Some Christmassy words from the prompt: "Imagine your OTP being next door neighbors that don't know each other. But after a particular long night out Person A can't unzip their dress (or can't get the knot out of their horribly tied tie; get creative!) and they're home alone. After struggling for a long time they have to accept that they need help. And that's what brings them to Person B's door in the middle of the night."

Love is All Around

I feel it in my fingers
I feel it in my toes
Love is all around me
And so the feeling grows

.::.

Damn Ruby Lucas. And damn my stupid habit of listening to her, Regina thinks, stumbling a little as she tries to insert the keys into the door lock. The keys don't cooperate, though, because they slide down and fall – she lets out an enraged Shit! when she has to kneel down to retrieve them. She should never have drunk that last shot of tequila, because her head is buzzing pleasantly, and she's feeling dizzy, and really, all of this rage towards Ruby probably comes from the pain creeping up from her feet to her spine – and damn my heels, she ends when the key finally turns in the lock.

As soon as she enters, she's kicking off her heels, and relishing in that particular sensation you get after hours of torture, when your feet aren't used to the flat soil yet, and they curl in some residual pain. Then, she throws her purse and her coat on a chair – Mother would frown at her untidiness, but yeah, Mother would die of a heart attack if she knew how much she's drunk.

Her room is dark and quiet – just like she has left it, hours ago, there still is her silky pajamas folded above the pillow, a bottle of water on the nightstand and some aspirins. Thanks, sober me, she laughs inwardly, cracking the confection open. She gulps one pill down – the others are for tomorrow, she has this feeling she'll need them. And desperately so.

She nears the full-length mirror to inspect the damages from the night – and that would be the usual pre-Christmas party organized by her office, but then Ruby and Mal have dragged all the girls at the club, even the not-so-enthusiast Mary Margaret, and honestly, Regina was up for some fun before the next days, days of family lunches and horrible gifts and her sister bitching as always – crap, her pantyhose is ripped – she curses as she slides it down and away from her legs – and she really didn't want this night to end, to be honest.

But it's too late now; it's almost four in the morning. Unlike Ruby and Ella, she isn't in her twenties anymore, and her head still spins. She sighs, and retrieves a rubber band from the vanity to lift her hair in a ponytail, so she can unzip the dress.

The dress.

The dress she has bought during the last Black Friday, and it's one of her finest catches, she has even managed not to spill anything on it. You wouldn't guess, by looking at it, but it was quite cheap, even if the material is good for her standards. She turns her back to the mirror, glancing above her shoulder, and brings a hand up to take the zip between two fingers. And pushes down. It works, for a moment. And then, not anymore.

"Oh, come on," she hisses, her elbow twisted in a strange position, as her sweaty fingers slip and leave the zip. She gives it some thugs, and it works for a moment. It moves of one or two positions, then it stops again. "You've got to be kidding me."

It is completely normal to talk with a zip at four in the morning, isn't it?

So she tries – her pajamas is still on her pillow, as if it's mocking her – she tries to fall on the bed and lift her shoulders to create more space for the zip to run down, she tries to hold the dress tighter on her body, she tries sliding it up on her shoulders, but with no use, because the fabric isn't elastic and she fears to rip it.

"Okay," she growls, going into the kitchen. She opens a drawer, staring at the pair of scissors inside. She could cut it.

(But she likes it.)

She could sleep in it.

(And wake up with the same problem.)

When she slams the drawer close, her drunken mind has conjured a solution – she knows, deep down, that her sober, more thoughtful self won't like it, not even a bit, but it's desperate times and desperate measures, so she paddles away from the kitchen and back in the hall, where her heels still lay on the ground.

She grabs the keys from the table, and opens the door. It's only a few meters above the cold piles of the floor, so she doesn't take any kind of shoes – her feet still hurt and would never bear that pain again, tonight.

And this is how she ends up at Robin Locksley's door – barefoot, with a half-unzipped dress, and her keys in one hand – on the 24th of December, at half past four in the morning. She knocks.

Yes, she is that desperate.

So desperate she is relying onto her neighbor, with whom she has yet to get over the Good morning to you too phase – her neighbor, who will be delighted to be woken up for this stupid thing – her neighbor, whom she's always found attractive as hell, especially when he goes to work early in the morning, with that blue tie she likes so much, freshly shaved and with that scent of pine and fresh air that lingers in the elevator oh so pleasantly…

She hears footsteps from the other side of the door.

Her hand is still up, closed in a fist, when the door opens.

And he rubs his eyes, in a clear attempt to wake up – then, he widens them, his slumber all but gone, as he takes her in.

"Oh, uhm – Regina, right? What– ?"

His words fade slowly, and silence descends upon them – and Regina realizes she's still holding her hand up. She lowers it slowly, her dizziness from earlier – and consequently, the burst of courage which has brought her here – is disappearing, and she's about to fully realize what she's done. Maybe it's the aspirin kicking in.

"Hi," she tempts a smile, but he's still staring at her in disbelief.

He shakes his head, blinking twice, and now he seems to be fully awake.

"Hi," he mimics. Another heavy pause, where they're staring at each other, her breaths coming out in little puffs of air.

She gets it, she must be a show right now – barefoot, in a half-unzipped red dress, hair like a mess – her rubber band has already fallen – and it's clear as day that she's drunk. But she doesn't care, because – fuck, he's hot.

Of course she knows it already – but he's always had too many… layers, to be honest, and now he's visibly just stumbled out of the bed, believing it was an urgent matter… and he's in t-shirt and tight boxers, because she was a utter idiot and she could have found another solution –

"Did you, uh, need something?" he exhales – she doesn't miss his gaze, checking her out, and maybe she's not the only one who's attracted by the other.

