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#dad joked that I could bake my own prime rib roast
shatterthefragments · 3 years
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I’m trying so hard not to be jealous but the main alternative to that is the thought “that’s because you’re not worth it/as much as her”
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quillerqueen · 7 years
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Down In Yon Forest
Alone in the world though Regina may be, she doesn’t have to spend Yuletide season all by herself.
 But she’s chosen to.
 Yule morning wakes her with the gentle drizzle of fog, glittery particles drifting in and chilling her cheeks peeking from the furs pulled all the way up to her chin. Her little burrow is cosy if not outright warm, but she can tell it will be crisp and cool outside, just as it’s been the past few days. Today’s going to be a busy day for Regina, she’ll make sure of that—no time to dwell on useless, sentimental nonsense such as the lack of friends and family to burn the Yule log with. Regina slips from beneath the blankets and into the fuzzy vest, grabs two apples and a slice of stale bread from her small and pitifully empty pantry, dons gloves, bow and arrow, and steps outside her rustic abode.
 The willow forest gleams in the weak winter sun, wisps and clouds of fog hanging suspended low over the ground, a lazily shifting mass that lends her little nook of the forest a half eerie, half ethereal ambiance. Tiny droplets and crystals of ice float in the scant rays, and perhaps she’d stand in wonder at such a sight if not for the brazen frost pinching her cheeks and creeping beneath her skin the longer she stands still.
 Off Regina goes then, bypassing the trigger of the falling log and the pit trap concealed under the cedar tree, never bothering to watch for animal tracks the hard, frozen forest floor won’t be marked with. Her snares yield a single rabbit, and well, it won’t be the first time she goes without substantial dinner—at least that orphaned brother-sister duo new to the village won’t have to go without. They’re already up and about, diligent as ever by the time she sneaks up to their window and coaxes it open enough to deposit the modest catch on the windowsill. They’ll know it’s from her anyway, it’s not the first time she’s contributed to keeping the children fed and watered, but she leaves unseen all the same with just a touch of guilt and regret she knows would only grow with another imminent invitation to share in tonight’s festivities with them.
 An invitation she would have to decline, just like she had all the rest before them made by a grateful widow here, a poor and numerous peasant family there. Only yesterday she had some dozen pairs of eyes beg her to stay for the dinner she’d helped secure with the same sack of money that would keep the orphanage above water for another year.
 The money had come from the royal tax carriage she’d robbed the day before to buy herself passage out of the kingdom. She’d been planning that particular heist for weeks, her escape from Snow White’s vengeful clutches for months. The orphans needed the money more. Regina will just have to bide her time for just a little longer. Another carriage will come, another opportunity will present itself—but not tonight. Tonight, all the world is going to celebrate.
 Little groups of wassailers form in the small marketplace, and Regina watches hidden behind bushes of juniper and holly as they go door to door, singing and drinking spiced wine to the health of friends and neighbours. Love and joy come to you.
 It’s sentimental of her to be here, sentimental and foolish, but she’s still only human after all and while she’s used to solitude and even prefers it, Regina craves company once in a while. Today she does, in whatever shape and form she can get it without endangering herself and others too much. Yuletide brings back memories, for better and for worse, of a life long gone, of palace feasts with leftovers in such abundance that her stomach was blissfully full even with just the scraps. But in the good old days, the servants would have a feast to themselves, cooks and handmaids and menservants and all the help, and Regina would open gifts with stable boys and another batch with the princess. That was when Queen Eva had still lived, before the deadly rift between Regina and Snow White came to be.
 And now everything is a potential trap, a betrayal waiting to happen. Regina has to be suspicious, constantly on edge, ever vigilant. To a fault, she sometimes wonders; then dismisses the thought—it’s only self-preservation.
 Yuletide is no exception. Not with the wanted posters doubling in number and the prize on Regina’s head quadrupling. Snow White hates the season as much as she hates Regina, and the combination of the two seems to be quite unbearable to the tyrannical queen. No, if anything, Regina needs to be more cautious this time of the year than ever.
 Which is why the scrap of parchment tucked into her pocket has no business being there. She’s not going to use it, she decided that days ago.
 Then why hold on to it at all?
