They know of each other, of course, have long learnt to recognise the tell-tale flash of purple or the glance of green in the kaleidoscope of New York lights. They've come to recognise each other's handwriting on hastily scribbled notes spelling sarcasm and challenge and, sometimes, warning. Yet they've never crossed paths before, for all their nocturnal adventuring, for all the forays into dens of crime hidden or neglected by those who fail to punish the perpetrators. Two strangers on a mission, they have taken it upon themselves to be swift agents of their own brand of justice. Separately.
Until one fateful night, his stealthy approach is thwarted by her spectacular exit, and her sharp elbow wedges itself between his ribs before she disappears in the dark. Little do they know that the fleeting contact, not pleasant by far, is but the start of a connection much more profound.
The course of true love, much like that of justice, never does run smooth after all.
Robin tries not to hiss in pain as he pours milk into the football-styled bowl, adds the cereal with a grimace because the bruise smarts. The injury didn't seem half so bad last night when he was pumped with adrenaline, yet this morning he woke from his far-too-short slumber with a stiff, achy arm.
"Look, Papa, it's that Tinkerbell again!" giggles Roland as Robin sets the bowl before him and ruffles his freshly combed yet already unruly mop of curls.
Robin wonders for the dozenth time whether the woman favours the colour so much or whether the exclusively viridescent TV outfits are purely coincidental. The petite blonde with a crisp Kiwi accent is a special correspondent for human interest stories, and quite the hit with his kindergartner for obvious reasons.
"Good morning, America, this is Tina Corbell with a very special feature today: we have obtained exclusive footage of the Evil Queen in action! Come take a peek at her in the parking lot of one of Brooklyn's trendiest watering holes, where she seems to have spent last night on the lookout for women in trouble." Robin leans forward against the counter, the resulting stab of pain forgotten as the image shifts to the grainy texture of a surveillance camera. "Spotting two men practically dragging a clearly inebriated young woman to their car, the Evil Queen intervened with her usual efficiency." And there she is, the famous Evil Queen reduced to a black (purple in reality, Robin knows, her costume's fashioned after the Disney classic) smudge on the screen, materialising out of nowhere and neutralising both cads with a taser while keeping her face hidden at all times. "The police have confirmed the young woman had been safely delivered to her dorm, while both men had been taken to custody after a new, especially vile party drug had been found on them. An unspecified but ample amount of drugs was discovered as police raided the club based on an anonymous tip. I think we know exactly who to thank though—your reputation precedes you, Your Majesty!"
Tina "Tinkerbell" Corbell's usual bright mien morphs into something far graver and more sinister as she follows up with sharp social commentary, and Robin swiftly changes channels because agree though he might with her on the absolutely shameful handling—or non-handling—of rape cases and her condemnation of victim-blaming, this is no time to try and translate such issues into a language digestible for a five-year-old.
Despite said five-year-old's protests (she hasn't even said her words yet, she always says the words when she's finished, Papa), they stick to Yogi Bear until the cereal bowl is licked clean, shoes are tied and backpack slung over tiny shoulders, all ready for kindergarten.
Tinkerbell's critique of the failings of the justice system crowds Robin's mind once again after Roland's been dropped off, and for a moment Robin considers picking up today's paper for details he might have missed in his haste to protect his boy from the evils of the world. A whole different set of words still fresh in his memory chases the idea right away—he absolutely refuses to read a word of that slanderous drivel that odious Sidney Glass keeps piling on one of New York's most notorious personages.
True, Robin frowns as a fresh wave of morning commuters slams him against the bright red pole of the train, the Queen has throngs of admirers but also her share of haters. There are always those who disapprove of vigilante justice, Robin is well aware, but the part that grosses him out is how much more tolerant people are of men fighting societal shortcomings. The Queen, by the very nature of her work, draws the anger of many, men and women, too entrenched in the status quo to even see the failings against which the purple-clad Queen has taken up arms. Or perhaps they don't want to see their neighbour's black-eye (her husband is such a gentleman after all, she's a quiet little thing needing guidance or possibly a shrew in need of taming, and why get caught up in other people's private business anyway?), or hear the evil behind their friend's oh-so-innocent joke (he's no rapist monster, for heaven's sake, it's all in good fun, so why be a killjoy over nothing?).
And then there are the Queen's admirers, a veritable army of fans. Women for the most part, but men as well, all possessed of an unprecedented keenness to become part of the cause. Self-styled as "Evil Regals", they organise to collect for charities and volunteer at shelters. The rebels amongst them spray-paint their logo, a crowned apple, on the walls of establishments, essentially declaring this bar is safe because we look out for each other. Colourful posters spring up across town overnight with slogans such as Hoes Before Bros, Girl Power, and Buddy System: Leave No Woman Behind; or in a more serious vein, Consent Is A Must and Speak Up Against Abuse.
Glass has done his best to drag the Evil Queen and her Regals through the mud, dubbed their activities deranged and dangerous, a threat to morality and traditional values—whatever the hell that's supposed to mean.
All rubbish, if you ask Robin, pure misogyny, sexism at its worst. So no, he won't deign to read any of that wretch's hate-spewing. In fact, he's overcome at the very thought of it all by quite a formidable urge to grab a can of paint himself and join the ranks of street artists with badges spelling Regal On under a rock-on sign in broad daylight.
