Regina sits on the edge of the bed, staring down at her plate. She rubs her fingers along the edge, trying to collect her thoughts–trying to form a question or even a reply to what Robin had told her–but she's still reeling, and for the life of her, she can't seem to process any of it–most of all she couldn't process why.

Robin had picked one hell of a time to confess his own secret–and while it wasn't anything worse than what she'd done, she was having trouble swallowing it.

She'd meant it when she said it didn't change the way she felt about him. He'd been nothing but kind to her in the months that they'd been married–and she hadn't even realized the depths of that kindness. He'd been patient with her and never made assumptions, he treated her son as his own and he went out of his way to make her laugh and smile when all she wanted to do was hide away from the world. And when he spoke of Marian, something flickered in his eyes that made it obvious to anyone how much he'd loved her.

He was a good husband and a good father–and most importantly, he was a good man.

And that's why it was so difficult for her to understand.

Of course, she knew better than most that there were different rules for men and women.

Tons of men cheated on their wives–it was practically expected between some.

She easily recalled the men who came into the tavern–men wearing wedding rings and men whose wives she'd seen around town, usually with a gaggle of children surrounding her–and no one batted an eye when they slapped the bottom of a barmaid or handed one a couple of coins accompanied by a nod toward the stairs. There'd always been a deeper degree of shame when it came to those men, and she liked that the rooms were dark, hiding their rings and faces, and allowing her to pretend that what she was doing wasn't as wrong as it was.

But Robin wasn't tons of men and he certainly wasn't one of those men. It seemed so uncharacteristic for him to do something like that–to cheat on his beloved wife–and though she was sure that he had his reasons, for her to even question it seemed unfair when he'd been so accepting of her indiscretions.

"We don't have to talk about it now," he murmurs softly. "And maybe now wasn't the time to tell you, but–"

"Why?"

"I just wanted you to see that you're not the only one who's done regrettable things." He pauses for a moment and she knows he's waiting for a reply, but she can't seem to muster anything more than why. "While you may feel like what you did is–"

"No," she cuts in, shaking her head at the misunderstanding. "I don't mean why did you tell me, I mean–" She stops and looks to him. "Why did you do it? It… just… doesn't seem like you. She was… your wife. You loved her. I know that you loved her."

"She was pregnant," he adds, scoffing as he shakes his head. "She was sick, too. Did I mention that? That all makes it worse, I think."

She swallows hard and shakes her head as her eyes fall to the plate on her lap. "No, I didn't know," she replies, her voice meek as she chides herself for thinking of how terrible that is–how terrible that would be. "You… mentioned that she was sick, another time, but…"

"It was almost Christmas," he begins as her voice trails off. "She was… in her last month of pregnancy, and we knew that the end was near for her. Her doctor said as much and were mostly focused on keeping her comfortable until the birth, hoping that the baby made it through." At that, she looks up, and he offers her a sad little half smile as their eyes meet–and she feels a flicker of empathy. Living through that must have been hard–just sitting by and watching someone die, hoping that only one life was lost instead of two. "I was useless, mostly," he admits. "But I liked sitting with her, talking to her and pretending that… that what was happening wasn't really happening, that somehow Marian would defy the odds…"

"I… can't imagine," she murmurs in reply. "That must've been difficult for both of you."

He nods. "It was, most of the time. I wasn't very good at the forgetting part. She was, but… not me." He pauses for a moment, drawing in a breath and slowly releasing it. She can imagine that this is a difficult topic for several different reasons, and she can see that he's trying to choose his words carefully–or perhaps being selective of the details he wants to share. "Not a lot of people know this," he says after a moment. "But when Marian and I married it… it wasn't exactly as it seemed."

"What you do mean?"

"She and I, we… we loved each other, but I'm not sure that we were in love, not when we married, at least. That came a bit later on, after the marriage."

"I thought you'd told me you married her for love," she murmurs, sounding stunned. "On our wedding night, you told me you'd met and fell in love with her, married and had a baby." A little smile tugs up at the corner of her mouth. "I remember because… I found it so endearing."

"That's all true, it's just… the order of things is a bit jumbled."

She nods, managing a weak smile as she recalls him jumbling the order of how she and Daniel had done things.

"It just… happened a bit too fast to have fallen in love first. We got there, though… eventually." He smiles wistfully, clearly remembering something sweet, and then it fades away. "Time never was on our side, though."

She nods, understanding, but not quite knowing what to say.

A silence falls between them as her head spins with newfound and uncomfortable information, and before she can formulate a question or a response or something that's of comfort, Robin draws in an audibly shaky breath and shrugs. "She, uh… she was my best friend and she was sick. I realized that only a couple of days after we met, but it took me awhile to realize just how sick she was."

"When you and your drunk friends tried to steal her father's horses, right?" she asks, remembering a hazy story. "That's when you met her?"

She notices a smile trying to tug up from the corner of his mouth–but it doesn't quite make it and still he doesn't look back at her. "I went over to apologize the next day and she wasn't well. I came back the day after that, and again, she wasn't well. Then, on the third day, I decided not to knock on the front door because I was fairly certain that I'd be turned away once more."

"You broke in, didn't you?"

A soft, faint chuckle escapes him as he nods. "I did, and I found her room and… she told me off, yet again." He pauses, finally looking back at her. "The next day, I brought her soup and was allowed entrance, and by the end of the week, she'd invited me for tea and a few games of cards and… that was that."

"It sounds as though you were smitten with one another."

"I liked her quite a bit, I won't deny that," he admits. "She was… such a spit-fire, and it was easy to pretend that she was well. But every now and then, she couldn't pretend."

Biting down on her lip, she looks away from him. There are so many questions she wants to ask–most of them about Marian and what illness she suffered–but she doesn't want to distract him from the story that he wants to tell or have it veer in a direction that's uncomfortable or lead him to memories he's not willing to share. So, she says nothing; instead, she nods along and waits for him to continue.

