#restrainedubiquity

[electricbluebutterflies]

new history

She could get used to the hidden gentleness of him.

@restrainedubiquity wanted post-s2-grayspace Kabby hair-braiding fic so here we are. In which Abby is a mess (and trying to convince herself otherwise) and Marcus is probably having a midlife crisis. Title and slight inspo from “New Histories” by Brooke Fraser. PG-ish and also on ao3.

The first full day after, she sleeps like she hasn't since… honestly, Abby has never allowed herself this kind of rest, but her body crashes even harder than she expects and she has no control over any of it. The second and third days, she rests on and off. The fourth, she starts to get frustrated.

She is not a solitary creature by nature, but right now she has no choice. Her body has decided it is time to suffer all the consequences of her habitual neglect, and that combined with the recent violation - she has to call it something and that will do nicely, she decides - means she's sidelined for a while. Standing up without help is currently not happening, and any form of productive activity is even less likely.

She knows it's temporary. A week or two at worst. She'll be fine, in the grand scheme of things. But for now, she is miserable.

She was just starting to get used to the concept of a wider world, fresh air in her lungs and rain on her skin. She will have those things again, she knows, but their absence feels damning as she is stuck once more in a metal box, this time without even the ability to pace across the small room. She shouldn't even have this space. Someone else, someone in worse condition, should be on this mattress. Not her. Not-

The door opens, and another feature of her current hell asserts itself.

A week ago, this would've felt strange; a month ago, completely unthinkable. But the man in her doorway is not who he was then, and she feels a strange warmth as he approaches. Her, feeling something about Marcus Kane that isn't near-homicidal anger. Not as new a sensation as she wishes it was, but still foreign enough to throw her off.

He checks on her every few hours, in between whatever else he's doing. She suspects he's slipped back into a natural leadership role, to whatever extent that's even possible amidst current chaos, and that doesn't bother her as much as she feels like it ought to. He's not what he was - she trusts him now, started trusting him at some point shortly before she crawled through a ruined city for him, and she's conflicted, and-

"Did I wake you?"

This caution, too, is new and conflicting. The softness of his voice as he stops just out of reach, the heavy emotions in his eyes, the general presence of him as someone who has finally learned to act like a human being. All new, all probably her fault somehow, all terrifying.

"No," she replies, beckoning him closer. "Unfortunately."

He sits down in a chair that appeared at some point close to her bed - she has no idea where it came from, but she's not complaining. "Still…"

"Yeah."

Last time he checked on her, a few hours ago, they tried out her physical abilities. Which is to say that she took three steps on her own and then collapsed against him. The pain in her thigh isn't quite as bad as she was, and she suspects the problem right now is mostly just exhaustion. Another day or two, she'll be capable of normal activity. But today she is not, and she's angry, and-

"Anything I can do?"

The offer is genuine, another reflection of what he is becoming. Whatever she asks, she knows he'll at least try. This balance won't last long-term, but until she's functional again and until anyone's brave enough to explain where the hell her kid is…

Whatever happened, Abby reassures herself, it will be okay. Her daughter will be okay. The issue right now is her. She can… she can't…

She won't cry in front of another human being. She hasn't in years and she won't now. But she is tired on a level that sleep won't fix, and currently useless, and unable to do anything about anything, and-

Focus. Back in her body, to the extent that she can be, to the extent that she is realizing everything sucks and she's not as resilient as she used to be. She's not twenty-six anymore, using stimulants to stay awake for four days at a stretch because a high-stress job and a small child weren't an ideal mix. Hell, right now staying awake for one full day would be a nice change of pace. As soon as she can, she'll throw herself back in, she has to, she-

"Abby. Look at me."

She doesn't even have the energy to pick a fight with him. This is how bad she's getting.

"I'm fine, Marcus. You can go back to whatever you're actually supposed to be doing."

"I have time. We're figuring out better logistics, but I've done what I can today."

"And now you're here because I'm the only person you haven't annoyed enough today," she mutters, because if he keeps this up she is going to-

"I'm trying to take care of you," he counters.

And oh, that should not make her feel as good as it does.

She's not in any medical danger, she's figured out that much. In her current state, Marcus is a capable caretaker. It doesn't take a lot of skill to change bandages, and he's brought her food as needed and found an extra blanket for her from god-knows-where, and it's working out. She needs some form of connection with the outside world; he needs something to affirm his humanity. Not a worst-case scenario for either of them. Not at all.

She needs to give him something, she figures. Some little project to distract the both of them. And now that she thinks about it, there's a pretty obvious idea…

"Could you braid my hair?" she asks, voice shaking a little. She's had it loose since before the Bad Thing, but she wants something familiar. She could do it herself, she always has, but it would be nice to have someone else help. It's been too long since she's been touched with any kind of affection.

(No. It's been four days. This thing between them counts, and she needs to stop being so damned stubborn about it.)

"I don't know how," he replies. "Never done that before."

"It's as easy as it sounds, and I trust you. I need… there's a hairbrush somewhere in that dresser, I think. Should be a band around it."

He walks over and starts opening drawers. She feels like she ought to be more bothered by how comfortable he is exploring her space - she ought to be more bothered by almost everything this man does - but it feels right, him digging through her few personal possessions in an effort to help her. Him here feels right, and she's scared of how their dynamic will change when she's functional again, and-

"This one?"

"Yes."

It takes a little maneuvering to get her body in an accessible position. It would be much easier if she could stand up, but as that is very sharply Not Happening, moving to the chair is the next best option. She does this on her own, still unstable but not as bad as a few hours ago, and this feels like confirmation of her expected timeline. Two or three more days at worst. She'll be okay. She'll-

"I don't want to hurt you."

"I trust you."

Marcus seems to have discovered a wide range of new emotions recently, and Abby thinks his current nervousness might be her favorite. She hasn't tried to deal with her hair in over a week and it's a mess, but she keeps calm as he works through the knots. He has definitely never done this before, but it's not bad as a trust fall and it'll be okay. She has never been particularly vain, and if she looks human, well… that'd be a vast improvement over how she feels.

"Three strands, right?"

"Yes."

He pulls a little tighter than she'd like, but she feels the transformation taking place. It'll be good enough, keep her hair out of her way if that should happen to matter at any point soon, and-

"I could… I could try to find a mirror for you. If you wanted."

Again, warmth. Again, she is unsure how she became so important. Again, she doesn't mind as much as she ought to.

"I don't care," she murmurs, reaching back and taking one of his hands in hers. She could learn these calluses, she thinks, get used to the hidden gentleness of him. She wants to. "I trust your judgment."

"I'm not sure if I do," he replies, almost laughing.

"Still a few more days before anyone else is going to see me, unless something goes wildly wrong. As long as you can stand to look at it…"

She turns her head and tries to make eye contact at the same moment he blushes. It's a good look on him, half-hidden by scruff - he is becoming wild, and there is a certain kind of beauty in that. One of these days, she decides, she's going to crash into all of that. Not now, not at any point she can pin down, but someday. When the timing is right for her to risk herself again.

"I… you look… it works."

She suspects she's the only person who's ever made him speechless, and the frequency with which she's doing it… yeah, that plan of jumping up and kissing him will probably break the poor man. But she's a little less worried about that being undesired.

"Thank you."

"Do you need anything else, Abby?"

"Can you… can you stay for a little while? I've been alone too long."

He sits down on the edge of the bed and reaches for her hand again, and they are both too young and too old for all of this, and she wonders if maybe this is what love feels like. Chaos and uncertainty and warmth despite it all, as he starts tracing patterns on her skin like she's pretty sure he does when he's nervous. Something complicated and terrifying and wonderful.

"Do you want to talk?" he asks, hesitant again.

"Tell me what you did today. What's happening outside of this box. Please."

"So one of the kids thought they saw a squirrel…"

[gray-autumn-sky]

Meant to Be Yours, Chapter 19

Robin, Regina and the boys fall into familiar new routines; and Regina’s nightmares persist as she struggles to find a way to break the curse. All the while Valentine’s comes and goes.

For the anon who requested Robin and Regina dancing to “Can’t Help Falling in Love with you; and for @restrainedubiquity who requested Robin teaching Henry to dance (with Regina). Also, for @trina-deckers who requested a little Mal. While Mal doesn’t make an appearance, she (and DQ) are mentioned fondly.

Previous chapters can be found HERE; and the Valentine’s portions of this chapter might be a bit more clear if you read Valentine’s Past beforehand.

It was a typical Tuesday. Regina had picked up Henry from school after tutoring, and they’d gone to the grocery store. He helped her pick out the things on her list—running excitedly down the aisles in a way that always humored her and standing on the back of the cart as she wheeled him to the next item. And when they got home, they started preparing for dinner, waiting for Robin and Roland to arrive.