And how, he wonders as he lets himself in through the massive oak door and sets about readying The Hooded Fox for its first customers, pray how could the world not see that the odds were skewed in favour of those the Queen was fighting against? That she was shining a light on important issues facing a large percentage of the world's population? A harsh, unkind, uncompromising light. Perhaps that's what some can't forgive her—the bluntness of it all, the unapologetic lack of sugar-coating. Well, she's a bold one, the Evil Queen. Bold and audacious.
And she delivers quite the mean punch.
Robin rubs his ribs absently, the involuntary gesture only making the dull pain throb with new intensity. Blasted bruise. And the coin he managed to snitch from her pocket before she slipped away is hardly any compensation. A quarter like any other, currently residing in the back pocket of Robin's jeans—a fact he only becomes aware of when its edge cuts into his buttock as he attempts to sit and makes him jump right to his feet again. Even this small act of vengeance seems to have turned against him now, and Robin smirks as he cleans the taps and wipes the counter—perhaps the Queen truly does possess magical powers and has placed a terrible curse on the coin.
But the true curse is yet to be unleashed on Robin, and it enters the pub along with her.
Regina Mills.
Gorgeous and haughty as ever, she sweeps through the door and claims her usual table.
That in itself is a puzzle to Robin, for why the brand new heiress to Leo Blanchard's cosmetics empire chooses to have her morning coffee at Robin's establishment of all places when there's a fancy coffeehouse just around the corner is truly beyond him. Especially as she was so fast to call Robin's beloved pub a stinky hellhole the very first day she showed up at the brand new office of Blanchard Beauty & Bliss across the street. Granted, the pub—and Robin himself—was absolutely drenched in beer on that fateful day due to a draft system malfunction… A fact he would gladly have explained to the reproachful new neighbour with red-rimmed eyes, had she not merely barked at him to get this place in order or I will, and stormed off.
Anyway, they started out on the wrong foot and the one time he tried to make amends, she merely graced him with a contemptuous glare and left with her coffee untouched. So Robin is resigned to testing the waters with brief glances every morning, then, sensing no change in her hostile attitude, leaves their mercurial customer to be served by John instead.
But it's only Robin today, hastily rinsing the last glass while Regina Mills taps her foot impatiently in the far corner.
"I'll be right with you, milady," he assures amicably, wondering how long before she makes the smile freeze on his face this time.
"You?" she returns with what looks awfully like a wince. "Where's John?"
Robin slams the cup on the counter with rather more vigour than planned. What is her bloody problem? If she's not too taken with him, fine, that's really just fine with Robin, but this—outright aversion he's not sure how to account for. Not that he has a reason to give a damn, really.
"Attending to other business," Robin deadpans, picturing his friend poring over obscurely obtained documents and working out the minutiae of their next operation. A lick of shame makes his insides squirm, an odd sort of feeling in his gut that he hasn't experienced since his first days in the justice business. A feeling probably brought about by the close proximity of their target. There is, after all, no rational reason for his peculiar, instinctive unwillingness to believe the worst about her. Yet for all the signs she's never striven to dispel, he can't quite see just another soulless exploiter of both nature and man in Regina Mills. Not that she puts up a friendly face—not for Robin anyway. The stubborn grudge she bears him irritates him—she's no business looking down on him in such a blatant manner.
She half-rises from the chair in response, glances towards the exit—and that's just swell, now she seems about ready to pull her vanishing act before he even has the chance to get her order.
A group of workers enter on a gust of wind, the slow trickle of yawning patrons soon to turn into the morning rush.
Regina Mills fiddles with a nonexistent wrinkle on her well-tailored navy dress, freezes for a brief moment of self-awareness, then sits back down with forced poise and a self-deprecating smile.
By the time Robin weaves his way to her table, her face is hidden behind the spread pages of the morning paper.
A simple thank you would suffice, he thinks bitterly as he sets the steaming Americano in front of her.
It's barely 8:15 am and Regina is already brimming with annoyance and, more alarmingly, anxiety.
She likes her morning routine undisturbed, and that, aside from a quick burst on the treadmill at home and a strong cup of coffee here, includes the customary service. Surprises unnerve her, and this one is particularly unwelcome. Locksley can damn well keep his charming, dimpled smile to himself, thank you very much. (She feels like a coward for hiding from him but, well, it's a must, it's the smart thing to do, and she can't let her pride get in the way of caution and common sense.) This minor hiccough, she reasons with herself as she peeks from behind her paper at his retreating back, is no reason to waste good coffee, however.
It never occurs to Regina that it's odd for him to just know what her drink of choice is as she sips on the nigh-scalding beverage and skims today's headlines.
Presidential Plans Trumped stands out stamped across the front page, in thick black letters above the picture of a ruddy-faced, mushy-brained Republican candidate Regina cannot see out of the spotlight soon enough, and she crumples the double page with relish.
Her gaze lingers on a smaller inscription accompanied by a picture: an illegible scrap of paper pinned to a wall by an arrow.
The Merry Men Strike Again, Gisbourne Goes Down
Founder of multi-million enterprise Lord of Leather, Guy Gisbourne, was arrested early this morning on charges of tax evasion and smuggling. The condemning evidence had been delivered to the doorsteps of multiple precincts in an effort, as revealed by the brutally honest note attached to each folder, "to secure immediate and rightful action despite the rampant corruption in law enforcement". Local Chief of Police Keith S. Nottingham grudgingly admitted the Merry Men had claimed responsibility for not only collecting and delivering said evidence but also for breaking into Gisbourne's penthouse and chaining him to his own desk to await justice, effectively handing the authorities Gisbourne's head on a silver platter. Chief Nottingham refused to divulge any further information on the case or to comment on the allegations that he himself is to undergo investigation. Nottingham is a close personal friend of Gisbourne's, the two of them having met and struck up a friendship at the NYPD Police Academy, which Gisbourne had also attended.
