Thanksgiving had come and gone and the Christmas season was now upon them.

In any given year, this was a melancholy season. Thoughts of Marian and all she was missing out on inevitably surfaced, the thought of her never seeing the sheer joy on Roland's face as he pulled a sweet potato pie from the oven or his absolute euphoria when he woke up early on Christmas morning to find an array of wrapped presents beneath the tree. As he got older, he looked more and more like her—save his dimples—and without even knowing it, he took on more and more of her characteristics. From the way he hung tinsel on the tree piece by piece to the way he'd beg for spare change whenever he saw the Salvation Army volunteer holding a red kettle to collect money for those less fortunate than they. Like his mother's, Roland's eyes were full of empathy and like his mother, Roland had a knack for finding joy in the simplest of things, unknowingly keeping everyone else afloat.

That year, in particular, Roland was his saving grace...

A year before, he'd been doing the impossible, slowly but surely falling in love. And this year, he was once more doing the impossible, trying to come to terms with a slow and yet abrupt end to that love. A year before, the future seemed ripe with hope and things to look forward to—even it was limited to stolen glances across a crowded ballroom, cups of coffee here and there, and walks in the park every now and then. Even after Regina left, there'd been the hope that came along her letters—the excitement and anticipation as he found one sitting in his post box, the way he'd consider her at various parts of his day, noting the things that would make her smile and laugh. For a time, it seemed they'd found the perfect arrangement, and then… it just stopped.

She'd written that letter—that god damned letter—about keeping options open, and he'd refused to take it as it was clearly meant, convincing himself that something deeper was going on, that it couldn't possibly be the beginning of the end. But the letter he'd written back was met with no reply. Clearly, John had been right and he just hadn't been able to take the hint.

It was ironic, really. He'd told John that if she wanted to end things, she'd have to be more direct—and well, it couldn't get more direct than simply stopping their correspondence.

Marco and Eugenia suggested he should write to her again or arrange a phone call with the Post Office, at the very least to force an explanation. But he couldn't do that—he didn't want to hear it. It'd hurt too much.

A year ago, he'd been helplessly falling in love, and this year, he was helplessly trying to fall out of love…

"Papa, can we make a gingerbread house?"

Robin blinks, suddenly pulled back into the moment by his son, grinning up from a magazine and batting his long lashes. "A gingerbread house," he repeats. "I don't think I'd know where to begin."

Roland holds up the magazine—the holiday edition of Ladies Home Journal. "There are directions in this."

"Of course there are, but—"

"It says it's easy."

"Of course it does, that's the point of an—"

"And it says that it's tasty."

"Well, that part I believe."

Roland grins down at the image of a little blonde-haired boy placing a gumdrop onto a snowy, icing-covered rooftop. "But I think it's almost too pretty to eat—"

"We could make it from wood," John suggests, peeking out from the kitchen, a dripping dishcloth in hand. "Then you could keep it forever."

Robin grimaces and Roland's nose scrunches. "But a wooden house wouldn't make our house smell like Christmas." He blinks up at John, holding up the magazine. "See? It says right here that a gingerbread house will make the whole house smell like Christmas!" Grinning, he turns to face Robin. "So, can we Papa? Please? I'd ask Santa Claus for one, but then we wouldn't get it til after Christmas and it wouldn't work as well."

Now, John's face scrunches. "It wouldn't work?"

"No," Roland says, looking back at him sharply as if he's said something incredibly stupid. "You want the house to smell like Christmas during the Christmas season, not after it." Again, Roland turns, his bottom lip jutting out as he pouts, his wide brown eyes meet his father's. "Please, Papa? Please, can we make one?"

Helpless, Robin looks to John, mentally totaling up the cost of the candy alone that's pictured in the advertisement. But John only shrugs. "You're the one who insisted on teaching him to read," he says before disappearing back into the kitchen and turning the faucet back on.

Roland gets up from the floor and climbs up onto the couch, laying the magazine across Robin's lap. "Look at it, Papa. Doesn't it look like they're having fun?"

Robin can't deny that as he considers his upcoming drive to Canada—a drive that will take at least double the time given the coming snow storm—and the number of deliveries both he and John will need to make after they return. He considers the Christmas shopping he still needs to do, how Roland's recent growth spurt had forced him to buy his son new clothes and shoes before he was ready to do so and how that same month, he and John lost one of their best paying customers to the latest wave of influenza. This year, money was tighter than it usually was, and he and John had already cut corners and made sacrifices where they could to afford Roland a nice birthday and Christmas.

Robin sighs. "You realize that if we make that thing, it's going to be our dessert for the next month."

Roland beams and nods. "I bet it won't even last a week."

"He's right, you know," John calls out from the kitchen. "The three of us will build and demolish that thing in a single weekend."

Robin sighs again and nods, knowing both John and Roland are right. "I guess we'll have to take a picture so we can remem—"

"So we can make it!?" Roland asks, bouncing up from the couch. "Can we make it today!?"

Robin laughs. "Well, we'll have to go to the market and the candy store, so it'll have to be done tomorrow—"

"You promise!? Can we go in the morning?"

"Yes—"

He barely gets out the word before Roland throws his arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. "Thank you, Papa! Thank you!"

Robin grins, again reminded of Marian and how the littlest of things would excite her, especially at this time of year—the first snow was always exciting, picking out their Christmas tree was always an adventure, and he knew that Marian would match her son's enthusiasm over building their first-ever gingerbread house.