They chatted about the day. Henry told her all about a game of Red Rover that was played at recess and how he’d enjoyed the roast beef sandwich she’d made him for lunch and how one of his friends offered to trade a pizza Lunchable for it—something she’d come to know was pure gold in the third grade world. But when she’d asked about school itself, he’d sighed and shook his head, and he told her he didn’t want to talk about it just then. She pressed further and he offered her a lopsided little grin and ensured her everything was fine as he shifted uncomfortably—and before she could  ask again, there was a light knock at the door.

Once Roland and Robin arrived—with overnight bags in hand—everyone’s attention shifted to dinner. Roland was hungry and Robin brought a cake, and Henry was all too happy to help him frost it. And when dinner was ready, the boys set the table as Robin and Regina plated the food—and then it was time for clean-up and desert.

Robin cut slices of cake for the boys as Regina started to rinse the dishes and load them into the dishwasher, and once they were happily enjoying their cake, he turned to the sink to help her. She grinned as his hip knocked against hers, gently pushing her away from the sink, and taking over the rinsing so that she could focus on loading—and when he picked up a particularly grimy pan that would take more than a light rise to clean off, she looked back over her shoulder at the boys, still enjoying their cake.

“You never told me what happened at school today,” Regina says as her eyes focus on Henry and Robin reaches for a scrub brush. “You said we’d talk about it later, but... we haven’t.”

Henry sighs as he looks up from his slice of cake and his eyes roll. “We started something new in Language Arts today.”

“But that’s your favorite subject…”

Henry nods and sighs again—and this time his eyes roll, earning a soft chuckle from Robin. “Ms. Blanchard is making us do a unit on fairy tales,” he says as Regina’s eyes slide to Robin and his to her. “It’s going to be all… stupid princess and royal balls and gross kisses at midnight.”

Regina feels her stomach clench as her jaw tightens. “Well, not… all fairy tales are like that.”

“No,” Robin interjects. “There are stories of dragons and ogres and…”

Henry’s arms fold skeptically over his chest. “Not the ones Ms. Blanchard will pick,” he tells them. “You should have seen her. She was all starry eyed and…” Instinctively, Regina’s eyes roll—she knows the exact look he’s talk about. “…and she told us today that we’re going to have a cotillion.”

“That’s so cool,” Roland cuts in, his mouth full of cake. “I wish my class was getting one.”

Henry’s eyes narrow as he turned his attention to Roland. “What?”

“It’d be so cool to have one as a class pet!”

Henry blinks and in spite of her churning stomach, she feels a giggle bubbling in her chest. “I… don’t think you know what a cotillion is.”

“Yes, I do,” Roland says, looking between them all. “It’s like a lizard that changes colors and stuff.”

Robin laughs out. “That’s a chameleon, Roland, not a cotillion. A cotillion is like a… dance.”

“Like the chicken dance?”

“No,” Robin says, still laughing as he shakes his head. “Like… a ball. Like the one in Cinderella.”

“Oh,” Roland murmurs as Henry sighs. “Ewww.”

“Maybe it… won’t be so bad,” Regina says, reaching for the dishwasher soap as she takes a breath and looks to Henry. “This might be like the Thanksgiving Play. You didn’t think you’d have fun at that, and… then you did.”

“I… don’t think so,” he says as he stabs is fork into his cake. “I… have to dance with a girl.”

“Ewww,” Roland says again as he bites into his cake. “I’m sorry.”

Regina turns the dial on the dishwasher and then wipes her hands on one of the cloths as Robin leans forward, placing his elbows beside Henry’s cake. “Which girl?”

“Paige.”

“The one who sits at your table?”

Henry nods and his cheeks flush, “Yeah, she’s really nice… and pretty.”

“Then why don’t you want to dance with her?”

“Because,” he sighs, his brow creasing as Regina’s finger dips into the frosting of his cake and Roland giggles. “I… don’t know how to dance. She takes ballet classes. I’m going to look like an idiot.”

Before she can assure him that he’ll likely learn at school and that Paige probably doesn’t know how to do this particular dance either, a smile stretches across Robin’s lips. “Well, it’s a good thing that I do.” He offers Regina a wink as he pulls Henry off his stool. “I’ll teach you.”

“Now?” Henry asks with wide eyes as he reaches for his cake. “Don’t you have to… I don’t know… wait an hour after eating or something?”

“That’s swimming,” Robin laughs as he reaches for Roland. “Come on…”

Regina follows watches as the boys stand in the center of her living room and Robin pushes aside the furniture, looking doubtfully between each other. She leans against the frame of the doorway, the knot in her stomach loosening as Robin moves to the stereo and selects something to play.

“This sounds like the music at the dentist,” Roland mutters, scrunching his nose as he looks to Henry, who only shrugs.

“Turn toward each other,” Robin tells them—and she watches the boys exchange glances.

“I… don’t see why I have to learn to dance,” Roland says. “I’m not the one having a chameleon.”

“Cotillion.”

“Whatever.”

“Roland’s not a girl, anyway,” Henry says slowly, as he between Roland and Robin. “I need to know how to dance with a girl. It’s… different.”

Robin sighs as his eyes shift to Regina, and she watches as a warm grin pulls onto his lips. “Your mom’s a girl. Would you dance with her?”

“I’d even dance with her,” Roland says as he flops back onto the couch.

Henry giggles a bit and nods, and he turns to watch Regina come into the room. “I’m… not very good at this,” she tells them. “It’s been… a very long time since I’ve danced with anyone and I’m not sure that I remember how.”

“It just so happens I am a very good teacher.”

“That’s true,” Henry says with a nod. “He did the impossible. He taught me long division.”

“He also taught me how to shoot an arrow without hurting anyone,” Roland adds.

Regina laughs as her hands slide over Henry’s shoulders, giving them a little squeeze. “Okay, teach away.”

She grins down at Henry as he looks to Robin. “So, the first thing, you don’t want to get too close,” he says. “My mother used to tell me there should be enough room for her between me and the young lady I was dancing with…”

“Your… mother taught you to dance?” She asks, rhetorically as her heart flutters a little at the thought of Robin as a boy in Sherwood Forest, leaning to dance by standing on his mother’s feet and holding onto her apron strings. “That’s… so sweet.”

“I… hated it then, but those are very fond memories now,” he tells her with a wink, before turning his attention back to Henry. “So, take a step back.” Henry does as he’s told and then looks between them, as Robin nods. “Good, now hold out your left arm,” he says, his eyes sliding to Regina. “You, too.”

“Oh… right,” she murmurs as she presses her hand to Henry’s and her fingers lace down through his. “And my other hand goes around his shoulder…”

“Yes, exactly.” Henry grins a little awkwardly as he blinks up at her, and Robin situates his other hand on her waist. “Now, you have to act as a guide.”

“But I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Step forward, and you…”

“Step back,” Regina injects with a grin. “I remember.”

“Good,” Robin says, watching as Henry steps. “Now left…” Henry giggles and looks down at his feet. “And back, the right and…” Robin laughs a little as Henry concentrates on his feet. “You’re doing great, now… again. Forward, left, back and right… there you go.”

Henry smiles up at her—and she finds him unexpectedly bright-eyed, and for that moment, it’s so easy to get lost in his happy smile.

____

Regina falls asleep easily—Robin is breathing rhythmically at her side, and down the hall Henry and Roland are tucked in. As she drifts to sleep, thinks of Henry’s giggle as they slowly moved around the carpet—and in spite of everything looming, she’s glad that the most troubling thing in his day was worrying about impressing a little girl in his class.

Her eyes flutter open and she squints, feeling a rush of cool air—and when her eyes adjust to the dark, she’s no longer in her bedroom. Swallowing hard, she looks around in search of Robin, but he’s not there with her—and she can’t help but think that has to be a mistake. She takes a few steps forward, and it’s only then that she feels the weight of whatever it is that she’s wearing—and her hands begin to explore, feeling over the thick, scratchy tulle of a full skirt.

It doesn’t make sense—none of it makes sense—and she feels a sense of panic seeping in. She looks around wildly in search of someone—and she takes another step—and then her foot touches to something firm. Letting out a shaky breath, she presses her eyes closed—and when they open again, her breath catches in her throat, and she takes in the carnage.

There are bodies everywhere—bloody and lifeless—and smoldering flames in the distance. There’s not a sound to be heard outside of herself—the fast-paced thumping of her heart and the little whimpers that escape her as she makes her way through what seems like a sea of lifeless bodies. Tears fill her eyes as she realizes what she’s done—and then she hears a rustling.

Spinning in the direction of the noise, her eyes search the darkness, looking for some sign of life, some glimmer of hope. She moves toward the sound, still not seeing anything or anyone, and she pray to any higher being that might be listening—but for what, she doesn’t know.

“Don’t hurt me,” says a familiar little, distant voice. “Please.”