"Marian was the youngest daughter in her family–the youngest of six girls–and her sisters were all quite a bit older, with families of their own, and her parents were aging–"

"You married her to take care of her," she murmurs, the realization settling upon her as she looks back to him, feeling a tingle of empathy as she considered a common theme in both of his marriages. "That's… sweet."

"I did," he nods. "And I was quite happy with my choice. It wasn't a loveless marriage, by any means." A little grin tugs up on his lips. "She was funny," he tells her. "She had a sense of humor that I loved. She told these incredible stories that she'd make up out of thin air and–" A chuckle bubbles out of him. "That's typically how we spent our time at parties–laughing and making up stories about the guests and… and she was just so easy to be with. Easy going and just… present in whatever moment we were in." His grin brightens and she can nearly see the memories flickering behind his eyes. "Nothing was a big deal to her," he says. "She could be happy anywhere, with anyone and–"

"It sounds like Roland's got a bit of her in him."

Robin nods. "He reminds me a lot of her."

"That's a good thing," she tells him, thinking of her own son with his father's hazel eyes and soft demeanor. "Even if it hurts sometimes."

"On most days, it is," he agrees, drawing in a breath. "She loved being outdoors–and her doctor thought that was good for her."

"Fresh air–"

"Mm," he saying, nodding. "So, when she was up to it, we'd go riding and get lost in the woods, and when she got tired, we'd sit by the water or in the shade somewhere and talk, then when she was ready we'd move on or come back home." He grins. "We spent a lot of time sipping tea by the fire and reading books together and–"

"It sounds like you were in love with her."

"Like I said, she was my best friend… and I was well on my way to being in love."

"So, what… um… what happened?"

"She got pregnant."

"Ah–"

"We shouldn't have–"

"Robin, she was your wife, and regardless of what you say, you–"

"Knew she couldn't handle a pregnancy," he cuts in. "Her doctor told us as much when we married. He warned us. We knew that her body was too weak for it."

"Ah–"

"But I could never say no to Marian," he admits, a soft, sad little laugh bubbling out of him. "For the longest time, we'd done nothing more than trade a few kisses here and there, and then one night, she… wanted to."

"And so you did."

He nods. "It only happened a handful of times, and looking back, I think she knew that she was getting worse. She didn't tell me that, but I think she was."

"Before… I mean, before you two were…"

"Before we were ever intimate," he tells her, looking back at her and nodding softly. "When we learned that she was pregnant, she was so happy, too," he says. "She was resigned to what it meant for her. I wasn't, but she was. And, she'd say things, like that her pregnancy happened at just the right time, and that she was glad that when she was gone, a little piece of her would remain, like she could live on through her child."

Regina lets out a shaky breath as Robin's eyes press closed momentarily.

"She said our child was her gift to me, a thank you for loving her and taking care of her and–"

"She loved you. She didn't want you to be alone."

"No, she didn't want that," he sighs, his eyes pressing closed again as he grimaces. "She made that perfectly clear."

"I'm sorry, Robin," she murmurs, setting the plate aside and gently pressing her hand to his arm as she considers how different losing their significant others was–the same loss, just under such different circumstances. For her, it was so sudden and so unexpected–and for the longest time, she hated that she never got the chance to say goodbye. But as she listens to Robin now, talking about what it was like to watch Marian wither away, she can't help but feel that she was lucky. "That must've been terrible to live through."

"It was," he agrees–and she finds herself wondering if this is what he bargained for when he admitted his own indigressions to her. "So," he says, beginning again, "to answer your question–"

"Robin, you don't have to–"

"I want to."

"Alright," she murmurs, swallowing hard and feeling a pang of guilt over asking in the first place. "If you want to."

"I didn't handle Marian's pregnancy well. She might've thought it a fair trade, but I certainly didn't, and the more she reminded me that I knew what I'd signed up for when I married her, the more bitter I got about it."

"That's understandable."

"Perhaps," he replies, shrugging his shoulders. "Early on, she was put on bedrest and the farther along she got, the worse she got–and the more she insisted that her child shouldn't grow up with a mother, that I shouldn't be alone–"

Regina feels her breath catch, her eyes widening a little.

"She kept trying to set me up."

"Oh," she breathes out. "That must've been…"

"Terrible," he fills in as her voice fades. "It was absolutely terrible."

"I'm sure."

"The, um… the Blanchards have this party every year."

"Their annual masquerade ball," she adds, nodding. "My parents go every year. I went once or twice, before… well, before I fell into scandal."

"We were invited that year–me and Marian, my father–and I politely declined since Marian was in her last month of pregnancy and so sick."

"That's understable. Who could blame you for wanting to spend every last moment with her?"

"That's how I felt," he tells her, nodding. "But Marian felt differently about it."

"Oh–"

"She decided to fix me up with… a cousin or the cousin of a cousin, I don't remember, but I remember agreeing to it because…" He sighs as his voice trails off. "Because I'd have done anything for her, especially then."

For a moment, he doesn't add anything else, and she feels guilt stabbing at her core–guilt for having made an assumption about his character, especially when he'd never once made any assumptions over hers.

"So, um… you and the cousin… you two…"

"No," he tells her, shaking his head. "I escorted her to the masquerade, then as soon as dinner was through, I ditched her for a bottle of very expensive bourbon I'd snagged from Leo Blanchard's library and made my way upstairs to one of the rooms set up for guests who were staying over."

She swallows, as a memory of a similar-sounding story flickers and she remembers the drunken evening she and Robin spent at the Blanchards with a couple of stolen bottles of wine. "That seems to be your signature party move," she says dryly, remembering how easy it was for them to slip away.

His eyes narrow a bit and it's clear that he's not following, instead lost in another memory; and before she can explain, he continues. "I was fairly drunk when one of the maids came in to start the fire and warm up the room for an overnight guest."