"Why don't you go wash up," Robin says, brushing a few straying curls from Roland's forehead. "It's already past your bedtime and if we're going to get good eggs, we'll have to be at the market first thing in the morning."

Roland scurries off, leaving the magazine for Robin to look at—and for awhile, he does, taking note of the ingredients they have and the candy that can double for other, more expensive pieces.

"I feel like now is a good time to remind you that Eugenia taught me how to make those silly little frosting flowers that one time 'cause she needed help designing Ruby's wedding cake," John says, pulling a flask from his pocket and taking a swig. "Could be useful now, though if you ever tell anyone other than Roland that I know how to make 'em, I'll smother you in your sleep."

"Think you can do trees?"

John leans forward, then nods. "Sure, I could give it a try. I know I could teach Roland to do 'em. He's got smaller hands."

"That matters?"

"For delicate little things like that?" John scoffs. "Of course it matters." He takes another swig as Robin examines the picture. "Eugenia had these special thongs she uses to—"

"Tongs—they're called tongs, John," Robin corrects, shuddering at the image it conjures and laughing as John's face goes red. "But anyway, I'm glad because I haven't the foggiest idea as to where I can find green licorice."

"And I don't know where to find fancy tongs."

Robin laughs and tosses the magazine onto the coffee table, listening as the water from the bathroom turns on, indicating that Roland is at the very least pretending to brush his teeth. "Building this thing could be fun—"

"Sounds tedious to me."

"Roland will enjoy it, even if we don't."

John grins, nodding as he takes another swig from his flask. "True."

They both jump as a knock comes at the door—it's quick and loud, and given the time of evening, completely unexpected. For a moment, both he and John sit there, silently arguing over who will answer it, but as the person on the other side rasps their knuckles against the door, John sits back and returns his attention to flask.

With a louder-than-necessary sigh, Robin gets up—and when he opens it to reveal Mrs. Potts on the other side of the door, John nearly chokes on his whiskey as he tries to stop himself from laughing out.

"I hope this isn't a bad time, Mr. Locksley."

"You can call him Robin," John calls out. "Everyone does."

Robin's jaw tightens as Mrs. Potts' face brightens. "Well, Robin, I hope I'm not bothering you."

"You're not," John replies.

Robin looks back at him briefly, his eyes narrowing with annoyance. "Actually," he says, turning back to Mrs. Potts. "It's bedtime and—"

"I got it," John interjects. "I think it's my turn anyway."

"Oh, how wonderful," Mrs. Potts says. "I think it's just lovely the way Roland still has two parents—or well, you know what I mean."

Robin nods. "I suppose I do."

"It's just Chip and I in our house. Sometimes I wish I had someone to help with the daily routines. They can be so draining, sometimes."

Robin holds his breath as he considers how to reply. "So, um… is there a reason you've stopped by."

"Oh! Right! Of course. How silly of me not to lead with that." Mrs. Potts laughs out and even from the bathroom, Robin can hear John laughing. "I, um… I'd have stopped by earlier, but…"

"Dinner."

"Well, yes, and…" She blushes. "I was hoping to catch you alone."

"I'm never alone."

She nods, reaching into her apron pocket. "I ran into the postman today—"

"Oh—"

"And—oh, he just felt terrible about it—you see, there was some sort of mixup."

Robin's eyes narrow. "Mix up—"

"Yes, some of your mail got stuck between the door and the seat of his truck, and—"

Robin's eyes fall to the envelopes in her hand, his jaw tensing once more at the sight of a familiar stamp. "And you just… happened to end up with it?" He asks, his heart pounding as he tears his eyes from the stamp that bears the face of George V. "How long have you had my mail?"

"Well, he gave it to me this afternoon. He had some of my things stuck in his truck, too, and when I told him we were close friends—" She stops, her cheeks flushing again. "Oh, you look upset. I swear he only just gave it to me. You were out, and—"

"He could've put it in my box."

"Yes, but—" Mrs. Potts holds out the envelopes. "Can't I make it up to you? I've just put on a kettle and—"

"I'm sorry, no," Robin says, trying to keep the irritation from his voice as he takes them from her. "I, um… Roland doesn't like to go down easily these days. He likes to stay up and—"

"Chip does the same thing."

Robin nods. "Probably the age they're at."

"Yes. I believe so." A little laugh bubbles out of her. "I just don't know what I'll do with him…"

Her voice trails off, and it's clear she wants to drag out the conversation, clear that she's looking for Robin to give her some sort of encouragement or advice, or suggest they handle it together or something foolish like that. But truthfully, Roland is still a good sleeper and he suspects that Chip is, too.

"So, then, I'd better go and help John."

Mrs. Potts is disappointed, but smiles politely. "Oh, of course."

"Thank you for, um… for bringing down my post." He rubs his finger along the edge of the letter he knows is from Regina, his heart beating faster with hope and his stomach churning with dread. "I've been waiting for this one—"

Mrs. Potts nods. "From England, that's an awfully long way."

"Yes. It is."

"You have family there, I suppose."

He hesitates—he supposes that's true, there's probably an aunt and some cousins he hasn't talked to or thought of since he was young—but he nods, not wanting to explain. "Yes. Family."