Her heart sinks as she turns her head sharply—and a few feet away from her, she sees a terrified little boy, staring back at her with tears shimmering in his hazel eyes.

“Henry!” She calls, reaching out into the darkness for a boy who isn’t actually there. Her heart races as she looks around the bedroom, watching the way the moonlight streams in through the window and illuminates a patch of carpet. Taking a deep breath, she feels tears flood her eyes, haunted by the fearful way Henry had looked at her. Lying back, she lets out a shaky breath—and then the lamp turns on.

“Hey,” Robin murmurs groggily, as he rolls onto his side. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I just…”

“Had a nightmare,” he supplies as she nods. “Come here.” She slides toward him and he rolls onto his back, pulling her down into his chest as his arms wrap around her. He drops a couple of kisses over the top of her head and his hands rub up and down her back. “You’re okay,” he tells her. “It was just a dream.”

“But… it… it wasn’t,” she admits in a small voice. “It was… a memory.”

“Ah…”

“But Henry was there and he… he saw what I’d done and he…”

“Shhh…”

“He was so afraid.”

“It’s okay,” he says again. “Memory or not, it wasn’t real.”

“But…”

“Shh…” He murmurs as his hand slips to the small of her back. “It’s over now.” He presses a kiss to her hair, and holds her for a minute or two. Her eyes close and she listens to the soft beat of his heart—and there’s something so soothing about having him so near. “Per Henry’s instructions, I am supposed to take you down to the kitchen and warm up some milk and honey.”

“That is how we generally treat nightmares around here,” she murmurs quietly. “But, you don’t have to…”

“If it’ll make you feel better, I will.”

A small smile edges onto her lips as she tips her head up. “This is making me feel better.”

He presses a kiss to her forehead. “How, um… how of often does this happen?”

“I… don’t know,” she lies, not wanting to admit that she barely remembers the last time she had more than one full night’s rest. “Occasionally.”

“Once, twice? Nightly?”

She blinks and looks away, pressing her head back to his chest to listen to his heart beat. “Something like that...”

“And… what do you do?”

“Try to go back to sleep,” she admits quietly. “Sometimes Henry’s up—that’s when we have milk and talk—but mostly, I just try to go back to sleep.”

“Does that work?”

“No.”

He sighs and hugs her a little tighter. “Call me.”

“What?”

“The next time this happens, if I’m not here, I want you to call me.”

Lifting her head, she rests her chin on his chest. “I can’t do that. I can’t just wake you up every…”

“I want you to,” he cuts in. “You… shouldn’t have to suffer in silence.” He grins a little and combs his fingers through her hair, tucking it behind her ear. “I love you. I want to help.”

“I love you, too,” she murmurs, “But… I just…”

“Let me help.” With a sigh, she nods and lies back down against him. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay,” he says. “Do you want to go back to sleep?”

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about… something else?”

“Sure,” she breathes out, pressing her eyes closed. “Talk about something.”

“Okay,” he begins in a tentative voice—and then she feels a chuckle rumbling in his chest. “We could talk about the birthday you had last week that you didn’t tell anyone about.” Her head lifts and her eyes widen—she didn’t know that he knew—and before she can ask, a grin tugs up from the corners of his mouth. “I read your story, remember? And, I took notes.”

“You… took notes.”

“Yes,” he says with a nod, “Because as much as I love and trust you, I’ve come to realize that when it comes to information about yourself, you are often an unreliable courier of information.”

“I… am not.”

“You never give yourself the benefit of the doubt, you always see just the bad and you always ignore the good…” She lifts his head to protest, but his finger presses to her lips. “All I’m saying is that you’re hard on yourself.” He grins. “Though it would have been nice to spoil you for day, I… think I understand why you didn’t want to celebrate.”

“It wasn’t so much that I didn’t want to, I just… after all these years of living under the curse, things like birthdays stopped mattering.” Robin nods and she sighs a little. “But I have to admit, even though no one knew, I had a pretty fantastic birthday this year.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says as a small grin creeps onto her lips. “You and Roland were over for dinner and we had apple pie, and… I got to pick the movie… and…” she laughs a little, “I couldn’t have asked for better birthday.”

“I’m glad,” he murmurs as he leans in and presses a kiss to her forehead. “And I suppose I could find another day to spoil you… perhaps on Valentine’s Day?” Her eyes widen a little. “Is it okay that I made reservations?”

“Oh, I… I don’t know that I want to leave…”

“I made lunch reservations,” he cuts in to clarify. “I was thinking that since it’s a Friday and I don’t have to tutor, we could both take the afternoon off and celebrate together, and then we could pick up the boys and celebrate with them after school.” His grin brightens. “We could make heart shaped pasta and caprice salad and… decorate sugar cookies with them and…” His voice trails off. “What do you think?”

“I… think that sounds perfect.”

“Then, it’s a date.”

“It’s a date,” she says, as she inhales a long breath, then slowly exhales it as she cuddles back into him. “Robin,” she asks after a few minutes. “Can you… keep talking?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replies without questioning it, “Whatever you want.”

Closing her eyes, she takes long breaths, slowly releasing them as she listens. His voice is soothing and his touches methodical, and she can’t help but feel comforted—and there’s something so freeing in that. For so long, she’d considered the nightmares that tormented her night after night to be her penance; they were the price she paid for her sins—and thought she didn’t necessarily disagree with that, the temptation of Robin’s comfort was too great, and she was too weak to resist it.

His words bled together as her eyes grew tired, and felt herself drifting back to sleep, no longer feeling guilty or afraid. She felt Robin’s hand stop as he pulled himself up a little and her eyes fluttered, just as the door pushed open.

“Mom?”

“Henry,” she murmurs, pulling herself up.

“I saw the light on and…” he fidgets in the door way as he looks between her and Robin. “And I couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh,” she breathes out. “Do you want to talk about it?” He shakes his head and before she can say anything else, Robin pulls back the covers and pats the bed. Henry hesitates for a moment, chewing at his bottom lip as a warm smile stretches onto Robin’s lips. She looks from Henry to Robin, then back again, watching as Henry takes a tentative step forward. She slides away from Robin as he reaches for Henry, lifting him into the bed and settling him in the center. Immediately, Regina’s arms wrap around him and he cuddles into her. “You’re sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

“Positive,” he says in a decisive voice as he cuddles closer. “Can I sleep in here?”

“Of course…” Regina murmurs glancing over the top of Henry’s head and grinning appreciatively at Robin, who offers her a wink before rolling over and turning off the lamp.

Her cheek rests atop Henry’s head and she traces circles against his flannel clad back—and finally, she feels his breathing even out, and finally, she can close her eyes—then, just as she does, the door creeks open again.

“Why is everyone in here?” Roland asks as he walks to the center of the bed.

Robin sighs, then laughs; and once again, he peels back the covers and pats the bed—but before he can lift Roland, Roland jumps onto the bed, and neither she nor Robin can keep themselves from laughing.

____

She’s lost track of the hours she’s spent in Archie’s office—hours waiting and in session, hours pacing in front of his office building, hours wondering just how much she could reveal without sounding too crazy, even for a psychiatrist. Though, in spite of never being truly honest with him in their sessions—never revealing the source of her nightmares or the sordid past that plagued her even in her waking hours—they’d helped.

And she reminded herself of that every time she sat in Archie’s waiting room, waiting for Henry.

Finally the door opened and Archie led Henry out, and they both offered her a little smile—and she felt a small pang of guilt as she smiled back and held out her hand to her son. He took it easily, his little fingers folding around her palm as Archie waved goodbye, and chattered on about his session, not really telling her much and focusing on irrelevant details—and not at all aware that the next morning, she’d be back in Archie office to go over his notes, just as she had after each of his sessions. In some ways, that felt like a betrayal of trust—Henry believed that his sessions were private, that what he told Archie stayed between the two of them—but she was far too concerned to be kept out of the loop; and, as she often reminded herself, these Thursday morning meetings had been Archie’s suggestion, not hers.

“So,” she cuts in as they step outside, “What do you want to do for dinner?”

“I’m starving,” he tells her, as he pulls his hat down around his ears. “I’ll eat anything.”

“I’m pretty hungry too,” she replies, casting her eyes down Main Street. “Do you want Granny’s? We have…”

“I always want Granny’s,” he interjects, offering her a wide grin. “Can I get a milkshake?”

“Sure…”

Henry swings their hands back and forth as they walk toward the diner, and he fills in her on everything that happened in his day. He tells her about the Valentine’s art project they got to do—explaining that he chose to paint his hearts green because he chose a black background, and decided that meant they were alien hearts—and then he seamlessly transitions into other stories. He tells about a spelling test that he got an A on, and he tells her about the kickball game they played in gym—and heart beat skips when informs that he didn’t cry when he skinned his knee.

