Author's Note: Sorry for the day's delay on this - FFnet was having issues and not allowing new documents to be uploaded.
The Storybrooke Winter Festival has always been one of Regina's favorite parts of Christmas.
There's something about the little open-air stalls, all lined up in rows on the lawn of the Town Hall, selling everything from Zelena's pies and jams, to Marco's woodwork, to hand-knitted scarves, and hats, and mittens, and carefully stitched quilts. Jewelry from a local silversmith, and local brews from the owner of the Rabbit Hole, who makes her own special microbrew just for the festival. Every year, there's a raffle for a year's worth of free breakfasts at Granny's Diner, drawn at the end of the night on the day after Christmas (Leroy had won last year, so Regina is sure Granny is looking forward to a new winner this year – preferably someone who won't eat a week's supply of bacon on one Sunday morning), and another on New Year's Eve for a free weekend stay in one of her rooms.
There's face painting, and mulled cider, and hot cocoa, and fairy lights strung all along the lanes in little hanging arcs across the footpath.
It's familiar, and homey, and… quaint.
D.C.'s Holiday Market may be larger, with a more coveted selection of gifts to peruse, but Regina would take the little festival in her hometown any day.
And it beats the hell out of another night in the house with Mother.
Christmas had been… fine. Good, even. Regina had slept in late on Christmas Eve morning, after spending much of the night before lying awake and staring at the ceiling, all-too-aware of the coolness of the sheets to her left and missing her electric blanket.
She'd nodded off, finally, well after midnight, and with the curtains tightly drawn she'd slept half the morning away before stumbling sleepily downstairs for coffee and one of the cranberry orange muffins she'd brought home from her baking fest with Zelena the day before.
Zelena and Ophelia had come for lunch and stayed the rest of the afternoon, so she'd managed to avoid The Talk with Mother for another day – for once, she'd seemed to be willing to avoid an embarrassing conversation for the sake of company.
And then there had been the evening service, and the usual Christmas Eve tradition of sprinkling glitter-flecked oats over the back porch rail to "feed Santa's reindeer" before reading The Night Before Christmas all cuddled up together on the couch. There's not a soul in the house who believes in Santa or flying reindeer, but the magic of Christmas is something Ophelia hasn't yet outgrown, and she insists that it's not Christmas if they don't sprinkle oats for a make-believe Rudolph.
Mother thinks it's ridiculous; Mother can suck it.
The way things are going, Ophelia may be the only child this family will ever have, and as soon as she grows out of the whimsy and wonder, they'll be stuck with nothing but terse conversation and too much Merlot. So Regina embraces the little things wholeheartedly, tossing an extra handful of oats near Mother's long-empty planters for every annoyed utterance she makes, dumping a criminal amount of mini-marshmallows in both hers and Ophelia's cups, and always bringing a few extra little gifts and treats to top off everyone's stockings.
If she wanted Christmas to be free of festivity and soaked in expensive spirits, she'd be in St. Barts with Leo, thinking about how odd it is to cover imported pine trees in starfish and seashells and far too much turquoise and gold, all the while listening to "Let It Snow!" like that somehow counteracts the bikini weather.
No, she'd much rather be here, covering Mother's back porch in enough Quaker Oats and edible glitter to feed all the neighborhood deer, all the early morning cardinals, whispering stories about sugarplums to children just a little too old to believe them.
She'd rather have Christmas morning pancakes poured into snowman shapes and dusted with powdered sugar snow, and watch all of Storybrooke's elementary and middle schoolers retell the same Christmas story they've told every year, with the same slightly off-key, out-of-sync renditions of "Away In A Manger" and "Come On, Ring Those Bells."
And maybe the chef-prepared lunch in the all-inclusive ocean-view villa would be less stressful than trying to cook a roast, and potatoes, and Parker House rolls, and far too many sides to feed only four people, all under her Mother's watchful (clucking) eye, but it would feel far less like the holidays ought to.
She doesn't envy him, down there on the beach by himself.
Not yesterday while she was eating that (delicious, if she does say so herself) beef roast, and not today, while she strolls into the little winter festival with a very-excited-but-trying-not-to-look-very-excited twelve-year-old.
It is most definitely a date.
If she hadn't known by the giddy energy pumping off Ophelia the moment she'd shut herself into Regina's car, she'd have known by the way she batted her eyes and begged to be allowed to borrow her auntie's makeup, or at the very least some mascara and lipstick, because her own mother was beingridiculous and wouldn't let her wear any at all.
Regina knew better than to offer up her waterproof mascara (no hiding that one), but she did reach into her Birkin and fish out a ruby-tinted lip balm – nothing crazy, just enough to add a tiny hint of color.
And then Ophelia had wanted to trade scarves, had wanted to borrow the cashmere Burberry one that Leo had gifted Regina that last year in St. Barts (she'd remembered thinking it was beautiful, but ludicrous to open something so luxurious and cozy while she was in dressed in shorts). Regina had just laughed, shaking her head and unwinding it from around her neck, swapping it for Ophelia's chunky hand-knit one.
Regina had helped her arrange it, helped her tuck the ends in just so, her fingers brushing over the initials monogrammed on one edge – RVM. Thank God she'd never changed her name.
And then, finally in her finery, Ophelia had been ready to go.
They're to meet this Trevor at the entrance farthest from Zelena's stall of goods (no surprise there), and as they stand there, fifteen minutes early, Ophelia turns to her and says, "Okay, when we see him, be cool," in a way that nearly makes Regina laugh out loud.
