs into deep moans, then frustrated groans as he drew out the action but denied her any release.
"You need me to rub your clit, don't you," he panted in her ear, teasing her with a sharp pinch on the neglected and throbbing bundle of nerves that made her shriek. "You can't touch yourself with dirty hands like these. I have to do all the work."
He bit down hard at the juncture of her neck and shoulder and she bucked into his hand, screwing her eyes shut, tightening around him.
"You want it so much, I'm not sure I should give it to you," he mocked, and she grunted as he corkscrewed his fingers inside her, hitting a particularly pleasurable spot.
"I could just kill you," she rasped, lifting her hands to circle his throat.
"Why don't you," he teased, then began to rub her clit in a quick and circular motion, drawing a long, trembling wail out of her. "Something tells me you need me too much right now."
"Fuck you," she sobbed, taking his lower lip between her teeth and sucking it in her mouth.
Her hands slided down to graze at his nipples, sending shivers down the base of his spine.
"Right after," he promised, then pressed hard on her nub, finally giving her what she wanted, listening as she gasped and whined, watching as she arched into him, her face tense, so tense, then blissfully lax, her head lolling to the side where it met his hand as he let go of her clit and cupped her cheek, the other still busy feeding her orgasm until her thighs started shaking.
She pushed him away when she was done, holding on to the wall for support, refusing his arms.
He felt his breath leave him as he gazed into her eyes again, they had turned a lighter color, some golden brown that looked as rich and strong as whiskey, just as intoxicating.
He waited for her to catch her breath, his shirt still hanging loosely off his shoulders, his jeans lowered around his hips, his cock painfully erect in the tight confines of his underwear, wondering if she'd had enough and would throw him out now.
He didn't wait for long.
He felt a strange tickling sensation and had the weird feeling of his body dematerializing, he caught a whiff of purple smoke, and then he was in a bedroom—hers, no doubt—landing on his back again, on a queen-sized bed that seemed to have been waiting for them.
She was standing before him, still wearing her panties, and the love bites around her breasts. She looked a little bit wild with her flushed cheeks, her tangled hair, and her brown-red hands. She snapped her fingers with a smirk, and cool air washed over him as his clothes vanished.
She licked her lips as she stared at his cock, and he held his breath at the hungry shape of her mouth. She climbed him, positioning herself right above his tip, and he guided himself into her, closing his eyes briefly at the velvet sensation. She was ridiculously tight, and ridiculously wet. She felt like paradise, watching him with the eyes of hell.
"Oh," she moaned, the sound growing deeper, huskier as she sank all the way onto his length. "Yes…"
His hands found her hips on reflex, his grip possessive as he began to set the pace, but she raked her nails over his wrists, taking them into her hands and forcing them over his head, her teats dragging along his torso, her nose brushing against his as she drawled into his mouth, "Don't move."
She fucked him hard. Harder than he'd ever been fucked in his life. She rutted savagely against him, her breasts bouncing wildly, such a tantalizing sight which fulfillment he was denied by the hand she kept pushing against his chest, refusing his mouth access to her chest, and he could only rage in breathless grunts as the stiff, dark peaks of her nipples taunted him. She hurt him—her nails drawing blood on his skin and fist pummelling on his chest whenever he hit a particularly pleasurable spot, the cuts on his back from the broken glass of the bay window chafing against the bedcover with each thrust, and he hurt her back, digging bruises into her hips and welts along her thighs, biting her fingers whenever he managed to suck them in into his mouth, uncaring about the dirt still lingering on her skin, while he lusted angrily after her inaccessible breasts. He didn't mind hurting her when she responded with grateful moans. There was no romance in her cruel and reckless taking of him, and there was no tenderness in his abandon. When her nearly animalistic cries began to get airy and she started to lose the rhythm, he reached for her clit and pinched it, hard, several times, the pain stealing her voice for a moment until she quaked above him, her body seizing like lightening, and she came harder than the first time, her scream hoarse, her cunt sucking him in greedily, so tight around him he had to stop breathing and focus not to explode inside her, he watched, watched with rapture every throes of her passion, he waited for that one moment of weakness when she sagged down against him, and he switched them off, had her on her back and pounded into her before she could yell at him for his boldness.
He fucked her in earnest, thrusting so hard and so fast he feared for the frame of the bed that was making an uninterrupted whine, but he didn't dare slow down, couldn't under the silent and imperious order of her dark eyes, and when he meant to withdraw to spill his seed over the bed as he felt himself nearing climax, she locked her legs around him, grabbed him by the shoulders, her lips mute but her eyes challenging, and he gushed into her, coming until he felt dizzy, his brain swimming, and he crashed down on her with a last, earth-shattering gasp.
.
