April 1929

He wasn't dissatisfied.

No matter what Eugenia claimed.

But he also wasn't satisfied with the direction his life seemed to be going—though he so adamantly insisted that he was whenever Eugenia would needle him.

But the truth was, he felt stuck. In a rut. Like a dog chasing his tail.

It would be easy to pin that on Regina and the nature of their relationship—being so close to having everything he wanted and yet it all being so far out of reach—but that was only a part of it. And truthfully, it was a small part of it.

Business was drying up, and he didn't have a solution for that. Of course, there was the obvious solution of finding a job—factories were always looking for laborers, the mines, too—but the mere thought of it made him claustrophobic. There was, after all, a reason he did what he did. He hadn't fared well in typical jobs, and though it'd been years since he found himself privately reliving the horror of a war that only remained in his head, he knew it wouldn't be long before all that returned. And after that point, it was a slippery slope. Marco suggested he and John spread out to one of the bigger cities, but that was risky—dangerous even—and he wasn't sure he wanted to invite that into his life. Storybrooke was too small for mobsters to pay attention to it; that's why he and John could do what they did. But the second either of them encroached on someone else's territory, they'd be playing a deadly game. Eugenia thought he should just pack up and move—after all, Marco could use the extra help—and though the thought of living in the middle of nowhere in the Canadian wilderness was appealing, he knew that wouldn't suit his social butterfly of a son (or his girlfriend, should she ever return).

However, the thing that made the rest of it impossible to avoid was his living situation—a situation that was never supposed to be permanent.

The apartment that he and John shared was small and cramped, and though sharing a room with a toddler had been practical, even if not ideal, Roland was nearing 8 years old and a small cot in the corner of his father's bedroom just didn't cut it anymore. He, too, needed a space of his own. A while back, he and John tried to partition the room with a curtain, creating a space for Roland and a space for him. In theory, it worked. But it didn't change the fact that Robin snored or that Roland liked to sit up late at night with a flashlight and a comic book. It didn't change the fact that Roland wanted to have his friends over for sleepovers and play telephone through the vent with Chip, nor did it change the fact that Robin sometimes needed a break. A place here he could go where his son wasn't. A place where he could recharge. A place where he didn't have to be on all of the time.

So, in January, Robin had taken to sleeping on the couch. Roland didn't question it—he was glad to have the big bed to himself, but John noticed. He noticed, but he didn't ask questions; and Robin suspected that he, too, was left chasing his tail, not wanting to point out the obvious.

On this last trip to Canada, Eugenia had been particularly pushy. She meant well, he knew that. She really just wanted him to be happy because she thought he deserved that, but by the end of their stay, even Marco was pulling her aside and telling her to lay off.

As always, he and Roland left after nightfall—the border guards asked less questions when Roland was sleeping on the trunk bench beside him, looking sweet and angelic. By now, they all knew the alleged story and usually just waved him through without looking at the crates stacked under the cab. Part of him wondered if they knew…

By the time they get home, the sky is beginning to lighten, and Roland wastes no time putting himself to bed, flopping down onto the center of the bed, spreading out like a starfish. Robin follows him, laughing gently as he pries off his son's boots—amazed that the jostling doesn't wake him, and he finds himself thinking that regardless of how deep the rut he's in is, moments like this make it infinitely more tolerable.

Yawning, he finds himself fantasizing about the couch—lumpy as it is—picturing himself curling up in a blanket and sleeping until it's well-past noon. But before he can do that, an envelope on the counter catches his attention, and a smile draws onto his lips as he recognizes Regina's handwriting—something else that makes life infinitely more tolerable.

But as he rounds the counter to grab the letter opener, his feet find something wet—and it takes only a second for him to connect the dots, his eyes drawing to the refrigerator in the corner. It's not humming, as usual. In fact, it's completely silent—a tell-tale sign that the compressor has gone out.

Again.

"Son of a bitch," he mutters, tossing down the letter as he thinks of the milk and butter Twin Pines had dropped off a couple of days before, and the fresh eggs and breakfast meats Mrs. Potts had gifted him when returning from a visit to her brother's farm.

