A/N: This is a repost of an old fic. I only had the first chapter written. Future updates might be slow in coming, but I do plan to finish all of my WIPs!
CHAPTER ONE
The Meet Cute
"He's kind of cute, isn't he?"
Regina rolls her eyes at Mary Margaret. "He smells like gym socks and stale sweat. They all do."
"He does not, and you know it," Mary Margaret whispers as they take their seats at the conference table.
Regina waves her hand in dismissal. She is not going to gossip about the new trainer with Mary Margaret like a couple of school girls. It's unprofessional. Still, she looks over Graham's last minute replacement as he takes a spot next to Mulan. What's his name again? Roger? Roderick? No, Robin. That's it. She really should have interviewed him in person before putting him through to audience testing, but there hadn't been time. His was the best of the handful of audition tapes David sent over from casting—which isn't saying much, not when the other options were a square-jawed drill sergeant type who yelled everything, a spastic Richard Simmons wannabe, and some guy who seemed petrified to be on camera. By the time she watched Robin's video, with his relaxed demeanor and easy smiles, the casting angels practically descended from heaven with a flashing neon "This Is the One" sign.
He is attractive. Then again, the trainers for the show aren't hired for their gym prowess alone.
As if sensing her scrutiny, he looks up in the middle of his quiet conversation with Mulan and gives Regina a hint of a smile. She supposes he means it as a friendly overture, but the way he stares at her… It's unsettling.
She clears her throat, and the discussions around the table die down. Once the room is silent, she opens the meeting—avoiding his gaze. "All right, folks," she says in the brusque manner she's known for. "Normally, I'd skip straight to the business at hand, but we have a new cast member who needs to learn the ropes." She stifles a sigh; she has to look at him now. He's still staring at her—though with good reason. She is speaking. Apparently he's an irritatingly attentive listener.
She gives him a perfunctory grin. "Why don't you start off the introductions, Robin, and tell us a little about yourself?" This, of course, is for the sake of the others. She knows everything she needs to know about him from the audition tape.
Robin stands with a nod. "Hello, everyone," he says in an English timbre that's just a hair raspy. (Another reason he got the job: Brits test well with American audiences.) "I'm Robin Locksley, and I'm sure you can guess by now that I'm not from around here." A few of the others laugh before he continues, "I was in the Special Forces, but I switched careers a few years ago to better take care of my son. Coming to the States has been a grand adventure for the both of us."
Others inundate him with questions as he takes his seat. How old is his son, Mary Margaret wants to know, and what's his name. (Roland's just turned five.) Divorced, Victor asks with his usual tact. (No, widowed. "Oh, I'm so sorry." "It's quite all right.") Killian makes a comment about no longer being the only Brit on the crew. ("Thanks, mate.") David asks the reason for the big move. ("It was time for a change." Robin tenses the tiniest bit with that one, and Regina doubts that he's telling the whole truth.) Mulan and Emma begin to hound him about his certifications, his training methodology, and Regina decides she had better head this off before the entire meeting is derailed.
"I think that's enough, thank you," she says. "As everyone knows, I'm Regina Mills, Executive Producer of 'The Ultimate Transformation.'" She nods to Mary Margaret, encouraging the woman to follow her lead.
Soon all the introductions are made: Mary Margaret Blanchard—technically Noland, the show's host; David Noland, casting director; Victor Whale, head of the medical team; Belle Gold, head of research; Killian Jones, director of photography; Emma Swan and Fa Mulan, trainers; and a handful of others who play a role in this session of pre-season planning. Robin will meet the other regulars soon enough.
"Now that we've gotten the pleasantries out of the way," Regina says, all business as usual, "it's time to dig in. The network has scheduled the premiere of our fifth cycle for the end of January. Mr. Gold expects promos by November which means principle photography will need to begin in less than a month. Today we have to pare down our potentials from—" She glances at David.
"Uh, forty-three," he supplies.
"—forty-three to eighteen contestants and three alternates." Regina gives them a grim smile. "I hope you're adequately caffeinated because we're going to be here for several hours."
