Day One
Prompt #162 — Regina talks to Robin for the first time.
There he was again—that mysterious man sitting at the far right corner of the diner, staring intently out of the window while sipping on his usual, steaming cup of coffee and indulging in a slice of pie.
He was always there whenever she was on Friday afternoons, wrapped up in whatever tranquil world he was in, keeping to himself in the bustling place. She'd seen him over a dozen times and had absolutely no idea who the handsome stranger was. She didn't know his name, age, what his occupation was in the small town of Storybrooke or how come they've never crossed paths outside of this place before, but she knew he liked his coffee with a splash of milk and two packets of sugar and that he'd never order the same pie two days in a row, and he was an artist of a sort. He always had a notepad and a pencil in hand, well, technically, one end of his pencil in his mouth, but who would notice that terrible, little habit? Not her. Definitely not her. Just like she definitely didn't notice or memorize every other little thing she might've accidentally paid a little too much attention to.
She certainly didn't notice how he would eat his pie in a certain way, starting from the narrow end and then, instead of digging right into the the best part that was the middle, he would follow up by eating the end, only then he would take his time to savor the center. Good thinking, saving the best for last.
She didn't notice how he would drum his fingers over the table whenever he seemed to be too deep in his thoughts, focused on whatever work of art he was sketching either. God, she really wanted to see what was on those papers, but no matter how close the table she chose was to his whenever the place wasn't packed, he was too far, and the one time she got bold enough to stand up and walk past him in hopes of getting a glimpse of anything at all, the page was blank. There was nothing.
She didn't notice that—oh god—he was staring right at her while she was ogling him.
He flashed her a smile, and she quickly looked away, brown eyes bulging as she hid her flushed face behind her hand. Oh no, no, no. That was so embarrassing.
She screwed her eyes shut and held her breath at the sound of footsteps nearing her table. To her surprise, or lack of a surprise, really, it wasn't him. It was Ruby, the waitress she got to befriend over the past few months, placing her order down in front of her with a sly smirk before walking away without saying a word.
That was fine, she wouldn't want the younger woman to hover around her with her witty remarks about getting caught that'll embarrass her furthermore anyways, but she didn't order that slice of apple piece she got. She would never.
She was a cake-over-pie type of girl, and while apples were one of her favorite fruits, she didn't enjoy them cooked. To be fair, she never gave them a chance. She tried her father's famous apple turnovers once as a three-year-old and decided then that she'd never put cooked apples in her mouth ever again.
She kept that promise she made to herself, until she saw the man smile at her again and nod in a way that told her that it was him. He ordered that slice of apple pie she got.
How the hell was she supposed to refuse it now?
How the hell would she be able to swallow a bite without choking and making a complete fool out of herself, though?
"Go."
She jumped at the wavering voice of a stranger coming from the table behind her and turned to find an old lady beaming at her. "I—I'm sorry?"
"He practically invited you over, dear," the old lady said, rolling her eyes as if it was the most obvious thing and she failed to comprehend it.
Well, technically, he got her something she neither asked for nor liked. But it'd be rude to point that out, wouldn't it? It was a kind gesture.
"I don't think that's the brightest idea, I mean, I—I don't know him and—"
"How do you expect to know him if you just sit here and stare?" the old lady asked.
Christ, did everyone notice her look at him except herself? The redness on her cheeks deepened, anymore and she'd look like a cherry tomato walking around.
"What's life if you don't take any chances?" The old lady hummed and, for a split second, her mind seemed to wander as she went quiet and stared straight ahead into nothing, but as quickly as she was caught up in the trance, she snapped out of it with an even bigger smile. How could someone be so…cheery, to a stranger no less? "What's the worst that could happen?"
"I…don't know."
Knowing her luck, anything, really.
He could be with someone—just because she'd seen him at the diner alone, it didn't mean he was single, or she might've misread the entire situation and he wasn't the one who sent that damned pie to begin with. It could be Leo Blanchard, who, coincidentally, was sitting behind the strange man. She wasn't one to judge, but she despised him. He was a creep. Old enough to be her father, if not, grandfather and one of his hobbies seemed to be flirting with her at every chance he got.
Had his remarks been innocent, she would've humored him, but he was crude and descriptive, and, God, just thinking about him sent shivers down her spine.
"The least you could do is thank him for the pie," the old lady suggested. "It's the nice thing to do."
It was.
It would be really rude of her not to do that, wouldn't it?
"Alright."
Her heart was pounding beneath her ribcage and her hands were clammy. One would think she'd never spoken to a guy before in her life. She has, a few times, too, so what the hell was so different about this one that made her feel so nervous about approaching him?
"Okay, you can do this," she muttered to herself, and with a deep breath and determination, she strode toward the strange man's table.
How hard could it possibly be to thank him for the pie he bought her?
