Prompt: It's cold and OQ share a blanket


"Madame Mayor."

She looks up to see him, Mr. Sexy-as-hell silver fox, grinning down at her while holding two cups of what looks to be concession stand hot chocolate. They'd exchanged texts during the week, texts that have made her feel lighter than she has in years, texts she's kept to herself, hidden away like a secret treasure she's afraid might disappear into thin air.

"Mr. Locksley," she returns, sliding over a bit even though there's plenty of room for him to sit beside her on the bleacher. He takes her up on her offer and sits down, warming her left side instantly as he extends the steaming cup towards her. She smiles as she reaches out from underneath her stadium blanket, allowing her fingers to brush against his as she takes the cup from his hand.

"You looked cold," he muses as the football team wraps up their warm-ups on the field.

"I'm always cold," she says with a shrug. "Henry sometimes accuses me of having no heart-says that's the only way my circulation could be this bad."

Robin chuckles, unleashing those dimples she'd like to nibble like popcorn.

"I'm sure your heart is of top-notch quality," he states. "After all, you did invite this pathetic, besotted single dad over to your place for dinner tomorrow night."

Besotted? With her? Her insides tickle at his pronouncement. God, when was the last time anyone had even been remotely interested, much less besotted?

"My motives are purely selfish," she states, wishing he'd put his arm around her, silently chiding herself for being this desperate for a man's touch. "I figure if you're around, I won't have to do the dishes afterwards."

"So I'm manual labor," he states with a nod. "I guess I can accept that if I'm getting a free home cooked meal."

"One that will knock your socks off," she boasts, quirking her brow in his direction.

"Feel free to knock other parts of my clothing off, as well," he retorts, making her grin like a cat inspecting fresh cream. The thought of him in his skivvies leaves her mouth too dry for comfort.

"Maybe I'll make you clean the kitchen in the nude," she murmurs, careful not to let the people sitting nearby overhear. "Dinner and a show."

His face turns bright red, making him all the more appealing.

"Remind me to work on my exotic dancing skills before I come over," he says, sliding just a bit closer than he'd been before. "It's been a while since anyone's been interested in seeing me in my birthday suit."

She inhales chilled air, allowing it to cool cheeks that are now over-heated.

"If you're good, I might just tip you," she hums, pressing her lips together to keep from grinning as he crosses his legs. She loves seeing just how worked up he gets over her, how the smallest gesture or teasing remark can give the poor man a nearly instant hard-on. "After all, I did just recently have a birthday."

"Birthday suit for the birthday girl, is it?" he grins. "With an incentive like that, I might just strip and dance for you here. Although my kids would most assuredly disown me for the rest of their lives if I pulled a stunt like that."

She chuckles, enjoying the tingling in her nether regions she's been lacking for longer than she cares to remember.

"I'd have to have you arrested, you know," she says, drawing the cup of cocoa towards her lips. "For indecent exposure."

"You won't know whether my exposure is indecent or not until you inspect me for yourself," he hums, making her warm in all the wrong places. "And if there are going to be handcuffs involved..."

She swallows hard, feeling drops of sweat actually form beneath her breasts.

"Down, boy," she breathes, earning herself a flash of dimples and a few inches of extra space. The first she welcomes. The second, not so much.

Archie, the school's guidance counsellor, waves as he walks past them, and she grimaces, fully aware that people have been talking about the fact that she sat with the new guy at last week's game. Mary Margaret in particular has been driving her bonkers all week with questions and words of encouragement, and the fact that she and Robin are sitting together again will only add fuel to her younger cousin's fire.

Shit. Mary Margaret has spotted them and is grinning like the proverbial Cheshire Cat.

Regina ignores the inevitable text that buzzes in her pocket.

"Sorry if the quality's a bit shoddy," Robin states, pulling her out of her reverie and indicating their cups. "Not sure exactly how good the band booster hot chocolate is."

She dares as sip, nearly scalding her tongue in the process.

"It's hot," she says, setting the cup on the empty space to her right, hoping the bleacher will cool it off enough to actually drink.

He takes a cautious sip for himself, wincing as he puts his cup down as well.

"I think I may have singed off a few taste buds," he muses, settling in more comfortably beside her. God, he smells good-Polo, she thinks, and she leans in a bit closer to get another whiff, her insides melting at his understated masculinity. She wants him closer-as close as she can get him in public, so she unwraps herself from her blanket and extends one end in his direction, Mary Margaret and the rest of Storybrooke's busybodies be damned.

"Would you care to share?" she questions, feeling like a teenager as her pulse trips over itself. He stares right at her, giving her a soft smile that slides all over her like warm butter.

"I'd love to share," he says, scooting over until their hips are touching.

"You're not remotely cold," she observes as a warm hand slides around her back to pull her even closer.

"You can just say I'm hot," he quips. "I promise I won't mind."

She shakes her head and grins as the band begins to tune, ignoring Mary Margaret's enthusiastic thumbs up aimed right at them.

"Where's Abby?" she asks, scanning the area near the cheerleaders where Robin's ten year old daughter had hung out last week.