And just like the letter, thoughts of curling up on the couch are forgotten.

Robin's brow cocks as John enters the apartment—somehow both red-faced and pale. He chuckles softly, feeling slap-happy from lack of sleep.

"You look like hell."

John tosses his key onto the coffee table and falls back into the armchair, drawing in a breath before slowly releasing it. "I ran. Two blocks. While half asleep and with my shoes untied."

"Why the hell would you do that?" Robin asks, grinning as he imagines it. "It's barely six in the morning."

John just stares at him for a moment, dumbfounded. "Figured it was a good way to wake myself up," he retorts. "You know, after accidentally falling asleep at Tink's." Robin nods, still chuckling to himself as John offers a loud sigh. "Stupidly, I thought to exit out the front door and not the fire-escape. Mother Superior was making her morning tea—"

"Mother Superior?"

"Tink's cranky old landlady. We call her Mother Superior, but think she's stricter than a damn nun."

"Ah—"

"She doesn't know which of the girls' rooms I came out of, but—" His head falls back. "Damn, can that little old woman run."

Robin can't help the laugh that escapes him as he pictures John—big and burly being chased relentlessly by an old lady in curlers and a bathrobe. "So, it's safe to say that you and Tink won't be having sleepovers for a while?"

John only grunts in reply—and Robin takes it as a no.

For the last several months, things between John and Tink had gotten pretty serious. For years, they'd been off again and on again, mostly due to Tink constantly being on the move, in search of work. But the previous fall, she'd been hired as a maid for the Pendragon girls, and though spending her day tending to the needs and catering to the whims of two barely-teenage girls wasn't ideal, it was the first steady job she'd had in nearly a decade. And, finally, it was a job close to John.

A couple of months ago, there was an opening at one of the boarding houses just around the corner—and Tink jumped at the opportunity to have a place of her own. And since then, John had practically moved himself in. It was a miracle they hadn't been caught sooner.

"Why are you up, though? Usually after coming back from Marco's you're not lucid til dinner time." John stares at him for a few seconds, waiting for an answer—but before Robin can explain, John starts to sniff, his nose scrunching up as he grimaces. "And why does the apartment smell like vinegar?"

Robin hoists up a large jar, swishing it around. "I'm storing eggs."

John's eyes narrow. "Why?"

"So they don't go bad."

John's eyes press closed. "And...why would they go bad?"

Robin grins, watching as John braces himself—he knows the answer to his question. Robin doesn't need to tell him—but he does, anyway. "The compressor on the fridge went out again."

"Fuck."

"Third time in a year."

"I swear, that thing's a lemon—"

"Now you know why it was free."

At that, John broods—at the time, it'd seemed like such a deal. One of their regulars offered it up—a couple cases of expensive Scottish whiskey for a fancy, new in-home refrigerator. He'd said that it was simply too small for his own kitchen, and his wife was hankering for a bigger one with a built-in freezer. He'd even had it delivered.

A month later, the compressor died for the first time.

Then six months later, it happened again.

Then sometime between Friday evening and the early hours of Sunday morning, it'd happened again, flooding the kitchen and nearly curdling a fresh quart of milk.

"I'm not fixing it this time," Robin says, flatly. "It's not worth it."

"But it's so convenient—"

"Is it?" Robin asks, cutting in as his brow arches and his arms wave around the kitchen, pointing to all of the soon-to-go-bad food set out on the counter. "Is this really convenient?"

John smirks sheepishly as he perks up, surveying the countertop. "Is that bacon?"

"Yeah. That you can't eat for two weeks now."

John frowns. "Oh."

"It has to be cured. If you eat it now, all you'll taste is salt and sugar."

"Or we could… rinse it off, fix the compressor and—"

"Look, I'll look into getting a regular, old icebox, but I'm done with that thing," Robin says, motioning to the refrigerator in the corner of the kitchen. "But until we find one for a good price, you, me and Roland have to work on eating up everything I can't preserve."

John laughs and dips his finger into a cream sauce, bubbling on the stove. "That sounds like a challenge I'm willing to accept."

