A|N: Originally posted for the absolutely fantastic OQ Advent Calendar.
Mischief Managed
As it turns out, mistletoe is quite hard to come by in the Enchanted Forest. They've searched high and low, combing through dense pockets of oak where the plant is rumored to grow, but all they've had to show for their efforts are some grubby fingernails and one very downtrodden five-year-old boy.
It's a shame, really; John's heard the Storybrooke folk rumble about mistletoe's "magical" properties, its famed ability to inspire the most unlikely of lovers into sharing a kiss beneath its leafy sprigs, and he knows exactly how he would put it to good use.
If only he could figure out where the blasted thing grows.
For you see, there are changes afoot in the castle, subtle enough to go unnoticed at their start, but now he rather thinks even the most oblivious sort could pick up on the ever-thickening tension between those two.
…
The Queen has become…even more ornery of late, to put it kindly, barking orders with bigger bite than usual and flouncing off in a theatrical rage whenever things fail to go her way.
John might have thought little of it (it's hardly a stretch to imagine her having a bit of what Grumpy refers to as the Grinch in her), if it weren't for the fact that her foul mood appears to be highly contagious.
And for one individual in particular.
His best mate has been behaving in a spectacularly glum fashion for several days now, with a wilted look about him at breakfast that grows steadily droopier with each passing meal. John has learned, in the many years of their friendship, not to probe the man when he's so lost in thought, but the instant she stalks within sight, any notion of thought seems to abandon Robin completely.
He advances toward her head-on, cornering her as if she isn't some dangerous creature capable of starting fires with hands and eyes, thundering things in the tone of an accusation while her own ire rises to meet his tenfold.
They exchange heated whispers, arguing about things John's never entirely sure of, though he catches the occasional snippet of not safe and how dare you tell me what to do in my own castle (she makes a valid point in that regard, which he would never readily admit to either of them).
It doesn't take a genius to eventually put two and two together and realize that their anger, real as it is, comes from a place that is quite capable of feeling something else as well.
In fact, Roland is the first to pick up on the things they haven't said out loud, tugging on John's britches one morning with a determined expression and a plan. While John doesn't exactly fancy the notion of playing matchmaker, the boy is fairly adamant that mistletoe is the key to teaching his papa how to smile again, and what kind of man would John be if he denied him at least the chance to try?
But their exhaustive foraging in the wood yields little, and they begin to resign themselves to the sad truth of their failure as the yuletide fast approaches.
…
Meanwhile, Granny has transformed the kitchens into an extravaganza of festive colors and warm, spiced scents, producing more and more foreign but delectable dishes each day, broccoli and cheese casseroles and an odd mashup of flavors that they've appropriately dubbed as stuffing. The corridor flanking the entrance to the kitchens has become a veritable greenhouse of a similarly fantastic nature that, upon John's probing, turns out to be courtesy of Tuck.
The good Friar, as Granny gruffly admits with two spots of pink touching her cheeks, had procured for her several pots of large, fascinatingly crimson-leafed plants. Sprays of holly berry are nestled around the doorframe, well out of reach from curious hands and mouths, though even John knows not to nibble experimentally on any fruit such a suspicious shade of red.
He ventures to pick Tuck's brain on the potential whereabouts of the evasive mistletoe plant—he and Roland had done extensive research in the library's section on seasonal foliage, and by all counts it should not have been the insurmountable task it was turning out to be.
"You hadn't heard? They've been banned from the realm, by order of the Queen," Tuck states, his tone mild enough, but the look they exchange is full of meaning, for they both have their suspicions as to why she might have done such a thing.
John quietly relays the unfortunate news to the boy over their beef stew that night, while Robin is busy being distracted by the Queen's surly entrance into the dining hall.
Roland, however, will not be deterred.
…
The boy is sporting a troublingly mischievous grin the following evening.
The dinner plates have been cleared, the wine goblets repoured and several dwarves have hefted an enormous fir tree in on its side, setting it upright in front of a large bay window and whistling while they dust its branches free of snow. Granny comes in balancing multiple boxes near to overflowing with various garlands and other fancy ornamentations.