While the death knell is sounding for Lord of Leather and possibly a corrupt police officer or two, the Merry Men are ever on the rise. The vigilante organisation entered the scene several months ago, rising to fame through tireless environmental activism. Their true devotion to the cause of social justice became evident later, as they shed light on illegal and unethical practices and brought financial empires such as Lackland Realty and John & Johnson Savings and Loan to their knees.
It is truly inspiring to witness the fruits of this heroic fellowship's noble efforts on a scene where less worthy individuals seek only fame and personal gratification, much to the detriment of the society they shamelessly pretend to be bettering.
There's more, but Regina skips right to the bottom of the page, and her lips curl in disdain on finding just the name she expected to see there.
Who else but Sidney Glass to take a dig at the Evil Queen every chance he gets, systemically undermining her hard work and degrading her to no more than an attention whore? (An absurd concept in itself, for why would a person with a hunger for fame hide under a ridiculous and tasteless costume just to remain anonymous? Anyone who's so much as heard of Regina Mills knows she wouldn't be caught dead in an outfit like that—which is precisely why she's picked it for her alter ego.) Regina can't possibly expect objectivity from Sidney when it comes to the Queen's pursuits—and, in truth, she doesn't. At least he managed to report the arrest with some semblance of professionalism before he went on to sing praises of the Merry Men.
It grates on her, the fact that they enjoy such popularity and, more importantly, support, even as her work is condemned as either foolish and worthless or downright a threat to morality. That's not really the Merry Men's fault though, and she doesn't begrudge them the approval of the masses. There's much about the gang that appeals to her, in fact, and they've earned her respect. Especially after she'd learned the full extent of their activities and the methods they apply—some of which the public would probably not approve of if they only knew. Regina doesn't have most people's scruples though, happens to be personally acquainted with a number of the big fish the Merry Men have cornered. The bastards deserve the ultimatum given to them, and the many charities certainly benefit more from the price of the Merry Men's bought silence than the army of corporate lawyers would have in the event of a trial. Even a child could understand that, right?
Well, her twelve-year-old certainly idolises them. Has been talking her ear off begging to be allowed to join the ranks of Hoodies for their next rally. They're peaceful for the most part, too, so Regina's relented before, took him to the fan-organised Earth Day event last month. Henry got to plant a tree and watch an egg hatch, shoot a bow and run himself ragged during a scavenger hunt, and Regina herself was pleasantly surprised at how relaxing and refreshing the smell of forest turned out to be. The highlight of the day arrived with the dark as apartments and landmarks both dimmed their lights for an hour. Excited whispers filled the air tense with anticipation—if the Merry Men indeed chose to make an appearance, this would be the perfect time. Regina, despite herself, stood on tiptoes to see over the many heads, grasping Henry's shoulders as he positively shook with excitement. When the hour was almost up and the gentle drizzle grew into a downpour, the disgruntled crowd slowly began to disperse. And then an arrow whizzed by, and another, and another. A volley of them rained down on the gathering, blunted things from a toy store with little tokens attached to them: pine cones, small bags of flower seeds, chocolate dollars. Henry waved his arms around like windmills in a frantic effort to grab one, but in the end it was Regina who snatched an arrow mid-flight. The seeds turned out to be apple, and so her own tree now has a baby sapling squeezing its way from the ground right next to it, and an enthusiastic Henry to tend to it.
Yes, Regina Mills approves of the Merry Men's endeavours. She even approves of their methods, understands their universal popularity, finds them just and dedicated and efficient, if not particularly refined.
Yet even the Merry Men aren't infallible, as they are soon to learn.
They'd had their eye on Leo Blanchard for ages. The king of spas, however, had been widely popular with his employees due to his extravagantly lavish social benefits programme. Few had seen beneath the veneer of benevolence to the corruption of Blanchard's advisory board, and even fewer were brave enough to divulge sensitive information even in exchange for a hefty bribe. And when, finally, the Merry Men had gathered enough evidence to strike, Leo Blanchard just up and kicked the bucket.
After this unfortunate event, it seemed only natural to continue their crusade against the new head of BBB, especially as Blanchard's widow took over so seamlessly.
Yet John's face, when Robin, having just tucked Roland in, lets his friend in that night, lacks that tell-tale glow of pride and satisfaction that comes from being the instrument of a villain's impending doom.
"We were wrong about her, mate." At Robin's befuddled, doubtful stare, John merely brandishes a stack of papers in his face. "Look at these."
Robin, suddenly filled with apprehension soon to be replaced by that jab of nagging guilt returned tenfold, sinks onto the sofa and begins to make his way through patches of highlighted text, slowly building a picture from the neon-coloured puzzle pieces.
A picture so clear it makes him wonder how they could have been so bloody blind.
Leo Blanchard bestowed his kingdom upon his daughter, Mary Margaret Blanchard, in his will, but the girl immediately transferred half of everything to her stepmother in a rare show of trust and affection. And the moment Regina Mills fired her late husband's lickspittle army of minions, starting with CEO Albert Spencer and CFO Basil Midas, Blanchard Beauty & Bliss was reborn into a new era. The entire corporate ladder was deconstructed and built anew, making way for fresh talent and crisp strategies. A brand new line of natural cosmetics was being developed in the labs that no longer served as animal testing facilities. One wing of the enormous spa complex was assigned to serve as home to the former cage-dwellers while young Mary Margaret and her fiance, David Nolan, worked with experts to help the animals recover enough to eventually be adopted as someone's forever dogs.
