Author's Note: I apologize, lovely readers, for never responding to your comments. I do read each and every one of them, but 's interface for comments drives me crazy so I just...don't. But they're appreciated :)
The play that Mary-Margaret chooses to stage is a collection of fables that Belle has been adapting for some time. She enlists near all of their acquaintances in the production, from Ruby and Regina to even David Nolan, Mary-Margaret's erstwhile suitor. When Regina arrives for practice, she is surprised to find that Mr. Locksley is there as well, apparently coerced by David (they run in the same men's social circles, she soon learns, and that makes her nervous – if Mary-Margaret has said anything to her beau…)
But she hasn't, because there is little about Mr. Locksley's outward demeanor that indicates he finds her amusing; instead, his eyes seem to follow her everywhere with keen interest as she moves to a small alcove to practice lines with Ruby (she is to be the Town Mouse, and the other girl the City Mouse, in their vignette).
Regina has not had any type of male attention for some time, and so she can feel his blue eyes on the back of her neck, and it makes her more than aware of herself and her lines. It also makes practicing difficult, and she is grateful that there is a break for refreshments before the entire group assembles. She helps herself to lemonade, takes it to the veranda which is empty, the rest of the cast remaining indoors, away from the May heat.
She has always been a solitary creature, though not by choice, and so her head hurts from the prattle of her cousin and her friends, who talk about dresses and steal careful glances at the men on the far side of the room, who mingle in their own group. She does not see why the sexes must be so separated, but she is also merely a grumpy old maid (men talk of politics and horse races and liquor and Regina would much prefer that to the cut of bustles or the color of ribbons).
"May I join you?" She recognizes his voice, and she can't help the smile that spreads across her face as she hears him approach her, his shoes making soft clacks on the wooden floor.
"If you'd like," she tells him, taking a small sip of lemonade and watching as Mr. Locksley steps onto the veranda besides her. He holds his own glass of lemonade out towards her, indicating that they should toast.
"To Mary-Margaret's latest production," Regina says with a smile.
"Considering the success of the last one, I am grateful to be included in the ensemble." He gives her a funny little smile, and Regina merely raises an eyebrow and turns back to admiring the side garden.
"Does the Town Mouse require solitude?" he asks after some time, and Regina shakes her head.
"The Town Mouse does not like aimless prattle," she says, glancing back indoors. Ruby lets out a peal of laughter immediately after she finishes speaking, and Regina exchanges a sly look with Mr. Locksley that has him grinning from ear to ear. "And what about the Lion? Last I heard, they eat mice."
"Were you not paying attention to Miss Blanchard's explanations of the fables today, Miss Mills? The Lion shows mercy to the Mouse, and in turn the Mouse shows mercy to the Lion. Thus, mercy is its own reward."
Regina inhales sharply. "Aesop clearly never had Cora Mills in mind," she mutters under her breath, before looking back up at Mr. Locksley. "You do know your fables."
He takes a step closer, leans against the veranda railing, and fixes her with a gaze that makes her blood run cold and her heart race. "I find that befriending mice is in the best interest of lions," he says carefully.
Regina's eyes narrow. "Are you trying to be my friend, Mr. Locklsey?" she asks, struggling to control her voice. There are emotions running through her that she cannot control, and she does not want to appear weak in front of this man.
Regina does not have many friends; all of her acquaintances from school have already married, and her sister was more or less competition, never a bosom companion. She's learned to navigate life on her own, keeping her confidences with just her heart, and perhaps her cousin if the mood inspired her to be forthcoming. She assumes that her lack of friends relates to the absence of a congenial nature, which her cousin inherited but she did not. The thought of any friend, regardless of sex, is a strange one for her to consider.
The man across from her merely raises his eyebrows and responds, innocently, "Would that really be so hard to believe?"
"I know you've been in town a few weeks, Mr. Locksley, but surely you've noticed I'm no belle of the ball," Regina points out. "I am accustomed to being on my own."
"That I have noticed, and it vexes me," he says, and the way that he says it – the low purr of his voice, the guttural way that he admits that he's noticed – causes Regina's breath to catch in her chest, and her mouth opens slightly, uncertain of how to respond.
She thought this was a harmless flirtation, but now she's not entirely sure.
Luckily, they are interrupted by Mary-Margaret ringing a bell for them to return to practice, and so Regina quickly finishes her drink and brushes past Mr. Locksley with a nod, placing her cup on the silver tray and finding Ruby across the room.
Practice proceeds without interruption, though Regina's mind spirals out of control and her forced reading of her lines is unacceptable to her cousin.