So much for the little girl giggling over sugarplums and reindeer food.
"I won't embarrass you, I promise," Regina assures. "I'm just here to make sure you two don't end up kissing behind the ice sculpture."
Ophelia makes a face and scolds, " Auntie! "
Regina just shrugs. "I was twelve once, too, you know. And there were plenty of very cute boys back then, too."
Ophelia opens her mouth to respond, but before she does, she catches sight of something beyond Regina's shoulder and her eyes pop wide, a little squeak making its way out of her.
Regina grins knowingly and reaches out to adjust that scarf ever so slightly, teasing, "Be cool," and then murmuring warmly, "And just be yourself. Remember – he's here because he likes you."
Ophelia nods, and waves, and Regina turns in time to see Trevor. All she can think is that preteen boys look very young, much like preteen girls, and this whole little date is incredibly cute .
He's not very tall, she's pretty sure Ophelia might just clear him by a few centimeters, but it's hard to tell with the little pom on the top of her hat next to Trevor's slouchy beanie. He has that look of someone whose features aren't quite growing in pace with each other – his nose is just a little too big, but he'll grow into it, and his hair just a little too long under that hat, but that's the style these days, isn't it?
He's polite at least, reaching out to shake Regina's hand after Ophelia makes introductions, gripping it a little too hard and telling her, "Thanks for coming with us tonight. Ophelia said you're really cool, and it was either we get stuck with you or we get stuck with my brother Mikey, and he's…" Trevor shakes his head and finishes, "Really not someone I want to have following me around all night."
Regina laughs, all too familiar with having an older sibling hovering around while you're trying to be cool. "Well, I'm happy to be the one you got 'stuck with,'" she tells him, pleased at the little flicker of fear that crosses his face when he realizes just how that had come out. "And all I ask is that you stay where I can see you at all times."
"Really?" Ophelia asks, her eyes lighting up "We don't have to stay, like, with you with you?"
"You do not," Regina confirms before warning, "But if I lose sight of that red head of yours for even a minute, I'm telling your mother every single detail of your evening, young lady."
"I promise!" Ophelia swears, thoroughly horrified by the threat, judging by her appearance.
"Me too," Trevor agrees, and with the ground rules set, the evening begins.
"Good," Regina nods, jerking her chin toward the nearest stall. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to stop for some cider. It's my favorite, and I'm cold already."
Ophelia pipes up with a Sounds good to me! , and Trevor insists, "Cider's on me. My dad gave me some money."
Regina raises her brows slightly, giving him a little nod of approval and gesturing toward the stall in question with an invitation to, "Lead the way, then."
He's sucking up – as he should be, as far as Regina is concerned. She's all for equality between the sexes, but there's still such a thing as chivalry, and she will absolutely allow this boy to buy her a two-dollar hot cup of spiced cider to prove he knows how to treat a woman right.
Besides, he tells the man ladling it into insulated paper cups, "Two ciders for the ladies, and one for me, please," with such confidence she can't bear to offer him a reprieve on paying for hers.
The cider is warm and fragrant, flooding warmth down her throat and into her chest in a way that makes her close her eyes for a moment and hum softly.
"Best cider in the whole country," she declares, before thanking Trevor for treating.
"No problem," he says, smirking smugly in a way that feels somehow familiar and yet not at all. "It was my pleasure, Mrs. Mills."
Miss, she itches to correct – but she doesn't. Instead she just smiles, nodding her permission and reminding, "Where I can see you," when Ophelia asks if they can go look at the candles in the stall across the row while Regina finishes her cider. It's an utterly transparent request – Regina is going to be sipping on this cider until it runs out or goes cold, and they all know it – but she's promised them their freedom, and Ophelia is wasting absolutely no time in taking her up on it.
So Regina hovers near the cider booth, turning just enough to keep the kids in view but not enough to be staring blatantly as she sips and takes in the ambience. She's been sipping for a good five minutes, half-watching the way Ophelia giggles and grins at this boy as they talk about candles of all things (and they are talking about them, Trevor keeps picking them up and sniffing them, and handing them to Ophelia to do the same), when she hears a familiar voice at her ear:
"You know," Robin teases, "If you'd like to go look at the candles, I do think they'll let you."
Regina chuckles, turning to look at him, and oh, yes, that's where she knows that smug look from: Robin wears it all the damn time when he thinks he's being cute .
"I'm not admiring the candles," she tells him, not bothering with a proper greeting since he hadn't either. She gestures with her cup and tells him, "I'm chaperoning."
Robin follows her gaze, his mouth dropping open slightly when he recognizes the back of Ophelia's head, and the boy standing right next to her, holding another candle for her to sniff.
"Who's that wanker talking to Ophelia?" he asks, with just enough edge that she knows he's joking.
Which is good, because she barks out a laugh immediately, one hand rising to clap over her mouth to stifle it as she shakes her head at him. "His name is Trevor," she tells him, once she's recovered, "And he seems very sweet. He bought me a cider."
"Damn right he did," Robin mutters. "You can't take a lady to the winter fest without buying her a drink to keep warm." Regina hums her agreement, and Robin continues, "And I see she's borrowed your accessories for the evening, too."
"Mm, she wanted to look a little more grown-up, I think," Regina says, as Robin turns to order a mulled cider of his own. "Borrowed some lip gloss, too."
Robin jerks his head around toward her and grouses, "Well, she'd better not be using it to kiss that boy; she's too young."