And if that weren't enough, Robin's frantic googling uncovers further, less publicised ventures, such as the Purple Shorts Foundation, a charity dedicated to the education and advancement of orphaned and underprivileged children, run by none other than Regina Mills herself.
The very same Regina Mills the Merry Men would've written off as just another millionaire without a backbone.
An odd tingle spreads from the pit of his stomach up and through his chest expanding with relief—an almost palpable, happy thing.
His gut has been right about her all along.
She knows. She knows he knows. The moment she walks into The Hooded Fox the next morning, she knows beyond the shadow of a doubt.
Regina pictures herself turning on her heels and fleeing the pub with a swish of her coat the very minute their eyes meet. Blue upon brown, hypnotic almost, and she can read the apology there clear as day, etched into every line of his face, the tension in his jaw, the repentant yet somehow hopeful half-smile. It's all too much, and she averts her eyes in a blink.
Her pride's what keeps her from bolting at first, then reason sets in. He knows all right, has realised his mistake, and the touch of triumph or perhaps smugness (she has no thought of anything else, cannot have thoughts of more no matter how handsome he is or how winsome his smile, and yet her stomach fluttered just so under his steady gaze) is surely warranted.
He knows—but is it only Regina Mills he knows about, or is it…more? Is her secret identity not a secret anymore? Will it perhaps be common knowledge soon?
It doesn't seem terribly likely that he'd rat her out. And yet, best be sure.
So she stays, retreats to her usual secluded spot and prays John be back working today. He is, thanks goodness, waves from behind the espresso machine as it whirs to life. Speedy service as always. When he disappears to the kitchen halfway through, though, it's Robin who picks up her cup, moves to round the bar, and Regina stiffens. John's reappearance at Robin's shoulder has the men exchange a few urgent, whispered words, a furtive glance her way from both. Robin's rueful look lingers even as John makes his way to her.
"John," she greets, entirely too grateful for the turn of events. "Your absence yesterday didn't go unnoticed."
"Food-poisoning," he mutters, avoiding her eyes.
Didn't Robin say John was away on some mysterious business? No mention of health issues, she's sure of it. Well, it's not as if Regina hadn't already suspected John Little's involvement with the Merry Men.
"Next time more restraint at the buffet, perhaps?"
John's lack of response to the joke is proof enough. She almost feels sorry for the man—it's not like coming forward with an apology is an option, for that would reveal their identities, and the poor devils are blissfully ignorant of the fact Regina cracked that mystery a long time ago on pure accident.
"I'm sure you were well seen to even without me."
Regina scoffs, tells him mercifully that she prefers her usual server, but for a moment at least her words have the opposite effect to what she intended as poor John is visibly wracked with yet more guilt.
"Did Robin not flirt his way into your good graces?" He finally ribs, albeit half-heartedly.
Regina scoffs.
"I'm sure that works with others," she dismisses with perhaps a tad too much contempt, for John frowns. "He's remarkably generous with his attentions, I notice."
And she wishes she didn't but the truth is she does notice, noticed especially on those few Friday nights she'd come down here for drinks, noticed every time a giggly woman blushed at his ridiculously over-the-top gallantries. The slowly bubbling gall the thought calls forth isn't jealousy—she's better than that, has nothing to be jealous of in the first place. No, Regina hates a playboy, despises a womaniser. Having been married to a treacherous lecher for a decade is more than enough for her not to ever get entangled with another again, thank you very much. Besides, she doesn't even fancy Robin Locksley, dimples and charm and rugged good looks be damned.
"That's an unfair judgement to make, you're mista—"
"Well that's a bit rich coming from you."
Shit. Oh shit, that was…reckless.
Before she has time to collect herself and curb the harshness of her tone, John is giving her a curious, baleful look, mutters an enjoy your coffee, and leaves her to her bitter thoughts.
He fancies her, and it continues to drive him up the wall.
Robin has a crush on Regina Mills, yes, and he's had one ever since he first laid eyes on her if he's honest. It just meant precious little while he still had reason (there was reason, Robin argues inwardly while still wishing he'd just listened to his gut in the first place) to believe she's the kind of person to stand idly by through her husband's dirty practices and carry on with them.
Now that he knows better, he's well on the way to smitten—but his prospects in wooing her seem to be at an all time low. Now that she seems to have decided he's a cad, a skirt-chasing jerk, no more. Bloody amazing. Karma truly works remarkably fast for him, that's for sure, and so now it's his turn to be unfairly judged.
The urge to defend himself burns in his chest with righteous indignation, and he aches to go to her table as she drains the last of her coffee. But what is he to say to her? The woman hates him, well and truly. He cocked this whole thing up before it even had the chance to become something.
Robin broods, and grouses, and drops things, until John, in the doghouse for not having jumped to Robin's defence more fiercely, shoves a bag in his hands at lunch time. There's a takeaway box and a to-go cup within, and John sends him on his way with a no-nonsense word or two and a mighty pat on the back.
Her office is elegant yet not opulent, decorated in stylish black and white spruced up by a splash of red from the fruit bowl and a dash of purple peeking from the wardrobe, with an almost throne-like chair sitting behind the desk. Regina Mills is not in it. Business lunch, the secretary informs him, and is he quite sure Miss Mills ordered from the Fox today? She did no such thing, of course, and what a daft idea this was of John's, and how utterly stupid of Robin to go along with it.