This is the first time they've included the trainers in choosing the contestants, and she warns them that every applicant has a compelling story, but they're looking for the ones who will have the greatest emotional impact on their audience—those who will bring in the ratings. It's calloused, but this is a television series, not a weight loss charity.
First come the audition videos—fortunately edited down by the casting department to five minute snippets per applicant. Unfortunately, viewing them all takes more than three hours, and they begin to blur together after the first ten. Next is lunch, and finally the haggling, worthy of Wall Street stock traders, begins in earnest. Regina sits at the head of the table, watching the melee, ready to veto when necessary. There are a handful of potentials who will make the cut by her say-so alone, but she's content to delegate the rest to the others. Well, content isn't the right word, but rather, she's willing—under Doctor Hopper's orders. (Apparently having to control everything isn't healthy.)
"I'm telling you," Victor is yelling over the din, waving a file, "I really think that we can get Jack off of his blood pressure meds and the insulin before the finale."
"Yes, but Amy's story about growing up with an alcoholic mother and enduring emotional abuse will really grab the viewers," Belle counters—ever the bleeding heart of the bunch. "We have an opportunity to help her overcome that as well as the weight."
"I'll give you Amy, if you back me on Jack," Victor returns.
Mulan and Emma tend to gravitate toward the applicants who seem to have a more competitive spirit. And Robin… Robin embodies the politeness that Brits are supposed to be known for, never raising his voice, asking thoughtful questions and generally looking overwhelmed by the chaos around him. Regina smirks. If he thinks this is crazy, he really has no idea what he's gotten himself into.
It's late when the last of the bartering is finished and they have their final line-up. There are files, crumpled balls of paper, and empty meal boxes scattered over the table, a mess which will be cleaned up by some poor production assistant. As the others file out of the conference room, cracking yawns, Regina takes a moment to compose an email to her team with the list of those to be contacted in the morning. NDAs need to be signed, plane tickets purchased, t-shirts designed, mock-ups for graphics, hometown interviews, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
"Miss Mills?"
She looks up to find Robin standing over her, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He has dimples. She hadn't noticed them in his audition tape—but then, the video quality wasn't exactly high definition (probably done with the camera on his phone). The viewers will like the dimples.
"What is it?" she says as she rises and gathers her things. Henry will already be asleep by the time she gets home; she hates long days like this. There are far too many of them in pre-production and during filming. She's grateful for the few scant months between seasons when she can more fully devote her time to her son.
"I wanted to thank you for this opportunity," Robin says, holding out a hand to shake. When her eyes glance over the crest inked above the inside of his wrist, he laughs softly. "It's from my time in the service."
"I see." Useful, maybe. Although, he'll already have America's hearts by virtue of being a British widower raising a young son alone. Plus dimples. (Does his boy have those, too?) She doesn't take his hand. Hers are too full. "If you're a halfway decent trainer and that charisma of yours translates well onscreen, then you'll be worth the effort it took to bring you here."
His smile deepens. "Charisma? I wasn't aware I had any."
She gives him a sardonic look. "Save the flirting for the camera." She hefts her worn messenger bag over her shoulder. "Now, if there's nothing else—"
"Actually, there is something," he says, taking a step closer to her. "Would you care to get a cup of coffee with me before leaving for parts unknown?"
Her brows raise in surprise. The man is cocky, asking out the boss on the first day. She'll admit (not to him) that she's a little flattered that he's hitting on her instead of one of his beautiful costars. Emma would probably eat him alive for trying, and he's not at all Mulan's type, but still. But still, making a move on anyone in his first few hours on the job doesn't bode well for his reputation. A womanizer will not go over well with their target demographic. If it becomes a problem, she'll put the fear of god into him. For now, though…
"Listen, Mr. Locksley—"
"Please," he interrupts, "it's Robin."
She sighs. "Listen, Robin, I don't mix business and pleasure." Anymore.
He considers her admission with a grave nod. "That's good," he replies, "because I only intend to pick your brain over what I can expect in the coming months on the show—any guidance you might have to offer and all that."
