It's a Friday like any other Friday, yet unlike any day Regina has ever experienced.
As she braces her hands on her vehicle to peer at the motor, her arm inadvertently bumps into the rod that props the hood open, budging it an inch farther out than what's safe, but she's too busy glaring at the fuming engine to notice. Forehead wrinkling in a frown, Regina inhales a lungful of smoke and coughs as a result of the filth while studying the apparatus in front of her. The hood teeters precariously over her head.
Holding her breath, she leans in a second time, careful not to stain her jeans on the Jeep's dirty bumper. The forward bend creates a dull, twisting pain in her lower back, but she ignore that too, blames it on months sitting at her desk without a proper vacation and interminable hours in this uncomfortable car driving away from civilization. The discomfort she imposes upon herself is all for naught; every second she spends hunched over, flicking her eyes from wire to motor to other engine parts she can't even name, only brings more confusion. The problem doesn't even begin to make sense to her, and she's not any closer to figuring out what went wrong with this scrap of metal supposedly called a car than she was when the engine gave out half an hour ago.
A heavy sigh leaves her throat, shoulders sagging forward. She misses her trusty Mercedes. This old Jeep has felt like an inescapable curse since she first laid eyes on it, just like the whole idea behind this trip, but bringing her precious car with her here hadn't been an option on the table. The make or model could have been recognized or attracted unwanted attention. One word to the wrong individual and she could be in even more danger than she already is. She has to keep a low profile for the foreseeable future, disappear, if at all possible, at least for the next few months, and arriving in a small coastal town of Maine—where everybody knows everybody and gossip is the primary form of communication—with a vehicle worth more than some of the houses in the area would not have been exactly discreet.
It's why she'd landed the monstrosity she's currently staring at: a 2005 Jeep Wrangler, soiled and preowned, which has broken down before she could even reach her destination. Feeling useless but longing for something to do, she plants her hands on her hips and vainly tries to make sense of the mechanical workings of her car one last time.
Large trees line up the road on both sides. It's all she can see when she looks around her, as though she's lost in a labyrinth and has yet to find the exit. She can hear the leaves rustle with every strong gust of wind, a stream running not too far from where she's stopped. A strand of hair whips across her face as a strong gale blows in her direction and she misses the way the hood suddenly wobbles…
Until it snaps out of place and crashes heavily onto the back of her skull.
A series of expletives leaves Regina's mouth as she jerks back and lets the hood slam shut. One of her hands reaches behind her head, probing the tender and stinging area above her nape. She winces, swearing again as she feels a small bump already forming under her fingertips.
Great. Just great, she thinks, closing her eyes to prevent treacherous tears from slipping free. They prickle just behind her eyelids, a result of the way her head is currently pulsating, every beat of her heart a new, hard pound against her skull. The succession of misfortunes that has followed her here is taking its toll. From the moment Emma Swan had left her at a remote gas station, merely twenty miles away, her journey had gotten progressively worse, making those twenty miles feel like a whole continent.
She'd had to ask for directions—twice—coming back to the gas station only minutes after leaving it, flushing with rage as the macho man behind the counter guffawed at her poor navigational skills. In the middle of his diatribe about women and driving, Regina had tossed her spare change on the counter and left with a map, unable to listen to him any longer. She'd eventually found her way, only to stain her white shirt with coffee after an unsuspected hole in the pavement. And now, not only is her car not working, but her iPhone is dead, just a useless piece of technology. How the hell is she supposed to get out of her current predicament?
Glancing at the Welcome to Storybrooke sign nagging her from the side of the road, Regina flicks her eyes heavenward and damns the carefully laid out plan that's causing her all this trouble. Letting her fend for herself in the middle of nowhere wasn't part of any scenario they'd discussed. It's a beginner's mistake, if anything, and Emma is a professional. This is hardly her style.
Letting out a nervous laugh, Regina runs a hand through her hair, fingers weaving through short locks of hair and reaching the ends faster than she expects. She grunts through her teeth, having, until now, forgotten about her makeover. From long espresso tresses to a stylish curly bob, she nearly doesn't recognize herself when she catches a glimpse of her reflection. She looks at herself now, stares at the woman she is supposed to be in the windshield of a car her real self would never buy, wearing clothes she'd normally save for a weekend spent on the couch with DI Hardy and DS Miller, both of whom can't ever pass judgement on her lack of style. Whoever this person is, looking back at her with a scowl, they have nothing in common.