"So, that's who–"

He nods. "She was startled, at first, to find me there and I offered her a swig of Leo Blanchard's bourbon, and we got to talking."

She nods, remembering that similar memory of the two of them hiding from the other partygoers, getting drunk and laughing together. He'd been so kind and so easy to talk to, and she'd forgotten how good it could feel to open up and share–and even more, she'd forgotten how good it could feel not to be met with judgement and scorn. That night, Robin had been such a gentleman. He'd held her hand and pulled out her chair, and when no one else would talk to her, he kept a lively conversation going so that she didn't feel so out of place and alone. By that point, she knew that she could trust him–at least to some degree–and she knew that they could be friends. She'd let her guard down and he hadn't taken advantage, despite her drunkenness–and now, looking back with the newfound information that the secret she thought she held hadn't been a secret at all, she realized how much of a gentleman he'd actually been.

"She had a boyfriend," Robin says, bringing her back into the present moment. "They'd broken up when he'd gone off to Canada in pursuit of some money-making scheme, and if it panned out, he'd send for her and they'd be reunited again, but…"

"She didn't know."

"No, and she was about as lost as I was."

"Another broken heart."

"Mm, I suppose," he murmurs. "We finished off the bottle and somewhere along the way, things got hazy."

"As they do when one finishes a bottle of potent bourbon."

"It was rather large," he admits. "And full to the brim."

Swallowing, she nods. "So, there you have it."

"I remember kissing her and I remember taking her to bed, and even though those memories are fuzzier than the rest, I do remember it." He pauses to draw in a breath, then slowly releases it as his eyes sink closed. "And then the next thing I knew, a scullery maid was coming in and gasping in horror at what she found."

"I can imagine."

Looking back at her, he nods, and this time, it's she who looks away. "And then… I had to figure out how I was supposed to go home and face Marian."

Another silence falls between them, and she considers what it'd be like to be in that position. Regardless of the terms of their marriage or why they'd married, Robin loved her–in one way or another–and such information about his indisgression would surely sting. Biting down on her lip, she looks back at Robin and considers herself in either position–and then she considers what it'd be like to have to look Daniel in the eye and tell him what she did with their son just down the hallway…

"Did… did she know?"

He sighs. "The cousin told her."

"Oh–" she breathes out. Somehow, she hadn't quite expected that.

"I didn't exactly work out what I was going to tell her about that night, but by the time I got home, it didn't matter what I planned to say or planned not to say because Marian already knew." Swallowing hard, he looks at her, and she can see pained tears glistening in his eyes, the thinly patched wound exposed and vulnerable. "And, obviously, she was hurt."

"I… I can imagine that she was. That's not an easy thing to hear."

"And then she was gone." Regina's brow furrows at the abrupt shift, and her lips part to ask; but before she can do so, Robin continues. "She went into labor that day. She wouldn't let me stay in the room. She didn't want to see me, much less talk to me, and–"

"To be fair, childbirth isn't exactly… something you want an audience for."

"She died not long after," he tells her. "Roland was born on Christmas Eve and Marian was gone by the new year."

"Oh," Regina murmurs quietly, her voice barely a whisper. "So soon."

"The night he was born, she caught a fever. It broke the next day, only to return a few days later." He pauses momentarily to collect himself and as he shakes his head, she can see tears glistening in his eyes. "And then, the last one took her. Her heart gave out."

"Oh, Robin–"

"I was at a dinner when it happened," he says, "I wanted to stay with her–the fever made her delirious, so I was allowed in, but–" He stops and his eyes press closed. "She died alone and of a broken heart. I'm convinced of it," he tells her.

"She was sick, Robin. You know that she–"

"So, when you consider your sins against mine," he cuts in, clearing his throat and blinking away his tears as he looks back at her. "You come out on top."

Regina feels her eyes widen, and for a moment, he hold her gaze. "I… I don't know about that."

"What happened after Marian is… hazy, at best, but the maid lost her position and I begged my father to buy her passage to Canada–and when I explained why, he wanted to avoid the scandal and did it."

"So, she–"

"Left a few days later and reunited with her love," he says as a tight smile pulls across his lips. "At least the story has one happy ending."

At that, she scoffs and a hint of a smirk tugs up at the corner of his mouth. "After Marian died and after what happened with the maid, I decided that it'd be best for me and for my son, if I just… faded into the background."

She nods, remembering that–remembering her mother making a joke of it at dinner, not long after she returned to Dragon Head. She'd called him a shut-in and other less kind things, poking fun at the Locksley heir and wondering if it meant that perhaps she might reclaim her fortune. Of course, that was before she knew how what remained had dwindled, before she knew she needed Robin's empathetic heart to save her and the life she'd become accustomed to living.

It hadn't sat well with her, but she'd said nothing; after all, it was in her best interest to keep her eyes down and her mouth closed, and to nod along with whatever her mother said–and now, she hated that she'd done that–that she'd let her mother say such cruel things about a good man who was clearly suffering.

"Robin that's… that's terrible."

"It wasn't a good time, I'll admit that," he says. "But I had a roof over my head and food to eat, and my son was well-cared for by a nurse."

"And by you."

"And me," he agrees. "I don't think I'd have had the will to survive had I actually had to try."

She blinks, suddenly realizing that the conversation has switched from his situation to her own, and her eyes cast down–but before she can turn away from him, he reaches out, touching his fingers to her chin and turning her head so that she's facing him.

It takes her a moment to gather the courage to look up at him, and when she does, she finds him gaze soft and warm, and he's looking at her in a way that almost makes her believe that everything will be alright.

"I love you, you know that, right?"

She nods–she does.

"And I don't have to tell you that what you're feeling right now will soon dull. It won't last. It's–"

"Robin, it's so embarrassing," she cuts in. "The gossip just started to die down, and now–"

"And now, if anyone has anything to say about it, I'd be more than happy to have a conversation."