 ### It’s something of a tradition for Robin Hood and his Merry Men to venture into the town of Nottingham around solstice and spread some Yuletide cheer. Granted, it is risky business with the sheriff, Robin’s old rival, always looking for a bone to pick, but that’s part of the fun. Nursing cuts and bruises or even a broken nose the following morning, on the other hand, is not half as amusing. So his men rise reluctantly but refuse to shine on this misty Yule morn, and Robin’s vigorous efforts to bring some order into the bit of chaos their camp currently resembles is met with much grumbling and general grouchiness.
 “Less talk, more action,” Robin frowns while sorting through the various items of clothing haphazardly discarded around the camp—always one to lead by example, Robin makes sure of that. Then, smirking at a very hungover Friar Tuck: “I remember instructing you to share mead with the townsfolk, not to drink half a keg yourself.”
 Tuck mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like I hate guests, but sets about washing up the pots and pans from breakfast all the same.
 “Oi, Robin,” shouts Will Scarlet, leaning on the broom for support rather than sweeping up the shards of the clay bowl with globs of porridge still clinging to them. “That’s a lot of trouble we’re going to for this lass, innit? More than any guest in all me time here.”
 The Merry Men have entertained nobles and dignitaries in abundance, yet these visitors are guests only by the title bestowed upon them mockingly, treated to a feast they would pay for thrice over once relieved of coin and gems. Concerns with the camp’s cleanliness and overall charm simply never surface. The only aspect to showcase to them is without a doubt the camp’s ingenuous defences—although neither of these poor devils would be able to trace their way back to the cleverly disguised hideout even if they tried.
 Will’s cheeky implication starts a veritable riot of jests and jokes, and Robin finds himself the subject of much good-hearted ribbing and roasting over his apparent anticipation. The easy back and forth is partly a relief—even though the majority have been amendable to argument and eventually gave their stamp of approval to bringing an outsider into their circle, a hint of discomfort lingered all the same, and Robin’s glad to see that lift, if only temporarily. The downside of this banter, however, is the heat he feels rising to his cheeks—a silly thing over something quite as non-existent as any sort of romantic entanglement with this competition he’s never had the occasion to properly meet, but a thing nevertheless that his men would be sure to tease him for mercilessly should they notice.
 Robin ducks into his tent to retrieve his bow and arrows and sets off to instruct the sentries for the day.
 Halfway to the nearest watch post, Little John falls into step with him. A smudge of dried blood peeks from the frayed edges of the bandage plastered over his nose. He pinches the bridge of it gingerly— a tell-tale gesture that suggests he’s about to approach a sensitive subject. And so it is.
 “Dey hab a poid, mate,” says Little John mildly.
 “They have a point about what?” Robin stalls. And he really shouldn’t be using Little John’s temporary speech handicap against him, so he adds with a lick of guilt: “Revealing the whereabouts of our hideout?”
 “Dad I cad udderstand. Dobe, I bead all de fuss you’re baking abou’ dis bardicular visit. Abou’ Regida.”
 “Well, you know my reasons for inviting her, so I won’t repeat them. I’m aware she’s competition, John, but I’m certain we can trust her with this. It would be a valuable alliance. I don’t know,” Robin sighs with a touch of exasperation, “I just feel it in my gut that we’d be a good fit. Bandit Regina and the Merry Men,” he adds hastily lest there be any misunderstanding.
 His closest friend merely nods in response, a knowing little smile trailing after the gesture, as if he could understand something Robin himself can hardly begin to sense.
 “You’re fine with this, then?”
 “Her cobing—yes.” Then Little John frowns and huffs: “De cleading—do.”
 ### Regina is too curious for her own good. The scrap of parchment her latest heist yielded rustles between her fingers, crumpled and unreadable by now. It doesn’t matter, she has it memorised. What she hasn’t figured out though is why the outlaw would divulge the carefully guarded secret of their encampment’s location to their prime competition. Obviously this smells of betrayal, doesn’t it? It’s a trick, no more, and a rather heavy-handed one at that. Perhaps they’re even conspiring with the queen.
No, she doesn’t believe that of him somehow—stupid though such a hunch is.
If she approaches by ground, she will be spotted. So what she must do is climb and crawl in the foliage, painstakingly slowly, and once she reaches a point after which she must be discovered by the sentinels stationed at the perimeter of Robin Hood’s famously untraceable camp, to seek some kind of proof that the message was indeed from the thief and not, perchance, a setup with Black Knights lying in wait (they’re way too dim-witted to come up with a plan this complicated themselves, but the queen could have).