"Well, I'll leave you to it, then. I'm sure you're eager to hear what they've to say." Mrs. Potts starts to turn away, but then looks back. "I put a kettle on every night around this time. Just so you know." She grins and winks, then turns away, and Robin sighs and closes the door, practically forgetting all about her and her awkward advances by the time he flops back onto the couch.

He tosses the other two envelopes aside and stares at the one Regina sent, staring at the way his name looks in her penmanship, noting the tattered edges and an oil stain smeared across the corner opposite the stamp. For a while, he just stares at it, debating if he should even open it. He reaches across the coffee table for John's flask and takes a long sip, letting the whiskey go down slowly, letting it burn the back of his throat as he lifts the envelope and forces his finger underneath the sealed flap—at least now he'd have an answer, one way or another.

The first thing he notices is that it's short—and that realization makes his lungs deflate. After his letter, she didn't have much to say.

Momentarily, he closes his eyes, mustering the courage to read on, mustering the courage to read exactly what he asked for—a direct response, a sure end.

But as his eyes open, they're drawn to her signature and the words that precede it—love always, it says.

His eyes dart up the page and he resists the urge to scan the page, worried he'll misconstrue the meaning, one way or the other.

An array of emotions hit him as he reads Regina's words—worry at the thought that whatever the letter includes is selfish, excitement and relief at her desire for them to be exclusive. He finds that he doesn't even linger on that though, not considering why she's saying that now or wondering if John wasn't right and there was another man, even if just briefly.

Then, he sees the mention of enclosed pictures.

He reaches for the envelope, he hadn't noticed the thickness before.

Looking back to the letter, his brow arches with curiosity—photographs for him to enjoy?

That sounded…

"Well, he's asleep," John says, a chuckle bubbling out of him as he returns to the living room. "Y'know, you really could've enjoyed that kettle with—" John's voice halts as he looks to Robin, noticing the familiar stamp. "So, she finally wrote to you."

"Weeks ago—"

John huffs as he falls back into the armchair. "And what does she have to say this time?"

Robin hesitates for an all too brief moment. "She wants us to be exclusive."

"And… that's different from before?"

Robin bristles, annoyed. "I… don't know," he admits. "I don't know if before matters."

He can tell that John isn't pleased with that answer, his feelings toward Regina are tepid, at best. But truly, he doesn't care what John thinks. He and Regina never set bounds, they'd only ever offered one another what they could afford. In many ways, their love was conditional, and though others might find fault in that, it worked for them and so far, neither had put in place a condition the other couldn't or wouldn't meet.

"When was it dated for?"

"October eighteenth."

John's brow arches. "That was…"

"Months ago, at this point." He sighs, his eyes sinking closed. "She probably assumed—"

"Exactly what you assumed after her last letter."

Robin blinks and offers a curt nod. "I suppose so."

For a moment, he lingers on that, knowing all too well what she's feeling and the thoughts that have to be swirling through her head. He can hear John talking—talking about how Regina is the one who set the all into motion and if she hadn't sent that letter about keeping options open, neither of them would be miserable—but he can't fully pay attention to it. Instead, all he can think about is that his reply will take three additional weeks to reach her, longer, given the excessive mail that goes out around the holidays.

"I, uh… I think I'm going to go jump in the shower then to bed."

John blinks. "It's not even ten."

"Yeah, well… I'm hunting down gum drops, chuckles, and sno-caps tomorrow, and I want to stop in at the Post Office to make a telephone call."

At that, John's brow juts up. "You're gonna call her?"

A smile stretches over Robin's face as he nods. He can feel his face reddening and his heart beats a little faster at the thought of finally hearing her voice again. "I just… I don't want to wait. I just want this little period of uncertainty between us to be done and over with."

John nods, grinning as he watches Robin collect the letter and envelope. "Well, goodnight then," he says, leaning back in the chair. "You sure you don't want that kettle—"

"No, but you're free to go up and enjoy… the kettle and whatever other comforts Mrs. Potts has to offer."

"Ah, but Beatrice isn't interested in me."

"How tragic that is."

John's eyes roll as Robin disappears down the short hallway toward the bathroom—the only place in the apartment where he can find a moment's solitude—and once he's inside, he pulls the pictures from the envelope, finding them wrapped in a piece of paper with the words "open when you're alone" written across it. He swallows hard as he pulls himself up onto the counter and leans back against the mirror, slowly ripping off the tape that holds it together.

His jaw drops a little at the sight of the first one—Regina is sitting on the edge of the bed wearing a sheer little nightgown with lace details that didn't cover up a single thing, her legs are crossed demurely and he's not sure if it's an attempt to feign modesty or an attempt to tease him. For a moment, he's frozen in place, unable to look away from it, noting and appreciating every curve of her body, remembering what it was like to touch her.

Letting out a shallow little breath, he looks to the next photograph, his eyes immediately drawn to her bare breasts. In this one, she's laying on the bed, her arm up around her head, her fingers tangled in her loose curls as the other hand twists the long pearl necklace that she wears, drawing his eye to her navel—and then to the spot just below, covered by a thin patch of lace.

Swallowing hard, he flips to the third and final picture—and when he does, a muffled little oh fuck escapes him. In this photograph, Regina is naked—completely naked. Her back is arched up slightly and making her breasts look round and full. Unlike the others, her nipples look hard, almost like she's been giving them some attention—and given the look on her face, that doesn't seem unlikely. His eyes slide down her body and his breath catches at the sight of her hand, positioned between her legs—and it sends a jolt straight to his cock.

