#but i MAY have gone a little overboard with the sheer amount of pictures i wanted to stuff in | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

quillerqueen · 7 years ago

Text

Waifs and Strays, or An Orphan Christmas

Author’s Note: Dearest shipmates, I hope you enjoy this little story written for the amazing Outlaw Queen Advent project. Let me transport you for a bit to the Enchanted Forest, where Queenie Regina and Robin of Locksley discover an unexpected gift (or seventeen?) that keeps giving. Happy holidays! :) FF.net

When they reach her old castle, for a moment Regina fears the portal must have spit them out in yet another parallel universe.

Queenie’s certainly made her fair share of adjustments—but none of them more pronounced than the ongoing reconstruction of the entire first floor. Walls have been knocked down and new ones raised, nurseries and classrooms built, old and musty bedrooms redecorated and furnished in bright colours. Children and teens mill about the place, quite at home in the once hollow halls.

A sparkling diamond adorns Queenie’s finger and a matching wedding band Robin of Locksley’s. The home they’ve built is pragmatic but rich in comforts, and their holiday traditions a medley of elements borrowed and pieced together: Christmas trees and Yule logs; nine-branch candelabra and seven-branch ones with black, red, and green candles; snippets of habits from the Land Without Magic, the Enchanted Forest, Agrabah, and beyond.

They sit together—Regina, Henry, Peanut, Roland, and Queenie—for the first time at one table, chasing lost time. It’s bittersweet, and it feels incomplete. Queenie’s soul mate may be a mere arm’s length away; Regina’s is out of reach.

And yet she’s never felt Robin’s presence more than tonight, as she listens to the tales of their darker counterparts—and their seventeen children.

The castle is positively overflowing with holiday decor, and Regina is still going.

She ties one last elegant scarlet bow to the banister festooned with garlands of holly, and with an elaborate flick of the wrist makes half a dozen wreaths rise in the air and fasten themselves onto robust marble columns. The cool halls are aglow with warm hues of the torches, each of them emitting a different scent: apple and cinnamon, pine and fir, orange and vanilla. The long dining table boasts intricate floral arrangements and bowls of fragrant apples, while strings of pine cones adorn the ornate chandelier. The drawing room is a cosy fairy tale with roaring fires and mantels sagging under the sheer number of candles amid the miniature forest sceneries Regina conjured up to make a certain outlaw feel more at home. Yet none of the ornaments are a match for the majestic tree towering in the far corner of the room, strung with fairy lights and topped by a comet emitting soft (and perfectly safe) sparks. By the time she’s finished for the night, magic icicles will be hanging from every which ledge the castle boasts, both inside and out.

In short, Regina is well on her way to fitting every last square inch of their home with the most sickeningly cliché, picture-perfect trappings.

The only thing festive the castle is not fit to bursting with is the proverbial good cheer.

All that fragrant pine reminds Regina only too acutely of just who’s missing.

Aside from her son, who she can’t quite give up hope might miraculously show up from a realm apart to pay her a rare visit, Robin’s absence, too, has created a void no amount of lavish decor could possibly fill.

She thought he’d be back by now. They’d fought, sure, but they’d had worse before. Temperamental as they both are, it usually does them good to cool off separately after an argument, and Robin likes to storm off to the woods for some down time. He always comes back to her though… At least that’s the mantra she’s been repeating to herself over and over for the past few hours. When echoes of heated words hurled at each other in affectation don’t push the would-be-comforting thought mercilessly out.

Don’t you think you’ve gone a bit bloody overboard?

But Regina, too stubborn to rest and too proud to wallow, only decorates more profusely.

The light seems to have gone out in the sky as the wind picks up, whizzing past the castle’s spiky spires and blasting through the hall as the double door flies open.

“Majesty!” cries a clearly agitated Roland, curls bouncing wildly as he bounds towards her and very nearly trips over his cape. “Help!”

Regina catches him just in time to stop him from toppling over, steadying him in a loose embrace. Little John emerges behind the child, his heavy footfalls much too rapid, filling Regina with a sense of dread. It’s Robin, isn’t it, some ill must’ve—

No—no, for heaven’s sake, Regina, keep it together.

“Roland, honey,” she forces her voice within the realms of calm, “what’s the matter?”

“It’s T-Tillie,” Roland whimpers, folding into her arms. He’d struck a fast friendship with the little girl with inquisitive eyes peeking from under straight-cut bangs, an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and a penchant for practical jokes, shortly after his return from Storybrooke. “She’s gone,” he sobs into Regina’s shoulder. “And so’s everyone else—and so’s their h-home.”

“Fire,” Little John says in answer to Regina’s questioning look, shaking his head ruefully, “at the orphanage.”

When Robin decided to boycott solstice celebrations, this certainly wasn’t what he had in mind instead.

Sequestered in close quarters instead of spacious chambers, Robin presses further into the hollow of an old oak, its gnarled bark pressing back in a reassuring if annoying manner. The chill still nips and twists and burns his skin despite layers of clothing, but the sting is less than in the wide open. The old, twisted, bare-branched tree may not be much, but it provides some semblance of shelter at least against the raging elements.

The blizzard came out of nowhere.

Well, not quite. Storm clouds had been gathering from the south for days, but the most they’d amounted to before had been a trickle of flurries so tiny they’d melt halfway to the ground. Yet today around noon, the steely shapes haphazardly hung in the pearl grey sky gathered in what seemed like an eye blink, as if some invisible force had summoned them to do its bidding. Within minutes, the sky had gone charcoal and the ground was strewn with a fresh, blinding duvet of snow—and more came pouring down, fat flakes falling thickly and obscuring Robin’s vision as gusts of wind whipped them like shards of ice into his eyes.

How’d he get himself into this pickle again?

“I just don’t see the point in all this,” he told her gruffly after she’d had a village worth of decorative material brought out of storage. “Celebrating solstice at least makes sense—nature’s course and all that. But this Christmas of yours—”

Regina’d explained it before, many times over, approaching the subject from different angles with ever growing frustration at his scepticism. He’d heard of the holiday in the Enchanted Forest of course, or at least one similar to these Christmases Regina’d described from the Land Without Magic; but he’d never been particularly spiritual in any way, and he truly didn’t see the sense in the odd charades her holiday—or most others, for that matter—required.