"Oh, honestly," Regina scoffs. "Between you and my sister, you'd think Phee was eight years old."
"Is she not anymore?" he teases, and Regina rolls her eyes.
Trevor and Ophelia are slowly making their way to the next stall, this one boasting an array of kitschy little ornaments, all marked down to half-off now that the holiday has officially passed. Regina follows behind, heading for the candles herself – it's easier to keep the kids in sight when they're to her side rather than her back, after all.
Robin follows, asking, "You don't mind if I tag along, do you? I was rather bored at home, so thought I might come down and check out the post-Christmas sales, get a jump on next year's shopping."
Regina smirks; of course he is.
She tells him, "Not at all. In fact, I'm glad for the company. It'll make me feel less like I'm stalking them."
"In that case, I think I'd better go – a good stalking by an overbearing aunt is exactly what a young man needs to keep himself in line."
"Since when am I 'overbearing'?" she questions, making sure to look suitably offended by the slight.
"'Bossy,' then," Robin shrugs, and what a jerk. He knows damn well she can't argue that one. "But my point stands."
"He's twelve," Regina snorts, picking up a candle labeled Forest Pine and taking a good whiff. It smells like evergreens, and maybe a hint of citrus. Not bad. Woodsy. Robin would probably like it, she thinks, holding it out to invite him to sniff it himself as she says, "I really don't think his intentions are so impure that he needs to be stalked into behaving."
Robin leans over to smell the candle, his mouth dipping into an interested little frown before he lifts it from her fingertips, taking another sniff and flipping it over to look for a price as he tells her, "I happen to know that Trevor Marley is in fact not twelve, but thirteen – and only that for three more months. Then he'll be fourteen , and far too old for Ophelia, if you ask me."
Regina narrows her eyes, mocking, " 'Who's that boy talking to Ophelia?' You knew exactly who he was, you liar."
"I did not," Robin argues. "I hadn't caught sight of his face yet."
"Mm," Regina hums doubtfully. "But you do know him."
"I do," Robin confirms; Regina reaches for another candle, lavender and sage this time, lifting it and breathing in the sweet scent and frigid air in tandem. "He hangs around the shop a lot in the summer. He likes to fish. So I guess they have that in common."
Regina looks up again at that, her brow furrowing. "Phee likes fish?"
"She likes pulling them from the end of a hook and cleaning them for dinner, I can tell you that much. Far be it for me to sound sexist, but I've never seen a young girl so delighted to rip something's guts out."
"Since when?" Regina questions; she's not sure she's ever seen Ophelia so much as hold a fishing rod. Or at least, not since Daddy was alive.
"She asked me to teach her this summer. I figured she'd just run out of things to do in this town," Robin tells her, continuing, "But after tonight, I'm guessing her interest piqued when she set her sights on that kid."
Right. Life goes on without her here. People grow, they change. Robin sees more of her niece than she does; sometimes it's easy to forget that.
Still, "I doubt that," she tells him, taking the apple-scented candle he offers her and giving it a sniff. It's nice, but nothing special. "Ophelia isn't exactly a patient girl; I can't imagine she's had a crush on him since the summer and is only managing to go on a little date with him now."
"Maybe," he shrugs. She catches him glancing at her with a hint of caution, a little hesitation, and then he says quietly, "She talks about your dad sometimes. Says he used to take her fishing when your mum and Zelena were having a row."
She smiles, softly, appreciating the kid gloves even though they're unnecessary. Losing her father had been a crushing blow, had filled this town with even more painful reminders than losing Daniel had. But Daddy had been… well, not old, but not young, either. The heart attack had been sudden and shocking, but it didn't seem as senselessly unfair as a careening drunk on a Thursday night.
Daddy, she's been able to grieve, to hold close without always feeling burned by the embers of memory. It had taken a decade and a half to get there with Daniel.
"Yeah, he liked to do that," she says warmly. "He used to take me out on the boat, too, when Mother was in one of her moods. But I always liked the boat more than the fishing."
"Mm, I remember," he nods. "Daniel and I went that one summer, but you didn't. He said you couldn't stand to watch the fish gasping. It made you sad."
She shrugs her shoulders and says, "Maybe it was getting my lip split open as a child, I don't know, but at some point I became far too sympathetic to the fact that we were ripping them up into that boat by a hook stuck through their mouths. And I asked my dad once why their mouths moved that way when they were out of the water, and he said it was because they breathe water, not air, and…" She shudders a little, reaching blindly for a candle and lifting it. "It just turned me off."
The candle is overly-sweet; she grimaces and reads the label: birthday cake. Ugh. No wonder.
She drops it as Robin teases, "And yet, I've seen you wolf down a fish and chips platter like the best of them," and passes her the one he'd been holding.
It's sandalwood, and she shuts her eyes to savor it for half a second.
Then she opens them and shrugs, saying, "As long as I don't have to look them in the eye, I'm good."
He chuckles, shaking his head at her and asking, "Do you like that one?"
"The candle?" she asks, and he nods. "I do. It's nice."
Robin nods resolutely and declares, "Then it's yours," taking it from her and setting it on top of that forest-smelling one he's had resting just in front of him on the table since he set it down.
"You don't have to do that," Regina insists. "I can—"
"Nonsense," Robin waves her off, telling her, "It's Christmas and I didn't get you anything," as he waves to the woman working the booth and sets his cider down long enough to fish some cash from his wallet.
