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1.
Her bathroom is full of flasks and bottles using words like serum or balm or tonic, some of them bright and colourful but mostly in light colours, announcing all kinds of body parts that range from eyes to nails and feet. They’re all arranged neatly on the marbled countertop beside the sink and inside her cabinet. When Robin is there, he takes extra care not to knock anything over or leave anything out of place because, honestly: the whole collection mystifies him.
It’s not that he is unfamiliar with the concept of cleansing milks and beauty lotions. There was a time, within the large stone walls and lush carpets of his father’s estate, when he would run from the maids after his bath as they came at him with their fragrant ointments in preparation for a ball. And even in the forest, even in a camp of outlaws, there was the occasional bottle of perfume found in a suitcase they’d lifted, and the mixtures of herbs some of the women carefully concocted.
No, it’s the sheer amount of creams and oils that baffles him, and mostly, really, the long minutes Regina spends inside that bathroom each evening, door closed - presumably putting every one of those creams to good use. At first, it reminds him of her outrageous jewels or the lace and tight corsets of her dresses in the Enchanted Forest, but those were not just expensive items on display. Those were essential pieces in her meticulous theatrics, meant to intimidate and keep others at bay; all the luxury of her heavy-set armour.
This is different, this is private.
And so he wonders.
2.
He isn’t complaining, although much of this land (with its products, its excesses, its stuff) still stuns him. But truly, he isn’t complaining because, you see:
They’ve fallen into something of a routine, on the nights both he and Roland stay over at her house. The boy unfailingly begs Regina for a story, and Robin steps out to give them the moment. So he uses the bathroom first, and that works because Regina likes to go in and do - whatever it is that she does, he supposes - in her own time. He goes back to kiss his son goodnight and then finds things to occupy himself with: goes to the kitchen and gets them some water; sometimes checks on Henry; lets himself under the covers and maybe reads an article in some magazine or newspaper.
And contrary to popular belief, Robin is a creature of habit; the nomad lifestyle does have its recurrences. Rise with the sun, patrol the camp, divide chores, catch game, feed the horses. The prattle of the men as they assembled around the fire every night, the stillness of the woods first thing in the mornings. He cherished all that.
Besides, in this new evening habit there is something to be cherished as well. Because when Regina does step out after several minutes locked in bathroom, she slips into bed a pleasant medley of fragrances coming from every nook. And his arm finds its way around her almost of its own accord, he pulls her in, buries his nose in her hair or in the hollow of her neck, and feels more at home there than anywhere else in this strange new world.
And also:
Sometimes, she’ll come out of that bathroom freshly showered, hair damp and tangled, skin warm and maybe still reddened in places but soft, softer even than it usually is, and Robin won’t be able to resist the urge to slide her robe open just the smallest gap, run his fingers across the skin made slippery from her lotions. And she’ll bat his hand away, muttering something like, “Robin… I just showered.”
But the gap, that smallest gap of the robe will be too much to leave to mere suggestion, and so he’ll press his nose to her cheekbone, breathe hot in her ear, and though she might let out a long-suffering sigh, her smile against his jaw and the span of her fingers under his shirt will give her away.
(She might utter, as they fall into bed, that he is a thief who can’t quite grasp the concept of staying clean and if she does, well.
He’ll just resolve to make that much more of a mess out of her.)
3.
On a rare night when he is second to the bathroom (putting Roland to bed; the little boy fiercely resisting sleep), Robin finds the cabinet door open and the bottom shelf empty.
“What happened?” he asks Regina loudly.
“What do you mean?” is her muffled reply from the bedroom.
After a beat, he sees that she’s risen out of bed to come stand at the doorway. He points toward the empty shelf, toothbrush already in his mouth.
“Oh,” she says. And with a pause: “I thought, since you’ve been staying over so much lately, that perhaps you’d like… some space.”
Oh, he thinks to himself. Her eyes are fixed on the tiles behind him as though they’re the most interesting thing she’s ever seen.
Robin spends the night often enough that some of his clothes have started to stay at her place, and he knows she sometimes puts his things with hers in the closet, but this is the first time she’s decided to explicitly offer him a space in her house. He doesn’t have too many bathroom items; shaving tools and mainly things she’s bought for him, sunscreen, aftershave. But she’s shuffled her things around, he notices them disposed a little more tightly together, knows instinctively that she’s given this more thought than she wants him to know. Knows she doesn't want to make a big deal out of it, although…
Regina has kept herself shuttered ever since Marian came back into the picture; has been standing sharp at attention, ready for the next thing that will come and break them apart. It’s painful, and part of the blame lies on him. So he recognises the space on the shelf for what it is, a rare opening, a step forward.
