A/N: I can't recall what inspired me to continue the story. (I don't always after I answer a prompt with a ficlet.) But it turned into something much bigger than I anticipated!
CHAPTER TWO
On Your Own Recognizance
He gives her the call after lunch (a passable burger from a place called Granny's Diner). It's not her phone—because her carrier doesn't have good coverage here and apparently it's evidence; he gives her his cell instead. She's tempted to wipe out his contact list out of spite, but he'd probably press charges for that, too.
"Hello?"
Regina almost sags in relief at the familiar voice. "Henry."
"Mom!" he exclaims on the other end. "Where are you? Are you okay? Whose phone are you using?"
She smiles at the flood of questions; she's missed him. "I'm all right," she reassures him when he pauses for breath. "I've been delayed for a day—" she glowers in Robin's direction (he's back to reading his book), "—but I'm fine. Can you please put Emma on?"
"Okay," Henry replies, and she likes, just a little, that he's disappointed that he can't talk to her more. "Love you, Mom."
"Love you, too."
There's a muffled noise on the other end and then: "I take it from Henry's side of the conversation that there's been a hiccup."
"You could say that." Another glare at the sheriff. "I've had a misunderstanding with local law enforcement."
Robin snorts, and she rolls her eyes. Of course he's listening in.
"How bad is it?" Emma asks.
"Minor. But if you could call my attorney and have him send someone to…" She trails off, trying to remember the name of this pathetic little town.
"Storybrooke," Robin supplies as he turns a page.
"Storybrooke," she repeats through gritted teeth, "in Maine—by tomorrow."
"Yeah, sure," Emma replies. "I'll keep Henry until you get back. Anything else?"
"No." Regina hesitates before adding, "Thank you." The words feel unnatural to say—at least, to Emma. They've come a long way.
There's a pause on the other end. "No problem." Click.
She waves Robin's phone at him. "Finished."
He takes his time getting up from his chair and crossing the room. "Son, is it?" he asks. His calloused fingers briefly graze hers as he takes the device, and she jerks her hand back.
"Yes," she answers. "Not that it's any of your business."
"True." He nods, leans against the bars as he pockets his cell. "How old?"
She's a venture capitalist, worked with a myriad of insufferable people, but she thinks this guy might be the most irritating, obstinate man she's ever had the (dis)pleasure of crossing paths with. "I thought I made it clear that it's none of your business."
"You did," he agrees. "I've got a boy, myself—Roland. Recently turned five. He certainly keeps me on my toes."
"How nice for you," she returns with a brittle smile. She wonders if he suffers from some kind of developmental disorder where he can't process social cues. Or is this that so-called small town charm where everyone is sickly pleasant to one another. ("Why yes, I've just arrested you and put you behind bars, but let's be friends, shall we?") No. Just no.
He opens his mouth but is interrupted—thank god—by the door opening. "Speak of the devil," he says with a wide grin, stepping away from the bars.
A tiny person with a mop of dark hair hurtles toward the sheriff, hollering at the top of his little lungs, "Daddy!" Robin captures the boy, lifts him to his hip, and Regina feels a bit nostalgic for the days when Henry was as small—when he thought she hung the moon.
"We thought we'd stop by," says a woman at the threshold, "before we headed over to the docks." She's petite with short, dark hair and has the kind of homespun, girl-next-door aura which has always rubbed Regina the wrong way.
"Thank you, Mary Margaret," Robin says before turning to his son. (What was his name again? Roland.) "And how was school today?"
"Good!" Roland answers enthusiastically. "I learned 'c' for cat! Meow! And Callie ate the paint again. It was funny!" He laughs, and it is utterly disarming—especially paired with those adorable dimples which he obviously got from his father.
"That is funny," Robin agrees. "Though probably not very good for her tummy." He pokes Roland in the belly, and the boy squeals with more laughter.
"It's yucky!" Roland makes a gagging sound, and then stops abruptly when he lays eyes on Regina. "Daddy," he asks in a hushed voice, "you got a prisoner?"
Robin chuckles. "No, Regina is a guest." He winks at her as if this were all some joke. She doesn't find it funny.
"Hi," Roland says to her. "Do you want to come play pirates with me and Killian?"