"Is everything all right?" Mary-Margaret whispers, and Regina merely nods. The other woman has never known the hardships that Regina has, due to her character and age; she has always had friends, has always had suitors, has never been alone.
When practice wraps up, Regina finds her hat and gloves in the hands of Mr. Locksley, who appears to want to consider their early discussion as he walks her home.
"I may have been too bold," he apologizes, and Regina listens, does not comment. "I find you quite interesting, and a better conversant than most of the men and women in this town." She wonders if he is referring to their correspondence via tree, and assumes that he is.
"I'm not used to this," she tells him. "I'm not accustomed to anyone indulging a spinster in conversation or companionship."
"Then perhaps I should indulge you more," he responds, and her heart – so long ago broke and hastily reassembled - aches at the intensity of his gaze and the way that he looks at her – like he wants companionship and conversation, with and Regina cannot breathe.
"Stop," she instructs them as they approach her house. It is within sight, and Mr. Locksley frowns at her, uncertain of what she is doing. Regina takes a deep breath, trying to force her lungs to function again, for her heart to resume its steady beats instead of this ridiculous stilted rhythm it currently wishes to have. She clears her throat.
"My mother is a…difficult," she says with a smile. "If you walk me to my door, she might assume something that is unfair of her to assume, and I would prefer to not have to explain to her that you are a…" her tongue trips on the unfamiliar word, "…friend."
Mr. Locksley nods. "I respect your wishes." He reaches for her hand, brings it to his lips (even through the glove she can feel the heat of his mouth and she suddenly wants more). When he lets go, it is with a nod and a smile.
Once her back is turned away from him, she cannot contain her happiness, the feeling that there is perhaps a silver lining hidden in her life. If he is really interested –if she can keep this from her mother – if it becomes more than a flirtation –
Regina smiles the entire way home, and not even the absence of any mail for her can wipe the smile from her face.
…
Play practice continues for some time, and Regina becomes friends with Robin Locksley. They take their lemonade on the veranda, they exchange glances across the crowded room, and he walks her home after every practice, drawing nearer and nearer to her house, becoming more bold and audacious with how long he kisses the back of her hand.
Mary-Margaret becomes wise to it when she notices them leaving one day after practice, and the next morning she invites Regina for a stroll through the park, practically giddy at this development in her cousin's love life.
"Regina, you could not have a better suitor! Papa thinks the world of him, and he's smart, and kind, and he's your age, and he's a widower, you know – "
"A widower?" Regina asks, surprised. Of all the things they had talked about – mostly snippets of poems about their personalities, their interests, everything superficial and nothing deep (she knows he likes Twain; she told him she dislikes Dickens) – this has not come up. Suddenly, hope swells in her chest because this is definitely not a harmless flirtation, he will not return to a family, perhaps this is something more, a widower is perfectly acceptable –
"My mother doesn't know, does she?" Regina asks, because she would have thrown Regina at the first widower (other than Mr. Gold, who she does keep flinging Regina towards at every social occasion). Mary-Margaret shakes her head.
"Only my father knows. Mr. Locksley likes to keep to himself, and so I don't think its common knowledge." She stops and turns to Regina. "I am so happy for you – this is so romantic!"
"It is," Regina agrees. "Quite romantic."
And yet, even as whatever it is grows between them, Regina is always aware of the fact that he may very well leave, and she will be alone in Storybrooke, with her heart once again broken. And, despite all of this, she still allows the glances and touches, and walks home.
It is nice to feel something good for a change.
It helps, too, that her correspondence with the Jones family of New York has slowed to a halt. She had been corresponding with them on a fairly frequent basis, and the content of the letters has grown more congenial, more personal, as they get to know each other more. But she has told no one save Mary-Margaret and Belle, who she asked to be her references should the Jones family inquire.
Yet they have not, and there has not been a letter in some time, and so Regina assumes they have chosen someone else, that she has not met muster in yet another way in her life.
Soon, it is the presence of Mr. Locksley (Robin, she calls him when she is alone, remembering the heat of his palm and his lips) that gets her out of her bed in the morning. On the days when there is no practice, she is a ghost, haunting the halls of the house, idling over breakfast, spending too much time in the library with nothing to pass the time, as she has for years and years. It is growing tedious, and yet she cannot break the tedioum.
(She wonders if a heart can break twice, and if that twice-broken instrument can be pieced back together again.)