He hadn't remembered falling asleep, or getting off of her, hadn't felt her leave the bed, but the sound of water pounding hard awoke him. He stirred slowly, grimacing at the soreness of his back, and when he felt well enough to move, he draped a sheet around him as he went to explore the house. He stayed on the upper floor, not wanting to be reminded of the enormity of what he just did by the damage downstairs. He passed by a room he guessed to be Henry's, judging by the decoration and drawings on the wall, but the deserted loneliness he perceived didn't make him want to linger.
He reached a guest room perfectly austere and empty save for the various-shaped trunks disposed carelessly and wide-open, their esoteric contents spilling everywhere.
"That's my mother's," he heard behind him.
She'd crept up silently in his steps. Her hair was dripping from the shower, slowly wetting the shoulders and back on the silk grey robe she had wrapped herself in. Her face was flawlessly bare, wearing a strange expression, startled, almost fearful.
He realized he was gawking and shook himself into words.
"I didn't mean to pry."
She rolled her eyes—he couldn't tell if she was upset, didn't believe him, or was amused—and gestured to him to follow her.
"Some of the wounds on your back are still bleeding. Follow me."
Entrusting his care to the witch who'd hurt him in the first place sounded like a terrible idea, yet he found himself following her nonetheless, back into her bedroom where she told him to sit on the floor and wait, while she gathered supplied in the en-suite bathroom.
He did as he was told, awkwardness seeping through every move. He had no idea how to act after what happened, or when to begin processing. He focused on his breathing and tried to remain alert to what Regina had in store for him next, but it seemed she was truly intent on healing him when she crouched down behind him and began gently dabbing at his blood-riddled back.
He endured until the silence became unbearable—until he got sick of asking himself why this woman, this woman, the rampaging evil of the Enchanted Forest, so hell-bent on shredding him to pieces about an hour ago, was now kneeling on the floor, her hands soft and efficient as they worked on his body.
"I'm sorry about your mother."
He could tell they were hearing it both—that same line from the past, but a few months ago that felt like another lifetime. I am sorry for your loss.
"Were you close?"
It didn't make sense, nothing made sense, this scene, this civility, these platitudes; she would throw him out, now, she would go back to the intense and frightening woman who scared him less than the quiet one at his back. Yet, she answered.
"Close enough to hurt."
He wasn't able to question her any further; she suddenly pressed her palm flat into his skin and he hissed at the burn he felt from her touch. A strange, almost tickling sensation began to run down his spine, and he turned his head halfway, trying to catch a glimpse of what she was doing.
"Healing magic is not my forte," she commented casually, "but superficial flesh wounds are easily taken care of. There's not much I can do for the scars, I'm afraid."
"It's quite alright," he heard himself say, as if this were a mere medical consultation.
Eventually, the tingling stopped and warmth left him with her hand.
"Now, get out."
He turned to look at her, his fingers gently catching hers as she moved to get up. He stopped her, and she lowered her eyes to his hand, gaze blazing as if intent to put him on fire right after having healed him. But she didn't. Her eyes widened instead as they traveled along his arm, and she let out a trembling breath. Then, she began laughing. The sound shrill, harsh, broken, painful like a cough, and he could only stare, stare as she herself was staring, now above his shoulder towards the window, towards a mute sky insensible her raving laughter. Worried, Robin cupped her cheek, bringing her back to him, giving her time to calm down. She did, after a while, and didn't try to brush him off, her hand coming to rest atop his instead, then gliding down, lightly caressing the tattoo on his inner forearm with careful fingertips.
He took her in as she mindlessly kept moving her hand. The hair gently beginning to curl. The shadows under her eyes, the tense lines. Her naked, vulnerable-looking collarbone. The flash of bare thigh where her robe had opened. He frowned.
"You're hurt, too," he said, brushing over the dark, yellowing bruise on her thigh.
She didn't even blink down.
"Don't worry, outlaw. This isn't your doing."
She let go of him, and got back up, eyes dark and unreadable again, her body a shield.
"You can see yourself out"
She disappeared into the bathroom and locked the door.
He stared for awhile, words echoing at the edge of his mind, adding another mile to the maze of this woman's history.
Close enough to hurt.
He doesn't touch her.
He just brushes the back of his hand against the side of her pillow, soul-crushed.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, and he doesn't know for what anymore—for him, for her, for her life, for this world.
Their story.
.
He comes back every week. He can't help it. Atonement, obsession or care, the pull is there. He comes, sits on a chair by her side and he talks. Of everything (Roland), of nothing, life in Storybrooke, Little John's last mishap, the new magical shenanigan that had gotten the town topsy-turvy. Autumn passes by, and Regina keeps still, and he doesn't stop hoping.