"This one's on the house. Regulars only. Promotion of sorts," he delivers the shabby lie he thought out on his way over—delivers it, along with the food and drink, to the wrong person.
Another attempt at reconciliation failed, then.
The flowers he had delivered to her in the Merry Men's name this morning greet him on his way out. Repentance roses, indeed.
The cursor blinks and blinks as Regina stares at the screen, eyes stinging from exhaustion and now with tears. She's not particularly savvy with computers, but even she should have known better than this. Should have known to not click the damn link, to resist and choke the curiosity she wasn't entitled to in the first place.
The laptop is hot against her thighs, her ankle propped up by a cushion throbs despite the painkillers, and Regina curses the midday mission and its meagre, hardly satisfactory results. Results that she ventured to check online in the first place, only to find out the police to have made a mess of things as per usual. The man she'd worked so hard to expose roams free still, despite the meticulously collected information. Accused of battery but released on bail. Not the first time he's slipped away, either. Greg "Hades" Plutonos, notorious mafia boss, is by far the biggest fish the Evil Queen has set to capture, and he's been eluding arrest for years now. Well, Regina won't stop trying, and neither will her as yet anonymous informant from his inner circle.
She should have just closed the window there and then, but she didn't, merely hovered over the little X as a link caught her eye.
Much has been written about Hades, about various incidents he's suspected to have had a hand in but without sufficient proof, and Regina went through one article after the other, the atrocities committed by the man stoking the fire of her rage, building it higher and higher. And then, a name jumped out at her.
Locksley.
Marian Locksley.
The title above reads: Three Dead, 16 Injured in Mexican Oil Plant Blast.
Explosion at Mexican petrochemical plant Érebo owned by infamous tycoon Greg Plutonos claimed the lives of two contractors and an engineer today, and led to sixteen others injured. While the identity of both men remains unknown, the woman was identified as Marian Locksley, esteemed expert in her field and American citizen, who leaves behind a grieving husband and baby son. Investigation indicates—
What investigation indicates, Regina never learns though, for her vision's blurry and her throat constricted.
Locksley is no common name. Robin's wife? She never knew he's a widower, or even that he's a father. The article's dated five years ago. Robin has a five-year-old, and it seems he's raising him alone. That can hardly leave him with enough time on his hands for the string of dalliances she'd privately (and this morning, not so privately) accused him of, or to introduce a stream of conquests into his bedroom with a pre-schooler just behind the wall. She'd misjudged him, just like John had said, and she feels a rush of guilt and shame at the impudent little lick of relief. Guilt and shame because of just what it took to prove her wrong.
God, she shouldn't have. She had no right to invade his privacy like this. Even though his Merry Men did nothing in the last couple of months but poke around in her business in an attempt to uncover dirt that doesn't exist. This is different, this is painful, a sore spot even after all this time. Even though it was an accident, even though she never intended to pry into his private life, she feels no less terrible. She had no right—
"Mom, I'm done with homework, can you—?" Henry stops in the door, an alarmed look settling on his face. "Mom?"
Regina slams the laptop shut, another surge of guilt gripping her tightly—she doesn't want Henry upset, too.
"Let me see," she returns, her smile weak but there.
"Are you sure you're okay? What's with your ankle?"
Regina adjusts the ice pack gingerly, beckons Henry closer.
"Just a sprain, nothing to worry about," she assures as he plops himself down onto the mattress, careful not to jostle her too much. "I promised to take you to those sign ups tomorrow, and I will."
Henry'd begged and begged to be allowed to take archery lessons, and Regina didn't really see a reason to deny him as long as it posed no risk to her son. Her search for the adequate instructors was cut short by an elated Henry and the leaflet (recyclable, unsurprisingly) he waved around in her face two weeks ago: Gotham Archery, conveniently located in Brooklyn, are holding an event sponsored by the Merry Men, with the promise of a spectacular show of skill, and so that's where they're headed tomorrow.
Or not—because Henry shakes his head at her reassurances.
"Don't worry, Mom. There will be no archery tomorrow."
"You don't seem disappointed," Regina notes, and it comes out a question rather than statement really. His lack of reaction to the news is highly suspicious.
Henry shrugs, frowns at the offending ankle—it must look about as swollen as it feels from that particular angle.
"They're just postponing it. They have a heist."
"And how could you possibly know that, young man?"
"Twitter."
"What's that now?"
Her precious little prince huffs in exasperation, pulling a decidedly unimpressed face. The seriously, Mom, could you be any more uncool face. God, he's growing up too fast.
"It's like facebook," he explains. "Kind of."
But that's not what she means, and exactly how out-of-touch with the world does he think she is?
"Don't you roll your eyes at me like that, Henry Daniel. I know what twitter is. Since when do the Merry Men have one?"
"Today, actually. It's weird, but cool."
"They created an account today? And publicly stated their next business?"
They're very…social, sure—for someone working undercover with a secret identity, that is. But not social on social media. At least not until today, it would appear. Yet they've always been most careful, most secretive of their plans. In their line of work, discretion is a must. Why jeopardise that now? A few likes and retweets hardly seem worth the risk.
"Not really. Didn't say what exactly they're up to," Henry clarifies, and oh, that makes sense. Somewhat. "Just that tomorrow night, they'll be busy hunting a baddie."
Suspicion brews in Regina's racing mind, worms itself into her heart, and leaves her teetering between dread and anticipation for the upcoming day.
Regina Mills is a lot of things, but she's certainly not patient.