"I didn't get you anything either," she points out, reaching one-handed into her pocket for her wallet, too.
He must see her do it, because he tells the woman sternly, "Don't take any of her money; this is a gift." Regina huffs, and rolls her eyes, smirking at him when he adds, "And I guess now you'll just have to owe me one."
"Oh, I will, will I?" she questions as the candles are tucked into two separate gift bags, by Robin's request (she takes a small amount of pride in knowing he'd want that first candle for himself), then handed back over to them.
"Mmhmm," Robin insists smugly, passing one bag to her and looping the other over his wrist before he picks up his cider again and ushers her away from the booth.
She has a witty retort ready to go (or she's thinking of one, at least) when she realizes that Ophelia and Trevor are no longer at the booth beside them. Regina scowls, irritation and a slight hint of panic (Zelena will kill her if she loses track of her daughter tonight) ticking up in her chest as she searches the nearby stalls.
It's a short-lived sensation, though – she spots that black pompom on top of Ophelia's head only two stalls down on the other side. Still within view, as promised.
Regina lets out a relieved breath, muttering, "I should've lojacked her."
Robin chuckles, his hand pressing lightly to her back as they weave through a little knot of people huddled around those half-price ornaments. "Am I distracting you from your duties?"
"No," she tells him, but then she realizes, "Well, yes. But I told them they only had to stay within view, and I can see them from here, so they're not exactly misbehaving. Just giving me a minor heart attack."
"Maybe we should add a little whiskey to the cider, settle your nerves a bit," he teases, and she can tell from the way he's grinning at her that said whiskey is no-doubt somewhere on his person at the moment.
And as tempting as it is…
"Not while I'm on babysitting duty," she sighs, pouting a little in disappointment. "I have to drive later, and I won't drink and drive her."
Robin knows exactly why, so he doesn't push. Just tells her, "Some other time, then."
Her smile spreads, her head bobbing once, before she tells him on a whim, "I'll owe you one – before I leave town, I promise."
Because these two impromptu run-ins with him have been a highlight of her week, and quite frankly, she'd like to see more of him.
She has a feeling the sentiment is mutual when he bites his bottom lip in a way she's always found far too sexy for someone she wasn't allowed to find attractive, and tells her, "I'll hold you to that."
.::.
He probably shouldn't flirt so shamelessly with her.
Really, he shouldn't.
She's only just freshly divorced (but then, she did say that the marriage had been long over before it ended, did she not?), and the last thing she needs over her holiday is to fend off some over-eager hometown friend who can't help but make advances. But then, he's not really making advances , is he? Just flirting. Just banter. Just casual conversation between friends.
They've done this sort of thing for years – teasing each other, needling and joking and making each other laugh or roll their eyes or rise to take some form or other of bait.
They've just never done it before when they were both single. Well, once. That one Christmas, in London, when she'd been studying abroad and he'd been briefly split from Marian and spent the holiday in England instead of here. And that had ended with them both naked and breathless, so can he really be blamed for wanting to flirt a bit and see where it all goes?
(Yes, he thinks. He can be. She's newly divorced, he shouldn't take advantage just because it's been ages since he's been with a woman, and years since he's been with anyone who makes him light up inside the way she does.)
He tells himself to rein it in just a little, and steers their conversation toward safer topics like how their Christmases were spent (her with her family, him with Ruby and Granny – the closest thing he has to family in this town, now), and the gifts they'd given and received. He puts his foot in his mouth for a moment, asks if Santa brought her another Birkin this year, when he knows very well that it had been her now-ex and not Santa. But she smiles gamely, and says that no, Santa is on holiday this year, by all appearances.
"But one of his elves did sneak a Miner's Day candle in my stocking, so let it never be said my mother has no Christmas spirit," she teases.
Robin scoffs and shakes his head. "She's such a Grinch. Might as well have given you coal."
"Well, I'm sure she had to come up with something to do with a plain beeswax pillar, and I doubt she could have pawned it off on Zelena – knowing my sister, she bought herself a dozen."
How true.
Regina shrugs a little, her shoulder bumping his lightly on accident, and adds, "But truth be told, I don't mind. They're decent candles, and it'll be a little bit of home when I go back to D.C."
The thought makes him feel a little twist of pre-emptive sadness he has absolutely no rights to – they may be friends, but they've not been what he'd callclose friends in a very long while. Although come to think of it, that may be what makes her absences so depressing. He knows full well that if history repeats, she'll head home and he'll not hear from her for weeks at best, maybe months. Not until he sees a book he thinks she'd like, or she comes across a new band she wants him to hear, or something one of them sees jogs a memory of the other.
And even then, it's only ever a text or two. Just pleasantries. Just an occasional comment on the other's Facebook posts, or something equally banal.
They can talk for ages, no problem, but he and Regina have never made great pen pals.
So he doesn't like to think of her heading home, alone, to that apartment that makes her cry, with just a fat pillar candle to keep her company. It's depressing.
He'd like to keep her right here in town where he can bump into her getting coffee, or where he can imagine she might wander into his shop someday looking for, who knows, a tent for a campout with her niece or something.
Speaking of her niece, Regina seems to have lost sight of her again, if the way she's glancing around suddenly is any indication. But Robin has been keeping a close eye since that first time they lost the lovebirds ever-so-briefly, and so he points her in the right direction: "Raffle booth."
She squints two stalls down, nods her satisfaction at spying Ophelia safe and sound, and then says, "I think we should go pay them a little visit. See how things are going."