It takes a poorly concealed protruding root to shake her awake as she trips and fumbles for support lest she end up face-down in a luxurious carpet of moss. What the hell was she thinking, foregoing vigilance for the sake of fruitless speculation? She’s not going to this alleged campsite of theirs, she decided that a while ago. It’s just not safe, or reasonable. At least not when they’re expecting her. But in a few days, or weeks, when they’re no longer counting on her—although will they be foolish enough to let down their guard once they know their secret’s been revealed to her? Time will tell.
Regina’s steps lead her down a path dusted with flecks of snow melting to sludge under her boots. There’s no game in sight, not a sound other than that of leaves and snow crunching and squeaking under her boots. Fat flakes float around her, flurries chasing each other to the ground in ever increasing numbers, painting the forest a veritable winter wonderland.
The clearing she favours is hard to approach in the best of conditions, but Regina knows the way—up the gentle slope of the hillock, twining between branches as needles prick her face and pull at her hair, and finally around the boulder blocking the game trail. A few strategic brushes of her hands to clear away the snow, and she slips into her usual seat on the upturned trunk with a content sigh.
A patch of the forest stretches before her—a canvas of greens and browns and a blinding, sparkling white—yet she remains hidden to prowling eyes at this magnificent vantage point. She loves it here, loves the seclusion and the simultaneous oneness with nature that surrounds her here like a soft blanket. She doesn’t come often because the place belongs to other forest-dwellers, and she’d be loath to deprive them of their safe place just as she clings to her own. Yuletide is the only exception—they don’t come here this time of the year, and so she’s not intruding upon anyone when she gifts herself the blissful peace the place invariably fills her with.
Regina lets her thoughts wander and drift much like the snow, which soon drops like a thick curtain over the world. The tips of her boots brush mindless patterns into the freshly fallen layer as she swings her feet inches above the ground, memories of wooden swings and feet kicking in the air swimming before her eyes. Faster, Regina, higher! comes Snow White’s elated voice from back in a different lifetime, and Regina’s arms ache as she laughs and pushes her royal friend with more vigour. It’s only the cold, she tells herself as she wipes a cluster of tears from the corners of her eyes.
Perhaps this year the queen will open the parcel tied with a string that Regina’s left for her under the rosebush they used to play hide-and-seek in. Every year Regina leaves a present, something small and simple, for old times’ sake. Every year she finds a pile of ashes in its place, and knows the queen incinerated it before Snow White ever had a chance to resurface and see it for the peace offering it was—even just a temporary one; even just for the duration of Yule.
Twilight falls and Regina hasn’t moved, her backside numb with cold and back stiff. Somewhere deep in the forest (her heart skips when she realises she knows exactly where now), the thief and his men are making merry in the warmth of the burning Yule log. Somewhere in the village, church bells are ringing for those of the new belief to assemble for mass. Old ways and new flourish side by side, a motley of faiths, legend, and lore; but Regina doesn’t set much store by either of them—no creature, god, or fairy has ever come to her aid, no matter how she’d beg or wish or pray. Only the forest has been there for her, though harsh and cold at times, giving nothing for free and always making her work for her livelihood, but providing all the same if she only tries hard enough, imprinting a lesson life’s been so intent on teaching her—that the only one she can ever truly rely on is herself.
A shuffling sound comes from the thicket, a body pressing its way through to the clearing, putting an end to Regina’s reverie.
Her senses are suddenly on alert, her instinct kicking in. She reaches for her bow and plucks an arrow from the quiver. Something—or someone—is coming, and she’s ready with her bow strung tight and aimed at the mysterious source of the commotion.
A deer stumbles forth, dragging itself through the snow and brambles.
The poor beast is huge, and frozen still at the sight of the intruding human. It’s precious quarry, food for days if Regina fells it, and she cannot possibly miss from this close. Her stomach rumbles at the thought of the feast.
And yet she doesn’t shoot.
Their gazes remain locked, human and beast, and Regina bites her lip—the animal looks almost pleading. It’s come all the way here, where it thought it’d be safe and sheltered, only to find itself staring in the eye of a predator. Regina huffs in exasperation—this isn’t how you survive in the wild, and yet she knows she’s going home hungry tonight. She can’t kill the beast—not like this.