…
After weeks of rehearsal, it is the night of the play, and Regina finds herself despondent. She wonders what will happen with Robin Mr. Locksley after tonight. Will he attempt to become a proper suitor? Will he simply disappear from view? Will they go back to silly notes in trees and flowers left in the early light of morning?
Regina's vignette goes well, as does his own. It is not until the final fable, of the grasshopper and the ant, that anything interesting happens: David Nolan has changed the dialogue of the grasshopper. He delivers a speech to Mary-Margaret (a befuddled ant) about taking care of her always and forever and never leaving her unprepared and when he pulls out his grandmother's diamond ring from his pocket to present to her, the entire room applauds. Her uncle calls for champagne and refreshments, and her aunt cries happily.
Regina is happy for her cousin – truly, there is no person more worthy of love than Mary-Margaret, and no better man to love her than David Nolan. And yet, there is a part of Regina that is deeply envious. It has been so long since Regina has been loved that she is not even sure if she was loved at all, or if it was merely a figment of her imagination.
She wishes her cousin the best, wishes David the best, and speaks briefly with her aunt and uncle before slipping outside, away from the crowd and the champagne toasts (she grabs a flute on her way out, drinks it all in one gulp once she's outside). There's a bitter taste in the back of her mouth that cannot be the alcohol but must be her jealous, venial nature, to be so unkind, to make this happy moment about her.
She is a broken person, a shallow wretch. She should be inside celebrating, but the very thought of leaving the garden freezes her in place.
There is movement behind her, and she does not turn around to know who it is (he always finds her, regardless of the circumstances). "Aren't you going to toast the happy couple?" she asks.
"I already did," he replies. "I found I had more pressing concerns."
Regina turns to him, shaking her head. She is tired of dancing around everyone and everything, tired of being the unmatched female at a dinner party, the old maid in the corner of the room. She is tired of not being enough for anyone, either as a friend or employee, and she is tired of this constant flirtation that does little to satisfy her and only makes her more wretched and desperate.
"I am no one's concern but my own," she tells him, trying to hold her head high but it is weighted down with unshed tears. He shakes his head, takes a step forward, and reaches out towards her, brushing his thumb across the apple of her cheek.
"You concern me," he tells her. "What is the matter?"
"Nothing." Regina finds she is unable to pull away from him; instead, she turns her head into the touch like a cat being petted. "I am happy for them."
"You don't seem very happy at the moment, Regina," he says, and her name on his lips sends a wave of warmth through her body.
"I'm envious of my cousin," she admits plainly. "I'm jealous that she has what I desperately want." She does not hide from her wants, but tells him, because at this point it does not matter. He, like the others, probably has his mind made up about her.
"And what is it that you want, Regina?" he asks, and hearing her name makes her close her eyes (he is so near her, too near, his hand still on her face) and when she opens them again, the look that he has on his face is indescribable.
"I want someone to take better care of my heart than I do," is her response. He nods his head, glances at her lips.
"Than can be arranged," he says, and then his lips are on hers and she forgets everything – every thought, every word, every objection. His lips are soft against hers, questioning, and then his tongue traces the corner of her mouth and she gives herself fully to him. He tastes likes champagne and sugar (they must be serving sweets), and the rasp of his beard against her chin only stokes the fire within her, making her knees weak and her belly ache. She reaches out for him, fingers grasping the lapel of his evening coat, pulling him towards her. He groans when her fingers brush against his neck.
She moves again, wrapping her arm around him, but the champagne flute she had been clutching so desperately slips out of her grasp. At the the sound of glass shattering on the stone pathway, they break apart.
Regina has not been kissed in years, but Daniel never kissed her like that. She runs her fingertips over his lips, watches as Robin (he cannot be Mr. Locksley ever again) licks his own. She wonders what she tastes like to him.
"I better return to the party," she tells him, her legs shaky as she tries to walk past him. He stops her, hand on her elbow.
"When can I see you again?" he asks, voice ragged and raspy.
Regina blinks, smiles. "You know where to find me," she tells him slyly, slipping out of his grip and walking up the stairs (she holds onto the railing for dear life, frustrated by her weakened state). Before she reenters the house, she runs her fingers over her lips once more, straightens her shoulders, and doesn't stop the grin that threatens to overtake her.
Then, she opens the door and rejoins the impromptu party.
The ride home is full of discussion of the wedding, and Regina keeps thinking about the feel of Robin against her, the movement of his lips. She is in a daze as she walks up the steps to the front door, where a telegram awaits her.
It is from the Jones family; they want her to come to New York to meet in person. They will pay for her train tickets.