For you to enjoy at your leisure, she'd said. And that night, he most certainly would be.

For the last week or so, she's been antsy, unable to be alone with her own thoughts.

She'd ruined this—she knew she had.

It'd been months since she heard from him, months since she sent her last letter.

He'd written back once—he hadn't yet received her letters or the pictures she enclosed—and she'd thought everything was okay. But then, no more letters came. The hope she'd felt when she read his last letter, the excitement she felt about his response after receiving her pictures dwindled, replaced by a dull ache that she was now accustomed to.

She'd done this.

This had been wholly her fault.

She did what she always did—made a choice that in the moment seemed right, not anticipating the catastrophic consequences it would have. Ever since she was a child, she'd had a penchant for ruining the good things she had. It was always unintentional, always wrought from the best intentions, and always left her feeling empty—and worse than that, foolish. She was always able to look back and plainly see her mistakes, able to pin-point exactly where things had gone awry.

Now, she'd given Robin his out—and out he never asked for—and regardless of whether or not a new opportunity presented itself, he'd taken that out.

It was more than apparent...

"You do realize brooding isn't going to help matters, don't you?" She looks up, watching as Mal practically floats into the room, already in her pajamas and a silky, flowy robe. "I don't have plans tonight. We should do something."

"I'm not in the mood."

"Well, you have to eat—" Regina sighs, rolling her eyes. "Look, it's December, Regina. Everything's crazy around the holidays. The mail's slower because everyone and their brother is sending packages here and there, people have family obligations and extra errands to run. I… I truly think this is about timing."

Her brow arches. "Timing? Really?"

"Sure!"

Regina scoffs. "Okay—"

"And what's the alternative? He's suddenly lost interest?"

"Yes," Regina blinks. "That's exactly the alternative."

"And why would he just randomly—"

"Because it's not random. I set it into motion." Her head falls back against the couch and her eyes press closed. "Mal, I sent that stupid letter. I got stuck in my head and felt like I was holding him back and I told him to look for someone else."

"That's not what you said."

"That's what I implied! Oh my god, I am such an idiot, Mal."

Mal draws in a breath and though she isn't looking at her, she knows exactly what her face looks like and she knows that she's looking at her that same disapproving glare she gave her when she confessed what she'd written all those months before.

"You could… say something, you know."

"What would you like me to say, Regina?" Mal asks, clicking her tongue. "I could agree with you, but that wouldn't help. You don't need more of a reason to beat yourself up—"

"But do you agree?" Regina looks back to her, her eyes wide. "You do, don't you?"

Mal's arms fold and her eyes narrow. "You've been drinking."

"I don't see why that matters."

"You opened up that bottle of tequila, didn't you?"

Regina's eyes roll, feeling like a child being chastised for breaking into the liquor cabinet. "It was already open and I only had one glass. I'm not drunk."

"Alcohol never helps when you're like this."

Her jaw tenses with indignation. "Like what?"

"On your self-destructive path."

Standing, Regina goes to the window, looking out at the already-darkening sky. "I just… I wish I could know. I wish there was some way to—"

"Write to him. Send it express."

"That'll still take at least a week, and I did write to him. He never replied." Mal frowns. Regina can see her reflection in the window. "He didn't like me when he first met me."

"A lot of people don't like you when they first meet you."

A half-hearted grin tugs up at the corner of her mouth and she turns to face her. "You liked me."

"I was five. I liked everyone." She shrugs. "And you had nice hair."

Regina's brow arches. "I had nice hair?"

"Yes. Everyone in my family had dark hair, and I wanted it," she says simply. "Your mother or someone curled it into these perfect little ringlets and you had nice, thick bangs and your bow actually stayed tied the whole day. I was jealous. I looked like a drowned rat most of the time."

Regina blinks, remembering Mal's poker-straight blonde hair—something she had always envied—that had always been the bane of her existence. "I can't believe this is the first I'm hearing of this."

"Even at six I was too proud." A little laugh escapes her. "You had nice eyebrows, too."

"Is… there a point you're trying to make?"

"Other than that you don't know everything?" Mal asks, her head tipping slightly to the side. "And other than that first impressions are irrelevant?"

"Are you saying I don't have nice hair?"

Mal's eyes roll. "I'm literally just saying that when we first met, you were likable. That you are a likable person."

"Well, I've changed quite a bit since I was six."

"You know what else I remember about you back then?"

"No, but I bet you're going to tell me."

"I remember that you had no idea how pretty you were." Regina's brow furrows. "You didn't. You had no confidence in yourself. I remember that little creep Sidney and all his friends used to huddle up and whisper, and you were always convinced that they were talking about you, calling you names and—"

"I was six."

"This isn't different, Regina."

"It's entirely different!" Regina feels her eyes go wide. "Mal, I literally told the man that I love that he should go and find someone else. And then, I took it back and included those ridiculous pictures—"

"Those pictures were not ridiculous."

"I was practically throwing myself at him."

"Yeah. From across the ocean." Mal sighs and sits down on the couch, reaching for Regina's hand and tugging her down beside her. "Listen. First and foremost, you looked hot in those pictures. Second, even if he wasn't into you anymore, there's no way he didn't enjoy those pictures, and third, you got scared and you did something dumb. You had his best interest in mind, and then you calmed down and corrected the mistake. Sure, a couple of weeks went by between—"

"Months went by."