"Some would say I got what I deserved for–"

"They're wrong," he cuts in, his voice full of confidence as if there could be no other option. "Regina, you–"

This time, it's Robin who gets cut off, and this time it's by a soft knock at the door. Reluctantly, Robin gets up from the bed and goes the door, opening just a crack and then allowing the door to open the rest of the way when he finds Mal standing on the other side of it.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," she says, looking between them, eventually settling on Regina. "But there are two little boys who are waiting to be tucked in, and no matter what I say, they won't go to sleep without a story and a kiss from their mama."

Regina lets out a breath, her stomach fluttering as she pushes her fingers up over her cheeks, riding them of the tear tracks that stained them. It occurs to her that she's not quite in the right frame of mind to see them, but before she can even think to say the words, she's standing and moving toward the door.

Robin takes her hand as she reaches him and Mal smiles softly, not saying anything as she leads the way.

As soon as they step into the nursery, Regina's demeanor changes.

Robin stands in the doorway as Regina climbs into bed with Henry, hugging him into her side and pressing a few quick kisses to his hair, making him giggle and squirm. Roland watches, almost longingly with wide eyes as he fidgets with his fingers in the bed next to Henry's–and when Regina turns to him, smilingly brightly as she asks him what he's doing all by himself in the other bed, Roland practically leaps to Henry's bed. He crawls into her lap and cuddles up against her. Her arm folds around him as she hugs him–squeezes him, actually–closer and kisses the top of his head as she smooths his messy curls away from his forehead.

"Did you have fun at the party?" Henry asks, looking up at her innocently with wide and wondering eyes–and for a moment, Robin holds his breath.

"I did," she says, lying easily and making him wonder how many times in the past she's lied to Henry about her circumstances, not letting him know just how unhappy she was to protect his perception of a happy life with her. "But you know what's even more fun?" Henry shakes his head as Roland's brow creases, a little what is? escaping him as Regina laughs. "Being here with you two."

She spends a while talking to them–asking them questions about their evening. She asks about what they had to eat and if they had their baths, asking if they washed behind their ears and between their toes–and Roland replies guiltily that he forgot to do his ears. Regina laughs at that but makes him promise to spend extra time on them the following night, and Roland very solemnly agrees to do so.

Regina spends nearly a half an hour just talking to them before finally reaching for the book on the nightstand, opening up to where they left off a few nights before and continuing the story–and all the while, he just stands there, watching and falling in love with her just a little bit more.

"Do you have a minute?"

He turns to see Mal standing in the doorway, and he nods, taking one last glimpse of Regina and the boys before following her into the hall. She looks around, then leads him into the bedroom next to the nursery–one that they could have gotten to had they just cut across the nursery.

"How is she?" she asks as soon as their door closes. "Has she calmed down?"

"A little, I think," he admits. "The boys help. I'm glad they wanted to see her."

"They're sweethearts," Mal says, smiling softly as she looks to the open nursery door at the back of her room. "And they adore her."

"As they should," he says, following her gaze to the open door and smiling at the sight of a patch of green skirt that hangs down from Henry's bed. "I'm so relieved at the way Roland's taken to her, that he has–"

"A mother."

"Yes," he says, looking back to her. "I think my late wife would have liked her–I think Marian would have approved of Regina helping me to raise our son."

Mal offers a soft smile and a half nod. "I'm sure that she would," she tells him, her voice curt and pointed. "Regina's always been a likable person–when she's given a chance."

"I rather like her," he says, a soft chuckle bubbling up from him. "Though, I wish more people could see what I do–what you do and not–"

"They're talking," Mal says, cutting in. "They're all talking downstairs. When I went to request the boys' breakfasts, I could hear them chattering like it's some sort of serialized drama that they can't wait to read the next installment of."

"I'm sure," he says, heat rising up the back of his neck as his jaw clenches.

"They won't do it in front of me–they've realized where my loyalties lie–but I thought you should know."

He sighs, wishing there was something he could do and wishing he had more power than he did. Once more the thought of relocating himself, Regina and the boys north to the Hunting Lodge seems all the more worthwhile–and once more he has to remind himself it's not as easy as packing them up and going.

"Thank you."

Mal offers a grunt as a reply.

"That's… good to know. Maybe I can find a way to distract her from it tomorrow or–"

"It'll need to be longer than just tomorrow," Mal tells him, her brow arching skeptically. "The first time it happened–the first time this story got out–it was away from here. It was a story from an often drunkard with a limited social reach–and her mother protected her from the brunt of it."

"Cora–"

"People are afraid her."

"That's easy enough to believe."

"And if Cora Mills said it wasn't so, then people were inclined to believe that–or at least pretend to."

"But tonight gave the rumor validity."

"Of course," he murmurs, his eyes sinking shut. "I assume that was the plan."

"The plan–"

"I'm not naive enough to believe what happened happened by chance–though I do think Jefferson went above and beyond what Zelena expected of him."

"He owed it to her, I'm sure."

Robin sighs, pressing his hand to his brow as his eyes press–and the memory of Regina's crumpling face flashes behind his eyes. "Damn it–"

"The upside is that she has support this time," Mal begins in a tentative voice, waiting for his eyes to open and for him to catch her gaze.

"Of course she does."

"Because if you–"

"I won't hurt her," he cuts in. "Not if I can help it."

"Good–"

"Since we last talked, I attempted to distract her from it."

Mal's brow arches. "How?"

"By, um… by letting her in on a little dirty secret of my own," he admits. "I just hope it didn't upset her too–"

"Why would it upset her?"

Robin blinks, and for a moment, he hesitates. "I, uh… cheated on my first wife once–"

"Why the hell would you tell her something like that?" Mal hisses, her voice harsh and full of accusation. "You don't think she has enough to worry about? You add–"

"I didn't tell her to upset her," he cuts in, his tone matching hers. "I did it to knock myself down off of the pedestal she keeps me on and–"

"She does have you on a pedestal," Mal sighs. "She thinks the world of you." In spite of himself, he feels a little grin tugging up onto his lips at the thought that Regina's said something to her to evoke such a statement. "Just… be careful with her, hm?" Mal asks, suddenly softening. "She's more fragile than she seems."

