November arrives with a snap of cold. Robin wakes to windows that are laced with frost and trimmed with the sharp points of icicles, gleaming in the early dawn sunlight. His toes wiggle and settle, little pinpricks of cold stabbing through each one as they stick to the cold kitchen tiles. He should have put on a pair of slippers, or some house socks at least, but he wanted to make sure he was here in time, he didn't want to miss seeing her. She's been avoiding him since their encounter on Sunday; two days coming and going without so much as a hello, no morning waves, no afternoon chats, and with Roland away at his mother's this week there have been no playdates between their children to use as an excuse for him to see her.

His hands wrap around a steaming cup of coffee, the bitter smell floating up to him in a cloud of delicious, hazelnut flavoured vapor. The ceramic of the 'I Love Daddy' mug is almost too hot to touch, burning into his palms and turning his fingers red with the stinging heat. Bringing the mug to his lips, the blows softly on the tar colored liquid before taking a tentative, scalding sip that leaves his tongue feeling fuzzy and singed, a soft swear passing over his lips in response.

He sets the mug onto the counter with a dull thunk, before flicking on the tap to guzzle a palmful of freezing water, hoping it will sooth his scorched tongue. This is what he gets for rushing like an idiot, just so he can catch a glimpse of the elusive Regina Mills. He's a sodding fool.

He runs a hand through his bed rumpled hair, fingers combing and flattening wayward strands that stick up in every direction, until it's tamed into something more presentable before reaching for the offending mug once again. He shuffles from foot to foot, trying to find his previous spot on the tiles, numb feet seeking a bit of pre-warmed limestone before finally stopping as he sees a flash of light from across the road-sunrise glaring off the glass of her front door like a beacon calling him to attention.

He watches as she shuffles out the door, wrapped in a puffy black coat that reaches her knees, a red scarf wrapped loosely around her neck with a matching fleece hat pulled down to cover her ears. Her hair is sticking out at the bottom in little curls that whip around her face in the wind. She looks adorable, like an insulated doll-no-she'd hate being called that, but he thinks it just the same, chuckling into his coffee as he takes another quick sip, grimacing at the still blisteringly hot liquid.

The door swings shut behind her, and he watches as she seems to sway a bit, fishing for her keys, and that's when he sees; it seems like he's not the only one having a slightly off morning. She rotates to the side, keys dangling from her fingers as she tries to keep her bag balanced in the crook of her elbow, the fingers of her other hand wrapped firmly around the handle of her cane. So, it's a bad morning after all.

On mornings like this, she rarely waves, instead she tucks into herself, head turned down against the wind as she forges to her car like a soldier trudging into battle; today is no different.

She flinches as she hobbles down the curve of the sidewalk, leaning heavily on her cane. Each step is cautious and slow, delicate feet stepping solidly to avoid slipping on the ice slicked pavement. He really should go over and salt her drive for her. Would she see that as invasive or presumptive?

He's mulling over the potential consequences of playing 'good Samaritan' while she's at work when he sees the end of her cane catch a patch of black ice next to the front wheel of her car. Everything seems to move in slow motion as he sets his coffee on the counter, running quickly to his own front door, flinging it open and running full pelt across his front lawn, oblivious to the cold stinging his bare feet. All he sees is the end of her cane tipping up, the twist of her ankle as her feet come out from under her and she tumbles slowly to the ground.

...

Pain.

Everything is a fog of ache and muted white. Her ears feel like they're filled with cotton, muffling the sound of everything but the harsh, stuttering whoosh of her breath.

"Ow" she groans into the air, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain as she mentally assesses her injuries: cut palms, bruised bottom, and a potentially sprained ankle. Perfect. It's early, so the likelihood of someone finding her to help is slim to none; she's going to have to find a way to get herself back inside or into her car on her own.

"Regina!"

Her eyes spring open at the sound of his voice, before closing again in mortification, a whimpering moan sliding past her lips. Why did it have to be him?

She forces herself into a sitting position, determined to look as graceful as she can sprawled on her driveway with a bruised ass in the cloud coated dawn.

"Regina, are you alright?" he pants, squatting down beside her, warm fingers gripping her shoulder as he looks her over quickly, eyes flicking over her twisted legs, the folded dip of her middle, and the stinging redness of her hands, before coming back to her face.

"I'm fine. Just thought I'd become better acquainted with the ice around my car." she grits, trying desperately to lighten the situation, and sighing in relief when he cracks a smile.

