Chapter 4:

Granny's Diner

Sleep evaded him. Not a minute of peaceful rest to be had. He is used to it by now, the grogginess in his head, stinging of dry tired eyes, he never really sleeps anyway. Spends majority of passing nights staring up at the stars, wondering if his father is up there, paralleling his one of his favorite movies, like Simba and Mufasa, a film they used to watch every tuesday with pizza and popcorn, the four of them all snuggled into the couch together, now a blatant reality of a lost son staring at the twinkling lights in the dark abyss, so far away, intangible, untouchable, always silent even when he asks for help. They used sit against the oak tree in the backyard, the warmth of a small campfire paling in comparison to the blanket of Papa's arms hugging around him tight, and the low vibrato of Regina's voice humming in his ears as she pointed out pictures in the sky. There was a fox, a warrior, a bear, but his favorite is the lion. It reminded him of Papa's tattoo.

For years he thought about inking his own skin. Marking himself as a Locksley. A proud and honorable man of the forest. But those thoughts quickly dissolved as the isolation of loneliness settled in, as it always had. He didn't much feel like a Locksley, or a Hood, or even a Merry Man. He was just a silent wandering soul, without a name, or a place to go back to.

The hard springs of the bed didn't exactly help either. The itchy wool blanket he eventually shucked off, lest he get some sort of rash from it. Instead, he stared at the ceiling, the white popcorned roof, the incessant buzzing of the rusty fan, surely sprinkling a touch of dust around the entire room. He didn't have any money to pay for anything better, so out of the good graces of Granny, he was allowed to sleep in one of the unrenovated rooms, graciously thanking her for her kindness, and yet, the peeling of the wallpaper, yellow stained from age, fading swirling roses, that if he is being honest, look nothing like the real flower. It smells stale, has his head pounding at the lingering aroma.

The clock beside him bleeps annoyingly, a shrill sound he tosses the lump pillow at. Apparently it's time to greet another day. Sighing heavy, he shrugs his coat on, sliding feet into creased leather boots, he could use a new pair, the hole in the back of the left sole lets every single wet droplet in. He can't buy a new pair though, he has no money. Resentment spikes as he tugs at the shredded laces, knotting them together, grabbing his room key and heading out, to nowhere.

The steps creak underneath his weight, the smell of coffee a gracious escape from the stale scent of his room, it has his jaw watering, stomach grumbling as he walks through the back of the diner, into a dead empty space, nobody but the ginger haired doctor chatting with the brunette waitress in a far corner. Sliding onto a stool at the bar, he picks absently at a string on his coat, a small hole gaping open in the hem of his jacket. Just another blaring all too obvious thing to show the world just how unfortunate and unfair life treated him.

"She's been here since I got up."

He frowns, flicking his gaze up to the older woman who rubs her hands into a dirty dish cloth, eyeing something, or rather someone just beyond his shoulder, and he freezes, swallowing thickly down into the swirling mug of black that steams away in his shaking hands. "Are you going to talk to her?"

Roland stills, grimacing at the older woman who knows absolutely nothing about anything. Just another person who let him go. He remembers her. How she'd gripe and groan at pretty much everyone except him and Henry. Would stack on an extra pancake drowned in far too much syrup, giving them both a cheeky wink when Regina would turn around and eye their rather unhealthy breakfast with a huff. She was more of a fruit cup and juice kind of breakfast person. Would always pick around the cantaloupe, claiming it tasted funny, knowing full well it was Papa's favorite, would roll her eyes behind a hidden smile as she'd playfully slide her bowl over to Robin's awaiting fork. He liked those mornings. The four of them figuring out what adventure they should part-take in that day. So yes, he remembers Granny, her blue eyes sparkling behind tiny silver rimmed glasses, a sparkle he can't seem to find behind her hardened expression.

He shrugs, blatantly not looking over to Regina behind him, opting to let his stubborn hurt streak pull to the front. Tipping his empty mug at the older woman he silently asks for a refill.

"We are all out of coffee."

"What?"

Granny tilts her head sideways, scowling a smirk at him as she shuffles back to the stove, huffing out gruffly "She makes good coffee. Not like mine, but it's good." It's with that, the diner owner retreats to the kitchen, leaving Roland to stew over an empty ceramic cup and a waiting conversation he'd rather like to avoid behind him. Tortured anger pulses in his gut, holding him to the seat though a piece of him wishes for nothing more than to go over to her, but he can't, focuses on the ticking of the clock instead, watching as time barely moves. He still can't really tell time, at least not on these types of clocks, where long sticks point in advertently in ever changing angles. His clock is the sun, it's how Papa taught him and it's how he knows when to rise and when to sink into a tree and wait for the sun to come back once more.