That train of thought does nothing to appease the throbbing between her temples. She winces, closing her eyes to shut out the world and the pain.
She needs a shower, a long, near-scalding shower, a hot meal and a good night of sleep. It won't be like having her old routine back—nothing ever will—but it'll be a start. The past week has been stressful, and as much as she already loathes the very idea of spending the next few months in Maine, it will be nice to have her own place again and put recent events behind her. If the cost of safety is no more morning visits to her favourite café or evening jogs along the Charles River and a wardrobe without stilettos or tailored clothing, she'll pay it. It's not like she has a choice in the matter.
This blending in—new hair, new clothes, new car—is part of a plan, and Regina has agreed to the plan even if she hates every part of it. She feels like a bad copy of herself, stripped of everything she is—was—now unrefined and common. Regina Mills was an accomplished professional, someone who'd worked very hard to achieve her position. She wouldn't let everything she was be taken away from her without a fight.
But she's not Regina Mills anymore. That's exactly the point of all this.
She has become an entirely new person, a mere shadow of her old self, stuck in Storybrooke, Maine for God knows how long. If she ever gets there, that is.
Resting her hands on the vehicle, Regina lets out a heavy exhale as her chin drops towards her chest. Shifting her weight onto one palm, she frees a hand to massage small circles on her temple and she tells herself with very little success to snap out of it. She stews unproductively in her frustration, the pressure on the inside of her skull increasing exponentially with each passing minute.
Tires squeal somewhere behind her; the roar of a working car engine comes to a stop. The intruding sound is followed by that of a car door opening and closing, then the dull tap of footsteps against the pavement, drawing closer to her.
"Milady, are you alright?" comes the dreaded question, from a man with a smug British accent that only fuels her exasperation.
Regina scoffs and turns around, using the momentum to bark, "Do I look alright?!"
The stranger who fancies himself Prince Charming halts his approach, confidence staggering under her glare. They observe each other silently. Square-shouldered and broad-chested, he stands a few inches taller than her. Regina makes a mental note to find heels fitting of her new persona; she will not tolerate idiotic men towering over her, even without her diplomas hanging on the wall of her office. The man in question today is wearing black jeans and a fitted gray tee, an unzipped green leather jacket completing the ensemble. His well-defined jaw is adorned by a neatly trimmed stubble, giving him a rugged quality while not looking completely unkempt despite the five o'clock shadow decorating the underside of his chin. Blue eyes are surveying her with a spark of interest and a kernel of apprehension, as though she could pounce on him any second. If only he knew she was the one who should be nervous about this encounter. Were Emma around, she'd remind her she can't trust anyone, no matter how innocent they look. Appearances are a veil hiding truths that could be dangerous. One only has to look at her to be deceived.
Alas, despite her history, Regina's never been the paranoid type, much to Emma's despair. Cautious, maybe, but never scared—except that one time.
"Perhaps I can help?" asks her stranger, recovering from her brusque greeting. No doubt he thinks he's chivalrously coming to her rescue, but even her appreciation of his physique does not make his lilt any less irritating. She's not some damsel waiting for a knight in shining armour. A tow truck, maybe, but knights belong to fairytales and her life definitely isn't one.
Regina deadpans, mumbles an offhand, "I'm fine," and wishes for her supposed saviour to be on his way, not because of the possible threat he poses, but rather because she wants to be left alone to brood over her unfortunate circumstances.
She whirls around, stalking away from him and towards the driver's side of her Jeep. Perhaps, if she's lucky—she doubts it—she can get her phone to work long enough to call a garage.
The hope that she be left to her own devices is short-lived. Too soon, the man has walked around her, popping back into her field of vision and effectively stopping her retreat. "Pardon my insistence, milady," he says, arms open, hands lifted in front of him in a gesture conveying peace and goodwill—and perhaps offering some form of extra protection should she decide to punch him—"but you don't look fine."