He arrives late one day from his usual schedule, and someone's already in Regina's room.
He stands speechless as he watches Snow White washing the Queen's hair.
She lifts her head and smiles at him, her hands never stopping their gentle work, the familiarity in them undeniable.
"Henry told me you've been visiting her. Robin, isn't it?"
"Ah—yes. And you're—"
"Mary Margaret. Or, Snow. I never know what to go by these days."
"Pleased to meet you," he says, maybe too hesitantly to feel true. "Pardon me, I'm just surprised to see you here, usually Nurse Ratched-"
"Oh, I know, she's doing a great job at caring for Regina, but she has other patients and I've been volunteering at this hospital for… well, thirty years or one day, depending on how you look at it. But don't worry, I know what I'm doing."
She looks so calm and so at ease, he can't help but wonder aloud: "I know it's not my place, but… I thought you and the Queen…"
"A legendary feud, yes." Her smile remains so serene. "But as with all legends, there's more to the truth than meet the eye. I presume I'll be surprised to hear the whole story of Robin Hood."
He tries, but the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"There's not much worth hearing, m'lady. Better stick to the bards, in my case. The good ones, at least."
Snow hums in response, her eyes going back to her work.
"She did this for me when I was a child," she says after a few moments of silence, so softly he has to strain his ears to hear. "She washed my hair, brushed my hair, styled my hair, she told me stories, she sewed dresses for me—she did everything I asked."
In an almost motherly gesture, Snow slides her fingers in Regina's raven locks that have grown a bit longer now, removing the last traces of shampoo.
"I'll never know whether or not she thought about killing me every single time. I'll never know what was true in the moments we shared. But I like to believe that she did love me, in her own way, once upon a time."
She dries Regina hair with a towel, her eyes darting back up to Robin.
"I've chosen to believe in her again. I guess you do too. Otherwise, why would you be here?"
He stays silent, thoughtful, under her intent gaze.
"I guess I'm hoping she'll wake up and tell me"
.
"So. What's the story between you and the Mayor?'
They're playing ping pong in the lower level of the hospital, where they have some distractions set for the long-term residents and the visitors. He's been hanging out with Emma a few times—more and more, lately, as she seems to appreciate his level-headedness and he enjoys her tough but amicable character. Henry has asked them to live him alone with his mother—the last comics of the series they've been reading together before she fell into a coma just came out, and he had to read it to her.
"What makes you think there's a story?"
She throws him a particularly mean service—he misses—and she shrugs.
"'Cause good guys are either a myth, or liars. You don't sit your ass on this godawful hospital chair for a whole hour every week out of politeness. So?'
He stills in his fist the ball he's been one-handedly juggling with, and looks away.
"We shared a moment, that's all."
Emma raises an eyebrow at him.
"You guys had sex, didn't you?"
Robin usually enjoys her straight-forwardness, but he feels a tinge of annoyance this time. Still, he doesn't deny it, and a second eyebrow joins the first on Emma's face, impressed.
"And you survived?"
"Surprisingly, yes," he says, curtly, and Emma gives him a good-natured smile, raising her hands in surrender.
"Hey, it's fine, I'm not trying to grill you or anything. Besides, it's not like I can judge you anyway."
He gives her a questioning look, and Emma laughs awkwardly, one hand scratching the back of her neck.
"I mean… I know she's kind of an asshole and… she did try to kill me and my family. But she's…"
Emma seems at a loss for defining what Regina is, exactly, and Robin can relate.
"Is it weird that I miss her?"
It strikes him, the youth and loneliness on Emma's face when she lowers her eyes.
His heart goes to her, and she feels as close as family in that moment.
"No. No it's not."
He'd felt his heart stop beating when he'd seen her holding Roland's hand. He'd only looked away for a minute—one minute. And Roland had been gone, the swing deserted. He'd roamed the whole park before stopping to this dread-filling vision. His son with the Evil Queen.
It's only as they came nearer and he saw his boy laughing, her smiling—always a sun veiled by shadows—and their joined hands swinging, than he corrected himself.
His son with Regina.
He did not show her a tense face when she looked up at him to say: "I believe you've lost something."
She let go of Roland's hands, and urged him forward with a gentle push between his shoulders. His little boy ran and jumped into his arms, his eyes sheepish while his father scolded him for running away.
"It's okay, Papa! I was with Miss Gina. She fixed Mister Fox."
His son showed him the toy wooden bear he insisted on calling Fox, no longer missing his hind legs.
"She can do magic," Roland whispered in his ear loud enough for both Regina and him to hear, and he couldn't help his smile.
"She can, indeed. Well, have you thanked her?"
Roland nodded eagerly, and Robin gave a tentative smile to Regina, who stood awkwardly a few feet away, her hands deep in the pockets of her coat.