The boy is cute, and it's certainly not his fault that his father is incredibly annoying, therefore Regina smiles at him. He reminds her of Henry at this age, when her son believed that strangers were merely friends he hadn't met yet. She remembers the pervasive fear that Henry would happily walk off with some miscreant who offered him candy or a puppy, and she wonders if Robin ever worries about that. Probably not in a town like this where everyone knows everyone.
"Not today, little man," Robin answers for her.
"Your father and I have some business to attend to," Regina replies, trying very hard not to glare at Robin. "Thank you for the offer."
Roland pouts. "Okay," he says with all the weight of a disappointed five-year-old. "You can come play with me in the morning."
Robin laughs, shaking his head. "I'm afraid you've got school in the morning."
"After school," Roland counters. Clearly he inherited his father's stubborn streak. Heaven help the rest of the world.
"We'll talk about it later." Robin sets him down on the ground. "Now, you mustn't keep Killian waiting. Off you go."
"Bye bye, Daddy!" Roland gives his father a kiss on the cheek. "Bye, Gina!" He waves furiously before dashing toward Mary Margaret.
Robin watches his son leave with a fondness that Regina recognizes, though it galls her that she would have anything in common with this man.
"He's sweet." The words leave her mouth before she can think better of it. Because the last thing she wants to do is initiate a friendly conversation.
"He's my world," Robin says with a wistful smile. He turns to her. "I imagine you know what that's like."
Yes, she does, but she's not going to admit that to him. "It was nice of your wife to bring him by," she deflects.
Robin frowns. "Mary Margaret? Oh, no. She's Roland's teacher. I'm—" He hesitates, brows furrowing as though he's not quite sure how to explain. "I'm a single father. I'm not married."
There's something in the way his voice catches that implies a deeper backstory, but she doesn't ask. She's determined not to succumb to some twisted form of Stockholm Syndrome. It doesn't matter that he seems like a good father and an authentically nice (if aggravating) person; he locked her up. And that is simply unforgivable.
"And you?" he asks. "Is Henry's father in the picture?"
She rolls her eyes. If this man has his way, they'll be braiding each other's hair and painting each other's fingernails by dinner. "I adopted Henry."
"That's really admirable."
And he means it. Not in the "what a beautiful story; you'll be a shoo-in for some charity award or another which will humanize your image" PR kind of way, either. He is looking at her with actual admiration, as if he knows she didn't bring Henry into her life as an accessory to be put away with nannies and boarding schools and only let out for photo-ops. As if he knows that she was the one who was up all night with Henry, that she changed all of his diapers—even if that meant cutting meetings short (God help the idiot who made the comment about mothers in the workplace, too), that she has only ever shared him with Emma—and only because he wanted to know his birth mother. As if he knows that Regina hadn't signed the adoption papers out of altruism, but because she needed Henry more than he needed her, that he changed her and continues to inspire her to be a better person.
"Yes, well," she says. "He's my son." It's so much more than that, but she suspects Robin understands—which, of course, annoys her all the more.
He nods gravely and steps away from the cell finally, and it appears like he's done tormenting her with small talk. He picks up his book from the desk, but doesn't sit down in his chair. "I've got to do my rounds, now," he says (as if she cares). "I'll be gone for a few hours. You'll be all right?"
She looks heavenward. Does he think she's going to hurt herself? Please. "Somehow I will survive without your dazzling company."
He grins, completely unfazed by her sarcasm, and crosses the room to her. "It can get quite boring in here," he says, pushing his book through the bars. "Just don't lose my place."
She scowls at the novel before taking it—because the man would probably stand there all day until she did. "I wouldn't dream of it."
He leaves with a laugh, and Regina is thankful for the silence.
For the first twenty minutes.
It takes another ten before she decides to risk infectious disease by sitting on the dusty cot. She holds out for thirty more minutes before picking up the novel. Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. Not exactly what she expected from a scruffy small town sheriff—not that she's impressed. Hardly.
She turns to where he's marked his place. The bookmark is a strip of lace-edged fabric in a protective plastic sleeve with a quote from Francis Bacon stitched in delicate needlepoint. "Read not to contradict or refute…but to weigh and consider." The ribbon dangling off the end is worn and faded—once a deep periwinkle, she thinks. It's decidedly feminine, not his, not originally. A keepsake from a late mother? Sister? Wife? Unsettled by the last thought, she closes the book, drops it on the cot.