"With her friends Ella and Ripley," he replies, pointing towards the far left corner of the bleachers. "They're eating nachos and discussing boys, I imagine."

Abby's hair is in a high ponytail, a blue and white bow expertly clipped into her brown hair.

"Do you do her hair, or does she?" Regina asks.

"It depends on the day," he shrugs. "I've become quite adept at braids and ponytails over the past four years, but she's now at an age where she wants to do more things for herself." He pauses, looking towards his daughter with unmistakable adoration. "I'm not sure whether I should be thrilled or despondent."

She glances towards the band, spotting Henry laughing with Violet, a sight she's not certain how to take.

"It's hard," she states. "Letting them grow up."

"That it is," Robin agrees. Abby stands up and waves at Roland, bringing a smile to Robin's face as her big brother waves back. "We almost didn't have her, you know," Robin continues, his tone low and private. "She's a bit of a miracle."

"Rough pregnancy?" she asks. He sighs, his breath visible in the cool, autumn air.

"Rough time getting pregnant," he says, looking back at her. "We had fertility issues after Roland's birth. He was a preemie-healthy, thank God, but his delivery was really hard on Marian. So for many years we were a happy family of three."

He pauses, his gaze fixed on his ten-year-old daughter.

"But things changed?" Regina asks, smarting at the familiar pang of infertility.

"Right after Marian's thirty-eighth birthday," he returns. "She decided that she wanted another child, and that if we were going to have one, we'd better not wait much longer." He pauses, rubbing his thumb along the side of her arm. "After a lot of research and discussion, we opted to try ivf. It took three tries, and we nearly gave up, but we finally got pregnant with Abby." He clears his throat, the weight of his emotions enticing her even closer. "She was worth it, you know. Every failed attempt, every agonizing discussion, every judgmental jackass's comments on how we should just be happy with the child we already had…"

She reaches over to him from under the blanket and squeezes his thigh.

"She's beautiful," Regina says, earning herself a gentle squeeze in return.

"I think so," Robin agrees. "Not that I'm biased or anything." He looks at her quizzically, breathing in as if he's trying to work up the courage to ask her something. "You said last week that you adopted your son."

Just then the announcer states that it's time for the National Anthem, so they stand, the blanket falling to the bleachers as the band begins to play. They applaud when it's over, wrapping back up in their blue and white cocoon as they take their seat and the players take the field for the coin toss.

"I know what it's like to want a baby and not be able to conceive one," she begins, sparing him the embarrassment of having to ask. "After reviewing all of my options as a single woman, I decided to adopt."

He nods, reaching for her hand under the privacy of the blanket. She lets him take it within his.

"Great choice," he states, gazing over to the band who is now playing the school fight song. "Henry seems to be a fine young man."

"He is," she says, watching her son lean back as he proudly plays his trumpet. "He's the best thing that ever happened to me."

"Did it take a long time?" Robin asks. "Adopting him, I mean."

"Nearly three years," she replies, welcoming the warmth creeping up her spine as his thumb caresses her knuckles. "But like you said, he was worth it. Every dashed hope, every referral gone wrong, every snide remark from my mother asking why I just didn't get married already and have a baby the way God intended..."

He flips a curious brow her way.

"She didn't know you were infertile?"

Regina laughs through her nose.

"I never told her," she answers. "It would have just been one more disappointment on a list of many, so I decided, why bother?"

"As if infertility is something to be ashamed of," he scoffs, shaking his head. "As if it makes someone less of a person."

"I know," she breathes, loving the feel of just enough muscle beneath his jacket as he sits up a bit straighter. "Trust me." He smiles and squeezes her hand, and they sit in a comfortable silence as she leans into him, breathing in the mixed scents of fall, football and Polo, closing her eyes just a moment to take it all in.

"I can't regret it, you know," she says. "My infertility. Because without that diagnosis, I might never have adopted Henry, and Henry's…"

She pauses as her son stands and plays "Charge" on his trumpet.

"He's everything, isn't he?" he breathes, looking from Henry back to her, those blue eyes of his a bit misty, prompting a piece of her heart to melt into him. "My children are to me, as well, you know."

"Yes," she answers, linking her fingers within his. "I can tell."

He nods and clears his throat.

"As much as I love them, is it wrong that I now find myself wanting more?" he asks, his tone fractured. "More than just being a dad, I mean? That I'd like to possibly find a companion to enjoy my children with, someone who'll actually laugh at my corny jokes and might possibly want to see me in my birthday suit from time to time, despite the mileage its seen?"

She squeezes his hand and takes a deep breath.

"I hope not," she confesses. "Because I find myself craving the same thing, for the first time in a long time."

A noisemaker sounds from behind them, and they wince together, laughing at their shared response as their team forces the fourth down and takes possession of the ball.

"I'm glad I met you, Regina Mills," he says, his thumb doing things to her palm that make her want to crawl into his lap and kiss him senseless. "And I'm really looking forward to dinner tomorrow night."

"So am I," she says, purposefully ignoring Mary Margaret as she tosses them an exaggerated wink from over her shoulder.