The chime of the door draws him back, a clattering of heavy boots and boisterous laughter he excludes from. He listens as they clammer into a booth behind him, balking on about something deep in the mines, some unburied treasure only they can resurrect. Granny sweeps through the kitchens red curtain, raising her eyebrow at the fact he is still sitting at her counter, growls slightly as she passes him with a roll of her eyes and takes a full steaming pot of coffee over to the more lively table, chuckling alongside their aggravating chatter before returning behind the counter, sliding the empty glass container beside him haughtily as she eyes Regina once more.

He scowls at the old woman, to which she simply waves his indignation off, and heads back to cook. Old grouch, sticking her nose into things she has no business being a part of. He's going to get nowhere just sitting here, and the back door is suddenly crowded with people, leaving him no choice but to skid through the crowd of people that infiltrated the place without him really realizes. Thumbing his gloves on, his index finger pokes through another hole, which is just great, he mi as well get frostbite at the same time, it would be only fitting. Rolling his eyes, he grabs his toque, steals the violent shake of his nerves and steps around the first booth, eyes glued to the linoleum tiled floor, a napkin crunched in the corner, a packet of ketchup underneath a chair, gathering a small puff of dust around it, roughly making his way through the diner — "Whoa, heads up there brother." He smacks hard into someone, a short someone, who presses a dirty palm to his chest, easing him off with a confused sketching look, "You look familiar." The dwarf eyes him up, dark frown lines cratering his skin that is half covered with a peppered gray beard. It's a quick muttered apology before he is sizing up just how many steps it is to the door, before he sees her. Sitting alone. Eyes casted out the smudged window, hands wrapped loosely around a white mug. He aches from head to toe.

The commotion roused her gaze, has her shifting a fraction in the steel seat, and his heart jumps into his throat, blocking off the sweeping of bacon coated air into his lungs as their eyes connect. Apprehension meeting trepidation. His immediate reaction is to run, the flight instinct blazes into high gear, but his feet don't move, though adrenaline flushes about his body. She looks scared. Of him? It's possible. Given how he stormed out last night. He half expects her to disappear in the cloud of signature purple, leaving him (again), but against every ill-fated snarking of his mind, she doesn't. She just sits there, waiting for him, he supposes, to make the first move.

He should leave. But he doesn't. Feels his heavy boots start to shift lead legs forward, towards the small table, not missing the slight shake in her inhale as he approaches, suddenly feeling like he is the predator and she the prey, cornered with nowhere to run or hide. But her eyes don't leave his, not when he closes the 9 square tiles between them, the frozen tense minute he stands at the side of the booth, and not even when he slowly feels his knees sinking into the chair adjacent her own. It may be thundering conversation behind him, but only silence surrounds them, silence and a small circular table where if he extended just a bit he could touch her hands that rest folded against her mug. He'd like to. Hold her hand. Feel the ease the contact always brought. His fingers curl into his palm, hard in defiance to his will, surely would leave marks on his skin if the barrier of thin wool glove wasn't there. She smiles, a sad barely there twinge of her lips and his heart clenches. How can it be this hard? He's wanted nothing more than to see her again, to hear her voice, ask her a thousand questions, finally feel this dark weight lifted off his chest at her answers, and just be with her again, like he always should have been.

Yet, he looks at her, and all he sees is Papa.

He should be beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, nuzzling into the crook of her neck, making her blush and smile like only Papa could. It was a different smile than the one he or Henry could pull out of her. Their smile was wide, bright and toothy, usually with a scrunch of her nose and happy chuckle. Papa's smile was particular. One that hid away most of the time, but when it happened, it almost looked sad to Roland. Like she was trying to smile so she didn't cry. He never understood why though. Why this smile had Papa's eyes going all soft and hazy as he looked at Regina, usually finding her hands with his own and kissing her knuckles gently. It was like they were both afraid of something. What, Roland didn't have a clue, but it was there all the same. Sad and happy, all mixed into one. The smile stretching fragile across her face is heavy hearted, and he wishes for the hundredth time, Papa was here, and not just for him.

"Do you want some coffee?"

Her voice is light, tight and gravelly as though she has been crying, he notices the slight redness around her chocolate eyes, the pink of her cheeks not there from makeup, a crumpled up kleenex clutched in her hand.

"Granny seemed rather reluctant to refill my mug until I came to talk to you."

