Robin Sherwood loved the holidays.
Robin loved the smell of cinnamon. When she walked into a room, the entire space filled up with the spicy aroma. Ashley Boyd's newly acquired craft shop never had a bag of cinnamon sticks to spare – Robin very quickly exhausted her stocks of the netted, red bags. She put them in mugs of hot cocoa at Granny's, left it in vases all over the library, and put them in Gold's lapel. She made straws, headbands, centerpieces, wreaths, and desserts, all featuring cinnamon. Belle teased that her hair was the color of the sticks she so adored, and her response was always, "everyone needs a little spice in their life."
Robin loved decorating. She decked the halls with boughs of holly, built gingerbread houses like an architect in a gingerbread town, and took every opportunity she could to cover her jackets and shirts in glitter, bells, and garland. Every shop in Storybrooke had a Christmas tree decorated in baubles, popcorn strings, and lights, courtesy of the former thief. The only building that didn't look festive was the strange house out in the woods – the house that belong to Jefferson Carroll, the Mad Hatter of Fairy Tale Land. Robin knew that the man was a pariah, but that didn't stop her from setting out into the Enchanted Forest, bundles of Christmas cheer in her arms.
Robin loved surprises. She lived for the rush of adrenaline that followed opening an unexpected gift, the thrill that came from opening a door to a shout of "surprise!" She also enjoyed giving others that feeling, which is what she set out to do to Jefferson. After glancing around the secluded property (to see what she had to work with – never come unprepared!), she rang the doorbell. The bell resounded across the clearing; as the echoes faded, she heard footsteps approaching the ornate door.
"Can I help you, Ms. Sherwood?" the man who answered the door was tall, thin, and well dressed, his sharp, angled jawline dusted with dark stubble. Robin opened her mouth slightly, grasping for words. He knew her name? He answered the door? She had been warned otherwise, to just leave the deco on his doorstep. She wasn't expected a conversation with the man.
"Oh, uh, I take it you're Jefferson? Or, ah, Mr. Carroll?" she managed to splutter, and the man at the door chuckled softly.
"Yes, at least, the last time I checked, I was. Everyone seems to have different identities lately, my dear," he responded. The lilt in his voice made him sound like he was talking about something else, that he was listening to a different conversation than she was. She let out a nervous laugh.
"Well, ah, great. I'm glad I found you, then," Robin replied, "you see, the rest of the town is all decorated for Christmas, and I thought you would appreciate a little bit of cheer yourself." She held up the bag that was emblazoned with the slogan of Granny's Diner and was overflowing with sparkly hangings, glittering snowflakes, and even a miniature tree.
"All of this was acquired honestly, I hope?" Jefferson asked with a sloping grin that faded at the look of shock on her face. "I'm sorry, that was too forward. I was only joking, little bird."
The silence that followed his apology was almost unbearable.
"Um, well, hopefully you enjoy the decorations," she said finally, handing him the bag, "I also heard you're a fan of tea, so I added some of my favorite blends – cinnamon, gingerbread, and mint. They're very festive."
"Thank you, little bird." A smile lit up his face, revealing a set of near-perfect teeth. "Say, would you care to join me? For tea, sometime, I mean." His brown eyes, filled with hope, met her green eyes, and she beamed.
"Yes, yes! I'd love to," she took a pen out of her pocket and poised it over her palm, "is there a phone number I could possibly call?"
He rattled off seven numbers and she splattered ink all over her hand trying to keep up. They said quick farewells to each other, the grins never leaving their faces.
After Jefferson closed the door, he couldn't help but think about her.
He thought of her voice, her curly, cinnamon colored hair, and her emerald eyes. He thought of her milky skin, sprinkled with little fawn dots. It reminded him of the whipped cream on top of hot chocolate, drizzled with her favorite spice.
Of course he knew her favorite spice. He knew her favorite food (apple pie), her favorite song (Human Behavior by Bjork), her favorite season (autumn), and her favorite holiday (Christmas). He knew that her fair skin burnt even in the winter, he knew that the only lotion she used had cocoa butter in it or else she broke out in hives (oh how he loathed those angry red blisters covering that lovely, pale expanse of flesh), he knew that there was nary an uneven mark on her – other than those beautiful sprinkles of cinnamon.
There was nothing more truly beautiful, he thought, than skin. The protective barrier between squishy, susceptible muscle and the world. It could either be thick or thin, rough or smooth, dry, oily, flaky, greasy, scaly if you're so inclined. It could be milk, whipped cream on top of hot chocolate, or the hot chocolate itself, rich and dark and silky.
Skin is like hats, he decided as he walked over to the nearest telescope. This one was angled just so, pointing right at the path to his house. He watched Robin traipse away, a string of glittery, plastic garland hanging from her neck like a scarf. He couldn't help but smile at her naïveté and excitement, traits he loved in his own Grace. Perhaps, one day, he'd get to touch the whipped cream skin seasoned with cinnamon that he longed for.
He just had to be patient.