Amidst all the mayhem, Roland, turning to his father, politely begs for a better view of the decorating, as well as the honor of being the one to crown the tree with a star.
"You might fare better sitting on Little John's shoulders," Robin suggests, but Roland treats him to a spectacular pout and the idea is hardly worth a second mention.
John, in the interim, has narrowed his eyes at the tyke, wondering what he could possibly be hiding under that miniature sleeve of his.
"Where to, my boy?" Robin asks obligingly once he's hoisted him high with a firm grasp on his knees, and Roland jabs a finger toward the doorway, where the Queen looks to be attempting an escape from all the merriment.
"Regina," he commands imperiously, and Robin dutifully complies, approaching the Queen with some caution and a decidedly sheepish expression at play on his face. She watches them both, clearly conflicted, with her hand stayed on the door handle.
John loiters behind just within earshot and tries to appear interested in the ongoing debate between Princess Snow and one of her dwarves regarding how to light up the tree without setting it on fire, though he's utterly baffled by the distinction.
Evidently impatient with his lurking, Granny thrusts a box of rattling objects into his unsuspecting arms, ordering him to arrange the baubles on the tree in a calculatedly disorganized fashion. He prods distractedly at a delicate porcelain reindeer with a curiously red nose while side-eyeing the commotion by the door.
The Queen is looking at Roland and Robin is looking at the Queen, and in that confusing moment where both adults are unsure how to navigate their mutual irritation with the other while a child is present, John thinks he sees a shy smile break through on either side.
Roland seizes his opportunity then.
Digging sneakily into his cloak pocket, he brandishes what appears to be several branches of holly, tied with ribbon and plucked free of the red berries that would have instantly given it away. John has to hand it to the boy; in a pinch, it might fool anyone not looking closely enough, and in any event, how could even the most heartless of individuals say no?
Roland dangles the leaves with great pride in the air above their heads, aheming loudly until their gazes rise and then drop to lock on each other's.
Caught, the beginning of the Queen's smile freezes and falters while an eager, wide-eyed Roland is carefully set onto the floor beside them. Robin's biting down on a full-blown smile of his own when he stands, murmuring something to the Queen that John can't hear. She rolls her eyes but stands her ground, barely flinching as he unhooks her crossed arms and plants a kiss on her knuckles.
"That's cheating, Papa!" Roland declares, forming indignant mini-fists at his hips, and John is rather inclined to agree, but Robin is two steps ahead of them all.
Refusing to release the Queen's hand back to her, he pulls her forward, and she falls into his chest with a startled expression, a lock of hair unfurling from behind her ear. Robin endeavors to tuck it into place again, his touch lingering at her jawline, and John suddenly feels like an intruder on an extremely private moment.
Hastily turning with his box of ornaments, he spies Tuck across the room. The Friar nods solemnly to him before refocusing his attention on aiding Granny with the garland, managing to wrap it around the tree twice over before she's tutting and irritably making adjustments.
John doesn't consider himself a gambling man, but he'd bet the very clothes off his back that Tuck had had a hand in Roland's schemes.
Either way, the end result turns out to be a bit more than what John had bargained for.
…
Some time after two flagons of something peculiar called eggnog, which Red had winkingly spiced up for him with something much more familiar called whiskey, John trundles his way to the kitchens. Laden with several empty boxes plus very firm instructions from Granny to locate the one containing the star, he wonders fuzzily what on earth else the woman has stowed away in the pantry when a sudden giggling up ahead stops him short. The sound soon deepens into a moan, low and throaty, and it has him blushing furiously.
Peering with great trepidation around the corner, he finds the doorway has been entirely blocked by none other than Robin and the Queen, most avidly enjoying one another's company beneath the scaffold of holly, which is now missing a sizable chunk toward one end.
They seem blissfully unaware that their efforts to be alone have been disturbed, and John is favored with a most shocking view of Robin leaning down to elicit more of those scandalous sounds from the Queen.
Mortified, John retreats as quickly and silently as his armful of boxes will allow, nearly coming to blows with a potted poinsettia in his hurry to leave.
Roland's star will simply have to wait, he supposes with a sigh, though somehow he doubts the boy will terribly mind the loss when there are other things to be grateful for—the way his papa had smiled, first and foremost, having finally found an excuse to feel something other than anger towards the Queen.