“If a gift is what you want, Your Majesty,” he teased, “just say the word. No need to go to all this trouble.”

At which Regina only rolled her eyes and launched into yet another exasperated explanation that for Robin went in one ear and out the other.

“Look, I’d be perfectly fine celebrating your version of the holiday instead of mine,” she spat, clearly ruffled to have her willingness to compromise snubbed at. “If it involved more than eating and drinking yourself to death.”

Yule had logs and trees and wreaths as well, and apparently had inspired this Christmas festival’s symbolism; but Robin had never observed it this way, nor had he given much thought to the weight of the occasion—the reversal of sun’s waning presence in the sky. Regina’s hurled insult wasn’t without basis—perhaps that’s why it stung so much.

She must have decided to employ every possible measure, to pull out all stops, to decorate every last nook of the place—but why? Just to get her way? Because of her competitive streak? In hopes of converting him to her way of thinking? Robin was stubborn, too, and it would take more than trinkets and the obtrusive smell of sickly sweet mulled wine to change his mind.

“Don’t you think you’ve gone a bit bloody overboard?” Robin snapped. “Overcompensating much?”

Regina’s mouth hung open for the most fleeting moment; then her jaw tensed and pointed upwards as she raised her head high.

“Yes,” she said icily. “For your utter lack of consideration.”

Robin knew even then he’d hit the nail on the head, and hit where it hurt, with his carelessly flung accusation. He’s still not particularly adept at resolving conflict—mastering his quick temper, putting himself in the other person’s shoes, and approaching the conversation with the necessary amount of vulnerability are all things both he and Regina have been working on, with varying degrees of success—and even if he had been, she’d stalked off before he could collect his wits.

Dark thoughts swirling in his mind like so many snowflakes buffeted by the wind, Robin peels himself off the weathered bark and, bent almost in half against the angry wind, he plods heavily towards the single landmark able to provide reasonable protection from the calamity (the one raging outside at least).

The abandoned estate tucked near a crossroads between three kingdoms used to be a veritable viper’s nest, a criminal lair to thugs of the worst kind, murderers who preyed on innocents and leeched off children—until Regina and Robin stumbled upon their dark secret and, with the fortuitous help of the Merry Men, rescued half a dozen children from a dank, noxious cellar, whisking them away from a life of maltreatment, abuse, and forced thievery. Now it’s a hideout Robin of Locksley shares with the Merry Men—as peculiar a thought as it is for him to find himself sharing common ground with them, or anyone at all for that matter, both literally and figuratively.

It’s this house Robin heads for, ramshackle though it is in its half-fixed up state.

The hinges creak as he falls through the door and pushes against it with his entire weight to shut the cold out again. The wind blows through chinks in the windows and wails ominously in the chimney. Cosy this place is not, but it’ll have to do.

Robin heads for the bedroom stacked high with warm furs for emergencies such as this one, wondering just how cold the bed will be before it warms from body heat under the many layers as he steps close and throws back the covers.

Only there’s already someone lying there.

To walk among ruins and breathe the stench of death brings forth memories that make Regina’s insides squirm and her skin crawl.

Not even her magic was fast enough—the orphanage had been all but reduced to ashes by the time she materialised at the scene. Despite the Merry Men’s speedy reaction and concentrated efforts, the best they could do was make sure no one burned inside. There was one casualty nonetheless—the caretaker, a kindly woman by the name of Flora, had succumbed to injuries sustained, no doubt, while she was trying to secure her charges’ safe escape.

The trouble is, they’ve found not a soul in the vicinity of the orphanage that should have been full of children.

Even now, they’re combing the forest for tracks or traces of the missing children—despite chances of success being slim to none in the wake of the slowly abating blizzard. While they have nothing of the children, a locator spell is out of the question, and so Regina’s set out to inspect the rubble, looking for a charred toy or scrap of clothing, wishing with all her might it’s not a charred body she stumbles upon instead.

Deflecting the ugly thoughts, she opts for a methodical approach that doesn’t require concentration, and directs her mind elsewhere.

To a certain man of the forest, not to be bested by a mere storm.

Or at least that’s what she tells herself to ease her guilt.

Because Robin wouldn’t be out there in the first place if it hadn’t been for their quarrel earlier, would he?

Truth be told, Regina’s never been much of a Christmas enthusiast. With the exception of her youngest years and then Henry’s, she’s been ambivalent at best about the holiday. Robin, however, has been a regular Ebenezer Scrooge—so much so she almost expected him to growl humbug at her one of these days instead of his usual bollocks.

Still, as hurtful as Robin’s outburst was, she can’t deny his observation was astute. It’s not like her to go so sentimentally overboard with the trimmings and trappings—that, she rolls her eyes with much less, would be Snow White’s domain—but this time she undoubtedly has. And now that she’s exhausted both her ideas for decorations and herself in general, Regina has no choice but to confront the truth and put her true motivations under scrutiny.

Robin had sulked and grumbled at the very mention of festivities in any shape and form, and even though Regina had qualms about the holiday herself, it mattered a great deal to her how this time most often associated with love and cheer pans out in what they’ve yet to call, but what to her very much already is, their family.

And it’s not like she was forcing him to participate, or even to do so under the guise of her holiday rather than his—she’d have been perfectly content to adopt his holiday traditions, be it winter solstice or Yule or pretty much anything else, if only he had any. But he seemed to have none, and showed not the least bit interest. Surely the plethora of Christmas songs and movies Regina’d been subjected to in Storybrooke had given her the tools to explain the true meaning of the holiday to Robin? Perhaps in time, with the aid of festive surroundings, it’d work its magic. Roland sure was looking forward to the unique fusion of observances from each holiday, and she certainly wasn’t going to disappoint him. So she may have taken things to the extreme—so what?

Well, it seemed to piss Robin the hell off, for one—the exact opposite of its desired effect. And she should probably have caught on to that, shouldn’t she?

Which in itself bears a highly unpleasant question she’d rather not delve into… But hurling fireballs left and right is hardly an acceptable coping mechanism anymore—the pitfalls of being a redeeming villain.

Was it really Robin she was trying to cheer up—or was it herself?

But there’s no time to dwell, because the old, crumbling, out of use stables Regina’s worked her way to reveal a peculiar sight.