"Not really."

Regina's brow arches. "Are you telling me I don't know how to read a calendar?"

"I'm telling you that if you take out the time that the letters take to arrive—the amount of time they sit in crates on ships and being sent from Post Office to Post Office—like, two weeks went by."

"That's... not how it works."

"That's just not how it works in your head." Mal sighs and gives Regina's hand a little squeeze. "You don't know what happened. Maybe his letter got lost or maybe—"

"Or maybe he just realized how neurotic I am and decided that for once in my life I was actually right and he can do better."

For a moment, Mal just stares at her. "Why do I even bother with you?"

A little grin tugs up at the corner of Regina's mouth. "You'd miss my face too much if you didn't."

With a sigh, Mal nods. "You're right. I would. As infuriating as you are…"

"You'd miss my pretty hair and good brows."

"You just… you just need to get out of your own head, Regina. You invent problems where they don't exist. That was your problem when you were six and that's your problem now. You can't—"

"What am I supposed to do, Mal? He's an ocean away."

"There has to be something that—"

"There's not. Not if he doesn't respond to my letters. I can't call him or—"

"Why not?"

Regina blinks. "Well, he doesn't have a telephone, so—"

"Arthur does."

"But he doesn't live with Arthur."

"But the only reason Arthur has one is that he was using the one at the Post—"

"Mal, this is completely irrelevant."

Mal's lips press together and she nods in agreement. "I know. I just… I hate seeing you so helpless and—" Her voice halts. "You need a distraction."

"That's what the tequila was supposed to be for."

"No, a real distraction—"

"Mal," Regina cuts in. "I'm not in the mood to go out and—"

"Christmas is coming, right?" Regina's eyes narrow. "I still haven't gotten Henry anything."

"Are you suggesting we go shopping?"

"No, I'm suggesting you go shopping." Mal bounces up and moves toward the desk. "For the last few years, I've gone all out for Christmas. I felt like I had to make it up to Henry since he couldn't go home and, truthfully, I really enjoy spoiling him."

"Mal, I can't—"

"I always call you anyway, Regina. I never know what to get that kid." Mal turns back to her, holding a little envelope embellished with the bank logo. "This is my Henry Budget."

"I couldn't—"

"Why not? I was going to spend it anyway. I literally went to the bank this morning, but you were at work, so I couldn't go because I had no idea what to get him." Mal shoves the envelope into Regina's hand. "Go. Spend it. Get lost in the department store finding things to spoil your son with. You'll feel better. I promise."

Biting down on her bottom lip, Regina looks to the envelope considering what it'd be like to shop the way she used to—to go into a store and not worry about the price of anything, to simply get whatever she saw and liked. Slowly, she parts the sides of the envelope, her brow jutting up at the number of bills in it. "I didn't even spend this much on Henry last year."

"I told you. I like to spoil him, even if I haven't the slightest clue what a boy his age would like." Mal shrugs. "Truthfully, you'd be doing me a favor and him a favor."

Again, she bites down on her lip. "You don't want to come?"

"No, I've got some things to do around here," she says, sighing. "My cook has decided she's going to retire. Her son and his wife just bought a house up in Edinburgh. She's going to live with them. So, I need to make some inquiries." Mal grins. "So, you have three hours of retail therapy in front of you, and when you get back, I'll be so bored I won't be able to pass up the opportunity to look at slingshots and… sweater vests and…"

Regina's laugh interrupts her. "You really don't have any idea of what Henry likes."

Mal shrugs, a satisfied little smile edging over her lips. "See? It's already working."

"Maybe—"

"Just… enjoy yourself, and… try not to do anything stupid."

At that, Regina laughs again and agrees—but this time she feels a little knot forming in her stomach, and she doubts the distraction will actually work.

The day hadn't gone at all as planned, and a late start easily turned into a non start.

An unexpected snowfall halted his plans, and by the time he dug out his truck, Mrs. Potts was staring out at the unshoveled sidewalks that would lead her away from their building and toward the hospital where she worked in the laundry room—and for the first time, she asked a favor of him that wasn't dropping in uncomfortable pretense. The twenty minute drive, however, took more than an hour one way, and by the time he made it back home, Roland was awake and antsy, quick to remind him of the promise he'd made the night before to go out and buy the items necessary to build his gingerbread house later that evening.

The market was relatively quick, and by the time they left, most of the shop owners on Main Street had shoveled the walkways in front of their shops.

Robin stomped his boots on the mat as they entered the candy store and by the time he was done, Roland was already inside and half way down an aisle, picking out butterscotch buttons.

"Hey, Ingrid," he says, sighing as he watches his son fill up a bag with too many pieces of the candy. "How's business these days."

She grins and offers a shrug. "It's Christmas. I do more business at Christmas than I do at any other point in the year."

"Well," Robin says, leaning against the counter. "Something tells me my son's about to double your sales."

At that, Ingrid laughs. "Is he looking for something in particular?"

"About forty different kinds of candy," Robin says, pulling out the list he'd written out that morning. "He found a gingerbread house in a magazine and—"

"And now he's going wild."