O Christmas Tree
Christmastime in Storybrooke is really unlike anything he's ever seen, and at the ripe old age of fifteen years (and change), he likes to think he's seen his fair share of some pretty amazing things.
They haven't even finished the last of the turkey when Main Street storefronts get bedecked in their lights, twinkling merrily for blocks on end. Even Mr. Gold's pawn shop has been adorned with a single sprig of holly above the CLOSED FOR THE HOLIDAYS sign—which Henry suspects was probably Belle's doing—while a larger wreath to match hangs on the doors to the public library. Overhead, the giant tower, just recently resurrected (again), has acquired some new visitors in the form of twin elf statues. They lurk at the bottom of the clock face with permanently mischievous grins as the second hand ticks steadily on to Christmas.
And this year, Henry thinks with a flourish of excitement, they'll finally be able to celebrate it right. As a family.
There's just one small problem.
Nothing in Storybrooke ever stays this peaceful for long.
…
The holiday season seems to have put her on perpetual edge, his Regina.
At first Robin thinks it's the stress of their ever-growing family and so many new mouths to feed—gods but the woman knows how to work magic in the kitchen with naught but her bare hands (and occasionally bare other things as well, when he sneakily reaches beneath her apron and convinces her to allow him a taste of dessert before dinner).
But on the nights when the Charmings host, or Robin takes it upon himself to cobble something together, he feels the unabating tension in her shoulders where he loops his arm as they walk across town, and there's a clipped quality to her words that even the boys can't help but notice.
Henry is the first to speak up one evening, when his suggestion for a movie night is met with a very thin not-quite-smile and highly unenthused I suppose that would be fine.
"I have the perfect one picked out, too," the boy bites out, forcing his chair onto two legs as he abruptly stands from the table. "It's called How the Grinch Stole Christmas!"
Though Robin is perplexed as to what, exactly, a 'grinch' might be, he doesn't miss the negative implication as Regina's spine stiffens beneath his palm. She grits out a "You're excused, young man" with Henry already halfway to the kitchen, dumping his dishes loudly into the sink before stomping up the stairs.
Electing to give her the proper space and time to defuse, Robin insists on cleaning up after the five of them before putting the littlest one to bed. He reads quietly to Roland from Santa Mouse until the boy begins to nod off in his arms, then tucks him carefully in for the night and prepares to turn in himself, slipping into one of the guest rooms to wash up. Henry's lights appear to be out as he walks by, and he leaves the boy be; there will be time yet to sort this out in the morning, with the benefit of a new day's perspective.
The door to the master bath is closed when Robin makes it to the bedroom and collapses beneath the duvet, the sliver of light at the bottom flickering with Regina's footsteps as she pads around on the tile and clinks various bottles together.
He's thumbing through a rather beaten copy of A Christmas Carol from her nightstand, wondering about the ghosts of things that have yet to come, when Regina emerges from the bathroom at last, looking fresh-faced and lovely as ever despite her red-rimmed eyes.
Robin wordlessly opens his arms to her. She sets the baby monitor down before curling into his side, pressing her nose against his throat and breathing in the scent of him.
"I heard you singing to her," she says then. He feels her smile against his skin.
"I did indeed," he murmurs with a low chuckle, tracing idle patterns up to her shoulder. "And she is, somehow, miraculously asleep in her crib as we speak."
Regina is silent for a moment longer, and he senses her resolve take form with the heaving breath that precedes a confession. "I've…" and he waits patiently for her to continue. "I've never had this before."
He grazes a knuckle over her jawline now, feeling it work over her next words.
"This family is everything to me," she whispers, and he hums his agreement. "I can't—I won't—let anything else happen to it."
"So we won't," he says simply, brushing aside the hair curtained over her forehead so he can press a kiss there. "And the next time someone tries to separate us, or take our memories away—"
"Or set the town on fire," she supplies, tone dry.
"—or set the town on fire," he continues, "we'll do as we've always done, and handle it. Together."
"Easier said than done," Regina frowns, with all the weight of a world that's never spun right for long, and he intends to lessen it however he can for her.