"I think that sounds like a fine plan," Robin agrees, and so they're off, picking up the pace a little bit to catch up to the kids.
It's not that Robin doesn't like Trevor – he does, quite a lot – it's simply that he's been a teenage boy before and he's too fond of Ophelia to let her spend her evening with a boy who is boring or boorish. So he has absolutely no qualms about walking right up to them and slinging an arm around Trevor's shoulders, greeting them both with a, "Well, if it isn't two of my favorite kids."
Ophelia goes deeper red under cheeks already pink from cold, looking to Regina for help with desperate, wide eyes that almost make Robin feel bad for interrupting their little date so abruptly.
Almost.
Regina is absolutely no help to the girl; she only shrugs and smiles and says, "Robin wanted to come say hi."
Trevor doesn't seem at all bothered to have a moment's company, offering a cheerful, "Hey, Robin. You guys on a date, too?"
Now it's Regina's eyes that go wide, Robin's brows rising as he turns to smile at her, before assuring the boy, "No, we're not. Regina and I are old friends, we're catching up." Then he glances at the booth in front of them and decides, "And buying raffle tickets," telling the teenager manning the booth, "I'll take four."
"You are not buying my raffle tickets, too," Regina insists, stepping up a little closer and pulling her wallet from her pocket with determination.
"You're right, I'm not," Robin assures her, letting his arm drop from Trevor's shoulder (but not without mussing the boys hat a bit; he huffs about it, and adjusts it anxiously while Robin has the good grace to block him from view by reaching across to pay for his tickets). "These are all mine; I want that free breakfast."
"Me, too!" Trevor insists, his hat apparently back in place as he says, "Three for me, please Ophelia, one of those is for you, okay?"
"Two," Robin mutters to him out of the side of his mouth. Trevor frowns.
"Huh?"
" Two are hers, you ninny," he mutters more pointedly. "You're on a bloody date; treat the girl."
"I already bought her cider, and a candle, and a little ornament at—"
"The ornaments are half-off—"
"We're only halfway through the fair," Trevor hisses, their conversation now sheltered by the subtle angling of Robin's back between him and the ladies. "I'm gonna run out of money."
"So she gets two, and you get one – it's a first date, make a good impression."
"But… bacon."
He says it with such innocent disappointment that Robin can't help but laugh, dropping his head in closer and chuckling, "If you play your cards right on the first date, I'd wager she'll share her free bacon with you, son."
The thought seems never to have occurred to poor Trevor, whose brow knits with consideration all of a sudden.
"And if it's the money you're worried about," Robin sweetens the pot, "I'll spot you the five dollars."
That seems to seal the deal, Trevor piping up, "Actually, I want four, too! Two for Phee, and two for me, please."
When Robin steps back and turns, he finds Regina watching him, shaking her head and trying not to laugh.
Robin just shrugs, and subtly slips a five dollar bill into Trevor's pocket while Ophelia is distracted by writing her name and phone number on the back of her raffle tickets.
It takes them all a minute to fill everything out – Robin's four tickets, and Trevor's two, plus the two he bought Ophelia and the one Regina had given her. She'd bought only one for herself, arguing, "I'm not here often enough to take advantage of the free breakfast, and if I used the B&B stay, Madam Mayor would—"
She catches herself, realizes she's about to say whatever it was in front of Trevor, and amends to, "...be disappointed not to have her daughter staying with her."
"I hope you win the B&B stay," Ophelia tells her, making Regina's smile crack and bleed in places when she adds, "That way you'd have an excuse to come visit me – no matter what Grandma says about you staying with her."
Regina's "I don't need an excuse, sweetheart," is a little strained, and he watches as she reaches over and gives the girl's arm a squeeze before promising, "I'm going to come home more often now, I swear. Maybe I can come in February, for my birthday. It beats spending it alone at home."
Ophelia brightens, straightening up and telling her aunt excitedly, "I could make your birthday cake! I've gotten really good at cake."
"If they're anything like your pies, that might be the best thing I get for my birthday," Regina praises, and Ophelia puffs up like a proud little peacock. "Now, why don't you two go… see what's over at Marco's booth, hmm?"
It's a dismissal, setting them free from their chaperones again, and they take it gladly, scampering off together across the way and leaving him alone with Regina again.
She deflates immediately, their happy mood from earlier thoroughly popped, when she confesses, "I hate when she says things like that. I've missed so much; I know it. I…" She's had her head ducked down, but she lifts it again, staring off after her niece, and Robin can see the shimmer of tears on her lashes as she presses her lips together. They're gone as quickly as they surfaced, Regina sucking in a breath and letting it out, and then, "I should have left him sooner. Maybe if it was just me, I'd have been here more, maybe—"
"Doesn't change anything," he cuts off, because she'll only drag herself down on a spiral of useless what-ifs. Regina frowns up at him, and he repeats himself, "Maybes don't change anything. So don't go there."
"I can't help it," she mutters, glancing up behind him at the booth they're still standing awfully close to.
Robin leads her a few steps further away, to a little gap between two stalls, a little path that leads back toward the porta-potties nobody is desperate enough to use when it's so God-awful cold outside.
"I could have had—" she starts again, but then she pauses, and shakes her head, says, "I feel like I wasted so much time I could have spent doing what I wanted, instead of what we wanted. Which isn't really fair to him; he wasn't controlling, or… anything like that."
"Marriage is full of compromises," Robin says, because he knows. He's been there, too. "You want, and I want, and somewhere in the middle, you find what works for the both of you. It's not always easy, but it's worth it, usually."