A rope is drawn from one end of the best-preserved stall to the other, boasting wet laundry covered in soot, and a bed—or perhaps nest would be more accurate—is made up in the humble layer of hay strewn in the dirt. A jug of milk stands in one corner, half a loaf of bread in the other, and just as she steps in, a field mouse’s tail flashes by as the rodent flees with a chunk of cheese.

A muffled gasp carries from beyond the wall.

“Show yourself,” Regina commands, a fireball springing to life in her palm. “Are you responsible for this?”

Hasty rustling is followed by scampering, and a young girl emerges apprehensively, drawing herself to her full height as she stands between Regina and the caved in stall.

“I didn’t set the fire, madame, I swear!” She cowers slightly under Regina’s withering glare, hands folding instinctively atop her round belly. “I was just trying to help.”

A pang of regret—untypical, yet not unheard of anymore—shoots through Regina, and her voice comes out considerably milder though still borderline suspicious.

“How did you know then? The Merry Men’s camp is closest, yet still not close enough.”

“I sleep in here sometimes,” the girl shrugs, as if there could ever be a universe where such a thing is even remotely acceptable. “Flora can’t put me up because I’m already of age, and no one else will have me because—because of my obvious disgrace.”

Regina’s nostrils flare in indignation—but not over the girl’s condition.

“I wouldn’t call being with child a disgrace.”

“I’m unwed.”

“I figured. And it shouldn’t matter.”

The girl regards her with deference still, but her hands drop to her sides, one reaching to rub the small of her back as her face twists in discomfort.

“I spend a lot of time around the orphanage,” she admits. Regina’s declaration must have gained her some amount of trust, because she offers more. “I came the moment I smelled smoke. Bambi likes to sneak away to explore the forest, so I thought the others may have lost sight of him, and went to check.”

Regina can’t help it—the image of a cartoon deer pushes absurdly to the forefront of her mind—until the girl steps aside, clearing her view of the stall.

Inside it sits a baby boy, tufts of hair sticking up adorably, grabby hands waving about fistfuls of hay, his mouth hanging open in rapture or surprise or both.

“That’s Bambi,” smiles the girl. “And I’m Fantine.”

Robin stares down at the two figures huddled under the furs, blinking up at him fearfully in the flickering candlelight. He’s seen them both before. They’d been scared then, too, of their captors, and suspicious at first of their rescuers—except for Regina, who clearly had a way with children. She’d not only managed to learn their names but to gain trust and provide comfort mere minutes after a near-deadly injury sustained in their defence.

“Oliver, is it?” Robin says as a memory stirs, of Regina addressing the boy from her sickbed.

When Oliver nods, Robin squints at his companion—there’s not a chance in hell of getting his name right, or even making an (ill-)informed guess. The boy grins in his too-big, too-adult clothes, adjusting the hat perched precariously on his head even as he leans against the headboard.

“Dodger,” he says with would-be nonchalance—a truly flimsy effort to hide his obvious pride. “Artful Dodger. And you, unless I’m mistaken, are Robin of Locskley.”

Oh, he’s a shrewd one, isn’t he. Proud of his skill, even though he didn’t choose the trade but had it thrust upon him. Robin doesn’t fault him for that—how could he?

“That’s Prince of Thieves for you,” he counters. “Since we’re doing titles.”

“Sorry, sir,” pipes up Oliver, offering Robin half of his stack of furs. “Jack here is having a bit of a hard time adjusting to a lawful life.”

“I like me a good sleight of hand,” shrugs Jack, much to Robin’s—probably all too obvious, and Regina would surely roll her eyes at him—amusement.

She’s visited the orphanage a couple of times, Regina, to check on the children rescued from this very house. Robin’s been reluctant to get up close and personal just yet, but he’s done his bit to help from afar, with generous donations liberated from rich bastards’ pockets, wondering if he even has more to offer to these children anyway—especially if they’re all like Roland’s little friend, who at barely six is a more formidable reader than Robin had ever hoped to be.

Roland, though a point of contention between him and Regina at first, is a shocking enough addition into Robin’s life.

Perhaps the most strain their forming relationship has undergone so far had been in the wake of Regina’s clandestine meetings with Other Robin’s child behind Robin’s back. Why did she do it? What did she hope to accomplish by bringing the boy into their lives? Was this the shadow of his father looming over them again? He feared—and fumed at—the thought he may be expected to stand in that man’s shoes because his own weren’t deemed big enough. Then there’d been the fact that, for reasons that had nothing whatsoever to do with Roland specifically, Robin had resolved years ago he was no good with children and to never ever take on the role of a parent.

Look at him now—teaching the boy to hunt and shoot and track alongside his merry uncles. It’s taken a while, finding the right balance, the right dynamic for them that doesn’t feel like encroaching upon Other Robin’s space. They’re more uncle-nephew than father-son, and much to Robin’s surprise, it seems to work rather well most of the time.

How does one treat two young fellows on the run though, that’s a whole another question.

“Has your lot not improved, for you to have fled here of all places?”

“Oh, but it has. A whole lot.”

“And now we’re homeless, ain’t we? The fire’s destroyed everythin’.” The mischievous light in the Dodger’s eyes dims.

“The fire?” Well, shit. Does Regina know yet? Is anyone taking care of the kids? Are they safe? “But where’d the others go?”

“We got separated,” Oliver sighs miserably. “Pippi, Tom and Huck wanted to flee on water—they’ve been building this boat for weeks now, you see. They said we could just row upstream and have an adventure.”

Well, building a boat is an admirable goal and Robin is rather impressed with the three youngsters, and the siren call of adventure is all too familiar to him, but rowing up the mere trickle of a rocky stream in even the best boat laden with three kids is much too far-fetched in the most favourable conditions.

“I don’t trust those treacherous vessels though, and nor does Oliver. I trust my own two feet better. Dry land only for the Artful Dodger, thank you very much. So we parted ways.”

And while that was probably a smart decision on the twosome’s part, the three friends will not have gotten far in that boat—especially not in a bloody blizzard. Where would they have gone after their plan’d inevitably failed? Would they have found shelter? A way out of the woods? And what about the rest? Regina’d spoken of thirteen children altogether housed and raised by one Miss Flora. Are they all wandering in the woods in this calamity?