The waiting is torture, and she's nervous and grouchy, and irritated for being nervous in the first place.
New York City is laid out before her, sprawling and sparkling with lights, abuzz with life even at night—perhaps especially at night. A truly breath-taking view from where she's perched atop the roof of a skyscraper, and she tries to indulge in it. Not a bad way to pass the time, surely, if she can do nothing to hurry things along.
The tingling of nerves is familiar yet tinged with something more tonight, more than just the thrill of a planned raid. The possibility of being found out not by her enemies but rather her competition. Too much of a coincidence? Not after what she learned last night, no. He has a connection to Hades, a personal vendetta, she's sure of it. If the Merry Men choose to intervene, it will be him here and no other. Robin will want to settle this himself.
That's what had her climb countless floors instead of crouching behind a trash can in a dingy alley—she's less likely to be discovered. Plus, she can do better than dirt and stench and rats.
Regina waits, breathes in and out, in and out again in a vain attempt to calm herself, and stares intently at the spot she expects the signal to come from.
She never hears him coming.
Robin Hood is silent as a cat as he makes his stealthy approach, though the rush of blood in his ears distracts him just a tad.
She's here, purple gown and black cape billowing in the wind: the famous Evil Queen he's traded messages with but whom he's yet to meet face to face (their last elbow-to-ribs encounter doesn't really count as that).
Tonight's the night, then.
One last step, and he opens his mouth to speak just as a particularly strong gust of wind whips her luxurious hair about, and the sight of her like that, standing firm and majestic on the backdrop of turbulent skies and dancing lights, is quite a sight to behold.
Stunning's the word, he thinks dumbly.
And then, as if she could sense his gaze, she turns.
With a swish of her cape, she flies towards the staircase. Robin calls out to her, his urgent wait drowned out by her pained yelp as she stumbles and falls to the ground.
Brief panic sets in as he searches frantically for a shooter, but there was no gunshot to begin with—and she's already gathering herself, sitting up and clutching at her right ankle.
"M'lady, you're injured."
She shrinks back when he rushes to her help, face hidden all the while by the dark curtain of hair. Robin withdraws his hand, rubs the back of his neck.
"Apologies for sneaking up on you, I meant no harm."
A curt nod is all he gets in return.
Well, this should make for interesting conversation.
"I was merely hoping perhaps we could join forces on this one," he offers by way of explanation, and makes himself comfortable on the low wall at a distance respectful of her space yet small enough to carry his voice comfortably. "Seeing as we both have an interest in Hades, and he happens to be quite a formidable foe."
The Queen remains stubbornly silent, massaging her ankle surreptitiously. Ever hesitant to appear vulnerable, even though they both know right now she is.
The silence stretches between them, charged and thicker than the dark. Not at all the companionable kind he'd prefer. Just why is she so ticked off at him? First Regina Mills (he tried contacting her again earlier, found her to be out of the office—again), and now the Queen, too? He cocked everything up with the former, he's well aware, but can't fathom how he managed to offend the latter.
"The bastards you landed in jail this week were convicted today, by the way," he says at long last, for he imagines she may not have heard yet, having spent heaven only knows how many hours up here. "Neutralised, well and truly, thanks to your efforts. Though perhaps neutering them would be more fitting," he adds darkly.
Still she doesn't deem him worthy of response; still she keeps her face averted, in the shadows. Robin sighs, pockets his hands, grips the coin in his left as if the poor thing were at fault for this. It's going to be a long night.
"So you like puns, Thief."
Her voice is low, deep, barely above a whisper, and he's so utterly flabbergasted by the sudden turn of events that he needs a split second longer than usual to collect his wits.
"I'm a Brit," he shrugs, grins for good measure. "It's something of a requirement."
He could swear she stifles a laugh then, or a smile at least, even though he cannot very well see. Encouraged slightly, he adds, the memory of scraps of messages dripping with sass making him grin.
"You're a worthy opponent when it comes to verbal sparring, m'lady. And an honour to fight for justice alongside of, might I add."
"Flattery will get you nowhere."
"Ah, but it's not flattery if it's true, now is it?"
"Many would disagree. I'm a villain, didn't you know?" Her voice is laced with bitterness and self-deprecation. A touch of sarcasm, definitely.
It reminds him of Glass, of all the shit the conniving son of a bitch had dreamt up about her, the dirt the man's allegedly dug up on her methods and her motives and what a menace to society she's supposed to be, all summed up in a neat package in today's issue, a masterpiece of slander aptly entitled The Evil in the Queen: a Villain Unmasked, and Robin wishes he hadn't caught the few phrases he did as he turned the page over in disgust. She'd deny paying mind to such nonsense, Robin's sure of it, but no one's completely immune. Not even the Evil Queen.
"Because some reporter scum says so? I happen to be quite the fan of the great and terrible Evil Queen."
"And if I told you some of it is true?" she cuts in, her tone expressionless. "My victims don't deserve to be treated in kid gloves—and I don't."
She's looking at him askance, face kept to the shadows in a manner that suggests the manoeuvre is every bit intentional, and her very posture screams defiance. The Queen's daring him to condemn her, he realises. And he won't. He can't.
"Not at all, milady. I've used my share of questionable methods." She nods at that, like she already knew, and there's a brief moment of connection, of something. He feels it tugging at him, feels it reeling him in. And suddenly his bitterness gives way to a flare of blind hatred as he spits through gritted teeth: "But I've no love lost for Glass. He's the furthest thing from fair when it comes to you, even if he's got a few facts right."