When they get to the diner, he runs ahead of her, claiming a booth in front of the window. Ruby hands her two menus and sets two glasses of water down on the table, letting them know she’ll be back in a few minutes to take their order.

“Did… anything else happen at school?” She asks, handing him a menu, not want to ask directly about the fairy tale unit his class was supposed to start—and she hadn’t quite made up her mind about how she felt about it. “Maybe something you… weren’t really looking forward to?”

Henry blinks a few times as he considers—and then his eyes light up. “Oh, yeah!” He exclaims as he turns away from her and reaches into his backpack. “I got my math test back today,” he says, turning back to her and handing her a folded piece of paper, that slowly takes from him. “Look.”

She watches him as she unfolds the paper, and then, her eyes cast down—and immediately, her breath hitches in her throat. At the top of the test next to his name, in pink glittery ink is an 80%, with a smiley face in the center of the zero. There’s a sticker on the page with a little note—also written in pink glitter—and the note is full of compliments and praise. Taking a breath, she reads it a second time—and no matter what history she and Snow White have, she’ll never be able to thank her enough for caring about Henry the way that she does.

“I got a Batman sticker,” he says, almost shyly.

“I see that,” she replies, taking a breath and laughing a little as she fights back proud tears. “This is going on the refrigerator when we get home.”

Henry giggles. “Is there room?”

“We’ll make room.”

He giggles again as Ruby come back to the table, a pen and notepad in hand, ready to take their order—and Regina laughs as Henry orders a cheeseburger, fries and a milkshake, and then lowers his voice and asks for extra whipped cream. Ruby offers him a wink and tells him she’ll see what she can do, and then turns to Regina to take her order.

Henry continues to tell her about his day, all through dinner; and not once, does he make a mention of fairy tales. By the time they’re done and the bill is paid, the sky is dark, making it seem much later than it is. Henry takes her hand again, as they walk back to her car at City Hall, swinging it back and forth as he goes on about how excited he is to start The Goblet of Fire—and how he thinks this might be his favorite. She reminds him that he’s said that about all of the Harry Potter books, and he just giggles, unconcerned with that particular detail.

As they pass a mailbox, Regina stops and reaches into her purse, carefully drawing out an envelope and concealing the front of it with her gloved hand. She drops it into the mailbox quickly and she’s glad when Henry doesn’t ask about it as they turn toward the parking lot in front of City Hall.

“Mom?” He asks in a suddenly tentative voice as they reach the car. “I… need to tell you something.” Regina blinks, and looks over at him as she unlocks the car, opening his side first. “Dr. Hopper said I should tell you… that… that I made up my mind about what I want to do.”

“What you want to do…” she repeats, not quite following. “What do you mean?”

“I… I think I… I want to… meet her,” he says as he fumbles with his fingers and focuses his attention at his feet. “I mean, I just… I think…”

“Her,” Regina repeats, her stomach suddenly tightening. “You mean your birth mother?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh…”

“Is that still okay?” He asks, looking up at her with wide eyes. “Because if it’s not then I don’t want…”

“No, no, no,” she cuts in. “It’s still okay.”

“You’re sure?” A small smile tugs onto her lips, and she nods. “Dr. Hopper thinks that… that it might give me closure.”

Regina takes a short breath, and again finds herself nodding. “It might.”

“You’re not… mad?”

“No,” she says, crouching down in front of him. “I’m not mad.” Taking his hands in hers, she gives them a squeeze and then presses a kiss to his cheek. “Tomorrow I’ll see if I can get in touch with her, okay?” Henry nods, and she can see that he’s still unsure. “But, I want you to know that… she might not want to.”

“I know,” he says. “Dr. Hopper said that, too.”

“You have a closed adoption…”

“I know,” he says again. “I just… want to try.”

“Then we’ll try,” she tells him simply, leaning in once more to kiss him. “Now, let’s go home—with any luck, we can get two chapters in tonight.”  She offers him a wink as she stands up and her stomach tightens yet again as a small smile edges onto Henry’s lips.

_____

She couldn’t help the yawn that escaped her as she turned the page of an old leather bound book—a book that made her smile for all the wrong reasons. It seemed like a life time ago Maleficent had given it to her—a gift of encouragement at the beginning of their too-brief love affair, and a book filled with old magic and obscure spells. She remembers the way she poured over the handwritten pages, admiring the way the ink looked on the parchment and the gold-edged pages; and remembering the heartening way Maleficent explained, how they’d practiced and how she’d slowly found herself believing that all the answers could be found in magic.

But eventually, just like their love affair, magic lost a bit of its shiny allure—and she was no longer sure it could be her salvation; and just as she’d realized then, she now realized she’d found yet another dead end and another promising spark extinguished.

Feeling her frustration bubbling up, she took a long, deep breath and pushed the book away—and from the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of the little clock in the corner of her computer screen. And a slight smile begins to tug onto her lips.

The night before she and Robin had spent about hour or so on the phone, planning out their Valentine’s Day. He’d kept laughing about their lack of spontaneity and she’d kept insisting she found the careful planning he always put into their time together sweet—and admittedly, a bit of a relief.

He’d made reservations at the Chop House a few buildings down from his shop, and they’d agreed to meet there just before noon—and then, she asked if he’d want to go back to her house for a little alone time. She’d barely been able to contain her smile as she asked him—and in his voice, she could almost hear that he was smiling, too. For the first time in her life, she’d bought a matching set of lingerie that was someone else was meant to see—and her smile deepened as she thought of Robin’s expression when he saw her in it—and the effect it might have. Then of course, they’d pick up the boys from school and spend the rest of the evening eating heart-shaped pasta for dinner and frosting sugar cookies as a movie that one of the boys picked out played.

And she could hardly wait for any of it.

Rolling her shoulders she got up from behind her desk, stretching out her arms as another yawn escaped her—and once more, she tried to push away her exhaustion. The night before, Henry had gone to bed early with a headache; and then, a few hours later, he awoke breathless and in tears. She’d gotten up with him and crawled into his bed, and they read together for a little while. Eventually, Henry fell asleep, cuddled into her side and stretched out on the small twin bed, and she’d lied beside him, awkwardly formed around him, awake with wandering thoughts—and then suddenly, it was morning.

“Knock, knock,” Robin’s voice calls as his head pokes into the door and a smile stretches across his lips. “You ready?”

“I… thought I was meeting you at the restaurant,” she replies, as her eyes widen in surprise. “We decided…”

“I know, I know,” he tells her with a nod. “That was the plan, but.. I thought it’d be nice to walk together.”

“Oh…”

“It’s nice out today, and…” he chuckles softly as he steps into the office, holding out a long-stem rose. “And I couldn’t handle John’s pathetic attempts at finding a last-minute date.” He shakes his head. “He’s resorted on hitting on customers and giving them coupons. They’re grateful for the coupons, but… not as grateful for the rest of it.”

She laughs a little as she takes the rose, smelling it as her cheeks flush slightly. “Poor John.”

“I have something for you…”

Her eyes widen a little. “We agreed no gifts.”

“It’s… not really a gift, exactly,” Robin says as his smile brightens as he draws out a little red box. “It’s just… a little something I’ve been wanting to give you, and… today seemed like a perfect day to finally do it.”

“Robin…”

“It’s nothing…”

Her eyebrow arches as she lifts off the top—and a smile curls onto her lips. “It’s a key.”

“It is a key,” he says as her eyes cast up to meet his. “It’s a key to my house,” he tells her as he shifts his weight toward her. “I… also cleared out a drawer, but I… couldn’t exactly put that in a box.”

“Robin… you didn’t…”

“I just… figured we’ve been spending so much time with each other and…” He shifts again as a chuckle rises into his voice. “I thought this would make it a little easier. You and Henry could keep some things at my place and…”

His voice trails off and her breath hitches in her throat as she leans into the tips of her toes and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you,” she murmurs as she steps back. “It’s… very thoughtful and… practical.”

“Practical,” he repeats, chuckling again as he shakes his head. “Nothing screams romantic like a practical gift.” Rolling her eyes, she swats her hand at his chest and he catches it, tugging her to him before kissing her—kissing her long and deep until her head is dizzy. “So how about lunch…”

They walked together to Chop House—and for a while, she’d forgotten how tired she was—and after a heavy lunch of filet mignon and too much red wine—they found themselves back at her house. They’d barely made it up the stairs, standing at the very top. He had her pressed against the wall and fingers threaded through her hair; her heart was beating faster and faster as his hand to the back of her skirt in search of the zipper.

“Wait,” she murmurs against his lip, pushing her hand up between them as a wave of dizziness washes over her. “Just… a second.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just…”

“Regina,” he murmurs, ducking down a bit to look her in the eye. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” she replies, blinking a couple of times as she rolls her shoulders. “I’m fine.” Taking a step back, his hand falls from her the nape of her neck to her hand, giving her a soft tug toward the bedroom. His arms slides around her waist as she and his lips flutter over her jaw and grin pulls onto her lips. “I am absolutely fine.”