Thirteen in total, five somewhat accounted for, only two of them decidedly safe.

They’re not the first children to run from calamity, subjecting themselves to a dozen other potential dangers; not the first on Robin’s mind either. His brother Will’d had his young, tortured life cut short, thanks to their complete and utter abomination of a father, by an unfortunate tumble down a ditch, with no family there to see him off to the afterlife. Robin’s never quite forgiven himself for not doing more to protect Will, although oddly enough the debilitating guilt has eased somewhat since he’d confided in Regina, the first and only person to hear him tell the tale.

Just a lad himself back then, he hadn’t been able to help his brother; but he’s a grown man now, and he can do for these kids what his younger self couldn’t.

And he’s not going to stop until every last one of them is safe, and sound, and home.

He should probably offer some words of comfort, but Robin’s a man of action, not pretty prose, and frankly he’s not sure what to say to these poor devils, orphaned and homeless, that could possibly make them feel better.

Jack and Oliver tread dutifully after him, soot-covered cheeks peeking from furs as cumbersome as they are warm. The blizzard has lulled to a gentle snowfall, with thick, fat, fluffy flakes drifting and adding to the crunchy layer underfoot. Other than the crunch of their steps and the babbling of the brook, the forest is eerily quiet. An owl sits in a tall pine, stirring and hooting indignantly as Robin’s shoulder brushes against the lower branches and upsets its balance.

A tree towers in Regina’s drawing room, and sitting in its shade unwrapping gifts, warm and—yes—loved, doesn’t seem so bad an ordeal right now. Ludicrous, he’d called this Christmas of hers—and every other holiday, winter or otherwise. He doesn’t discriminate; he detests them all. When had he become so bitter anyway?

They’re meant to be celebrated with family, and he hadn’t had one since his youth—and even then it had been plagued with his father’s perpetual ire. But he’s no longer alone. He has someone who cares enough to go out of her way for him now, to try and make the winter festivities enjoyable—even if she’s a tad too pushy about it at times. At least she’s putting in the effort; all he’s done is shoot it down and turn more and more into himself. He’s prone to brooding; she’s quick to take offence. How, then, can they hope to reach an understanding?

“Look—that’s their boat!” Oliver shouts gleefully, pointing ahead.

Or what’s left of it anyway—for as they approach, they’re greeted by a gaping hole in the hull, and a large chunk of the starboard pried off. The former is easily explained; the latter, not so much.

“They’ve come this far,” he says, genuinely impressed. “That’s more than I thought possible. Now come along, they can’t be too far off—if I’m not mistaken, they’re lugging quite some weight with them.”

His words, or more likely the prospect of reuniting with friends, seem to inspire renewed courage in the boys, who follow closely, the Dodger even nodding in agreement—or possibly just giving his head a well-practised twitch to keep his trusty hat on.

There are no tracks to speak of—they must have come ashore before the storm was over—but Robin keeps his eyes and nose trained for traces of smoke. If his theory’s right, there’s bound to be plenty to give the crew’s position away.

Sure enough, just a half a mile onward, his nostrils catch the characteristic smell of burning wet fir; a few dozen step closer, and his straining ears pick up voices. With a meaningful glance at each other, the three of them approach.

“Are they…singing?” Oliver puzzles, and the Dodger bounds forth with a shit-eating grin.

And singing they are—terribly loudly, awfully off key, the words slurred beyond recognition. Robin recognises the symptoms at once, even without Jack’s delighted:

“Look at the lot of ‘em! Werily inebriated!”

It takes quite a bit of wheedling to gather where the three’d come to the wine, but the rest doesn’t take a genius to figure out: they’d fled, got shipwrecked, took what they could from the damaged boat for firewood, and used the stash of wine to help stave off the cold. And now Robin has five youngsters on his hands, three of them giggling drunkenly, swaying on their feet as they hold on to each other.

Bloody brilliant.

Regina watches Fantine wolf down her second bowl of stew as she dries Bambi off after his bath. Covered in suds head to foot, the simple dress she changed into for just that reason looks freshly washed rather than worn, but she doesn’t mind at all. Not with a warm, squeaky clean, happily babbling toddler on her hip and a ravenous mother-to-be smiling gratefully as she has a third helping pushed towards her.

They’re staying at the castle for the night, Regina told the girl firmly, and for every night after until a suitable place is found for them to stay. There is room enough for the two, and all the other children left—again—without a roof over their heads. Or there will be, as soon as they’re found.

The thick fog settling upon the forest is by no means helpful to the mission. Regina’s just put Bambi down for the night for the third time and retreated to her study, rolling up her metaphorical sleeves—wouldn’t want to do that to her actual velvet ones—to look for a magical solution, when the door is thrown open and in walks—

“Robin!” He’s covered in snow, hoarfrost melting off his stubble, and his weary steps leave puddles in his wake. Having mud tracked on her pristine floors has never left her colder, and she doesn’t even have it in her to tone down her elation as she meets him halfway and melts into his waiting arms. She shivers at the contact—he’s getting her cold and wet (usually he gets her hot and wet, and this seems like an odd thought to have right now—what’s wrong with you, Regina?) Gods, she was so worried—the fight, and then all the snow, and the fire only added to the ominous sense of doom hanging over her, and: “How did you—?”

“Get here through the sodding fog-infested woods?” he smirks, wasting no time to bury his fingers in her hair. “Well, Your Majesty, I stand corrected—those magical twinkling lights are not such a pointless endeavour after all. The ones strung along the forest paths have been especially helpful in finding our way home.”

Our way?

He grins in response to her raised eyebrow.

“I have five youngsters in the kitchens, ready for supper and,” he adds with a grimace, “for three of them, hopefully a hangover remedy.”

Regina’s mouth hangs open—though not for long. Unfortunately, she has a good idea of just who the culprits might be even before they make their way to the kitchens ringing with laughter and series of whoops.

“Ha,” calls a voice Regina recognises even without the customary lofty words. “What a way to honour a dare! Wery ‘spectable indeed.”

She barges in, with Robin in tow, just in time to see Pippi, Huck and Tom huddled under the mistletoe, decidedly unsteady and clutching half-spilled flasks of clear, cold water. Of course it’s the three of them—it’s always the three of them, if their poor late caretaker is to be believed.