"I kn–"

"You don't," Mal says, cutting him off again as she looks pointedly at him. "You know what she lets you know. I've known her for as long as I can remember. I was at home visiting when she and Daniel ran away together, and a year or so after Henry was born, I went to visit them." Drawing in a breath, she looks away. "She wasn't in a good place. She was… tired all of the time and sad living in that tawdry little tavern my unscrupulous cousins owned. It was loud, so she wasn't getting enough sleep, and she wasn't eating as she should've been, anything she had she was giving to Henry. I saw them again, just before Daniel died and it was… like I was talking to someone I didn't know. Her spirit was broken. She was… a shell of the girl I knew before."

Robin shifts on his feet, remembering how Regina was when she first came to Sherwood–meek and quiet, always afraid. She kept her eyes down and did her best to avoid everyone, only paying attention to Henry and then eventually Roland. They'd married in the winter, just after the new year, and it'd taken til spring for her to warm up to him enough to even take a walk with him. Slowly, though, she'd come 'round and they'd started to become friends–and there'd been the first signs that maybe one day, they could be more.

"That life wasn't meant for her," Mal says quietly.

"She wanted–"

"She wanted a life with Daniel, raising their son and whatever children followed him." She smiles a bit wistfully. "The plan was that they'd run away on her eighteenth birthday, provided her mother didn't marry her off before then.. Daniel was saving though, and he'd probably have done something foolish, like interrupt her wedding or–"

Robin laughs at that, picturing his mother-in-law's indignation at a stable boy busting into the church to steal the bride. "That sounds like something I'd have done."

"Young men are always a bit foolish," Mal tells him, shaking her head, but smiling softly nonetheless. "But he didn't get the chance to act a fool."

"Because she got pregnant."

"Yes," Mal nods. "She did, and that threw off the plan… and they were off like bandits." She sighs. "They were so young though, and I don't think either of them really anticipated how hard their life would be."

"No, I don't imagine so."

"They always thought their life together would've been like my parents'–a quiet life on a tenant farm, raising whatever children they had." Her smile fades. "She wasn't happy. From the start, she wasn't happy."

"I know," he murmurs quietly, barely wanting to admit it and thinking it wasn't his place to do so.

It seemed unfair to make such a projection, and Regina had never fully admitted that. She always insisted that she and Daniel had moments of happiness together, and who was he to say that wasn't true? But it seemed so unlikely that she was happy; and every time he found another piece of the puzzle that made up a picture of her life she had after she left Dragon Head, it seemed unlikely that she could have found happiness in it.

"It had to have been quite a shock to her system."

"It was, and then after–" Mal's voice halts as she stakes her head. "I didn't condone what she was doing, but what other option did she have?" she asks as her eyes fall away from his. "I tried to help, but I didn't have a place to offer her. I was living in someone else's house on a very modest income." She sighs as she looks back to him. "She was stuck… and now it haunts her."

"It doesn't have to," he says, shaking his head. "She doesn't have to let it."

"Easier said than done," Mal says, shaking her head. "She cares too much what others think and… the last time, it broke her."

"I know."

"But as I said, she has support this time," she says, pointedly and somehow making it sound like a threat.

Robin nods, and a grin tugs up at the corner of his mouth, and for the second time that evening, he finds himself thinking that Mal's tone should be off-putting, but it's not. He appreciates her protective streak when it comes to Regina and that she offers no one–not even him–a pass. She was solidly in her corner, firmly on her side no matter what–and she needed that, she needed that beyond him.

"We should be getting back to the nursery."

Mal nods, and this time, she cracks a hint of a smile. "She'll read to them for hours if we let her, and they certainly won't stop her."

"Don't I know it," Robin says, shaking his head as a soft chuckle escapes him, thinking of the afternoons he found Regina curled up with the boys, a book fallen down beside them, asleep and napping in one of their beds, and the nights he found himself waiting for far longer than just "one last kiss goodnight" long after they'd tucked them into their beds.

"And they've got a busy day ahead of them," Mal says as they both turn toward the open door to the nursery. "But they should be quite tuckered out by late morning–"

"If you think that means they'll willingly take naps–"

"I'm not delusional," Mal laughs. "I'm hoping they fall asleep in the stables."

He grins. "That is the purpose of all those hay bales."

Regina doesn't look up as he and Mal come into the nursery–and he can't help the smile that spreads across his lips. Henry is already asleep, cuddled up to his dragon, and Regina is sitting on the edge of Roland's bed. His eyes heavy with sleep and he's struggling against it as Regina's fingers stroke gently through his hair. She's smiling down at him, whispering something to him in a soft voice–and whatever it is, a little giggle bubbles up from Roland. A moment later, Roland nods and Regina leans in, pressing a kiss to his cheek and slowly pulling away from him.

"G'night, mama," Roland murmurs, his eyes fluttering as he smiles–and then his eyes shift to Robin. "G'night."

Reigna turns to face him, for the first time realizing she isn't alone in the room with the boys.

"You disappeared."

He nods, looking momentarily back at Mal, his heart aching at the thought of her pain being the subject of gossip just down the stairs. "There was something she wanted to discuss."

"Oh?" He watches as Regina rises from them bed, giving Roland's hand one last squeeze as she does, and when their eyes meet, she's suddenly very aware of the subject they discussed. "Oh," she murmurs. "I… I managed to forget for a few minutes."

"You know," Robin begins, taking a breath as he steps closer. "That sounds like an excellent idea. Let's do that. Let's just… forget it."

"I'm not sure that's possible," Regina admits, her voice small. "I–"

"Things always look brighter in the morning."