Regina glares at him, unimpressed, and crosses her arms in front of her chest. "I'm having a real banner day," she relents, as there seems to be no easy way to get rid of him.
"Well then, all the more reason to allow me to help," her self-proclaimed champion declares, unperturbed by her lack of manners. He extends a friendly hand towards her and introduces himself, "I'm Robin," and the dazzling smile he gives her reveals twin dimples that mellow the hard edges of her sour mood. "At your service."
She gives his hand a long, contemptuous grimace but willingly takes it, her annoyance slowly simmering down. The feeling is replaced by a sudden nervousness, mouth going dry as the reality of the part she has to play dawns upon her. She unfortunately has no time to dwell on it, already rushing out her own introduction. "Roni," she offers, with mustered confidence and a firm handshake she hopes will hide the unfamiliar nature of the designation. "And I didn't ask for help," she adds with a pointed look, earning herself a soft chuckle from the man in front of her—Robin. His name is Robin.
He challenges, "That doesn't mean you don't need it," twinkling blue eyes never leaving hers, their colour distracting in its intensity.
As she holds his gaze and he holds her hand, Regina can feel her nerves fluttering. A thousand butterflies coming and going in her stomach. His palm dwarfs hers; her skin tingles where his callused fingertips accidentally brush against the back of her hand. She swallows.
For each ounce of calm his amiability brings, equal measures of wariness get added to the mix. Do not trust anyone, Emma would say, and she's starting to understand why. People are nosy, especially in small towns. "Roni—short for?" he asks kindly, interested, and with the name on the tip of her tongue she almost breaks character. Almost.
"Roni," she repeats, this time unwavering, as she withdraws her hand and takes a step away, hoping the additional distance between them will help keep her senses sharp, her head focused on the game: if she can't convince him she is who she says she is, how is she to convince the rest of Storybrooke?
Untroubled by her defensive attitude, her Prince Charming doesn't push the issue of her name any further, glancing instead over her shoulder at the smoking Jeep, brows knitting together as he inquires, "Car trouble?"
How did you guess? she wants to say—does he really have to ask?—but irony will get her nowhere. Regina sighs, following his line of sight to the metal contraption on wheels she'd driven here. "If you can call this a car…" she mutters, slipping a little. Roni loves her car, but Robin chuckles at her audible exasperation and his laughter chases away remnants of worry from her system. She can do this. Biting the inside of her lip, she sinks her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and leans into her hip. "I should have known there was a reason my friend wanted to get rid of it." The lie, learned by heart, rolls easily off her tongue.
Robin snickers again as he walks towards the front of the vehicle, tugging the sleeves of his leather jacket up his forearms. "Some friend you have," he comments.
Regina stifles a laugh.
"Now let's see what's wrong with this thing," he says, opening the hood and securing the rod in place.
She eyes the evil piece of metal responsible for her headache with disdain, stepping closer cautiously while staying far enough away should the car decide to attack again.
She watches in silence as Robin inspects the engine, which has thankfully stopped fuming, but it's only a few seconds before he slams the cover shut and declares, "Engine problem. We need to get it towed."
Suspicion floods Regina's veins like a tidal wave nearing the shore. She stands alert. A sense of foreboding fills every particle of air and space in between and closes in on her, cutting off her escape route. No one, no matter how good they are, can possibly make a thorough assessment in such a short time. She arches a skeptical eyebrow, trying to keep her worry in check. "That's all you've got?"
Robin hangs his head in shame, biting his lower lip. "Yes."
"Do you even know cars?" she questions, keeping her voice steady despite the accelerating rhythm of her heartbeat. Arms crossed. Neck tall. Gaze harsh. This man will not be the one to bring her down. Others before have tried—and failed.
Robin shrugs, the way any fool would. She stands her ground as the distance between them shrinks with every step he takes and he leans in next to her ear to whisper, "Not at all," before pulling back just as quickly, meeting her eyes with a roguish smirk.
She blinks in confusion, eyes darting from his face to her car, then back to him. "Then how do you know the engine's broken?"
He shakes his head and tells her, "Look, I've got no bloody idea what's wrong with your car, but from the looks of it, neither do you." He waits, daring her to contradict him.
She doesn't.
"Do you have a phone?"