Her smile falters, as she nods her head dejectedly, and he kicks himself for saying it with such disdain, now that she has taken to look back out the window instead of at him, sighing to herself as she bites down on her lower lip. He can see her jaw tremble slightly, the thickness in her swallow and rapid blinking of her lashes that fight away tears he's put there, again. If he could sink into a hole deeper than the Underworld he'd gladly dig himself down there right now. He shifts uncomfortable in his own skin, tugging at the hole in his glove finger, tearing the tiny laced threads further apart, it's the only thing he can control, this ridiculous wool gap he's just made, splitting down the entire knuckle, he grimaces over the fact he just lost his only pair of gloves.

"I know you're angry with me."

He bites down hard on his tongue as she sniffs, scratching absently through her hair though avoiding his gaze still.

"You have every right to be mad."

He is mad. Furious with her. He thinks. This overwhelming need to hug her festering in the tarred cesspool of his heart, fights away the anger with all it's hopeful might, pokes at the bitterness till it squeezes out of the seams, black ooze replaced by light weightlessness. It's almost painful, being tempted into letting go of all the anger, and then what would be left? It's really all he has, this steady thumping in the base of his gut, a fire burning in his heart, raging inside, warming him from tip to toe. If he lets it go, there will be nothing left, just a cold hollow empty nothingness, and is that really any better?

"I am so sorry, Roland."

"You should be," he snaps far too quickly, dropping his gaze from her face as she recoils back in the steel chair, gripping onto her coffee a little tighter, like some sort of protection from him. She doesn't need it. He'd never hurt her, well, not physically, verbally is another story, one he wishes he could rewrite.

Shame licks up his spine as he thinks of his papa, how disappointed he'd be hearing Roland speak like this to anyone, but especially to Regina.

"I know." She sighs, fixing her already perfect hair, and toying with the emerald ring on her left hand as they fall back into uncomfortable silence, both staring into the falling flakes of snow that coat the ground outside. They only had one winter here, back when his mother came back...or not his mother, but that other red-headed woman, another name he wasn't allowed to speak of.

Life was confusing even back then.

He had Regina, then she was gone, his "mother" came back, she too gone before he really ever had her. Papa was quiet all the time in the noisy city, rarely smiled like he did in Storybrooke, spent days upon days sitting in the green chair in the corner, writing something he'd always hide once "mama" came home. Roland didn't like that place. It definitely wasn't home. And then they were back, in Storybrooke, with Regina and everything seemed to be going back to normal, until Papa and Regina left him with the fairies.

He remembers them saying goodbye, promising they wouldn't be gone long, though it felt like forever till he heard his Papa call his name in the park when he was with Little John feeding the ducks. Regina was there too, hugging him tight vowing they could get ice cream on the way home, and she'd read him two bedtime stories.

He never got those stories.

He went back to the Merry Men's camp with Little John, and waited. Waited till his eyelids drooped from exhaustion, but he couldn't go to bed yet, they promised they'd come back. Only one did. He remembers it as though it happened only moments ago. Seeing Regina standing on the edge of camp, leaning heavily against a snow covered tree, her arms wrapped tight around her, looking as though she was about to break into pieces should she take another step closer. He heard Tuck call her name quietly, silencing the ruckus of conversation about them, as they all turned, seeing the Queen frozen on the spot.

He'd run over to her, bouncing over the fact she came back and they could go get ice cream now. She was within reach when Tuck grabbed his shoulder, holding him back as the friar stepped forward first, and then she just started crying, sinking to the ice cold ground in front of them, and he didn't understand, but something was wrong. He'd never seen Regina cry like this, had only seen a few tears fall down her cheeks back in the Enchanted Forest, but nothing close to what was going on now, the tight gripping of air through her agonized sobbing, the breaking hiccups of her apologies gritted out over and over again into the dark sky. For a second all he felt was scared, goosebumps crawling up his skin as the other Merry Men circled around them, no one saying anything.

Someone said Papa's name, and he figured it was because they saw him walking through the trees, so he looked, finding nothing in the dark forest, which was odd. Papa should be coming back too, he'd promised. The shake of Regina's head, hair shielding her eyes as she gripped the dirt, holding onto the frozen ground to keep herself tethered to something lest she simply float away, the other hand strangling the black fur scarf around her neck, little tuffs ripping out as she sank back against the tree trunk, heaving in shattered breaths, that is when the real fear set in.

When Tuck knelt down in the snow, reaching to settle a hand on Regina's forearm, and all she said was she was sorry, so so sorry. He doesn't remember much after that, knows that at some point he got restless standing in the snow and decided that when people were sad you should hug them, it's what Papa did and it always made Roland feel better.