"Not always–"

"Not if you don't let it."

Her brow arches as he reaches for her, grinning as he presses a soft kiss to her cheek, offering a quick wink before letting go of her and leaning down to kiss his son good night, wishing him happy dreams. He pulls himself back up and reaches for her hand, then crosses the small distances between the boys' beds, leaning in and nuzzling Henry as he tells him good night.

He can feel Regina watching–and from the corner of his eye, he can see Mal standing back in the doorway, grinning her approval. A little laugh escapes him as he stands, wishing Mal a good night before giving Regina's hand a little tug–and as he closes the nursery door, he sees Mal blowing out the lamps.

He blinks, watching for a moment as a hazy memory flickers–a memory he hasn't thought of since he was a child–but a comforting one, nonetheless. When he was small–younger than Roland–he feared the dark, always convinced that monsters loomed beneath his bed and in his wardrobe. It drove his nanny mad, but his mother was always more patient, leaving the lamp burning low until he fell asleep. She'd sit with him, too, reciting poetry–and that was the memory that flickered now.

"The sun descending in the west, the evening star does shine," he begins, almost able to hear his mother's voice accompanying his own. "The birds are silent in their nest, and I must seek for mine."

Regina's brow furrows softly as she looks to him, her head tipping as their eyes meet and a light chuckle bubbles up from his as he continues it.

"The moon like a flower in heaven's high bower, with silent delight sits and smiles on the night."

"That's… lovely," Regina says, her cheeks flushing slightly. "And somewhere my governess is rolling in a grave." She shakes her head. "I… I don't think I know that one."

"My mother used to read it to me when she'd put me to bed."

"Ah–"

"It's Blake or… one of those poets," he tells her. "There's a whole book of them somewhere around here, her cottage, most likely." He smiles softly. "That's where she liked to keep the things that inspired her."

"Did she read you that poem from the book?"

He shakes his head. "Recited it from memory."

"Of course–"

"It was comforting, though I was still convinced ghosts were going to slip in beneath the window sill and steal me away from her." He takes a breath, pushing away another memory–this time a much sadder one of that first night after his mother's death and how he'd cowered beneath the blankets reciting her favorite poems over and over to himself in an effort to comfort himself and convince himself that those very ghosts hadn't stolen his mother when they couldn't get to him. "But that one was a favorite for both of us."

Regina laughs a little, "That's sweet." Robin nods as her lip catches between her teeth. "But is… is there a reason you recited it to me, or were you just remembering?"

"Today was… difficult, to say the least."

"It was."

"But it's over now," he says, looking back into the darkened nursery, taking a moment to pull the door closed. "And the night has a way of… cleansing things."

"Cleansing things."

He nods. "What happened today is done and it'll soon give way to the things that tomorrow will bring."

"Except–"

"Tomorrow may… take a little longer than it takes for the sun to come again," he tells her. "It may be days or weeks, but eventually, what you're feeling will dull down, and the gossip will peter out once the next big scandal hits." Her eyes fall away from his, and he gives her hand a reassuring squeeze. "They'll move on–"

"But the damage is already done."

"Maybe, but anyone who can't empathize with your situation isn't someone you need in your life."

"But I–"

"It'll be hard, but you won't bare it alone."

"Won't I?"

"No," he's quick to say as her eyes shift back up to meet his. "You won't. If you don't want to see or hear from any of them ever again, you won't have to."

"That's… not very realistic. I can't just… hide away from them."

"I hope that you won't, but if you do want to hide away for a little while," he says, once more offering her hand a reassuring little squeeze. "You'll have company."

"You're too good to me."

"No," he says, shaking his head in disagreement. "I don't think that's accurate."

"I do."

"Then we'll have to agree to disagree," he tells her, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. "Today can't ruin tomorrow unless we choose to let it."

"Robin, that's a nice sentiment, but–"

"I won't let it," he cuts in. "Especially not when we have plans."

Her brow arches. "We don't have plans, and if we do you've just made them up."

"Does it matter?" he asks, grinning. "The point is, you won't have time to sulk and worry and wonder."

"Won't I?" she asks, "Won't I when I go down to breakfast and see–"

"Oh, we'll be long gone before breakfast."

"But the boys won't be up until–"

"Mal has them taken care of," he tells her. "They've got a busy day ahead of them and she's already requested their breakfast."

"Of course she has." She blinks, waiting for him to say more, but he doesn't–he just smiles and lets her wonder, enjoying that she has something else to think about as he works out the details of it in his head, wondering if they can really spend a day exploring together. "So, these plans…"

"You'll find out soon enough."

"But–"

"Wear sensible shoes."

Regina blinks. "What?"

"Maybe something you won't mind getting dirty." Regina's eyes narrow and he laughs, leaning in and pressing a kiss to her forehead, offering no more. "We should get to bed."

"But–"

"It's late."

"Robin, you can't–"

"Sorry to interrupt, m'lady," Belle says as she reaches the top of the stairs. "I was wondering if you're ready to change and–"

"Oh, Belle, you don't have to do that."

Belle's brow furrows. "But, it's my job."

"You… you don't have to wait on me."

"But, I'm a ladies' maid. That's what I'm hired to do."

Robin's eyes narrow as he looks to Regina, watching the way her cheeks flush and she avoids eye contact.

"Yes, but… when we hired you, you… you didn't know and…"

"Know what, m'lady?" Belle asks, and Robin blinks, his eyes shifting to the maid. "I'm sorry, I'm not quite following."

"I'm sure you've heard."

Belle shakes her head. "Heard?"

"About what happened tonight, about… what I…"

"I'm sorry," Belle cuts in, shaking her head as her eyes go wide, and momentarily, as her eyes shift his meet his, a hint of a smile tugs up at her mouth. "I don't understand," she says, looking back to Regina. "I don't know about anything that's happened tonight."

"Belle, I don't want to put you in an uncomfortable position or make you the subject of gossip.""