It's not that the idea of him being a widower, coupled with the brief image of his unfettered joy with his son, makes him more than the two-dimensional brute who threw her into jail over a measly expired license. (And speeding and assault—a dubious charge at best.) No, she's bothered by thought that they might share more than being single parents. She doesn't want to have any kind of affinity with someone so unsophisticated and rustic.
She paces the cell until her legs tire—until her heels blister her feet—but she doesn't pick up the book again.
She's sitting on the cot once more, back propped against the wall, when he returns, shadows painted long in the office by the receding sunlight in the windows. He says nothing, and she doesn't look at him, not until she hears the jangle of keys followed by the clank of the lock on her cell.
The door opens with a loud screech, and she glances up at him with a raised brow.
He gives her a small bow. "Shall we, milady?"
"You're dropping the charges?" she asks, incredulous.
"No." He shakes his head. "I thought you might like to have dinner outside of these confines."
Oh. She purses her lips, thinks of telling him thanks but no thanks, but after a day spent in this dingy cell, she doesn't have it in her to be that stubborn. "And you're not worried about having a dangerous fugitive on the loose?"
He makes a sound between a laugh and snort. "Considering that your vehicle has been impounded, and I have all of your things," he says, "and the next town is more than fifty miles away with nothing but forest between, I'd wager you're not much of a flight risk." His gaze dips down her form, stopping at her feet. "Not in those shoes."
Scowling, she rises from the cot, picks up the book as an afterthought. She shoves it into his chest as she passes him. "Not my kind of novel." Lie. Complete lie.
He smirks as if he knows it, too. "Pity."
He takes her to Granny's Diner—apparently the only restaurant in this sinkhole. Either that or the only place he's willing to patronize. Once they are ensconced in a corner booth—all eyes following them discreetly and not-so-discreetly—a buxom young waitress sidles up to their table.
"Hey, Sheriff," she says with a wide grin. "Who's your pretty friend?"
Regina glares at her.
"Ruby, this is Regina Mills," he answers. "She's gotten into a bit of a spot on her way home, and she'll be staying in town for a day or two."
"Oh, hon," Ruby says with sympathy written all over her overly made-up face. "If you need anything, let me know, okay?"
Regina orders the most expensive thing on the menu (some pedestrian meal called "surf and turf"). Robin finds that funny—just like everything else. She has the fleeting thought of clawing his eyes out.
"If you think we're going to swap life stories," she explains after their food arrives, "you're mistaken. I don't do the touchy-feely thing."
"Somehow I doubt that." Robin leans forward, elbows on the table. "It's been my experience that people who put up walls do so because they feel things more deeply than the rest of us—or they've experienced tragedy. Or both."
She really, really doesn't like him and his presumptuous opinions. She gives him a flat look. "Don't tell me you're the town psychologist, too."
"I did own a pub for a couple of years back in England," he says, "but I leave the therapy to Doctor Hopper now."
"How generous of you." She looks away from him, concentrates on her dinner (the garlic mashed potatoes are actually pretty good), hoping he'll get the message that she's not in the mood for conversation.
It's a futile hope.
"Husband or fiancé?" he asks between bites of chicken.
She sets down her fork and knife, interlaces her fingers beneath her chin and levels a sardonic expression at him. "Isn't it a conflict of interest to hit on the woman you've brought charges against?"
He drags his teeth over his bottom lip and smiles. (He definitely knows he's attractive, flirty bastard.) "I'll admit that I'm probably not the most qualified man to be sheriff. The law and I have always had a very tenuous relationship," he says. "But I wasn't actually hitting on you. I was asking if the person you lost was your husband or fiancé."
She stares at him for several breaths. Unbelievable. "Fiancé, twelve years ago," she answers because he's like a dog with a bone and won't shut up otherwise. "My mother died last week, and we had a complicated relationship. Do you want to pry into that, too?"
Robin raises his hands in surrender. "I apologize, milady. I meant no offense."
"I bet." She sucks in a deep breath. "I don't know what you're hoping for, but we're not anything alike."
He bites his lip again. (It's really becoming rude.) "I think you'd be surprised. I happen to—"
He's interrupted by the jangle of the bells hanging from the door and a squeal of "Daddy!" Roland comes barreling down the aisle and leaps into his father's lap. Another man follows in his wake, tall and in all black with the kind of swagger of someone who's usually up to no good. The aforementioned Killian, she presumes.
"We sailed the high seas," he announces (this one's British, too), leaning against the booth near her, "and our little pirate made Smee walk the plank."