Robin's eyes roll as he turns his attention back to a bowl of fresh eggs, watching as they sweat from the warmth of the kitchen. His stomach gives a little flop. "Why don't you boil a few before I dunk them all into the brine."

"What are we having with the cream sauce?"

"Eggs."

John blinks. "What?"

"Hard boiled eggs and… that sauce," Robin says, nodding very matter-of-factly.

He watches as John swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Oh."

"Found a recipe for eggs a la creme."

John's nose scrunches as it did when he noticed the smell of the vinegar. "That sounds like rich people food."

Robin shrugs. "I found it in an old copy of Ladies Home Journal that Eugenia gave me. She found a huge stack of 'em from before the war when she was cleaning out Marco's shed."

"So, it's… hard boiled eggs and hot cream."

"Pretty much."

"Appetizing."

"That's to be determined."

John dips his finger into the sauce again, this time studying it. "This ain't bad, actually."

Robin smirks—he doesn't tell him the milk he used was closer to cottage cheese than it was to cream.

"You know, you could always bring Tink here."

"Here," John repeats as he fills a pot with water. "As in… here to this tiny apartment with its paper thin walls, where I live with you and your precocious, inquisitive little flirt of a son?"

Robin smirks. Roland is a flirt, and he wouldn't hesitate to play a game of Twenty Questions with Tink as he ate his Cornflakes and as she tried to slink out the door unnoticed. "Roland and I aren't always here."

"Yes, you are."

"Twice a month we go up to see Marco and Eugenia."

John's eyes roll. "For like, a day."

"Well, it's better than nothing. And… no Mother Superior or strict rules about what you can and can't do or what time you can and can't do things."

"If you're referring to lights out at eleven—"

"Among other things."

John laughs. "I've thought about it, but… the thought of her shimmying down the gutter pipe outside my window—"

"We have a door, John. Your girlfriend could come in and out using the door."

"Sure, and I'll let you explain the random blonde lady sneaking out of the apartment to Roland, and explain to him why it's a secret."

At that Robin laughs, "Okay, that's fair, actually. He wouldn't be… discreet."

"No, the little hobbit isn't known for his tact. Mrs. Potts, the building gossip, would know about it in no time."

For a moment, Robin says nothing. They've been dancing around this for years, now—neither really willing to take that first step. Their living arrangement was never supposed to be permanent. John moved in after Marian died, to help with Roland while he was little.

And then, he'd just stayed.

It was convenient and comfortable, and they'd fallen into patterns and routines that worked for them. Plus, the company was always nice, having another adult to talk to kept him sane.

But Roland was getting older and growing more independent by the day, he was in school now and didn't need round the clock care, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that Roland, too, needed space of his own. The tiny, two-bedroom apartment just didn't suit any of them anymore.

And at some point, they were going to have to acknowledge that—and given that it was on both of their minds at this very moment, now seemed like the ideal time.

"Hey, I, uh… I want to show you something," Robin says, looking back at John from over his shoulder as he wiped his hands on a dishrag. "I want your opinion."

"If it's about those eggs you just dunked into vinegar—"

"It's not about the eggs."

John follows him into the living room, watching curiously as he fishes out a Sears and Roebuck catalog from the magazine rack by his chair.

"The Sears Catalog," John says, his eyes widening a bit as his clicks his tongue, tsking disapprovingly. "Does Ladies Home Journal know that you're cheating on her?"

Robin's eyes roll. "The Sears catalog and Ladies Home Journal are completely different."

"If you say so."

"Look, one has—" Robin's voice halts as he looks to John as he chuckles softly to himself. "Never mind."

"What's that phrase? Something about protesting too much?"

Robin sighs, biting at his lip. "I've been saving up for something. I want to show you."

"Something tells me it isn't the new Frigidaire."

"No, not… not quite." He thumbs through the pages until he gets to the dog-eared one, and suddenly, he feels a little nervous. He hasn't told anyone about this. "Uh, so… you remember that plot of land Marian and I bought when we were first married?"

"Yeah, you were gonna build a house one day."

"Well, I still own it."