"I think that's accurate," Robin says, chuckling softly as he watches Roland carefully pull a peppermint stick out of a container, giving it a long whiff. "This gingerbread house is going to cost more than a month's rent at my actual house." Pausing, he looks between Roland and Ingrid. "You know… I have an errand to run down the street. Could you help him pick out what's on this list and—"

"And stick to what's actually on the list?"

Robin laughs. "Well. He can get a thing or two for himself. Just…"

"Within reason."

"Exactly."

"I'll do my best," she says, coming around the counter and dusting her hands off on her apron. "You know, my shop is one of the shops that Santa Claus comes to stock the town's children's stockings with candy." Her voice rose an octave, catching Roland's attention. "It'd be a shame if we sold out of some of his favorites."

Ingrid grins and Robin shakes his head. "Thank you," he murmurs. "I won't be long."

"Take your time. It's a slow day in here."

Robin nods. "Well, still. It's not your job to babysit and—"

"I'll hardly have to do anything. He's already entranced. He'll still be in a daze when you return, I'm sure."

Chuckling softly, Robin nods—Ingrid is likely right.

"Hey Roland," he calls, crouching down so he's at Roland's level. "Come here a minute, bud." Ingrid laughs as Roland runs toward him—waddling, really, as he struggles to lift his boots to hit an actual stride. "You remember Ingrid, right?"

Roland nods, his eyes casting down, suddenly shy. "Yes. She's the Candy Lady."

Ingrid laughs. "I think that might be the nicest name I've ever been called."

Roland's cheeks flush. "Well, you see, I've got to run to the Post Office, so Ingrid—"

"You can call me Candy Lady. I don't mind," she says, crouching down and winking at Roland. "I kinda like it."

Roland grins up at her and Robin chuckles—of John's exes, she's absolutely his favorite. "She's going to help you pick out what we need for the gingerbread house and help you pick out some things that Santa can put in your stocking."

Ingrid nods. "It's true. Every year he stops in and I just never know what to tell him."

Robin laughs as Roland's eyes widen and a smile pulls onto his lips—and before he can tell him to be good or not to load up on unnecessary things, Roland and Ingrid are already down an aisle pulling a jar of sno-caps from the shelf.

He hesitates for just a moment before turning away and heading down the street to the Post Office at the end. There's a line for the telephone booth, and he sighs before taking his place, shoving his hands into his pockets and avoiding eye contact with Will, the manager. As a reflex, he finds himself hiding in his jacket...

It's not that he doesn't like Will—quite the contrary, actually—and there had been a time when they were close. They'd know each other since they were kids. They'd gone to school together, worked odd jobs as teenagers together, and when they were drafted into the army, they went to training camp together.

During the war, Robin went off in one direction and Will went in another—then after, nothing was the same.

For a time, Will was his favorite drinking buddy—the one he could go to when he wanted to forget about the world. But he found himself "getting lost" with Will far too often and even in his haze, he could see the effect it was having on his marriage. Still, it took a while to figure out how to handle it and it wasn't until they both ended up drunk and in a jail cell with little memory of what had gotten them there that he finally had to put the friendship behind him. Marian hadn't given him much of a choice.

John still saw him every now and then—to drink and play cards, and occasionally to do a job run. But Robin never went and when John returned home, he never asked.

He can't quite explain why that was—maybe he was afraid of falling down the rabbit hole again, maybe he felt sorry for him or maybe he felt guilty.

Nonetheless, he avoids eye contact, pulling out the copy of Ladies Home Journal that Roland made him bring along for reference. He reads the article about the gingerbread house, carefully reading through the instructions for the umpteenth time before moving onto an article about the "necessity" of an in-house dishwasher. He scoffs at the article, rolling his eyes at the testimony of housewives whose lives were revolutionized by the device, and he chuckles softly to himself at the thought of making John obsolete.

The line moves relatively quickly—it's difficult to have a full conversation, when you're standing upright and crammed in a tiny little booth with no less than twelve people impatiently standing behind you—and as he inches closer and closer, his heart beats faster and faster.

He thinks about what it'll be like to hear her voice again, wondering if he'll be able to close his eyes and pretend that she's standing there with him. He thinks about what she'll say—will she laugh about the mix up? Will even believe that there was a mix up? Will she be relieved to hear his voice or—

Suddenly, he's aware that it's his turn. His stomach lurches and his palms are clammy—and suddenly, he's rooted in place.

It takes a moment for him to regain his nerve.

His hands nearly shake as he reaches for the phone and puts the receiver to his ear.

"How may I help you?" the operator asks.

"Um, I need to be connected to, uh, Mallory Pendragon. London, England."

"Of course. Since it's international, it'll be a couple of minutes."

He waits as the line is connected for him—and as he waits, his nerves begin to give way to his excitement.

Finally, the line connects. It rings once, then twice, and then a third time—and just as he feels himself sighing, a woman's voice is on the other end—a woman he can only assume is Mal.

"Hello, um… um, this Robin… Robin Locksley. I'm calling—"

"Oh shit—"

He stops as her voice interrupts his, caught off guard by her reaction to his call. "Is… is this a bad time?"

"She's not here, Robin."

"Oh—"

"Damn it. I sent her shopping." Mal sighs on the other end. "Fuck."

"Oh—"

"She's been eager to hear from you, you know?"

At that, he smiles. "Has she?"

"She's going to be absolutely beside herself and if you weren't an ocean away I'd murder you for putting her through such hell."