"'Usually' being the key word," she grumbles, sipping agitatedly at the last of her cider, now certainly gone tepid if not cold. There's a trashcan nearby, and she pitches the empty cup in its direction (it biffs off the edge a bit, but she sinks it nonetheless), then crosses her arms over her chest. "But then it all ends, and suddenly it's years of compromising you could have avoided if you'd just been smart enough to walk away from something comfortable but wrong."
Robin's not entirely sure what to say to that, how to comfort her, and in the time he takes to figure it out, she's glancing over at him again and saying, "I'm sorry; I shouldn't be unloading on you. It's Christmas."
"Screw Christmas," Robin tells her. "Unload all you want, that's what friends are for."
She smiles a little at that, but doesn't do more than sigh. And maybe he should just let it drop, just change the subject to something more jovial and festive, but it's clearly on her mind. And the last thing he wants is for her to think that whatever she's going through right now is a bother.
So he chances encouraging her to open up even more by asking, "What's your biggest regret? The thing you wish you'd been able to do your way, and didn't get to."
Her gaze strays across the way again, finding Ophelia and Trevor giggling over carved mice or something, and she says softly, "I wanted kids. I don't think I wanted them for the right reasons, when I wanted them, but… I always wanted to be a mom."
"What were your reasons?"
She ducks her head a little at that, tilting it just so to hide her face a bit, but he can still hear her when she admits, "I was lonely, and something was missing. Our marriage felt… stagnant. I had this sort of… hole… in my chest. This yearning for something. I should have just left, then. You can't have kids to save your marriage, it's not… fair."
He can't say he disagrees with that, but, "I always thought you'd have kids. I always figured one of these trips you'd come home, bursting with good news, and I'd be terribly jealous."
Her brow knits at that, her head tilting curiously to one side. "I was sure the two of you would. You both loved kids."
"We did," he nods. "But after her mom passed – well, after we got married, once we started talking about maybe someday… She had the genetic test done." Regina's face pinches in sympathy, and he knows he doesn't have to say anymore. She can put two and two together to make four. But he finds he doesn't mind sharing personal things with her, even here amid the bustle of the post-holiday crowd. "She was positive, BRCA1 mutation, fifty-fifty chance of passing it on, and she didn't want…" He shakes his head, and sighs, and says, "She didn't want to give that to a child. And I said that was fine, that we'd adopt, we'd find a way. And for a while, that was the plan – the eventual, down-the-road plan. And then one day she told me she didn't want to anymore. She was afraid she'd die young like her mum, and she didn't want to leave me behind with a child. We decided we'd talk about it again, later, in a year or two, maybe. But then she got sick, so… that solved that conversation."
"I'm sorry," Regina tells him, sincerely, reaching over and linking her fingers with his, giving them a tight squeeze.
"She was right," he tells her, a familiar ache in his chest, the same as every time he thinks of all the little parts of his life with Marian that were stolen by illness and death. "I don't think I could have done it without her. I don't know how I'd have carried on with her gone, with a child."
"You would have," Regina tells him quietly, her fingers tightening over his again. "You have a big heart, and you're strong, loyal. Maybe she was right, but you'd have been a great dad, either way. I know it."
Her voice is quiet, but sure, full of an unshakeable sort of faith in him that makes him feel something, right in his middle. His throat tightens for a moment, but he swallows down against it, clears it slightly and asks, "So how about you? You wanted, and he didn't?"
She frowns a little, one brow lifting and falling in derision. "In the end, yeah. But it took us a long time to get there. We tried for about a year, and… nothing. So, we went to the doctor, did all the tests, and found out that it was me. I... can't."
"Oh…" Well, now he just feels like an asshole. He'd thought he'd been about to hear another story about how Leo was a selfish old gasbag, not… this. "I'm sorry; I didn't know."
"Nobody does," she tells him with a brittle little smile that is not at all a smile. He wonders how many other things there are in her life that nobody knows, private aches that she keeps close and doesn't share. Wonders why she's sharing them with him now, but he's not going to argue it. "We didn't tell anyone – not even our families. I wanted to wait until we had good news to share; silly me." That smile flickers again, full of more self-loathing than he'd ever care to see on her, and she continues, "They gave us options – adoption, IVF, the usual. Leo had reservations about adoption – it can take a while, it's expensive; whatever the reasons were the first time we talked about it, I don't remember exactly. I just know we decided IVF was the better option for us."
She looks down, finds something suddenly very interesting near the toe of her boot as she says so quietly he almost can't hear her, "We did one round, and… it failed. I failed—" She looks up, then, suddenly, insistent when she says, "I know that I didn't— But it felt that way. I was the one keeping us from getting pregnant, and going through all of that and still getting another 'no' was… awful. They tell you the percentages, and what to expect, the odds of failure, but when it happens, it's still awful."
"I can't imagine," he murmurs, his heart aching for her. He wants to draw her in closer, wants to wrap her up in a hug but it doesn't seem the right moment. Wants at the very least to be having this conversation on a warm sofa, in the privacy of one of their homes, and not freezing their toes off at the winter festival.
But here they are, so here they'll have it. Robin steps closer to her, until their arms are touching; he tells himself it's for warmth as much as privacy, but he knows better. He just wants to be there for her, in whatever way he can.
"I was heartbroken. And emotionally exhausted. And we did it again."
Robin's heart clenches; his hand, too.