"People already gossip about me," Belle says, shrugging her shoulders. "And never once have you made me feel uncomfortable."

"But–"

"I've heard nothing that makes me uncomfortable and nothing worth gossiping about." Robin's gaze shifts back to Regina, and she looks perplexed as Belle stares almost blankly at her, that hint of a smile just barely noticable. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but if you're going somewhere early, I'd be happy to come up if you–"

"Oh, that won't be necessary," Regina says, clearing her throat as she shakes her head. "If I have to be up any earlier than usual, I'll dress myself. I don't know where I'm going, but I've several things that are easy to slip into. I'll manage just fine."

"Alright," Belle nods, taking a few steps toward them. "I'll go and pull out a few options." Regina nods as she walks past them and then, she halts, turning back to them. "Oh," she murmurs. "Mr. Locksley, John's walked down to the village. He didn't want Ruby to walk alone and he's not back yet. I hope–"

"I'm perfectly fine managing on my own," Robin says. "I may lose a cufflink without his assistance, but otherwise, I'll do just fine."

"That's what he assumed."

Robin nods as Belle continues down the hall toward their bedchambers, and when he turns back to Regina she looks bemused and unsure, and even a little touched.

"There's no way she doesn't know."

Again, Robin nods. "That's… likely true."

"She–"

"Cares about you," he supplies, not giving herself the chance to cut herself down. "You've been nothing but wonderful to that girl, and she has no reason to think unkindly of you." Leaning in, he presses a kiss to her cheek and gives her hand a little tug as he steps back. "Come on," he tells her. "We should be getting ourselves to bed."

"Because we've such a mysteriously busy day ahead of ourselves tomorrow?"

"Precisely."

"I suppose that's better than the alternative."

He sighs, giving her another tug as they start to walk slowly down the hall. "It is, but… you aren't alone."

"You keep saying that, but–"

"It's true," he tells her, his voice rising over hers. "I know it's hard for you to see, but not everyone's against you," he says, pulling her a little closer and letting go of her hand as his arm slides around her waist–and when her head falls to his shoulder, he can't help but smile as they continue like that the rest of the way. "The sooner you accept that, the easier it'll be."

Regina presses her eyes closed, trying to look as though she were already asleep as Robin gets into bed with her, and she tries to ignore how they burn with hot tears. For a moment, she thinks that maybe she's succeeded–that maybe he'll just blow out the lamp at the bedside and pull the covers up around himself, resigning himself to sleep–but then the curtains around the bed close and she feels Robin roll onto hiser side, and in spite of herself, she opens her eyes, revealing to him her tears.

"It's alright," he says, his voice softer and sweeter than it should be. "Everything's going to be alright."

"Why did you close the curtains. You never do."

"Privacy."

"From…?"

He shrugs, reaching out and wiping away the tear tracks on her cheeks with his thumbs. "I don't know. A scullery maid who comes to check on the fire or–"

"You mean who comes to gawk," Regina says as she draws in a breath. "Hoping to catch us in a compromising position–"

"We're married. It wouldn't be compromising."

"If I'm involved, it would be," she says, feeling her throat tighten a bit. "I know they're talking about it and–"

"And they haven't any right."

"That's debatable," Regina murmurs. "I mean, it's quite a scandal–the almost-lady of the house worked as–"

"Regina–" She sighs and momentarily, her eyes press closed. "Hey, come here," he murmurs as he scoots toward her on the bed. "Can I hold you?"

She feels herself nod and the suddenly Robin's arms are around her, pulling her to his chest as he holds her tight. He presses a kiss to her hair and whispers that he loves her, and as she draws in a breath, the faint smell of pine filles her senses–and her shoulders relax, if only slightly.

She's not entirely sure what it is about him–how it is that his embrace can do this to her–but as he strokes his hand up and down her back and intermittently drops kisses onto her hair, whispering sweet nothings to her without expecting a reply, she finds herself more and more relaxed–and then, all of the sudden, her tears are flowing freely.

"I'm sorry," she breathes out, lifting her head touching her fingers to a wet spot on his nightshirt. "Oh–"

"If you need to cry, cry."

She tries to smile, but it doesn't quite work out. "It was better when I thought you didn't know."

"Regina–"

"I could pretend."

"I don't love you any less, and I always knew–"

She nods. "But I didn't know that."

"Regina–"

"It's so embarrassing," she cuts, in shaking her head as she sits up. "I let myself get to that point and I–"

"Love," he murmurs, sitting up as her voice catches in her throat. "What's done is done. There's no changing it."

"I just… think about… about our wedding night and how that maid prepared me for you and I wonder–"

Her eyes sink closed remembering how she'd barely been able to keep her eyes at bay as a woman she didn't know removed her wedding dress and took down her hair, pulling off her corset and undergarments and putting her in a sheer, see-through robe. She'd looked at her with such disgust as she did it, not the way an older woman would look at a young bride on her wedding night, but the way a respectable woman looks at one whose fallen.

"And when you didn't want–" Her voice cracks as she looks at him. "I was so relieved–relieved because you didn't know."

"I know, but–"

"And now it's just… out there."

"We've all done things we're not proud of–and you now know that I am no exception to that."

She blinks, as she thinks of the story he told her and her eyes fall away from his. "You were hurting."

"And you weren't?"

"It was one indiscretion for you."

"The situations were different."

"But–"

"As I said earlier, I was feeling sorry for myself and you were trying to survive. It doesn't matter how many times it happened–on either my account or yours. Your intentions were noble."

"Noble," she scoffs.

"You wouldn't let your son starve and you did whatever you could to prevent it."

She nods. "Sometimes I… I wonder about that."

"What do you mean?" He asks, his brow furrowing. "What do you wonder?"

"About Henry–"

"I don't–"

"If keeping him there was fair," she says, tears immediately welling in her eyes at the thought of being separated from her son. "I know that there was no place for me, but I think my father would've taken him. I think Daniel's parents would have and–"

"You're his mother. He needs you."