Oh. Well. In that case. "Your fellow trainers are in a better position to help you with that." She's glad he wasn't hitting on her. She is. No lecture necessary on keeping his public image clean. Of course he only wanted advice. No one wants to date the heartless Evil Queen, as the crew affectionately calls her, and that's just the way she prefers things. Between work and Henry, she has neither time nor inclination for romance—especially with some showbiz fitness junkie. Never again.
Robin frowns, looking precariously close to disappointed. "You're right, of course." He bows his head. "I'm sorry to have troubled you. Goodnight."
She watches him as he makes his way to the door, feeling strangely guilty for turning him down. This is ridiculous. She rolls her eyes and calls out to him. "A nanny."
He pauses at the threshold, glancing back at her with furrowed brows. "A nanny?"
"Yes," she says. She'll give him this much and be done with it. "Get a nanny—preferably a live-in one. Our filming schedule can be unpredictable, and your salary should cover it. That's my advice for a single parent."
The corner of his mouth quirks up in a half-grin as if she's given him some kind of golden chalice rather than a throwaway suggestion. "Do you have a nanny?"
Not that it's any of his business, but— "Yes."
"Well, then," he replies, "I'll have to get one straight away. Thank you, Regina."
He's gone before she realizes that she never encouraged him to use her first name. Ballsy, indeed. She smiles in spite of herself.
Robin stands on his cousin's doorstep, unsure if he should knock or attempt to sneak in quietly. He's loath to disturb Phillip and Aurora if they're sleeping—especially when taking Aurora's condition into account—but the fact remains that his son is inside. Robin can't very well saddle them with Roland indefinitely. They've already had him much longer than planned, and Robin feels a tad guilty about that.
He feels even more guilty over how easily he was willing to delay his return for the sake of coffee with Regina. No, that's wrong. It's Miss Mills, and he'd do well to remember that. He spent the drive to Phillip's berating himself over that impulsive invitation. (And how in the world do Americans manage to drive on the wrong side of the road with the steering wheel on the wrong side of the car?) Miss Mills likely thinks he's some kind of manky tosser who comes on to anything with two legs. Well done, Robin. Well done.
He blows out a sigh, knocks quietly, and then opens the door. "Anyone still awake?" he asks in a soft voice. He follows Phillip's low rumble to the great room where his cousin is shutting off the telly.
"How'd it turn out?" Phillip asks, gesturing for Robin to have a sit.
Robin tries to find a way to describe the madness he's just experienced, but comes up short. "Different from anything I could have imagined," he says. "I've a feeling that Special Forces training will have been like a scouting jamboree compared to what I'm about to embark on."
Phillip laughs. "And you've only just begun."
"Indeed." Robin shakes his head. "To top it off, I may have committed a major faux pas," he finishes with a cringe.
Phillip raises a brow. "How do you mean?"
Robin sags into the overstuffed chair he's taken and waves a hand. "I asked the woman in charge out for coffee."
"For coffee?" Phillip gives him an incredulous look. "As a…date?"
Had that been Robin's intention? He can't say. There'd been no forethought to the invitation. He merely wanted to know her a little better. He still does, if he's being truthful. But that hardly means romantic interest. "I honestly don't know," he confesses. The fact that he doesn't makes him uncomfortable.
"What's she like?" Phillip sits up with undue interest.
"Intense. Severe. Hardworking," Robin answers before he can think better of it. "Exactly the sort of woman who would be the executive producer of an insanely popular television program, I suppose."
"And beautiful too, I'd wager," Phillip adds, jabbing a finger toward Robin, "by that dreamy expression in your eyes."
Robin chucks a pillow at his cousin, hitting him square in the face. "Don't be daft."
Phillip chuckles, tossing the pillow to the other side of the sofa. "Just making an educated guess, mate." He sobers before going on, "You know she would have wanted you to move on eventually. She would have wanted you to be happy."
Robin is not keen on the direction this conversation is taking. Phillip knows exactly shit about losing the love of his life. Robin wants to ask him if he could do it if their situations were reversed, if Aurora died. Could he gaily imbibe these tired platitudes, bobbing his head in agreement? Yes, of course. I should date again. I'll get straight on that. I'll just stop loving my wife, easy as pie.