“Are you?” Her eyebrow arches as and his grin warms. “When was the last time you got a decent night’s sleep?”

She sighs. “Robin, I’m…”

“Exhausted,” he interjects. “You looked like you were ready for a nap when I walked into your office and all through lunch, every time you blinked, your eyes stayed closed longer and longer.”

“I’m sorry, I…”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, leaning in and dropping  a kiss to her forehead. “But honestly, when was the last time you slept through the night?” Shaking her head, she shrugs—she honestly doesn’t remember. “So, how about a little change of plans, hmm?”

“I want to keep the plans we have.”

“Another time,” he tells her. “In a few hours we’re going to have two very excited and candy-fueled little boys to entertain—and, speaking from personal experience, you’ll need all the energy you can get for that.”

“But I’m…”

“Fine, I know,” he says, shaking his head, he presses his finger to her lips. “But, let’s take a nap anyway.”

“Robin,” she says shaking her head—grimacing as she feels her jaw tightening as a yawn begins. “Okay…” Moving around her he reaches for her pajamas, handing them to her as he tugs off his shirt; and with a reluctant sigh, she takes them and pulls her shirt from her skirt, watching as he undoes his belt. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs as her skirt drops to her feet and she steps into the cotton pajama shorts. “I…”

“Will give me a rain check,” he cuts in with a wink, kicking his pants away. “A rain check I insist on cashing in.” A grin pulls onto her lips as she pulls on the tank top and before can say any more, he’s reaching for her.

Her guilt is short-lived—and as soon as she lowers herself onto the bed, her head sinks into the pillow and Robin slides in beside her, stretching his arm around her as she cuddles back to him and lets her eyes close,  her guilt is gone and she’s not sure she’s ever felt anything so satisfying.

_____

She couldn’t help but laugh as Roland struggled with the plastic packaging of the heart-shaped pasta—a thick, crunchy plastic with a glossy cardboard label stapled at the top—and with every tug, he grunted and grimaced and growled. Despite his struggles, he seemed determined, not asking for help—and judging by the way Robin was biting down on his bottom lip, the show Roland was putting on was far too entertaining to stop by the offering of assistance.  Henry giggled as stuck a tooth pick with a little heart topper through a cherry tomato and little ball of mozzarella and Roland dropped the back onto the counter, breathless and annoyed. His eyes turned to Robin, who only shrugged and continued cutting the baguette that would soon be garlic bread.

“Here, sweetie,” Regina says, turning away from the boiling pot of water and reaching for the jar of utensils by the stove. “Try this.” She hands him a pair of scissors and he grins shyly as he took them from her as he takes them, and she hovers as he cuts off the top of the packaging. His grin broadens and he looks at the label. “I’m going to keep this,” he decides.

“The label to the pasta?”

Roland nods as he hands her the bag of pasta and she watches as Robin’s eyebrow arches and Henry looks up. “We have to make a collage for school next week,” he tells him. “I’m going to put this on there.”

“The label to the pasta,” Robin says again.

“Yeah,” Roland tells them as his finger traces over the edge. “We have to put stuff on it that we like.”

“If I had to make one, I’d put superheroes and books on mine,” Henry says, as he pokes another toothpick through a tomato and mozzarella ball. “And I’d draw legos.”

“So, you’re putting the pasta label on yours,” Robin repeats as a slight chuckle rises into his voice. “Why?”

“Because,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “I like having dinners here.”

Regina looks back over her shoulder and her eyes shift quickly from Robin to Roland. “That’s sweet,” she tells him as she turns away from the stove, letting her hand slide around Roland’s shoulders. “We like having you here for dinner, too.” Leaning in, she presses a quick kiss to the top of his head—something that’s become an increasingly natural thing for her to do. “What else are you going to include?”

Roland goes onto tell them all the other things he’s collected—listing them carefully in a slow voice. Her eyes shift from Roland to Robin, whose listening with a little smirk and then to Henry, who reacts to everything with an ooh or nod or some other approving gesture as he continues to stab the toothpicks through the tomato and cheese.

It’s odd to her that half of a year before, they were all practically strangers living such separate lives; when she’d brought Henry to Storybrooke, she had certain expectations of what their life together would be like. The curse was an obvious obstacle, but in the back of her head, she’d always assumed it’d be just the two of them—that the rest of the world would go on around them. And then, suddenly, there were these two other people in her lives, people she couldn’t shut out—people she didn’t want to shut out—and it became difficult to even picture a life without them.

She never anticipated there’d ever be a time in her life she had someone to rely on—someone who was consistently there, someone who consistently wanted to be there—and she’d never anticipated looking toward the future. For so long, she’d been trapped, living a different variation of the same things over and over again—and this was like a breath of fresh air.

And that afternoon had been a reminder of that—as cliché as it was.

Robin woke up her with a trail of fluttering kisses. He started at her shoulder and traveled up her neck to her jaw, letting his lips tail over her cheek to her earlobe—and slowly she’d begun to stir. She felt his hand slide against her stomach, drawing her back against him. His fingers dipped just below the band of her shoulders and his foot rubbed against her ankle—and before she was even awake, she could feel his warmth as a smile tugged onto her lips. Sighing contently, she stretched out her legs and blinked open her eyes, rolling onto her other side to face him. Her smile brightened and the tip of her nose brushed against his—and she couldn’t help but laugh out as he pulled her tight against him and rolled them over, so that he could properly kiss her. They stayed in bed together for awhile, trading soft touches for lazy kisses, and everything felt so good and so unassuming; and had they not had to pick up the boys from school, it would have been so easy to spend the rest of the day like that, so relaxed and calm, unworried about all the uncertainty that laid ahead of them.

“Oh, and I made you something,” Roland says, his attention turning to her and bringing her back into the present moment. “I almost forgot.”

“But you didn’t,” she says as Robin moves to the stove to check the sauce and Roland hops off his stool, running toward his backpack.

Henry cranes his neck and smiles curiously as he tries to see whatever Roland is pulling from his back pack and her own smile, pulls onto her lips. Stretching an arm around Henry’s shoulders, she squeezes him and offers him a little wink as Roland runs back toward them, holding out a flower made from pipe cleaners.

Her breath catches in her throat as she reaches out to accept it, unable to think of anything other than a Valentine’s day long ago, a day that only she remembers, when he’d given her the exact same flower—and he’d given her a tiny flicker of hope as he unknowingly turned a terrible evening into one that was worth remembering.

“I made it in school today,” he tells her proudly as she nods, unable to find her voice as tears flood her eyes. “I… I didn’t mean to make you sad,” he murmurs as smile fades. “I’m…”

“Oh, no,” she says, suddenly able to speak. “I’m not sad.”

“But you’re about to cry.”

“Yeah,” she nods, looking down at the flower as she sinks down in front of him. “But I’m not crying because I’m sad, I’m crying because… I…” she stops, shaking her head—Roland can’t possibly know what the flower means to her. He possibly can’t know that after she left the diner, she taken the flower home and put in a little vase on the corner of her desk, just as he can’t know that possibly know that day after day, long after he’d likely forgotten about it, she found herself looking at the flower and remember how happy that little moment at the diner had made her—and he can’t possibly know that it was his sweetness and thoughtfulness that made her wonder if the love of a child could save her. “I love this,” she tells him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Roland tells her with a satisfied smile—and then, only a second later, he becomes distracted by the gush of steam that rushes upward as Robin pour the noodles into a colander to be rinsed, indicating that dinner is almost ready.

And just like that, the little of moment of nostalgia is swept away.

Clearing her throat, she rises to her feet, watching as Henry carries his plate of carefully crafted caprese salad sticks into the dining room and Roland trails behind him. Her eyes shift to Robin as he shoves up his sleeves and almost instinctively, her eyes shift to the tattoo on his forearm. She can hear the boys laughing in the next room and Robin smiles back at her from over her shoulder—and she feels a tightening in her stomach—because for the first time in her life, she has something that would be devastating to lose.

“You okay?”

She looks up and nods, mustering a smile as she pushes toward him and reaches for the garlic bread. He drops a quick kiss on her cheek as he lifts the bowl of pasta—and she takes a breath, reminding herself that she has time and when things are meant to be, they happen when they’re supposed to.

Her family was proof of that.

_____

The rest of the night was spent baking, decorating and, of course, eating sugar cookies.

As she and Robin cleaned up the remnants of dinner—rinsing the dishes and putting leftovers into containers—the boys rolled out the cookie dough atop the counter. She couldn’t help but feel a little bit of pride bubbling up inside of her as she watched Henry showing Roland how to flour the edges of the cutters so they easily lifted from the dough and kept the shape of the cookie—something she’d taught him the first time they’d baked cookies together—and how he gently pulled Roland back away from the oven before retrieving their tray of cookies, reminding him to let them cool before touching them. Roland nodded and he inhaled a deep breath, taking in the soft fresh-baked cookie scent as Henry arranged their toppings—and finally when they were cool enough to decorate, Henry carefully carried them over to the counter.