"Then we'll find a way. We always do. It can be done," Robin argues gently, sitting back until they're eye-level. "And you owe it to Henry to believe that. Don't let him carry that burden alone."
She huffs her disbelief. "Are you pulling the heart of the truest believer card on me?" She looks caught somewhere between amusement and indignation, and here he knows he's won.
He leans in to brush a triumphant smile over her slowly thawing scowl. "Who do you think was responsible for raising such a heart?"
Her face scrunches adorably, at a loss for anything else to say, and he's quick to take advantage of it, tossing her suddenly sideways and bracing an arm on either side of her pillow.
"Now," he murmurs, dipping down to nip along her collarbone as an involuntary gasp gets trapped in her throat, "let's see if we can't get you into the holiday spirit…my darling Scrooge." Her glare does little to discourage his laughter, but then her hands are traveling south, snaking deftly below his waistband in retaliation until he's quite incapable of speaking anymore himself.
…
Henry's not sure what happened, exactly, for her to do the one-eighty from Grinch to a heart three sizes too big, but he thinks he'd better not question it. In fact, once he's reasonably assured that this new leaf she's turned over is likely going to stay that way, he decides to see just how far he can press his luck.
He starts out small to test the waters.
"Mom, I'm taking Roland to get ice cream," he tells her one morning around a mouthful of Cheerios.
"All right," she says easily, without sparing a glance from her rapidly growing list of to-do's.
Henry shares a smug look with Roland seated on the barstool beside him, while Mom begins emptying several sugar packets and a generous amount of half-and-half into a steaming coffee mug. The kid's eyes have gone round as dinner plates, hardly believing their good fortune.
Shoveling another spoon of cereal into his mouth to keep from smiling too obviously, Henry chews and bides his time.
Mom wordlessly hands Robin the mug when he ambles in, expressing his gratitude with a kiss to her hair (Roland makes a different kind of face this time, a habit Henry is pretty positive the kid has picked up from him). She continues to stare resolutely down at her list, but her pen falters mid-ask Belle to babysit for— when Robin slings an arm around her waist and Roland vocalizes his horror with an emphatic "Yuck!"
She's as distracted as she'll ever be now, so Henry goes in for the kill.
"Mom, do you think we could have Violet over tonight for, I don't know, Netflix and popcorn, or something?"
"That sounds lovely, Henry," she says absentmindedly, grimacing when Robin offers her a sip from his mug and scoffing out a "Thank you, but I take mine black—with actual coffee in it."
"Suit yourself," Robin shrugs before muttering affectionately into his mug, "Elitist."
Henry, meanwhile, is resisting the urge to fist-pump his excitement.
"So what's this I hear about the boys going for ice cream?" Robin questions curiously, lifting an eyebrow at the kitchen windowsill—currently embedded in three inches of snow—before angling it dubiously at Henry, who immediately begins making panicked motions at the level of his throat.
"The boys are—what?" Mom asks, sidetracked from her list once more as a furrow starts to form in her brow.
Roland shoots Henry an anxious look.
"Hey, Mom," Henry says loudly, determined to save the day, and he makes an elaborate show of leaning over the counter to study her list upside down. "Did you remember the Christmas tree? Grandma's dwarves just opened their tree farm, and we have to get the biggest one this year." His voice goes low and conspiratorial, intent on exploiting Mom's competitive streak. "We can't let Gold beat us again."
Robin levels him with a look that says Don't think I don't know what you're up to, and the one Henry gives in return clearly states back, Don't you dare even think about ruining Christmas.
Robin peers over Mom's shoulder as she deftly adds Grumpy's Christmas Gold Mine to her list, underscored with three emphatic red lines. "So let me make sure I'm understanding this correctly," he says, sounding skeptical. "Your lot farms trees so that you can pay to chop them down, bring them indoors and toss some glittery bits on their branches?"
"…Yeah, basically," says Henry with some consternation, wondering suddenly if this is something he needs to worry about going wrong.
"You really do have something against forests, don't you?" Robin teases his mom with a playful hip nudge, and she smirks in the affirmative.