There's a dark chuckle at that, brittle and humourless, and a moment's hesitation before her quiet confession.
"Men tend to not take kindly to rejection."
Robin sees red. Struck momentarily speechless, all he manages is a furious growl. Perhaps this is an extreme reaction, this wild rage out of nowhere, this vicious protectiveness—he barely knows her. Or perhaps it's not extreme at all—such occurrences should never be normalised, and words like hers should never be followed by the kind of half-shrug she's giving him right now. As if it were to be expected—and, Robin realises, that really is the reality for women. How bloody fucked up is that?
"He does compliment me, too," she adds, the smirk he can't see apparent in her voice, as low as she's been keeping it the entire time. "Not that he ever intends to. A threat to society as we know it—now that's an accusation I fully embrace. Society has much room for improvement."
"That it does."
And the Queen, Robin thinks, points out the wrongs of our world with a merciless finger, less playful, less ingratiating than the Merry Men's ways. She doesn't care for PR, and that unapologetic behaviour doesn't go over well with some. That's the human nature, it seems—speaking out about evil is more condemnable in some people's eyes than the act of evil itself. Robin likes her though, bluntness and all, all the more now that he's sharing this watch-post with her.
"I suppose the idea of corruption in law and justice is jarring to accept," he muses. "Whom can you trust when authorities fail you? It robs you of all sense of security. Not everyone can cope with that."
The Queen scoffs, all sarcasm and a touch of exasperation. "Yes, because closing your eyes to the problem will make it disappear."
The passion makes her voice rise, louder and fuller—and somehow familiar. But they've never spoken before. Perhaps it's the tone, the attitude more than anything. It probably just reminds him of someone else he knows.
A hand settles on her stomach as the other continues to rub at her ankle, her shoulders rising and falling as she sucks in a deep breath, then lets it out.
"The ancient Greeks had no illusions about such things," she says, voice dropped and throaty once more. Controlled. "Did you know they had separate deities for Law and for Justice?"
Robin likes this, the back and forth they have, the teasing and the easy conversation they've been settling into unnoticed.
"I thought you more a fairy tale person than a myth and legend one, milady."
"It's Your Majesty," she returns immediately but without real bite. "And you're supposed to be the legend between the two of us, not me."
She pushes herself up from the ground then, hissing as she shifts her weight onto her right leg. Robin jumps up to help but she holds out the hand not gripping the railing for support, and her meaning couldn't be clearer—stop. So he does, drops back into his stony seat and watches her turn her back on him and set off with a poorly concealed limp. Robin shakes his head at her stubbornness, can't help the smirk on his lips though—her shoes, good heaven, is she serious with those heels? No wonder she's suffered injury, he's never seen such impractical footwear in his life.
The wind ripples the black cape, reveals a bit of purple underneath. The fabric is frayed, a piece seems to be missing, but the quick glance locates no trace of the torn scrap where she was sitting a moment ago.
"Your dress—" he begins, and there's a tiny voice nagging at his brain now, hankering for attention. What—?
"What?" she echoes, turns her head so her profile is etched against the shimmering lights of New York City, hair flying about it every which way, and she tucks an errant strand behind her ear like he's seen someone else do, and smooths out the wrinkles in her gown. Like he's seen—
Oh… Oh.
She's facing away from him again, tired of waiting for his delayed answer no doubt, studying the streets underneath through binoculars when he finally finds his tongue. It's not a question—he knows now, finally.
"Regina."
She freezes. Only her heart is knocking against her ribcage in a wild stampede; everything else stops for a moment. A wild, crazy moment she thinks she heard him say her name.
Then she turns, slowly, inch after inch as she struggles to regain control, and he's standing there staring at her with that stupid mask on his face, as if they both didn't know perfectly well now who the other is.
How does he know?
"Your dress—" he offers, then checks himself, his hand flying to cover his mouth.
Regina can't help it—she grins. Too late for that. But perhaps now he'll appreciate her struggle to stay as far away from him as possible in real life, knowing full well that if they both continue to do what they do as Robin Hood and the Evil Queen, their personas will inevitably meet, so precautions need to be taken for him not to recognise her then. Not good enough, after all, because here they are.
She steps into the light then, her face or voice no longer concealed.
"I know who you are, Robin Locksley. Now tell me, what about my dress—?"
He blinks once, twice, continues to stare at her slack-jawed at having been discovered, too—and then he laughs.
"It's torn," he gestures. "I think it must have happened during your midday tryst with crime yesterday. Perhaps you were in a hurry?"
Understatement, that one. And she remembers now—the costume getting stuck as she pulled it from the wardrobe, the fabric finally giving as she yanked at it. She never did notice the tear, but there it is alright, a chunk missing at the hem. He was in her office yesterday, must have noticed what she missed, and put two and two together now. Well, damn.
"Your voice—I almost recognised it," he confesses, and was she really doing such a bad job of this? But no, there's more as he adds with a boyish grin: "Always have been rather partial to it, not that I've heard it much."
Is he—flirting? Really?
Well, he's always paying women compliments and being a gentleman, that's not news to her, so she'd better not get any ideas about—
"Your turn, if you don't mind, please."
Oh. Of course. Of course he wants to know.
Regina moves towards and past him, swallows down a pain-induced gasp, and sinks to the step he occupied before.
"You had flowers delivered to me the day I moved in, remember? Apology azaleas?"
"Indeed I do. And how did those give me away, exactly? Wait—" he frowns, bites his lip. (It's very distracting. Why is it so distracting?) "Was it yesterday's repentance roses? Did my fondness of flower alliterations betray me?"