She squeezes back and winces out a smile, telling him what he's already guessed: "And failed again. And it was awful, again. The holidays were coming up, and I wanted a break. I didn't want to see my mother, or Zelena, or…" She glances over at the redhead with her black knit cap, still playing with little whittled woodland creatures, and Robin untangles his hand from Regina's and slips it around her back.
She doesn't pull away, thank God, quite the opposite, in fact. She leans in against him, lets her head tilt down onto his shoulder, not quite a hug, not really, but enough . Robin lets his arm span down across to her hip and gives it a squeeze she likely can't even feel through her parka.
"We went to St. Barts," she tells him, her voice going tauntingly bitter as she adds, "So I could cry in a sunnier clime, I guess. And I was just… wrecked. I brought up adoption again, I wanted to consider something where at least if it wasn't working out, it wasn't me who wasn't able to give us a baby. So we talked about it, again, and he had all these reasons, again, and finally, when it came down to it, he admitted what I should have already known: he's not good with kids."
She lifts her head again, then, sighing and looking at him to say, "And I knew that – I mean, we all knew that. He was never the fun uncle. Kids were always hard for him, he never really connected with them. That's the word he used, that Christmas. 'Connected.' But I wanted kids, and it's what you do – you get married, and have a family, so he'd… wanted to. Or, felt obligated to, at least."
"Wanker," Robin mutters softly. He doesn't really mean to, it just slips out while he's standing there thinking of everything she'd told him she'd already been through for this tosser to suddenly tell her he didn't 'connect' with children.
"Yeah," she scoffs. "He said he'd hoped that it would be different when the baby came – that's what everyone always says, right? About everything. 'Oh, it'll be different when it's your own child, you'll see.' So he'd hoped that when we finally got pregnant, or when he finally held his child, he'd magically be, I don't know, a great dad, and a baby whisperer or something."
Her jaw's gone a bit tense, her lips too, and he can see the way it still galls her. Can see the anger she still carries even without her telling him, "I was so angry. I'd been through so much, and he didn't even really want—" She's blinking back tears again, sucks in another frigid breath to quell them, her exhale a bit shaky, but she's steady again when she says, "I told him I wanted to table it. We were supposed to do a third round of IVF, and I said I wanted to wait, that I needed some time. He was so relieved, and I was so angry. It was a pretty terrible Christmas."
"I bet," he murmurs, leaning in on impulse to press a kiss to her temple. It's right there, and he's a nurturer by nature, but he realizes at the very last second that they are a) in public and b) not quite that close. At least, he's not sure if a casual, comforting kiss will be welcome. But he's already so close that he just presses his nose to her temple instead, just rests there for a second while they take a breath together and he hopes it's not as terribly awkward for her as it is for him.
If it is, she hides it well – or maybe she's just once again in dire need of spilling her secrets and it's worth more to her than a bit of dignity or discomfort.
Either way, she leans just a little bit into him, and continues telling him, "I did a lot of thinking after we got home. A lot of soul searching. A lot of delving into what was really wrong, and why I was so determined to build a family on such a lackluster foundation. And I realized that I would be building my own childhood over again – one parent who would do anything for their child, and one parent who always felt cold, who had such a hard time being nurturing or supportive…" She trails off with another shake of her head, says, "I didn't want that. And I was angry with him; I was angry that he didn't tell me the truth from the beginning. It was two years ago now, but it was the beginning of the end for us. We never really recovered."
He's not surprised. He can't imagine that kind of strain could be good for a marriage that was already struggling the way she tells it.
"So," she says with a cleansing sigh, "That is my biggest regret. My biggest compromise."
Robin gives her another squeeze, sliding his arm up to rub it over her bicep as he tells her, "I'm not sorry I asked, but I feel like I should apologize for asking you here ."
Regina shrugs, and reminds him, "I didn't have to tell you. And I certainly didn't have to tell you all of that . I wanted to."
"Needed to get it out?" he asks, and she nods. The heaviness of the moment seems to be lifting, so Robin lets his arm fall away from her and starts to put a more polite bit of distance between them – right up until she reaches over and grips at the front of his coat.
"Don't," she orders with a smirk. "You're warm."
Robin chuckles and wraps his arms around her properly, enveloping her in a big bear hug and rubbing vigorously at her back, her arms. Regina laughs, tucking her nose into his scarf and pressing just a little closer to him.
"How's that?" Robin asks, slowing his hands to a lazy rhythm up and down her spine.
"Better," she says, her voice muffled a bit by his scarf. But still, she doesn't move, and that's just fine with Robin. He settles his arms across her shoulders, a warm embrace but not a tight one, and for a minute they just stand there like that. Him rocking them gently from side to side, her resting comfortably against him. And then she asks, "How are the lovebirds?"
"They've moved on to Ingrid's cocoa stand," Robin tells her; he's been watching them now for a minute or so. "If he's not careful that boy's going to force them into using that freezing port-a-john."
Regina snorts a little and lifts her head, her smile a bit impish as she says, "Well, then it's a good thing someone sweet-talked the Mayor into lending out the Town Hall keys for a night."
Robin's brows lift, impressed. "She actually entrusted you with something so valuable? I'm shocked."
Regina's shoulders lift and fall inside the wreath of his arms, and she says simply, "Mother may not agree with all the decisions I make in my personal life, but she's at least always trusted me to be a responsible adult."
"In that case, I could use another warm drink," he tells her, and Regina nods, pulling back and leaving him shivering at the loss of her warmth.