He remembers the look in her red rimmed eyes, terrified as he called her name, recoiling slightly when he pulled her arms open so he could slide inside, he remembers telling her don't be sad, don't cry Gina, which only made her do so harder. So Roland did only what he thought would help, patted away the tears on her cheeks and curled into her chest, listening to the erratic beating of her heart. She didn't hug him back right away, so he tightened his grip on her, burying into the crook of her neck, humming their song into her skin that she always sang to him at night, playing with a lock of her hair until he felt her press her lips into the crown on his head, wrapping her arms finally around him.

He'd fallen asleep, sitting in her lap in the snow, waking up in his bed at her house, her arms still hugging him, their clothes still on. He'd woken before she did, the need to pee begrudgingly making him move out of their warm cocoon. The house was quiet, he couldn't hear Henry or Papa in the kitchen, which meant they had to still be sleeping. Excitement flushed through him as he skipped down the hallway, pushing open the door where Papa and Gina slept, he was going to make Papa promise that he got an extra scoop of ice cream today given that he didn't get any last night. The room was empty. Blankets all tucked perfectly into the corners, undisturbed, which was odd cause Papa moved around a lot in bed. He heard Regina behind him, far behind him, and when he turned around to ask where Papa was, the words dying in his throat seeing her cry again. Something was wrong, Papa wasn't here, and he didn't know why-

"I miss him." Regina's voice pulls him out of the memory, shaky and quiet as he finds her eyes again, watching him carefully with a new lining of tears.

He gives in, mumbling against the thickness in his throat, "Me too." Swallowing hard against the lump that threatens to rip him open. The diner is quiet now, the morning rush having filed out the door without him even noticing, and it's just them now. Sitting across a small circular table, not more than twelve inches between them physically, but an ocean thrashing emotionally. He'd come for answers. Needed to know all the whys and what-fors, the reasons behind everything, why he is alone, why no one came looking for him, why he has grown up with this pit of bitterness eating away at his soul. He seeks explanation, demands resolution.

Stealing his nerves and forcing back the urge to run again, he does what he came to do, "I don't even know what actually happened. No one would tell me."

Her heart clenches, a flicker of rage bubbling inside at the Merry Men. They took him away, they left without saying goodbye, and for a while she figured it was for the best, they would tell him about his father, keep his memory alive, explain just how much of a hero Robin truly was. Apparently that didn't happen. And she burns for him. These memories have been locked away for so long, pandora's box she refuses to open. But anguish hugs him like a vice grip, the underbelly of rage flicking about his eyes, he's not the boy she lost, and that is her fault. He deserves to know, to understand, to find some closure from the mess of a life fate dealt him, dealt them both.

"Do you want to know?"

Half of her hopes he will say no, the wound in her heart over the memory of that day already beginning to gape and trickle out savagely hot burning blood. It's easier to turn a blind eye, pretend it didn't happen, create an illusion of life where the demons in the night don't run wild.

"Honestly, I'm not sure," He says, quietly, thumbing a hangnail at the corner of his finger, grimacing at the sting when the skin pulls a bit too deep. He does want to know, needs too. Is absolutely certain, through the full on battling in his gut of anxious trepidation.

And then she says, "It's my fault he died."

His stomach drops.

Her eyes lock onto his, and her whole body tenses. She tries to hide it in the thick black wool coat hanging despairingly from her slouched shoulders, but it's there. Staring glaringly at him.

"What do you mean?" He leans a little closer, and she nods before staring down into the mug of long-cold coffee, eyes shining in its reflection.

"I could have protected him, but I— I froze." She tilts her head up and her eyes lock with his as she says, "And then he was just gone." Her lower lip trembles on the last word that echoes out sadly.

He's stunned, staring at her in disbelief as she shrinks into the chair, holding her mug so tight he wonders if the ceramic is about to crack and shatter in her palm.

"You could have saved him?" The question hangs between them, thick and suffocating. Never once in his time wandering about the Enchanted Forest alone, did the thought cross his mind that Regina could have stopped it all. She chokes out a yes, shame flooding her eyes as she waits for his violent reaction over the fact he lost his father because she got scared and panicked.

He came for answers, not expecting this, but there is a story he needs to hear, and she needs to give him. The pain etched across her face wrenches his heart, maybe this will be good for both of them, maybe together they can erase the uncertainty, the anger and the anguish. She slides her empty mug away, exhaling a heavy breath, opening herself up for his onslaught.

He never meant to cause her more pain.

Slowly ebbing his hands out of his gloves, and tucking them into his pocket, his hand shakes slightly as he moves them across the glass table top, not quite touching her palm, but close enough he brushes the tips of her fingers. The first contact he has willingly made with her despite the war that rattles inside of him.

"Tell me."

TBC.