"That tavern was no place for him."

Robin draws in a breath. "Then it's a relief that you and Henry have moved on from there."

Her eyes cast up to meet his, and she finds him swallowing sweetly–and when she leans in, just the slightest biut, his arms wrap around her and pull her to his chest, and again, she's filled with faint and comforting smell of pine.

"They're going to find out."

"Hm?"

"Henry, and Roland, but I'm mostly concerned about Henry–"

"About–"

"Me and what I did."

"If they find out, it's a long ways away," he tells her, holding her a little tighter as he presses a kiss to her hair. "And they'll have years and years of wonderful memories with you to counter it."

"But–"

"They adore you, Regina. They'd be on your side."

"I worry that Henry remembers–"

"He was young. He likely doesn't."

Regina just nods in response, hoping that that's true. She pushes away the thought of it and focuses on Robin. Since they've met, he's always been so safe–even when she didn't know it–and he's always made her feel so secure–even when she didn't trust it. And as he strokes her back and tells her it'll be alright, she wants desperately to be able to believe him.

It still stuns her that he knew all this time–that he knew and never said anything, just allowing her to go on as if it hadn't happened. He was always patient, always kind and never assumed or expected anything; he was always willing to take whatever she was willing and able to give–not matter how limited and no matter how temporary–and when she–

She feels her shoulders stiffen.

He knew that she was keeping something from him, he just hadn't realized it was what it was.

"Robin," she murmurs, lifting her head.

"Yes, love?"

"You thought my secret was something else."

"Oh–"

"You did. You said you thought it was something, that it wasn't what it was, otherwise you'd have said something."

For a moment, he hesitates and then he nods. "I did."

"What did you think it was?"

"That doesn't matter."

"It does."

He hesitates for a moment, holding her gaze as her eyes plead with him–and the longer he stays silent, the harder her heart pounds. Tears begin to well up again, and that's what breaks his silence, as he sighs and nods, lookingand looks away.

"I… I thought it… it had something to do with the baby you'd lost," he admits. "I thought…"

She blinks. "You thought… what?" Momentarily his eyes sink closed and she can tell that whatever it is, he doesn't want to tell her–and thate scares her because she can't imagine much worse than the truth. "Robin–"

"You, um… you told me a story about a baby you lost, just after Daniel died."

Swallowing, she nods, easily remembering telling him because reliving that experience was difficult for her and it took a degree of trust she'd only just realized that they'd reached. She'd confided in him something she'd never told anyone about–only a handful of people knew she'd lost a baby, but only he knew how she felt about it–and that's what suddenly catches her attention.

"I thought that maybe some of the details of that story were… muddied."

"Muddied," she repeats, letting her eyes meet his. "What exactly does that mean?"

"I thought that… perhaps… the pregnancy happened at different time and that maybe you–"

"Oh," she breathes out, her eyes press shut as she connects the dots. "Because I… I was…."

"Not because you were anything," he says, kneading his fingers against her hip. "Just… because of how things work and… your hesitation to…"

"I see."

"Regina–"

Her eyes open and she finds him watching her with the same soft expression he's been wearing all night. "So, you thought I got pregnant by… some random man in a seedy tavern…"

"I thought Jefferson, maybe," he admits, his voice a bit sheepish. "And I thought–"

He stops as her eyes widen at the realization that there's more, her stomach drops. "There's… something else?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It does!" she urges. "It matters."

"It doesn't," he says, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter because it's not true."

"But you thought it of me."

For a moment, he hesitates–and then slowly offers her a half nod. "Alright," he says in a tentative voice. "… I wondered if you'd chosen to end that pregnancy."

"Because I said I was relieved," she says as the wind leaves her lungs and her stomach flops.

"In part."

"Oh–"

"I was wrong, but for what it's worth, I…"

"Thought I was capable of–"

"I thought you were in an impossible situation that spun out of control, and you managed it the best you could." Reaching out, he tips her chin up. "But it isn't true and if it were, it'd change nothing between us."

She nods. "I just–"

"For the record," he begins, a slow grin working its way on his lips, "I'm not interested in judging you or punishing you for the way you handled difficult circumstances, and quite frankly, there's very little you could ever do or say that would change the way I feel about you."

She nods, wanting to believe that–and a part of her, does.

"I suppose, though, tonight has taught us something quite important."

"Has it?"

He nods and a soft chuckle escapes him as his thumb rubs gently at her jaw. "There's quite a lot that we don't know about each other." She scoffs, but he smiles as his hand cups her cheek, and she finds it difficult to look away from him. "But then, that's to be expected, given we both have a penchant for doing things out of order."

A little grin tugs up at her lips and she nods. "Perhaps."

"So, to clue you in on tomorrow's mysterious plans–"

"I am curious," she admits, her lip catches between her teeth as his smile brightens. "Incredibly curious, actually."

"Tomorrow, I think we should… reset things."

"Reset things?"

He nods and a little laugh escapes him. "I never had the chance to court you."

"You… want to court me?"

"Yes," he says easily. "That's exactly what I intend to do, starting tomorrow."

This time, it's her who laughs. "You… do realize that the purpose of courting is to gain a proposal."

"I am very aware of that."

"And you're aware that you and I are already married?."

"Oh, yes," he nods. "Very much aware."

"So, courting is… a bit of a moot point, don't you think?"

"There, I will have to disagree," he tells her, leaning in and pecking her lips. "Now,

"Robin–"

"You'll be grumpy in the morning, if you don't."

"But I–"

He laughs, leaning in again and pressing a soft, fluttering kiss to her lips–and then, he pulls back, opening up the curtain just enough to grab hold of their lamp and blow out the flame, sending the room into complete darkness. And as she lays back against the pillow beside him, she can't help but find herself a little excited for morning to come and to see what he has in store for them.