“You just focus on that drumstick, Jack,” she tells the boy, who tears off a hearty chunk of meat with his teeth and salutes her with a cup of cider, “while I sort the rest of you out.”

“Jus’ to be clear,” slurs Pippi, spunky as ever, twirling her ginger braids absently into ever odder shapes, “no kisses for me. Not even on a dare. I’m a snog-free zone. They did the kiss-kissing,” she adds on a hiccough, pointing at Huck and Tom, each leaning on the other to stand somewhat upright, while Pippi remains surprisingly lucid for her state.

“It doesn’t matter who kissed whom,” Regina states categorically. “What matters is you’re way too young to be drunk.”

Part of her considered letting them suffer the full consequences to teach them a lesson about excessive drinking, but she dismissed the idea quickly—they have enough on their plates already, and Flora’s loss is going to be a bitter pill to swallow. Besides, if what they told Robin is true, they hadn’t delved into the wine just for laughs and giggles but to get through a rough winter night alone in the open. There’s a time for tough love, but this is not it. If she can help ease these kids’ suffering in any way, she’s damn sure going to try.

Robin may have enquired about a hangover remedy, but Regina has something better—something to settle their stomachs, soften the symptoms, and let them sleep it off and wake up as good as new.

“Now, Penelope, kindly drink up. You as well, misters.”

Regina hands them each a steaming mug filled to the brim, and exchanges a meaningful glance with Robin when the trio cough and sputter in unison, cursing and complaining profusely, if inarticulately, about the atrocious taste. Robin can barely hold his smirk, and she merely returns a smug smile of her own. Just because she wants to spare them the brunt of a hangover doesn’t mean they should get off entirely without a lesson, does it?

The mugs clatter to the ground, empty now but retaining a foul stench, and the patients sink onto the bench with plaintive groans.

“Right, I’ll carry this one to bed,” Robin grumbles, but it’s entirely without bite. The boys’ drooping eyelids choose that moment to seal shut, heads dropping onto the table. He sighs melodramatically. “And then I’ll come back for the others.”

Regina’s heart flutters. Who does Robin think he’s fooling anyway, gentle as he is lifting the dozing Oliver from his seat?

“What a silly dare,” mumbles Pippi as Regina helps her to her feet. “As if they didn’t already kiss whenever they think no one’s watching.”

By far his favourite thing—and, judging by the way she clearly enjoys ravaging him in return, her favourite as well—about their arguments is the steamy make-up sex that inevitably follows. Robin’s lying sprawled across the bed, sated and spent, fighting to keep his eyes open long enough to fall asleep alongside Regina. It’s been a long day after all, and they’ve an even longer one ahead with seven more children unaccounted for and a full-scale search and rescue awaiting them.

“What sort of name is Bambi anyway?” Robin muses as he watches Regina comb her hair before retiring for the night. He’s missed this—the bedtime ritual that’s as soothing as it is sensual.

Fuck, he loves her.

Not that he’s had the guts to tell her yet.

“Well, his given name is Barnaby. Fantine tells me the nickname comes from his mispronouncing bumblebee.” She smiles wistfully, rubbing lotion into her hands. “He’s quite the nature lover.”

Robin, preoccupied with tamping down the urge to pull her back into the sheets and make his confession the best way he knows how—with his hands, and mouth, and cock—takes a while to answer. Only when her practised movements still and her eyes settle on his reflection in the mirror of her vanity does he realise she’s tensed up waiting for his response. Quite the nature lover, eh? He feels a the tiniest prick of panic at what she may be suggesting—is she pointing out the similarity between them for a specific reason?—but the deepening crease in her forehead tells him she doesn’t mean to press or push him into anything, and also that she’s already afraid he’s taking her words to mean exactly the opposite.

But they’ve been through this, been through their fair share of heart to hearts, because despite the obvious merits of make-up sex, it doesn’t actually solve problems. So they’ve been learning to communicate, to talk and listen to the other, and to—who’d have thought—compromise. She knows how he feels about children and why, and he trusts her promise to let him do things at his own pace.

“Little tyke has good taste then,” he winks at her, stretching on the too-empty bed.

She breathes a sigh of relief—not loud enough to hear, but he can make out this sort of thing just by the set of her shoulders and the slope of her neck, can see the tension leaving her body. (Holy shit, he needs to just tell her how he feels already; he knows she feels the same…right?)

“You don’t mind, do you?” she asks, biting her lip. “Having them stay with us? Only until we find them a new home.”

And what kind of monster would deny a homeless orphan a roof and a bed in a spacious castle with hundreds of rooms?

“No. I don’t mind.” Robin feels the truth of his reply loosening something inside him, lifting a burden long weighing upon him. He’s not lying, or wishful thinking, and the knowledge that he’s now at a place where that’s his truth makes him feel lighter than the feather loosened from one of the pillows during their passionate romp. “I don’t mind one bit.”

She smiles down at him, and, finally, climbs back into bed, into sheets still warm and arms already aching for her.

“About the lights, and the holiday—” she whispers hesitantly.

“We should revisit that,” he agrees with a sigh. "Only—could we postpone it till tomorrow? I’m dead on my feet, and these sheets are soft and warm…”

She teases back with a sleepy but husky you had plenty of energy before that makes warmth pool in his belly and a chuckle rumble out of him—and then she’s curling up against him, tangling her legs with his the way she likes.

Yes, the sheets are soft and warm…

Almost as soft and warm as she is, he thinks vaguely as he nuzzles into her mere moments before sleep pulls him under.

For hours, they’ve been wading knee-deep in snow.

Regina, Robin, the Merry Men, and a handful of volunteers from the nearest village had set out at daybreak, chilled almost to the bone despite thick furs, bright torches, and flasks snapped to their belts with tea and spirits in ample supply. And if they suffer from the cold this much, how do the children fate out there, at the mercy of the elements for days now? John and Tuck uncover a few well-preserved tracks here and there, but never consistent enough to actually follow.

The first real breakthrough doesn’t come until midday. Robin’s broken off from the group to inspect a shrub that seems perfectly ordinary to everyone else—but within seconds, he’s waving them over.

“See that?” he points at a broken twig. Little John immediately regains his formerly dwindling enthusiasm at the sight. “That’s not how branches snap naturally.”