Henry clears his throat. "Maybe I should go with you, Mom. You know, just in case you need my help figuring out which one's tallest. Since I've got a couple extra inches on you now."
Robin is badly suppressing his amusement while Mom treats Henry to a withering stare. "Nonsense," she tells him, then, in a suspiciously innocent tone, "Don't you and Roland have an ice cream errand to run?"
Oops. Maybe he hasn't been so smooth about Operation Arctic Fox after all. Henry gives her his best sheepish grin, trying to salvage the situation, but she's unmoving.
"Robin and I will take care of the tree," she states, stern. "You, young man, will need to drop your sister off first. You can call Violet after I've talked with Belle."
"Yes, ma'am," he salutes her gamely as she instructs Robin to grab her outer things from the coat closet. Roland, overeager to get going himself, crams the rest of his cinnamon toast into his mouth while Henry waits his turn by the phone.
He's tempted to quiz Robin on what constitutes as the perfect tree in his eyes, but the guy's been living in forests for ages (until they sort of unofficially moved in with them, anyway), and the last thing Henry wants is to kill Mom's good mood by being smart with Robin.
Besides, what could go wrong, really?
…
This…is not exactly going as he'd planned.
It should have been a simple thing: find the tree, take said tree home, prop it up in their living room and still have ample time to carry Regina upstairs and ravage her a bit before the kids return and they've hardly another chance to be alone together until after the bloody New Year.
But he'd no idea how involved the process would be, how meticulously Regina would size up each and every tree based on—well—based on things that remain a complete mystery to him, and he rather wishes he'd thought to grill Henry on the boy's particular Christmas tree specifications before they'd left the house.
Quite frankly, he is at a loss as to how evenly distributed they'd like the branches to be or not be, and though he may know his way around the miniature firs and pines and such, he feels rather underqualified to be passing judgment on traditions not his own and deciding which might be the one best suited to stand by their fireplace.
"Is this good, do you think?"
"Indeed, my love" is his automatic reply, and he cringes when she rounds on him with poorly concealed exasperation.
"To be fair, they do each seem to be a bit taller than the last," he says diplomatically, giving her that crooked smile she pretends not to like so well, and her rosy-cheeked glower is too utterly charming for him to resist.
"You can't get away with this all the time, you know," she grumbles, letting him fold her against his chest.
"We shall see about that," he chuckles, while she predictably turns into a porcupine in his arms. Set on proving his point, he kisses his way from the top of her cozy knit cap down her softening jawline, then over to her chilled but welcoming lips.
"Hey!" barks Grumpy from somewhere near the spruces, his annoyance carrying over the tinny refrain of what Robin presumes to be a Christmas ballad trickling through the speakers overhead. "No canoodling in the trees! Consider this your first and final warning."
Smirking, Robin tangles their tongues together for a second longer before pulling back, missing the heat of her smiling mouth and settling for grabbing hold of her mittened hands instead.
"Come, let's go find the perfect tree for our children," and he urges her forward into the neighboring cluster of trees, intending to break free from Grumpy's ever-watchful eye.
They walk in companionable silence for some time, clasped hands swinging gently between them, and the snow falls thick to fill out their footprints and collect most fetchingly in Regina's hair.
Robin recalls almost fondly now how their last several meetings in the woods had gone rather disastrously (his hazy recollection of that Fury tossing him about like a ragdoll comes to mind). But they've also happier memories—of a letter stolen, and a heart given over before he'd a chance to steal that from her too—and there's time yet still to create some new ones.
Regina's thoughts seem to mirror his own, and she leads him to pause behind a bough blanketed in white, pulling him in with beguiling eyes and naughty hands on his jacket collar. Their lips fall together in a kiss that leaves him breathless in seconds, all tongue and toe-curling warmth. He presses into her as far as the many intruding layers of fabric will allow, bumping her back into the unsuspecting conifer and dismantling piles of snow.
She nips punishingly at his lower lip, soothing the sting of it with a languid stroke of her tongue, and he angles his lower body against hers in retaliation, longing for a solid wall rather than a spindly branch to pin her in place and gods but they really need to pick out a damn tree.