John nods. "I figured. That was a nice piece of land. It's in a good neighborhood now, too."

"And… for the last couple of years, I've been saving up for, um… for a house to put on that plot of land." John's brow arches as Robin hands him the catalog. "The Vallonia model." Robin shifts nervously as John looks at the advertisement, likely noting the prices and likely coming to the realization he'll be helping to build it. "I, uh… I know it'll take a while to build, but…"

"It's a family home," John says, looking up at him. "Four bedrooms, five if you don't have any use for a sewing room."

Robin blinks, unable to read John's expression. "Yeah…"

"You know, a buddy of mine just got one—one of the bigger, pricier ones. He got a bunch of upgrades, put on a sunporch and made a big swing set for the kids. He ordered a garage, too, but it didn't fit. I think he'd sell it to ya for a bargain, just to get rid of it." John smirks. "His wife is pretty pissed that they're paying to keep all that lumber in storage."

Robin grins, suddenly feeling better. "That'd be great, actually. The garages are almost as much as the houses."

"You gonna dig a basement?"

"The more I think of it, the more I want to settle for just a crawl space."

John laughs and shrugs. "Well, I won't talk you out of that."

"Would you keep the apartment if Roland and I moved out?"

John grins—he looks a bit unsure, but Robin can tell he likes that idea. "Well, this is more of a bachelor pad."

"You could bring Tink here, she could move in, even."

John brightens. "So, when do you move out?"

"Well, I have to order the damn thing first, and… then build it. So, I estimate I'll have the money by summer and construction should be done by… maybe 1950?"

"You think it's going to take you twenty years to build? Everything's pre-cut. It's like… putting together a really big puzzle."

"I'm shit at puzzles."

John laughs and hands him back the catalog. "I'm not. And neither is Will."

Robin's face scrunches. "I don't know about Will. He's a drunk and—"

"Willing to work for cheap liquor." John shrugs. "If you throw in some hotdogs, he'll probably do your electrical and your plumbing."

Robin laughs softly as he looks down at the floor plan of the two-story house with it's large porch and red cedar roof—he can almost picture himself there, with Regina and their boys, and maybe even a couple more kids. His heart aches as he considers it, reminding himself to be content with what he has—another one of those not-quite-satisfied moments he's learned to accept.

"Does, uh… does Regina know?"

Robin looks up sharply—it's like John read his mind. "I told you. I haven't said anything about it to anyone."

"Yeah, but… she's not anyone."

A grin tugs up at the corner of Robin's mouth. "She's an ocean away though—and she'll be an ocean away for quite some time."

"How old's her kid?"

"He's about ten now."

"So, he'll be done with school in… four, or… five, maybe six… years or so?" Robin only nods—as much as he'd love for her to come back, he more than understands why she won't. And more than that, he wouldn't want her to if it meant giving up precious time with Henry. "Y'know, there are swanky school here that—"

Robin's brow juts up and John's voice halts. "Where Henry goes to school is not for me to determine, or even have an opinion about. Besides, if she came back, it's not like we could just… move in together and live happily ever after. She's still married. She's still stuck. She's better off where she is."

John nods as Robin draws in a breath.

"This house is… for me," he says, looking down at the ad. "And for Roland. In a way, it's for Marian, too. She always wanted Roland to have a backyard to play in." Drawing in a breath, he looks back up. "And maybe one day it can be for Regina and Henry, too."

For a moment, neither of them says anything—and then, John laughs. "I bet you'll keep that sewing room, like the layout says."

Robin blinks. "Why would anyone need a whole damn room for sewing?"

Shrugging his shoulders, John reaches for Eugenia's old copy of Ladies Home Journal. "I know you've been eyeing those patterns. Maybe we can open up a little hat shop in the garage we're gonna build. Fill it with… I don't know, big plumes and baubles and—"

"Ladies don't wear those hats anymore. They—"

John's brow arches as Robin's voice stops, and then they both erupt with laughter.