A little chuckle escapes him and for some reason, her threat makes him smile, too. "Uh, do you… do you think you could take a message?"

Mal laughs—or maybe it's a scoff. "You've heard the phrase "shoot the messenger," haven't you?"

"Um, yes—"

"Well, that's exactly what Regina's going to do." His brow furrows, not quite sure how to take that. "But go ahead. She may shoot me when she hears your message, but if she finds out I didn't bother to take one, I'll be sleeping with one eye open for the next month."

Robin laughs, reminded of his own relationship with John—and upon that realization, his shoulders relax. And then his mind suddenly goes blank. He spent the earliest hours of the morning lying in bed and thinking of what he'd say to Regina, he'd never planned for what he'd say to Mal in Regina's absence. "Um, can you… can you just tell her that…" His voice trails off and a sly little smile tugs up from the corner as he remembers Regina's last letter to him. "Tell her I want her to be selfish."

He can almost hear Mal's confusion on the other end. "You want her to be… selfish."

"Yes."

"And… that's… that's all you want to say to her?"

"For now, yes."

"Alright then, I'll tell her," Mal says with a sigh. "If you're sure—"

"I'm positive," he interjects, smiling like an idiot. "Anything more I'd want to come directly from me."

"Okay—"

"Thank you. Good night."

Mal returns the sentiment and the line goes dead, then with a little laugh he hangs the receiver back on the wall. He turns out of the booth, stepping aside as he makes his way toward the door, ducking out unnoticed.

His plan hadn't gone at all as he planned and he wouldn't lie to himself and say he wasn't disappointed that he didn't get to talk to her, but at least his message would be conveyed, at least they could stop torturing themselves over what the other was or wasn't thinking, and maybe their next correspondence would get them back to the way they'd been before that god damned letter about keeping options open.

Mal taps her foot, fidgeting as she stares at the telephone, cursing herself for sending Regina on that damn shopping trip. Truly, she'd just meant to take her mind off of Robin for a bit, wanting her to have something to do that didn't involve silently berating herself—and, of course, there was the added personal bonus of not having to figure out what a boy Henry's age might like as she wandered aimlessly through the sections of Peter Robinson's Department Store that were most foreign to her.

Though she had no way of knowing that Robin Locksley would choose that particular evening to call, Regina would be upset. And she understood that—if their positions were reversed she'd be upset and though it wouldn't be the most rational line of thought, she'd lash out and look for someone to blame for her misfortune.

Biting down on her lip, she got up and went back to the phone in the hall, swirling the cord between her fingers as she waited for an operator to connect.

"Can I help you?"

"The number that just called here, can you call them back?"

"I can try."

"It was placed from the states," she says. "A little Post Office in Storybrooke, Maine."

"Yes, I have it here," the operator tells her in an almost mechanical voice. "I'm connecting you now."

Mal holds her breath, waiting as the call connects, and to her surprise, the line rings. Exhaling, she smiles, glad to be over the first hurdle; she didn't really have a backup plan for if the line had been busy.

"Storybrooke Post," says a voice, "How can I help ya?"

"Hello," she begins. "I need to speak to the office manager or—"

"That'd be me."

Her brow furrows. The man's words sound slightly slurred. "Oh, how perfect," she coos. "What luck!"

There's a pause. "So, can I help ya or—"

"Mm, yes," she says, drawing in a breath. "My name's Mallory Pendragon—"

"Pendragon—"

She smiles at his recognition of her name. Good, she thought. He was more likely to take her offer seriously if he knew of her family and their wealth. "And what's your name?"

"Will Scarlett."

Her eyes narrow, a faint memory conjuring—but it's too faint to have much meaning. And truly, it doesn't matter if she recognizes the name or not. "Well, Mr. Scarlett, I have a proposition for you,"

He huffs, and she can practically feel his smug smirk. "Do ya now?"

Her eyes roll, but she laughs. "Not like that!"

"Well, you're no fun—"

"I'm plenty fun," she tells him. "It's too bad I'm so far away, otherwise I'd come over there and show you."

"Is that so?"

He sounds amused. "It is too bad."

"So, Mr. Scarlett, I'm wondering if you might do me a big favor?"

"Depends on what it is—"

"Or what you'll get in return?"

He offers a hearty laugh. "We've already established I won't be getting anything from ya."

She resists the urge to groan, giggling instead. "Actually, we haven't established that at all."

There's a pause. "I'm listening."

"Can I ask you a frank question?"

"'Course. Ya can ask me anything, darlin'."

She grimaces—he thinks he's getting phone sex, she thinks to herself. "How much do you earn a week at the Post Office?" There's another pause. He didn't expect that. "Oh come on," she coos. "Tell me."

"I'm the manager—"

"That isn't what I asked."

Again, there's a pause. She can tell he's trying to figure out what to tell her.

Finally, he says. "Thirty-five a week."

Her brow arches. That's clearly a lie. But she plays along. "Is that so?"

"It is—"

"How would you like to make that in just a few hours for doing a teeny, tiny little favor for me."

"I'm listening."

She smiles—there was no pause there. "You know of my brother, Arthur, don't you?"

"I do—"

"Good. He'll be by in the morning with your money—assuming you play along."

"And what exactly would I be playing along with?"

