He's coming back from yet another one of his rounds. And as usual, all is quiet. But Robin knows better than to think this is a good sign. He's been involved in many a war to know the meaning of the calm before the storm. So they prepare as much as they can. They have organized sword-fighting trials. They have asked the Queen to enchant every bow they could find. But it doesn't feel like enough. The Witch's monkeys keep multiplying somehow. Where do they all come from?
He passes by herroom, a nightly ritual, before reaching his own. He tells himself he's just making sure their best chance at defeating this witch isn't compromised, but even he can't quite convince himself. He feels this inexplicable need to make sure she's alright, to assist whenever he can, to offer an ear or a shoulder if she desires it.
He worries about her, ever since the threat of that sleeping curse. Surely, she wouldn't take the easy way out? She said so herself, she has a witch to destroy. At least that's how she explains it, passing it off as petty rivalry, but Robin knows—he's only just met her, but heknows, deep in his bones, in his soul—Regina does it for Snow. For Snow and her prince and their baby. How ironic.
He expects to see candlelight beneath her door, the Queen rarely enjoying a good night sleep—and how his heart strangely aches at the thought—but unexpectedly, her door is ajar, the room is dark, and she is nowhere in sight.
Robin tries not to panic, but he can already feel himself getting warmer, his palms sweating, the air suffocating him as he looks around desperately at the terrifyingly empty corridor.
And he starts running, everywhere, anywhere, his bow at the ready in case he need fight the fearsome beast who dares take his queen—and how strange that he's never sworn loyalty to any royal, much less to her, and she is anything but his, but somehow he cannot imagine the kingdom without her as its monarch.
Cannot imagine the day he won't hear her exasperated sighs from across the council room table, usually directed at some dwarf (or at him). Cannot imagine the day he won't get to see that gleam return in her eyes whenever he snaps back at whatever insulting remark she's come up with (he knows she'd deny this, but he's sure she enjoys their little back-and-forth just as much as he does, never one to back down from a challenge), or her eyes widen and her breath catch when he's caught her unawares with one of his sickeningly romanticnotions.
He's about to call for help, wake up the whole bloody castle if he has to, when he spots a figure lying on the floor, curled at a strange angle, face and upper body covered in inky feathers that must belong to one of the Queen's cloaks. Robin's panic lessens, but only just, because she could be injured for all he knows or worse (he can't let himself entertain the thought of worse).
As he comes nearer, exceedingly fast yet not fast enough, he sees her clutching her knees and babbling nonsense, and notices a smell much too strong, and unmistakable for one accustomed to it such as he, to ignore.
He releases a deafening breath and takes a moment to rest his hands against the wall and wait for his heart to still—as much as it can when he's in her presence—before bursting into a chuckle, amused at his now ridiculous fear in the face of this unexpected turn of events.
He lowers himself on his knees, buttocks resting on his heels, and draws back the curtain of feathers and hair concealing the Queen's features. With a much too wide grin, he asks, "Are you drunk, milady?"
"I… I most certainly am not," she puffs, her eyes still closed and not giving any indication that she plans to get up anytime soon. Robin moves intending to carry her to her chambers if she's unable.
"What are those?"
"What?"
"Take your greasy palms away from me."
"I promise not to touch you as long as you can make it to your room without your insufferably high nose getting better acquainted with the floor."
"I am perfectly capable of walking myself."
"Let's see it." The Queen remains unmoved and far too rigid for Robin to try and touch her again if he values his life. "Are you just going to sleep here then? Trying to see how the other half lives?"
"Stranger things have happened. Apparently we're allowing peasants to sit on the royal council now."
"Maybe we could teach your majesties a thing or two about the people you seek to rule."
"The only thing you could teach me is how to disregard proper etiquette and table manners. And I suppose how to hold my liquor," she reluctantly admits. "You probably sleep with a bottle beneath your pillow."
"I don't know what you think you know about me, but I haven't had a drop in years, especially not with my son sleeping in the next bed," he almost shouts, his fists clenching and his eyes looking wild. He rarely allows the Queen to get to him so, having heard of her pain, understanding why she lashes out, understanding all too well the need to make everyone as miserable as one feels, but she'd struck a cord and the one thing he won't stand for is her questioning his parenting skills. Having regained his composure after a moment, he replies more calmly, "I'd never allow myself to be so reckless again."
"What happened?"
"What do you mean?"
"You said again."
"After my wife died… I was in a very dark place. I couldn't see a reason to get up in the morning, to keep robbing from nobles, to keep putting every stranger's needs and happiness before my own. All the fortune Marian and I had saved, what little we could after making sure the surrounding villages were taken care of, I lost it all. Drinking, gambling, bribing officials to look the other way. But mostly drinking. I was quite literally drowning in grief and I wouldn't accept help from anyone. My men felt the loss of her too, but they still had families, loved ones waiting for them at the end of the day. What did I have to go back to?"