“Someone’s been marking the way,” Regina surmises.

And so it seems, for the trail continues for the next mile or so—long enough that they all learn to recognise the pattern and advance quickly. They dodge bulks of snow sliding off overburdened boughs, and take it in turns to call the children’s names until their voices go hoarse—to no avail. Just as numbness threatens to descend on the company again, Regina senses the stirrings of something else, too.

“We’ve no more left to go on,” Robin tells her, silently fuming.

Regina quite understands the frustration, but shakes her head all the same.

“Maybe we do,” she says absent-mindedly, following a trail invisible to the eyes but as tangible to her as physical tracks are to him.

Traces of magic linger in the air, clinging to trees and shrubs, guiding her onward. In her few visits, none of the orphanage’s residents ever confided in her about being magical. Perhaps they’d never told anyone—or didn’t know themselves. She only hopes they’re safe—untrained magic, unharnessed magic, can be unpredictable.

The group follows Regina at a distance, letting her feel her way through the forest as if she were guided by an invisible thread.

“She’s turning around,” Robin observes, walking quietly behind her. “Heading towards the castle.”

“They are. Everyone’s magic has an element unique to them,” Regina explains, her breath rising in little puffs. “Like a signature, or a footprint. The traces I’m picking up are from multiple practitioners.”

“How many?”

“Two at least. Possibly three, with the third being accidental use, so it’s impossible to tell for sure. And, of course, there might be more—but they either don’t have magic or haven’t used it.”

Dusk creeps up on them, and an eye blink later darkness engulfs the world. They keep going, their trail marked by magic, then broken twigs, then magic again—until they come across a fork in the road. The path on the left leads to the castle; on the right, deeper into the forest.

“I would’ve gone right,” says Robin.

“But the castle—”

“Was too far away for them to reach by day. If they knew these woods at all, they’d have gone right. There’s a clearing there, ample water from a stream and a cave just big enough to make a fire and spend the night.”

“Fine, to the right it is. Just stay behind me—there might be protective magic ahead, and I think we agree the last thing we need is a freak acci—”

Regina stops mid-sentence, her breath catching as a peculiar charge resonates through the air. With every step, the air seems to grow warmer, until her heavy mantle becomes a hindrance rather than necessary protection. The snow begins to melt, giving way to dirt and dead leaves and tufts of grass, and instead of her breath coming in clouds, sweat beads on Regina’s forehead and wisps of hair curl and cling to her face.

The others call after her, worry lacing their voices at the inexplicable phenomenon, but she gestures for them to stay put. Magic is clearly at play here—powerful magic at that. Either one of the children has powers, possibly unmastered, the likes of which Regina hasn’t seen before, or they’re up against a mighty enemy. Either way, caution is paramount, and she’s not taking unnecessary risks when others hang in the balance (her other half would be proud).

When she peers onto the clearing Robin has told her about, there’s no trace of snow anywhere. The air smells of rain, of apple blossoms and freshly awoken earth, and of spring. Smack-dab in the middle, a rabbit is roasting on a spit over bright red embers, and four girls sit huddled around the fire, laughing.

“Isa’s going to get us home tomorrow with her latest invention.”

“It’s not my invention, Elena,” Isabel chimes in. “Just an improvised compass. Anyone could make one.”

“Not just anyone—but you can. Diana’s kept us fed, Ororo’s kept us warm—”

“And you’ve helped mark the way for others,” Diana adds sweetly.

“We make a pretty good team, don’t we?” says Elena, ruffling her hair affectionately.

“You really do,” Regina gives them, impressed, as she steps into the clearing. “Now let’s get you back to the castle, shall we?”

The trek back is a joyous one, the mood hopeful again now that four more of the thirteen have been uncovered with not a hair on their heads harmed.

Isabel is a real chatterbox, and fills them in on the details of their adventure, starting from the moment they rushed off into the woods in the commencing snowstorm. They were trying to get away from the fire, but soon became disoriented in the blinding snow. Lacking provisions, tough little Diana took to hunting, while Elena gathered herbs and roots. Isabel unearthed the materials to assemble a makeshift compass, and Ororo at long last managed to create their own weather bubble once they made camp for the night. Working together, they would have made it back the very next day, even without outside help.

Despite the largely successful day, Regina can’t help but think of those still stranded somewhere. Judging by his deeply furrowed brow, Robin has the same pessimistic streak taking over.

“Three to go,” he says under his breath as his hand brushes hers. Despite the double gloves hindering direct contact, she still draws comfort from the gesture. “Third day out there tomorrow.”

He’s gritting his teeth, working his jaw, tense to the point of snapping, and Regina knows why, remembers the night he’d chosen to tell the tragic story of his brother’s untimely death.

“Robin,” she tells him firmly, “we’re getting them back.”

“False hope is worse than none,” he says darkly.

“I quite agree.” That’s not what this is though. (And when did she become the one giving hope speeches?) “I think one of them has magic. That’s who they were marking the way magically for.”

Robin nods, though his shoulders are still way too squared for him to be even remotely relaxed at the thought.

Magic, while not the be-all and end-all, can definitely tilt the scales for the missing trio, and Regina is somewhat relieved the kids have some on their side. She directs her eyes to the front of the group, where Little John is leading the way with Elena, Isabel and Diana walking swiftly by and, it would appear, showering the Merry Men in questions about living in the wild. Diana soaks it all up like a sponge, savvy already with traps and snares and all manner of survival techniques. If Isa’s sharp, to-the-point queries are any indications, she’s about ready to begin constructing some latest invention, perhaps to enhance the fire-making technique, or—

“Say you had a straw you could use to drink from puddles without getting sick,” Isabel muses to Friar Tuck, her pace brisk with sparking excitement. “Or a collapsible bottle that doesn’t take up much space when emptied!”

The trek is a joyous one at first, but one person has completely isolated themselves even amid company—Ororo is walking with her eyes trained on her feet, her face hidden behind a curtain of braids.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Regina says softly, careful to keep any trace of accusation from her voice.

The girl still flinches. One brief glance at Regina, and she’s retreating again.

“Regina?” Elena falls back to walk by her side. “Your Majesty?”

“Just Regina’s fine.”

“I was just wondering,” Elena says, clutching the cape over her red dress, “what happened to the others?”