"I do," she answers, fingers curling her hair around her ear. It's short now, there's nothing to tuck back, but the habit is instilled in her and she has a hard time losing those nervous tics. "But I'm afraid the battery's dead."
Compassion fills Robin's eyes. "This really isn't your day."
"That's what I said," Regina replies with a shrug, already having come to terms with her luck.
"Let me make the call for you," he offers immediately, reaching into his pocket for his phone. His fingers dial, gliding effortlessly across the screen. The line rings, he brings the phone to his ear, and his eyes find hers again. "Do you need a ride to town?" he asks while he waits for the person on the other end to pick up.
His proposition seems innocent enough and her first heartbeat leans toward a positive answer. Yes, she'd love one. She longs for a shower and a bed, for the quietude of her home and the hot water that will rinse her skin of this restrictive persona who doesn't quite fit. But while he doesn't set off any alarm bells in her head, they're essentially strangers, he and she. Getting into a car with him goes against everything she's ever done, or believes in, and against every precaution she and Emma had set in place. As far as she knows, this man could be dangerous. He could be a spy, a stalker, a rapist, or a murderer. He could be working for the people she's hiding from. He could be one of the people she's hiding from.
Or, on a less dramatic note, he could be an adulterous cad who cheats on his wife—or husband—with every damsel in distress he supposedly saves. It'd be the best possible outcome where she's concerned.
Either way, she needs to stay away. "I'll wait for the tow truck," she tells him, but he's already gotten through to the garage and ignores her as he exchanges pleasantries with the owner.
He laughs at a joke she can't hear. Small towns, Regina thinks. Everyone knows each other. After a full minute of unnecessary small talk, Robin finally tells them about her situation, and then stops talking, looking at her and mouthing You're sure? as he listens to the other person's instructions. So he'd heard her, after all.
She'd say he looks almost disappointed by her answering nod, but she's probably reading too much into it. He's only being polite, offering to give her a ride and going out of his way to make sure she gets to town safely. She has a rather poor way of showing she appreciates it, but if he knew what she'd been through, he'd understand.
Phone still in hand, Robin walks back to his car and reaches for something through the open window. He hovers by his van for a few more seconds after he's hung up the phone, and Regina wishes she could see what he's doing. She gets fidgety, not knowing. There's even a moment when she believes he will simply leave without saying goodbye—not that she'd mind if he did—but then he finally heads back towards her, a carefulness to his steps that wasn't there before.
"They'll be here in twenty," he informs her, hesitating for a brief moment before handing her a torn piece from an old bill. It reads Granny's Diner and it was clearly crumpled a few minutes ago. "Here's my number," he says. "Call me if you need anything."
Regina eyes the piece of paper, but makes no move to reach for it right away. "My phone's dead, remember?" His memory can't be that bad.
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Robin rubs his neck with his free hand, nibbling at his bottom lip. A far cry from the man who'd boldly approached her earlier, he will not meet her gaze, as though she's said something wrong. Still his arm remains extended towards her, clutching the creased bill. "I just thought it could be useful…" he attempts, but his explanation doesn't lead anywhere.
Standing here, watching the light blush creeping up his cheeks could be fun, but Regina will not prolong the sudden awkwardness of this moment any longer than necessary. She plucks the piece of paper form his grip, tucking it inside her pocket with no intention to call, prompting Robin to hurry back to his car as though he needs to leave before she changes her mind. If this were the movies, some silly background music would probably start playing right about now. Rolling her eyes, Regina walks back towards her own car to sit while she waits for her vehicle to be towed.
"Oh, and Roni?"
She glances up at the still unfamiliar name, frown on her face—isn't he gone yet?—only to find Robin, having recovered from his small misstep, looking expectantly at her.
"Welcome to Storybrooke." He inclines his head to bid her one final goodbye, gets into his car and shuts the door behind him.
As she watches the green Ford Explorer drive down the road, a sense of loss crawls up Regina's spine, like a never-ending shiver. It's as if everything that had happened until that moment had been a dream and now she's woken up, forced to face a truth she hadn't fully contemplated when this crazy plan was set into motion.
Robin's words echo in her mind and she can't deny it any longer.
She is Roni now, and Regina Mills is but a distant memory. Nothing else.