Robin’s arms wrapped around Regina and she leaned back into him, smiling a little as they watched the boys smear the frosting over the cookies and cover them with sprinkles—and once again she found it a struggle to stay in the moment…

Before she knew it, the cookies were done and the boys created a plate of their favorites. Robin corralled them into the living room and she followed behind them, once more wondering if this, like every other Valentine’s, would just fade away as though it never existed.

The boys settle quickly on a movie—an odd choice of Lady and the Tramp, which Roland insists is the perfect movie for Valentine’s while Henry shrugs his shoulders agreeably, murmuring something about never having seen it—as Robin fans a blanket down on the floor for them—and just like every other Friday night, the boys camp out in front of the TV while she and Robin settle on the couch.

Taking a shaky breath, she lets her head fall to his shoulder and he presses a kiss to her hair—and absently, her fingers trace over the tattoo on his forearm as she loses herself in thought.

There’s a part of her that feels like she’s losing her mind—and she’s been here before.

Despite the encouragement and support of Robin and her own determination, she’s made little progress in breaking the curse. And as February began to wind down and spring loomed in the no longer distant future, she knew that she was running out of time. In the weeks she’d been trying to break the curse, she’d made no progress; she didn’t even know if she was on the right path—if she was on a path at all.

When she made the decision to cast the curse all those years before, she’d learned as much as she could about it to prepare herself. It was complicated and nuanced with all sorts of intrinsic little details—and not only had she learned them all, she’d learned how to work them to her advantage. She learned how to use magical relics to create magic where there was none, learning and perfecting the science of potions and the power of energies; and she learned how to levy her power and persuasion in the new realm to which the curse had brought her.

But she’d never learned about breaking it; she hadn’t imagined there’d ever be a need.

She knew that there were a series of triggers in place—triggers that could set off a chain of events that led to the curse breaking, but she didn’t know how to manipulate them to her advantage. Her small victory in getting Henry to believe in something magical had been short-lived; and while the clock hands still ticked away, signaling the moving of time, that seemed to be very much symbolic. Every day she was reminded to the static world she lived in, and the ticking clock at the center of the town seemed more like a countdown to her inevitable failure.

“I think they’re asleep,” Robin whispers, nodding toward the boys sprawled out on a blanket.

“They’re in a sugar coma,” she says, following his gaze. “Maybe we should take them upstairs.”

“No,” Robin says as his hold on her loosens. “Leave them. They look content.”

“They do,” she agrees, as a smile tugs up onto her lips as she looks down at them. “I don’t know how they’re comfortable like that, but…” Her voice trails off and she reaches behind them, tugging a blanket off the back of the couch. She gets up and fans it out over them, kneeling down as she pushes the hair away from Henry’s forehead, leaning in to kiss him good night and whisper her love. Instinctively, she does the same to Roland, and when she looks up, Robin’s eyes are soft and warm and his hand is outstretched.

He tugs her up and nods towards the stairs, and she flicks on a dim lamp as they pass it, giving them a little bit of light, should either of them wake up. She leads him toward the kitchen, checking to make sure that Henry turned the oven off and the back door is locked—and then, she reaches for Roland’s flower. Robin grins as her arm slide around his back and she watches as he sneaks one more look at the boys as they go up the stairs.

“Wait,” she murmurs, stopping just in front of her office door. “I… want to put this on my desk.” Robin nods and followers her in, and when she turns on the light, she watches his eyes fall to the little vase at the corner of her desk that he’s seen before, but never noticed—a vase that holds the first pipe-cleaner flower that Roland gave her, all those years ago.

“When did…”

“A long time ago,” she answers, not needing to hear the question to know what he was about to ask. “I was having a rough night and… all of the sudden, there was Roland, giving me a Valentine.”

A confused smile edges onto Robin’s lips. “Why don’t I remember that?”

“You weren’t there,” she says simply. “John was with him and… up until tonight, that was the only Valentine’s Day worth remembering.” She shakes her head as she rounds her desk, opening the top drawer. “I know I said that we weren’t going to do gifts, but…”

“You didn’t,” he cuts in, his eyebrow arching. “And you yelled at me when…”

“I didn’t yell,” she interjects. “I… just reminded you.” She holds out a little red bag out to him and shakes it gently. “It’s nothing, really.”

His eyes narrow and she can’t help the quiet chuckle that escapes her as he pulls a sheet of pink tissue paper from the bag—and then, his eyebrows arch as he pulls a toothbrush from the bag. “I… don’t know what to say,” he murmurs as he looks up at her.

“I didn’t have time to make a copy of my key or clean out a drawer, and…” Her voice trails off and she shifts awkwardly as his eyes fall away from her and to the toothbrush. “I… just… it’s hard for me to look to the future right now. It’s hard for me to imagine that we even have a future because in a few months, if I don’t figure out how to break the curse, you’re going to forget all about me.”

“Regina, I won’t…”

“You will,” she interjects. “But, I just… I want you to know that when I do think about my future—or the possibility of one—you’re always there. You and me and Henry and Roland, we’re… all together and…” She shrugs as she releases a breath. “And as hard as it is to think that I might lose you—you and them—because of something I created, I… can’t regret doing it because we’re here now and that’s made it all worth it… regardless of how it turns out.”

Robin breathes out and he grins as he twirls the toothbrush between his fingers. “Some things are just… supposed to happen. You and I are one of those things.”

She nods as he drops the toothbrush back into the bag, setting it on the edge of her desk as he moves to the stereo, turning the dial until Elivs Presley’s softy and low voice fills the room. Robin laughs a little as he extends his hand—and with a sight, she rounds the desk and places her fingers in his palm.

Like a river flows, surely to the sea; darling, so it goes, some things are meant to be…

He pulls her close as his hand closes around hers and her head rests on his shoulder as they begin to sway to the music. She feels her throat tighten and tears brim in her eyes—and she presses them closed, willing herself to stay in the moment and enjoy it for what it is, not wanting to focus on the fragility of the little life they’ve started to create.

So, take my hand—take my whole life, too; for I can’t help falling in love with you…

[mascaramills]

I was tagged by @saviourreginamills thank you!! :)

Name: Celina

Height: 5'6"

Hogwarts House: Slytherin

Go to SSBB Character: Don’t have one...

Fictional Character I’d Date: Regina Mills

Favorite Band/Artist: Idk that I can pick a clear favorite, but I’ll probably always have a special soft spot for Lady Gaga, Marina &TD, and Taylor Swift.

When Did I Make this Blog: August 2011

How Many Blogs Do I Follow: 685 BUT about half of them haven’t posted in months/years and I’ve been too lazy to unfollow.

Do I Get Asks on a Regular Basis: No :/

Aesthetic: lol what aesthetic?

Tag 20 Followers You Want to Get to Know Better: @restrainedubiquity @lanaislovely @maleficentmills @evilregallovegood @moonlitswen @miladylocksley @snowgiinaa @stepintomyworld

(I apologize for my laziness - that’s clearly not 20)

[the-alpha-incipiens]

WIP game: failure

Sorry, that’s not in either of my WIPs! :(

Send me a word. If it’s in my WIP document, I’ll answer your ask with the sentence that it appears in.

[shinewithalltheuntold]

restrainedubiquity reblogged your photo:restrainedubiquity: shinewithalltheuntold: ...

Haha. At the very least to 10 pm. But HBO would be much better. ;)

You have a point, though.  They can get away with quite a bit at 10pm these days.  But yeah, HBO for the...full effect would be ideal.

[electricbluebutterflies]

restrainedubiquity replied to your post “I should be trying to do something constructive but nope, crying over...”

What songs?

Okay, let’s do this in order of clearest to least clear ideas for how to use these as project inspo (with youtube links):

“Front Porch”, Joy Williams - I am 90% sure this is gonna result in angsty modern-AU Kabby, because dear GOD (I have some thoughts here), but the song is A Lot and I am trying to nail down directions for it.

"Poetry by Dead Men”, Sara Bareilles - it’s been stuck in my head for the past month or however log it’s been out, and I wanna write it for a dynamic I don’t do as much, but... WHICH dynamic, is the question. I have no real thoughts there.

“When Does A Heart Move On”, Joy Williams - I have NO ideas what I wanna write off this. At all. But it needs to be inspo for SOMETHING so the last two days of crying over it become useful.

(Also, sidenote, this spring has been REALLY GOOD for my music preferences. This list could have been so much longer, these are just the three that are loudly on my heart.)