"Arr, me matey!" Roland pipes in.
"It was a victorious afternoon of plundering and looting, if I do say—" Killian stops when he sees Regina. The smile he gives her would probably make a lesser woman swoon. "Oh hello, love. What's your name?"
"Not interested," she replies.
Killian clasps his chest as though stricken. "Ouch."
"That's a new record, mate," Robin says, and he's beaming as if he's proud of her.
"She's name is Gina!" Roland interjects (un)helpfully. "And she's a guest." He drops to a whisper and adds, "But she was in the jail."
"Her name is Regina," Robin corrects, ears turning pink. "And she's just passing through town. Don't you have a deck to swab?"
Killian gives him a crooked grin. "Aye," he says. "I know when I'm not wanted. Enjoy yourselves." He winks at Robin before making his way to the breakfast bar.
Ruby swoops over seconds later and ruffles Roland's hair. "Hey kid," she says. "Granny's got some Mac n' Cheese for you at the counter. Why don't you hang out with me while your Daddy and his friend visit, okay?"
Roland looks at Regina, frown turning his little mouth down before finally relenting. "Okay," he says. "Daddy, can Gina come at our house after dinner? I want to show her my new game on the frog pad."
"Leap pad," Robin says with a chuckle. "And we'll talk about it."
"Yay!" Roland cheers as he skips off with Ruby.
"You do realize," Regina says when they're alone again, "that he thinks you said yes."
Robin sighs, rubbing a hand across his eyes. "I know. I make quite a lot of bad parenting choices in the name of avoiding inconvenient temper tantrums."
"We've all been there." She's not quite sure why she's admitting this to him. Probably because he's the first real single parent she's talked to in a long time. Emma doesn't count; the woman entered the picture less than a year ago when Henry was already half-raised.
"Sometimes I wonder if I'm bungling the whole thing," Robin says. "I'm making up everything as I go."
She knows the feeling, but the discussion is getting uncomfortably close to being comfortable—and on the cusp of turning into a Survivors with Children mini-support group. Because a question about his (late?) wife is dangling precariously on the tip of her tongue. She swallows it back.
"You mentioned that you have a tenuous relationship with the law," she says instead.
It takes him a second to catch up to the change in topic, and when he does, he cringes. "I did, didn't I?" He leans back in his seat. "If you must know, I used to be a thief—a very good one, in fact."
Now, that's interesting. "And they let a felon become sheriff?"
"I've never actually been caught," he says with more pride than shame. "That was a long time ago, before—"
"Roland," she finishes for him.
"Marian, actually—my wife." There's pain in his expression when he says her name, but it's more like an old wound that will never fully heal—one he's learned to live with. (One Regina knows all too well.) "She saw in me a better man than I was, and here I am."
Regina can't say the same thing about Daniel, at least not after his death. She was better with him, but when he was taken from her, she shut down. She became cold, vengeful, angry. Like her mother. Henry has been her saving grace, though she will never be the same naïve, open young woman she once was, full of hope and romanticism.
She picks at her food, shaking the morose thoughts from her mind. She's not hungry anymore, but neither is she anxious to return to her cell and the grimy cot that awaits her. "Thief to sheriff is quite a transformation," she says, steering the conversation clear of the minefield of late loved ones.
"An accidental transformation, truth be told," he replies. "The old sheriff was rather corrupt. I exposed him, and well, apparently that made me the best candidate to replace him."
Silence falls between them; she's not interested enough to ask more questions. (Lies. She's too interested, and it concerns her.) She thinks of her lawyer coming tomorrow, ponders how they might come up with a strategy to get the charges dropped or reduced. She thinks of Henry, wonders if Emma has him stuffed full of pizza and soda by now—the woman doesn't have a domestic bone in her body. As a career woman, Regina isn't exactly Suzy Homemaker either, but she at least knows how to cook.
"I am sorry to hear about your mother, by the way," Robin says, interrupting her musings. "Complicated relationship or not, it's never easy to lose a parent."
Regina blinks, caught off guard by the sincere condolence. She doesn't thank him. She doesn't say anything. Because their dialogue is starting to feel like a game of Whack-a-Mole. Every time she shoots down a friendly overture from him, he's back with another. He's determined to make some kind of connection with her—though she can hardly guess why—and she's determined not to like him. (He's succeeding; she's failing, much to her chagrin.)