They walk slowly, giving Trevor and Ophelia plenty of time to mosey away from the booth as they mosey toward it, and while they walk, he says quietly, "You could still adopt now, you know. It doesn't have to be something you gave up, just something that got a bit… delayed."
Regina smiles ruefully, and shakes her head.
"It's not a good time," she sighs. "I'm too busy; I feel like I'm never home, it wouldn't be fair to a child. And I'm alone. I know how hard it was for Zelena, even with our parents close by. I have friends in D.C., but it's not the same. I don't think I could do it alone, not right now."
"I think you're selling yourself short," he tells her, because, "I've never really known you to be unable to do whatever it is you put your mind to. You're one of the most capable people I know."
"I'm not worried that I'm not capable of it," she tells him. "I'm worried that I won't excel at it."
Ah, the Cora Mills Special. It's not enough to be good, one must always strive for perfection.
"You don't have to be the best at everything, you know – Mayor's daughter or not."
Regina lifts her brows at his audacity, and then reasons, "Maybe not, but when it comes to raising another human, to being solely responsible for them growing up into a well-adjusted, fully functioning, healthy person and member of society, I think one should try to be more than just 'good enough,' don't you?"
She has him there.
And they've reached the cocoa, so Robin shrugs and concedes, "Point taken. Regular cocoa or peppermint?"
She opts for regular this time, with an indulgent amount of mini-marshmallows covering the top, and by the time he's ordered and paid for both, the mood has shifted from serious confessions to something a bit more… festive.
Maybe it's the candy canes speared into his drink, or the "Jingle Bell Rock" pumping from a sound system in one of the stalls. Or perhaps it's the light snow that's just beginning to fall all around them. Whatever the cause, Robin welcomes it.
As much as he enjoys talking to her, and as much as he appreciates that she trusts him enough to spill all her secrets to him, it's Christmas. And he's passed far too many sad Christmases himself to be alright allowing someone else to suffer the same.
So he spends the next several stalls just trying to keep her smiling, trying to draw out a laugh. He picks up a little plush reindeer off a booth's display and gives him a silly voice, and a name – Randy, cousin to Rudolph, never got to join in any reindeer games either and did cousin Rudy give a damn? Noooo, of course he did not. He tells her quite an elaborate tale of family rivalry and terse holiday meals, and she snickers at him, this look on her face the whole time that says he's absolutely bonkers.
He loves it. So does she.
But when Robin attempts to buy Randy the Reindeer, he's met with her protestations, with insistence that she doesn't "need a stuffed animal, you absolute crazy person." But she's grinning, all traces of sadness gone from her face for a while, so he considers it a win.
It's another ten minutes before they realize their mistake.
They're nearing the far end of the festival booths, moseying closer and closer to where Zelena's booth is set up. A fact that they're both aware of, and yet, not nearly aware of enough .
Because as Regina snorts into her cocoa at the off-color joke Robin has just leaned in and made about the particular positioning of a wooden Santa and the wooden elf displayed beside him, Zelena comes marching up, face as red as her hair and looking positively steamed.
"Hello, Regina," she greets, catching Regina off guard with enough ferocity that she startles a bit at the interruption.
She glances around quickly, but not subtly, apparently, because she's not managed to get more than her sister's name out, "Zelena—" before she's being cut off.
"Oh, are you looking for my daughter?" she asks leadingly, a tense edge of anger underscoring the not-so-innocent question. "The one you're supposed to be spending the evening with? Chaperoning on her not-date?"
Regina lets out a sigh and points two booths down, where Ophelia and Trevor are looking at what appear to be more candles, these ones made from old wine bottles. "They're right there, Zelena."
"They're supposed to be right here ," Zelena insists. "Those were the terms of me letting her go tonight – that she be chaperoned ."
"And she is," Regina tells her, only a hint of exasperation beneath her calm veneer as she tries to talk Zelena down. "She's been in my sight all evening – those were our terms, mine and Phee's. She's never broken them, and for God's sake, Zelena, all they've done is talk and browse for knick-knacks and drink cider. They've barely even held hands ."
Her insistence doesn't seem to be doing much to quell her sister's ire, and Robin is starting to feel increasingly awkward about standing there observing their verbal sparring match. So he leans over and gives her hand a squeeze, interrupting long enough to say, "It's probably best if I go…"
Regina, annoyed, turns in his direction with a sigh, and nods, "Thanks for keeping me company. And for earlier…" Her fingers squeeze hard over his, her lips pressing together in a sad imitation of a true smile. "For listening. It meant a lot, and I'm grateful."
"This is all very touching—" Zelena interrupts, and Regina whirls on her, temper rising to match her sister's as she bites, If you'll just let me say my goodbyes, you can get back to yelling at me in a second .
Robin presses his lips together to hide the smirk, insisting, "I'll be off in a moment – and I'll see you again, before you leave." It's not a question, but a certainty. She's here through the New Year, and if they don't manage to find time before then, he is determined to find a moment with her at Granny's New Year's bash. After all, "You still owe me that drink."
Her brow furrows for a second, then smoothes, a smile sliding onto her face before she answers quietly, smugly, "Yes, I suppose I do."
Her smile sets off a widening of his own, and he takes one last moment to imprint the memory of her, pink-cheeked from cold, flakes of snow on her cap, and looking at him fondly.
And then he leaves her behind to battle it out with her sister, heading back the way they came.
He has a stuffed reindeer to buy.