[electricbluebutterflies]

restrainedubiquity replied to your post “8 or 22 for some extra kabby angst please! (I ADORE your writing)”

“I'm not okay right now," she breathes. “I know. I’ve known.” Omg this is everything! This is acceptance of how messed up her head is and acknowledgement of what she’s feeling and understanding her and supporting her and loving her and just waiting out the pain WITH her because it’s something you have to ride through and he’s not going to wait for her on the other side he’s going to hunker down and hold her and stay with her as she crawls through it. Thank you so much for sharing this. ❤️❤️❤️

Thank you so much. I feel like that’s a logical extension of their dynamic in s5 - he’s not thrilled with everything she is, but he loves her enough to take care of her and wait it out. I love them.

[electricbluebutterflies]

differences

Neither of them have ever been good at making the difficult decisions. She did something that seemed like a good enough idea at the time, risky and insane but the only option left apart from an ending she has sworn so many times she will not endure a second time, and he gets to live with it.

Kabby, post 6x08. Yes, I am willing to accept and work with this bodyswap thing. Their dynamic is resilient and I think they’ll be fine. Influenced by conversations with @kt-anansi and @restrainedubiquity. PG-ish and also on ao3.

Different eyes stare at him in the mirror. It's been four days and still a fight to accept that this body is him now. He raises his hand and then lowers it, watching the movement in the reflection. This is going to be a hell of an adjustment period.

Somehow not the strangest thing that's ever happened, Marcus reminds himself. At least there's an explanation for this one - not one he's particularly happy with, but after the third or fourth run-through he at least understood the logistics of how it had happened. Why and how it had been justified. Unhappy, but smart enough to realize this kind of second chance is not to be wasted.

He lost track of how many times he should've died years ago, but the most recent almost-ending would've been a great cosmic letdown. If this all had to happen, this moving of his consciousness into a different body, it makes sense in this kind of timing. When he dies, if he is ever allowed to die, it ought to be some kind of sacrifice. The latest almost wasn't. The latest almost was-

A door opens behind him and he turns. Abby. Of course. She's hovered since this all happened, and he can't blame her for that, nor for anything else.

He ought to be angry. He ought to hate her. But he never has and he damn well won't start now, not over the most her thing she has ever done.

He knows her too well, perhaps. Has known her so long and close enough to know how she fights for those she loves, and the day she clearly decided he was one of them was one of the best of his life. Years ago now, another life, a quiet day and a heartbeat of an embrace and he knew.

She has not changed at all. This is what he clings to, as he deals with the rest.

"Something wrong?" she asks, crossing the space between them but not daring to touch. He is used to a much more tactile version of the woman he loves, yet he understands her hesitation under these strange circumstances. He supposes he would do the same if roles were reversed, and yet he cannot…

He would not be desperate enough to make the choices she did, he thinks. And yet he cannot know, and he hopes he never will.

"Still in shock," he murmurs, because he has to give her something. Less so with every passing day, but he is unsure if this new body will ever feel like his. Perhaps that's a good thing.

"I'm sorry. It was the only way to… I tried everything else, I…"

Oh. Oh no.

He's seen a few of her guilt spirals over the years, enough to know when one is beginning, and he doesn't have the energy for that storm. Once begun it can only be waited out, and while that would still be more eventful than anything else he's been allowed to do since the switch…

"You don't need to apologize to me."

"The hell I don't."

Or perhaps not a guilt spiral, perhaps something even worse. Abby when she wants to pick a fight because that's easier than dealing with her issues is a fascinating sight, but a little less so when he's her chosen emotional punching bag. Which he probably deserves, long-delayed cosmic payback for a decade of the same behavior, but-

"Abby."

"I knew goddamn well what I was doing. I couldn't let you go. And I am not… I did that for me. Barely for you." She takes a breath, steadies herself against a wall. Yeah, full fight mode and too lost to realize he knows the signs. "Do you finally hate me, now that I can admit that?"

"No."

He remembers first deciding she was attractive - she was in one of these moods, an easy fifteen years in their past, still very married but perhaps not as happily as she claimed, and that raw fire in her ignited something in him in return. It's oddly comforting that despite how much has changed since then, she is still capable of lighting up a room with misguided frustration. An odd trait to fall in love with, and yet-

"What the fuck do I have to do to push you away?"

"Is that what you're trying to do?"

She makes a low noise somewhere between a hiss and a growl. "Well considering this didn't work…"

"You saved me. Again. I'm missing the part where I should be mad about it."

"What about the part where I functionally killed someone and you're in a different body that used to have a different occupant?"

He does wonder about that. He suspects details have been kept intentionally vague - all he has of this body's previous occupant is a first name and a rough guess of age that puts this form at about fifteen years younger than his previous body, and oh that should not sound so normal already - but Marcus has pieced together a few things on his own. This body has no intentional marks nor any scars significant enough for him to wonder about, and these hands have never worn a wedding ring nor spent significant time holding any kind of weapon. The previous occupant lived a boring life, and on some level that makes it stranger. He would be more comfortable in a body that came with a map. But he has this one, and he's in no place to complain.

"You saved me," he repeats. He half wants to lean down and kiss her and see how much of a mess that becomes, but later, once he can't feel the heat radiating off her, once he-

"You are the only person who thinks that's what I did."

"And the only person who has to live with it," he reminds her. "That's what matters."

"You are way too fucking calm about this."

He is not calm so much as… aware of when not to burden other people, he thinks might be a way of putting it. Abby is having enough of a crisis of her own volition, and he can only imagine how much worse he would make it.

"You're panicking enough for both of us."

"I am not panicking," she counters, hands on her hips that way she does when she thinks she's more intimidating than she is. "I am wondering why the hell you're not. There's a difference."

There is absolutely not, he's tempted to point out, but he doesn't. Pick your battles, especially when your girlfriend - is she still that? are they still anything that can be described? - is determined to pick all of them at the same time. This is a moment for damage control, not adding fuel to a fire.

"I'm getting used to it. Is that an answer you want?"

"No. I want you to be mad. I want you to think I've gone too far. I want… I know you too well, and you won't, and that makes it worse, and-"

Oh god. She's about to start crying, and one of the core things he knows about her that he suspects no one else does is that she absolutely hates breaking down in front of other people. Damage control, he repeats. They can deal with everything else later. Right now…

Right now he knows that leaning down and putting his mouth on hers will at least distract her enough to ward off the oncoming mess of self-loathing that will happen if so much as a single teardrop falls from her tired eyes, and so he does. She is the same as ever, a little bit smaller in his arms but still her in every way that matters, and she opens up. She hasn't said much about the desperation he wasn't there for, but he tastes it as this new tongue learns her chapped lips, feels it as she wraps herself around him as best she can. He cannot fault her for anything.

Neither of them have ever been good at making the difficult decisions. She did something that seemed like a good enough idea at the time, risky and insane but the only option left apart from an ending she has sworn so many times she will not endure a second time, and he gets to live with it. He's lived with worse, he reminds himself as he undoes her hair. He has lived with so much worse than all she is. His own demons in a long-locked past were hell enough. At least hers are friendly, for the time being.

"Is this at all weird for you?" he asks when they break for air.

"Weird how?"

"In any way."

"Yeah. You're not… I worked with the options I had. And probably made things worse, because you're technically younger now and yet you're not, but… I'll get over that detail. Pretty sure no one else will."

"Can't imagine there were any more suitable hosts lying around," he laughs. Could be worse, could be even younger, could be-

"You have the same eyes. And similar enough everything else. And I'd still love you if you'd ended up looking completely different, but…"

Similar enough. She's not wrong. He looks like what he imagines a brother of his previous body would look like - another statement that should not feel so normal, but he's trying. Different but close enough to what was. Could've been so much worse.

"You did what you had to do."

"I did something desperate that no one we know is ever going to forgive me for," she corrects. "And I don't think I regret it as much as they want me to."

"Could you get used to this, Abby?"

"To what part?"

"The differences." The scars that aren't there. The fact that he still knows her body perfectly but she doesn't know this one at all, and he can't envision that being a full-on problem for a while yet but hopefully it will down the line, and-

"I'm going to. That enough?"

She rests her body against his, and circumstances be damned, some things don't change. She is still her, exactly the same, still makes the soft purring noise as these new hands rest on her back. And as long as she stays - and he knows with every cell of this new skin that she's not going anywhere, never has and never will - the rest of it will be alright.

"Yes."

"Is it weird for you that I look… less than you?" Her voice catches, like she's torn between a few self-deprecating comments and can't decide which will hurt herself the most. "That we don't match anymore?"

"Not at all. Reminds me this is all real and not a bad dream."

"Because I still look like shit?"

He kisses her forehead, because he can. "You look like you, Abby. You saved my mind, remember? Preferences haven't changed."

"You did not answer my question."

"It might be strange to other people. It isn't to me."

Hell of an adjustment period, he thinks as he closes his eyes for a heartbeat and lets himself try to inhabit this body a little better. But it all happened because someone loved him too much, and that's not a bad start for a new life.