"I'm ready to return to my prison cell, Warden," she says, dropping her napkin on the table.
The look he gives her is…unreadable. Not disappointment. Perplexed? Not quite. Sad? No. Not angry, exasperated, or long-suffering. She only knows he's not entirely pleased with her announcement, for whatever reason. (Why is she bothering to discern his expression? That's the real question.)
"If that's what you want."
He pulls out his wallet, leaves some cash on the table before sliding out of the booth. He holds a hand out to her, ostensibly to help her up, but she rises on her own. She nods for him to lead the way, and he shakes his head with a soft laugh.
He has a quick word with Ruby and Roland's jubilant "Bye Gina! I see you in the morning!" echoes in the busy diner as Robin ushers Regina outside.
He doesn't take her to the sheriff's-station-slash-jail, though. Instead, he walks down Main Street, cutting into a pathway shrouded with overhanging branches and thick shrubbery. She is hesitant to follow him, but curiosity wins out in the end.
"Is this where you kill me and dismember my body?" she asks.
He turns around and gives her a measuring look—a lingering measuring look. "I believe it more likely that you'd mete out my demise long before I made my bumbling attempt."
She grins before she can catch herself. "True."
He gives her a beatific smile in return, and there's an odd sort of flutter in her stomach. (That's inconvenient.) He gestures beyond the path toward a large house—not quite a mansion but almost. "Your castle, milady," he says, "at least for the night."
There's a sign hanging over the door. Granny's Bed & Breakfast. Did the woman own the whole town? Or was the place rife with geriatrics? "I don't understand."
He fishes something out of his pocket—a key—and hands it to her. "Granny upgraded you at no extra charge to a room with a view of the town square," he explains. "I hear it's a favorite." When she continues to stare at him, he adds, "Unless you'd rather have the cot. That would certainly save me some money."
She turns the key over in her hand. It's attached to a beautiful keychain of ravens in flight. "You paid for the room? For me?"
He shrugs. "I did put you out by arresting you. Seemed like the decent thing to do."
She doesn't know what to make of this—of him. It is a nice gesture, too nice. And it's unfamiliar (and discomfiting). "Am I supposed to thank you?"
"A simple 'thank you' would suffice, yes." He does that lip-bite thing again, and oh god, he's flirting with her. And what the hell is up with all the sudden commotion in her belly over it? "I'll leave you to get settled, then. Have a good night, Regina."
She doesn't move as he turns to leave—because though he's said her name before, this time it's different. Like hope. Like a promise. And it's utterly ridiculous. She's known the man for all of eight hours, and after tomorrow, she'll be on her way back to Boston. He knows that, too.
Halfway down the path, he spins on his heel and strides toward her, and if her stomach was full of butterflies before, they've multiplied a hundredfold now. He stops just inside the invisible boundary of her personal space. Her imagination flares to life, supplying her with the image of him closing the rest of the distance, knotting his fingers in her hair and—
Whoa, whoa, whoa. No. No. Not even in the realm of possibility.
What exactly was in her dinner? Love Potion No. 9?
"I apologize if I'm being forward," he says, "but would you care to have breakfast with Roland and myself tomorrow?"
She would say no—she should say no, but she thinks of the dimpled little boy who was so optimistic about spending time with her "in the morning." Really, it's an underhanded tactic, using his son against her. It works, of course. "Okay."
"Brilliant." More lip biting. More smiling. More everything he should be banned from doing in her presence, she decides. "I'll fetch you around eight." He holds her gaze (also not allowed) for a beat before retreating.
"Robin," she calls before he disappears. His name on her tongue tastes foreign and familiar at the same time. That's a bad, bad sign—flashing "DANGER" in bright, neon letters.
"Yes?" He raises a brow.
Better nip this in the bud before he gets the wrong idea. "This wasn't a date."
His brows furrow, though there's still a hint of a smile curving the corners of his mouth. "I never implied otherwise."
"And tomorrow," she clarifies, "that's not a date, either."
His expression becomes mock sincerity. "Of course not." He gives her a wink. "See you in the morning, Gina."
When she gets to her room, she finds all of her things waiting for her—her suitcase, her purse, her phone. Even her wallet (minus her expired license). He trusts her not to slip town. He treats her like a regular person instead of a ball-busting tycoon to be feared or vanquished.
Oh, yeah. She's in big trouble.
A/N: Thank you for taking a gander. Reviews give me life! XD