Lowering her bow, she steps back, stomach growling in protest, her mind raining reproof but her heart full when the deer steps further into the small glade, as if it understood. Regina gasps when its knees buckle and its long legs fold under its massive belly as it sinks to the ground, a high-pitched wail resounding in the stillness of the thickening night.
It’s a doe—and she’s in labour.
### Sherwood forest looks as festive as it ever could, even the weather playing into Robin’s cards as it works its wintry magic on the landscape. The camp gleams with cleanliness as much as any forest hideout could, and the Yule log is burning with a bright, homey flame. Robin sips on spiced wine and watches the air shimmer from the heat as he stands on the snowless patch of ground cleared by the warmth of the fire. He’s waiting for the guest that’s already running late.
Robin watches Regina every year, and can’t fathom her behaviour. She hides from those she does good unto, and doesn’t make friends. The suspiciousness and fear of betrayal he understands to an extent, but the thoughtful gift she smuggles to the queen is a mystery to him—she’s met with such cruelty, with guards swarming around that same spot every year, and yet she never fails to make this gesture. He wants to know that generous yet closed-off heart—curiosity and awe, and a feeling of kinship he’s only just beginning to grasp, are his sole motivation. That’s why he entrusted her with their biggest, deadliest secret, and drew a map, hoping the show of trust would convince her he wasn’t a threat to her.
It seems to have achieved the opposite, for wait as he might, she doesn’t show up as the ancient festivities in their camp proceed. The Merry Men honour the old ways, the turning wheel of the year fuelled by the never-ceasing battle for rule between the Oak King and the Holly King. He’s no idea what Regina’s beliefs are—but he finds, befuddled, that he wants to know them with a force he can’t quite account for yet.
With a heart quite inexplicably heavy, Robin abandons the half-drunk beverage, asks Little John to oversee the festivities in his absence, and sets out for a walk to clear his head.
He wanders aimlessly through the woods he knows like the back of his hand, slipping under branches heavy with snow, cool flakes melting on his nose and eyelashes in the ever thickening fall. He pays no attention to paths already snowed in, to landmarks barely discernible in the overwhelming whiteness that quickly turns into dusk. Lost in thought, Robin jumps as a bulk of snow tips a branch and lands on the ground with a soft thud.
Pressed against a tree, he draws his weapons and strains his eyes for a glimpse of the mystery visitor responsible for the disturbance.
A doe comes into view—and she’s alone. That’s odd for the season, for deer rarely wander from their herd, and especially not in winter. A lone doe is a rarity unless it’s the spring, unless she’s—pregnant. Robin’s eyes drop to its protruding belly hanging low, to the swollen udder, and his arms fall to his body, his grip on the bow and arrow slackening. The doe’s isolated herself because the birth of her young is imminent, and she must be on her way to the fawning site. Her timing is most unfortunate—in this weather, it could even be fatal.
Robin shakes his head, filled with compassion for the poor thing, and for lack of better things to do, he follows the retreating animal. The vigorous snowfall hinders his vision, and he needs to keep his distance and stay upwind lest he scare the doe, but luckily he’s figured out her destination halfway there. Reaching the clearing, he crawls through the foliage and crouches amongst the boughs, out of sight but with a perfect view himself. He won’t interfere with nature’s course unless absolutely necessary.
The doe’s lying on the ground, a dark shape in the pristine snow, her pained cry cutting through the serenity of the night.
And then he hears another voice—a soft cooing, words quite indiscernible if they are words at all, but clearly meant to comfort the ailing mother-to-be. Robin cranes his neck, squints in the dark, and gasps when realisation dawns on him.
Regina’s bow is at the ready within the blink of an eye, her aim remarkably true considering she can’t possibly have seen him.
“Don’t shoot,” he says quickly as he emerges into the clearing with his hands raised, “I’m a friend.”
“I don’t have friends,” she claps back without thought, then corrects with a hint of something—sadness, and frustration with herself maybe, for revealing too much or wanting more: “We’re not friends.”
“Perhaps I meant the doe,” Robin grins.
He can’t see her face from here, but he would stake anything that she rolls her eyes at him.
“You can’t have followed me here,” she reasons, still suspicious—always suspicious, and he supposed it comes with the trade, but in her case it feels like there’s more to it than that. “The snow has long covered my trail.”
“As I said, milady, I followed the doe. I wanted to make sure she and the fawn will be fine.”
“Well, I have the situation under control,” she insists. A stubborn one, this Bandit Regina. “Go back to your camp. Celebrate with your men.”