[electricbluebutterflies]

Hi The more Kabby you write, the more Kabby I want hehe... Perhaps Blindfolds/sensory deprivation could be a pretty much in-character thing for them, maybe right after they get out of the bunker or smth? ( on a side note, i'm really curious how you're gonna pull off that wedding without making it plain funny... but you've done the dancing and I love it so I fully trust you heh)

This was probably supposed to be a smut prompt, but it turned into some immediately post-s4 not-that because @restrainedubiquity had some thoughts about a “missing scene” sort of thing. PG13-ish, content warning for suicidal thoughts // Abby being in generally bad headspace, and also on ao3.

She doesn't remember being this angry at anyone. Ever. And yet here she is, learning new things she is capable of in less than ideal circumstances. The constant echo in her head, forty-one-not-dead, except that dead would be easier and more comfortable and she suspects she'd be a little less homicidal as a ghost. Probably. Not that Abby has ever thought about that. But once more, her mortality is an issue, just…

The necessary reset to undo the damage in her head. Basically, she does have to die. Temporarily. As it's been explained to her, she'll be okay as long as her heart stops. She feels like she ought to be more aware of this process - she, who has spent almost her entire life learning how the human body works and how to make sure it keeps working and rarely if ever thought about creative ways to make it stop - but it sounds idiot-proof enough. Fall into ice water, in a safe space at the bottom of the world, and let the crash save her.

With someone else there, the implication is, to deal with whatever happens after that. To deal with her, whether she lives or dies. And she's angry, and she wants to die, and there's only one option for her minder slash accomplice.

Once upon a time, she thinks as she makes sure the preparations are perfect, she thought she could be a good partner for someone. Perhaps she was, years ago, in a marriage that was just short of perfect until the tragic ending. Jake got the best of her, she thinks. It's been a while since she's thought about her late husband, and she doesn't know what kind of afterlife there may or may not be but she wonders how he'd feel about this if he could see. More likely than not, he'd be shocked by the person she has become, if person is even a word that applies to her anymore. Some days it doesn't feel like it. Some days, she suspects…

Jake, too gentle and tragically dead for two years now, got the best of her. Marcus, too stubborn and standing in the doorway with a hesitant expression on his face, is stuck with the worst.

She attempted to explain the process two days ago, when she asked him if he'd be her minder. She gave a choice, but she knew it wasn't like that for him. Just as she wants to make him bleed for saving her when she didn't deserve to be saved, he has his own residual demons that still occasionally demand a sacrifice. He is wrapped around her fingers and will stay there until he dies no matter what she does, and she hates him for it. How did she inspire such devotion? How did she, of all people, turn him human?

"Close the door and sit down," she says, glancing at him for a heartbeat before returning to her preparations. The pool of icy water is barely big enough for her body, but it will do. The fact that she can do this at all, and do it privately and on her own terms, is this side of a miracle. She can't fuck it up. If she fails, she dies regardless. And if she's going to die, she'd rather it happen through something other than her brain getting eaten from the inside.

"Are you sure there isn't another way?"

"There might be. But this is the easiest. My heart needs to stop. As soon as that monitor goes off, pull me out and bring me back. If you can't…"

If he can't, that is what is. Dying like this would not be the worst possible way. Like this, at least, the last thing she sees will be one of the three people she has loved more than she knew was possible. She could do worse.

"Abby…"

"Don't fight me on this, Marcus. Don't make this worse for either of us."

Everything in order, she begins to shed her clothing. It'll be easier that way, her body that much more responsive. She feels her partner's eyes on her, feels the tension neither of them can face. He's scared - he won't admit it, but she knows that weight in the way he's looking at her right now - and she moves slower and allows him what might be a last memory. What's left of her, exposed, forty-one-not-dead, not dead yet she adds, in harsh artificial light and out of other options.

She feels unexpectedly vulnerable, standing there for a few moments. She's never had that before, not with this man opposite her, not with anyone. With all the weight of the world crashing down so thoroughly, it's been a while since she's had cause or opportunity to think about her body. She has aged well enough, she supposes, if that matters. She has scars, she has lived, she has-

"I'll be the first thing you see when you come back," he murmurs, and there is too much fear in that one little sentence.

"You'd fucking better be."

She crosses the tiny distance between them and kisses him, and for a moment she forgets how much of this is his fault. If he'd let her die, if he hadn't been so damned determined to keep her safe… she could've died more painful and brave, not like this, not like she's about to, not like-

She pushes away and sits down on the edge of the pool, pausing to place a sensor over her heart. She's not entirely sure the device won't shut off completely as soon as she hits the water, but she didn't have time to crash-test everything as she would've under other circumstances. She's not sure how much she cares.

"As soon as the screen goes red, pull me out and bring me back," she repeats, though she knows she's made the simple instructions perfectly clear.

One more glance at her partner, one last look at this man who loves her too much for his own good, and then Abby stands on the edge of the pool and lets herself fall backwards and hopes, in that second, that the water will take her.

Shock, immediate and stronger than she could've expected, everything so cold, everything shutting down, eyes closed, body numb, everything, bitter cold, unfeeling, letting go, drift-

She is gone. She is not in her body. The first half is perfection.

Death is soft and warm and-

Her eyes shock back open, and she is not dead. She is laid out on concrete floor, dripping wet, so cold, and her partner's hands still and drop away and his head falls between her breasts and she feels the breakdown she can't help thinking he deserves and-

"We did it," he breathes, pressing his lips to a spot just above the sensor.

"Did the screen go red?"

"Yes. You didn't… you didn't tell me how loud it would be, Abby. I was worried that would save you before I did."

"Figured that would freak you out. You deserve it."

"I do. But I'd prefer to have that fight on more equal footing."

"We can do that."

She pushes herself up and falls against him, and he is warm and she is not, and his hands tangle in her wet hair and this, she thinks, this would be a good ending for her. If her heart spontaneously stopped again, as she rests in her partner's arms and buries her face against his shoulder and allows herself to feel small and-

"I love you, Abby."

"I'm pretty sure that's the problem."

"And you being mad at me doesn't… I deserve that, but it doesn't change…"

"I know. And I can be pissed off and still love you. I don't have to choose one or the other."

"I can't lose you. You know that."

"That's all I'm living for anymore."

"Shhh. No. You are more than that, Abby, you are-"

"I'm an absolute fucking mess, and the fact that I am naked in your arms is doing nothing for you, and-"

"We will figure all of this out. Together. I can't-"

She knows, as they fall apart together, that this will become all too routine in time. A recurrent fight, the fact that he loves her more than she knows how to be loved and she will never deserve it. She loves him too, in her way, but she doesn't know if that could ever be enough, and she's scared, and-

"Thank you. I wouldn't… you were the only person I could've asked, Marcus."

"I know. I take care of you."

"You shouldn't have to."

"I don't have to. I want to. I'm pretty sure there's a difference in there somewhere."

"I hope there is."

She pushes herself away from him and off the floor and begins the process of drying herself off. She's not sure her body will ever quite go back to the temperature she started at, but she supposes she could learn to hope again. Maybe. As long as she's not alone, as long as-

"Do you want help?"

"My hair's always a lost cause, but you're welcome to try."

[electricbluebutterflies]

B, I, L, & Z.

B: Any of your stories inspired by personal experience?

The majority of them are in some way or another. To what extent depends on the fic. Sometimes I write things that have happened to me and only the names are change; other times it’s more little details.

I: Do you have a guilty pleasure in fic (reading or writing)?

I adore coffee shop AUs. I don’t go out of my way to find them but they’re reliably cute when existent for stuff I’m into. Also there’s one ship I don’t really write for (I want to but they’re difficult) but am trying to get into reading more fic for. Despite the other shippers being why I noped the hell out of there for four years. So.

L: What’s the weirdest AU you’ve ever come up with?

Not sure if it qualifies as outright weird so much as “oh honey whyyy”, but the Kabby Christmas program AU is, in my opinion, the most underrated longer fic I’ve ever done.

Alternatively, I finally wrote Cat In A Tree today (four years after @ava-rosier came up with the idea while I was in the ER because I thought I was having a heart attack - I forgot to mention that in the fic summary) and it turned into Cat In A Tree AND a werewolfy midlife crisis. And is totally getting turned into a longer-formed fic because @restrainedubiquity is a kinda terrible influence.

Z: Major character death–do you ever write/read it? Is there a character whose death you can’t tolerate?

I don’t intentionally read it but for some ships it’s occasionally unavoidable. I very rarely write it. I don’t think I have any darlings whose death I absolutely WON’T read, but I like my babies alive, y’know??

[electricbluebutterflies]

New blog title ‘cause @restrainedubiquity about broke me with her latest fic and I just... that phrase is gonna be resonating for a while.