"Can you stand?" He asks, his grip sliding from her shoulder to brace the back of her elbow, arm poised and ready to take the brunt of her weight as she struggles to her feet.

"Let's find out, shall we?" She sasses, as she reaches blindly for her cane, the slick metal having slid away from her in the fall.

"It's okay. I've got you. I can get it for you after I've checked you over."

And that's when she sees; she'd been so wrapped up in feeling sorry for herself, for falling flat on her backside in front of him, that she hadn't noticed he's barefoot, in the ice, wearing nothing but a thin t-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting pajama pants.

"Are you insane?! You don't have any shoes on! It's freezing out here, Robin!"

"I was worried! I saw you starting to fall and I wanted to make sure you were alright. Now can we stop arguing about this and get inside so I can check on that ankle you think I can't see you're guarding, and we can both warm up?"

She rolls her eyes at him, mumbling an 'insufferable man' under her breath before gripping the hand he stretches out in offering. She's just about upright, when her weight shifts onto her bad ankle, pain searing up through her leg that threatens to topple them both back to the icy pavement.

She bites down on her lip, clamping the soft flesh between her teeth to muffle the cry threatening to bubble forth, but Robin notices immediately. He adjusts his stance before she can draw breath to protest, the hand gripping hers pulling firmly until he can drape it along the back of his neck as he bends slightly at the knees and scoops her up into his arms.

"Robin, you don't have to-"

"Yes. I do." he cuts her off, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I'll come back for your bag after I get you inside," he states shifting his arms slightly so one is tucked firmly in the bend of her knees, being sure to keep her ankle elevated, and the other is wrapped firmly around her back, before carrying her across the street towards his front door.

She sinks into his hold, her cheek resting against the coolness of his chest, the frigid air having seeped through his shirt to the skin below. He smells of pine and sleep, soft and worn around the edges as if he'd just crawled out of bed before running to her rescue. It's comforting and intoxicating, and she has to resist the urge to tuck her nose into the bend of his neck and simply breathe him in. She's embarrassed herself enough already, no point in making it worse by acting like a character out of a bad romance novel.

She's so wrapped up in the mentally chastising herself that it takes her a minute to notice that they're headed across the cold expanse of asphalt that separates their front yards, instead of the 20 feet to her front door.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Inside. I thought we'd established that," he answers as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"My door is that way," she clarifies, pointing with the hand that's not currently wrapped around the back of his neck.

"We aren't going to your house, we're going to mine. No shoes, remember?" He grins, entirely too pleased with himself for a man who is probably on the verge of heroism induced hypothermia.

"You could have borrowed something from me." She offers weakly-it's a grasping argument and they both know it.

"No offense milady, but four inch stilettos aren't my style," he quips with a grin. "Besides, my medical kit is at my house, and I'd like to take a proper look at that ankle, after we get you warmed up."

She can't really argue with him on that one, so she compromises with a roll of her eyes and a soft sigh as they cross the last few feet of his lawn. Luckily, he left his door wide open in his haste to develop frostbite, so they make it into the house without an issue. He carries her through the entryway and kitchen towards the living room, but instead of depositing her on the couch as she expects, he turns down the hallway and carries her into his study.

"I thought this would be a better option," he grunts as he sets her gently onto the soft, pebbled leather of the sofa. "This room heats up a bit faster than the others," he explains, reaching for a small black remote on the side table. He clicks two buttons and the electric fireplace on the far wall roars to life, the heat immediately surging through the room and breaking through some of the chill that's settled into her bones from her snow-damp clothes.

She's never been in this room before; it's cozy: dark wood bookcases lining the walls stacked with old leather bound books and trinkets, a plush rug that stretches across the oak slat flooring and two stately hunter green wing-back chairs resting beside the fire. It's masculine, but comfortable, the perfect balance of rustic and intellectual; it suits him.

A dull thunk startles her out of her reverie and she looks down to see a folded pair of sweatpants and a royal blue sweater on the cushion beside her.

"I thought I'd bring you something so you can change out of those wet clothes while I go grab your bag and cane. I'll check your ankle when I get back." He explains, already halfway through the door.

"Put some shoes on!" she calls as he leaves the room.

"Yes dear," he calls back, already halfway down the hallway.