"Thank you for getting me my son back. I was—"
"Don't mention it," she says hurriedly, and he notices how tense she is, how aching to go away, avoid this, all of it—she can't even meet his eyes.
"Regina-" he starts, but she stops him again by walking off, offering a soft "goodbye, Sir Roland" to his son as she brushes past them. He gets a whiff of her perfume, as fleeting and evasive as her.
He turns around to watch her walking away, and feels Roland's head burying in his neck.
"I think she looks like the moon."
"Like the moon? What makes you say that, lad?"
Roland's voice is slow like a dream when he answers:
"She's very lonely."
.
It happens only a few days after. The town starts shaking, vines growing out from underground, and hell slowly unleashes upon Storybrooke. He gets to Roland's room too late. The roof is collapsing. He screams, about to throw himself forward as a vain attempt to reach his son and protect him… he doesn't need to. A powerful, though translucent white shield bursts forth from the object Roland holds in his hands and wraps securely around his son.
He takes a blow to the head from a falling joist and blacks out.
He comes back maybe a few minutes later on the debris of his destroyed house. Roland is by his side, gently patting his forehead.
"It's okay, Papa. The big green monsters are gone. It's all quiet."
From where he lies, Robin can only see what Roland is still holding in his tight fist.
Mister Fox, gleaming white.
He gathers his son in his arms, tears of relief and astonishment running on his cheeks.
Henry suggests it. Comes up with a name for it—apparently, that's his thing. Robin is hesitant at first, not wanting the kid to suffer more disappointment when the rest of his family will refuse him. But they don't. And on Christmas Eve, Robin finds himself setting up fairy lights all around Regina's hospital room, while David brings in a (plastic and sterilized) tree, Snow and Emma hang socks and select all the cheesy holidays songs for the evening playlist, Roland and Henry are busy doing what they call 'helping' and what most adults call 'making a mess'.
It's noisy. It's clumsy. It's comforting.
It's Operation Christmas.
There's too much food, and singing, and games, and Regina's cheeks are rosy with warmth, and her hair shines under the flickering lights, and she could just be sleeping, a hidden smile at the corner of her lips. Henry insists on opening the first half of his gifts (he'll have the rest tomorrow) in front of his Mom, describing each item in great details.
He gets a bit teary when it's time to say goodnight, and he climbs on the bed to hug his mother tight, tight, and Robin who's sitting next to her hear him say: "Please, Mom, wake up. You gotta wake up. That's what I asked for Christmas, you know? It's the only thing I put on the list. I figured, if fairytales are real, then Santa must be real too. So you'll wake up, right? Don't wait too long, the cookies will get old."
Henry wipes the tears of his cheeks and kisses his mother on the forehead, before joining a suspiciously red-nosed and bright-eyed Snow, a conflicted-looking David and a barely breathing Emma. They say goodnight—Merry Christmas—and Robin puts Roland on his knee.
"All right, lad, it's time for us to go to bed as well. Say goodbye to Regina?"
The little boy plays shyly with his brand new red scarf, and gives his father a wondering look.
"Can I give Miss Gina a gift?"
Smiling, a bit puzzled, Robin nods.
Roland takes a small object out of his pocket, and places it on Regina's chest, tucking it under the cover.
Mister Fox.
"He will save her like he saved me, right Papa? He'll wake her?"
Robin breathes deeply, and holds his son tight against him, his pleading eyes focused on Regina.
"I hope so, my boy. I hope so."
.
Maybe the wish of two little boys was enough.
Maybe Regina needed to feel wanted.
When she opened her eyes after long months of sleep, she saw only blue.
She blinked and blinked, barely hearing faraway voices, barely feeling the hand clutching her own.
The blue shrunk until it became two eyes.
She smiled.
"I know your eyes."
The eyes came closer, and became a whole face.
She frowned. It was the wrong face. The wrong eyes. The wrong memory. And yet…
"What are you doing here?"
"Maybe you can tell me."
Robin smiled, and she felt her heart flutter. His hand gently squeezed hers, and she found herself able to squeeze back.
Then the door burst open on Henry, the Charmings and Nurse Ratched in his tracks, and everything was chaos for a few seconds until she was able to close her arms around her little boy, her relief at feeling him, alive and vibrant and loving, expressing itself into shocked gasps and soft sobs.
"My little prince," she whispered.
She winced at the flickering light teasing her eyes, and as she searched for the source of her discomfort she was finally able to take in her surroundings.
"What the hell?"
Robin chuckled, Emma elbowed Snow—I told you she'd find it too cheesy—and Henry smiled at her, his hands warm on the sides of her face.
"Merry Christmas, Mom."