“I’d rather stay,” he says mildly, and steps to the log.
### “I’d rather stay,” he says brazenly, and hovers over her makeshift seat as if he had a right to be there. “May I?”
“I don’t own the log,” she shrugs, still standing with her bow drawn but lowered, and damn him for making her feel so flustered. Especially when he brushes specks of snow off the wood and makes a sweeping gesture next, prompting her with a wink to sit.
Regina scoffs at the gallantry, though her stomach performs an odd little skip that’s hard to blame on hunger. Their arms brush as they sit side by side, bows and quivers propped either end of the log. The moon choses that awkward moment to illuminate the clearing, casting silver light upon the world. Regina needs every ounce of self-control not to give in to curiosity and stare openly at the face she’s only ever seen on wanted posters, often alongside her own. Do the drawings do him justice?
The doe watches them with soft brown eyes brimming with pain, but soon she has other concerns as she begins to prepare for the fawn’s arrival, licking herself thoroughly.
The outlaw seems engrossed in the scene, and Regina uses his distraction to take a proper look at him.
He’s handsome. Painfully so. Fair hair, brilliant blue eyes, stubble she wants to run her fingers over. Dimples for days when he turns his head and smirks—caught. Shit, he’s caught her staring!
“I was hoping we’d meet under different circumstances,” he tells her with that smirk still glued to his face, “but I’m certainly not complaining. Witnessing a fawning is a rarity even for us forest-folk.”
“Did you really think I would just walk into my competition’s camp? I’m not stupid, you know.”
“Actually, I do know that. I’ve admired your work for quite a while. I was going to propose a partnership.”
“Oh?” That’s—not at all something she expected him to say. Praise and compliments on her accomplishments have been scarce in her life. But she mustn’t let herself be so easily swayed by sweet talk. People lie, and make mistakes, and betray others—her heart is her own responsibility, and she’s hell-bent on keeping it whole and beating in her chest. “I appreciate the offer, but I work alone.”
Robin Hood nods, as if he had seen it coming, quite undeterred as he admits: “I was hoping you might reconsider. It seems we’re already partnering up for the night at least.”
The thought of spending the night with this man sends her heart into a wild stampede she doesn’t know how to tamp down.
“This kind of thing hardly takes all night,” she rolls her eyes at him. Presumptuous thief. And yet it’s she who’s—annoyingly—blushing at his innocent statement.
“Not if it goes smoothly, no,” he gives her. “But her timing’s off—she may yet find herself in trouble. I hope I’m wrong, of course.”
“Why aren’t you at camp anyway? Weren’t you gonna throw a grand Yuletide fest?”
“Oh I’m sure my men are making the best of it,” he chuckles. He has a good laugh—warm and rumbling. “I fancied a walk. She crossed my path. You know the rest. What brings you here?”
“I fancied a walk,” she grins gamely. No way is she detailing the depth of her thoughts to this stranger who styles himself as friend. Not that he’s a complete stranger, of course. There have been messages, aside from the map. Whimsical notes back and forth upon snatching loot from under the other’s nose. Words of warning when danger lurked. She knows his reputation, and he knows hers. That doesn’t make them—well, anything, beyond acquaintances at best.
Then the doe gives out a strangled little sound and begins to push, and there’s no room for conversation anymore.
###
It’s only when Regina loses herself in the moment that Robin breathes more freely.
The second that moonbeam hit Regina’s face, Robin was simply enchanted. All this time he struggled not to let it show, not to stare too long or bask too obviously in the moment. Ever since those first few words, that smart mouth of hers and the adorable scrunchy face she made at him, she’s been reeling him in—and she doesn’t even know it. Her dark hair’s a tangled mess, her braid barely holding together and adorned by stray needles and twigs; her face raw from the long stay outdoors; her mouth perhaps a touch bluish from the cold. It’s her eyes he wants to fall headlong into though—flecks of honey in molten chocolate, bottomless, swirling with emotion.
Those eyes are trained on the doe in labour now, and completely oblivious to the rest of the world. She leans forward on the log once the baby deer’s forelegs emerge with its little head tucked between them, barely able to hold back as she wills herself not to interfere with nature’s way. She’s worrying her lip, fists clenched as the doe struggles on. Robin’s not sure what to attribute his little shiver to—the chilliness, the little mewl the half-born fawn lets out, or Regina’s fingers digging into his thigh absent-mindedly.