Regina exchanges a look with Robin. She hates to be the bearer of bad news (oh how the tables have turned), even though she’s obviously seen the question coming. It’s no surprise that Elena is the one to ask, either—as a once heiress of a small kingdom, she’d have been taught to take an interest in her people. So Regina gives them the facts, desperately trying to strike the right balance between objective and sensitive, to not keep the truth from them but to be considerate of their feelings.

A hush falls over the previously chatty group.

Ororo rushes forward, face averted, and doesn’t speak a word for the rest of the way.

If the return journey and subsequent reunion were a joyous affair, dinner is a subdued one.

The dent left by those missing among them is palpable. Four seats are left unoccupied—one for each missing child, and the last one for Miss Flora, sorely missed.

The silence is only interrupted by the clattering of spoons and—or so it seems to Regina—heavy swallowing. The festive surroundings do nothing to lift their spirits, but merely underline the tragedy of the moment instead. Regina wishes she’d never put those damn decorations up. Perhaps she’ll burn them to the ground after the children’s bedtime. Yes, that’s an appealing idea. She can’t fucking wait.

On her left, Robin pushes away his unfinished plate, reaching for the jug of ale for yet another refill. Regina slips her hand under the table and finds his fingers—his fist is clenching and unclenching, digging into his thigh, so it takes some effort to gently tease them free and lace them with hers. He grabs on to her as if his life depended on it, throwing her a tortured look. His eyes dart from their joined hands to where he’s clutching his ale, and he lowers the untouched goblet with a sigh. Regina exhales, squeezes his hand, and scoots imperceptibly—or perhaps not, she finds she doesn’t really care—closer on the bench, enough for their thighs to touch. It might be her imagination only, but he seems to breathe more freely.

“Majesty?” Roland pipes up, leaning his curly head against her side. His fork’s been drawing nonsensical patterns into his mashed potatoes for the better part of the evening. “What if Tillie never comes back?”

“Tillie’s coming back.”

Roland sniffles, then lets out a small whimper that shoots straight into Regina’s heart and cleaves it in two.

“That’s what my Papa said, too.”

Shit, there’s that sting of tears in her eyes now. Shit.

Robin steps up then, reaching behind her back to pat Roland’s little shoulders. It’s clumsy, but it’s genuine, and the child collapses into Regina’s side, burying his head in the folds of her skirt as she strokes his hair and says nothing at all, because she’s too choked up to get a word out and even if she weren’t, what is there really to say?

Shuffling feet begin to file discreetly, miserably, out of the dining hall, shepherded by Fantine and Friar Tuck. Warm beds await them, and hopefully better news to wake up to. Perhaps even a Regina who has her shit together again and can actually be of some use to them, not this useless, pathetic—

“I summoned the blizzard.”

Three heads shoot up in unison.

They thought they were alone, but no—Ororo is standing in front of them, her face stricken with guilt and eyes ablaze with defiance.

“It was meant to be rain!” she exclaims. “It was meant to put out the fire, not make everything worse.”

“Was this the first time you used your magic to manipulate the weather?” Regina asks, her voice almost level.

“Of course I’ve done it before, I’ve used it since I was twelve, but never for anything this big. Never with the stakes so high. And I fucked up, and now Flora’s dead, and who knows how many mo—”

A howling, barking cacophony descends upon them, the royal kennel apparently going out of their way to render them all deaf. Robin’s jumped to his feet and made it halfway to the double door when a series of short barks rings through the marble halls, followed by high-pitched voices.

“Sandy!” shouts Roland. “That’s Sandy!”

A golden-brown mutt with pointy ears bounds into the dining hall, slipping on the polished floor and knocking plates off the nearest table—and in its wake come three pairs of scuttling feet, shoes and stockings drenched.

“Tillie!”

Glass shatters as Roland slides from his bench and over the tabletop, winding up in a heap of arms and legs that is him, Matilda, Annie, Salima, and Ororo.

“Are dogs allowed in the dining hall, Your Majesty?” Robin smirks, doing absolutely nothing to stop said dog from gobbling up their food and frolicking in overturned bowls. But that teasing spark’s back in his eyes, that insufferable—and really, really attractive—arch of his brow back in place, and Regina feels a veritable boulder lifted off her shoulders.

“After she’s led three kids out of the woods?” she throws back. “The dog can do whatever she damn well pleases.”

The stars fade along with the strings of fairy lights crisscrossing the Enchanted Forest. Daybreak approaches, bringing with it a chilly breeze that raises goosebumps on Regina’s bare shoulder. She presses back into him, and Robin pulls the warm furs tighter around them. He’s not a sentimental man—or he used to not be one—but there’s just something about a sunrise. Something reassuring. Something that seems only amplified when savoured with the exquisite woman in his arms.

“Was this the traditional Christmas then?” he asks softly. In this moment in time, there’s no bitterness left in him, no ill will towards celebrations. A pleasant weariness, yes, and an odd sort of calm he’s never quite experienced before.

Shortly after the miraculous reappearance of the last missing children, their pyjama-clad friends poured back into the dining hall amid shouts of joy, tackle-hugs, and endless recountings of everyone’s adventures.

Obviously there could be no thought of sleep anymore. Regina had the festive menu served on the spot, and after a scrumptious meal, when every last crumb was cleared off the many plates and platters, the company moved into the drawing room. Robin may not have been keen on the idea of a grand celebration, but even he couldn’t help but indulge once they were all seated amid cosy cushions, drowsy and drunk on eggnog—or so the children thought, for Regina’d made sure not a drop of liquor touched their cups (the triple terror—Pippi, Huck, and Tom—gave even those perfectly safe beverages a wide berth).

The braver and more sweet-toothed amongst them roasted chestnuts on an open fire in the courtyard, where the Merry Men had temporarily moved their camp so Roland wouldn’t be torn between two parts of his family. The Yule log, put out the day of the fire at Roland’s request, served them well as a makeshift bench, and gradually even the cautious ones filed out to stargaze and rush back in for warm furs and hot chocolate.

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, a few of them casually—or hopefully—alluded to the castle as their new home. Regina and Robin exchanged a look—and didn’t correct them.

Robin’s favourite part of the night, however, is this, right now: standing on the balcony with the woman he loves. Yes—loves. Once scary, the realisation now fills him with keen anticipation.