Regina grins, shakes her head.
"That was a mistake, but I'd known long before. Our first meeting," she steers the conversation back to where they started. "When the flowers arrived, Tinkerbell happened to be over."
"You're friends?"
"We are. Long story short, she talked me into giving you a chance, so I went back to the pub after hours hoping you'd still be there." She pauses for effect, looks him directly in the eyes (also distracting, and how?). "You were."
She watches his face—or what little she can see of it, which is mostly those startlingly blue eyes, really—go from bewilderment to understanding.
"Ah," he breathes. "You saw…the Merry Men."
"I never saw your face, but I did see your tattoo."
Now Robin seems to need to sit as well, makes do with her old spot on the floor.
"So you knew. All this time, you've always known." He shakes his head. Incredulous. Amused.
What Regina feels right now is annoyed though, and perhaps she's being petty, but it irks her that she's still looking at a plastic mask instead of his face, so she tells him.
"Yes. And for the record, that silly thing on your face?" she snaps. "Pathetic. I'd recognise those eyes anywhere."
His eyebrow shoots skyward with remarkable speed, and Regina cannot believe herself, did she really just—? Oh God. This is embarrassing.
He pulls the mask off, and she waits for the inevitable teasing, but it never comes. Only a knowing smirk, a smug grin that does things to her. He's both incredibly annoying and incredibly attractive like this. Very distracting.
"You've quite the beautiful eyes yourself—Your Majesty."
She rolls those beautiful eyes at him: "I prefer Regina."
They're crawling through the ventilation system, covered in fresh bruises and lacerations from the damn ducting (they don't show you this in movies, do they), when he speaks again.
"I'm not the cad you think me to be, you know." But she doesn't know. Doesn't know what he's referring to at all, her head full of illegal drugs and how to destroy them and get the hell out of here before she's fully overwhelmed by claustrophobia. "Flirting is as far as it ever goes—"
Honestly? He wants to have this conversation here? She'd prefer not to have it ever, because it makes her incredibly uncomfortable, especially in such close quarters, when they're so precariously positioned with his face inches behind her ass. So she cuts him off right there and then.
"I figured. You have a child. I don't really see you having escapades right under his nose."
"Truly? No sarcasm? You flatter me, milady." It's banter, and she can handle this, she thinks, but then he goes all serious on her ass (pun unintended but, well, fitting). "I dated two women briefly since Marian passed away, no more."
"You don't owe me an explanation."
"I just don't want you to have the wrong idea about me. Or my intentions."
"Your intentions? And what would those be?" she teases, praying her rapid heartbeat not be quite as loud and obvious to him as it seems to her.
"For now, getting us both in and out unharmed. For later… Would you care for a drink?"
"I-" she stutters, and for heaven's sake, she doesn't stutter, or blush, or anything similarly cheesy. Except now she is. "I can't believe you're—what, asking me out? Now?"
Robin chuckles, and if they were face to face instead of face to ass, she bets those dimples would be winking at her.
"A moment as good as any. I would have done so long ago," he confesses, and it has her stomach do cliched things, flips and butterflies and all that nonsense, "had it not been for a series of…unfortunate circumstances and false assumptions."
He sounds sheepish, and she remembers the apology azaleas and repentance roses, the innocent flirtations she so embarrassingly blew up into something vile and detestable, and he's not the only one at fault here. So she tells him, because it's only fair.
"On both sides."
It's all business from there as her map leads them to the heart of the abandoned factory, the packets of cannabis mixed with dangerous additives far greater in number than they'd ever imagined. The toxic bonfire burns bright and with ample smoke, and thank goodness Robin disabled the whole airflow along with the motion detectors and the heat sensors, or else they'd be straight out stoned by the time they make their escape.
Robin's the first one out, and this time she accepts the offered hand, even allows herself to lean on him ever so slightly. They change into civvies and share a cab, and it feels remarkably…normal. Cosy, even. The cabbie is glaring at them, even sniffs once or twice. Regina and Robin exchange a look and burst into laughter that goes on and on until her stomach aches with it. Perhaps they lingered in those fumes too long after all. Or perhaps this is the start of something.
"You still owe me that drink," he calls after her before she disappears through the door of her apartment, those damn dimples truly winking at her, that grin of his coaxing one out of her in return.
"Yes," she returns, smug vying with giddy, "I suppose I do."
It really is all about timing.
It's been a year since they first met, Regina and Robin, and a little less than that since the Evil Queen first teamed up with Robin Hood. After months of meticulous work, feats of thievery and machinations little short of magic, the news are on fire with images of Hades' lair being stormed by the FBI and the villain himself being dragged away in handcuffs. Regina's informant, one Zelena Mills (the shared last name a strange coincidence the women will look into later), is taken to hospital in shock and sporting minor injuries, but expected to make a full recovery.
The world celebrates the day New York City's two most notorious heroes joined forces to bring the underworld boss to justice, but said heroes are otherwise occupied.
For this is their day, in more ways than one: they tie the knot the very same afternoon Hades falls.
Robin stands at the altar all bandaged up and slightly unstable on his feet, propped up by Roland on one side and Henry on the other, but even the gunshot wound and the three broken ribs he's earned while shielding Regina from a would-be-fatal blow cannot stop him from officially joining his life with that of his soulmate.
And Tinkerbell gets to conclude her exclusive report with a watery smile and that famous phrase of hers reserved for stories with a happy ending:
Faith in humanity restored.