He orders himself to snap out of it, to comport himself like the gentleman he is, and focus on the poor deer like he said he was there to do in the first place. The sight truly is a rare one, and most expecting deer wouldn’t tolerate others nearby when their time came, but this one seems resigned to their presence. Indeed, she looks absolutely knackered. The fawn’s progress seems to have stopped, but it’s not for the doe’s lack of trying.
“It’s stuck,” Regina whispers, eyes wide with horror.
“They’ll make it,” Robin assures, though he fails to keep the worry from his voice.
The doe has a faraway look in her eyes now, and Regina rests her arm on her belly, clutching nervously at her garments. He quite understands what she’s going through—a burning need to help clashing with the knowledge that their interference might just ruin the fawn’s bond with its mother.
Robin stands slowly, a vague idea floating to the surface of his mind, but he’s barely taken a step when he’s yanked back by a fretful Regina.
“Don’t touch the baby,” she hisses, “you can’t! She’ll—” her breath hitches, “she’ll abandon it if you do!”
Rumour has it that’s what happened to her—that her mother abandoned Regina as a baby, that she left her in the forest to fend for herself—to die.
“I know,” he rushes to say, “I won’t.”
Robin reaches for his wineskin and uncorks it, raising a brow at Regina. With a soft oh, she holds out her cupped hands for him to pour water into, and offers it to the doe. She drinks up—and again, and again. Robin has no more water to offer, but Regina grabs a handful of snow and breathes on it furiously, the warmth of her breath melting it to sludge for the doe to drink.
And then with another mighty push the fawn slips out.
Robin grins broadly as the new mother sets to licking the little thing clean, his heart filled with reverence at the miracle of life. A wet chuckle escapes Regina when the doe’s vigorous cleaning knocks the fawn off its wobbly legs, and once the little one starts nursing, Regina turns to him with tears running down her cheeks and a smile so radiant it positively robs him of air.
And that’s when Robin knows he’s well and truly doomed.
### Regina isn’t sure how or when it happened, but they’re halfway to the Merry Men’s camp before she even realises her hand is clutched in Robin’s. Their shared experience has brought them rather close rather quickly, forged a bond that scares her but that she also can’t help but want to explore. Their bows clink together now and again as they walk side by side, and they snicker at each other every time. Reverence has given way to elation, and even though that fearful, warning voice at the back of her mind tells her she’s being reckless—perhaps not with her life after all, but most certainly with her heart—Regina decides not to listen for once.
The hour is late, and the sentries must recognise their leader because there’s neither warning nor attack as they enter the ingeniously concealed camp. The fire is burning low, the Yule log feeding the flames still, and empty tankards lie scattered around kegs of ale and barrels of wine. Remnants of dinner are strewn on a rough-hewn table—a wild-turkey leg here, a chunk of pork there, sweet honey cakes piled high, and candied apples on a spit.
He offers her one and she accepts, looking around the many tents, in which his men have undoubtedly departed for the night if the snoring is any indication.
“It was neater when I left it,” Robin excuses with a half-smirk, and she can’t believe he’s actually being bashful about this—as if he were anxious for her approval.
“I didn’t have you pegged for a neat-freak,” she teases, then takes pity on him. “It’s a good hideout. Well-concealed. Well-protected. Very clever."
He beams at her—actually beams at her, and could the impossible man be any more adorable?
“Well, we missed dinner—but how about I make you breakfast?”
“That sounds wonderful, but—” It’s too big a commitment, feels way too much after having spent the whole night with him, and part of her wants to run and never look back. Part of her wishes for him to to give her just enough time and space to work through her issues. To be someone not to break down the walls built around her heart, but to patiently wait for her to invite them inside.
“Tea then—to warm you up before the journey.” And bless him, he seems to understand. She could cry—and she has, she remembers and feels her cheeks grow hot. He doesn’t comment, only grins as he jokes: “My men say I make a mean cuppa.”
“Tea,” she nods, laughing, “and another one of those scrumptious apples?”
“Whatever milady wishes.” Robin clasps her fingers gently, looking at her in a way that makes his meaning quite clear—it’s not just the meal he’s talking about. He understands, and he’ll wait.
Regina’s never been the kind of person who gets a happy ending—but perhaps she can afford a merry beginning, and see where it takes them.
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