Apparently, very. Because as soon as she stood by his table, she forgot every word she was ever taught, every letter of the alphabets.
Maybe she should leave while she still had some self-respect left. He didn't seem to notice her presence, so engrossed in the blank page in front of him to spare her a glance. So she turned to walk away, but the old woman's scowl stopped her in her tracks, motioning for her with her lithe, wrinkly fingers to go back to him.
She shouldn't. Who was that woman to make that decision for her anyways?
But she did.
She turned around and saw him staring right up at her.
His eyes were so blue.
How could anyone's eyes be that blue?
"I…I…"
"Hi," he greeted.
"Hi," she breathed out, and as soon as that word came out, there was no stopping the others that followed, spilling out of her without a pause. "I'm so sorry for disturbing you. I just wanted to say thank you for the pie you sent over. I'm not really a pie person, but it'll be extremely rude of me to just send it back, wouldn't it?" She chuckled nervously and continued, unaware of just how fast she was talking, almost sounding gibberish in the process. "Personally, I prefer cakes, vanilla cake with whipped cream and berries to be specific, but I mean, pies are good, too. I guess. I've only ever had sweet potato pie. I'm not a big fan of cooked fruits if I have to be honest. I've had a bad experience with an apple turnover once as a kid and—"
"I'm deaf."
Out of all the ways she imagined making a fool out of herself, being told by someone they were deaf in the middle of rambling to them wasn't one of them.
Oh, that was bad. That was awful. It was too embarrassing. If only the earth would split and swallow her, she'd give anything for that to happen in that moment.
"Oh, my god. I am so, so sorry." She waved her hands around before shaking her head. "I—I don't know any sign language." It was a statement she made to herself, a realization spoken out loud, but he chuckled then—why was he chuckling? Her brows furrowed and his answer came with a beam.
"I can read lips," he explained, "but you'll have to speak slower."
And she certainly wasn't. It was a terrible habit, something she did whenever she was too anxious. She would speak too fast, sometimes nothing would make sense, not even to her. Her sentences would come out all jumbled up.
"I'm Robin, by the way," he introduced, extending his hand for a shake, and she eyed it for a moment before accepting it with a firm grip, hoping to display confidence despite not being confident at all.
"I'm…Regina. Regina Mills."
"It's a pleasure meeting you, Regina Mills." He smiled, then waved a hand at the seat in front of him. "Would you like to join me?"
Yes! She'd love nothing more. But she shouldn't. She couldn't. She'd say something stupid and flush her dignity down the drain in a matter of minutes. So she shook her head even though she really, really wanted to sit down and have a chat, get to know this pie-loving man that she'd been seeing at the diner every Friday afternoon.
"No, I'm actually…" she trailed off, gesturing back at her table, just in time for Ruby to place her order down, giving her an actual excuse to leave.
"Oh." He pursed his lips and nodded. "Yes, of course. I'll see you around then."
"I'll…see you around," she parroted.
Why was she disappointed that he didn't insist for her to stay, to grab her food and share a table with him?
Fifteen minutes had gone by and she barely touched her food. It was a good thing she opted for the watermelon feta salad instead of the cheeseburger she'd been craving for a while. It would've gone cold and soggy—not that she wouldn't have eaten it anyways. She was taught better than to let food go to waste over something as silly as the fries not being as crispy or the burger not being as juicy. She would've ate it but she wouldn't have enjoyed it, and what was the point of having a cheat day if she couldn't enjoy her cheat meal? All the extra calories and dissatisfaction. It wasn't worth it.
So she paid the bill and asked for the salad and apple pie to-go, and out of the corner of her eyes, she caught a glimpse of Robin's empty table.
He left.
She hadn't even properly thanked him for the pie yet.
Well, what did she expect after the show she put on in front of him? The poor guy must've thought she was crazy and, quite frankly, she wouldn't blame him.
"There you go. I put the pie in another box, just like you asked," Ruby said, placing the takeaway bags on the table in front of her before walking away.
That wasn't all, though.
There was a paper—a sketch of her, signed at the very bottom by none other than—"Robin Locksley," Regina chuckled, shaking her head.
It was beautiful. Magnificent, really. How could someone capture one's emotions with nothing more than a sharpened pencil? It was a work of art, literally.
What really caught her attention, though, was what he drew her dressed in. A simple flannel shirt with a neck scarf, a pair of glasses balancing on the bridge of her nose and a black beanie. There was nothing significant about the outfit itself, only, it was something she quickly threw on before running some errands five months ago. On that same Friday afternoon she first saw him.
He drew that then?
He drew her then?
Out of instinct, she turned the paper. While she didn't expect to find anything on the other side, she was surprised to find a note he left for her.
It's good to finally put a name to the face.
I hope to see you again, Regina. Maybe this time you'll join me for a drink?
Lots of love, Robin.