It's nearly half-past ten when Robin finally settles on the couch, a pillow scrunched under his arm, a blanket over his lap, and Regina's latest letter at his fingertips. It's hours past the point of when he should've tried to sleep, and though the perfect opportunity for a nap has presented itself—with Roland still fast asleep and John off on a mission to smooth things over with Tink's landlady—an even better opportunity has come along with it—the opportunity for calm.

It's rare that he gets a moment alone, and even rarer when a mountain of tasks isn't waiting for him, screaming out to him in the silence and interrupting his thoughts, and he's not sure when another opportunity like this one will present itself. So, as tired as he is, he gives up the chance for sleep and opens Regina's letter.

This one focuses on Easter.

Henry came home from school and Mal's cook made a leg of lamb for dinner. As their feast was cooking, they hid pastel-colored Easter eggs around the yard and Mal took a shot of gin whenever Henry found one. There were three dozen, in total. Robin laughs at the detail of a drunken Mal fumbling through dinner.

He can feel the tension in Regina's words as she recounts a story from the following days, when Henry noticed her working on taking up the hem in a few skirts that clearly were not hers. For him, that's such an odd detail, but Regina and Henry come from another world and women of her class and background aren't seamstresses. She'd answered his questions as truthfully as possible—telling him that she'd been cut off from her usual allowance from Leopold was obviously out of the question—and so she'd spun a story about wanting to earn her keep. It was true enough—she hated mooching off Mal, though Mal didn't seem to mind. Henry seemed satisfied with the reply and the subject changed to something easier to discuss, but still, the tension lingered.

Just as her conversation with Henry meandered away from uncomfortable truths, so does her letter as she works her way into their summer plans. While she doesn't have many details, she and Mal have been invited to the country estate of one of Mal's friends whose husband will be hunting in Scotland. She has a daughter who is just Henry's age and a son closer to Roland's age, and Henry was very much looking forward to it—and that meant, Regina was, too.

And as he reads her words, he finds himself wondering how Henry would feel if he were suddenly taken from the life he knew and dropped down into the life his mother wanted—a life with him, a life where she'd likely need to work, a life without fancy schools and vacations to the English countryside.

Plucking up the Sears and Roebuck catalog, Robin flips it open, watching as it naturally falls open to the page advertising the Vallonia model house—a "prize bungalow," Sears tells him—and he wonders how many Vallonia houses would fit inside of one English country estate.

The house is charming with its lattice fencing underneath the porch, it's clean, white cypress siding, and tall front windows. It's the sort of house he and Marian could've only dreamed of building when they bought the land—a house they didn't think they'd even be able to have until Roland was a teenager. There was a part of him that felt guilty for going on with this dream without her, but Marian had always insisted this home would be for Roland and she'd reminded him time and time again that it was something they could leave to him when he was grown and had a family of his own, something to make his life easier, so he wouldn't struggle the way that they had.

But as charming and spacious as the house was, he didn't know if it was right for any of them—he wasn't even entirely sure who them were. Yet despite the unknowns as he closed his eyes, he couldn't help but picture the house, built and fully furnished. There were white wooden rockers on the porch and rose bushes out in front of it, and a gas lamp post at the end of the drive. Inside the dark wooden doors and trim is offset by white walls, and large area rugs cover the floors. The two downstairs rooms just off of the dining room were perfect for the older boys, and when the windows were open, you could smell the roses from the garden down below. In the room across the hall from theirs, he pictured it belonging to a child they shared together—and, of course, the sewing room on the blueprints would be much more practical as a playroom. Smiling softly to himself, he draws in a breath, thinking of himself leaning against the door jam as he watches Regina sitting on a large, plush rug playing with a toddler as warm sun poured into the room from the large front window that overlooked the front yard.

Robin's eyes flutter open and he once more looks at the advertisement for the Vallonia model house, wondering if it's really a solution.

He doesn't settle on an answer; instead, he reads Regina's letter for a second time, memorizing the details and picturing himself and Roland at the dinner table with them, enjoying a meal—and somehow, they all end up in the Vallonia house instead of Mal's flat.

Putting down the letter, he sighs and lets his heavy eyes close—perhaps he'll feel less conflicted after he gets some sleep. And though he knows that won't be the case, he lets himself believe it as he drifts off.