He's fighting the haze of lust to suggest as much to her when he becomes vaguely cognizant of someone yelling outraged obscenities at them.
"That's it!" Grumpy declares as they break apart, stalking angrily out from behind some bramble and jerking a thumb back toward the farm entrance. "You two—out. This is a family-friendly operation, not some X-rated Santa Baby music video."
Regina opens her mouth to argue—or to threaten him, as is more likely the case—but Grumpy glares in silent challenge for her to bring her worst.
Which is exactly what Robin would like to avoid, after they've made such progress de-Scrooging her.
"Darling, I think it's best we head out," he murmurs with an apologetic nod at Grumpy, making it about three steps in the opposite direction before realizing that Regina hasn't followed suit.
"I am not leaving without a tree," she grits out.
"Yeah? What are you going to do about it?" Grumpy goads her, looking entirely too gleeful about her predicament. "Sorry, sister—everyone knows you're all bark and no bite now."
"I'll show you bite," she says venomously, raising her palms skyward in a manner that might have seemed menacing, if not for the derailing effect of her bright pink mittens (a color she might never have been caught dead wearing, if not for a certain five-year-old boy who'd proudly picked it out for her).
Grumpy is snorting, unimpressed, when the nearby trees begin to quiver. Snow sloughs off the branches, and a horrific sound not unlike nails on a slate board splits the air as bark begins to crack and unfurl from their trunks, strip by strip.
Grumpy glares at Robin as though this has been entirely his doing (he's not entirely wrong about that), and Robin, sighing, jams his hands pocket-deep and steps into Regina's view until she lifts a reluctant gaze to meet his patient one.
The bark instantly snaps back into place and the trees desist their trembling. The sour expression Regina gives Grumpy is returned with great enthusiasm as he helpfully indicates the way out. "See ya!"
They trudge through the snow with all the gravitas of two chastised teenagers, Robin struggling to contain a smile that, judging from Regina's stony silence, would hardly be appreciated at the moment.
"Great, what do we do now?" she grouses finally, still smoking at the palms, and Robin carefully settles his hands over hers in an attempt to put out some of her ire.
"Let's not burn down Grumpy's livelihood, yeah?" he says gently, brushing a kiss to the striped knit material encasing her knuckles.
She snorts out a laugh and a scornful "Please, that man could outlive a cockroach," but her wrath is short-lived, soon withering into dismay. "How the hell am I supposed to go home and face Henry without a Christmas tree?"
Robin tucks her sagging shoulders beneath his arm and steers them onward. Now that they're well outside of Grumpy's jurisdiction—and here Robin has particular cause to wonder who the true Grinch behind this story is—he lets his kisses wander freely, from her knitted brow to the corner of one eye, before settling finally over her sighing mouth. "Not to worry, my love," he hums against her lips. "I've an idea."
…
"So which one was your favorite?"
Roland looks up from one of the picture books Belle had lent them last Saturday—a mischievous Grinch serves Henry with a sly look from the cover—and scrunches his face in deep thought. "The one with the turtles," he decides finally. "Even though it def'nitely wasn't real turtles."
Henry's nodding, thinking wistfully about how good the caramel-streaked chocolate pieces would've gone with Mom's apple pies at Thanksgiving, but his jaw falls toward the floor at the kid's legitimately stumped expression. "Wait. You mean you've eaten turtle? Like, you know what it tastes like and everything?" he asks, unsure whether to be more impressed or grossed out (he's definitely a little of both).
"Yeah," says Roland, unblinking. Okay, maybe more impressed then. "Lil' John makes turtle stew, with roots and berries and—"
"That's really cool, kid," Henry says hurriedly, wondering how to steer the conversation away from edible pets and back to ice cream flavors, when a tell-tale jangling of keys at the front door has them both shooting like cannons off the couch and hurrying to greet their parents.
"They're here!" shouts Roland, crowding the door in his excitement. Henry gently nudges him back as it swings open, stepping around with his arms out and at the ready to help Robin carry in their brand new Christmas tree.