She bites her lower lip, suddenly very aware of his eyes on her. "Uhm, as a matter of fact, yes," she bursts out. He nods, motioning towards the inside.

"Come in, it's freezing," he offers – she throws him a look before passing beyond his body to reach the warmth. He closes the door behind her, careful not to make noise.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," she starts – when he shakes his head, leading her to the kitchen, she follows, but can't help to notice the mess that still lingers in the sink, on the table – he must have had guests, tonight. And then, she sees there's a lonely bottle, in a corner. Maybe it wasn't a happy evening, then.

"It's no trouble, I couldn't sleep anyway," he offers, and she thinks bullshit, because he looked like someone who's been resting – even if, now that she thinks about it, the shadows under his eyes are more revealing than what she thought. "What's the matter?"

He's leaning on the counter, and it amazes her how he didn't make a move to cover himself, to find some trousers, and then thinks who cares, better for me, when her gaze trails on the well-toned muscles of his forearm.

"I, hem, had some problems with… my dress," she says, feeling a hot sensation going up to warm her cheeks. Suddenly, the temperature of the room seems to rise all at once – they still have a good pair of meters between them, but she feels pulled towards him. She takes one tentative step, turning slightly to show him a portion of her back. "The… zip wouldn't work," she points at it, "…and I was alone and I didn't know what to –"

"It's okay, don't worry," he smiles, as his body leaves the counter. She smiles, embarrassed, as she turns completely, glancing over her shoulder. He is very near now, she can feel his presence behind her, and his hands go up to touch her neck. A shiver runs down, from the point where his fingers are in contact with her skin.

"It's – I think it's stuck, but not broken," she whispers. He holds gently her hair up, shifting it on a side. It tickles, almost, electricity buzzing between them – her neck is bare now, his hand reaching for the unfortunately capricious zip. He tugs down, at first, but it has stopped. She feels one of his hands sliding under the dress, to lift it just a bit.

She hasn't got a clue on what he's doing, but as long as he keeps doing it – brushing her skin, maybe pulling at the fabric, he's gentle – yeah, she's not complaining. She leans on him, an improvise wave of dizziness washing over her, and she shakes her head in an attempt to stay alert.

"Hey, you okay?" he asks, stopping for a second – from when, exactly, are his lips so close to her ear?

"Yeah – sorry, must be the tequila," she excuses herself. He continues with his work, shifting her hair again – it's too long, she should cut it, because it continues getting on his way. She's feeling his breath, now – a little heavier, as he's employing some force in pushing down the zip. A strong tug, and he must have unblocked the dilemma, because – finally – she hears that very much needed noise, the zip goes down – he pushes it, slowly, as if he doesn't want to let it get stuck again.

He pushes down some more, his hand keeping a fold of her dress not to let it fall, and she suddenly remembers just how low the zip goes – he could stop at the middle of her back, but it goes down until it reaches her rear – his hand is firm on her shoulder, and it's nice, actually – to be touched, it has actually been a long time…

"Here, all done," he says. She glances at him again, inclining her head. His fingers skim one last time over her bare skin, the latch of her bra now visible.

"Thank you," she murmurs. Reluctantly, she moves away from his body to turn and face him. He's so close – blue eyes staring directly across her soul, his nose only inches away from hers. They hold each other's gaze, for a moment – lost into a fantasy, maybe – until they just realize how close they are, and it's a split second of embarrassment, when they divert their eyes, Robin distancing himself a bit, Regina throwing a small cough.

"I, I think – I think I should go," she says then.

(She wonders if he can hear the regret in her voice.)

"Oh, yes – sure," he answers, seeming surprised.

(She wonders if it's regret, that shadow in his voice.)

But she doesn't move, she looks at him again – she's almost hypnotized – it's just, he's so close, and his eyes, and it's Christmas, and she's lonely –

A heartbeat passes – then two, three.

"Ahem, right," she comes to her senses, because he's intoxicating, and it's been months of stolen glances and casual brushes in the elevator…

He steps aside to let her pass – she falters, her eyes squeezing for a second. She doesn't want to leave, she wants this night to last forever, so she doesn't have to face the world tomorrow…

She feels him behind her, following her trace in the few steps they have to reach the door. She opens it herself – she's still holding her keys, she realizes.

Turning towards him, her hair falls on her back, on her bare skin. "Well, then, thank you," she says, blushing again – her head feels funny, as if it's full of air, her feet curl on the cold tiles.

"Anytime, Regina," he answers, flashing an amused smile at her. She stares at him for another moment, then blinks, but there's only that magnetic pull, silence, and his lips tugging up, his hand lying on the doorframe.

What comes next, she couldn't have foreseen it. She'll blame drunkenness, tomorrow, or maybe the frustratingly high sexual tension between them, or maybe the warmth he has brought in her evening – she pushes on her tiptoes, to plant a kiss on the corner of his lips.

"Merry Christmas, Robin."

He blinks, surprised, then lifts one hand to touch the exact place where her lips have grazed his skin. She waits – a second, a day, she doesn't know – he lifts a hand, that goes behind her head, and trails his fingers between her hair. They stay like this – she doesn't know if she's shivering for the cold or the anticipation – until they're moving at the same time, closing the distance, lips meeting – and it's good, it's new at first, her hand cups his cheek, his hand presses on her bare back – he brings her closer – it's nice, and so warm – and that is how she ends up making out with Robin Locksley, at Christmas Eve, at almost five in the morning.

When they part, she can't stop the smile widening on her face.

He stares at her in amazement, an equally wide grin in return.

"Merry Christmas, Regina."