Robin says none of this, though. He knows his cousin means well; Phillip doesn't deserve a bitter rant for his trouble. "I am happy. I've got Roland," Robin deflects with a smile he doesn't quite feel. "Speaking of, I'm sorry that I'm late. I hope he's been good for you."
"We got on famously." Phillip grins. "I think it's safe to say that he's got us both wrapped around his finger already, the little devil. We're glad to have him."
"Thank you for watching him." Robin rubs his hand across the arm of the chair. "Would you mind if I crashed on your sofa tonight? I'd rather not wake Roland, and we'd be out of your hair first thing in the morning." He leaves unsaid that there's no real home to go to. Just a flat—a rather spacious condominium, actually—with unpacked boxes and mattresses littering the floor. Their first place without a hint of Marian's touch, and Robin can't quite bring himself to get settled yet.
"You can stay as long as you like," Phillip says, parroting his generous offer from when Robin first phoned him about taking work in the States. Phillip stands, ostensibly to procure a pillow and some linens from the cupboard. "Oh, I forgot to mention that your father called."
Every muscle in Robin's body becomes taut at once. "What did he say?"
"You know, I don't know," Phillip says with a cheeky smile. "I was too busy telling him all the inappropriate things he could do to himself before I rang off abruptly. I hope you don't mind."
Robin laughs, the tension ebbing from his stiff limbs. "Not at all."
"I thought not, but one can never be too sure." Phillip crosses the room and disappears down a dark hallway.
Robin sinks back into the armchair once more, weighted down with exhaustion and a number of emotions he's doing a fine job of ignoring. He's not overly fond of quiet moments like this, no matter how brief, when unwelcome thoughts drift to the surface of everything he's given up in this mad gambit (and everything he's lost). Not that he had much of a choice.
Phillip returns, thankfully, with an armful of sheets and blankets and all. He lobs a pair of sweats and a t-shirt at Robin. "You're a bit thicker in the middle, but they'll probably still fit." He winks.
Robin smiles at the old joke between them. "Give me a few months, and I'll have your atrophied muscles in top shape."
"I'll have you know that Aurora thinks I cut quite the figure," Phillip says as he readies the sofa.
"That's well and good," Robin returns, "because she's stuck with you."
"For the rest of our lives," Phillip quips and then grimaces when he's remembered who he's talking to.
Robin isn't bothered when others take for granted that they'll have a lifetime with their loved ones. He's bothered when they feel they ought to apologize—vocally or otherwise—for having their happy endings when his was cut short. "I feel sorry for her," he says in attempt to bring back the lighthearted mood from moments ago.
Phillip forces a laugh. "As you should." He steps back from the sofa. "All set. You're more than welcome to share the guest room with Roland. I'd offer the other spare room, but it's in the midst of becoming a nursery, so…"
"This will do nicely," Robin says. He'll sleep better here than sharing a bed with his son. Whilst slumbering, Roland vigorously practices for his future career in footy. Waking up several times to a heel in his gut or in more sensitive bits is an experience Robin prefers to avoid when he can, as much as he adores his little man.
"Goodnight, then." Phillip backs away, and just before he vanishes to his room, Robin calls his name.
"Do you know," he asks, rubbing the back of his neck, "where one might acquire a nanny?"
Phillip's brows draw downward. "I haven't the first clue," he admits. "But I'll ask Aurora in the morning. I'm sure she has some friends who might know where to turn."
Robin nods his thanks as his cousin makes his retreat. Everything is so different from the life he left behind, he thinks as he changes and settles into his makeshift bed for the night. Nannies and shooting schedules and the impossibility of finding a proper cup of tea.
And an executive producer who seems to only smile for the sake of social cues—who makes him wonder how one might be able to inspire a grin that actually touches those dark eyes of hers.
Things, perhaps, he shouldn't be pondering.
A/N: Thank you for taking a chance on this story. I'd love to hear your thoughts!