As soon as she hears the door click closed she peels off the cold clothes clinging to her skin and slips into his. It feels oddly intimate, draped across his couch, a pair of his sweat pants hanging loosely from her hips and wrapped in a soft sweater that still smells faintly of the peppery wintergreen of his cologne. The phantom feeling of his arms around her, surrounded by the fading smell of his skin has tension curling up her spine, the sudden desire to run churning through her veins. And yet, when he walks back in the room, dimples flashing, hair still mussed from sleep, all she can do is sink into the couch cushions boneless. She's been running away her whole life, maybe Robin is something she can finally run to.

As Robin walks back into the room he stops for a moment, soaking in the image of Regina dressed in his clothes, hair ruffled and adorable, skin pink and glowing in the light from the fire. He knows, he knows it shouldn't, but it does something to him, seeing her this way curled up in front of the fire in his shirt and sweats. She's made it perfectly clear that she's not ready, so he's not going to push, but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy the view for just a few more seconds.

"Did the cold freeze your eyes too, or have you just lost the ability to blink?" She sasses from the couch, one eyebrow arched and waiting for a reply.

"Sorry, I got a bit distracted," he says, moving around the sofa and kneeling on the rug so he can check her ankle and she just chuckles in response.

He's still freezing, the few minutes he's been inside having done little to thaw out the icy chill that's settled into his skin, but he wants to make sure she's okay before he goes upstairs and changes into something warmer. She flinches slightly when his fingers touch her skin, so he pulls back, rubs them together and blows on them until they're slightly warmer and won't cause her so much discomfort as he checks her ankle and decides that, yes, it's a mild sprain, but he can wrap it for her so she won't have to worry about sitting in the ER for hours and waiting to be told the same thing by another doctor.

"What's the verdict doc?" Regina asks eyeing the compression bandage he pulls out of his kit and sets it on the couch cushion next to her.

"I think it's a Grade 1 sprain. I'm going to ice it now to see if the swelling goes down a bit and then wrap it for you. If you still can't walk on it tomorrow without severe pain you should go to the ER to get an x-ray just to make sure you don't have a mild fracture. Otherwise, with rest, regular icing, and compression, it should heal in about 5-14 days." He pulls the ottoman from in front of the wing-back chair and slides it across the floor until he can prop her foot up on it. "Keep it elevated. I'm going to go change out of these clothes and then I'll be right back with some ice for your ankle. Do you need to use the phone to call out of work?"

"No, thanks. I'll just use my cell to let them know I'll be working from home today. Go and get out of those wet clothes, I'm not going anywhere," she says, gesturing to her injured ankle.

"There's a blanket on the back of the couch if you get cold." He pads out of the room, the soft tone of her voice on the phone floating down the hallway; it's not enough for him to discern what she's saying, but there's something nice about having her here, having another voice in his house that seems to be too quiet and empty on the weeks Roland is away.

When he comes back downstairs—dressed in a warm pair of charcoal grey sweats and an ocean blue henley and his plaid slippers—she's wrapped up in the blanket, her foot still propped up on the ottoman. He places a bag of ice wrapped in a towel that he grabbed in the kitchen on the way down and places it on her ankle, cringing an apology when she hisses slightly in response.

"S'okay," she mumbles in reply. "Are you still cold?"

"A bit, but I'll warm up in a second." He shrugs, settling onto the other side of the sofa.

She doesn't say anything in response, she just lifts the end of the blanket in a silent offering. He doesn't hesitate; he slides over to her side of the couch and under the blanket, snuggling into the little cocoon of body heat she's created from the few minutes spent wrapped up in the chenille softness. He smiles when she releases a little sigh and shifts her weight until she's leaning against him, cuddling into his side seeking contact in a way she usually shies away from.

They don't say anything, they just stare into the flames of the electric fireplace while the ice slowly melts around her ankle. After a few minutes his arm starts to go numb from where she's leaning on it so he wriggles it free and drapes it along the back of the couch, his fingers barely brushing her shoulder. He's holding his breath waiting for her to pull away, but instead she shuffles closer, tucking herself into his side, so he takes a chance and pulls her hair to the side, fingers lingering in the silky softness before leaning down to press a kiss to the tender skin behind her ear. She shivers at the touch, goosebumps raising along her arms as he trails his fingers up and down in smooth, sweeping passes.

And for a few moments that's enough. It's enough to wrap up in each other, to sink into each other's space, to pretend they're two normal people for a few minutes instead of what they are, neighbors who wave and watch, who arrange playdates for their sons, who dance around the idea of what they are or could be because of the hanging weight of everything they can't quite bring themselves to say floating between them.