"How big is it?" he demands eagerly, noticing then that Robin's hands are empty—no tree, not even a brown paper bag of groceries. Weird. Stretching out every last bit of his five-foot-seven frame, Henry pokes large, expectant eyes over Robin's shoulder. Mom is standing behind him, also bagless, and behind her, Henry sees sidewalk and streetlamp and sky and plain rows of spindly, leafless things on either side of the road, but nothing remotely close to the epic tree he'd been promised.
Mom and Robin share a look.
Uh oh. Not good.
"There…is no tree," Henry realizes blankly, perplexed, as Roland peers out from behind his legs to see for himself. "But you guys were gone for hours! And you forgot to go to the grocery store." So much for the popcorn, then. He frowns when their eyes shift guiltily away from each other's, and a sudden, horrible thought occurs to him.
"Mom," he says plaintively, "is everything okay?" They don't appear to be injured, or about to head over for another showdown on Main Street, but they do keep standing there looking fishy as all get out, and it's kind of starting to worry him. "Did Zelena find a way back? Has she done something again? Where's my sister?"
"Oh, Henry, no, nothing like that," Mom is quick to assure him, "and she's right where you left her, napping at Belle's. We dropped by to check on her on our way here." She shoos Robin indoors before they bring too much of the snow in with them.
"And you didn't bring her back with you?" Henry questions, growing more and more perplexed.
"Not quite yet," Mom hedges, "we have…one other stop to make first." She looks uncertain all of sudden, and Robin gives her an encouraging half-smile, and now they're acting really weird.
"Okay…" Henry glances expectantly from one to the other, wondering who'll cave first. "So what's going on?"
"We've actually found something better than a Christmas tree," Robin offers, and Henry tries his hardest not to look at him so skeptically.
Doubt it, he's on the verge of retorting (what the heck could be better than a Christmas tree?), but Mom has a sixth sense about these things and the single silent eyebrow she raises makes him swallow his words and ask instead, "Oh! Yeah? What is it?"
"You'll see," Mom smiles at him, a genuine smile that crinkles her eyes, but she's pressed a mitten flat to her stomach the way she always does when she's nervous about something—about him, he thinks, and how he might react to whatever surprise they've planned.
But she's only just been to hell and back (literally), and he'd hate to be anything but her little prince if that's what she needs the most right now. So he nods gamely, and leans down at least half an inch (well, two, but who's counting?) to smack a kiss on her icy cheek.
Her smile could probably power all of downtown Storybrooke now, and he's sorely tempted to dare Robin into seeing whether a kiss from him could do any better.
Henry shrugs on his coat while Robin sets about tumbling the excess snow from Mom's hair and shoulders onto the mat at their feet. "Here," Henry beckons to Roland then, bundling him into his own outer things, and Mom uses the moment to mutter at Robin to stop grooming her, for heaven's sake, it's not as though they aren't about to go back out into the cold.
Robin oh so innocently brushes the last of the flakes—fast turning to slush—from her mittened knuckles before taking them hostage in his own ungloved hands. "Ready?" he flashes his dimples, the ones that Mom likes to pretend don't melt her to puddles as though she were made out of snow herself.
"Ready," Henry confirms, and the four of them single-file into the winter wonderland that had been their front lawn not five minutes ago. Mom's tree, harvested free of apples since Thanksgiving, stands as regally as ever despite the unforgiving wind, and he wonders if maybe this will be the year she finally takes him up on his offer to string it with some twinkle lights.
Her cheeks are rosy from the cold as they walk through the center of town, but also from a warmth that has nothing to do with the weather, he guesses, and her smile burns brighter than the sunlit snowbanks when he hooks a playful elbow with hers.
But he wouldn't be her son if he let her off so easily.
He sighs loudly to Roland, who's crammed between him and Robin with a fist in each coat pocket, and announces in his most solemn tone, "Kid, lesson one for the New Year—never send a grown-up to do our job."
Roland nods very seriously like he's just received a major piece of wisdom. Mom and Robin exchange amused (and maybe still somewhat shamefaced) looks as they pass beneath the clock tower elves, which are currently heaving the minute hand to half-past-twelve.
"Hey, maybe afterward we can grab a bite to eat at Granny's," Henry says, hopeful, thinking of French fries and whipped cream and dashes of cinnamon. Roland looks beside himself, like he hadn't counted on getting so spoiled in one day—first ice cream for breakfast, and now a cheeseburger for lunch?