“Not traditional in the least,” she chuckles. “Was it all right for you?”

“Yeah.” He exhales a long, deep breath. This still doesn’t come easily to him—but damn if he won’t at least try. “Look, I shouldn’t have shat all over something that clearly mattered quite a bit to you. If it’s the perfect trimmings and trappings you want, then perfect you shall have.”

Regina squirms, surveying the artificial icicles and ice sculptures lining the courtyard below.

“It’s not about that,” she shakes her head in frustration. “I wanted it to be perfect because I hoped it would—I don’t know, magically infect us with good cheer. You said your family holidays always sucked. Which I assume is why you were so averse to the idea of it in the first place.” She sighs as he sucks a kiss, then two, then three, down her neck, humming his agreement. “You know what the irony is? My Christmases as a child used to be just like this. Extravagant. Perfect on the surface. But underneath…just, strife. I don’t want that for us.”

Bloody hell, their parents really were quite something, weren’t they? They fucked them up good and proper. But not staying that way is a choice only they get to make—no one, not even a tyrannical parent, can take that away from them.

“Then we shan’t have that,” he tells her. “We can pick and choose, yeah? Create traditions of our own. I promise not to be a complete arse about it next time.”

She laughs at that, tells him she’ll believe it when she sees it, and turns her head just enough for a kiss—sloppy and awkward, but there’s tongue nonetheless, and gods, what a minx.

And she’s his?

“Do you miss your family? In Storybrooke, I mean.”

She hesitates, but it’s not the trap she’s likely trying to avoid. Just an acknowledgement of what she’s given up, and how that must feel particularly this time of the year.

“I—”

“Wish Henry were here?”

“Well, maybe not here,” she quips, rubbing her delectable rear against his crotch. “But yes, it would’ve been nice to see him.”

The sun is rising over the forest, spilling soft golden light over the pristine snow, blinding and shimmery. The dazzling spectacle is in stark contrast with the raging calamity of mere days ago. A calamity, as it’d turned out, not entirely natural.

“You knew about the snowstorm.”

Looking back, it all makes sense—the timely onset, the wild intensity, and the girl’s evasiveness.

“I guessed,” she shrugs. “It’s easier to spot magic when you have magic yourself.”

“Will you teach her?”

“I’ll try if she asks me to, but I don’t think I have much to offer. Ororo’s magic is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. She’d be better off with a mentor who knows what they’re dealing with.”

And because there’s no one like a thief to spot a fellow thief, Robin has an observation of his own to share.

“She happens to be quite the skilled pickpocket as well. Nicked my handkerchief. I almost didn’t notice.”

“Almost?” she teases, elbowing him in the ribs playfully. “Am I supposed to believe you just let her have it?”

For a moment he hesitates. He could play it the usual way, the safe way, and counter with a joke. Or he can go down the other, less-trodden path, and show her another piece of himself he’s only just discovered himself.

“She gave it to Roland,” he says quietly.

For the longest time, Regina doesn’t respond. Her hands find his under the fur, sliding over his wrists, and her fingers wrap around his knuckles. Her voice is thick with emotion when she finally does speak.

“And you think you’re no good with children.”

How does she have so much faith in him, and see good where he sees none? He used to think it was because of Other Robin—and it may well be, but not the way he believed. It’s not that she sees him, Robin of Locksley, as a mere shadow to be shaped in Other Robin’s image. Their—for lack of a better word—other halves had the roles reversed: it would be Robin who’d have faith in Regina even when she doubted herself. And this Regina, well, she’s doing the same for him.

He can’t help wondering if perhaps she’s wrong about him after all.

“I didn’t know what to tell them,” he confesses, ashamed yet relieved to finally get this off his chest. “To comfort them.”

She turns in his arms then, stepping all over his feet in the process, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she looks him straight in the eye, her face both hard and soft at the same time, just like her heart—and his.

“Most of these kids have heard plenty of promises in their lives, Robin,” she says darkly, “and had almost as many broken. They’re sick of empty promises. Actions speak louder than words to them—and you’ve been helping. Really helping.”

A knot he wasn’t aware of loosens in his stomach, forming instead in his throat, and he swallows thickly to get rid of the nuisance.

“They’re tough kids,” Robin muses, clearing his throat, and she nods. “Capable. They’d have gotten out of the forest without our help.”

Much like Regina and himself, they’re each formidable on their own—but they’ve come to realise they’ll always be strongest as a team.

He’s not entirely sure if it’s the comfort he finds in the thought, or perhaps the way the first sunlight illuminates her features, but Robin suddenly can’t contain it any longer.

“I love you,” he blurts out before he could chicken out again; and before she’s the chance to react, he’s kissing her—deeply, passionately, with all the feeling he can muster, pouring it all into the meeting of lips and tangling of tongues. Their breathing grows heavy as kisses heat up and touches grow bold—and then she’s pushing him away, gently but surely, and Robin parts from her with a frown and a niggling worry at the pit of his stomach. Not for long though.

“I love you,” she pants, eyes ablaze, as if she’d been holding back for ages—and she may well have been, waiting for him to be ready, to be sure of her and of himself—and then her lips are on his again, and everything else fades.

The world is bathed in hues of pink and orange by the time they part again for more than a few shallow breaths. Somehow, at some point, they’ve relinquished their hold on the fur, which lies forgotten pooled at their feet as they find themselves standing on the balcony in all their naked glory, trembling in the morning chill.

“Now then,” she arches a perfect brow at him, that devious smile playing on her lips. “Care to take your queen to bed, Thief?”

. . .

Regina is dozing off with her back pressing into his chest when his world shifts again.

“I’m glad you’re home,” she whispers with such vulnerability it knocks the breath out of him. All her darkest fears and brightest hopes are summed up in those few words she lays at his feet, and he can’t bear the thought of her doubting them for another second.

Kissing along her jaw, he draws her closer, wrapping himself around her and relishing her contented hum as he buries his nose in soft, silky hair strewn across the pillow, cocooning himself in the delicious smell of her before he breathes:

“Now I am.”

#oq ff #oq fanfic #outlaw queen #dark oq #oq advent #dark outlaw queen #waifs and strays or an orphan christmas #bee writes fanfic

16 notes · View notes