"You had your son," she accuses harshly. How dare he say he had nothing? How dare he disregard what he still has and she had lost?
"I know that now. But back then, I couldn't conceive the thought of raising him on my own. I couldn't even take care of myself, much less of a newborn."
"So how did you get through it?" she asks quietly, trying to mask her despair (her desperate need to know) and failing. "How did you manage to stop feeling so… numb? To stop hurting."
"I didn't stop hurting. It never stops hurting. I wouldn't want it to. That wouldn't be fair to her memory, to the wonderful woman and friend and mother that she was. But I realized that I wasn't on my own like I thought. I had people who cared about me and I'd allowed myself to forget how much I cared about them too. But once I remembered, once I decided that I didn't want to let them, or my son, down, the pain became bearable. It didn't happen overnight, or even in a few months or years. But it didhappen."
Robin carefully brings a hand to the Queen's cheek, catching a tear having found its way on its slopes with his thumb. "Let me care for you," he whispers tenderly, knowing he doesn't just mean for tonight, that he can't disguise this as just a willingness to help someone who's known grief such as he has.
"Why would you want to?" she can't help but wonder. Why would he want to help her? She is broken and, loath as she is to admit it, she is weak. And she has lost the only person left who could have loved her—who did love her, she remembers with more tears staining her cheeks and the thief's rough yet gentle hand.
"Because I already do."
He feels her slightly nodding against his hand and proceeds to pick her up with one hand under her knees (discovering her dress is paired with those tight leather pants he's grown so fond of) and the other on her back, fingers tangling in her dark waves, brushing them soothingly.
Her head rests on his shoulder, her hands caressing their way up from his arms to behind his neck and in his hair. Robin lets out a soft moan and instinctively pulls her body closer, her chest practically pressed against his, her nose stroking his jaw. He can feel her heart beating and he swears his might just burst if she keeps running her fingers and dear god her nails through his curls. He can feel her breathe and each exhale sends shivers down his spine while setting his skin aflame.
They quickly arrive at her door, her majesty at least having had the good sense to pass out just a few corridors down, and Robin pushes it open with her heels and goes to lay her down gently on her plush, drowning in pillows, bed. But she doesn't lessen her grip on his neck so it is quite the challenge to wrestle her boots off.
He thinks about undressing her, she can't possibly be comfortable in that attire, but he banishes the thought quickly. He feels no shame however in tearing that infernal cloak and its feathered collar and tossing it on the floor, leaving her only in the leather pants and a dark blue, jewelled corset.
She doesn't seem to find offense in his actions because suddenly one hand sneaks down and grabs his elbow, tugging and effectively compelling him to lie on his side, one hand resting on her stomach and the other still not able to let go of her silky waves.
He should leave, he thinks, she wouldn't appreciate his lingering, especially at a time when her guard is down. But she moves from her position on her back and turns on her side too, facing him, though her eyes have remained closed this entire time, and he's struck (once more) at her perfection. The shape of her nose, her eyelids painted black with specks of gold, her flushed cheeks—no doubt from one too many drinks—a few freckles he's never had the chance to notice before, her luscious lips and that scar he's been craving to kiss.
"You smell of lea… leaf… leaves. But you haven't been outside in days. Did you forgo the soap thief? I suppose you aren't accustomed to such luxuries," she tells him, the remark lacking its usual bite. She means to tease, to prod but not injure.
Robin keeps quiet, not wanting to divulge he's all too familiar with such luxuriesas she calls them. Still, he would take the forest any day over the most opulent quarters: the sweet lullaby of a river, the whisperings of the trees, the chirping of crickets, the cackling of a fire. The smell of pine and wet moss and mud and dried leaves. The taste of slightly burnt deer and juicy berries.
She snuggles up to him, her hands grasping his tunic almost off his body, her legs entwining with his, and her head is finding home in the crook of his neck. Her lips are brushing against his throat and are making their way down so very slowly. He's swallowing loudly, groaning quietly, though he doesn't think she can even hear it at this point. But she feels it for sure because he feels the corners of her lips moving in an upwards motion against his collarbone, her fingers having opened a few of his buttons in a desperate need to reach the softness of his skin.
"If you keep this up, you'll end up smelling like them too, milady."
"It's Your Majesty," she yawns, unbothered at the prospect of his forest scent impregnating her sheets, lingering on her skin the way she secretly wishes his touch would.
"Go to sleep, Your Majesty," he whispers in a honeyed voice, closing his eyes at last and falling into a deep slumber.
And somehow Robin knows come morning he'll magically find himself in his own room, in his own bed, reaching for the comfort of a warm body, reaching for its safety, but for now, just for this moment, he'll close his eyes and try to imprint her feel, her smell, her warmth, the way she makes his soul shake with fear, and yet hope, and something akin to recognition, on his memory and hold onto it for this small eternity.