"I think that sounds perfect, Henry," Mom angles that beaming smile upward again, and he tries very hard to let the kid do all the gleeful cheering and fist-pumping for him. He spies Robin out of the corner of one eye, the guy watching his mom with a predictably sappy kind of grin on his face, and Henry can't even bring himself to fake looking grossed out.
They've reached the outskirts of town, and Henry slows his steps somewhere near Geppetto's woodworks shop, realizing they'd never actually specified any real end destination.
But Roland sees something familiar in their path that he doesn't and forges ahead of them, treading snow and protruding his tongue to catch as much of the "sky ice cream" as he can. The forest comes into view, spurring the kid on faster—toward reminders of the first home he'd ever known, and Henry can't say he blames him (Mom's elbow locks tighter with his, and he thinks of how close he'd come, so many times, to losing his home too).
The kid's spent every one of his Christmases surrounded by tons of trees—none of them quite like the Mills household's, but trees nonetheless—and maybe it wouldn't be so bad, really, to do it differently this year. New families (growing families) mean new traditions, after all; and even Mom bending her own rule of one present and one present only beneath the tree on Christmas Eve feels almost unnecessary now, when Henry already has everything he could possibly wish for.
If they end up spending this Christmas without the tinsel, and the garland, and Mom looking suspiciously misty-eyed while he unpacks years of grade school art class ornaments—handpainted Santa Claus pinecones and lopsided reindeer, fashioned from popsicle sticks with red cotton noses—well, he can definitely think of worse things.
So what could possibly be better than a Christmas tree?
He looks around and finds his answer.
They're hovering at the forest edge now, Roland pausing mid-prance to stare back at them in breathless anticipation. Robin has sidled over to Mom's other side, and he wraps an arm around her shoulders, squeezing and murmuring something that has her fussing with the ends of her hair, lips pressing together to flatten out another traitorous smile.
Looping her arm out of Henry's, she slides a hand down to find his, and he returns her grip with wordless force.
"Come on, kid," he beckons, and Roland spring-hops to his side, jamming a hand back into Henry's coat pocket.
"Happy Christmas, boys," he hears Robin say, and there's a weird sensation of heat at Henry's fingertips where they've come into contact with Roland and Mom. She mutters under her breath in what definitely sounds like another language, and then rows and rows of evergreens are suddenly aglow with tiny, radiant, multicolored lights, as though they've just been kissed by rainbows.
"Whoa," Henry breathes, craning his neck as far as he can—the treetops are sparkling with stars larger than he's ever seen before, like magnificent alien snowflakes—and Roland quietly echoes the sentiment beside him, as the home he'd once known is transformed into something…unreal. Something more.
Something magical.
Mom's face is carefully expressionless when Henry finally turns, awestruck, to stare at her.
"So…" she starts, with a hint something like hopefulness that would make Grandma proud, "how do you feel about having a whole forest of Christmas trees this year?"
Henry bobs his head slowly, thoughtfully, mulling over the answer his smile has already given away. She wrinkles her nose at him when he shrugs and points out, all innocence, "I don't know, Mom, how do you feel about it? Because that's gonna be an awful lot of Christmas presents you and Robin will have to buy."
Pride warms his chest at Robin's rumbling chuckle, and he wishes he could preserve this moment—this first of many new and improved traditions to come—and store it in a snow globe, to shake up and relive until their next Christmas, and every Christmas after that.
Together. As a family.
"You know," Henry tells them then, very seriously, "it's really too bad, because there's absolutely no way you guys will be able to top this one next year."
"Oh, I think we'll find a way," Mom says, playful and mysterious, and she doesn't even pretend to look cool and unimpressed this time when Robin sneaks in a lingering kiss to her ear. She settles a cheek onto his shoulder, sighing, and Henry thinks he's never heard a more wonderful sound.
"That's true," he agrees, "we always do." As she squeezes his hand, the lights adorning the trees—theirs—begin to shimmer and dance, throwing prisms of color at their feet, and even though they'd never be able to fit the forest into their living room, it feels a lot like coming home.