She grins, making a mental note to call Arthur once hanging up—of all the unreasonable things she'd asked him to do for her over the years, this was one of the most benign. "I thought you'd never ask, Mr. Scarlet."

She goes on to explain her plan—a plan she's very much just making up on the spot, a plan that could easily be the rising action of a play you'd see on the stage or a motion picture you'd see at the cinema. She goes on to explain to Will Scarlett that once the Post Office closes, he needs to send a note to Robin Locksley, summoning him to the Post Office once it's closed to the public. Once Robin is there, his work is mostly done—he's to leave him alone and let him make use of the telephone. He can stay or allow Robin to lock up—that's up to him and what he's comfortable with, but he's to allow Robin as little or as much time as he needs, and he's to afford him privacy regardless of whether or not Robin thinks he wants it.

"So, send a note—"

"No, Mr. Scarlett. You go and get him. Drag him, if you must."

There's a pause. "So, I bring him here—somehow—and then I get the thirty-five dollars you say you'll pay."

"Yes."

"And suppose he's reluctant—"

"You can tell him it was my request." She pauses. "You can tell him I relayed his little message about being selfish and was instructed to—"

"What the hell does that mean? Who's selfish?"

"Never mind that. Will you do it?" There's another pause and her stomach lurches as she senses some reluctance. "Listen. How about this—since I'm asking you to personally pass along the message and retrieve him—what if I make it forty-five dollars?"

"For personally putting me out—"

"Yes."

"Fifty."

"Fine." Her eyes roll. The cost of this is completely irrelevant. "Fifty it is, Mr. Scarlet."

"You've got yourself a deal then," he says, his voice sounding particularly satisfied with his negotiating. "And you said your brother would be by with the money—"

"Assuming that you follow through."

"And how will you know that I do?"

Her eyes roll. "Never mind that either, Mr. Scarlett. I have eyes and ears everywhere."

She grins liking to keep herself shrouded in mystery.

"Well, Ms. Pendragon, should you ever find yourself back in Storybrooke, look me up and we can personally thank one another."

She's queasy at the thought. "Mm, I'd love that."

"Ya know, I could give ya a pre—"

"I really must be going now," she interjects, not wanting him to tell her any more about the preview he'd be giving her. "But Mr. Scarlet, I won't forget this favor."

Before he can reply, she hangs up, setting the receiver back on the cradle, exhaling and shivering as she thinks of what Will Scarlet might've proposed they do to one another as a thanks. And she can't help but think she'd much rather pay him the fifty dollars than even think about it…

She places a call to Arthur next, and though he's minorly annoyed with having to make a stop at the bank and run another errand, he agrees rather easily—after making a few off-handed inquiries about what dealings she has with a con man like Will Scarlett. She brushes off his questions and ends the call, feeling quite satisfied with herself—and no sooner than she hangs up, she hears Regina coming through the front door.

Moving to the bar, she pulls out two classes, filling them with ice cubes before pouring the whiskey—and just before Regina enters the living room, she tosses back a shot.

"I can't wait to see what I got Henry," she says, coming around the bar and holding out the drink.

Setting the bag on the nearest chair, Regina's eyes narrow and she accepts the drink. "What happened?"

"What makes you think something happened?"

"You've got that look."

"What look?"

"That look you get when you don't want to tell me something?"

Mal sighs, her eyes momentarily pressing closed. "Drink up first."

"Oh, god. Why? What happened?" Regina sinks down onto the chair next to the seemingly-forgotten bag. "Just tell me."

"Robin called."

For a moment, Regina doesn't react. She just sits there, staring blankly.

"He called about an hour after you left and—"

"R-robin called me?"

"Yes."

Swallowing hard, her eyes fall to the floor. "Oh…"

"Regina—"

"What did he want?" Regina looks up, her eyes wide. "Is… is he okay? Is Roland okay?"

"Yes, he's—"

"Then—"

"He didn't really say."

"Oh—"

"But he did ask me to give a message."

Regina grimaces as if bracing herself for the worst—and truly, she might be, depending on how she deciphers his message. "He told me to tell you that… that he wants you to be selfish."

A slight smile tugs up from the corner of her mouth and then she blushes, nearly blushing as she says, "He… he said that. He used that exact word?"

Mal nods. "Yes. I don't know what it means, exactly, but judging by the look on your face, you do."

"In the last letter I sent—the one that I sent the pictures with—I told him I didn't care if I was being selfish when I said that I didn't want him to see other women." A little giggle escapes her as she bites down on her bottom lip. "So, he… he still wants to… to be whatever it is that we are."

"I think the formal term to explain what he is to you would be boyfriend," Mal says, her own grin edging over her lips. "He would be your boyfriend and you would be his girlfriend."

"I suppose so."

Her smile is bright and genuine, reaching her eyes—and again, Mal feels her own smile widening. "So, now that I've told you that and you've reacted as your have… you won't be upset with the other thing I have to tell you."

Regina's smile fades. "Other thing?"

"You have a date… sort of."

"Mal," Regina sighs. "I'm going out with—"

"Over the phone. Around three in the morning. With Robin."

"What? How is that—"

Mal shrugs, her smile turning coy. "I have my ways."

Regina only laughs—and she says a silent prayer that her offer to Will Scarlett was tantalizing enough to entice him to follow through, and if it wasn't, she swears to whomever is listening to her prayer, she'll murder him for making a liar of her should she ever find herself back in Storybrooke.