But he doesn’t want to corner her. Instead, he says, “Oh, alright. Thanks.” Goes back to brushing his teeth, certain he didn’t quite manage to hold his beaming smile back.
A few days later, she begins to leave the door slightly ajar as she goes about her evening routine. Robin can hear her rattle in there; the water running, a cap being opened, a tube being squeezed.
He allows the sounds to set him at ease.
4.
Roland is too much like his father: adventurous, a natural-born leader with a fruitful imagination and a penchant for trouble. He’s now started school, and being one of the few children with vivid memories of the Enchanted Forest (and certainly the only one to have grown up among thieves), he has now developed his own little band of followers — a group of tiny merry men at the tender age of 6. It’s good for him, Robin reckons, to finally be around other children, and he’s glad to see his boy adapt to this realm as easily as putting on a new pair of boots. And well-behaved young boys hardly stay well-behaved for long, so Robin figures he should be grateful it lasted as long as it did.
On this particular afternoon, Roland’s teacher called to report a story that involved his boy feeding an opossum (a big funny squirrel, papa) and proceeding to convince his mates to chase the animal to find out where it lived. The whole scheme led to a lot of rolling in the mud, climbing trees, and — therein lies the main issue, Robin can grasp — a bunch of parents arriving to pick up some foul-smelling muddy kids.
Robin relays this to Regina later that night, both standing in her bathroom as he shaves, her standing to his side with her hip pressed to the sink. He’s found the whole tale a laugh, reckons he’s going to find himself at the centre of attention in the next gathering of parents and that will be that, but he’s beginning to realise Regina is not of the same opinion. She’s been standing there, lips in a tight line, not really offering any comments aside from deceivingly casual hmm.
They’re still toeing the line, though his life is now full of her, and it is not even a question that this is a permanent fixture — will remain that way, so long as he has any say in it. But they’re still fidgeting around with things like where to step in and when to butt out in delicate matters such as how I choose to raise my son;both unsure of where they’re supposed to fit in this fragile provision that is made even more puzzling with the other parents involved.
She extends an arm over his shoulder, then, hands reaching for the few bottles on his shelf. She’s turning them around until they’re all lined up perfectly, equally distant, their labels all facing the same direction, and he stops talking to watch her. Her fingers mess about in compulsive motions, her brow wrinkled in a frown.
In Regina’s fussing fingers, Robin can see the string of thought (you are not his mother, he has a mother) sharp and clear as an actual line in the distance between him and her. She’s struggling not to say anything and he wants to reassure her — let her know he values her opinion although they might not always see eye to eye —, only he isn’t sure how to go about any of this, either.
So Robin stands there, watches with his washcloth in his hands, suspended halfway between his shoulder and mouth. Toiletries neatly arranged, that much she can control, Regina turns to him, snaps: “What?”
And Robin has to actually bite the inside of his mouth, aches to say some cheeky, pain-in-the-ass thing she’s sure to love; discharge the tension in the room.
So he does. “I do believe you,” he arches his brow, shifts his eyes toward the shelf she’s just reorganised, “… have what Miss Swan calls deep-seated issues.”
Her smile is nothing short of wolfish, replies, “Is that so?”
He nods, hums a confirmation, takes a step into her space.
“I think you and Miss Swan would do well to not be talking about any deep-seated issues when referring to me,” she continues, tone grave and warning.
He shakes his head lightly. “No, we would never,” tells her, serious. Her hand grips the elastic of his boxers to tug him toward her.
Robin grins, tilts his head toward the offending cabinet, “But I daresay this is the kind of thing she means when she uses the expression.”
Regina rolls her eyes at him, but her fingers come to rest at his hip, caressing a patch of skin under his waistband.
They’re still tip-toeing, unsure of where the bottom line lies, but they’re slowly edging closer.
He presses their foreheads together, bodies standing close for one undisturbed moment; it offers a quiet kind of reassurance.
5.
Robin does watch her going through her routine, one random evening, leaning against the doorway, eyes sharp on the mirror as her make-up disappears; as she spreads cream under her eyes, slays a few drops of serum on her face.
She’s only barely acknowledged his presence, just raised an eyebrow at him through the mirror and silently went on to wash her face. He takes in her practiced movements and the way she seems far away, hardly even there at all.
It takes him back to a time in the forest, in the years between Marian’s death and the curse, when he would put Roland to bed and go walking by himself around the camp under the pretense of checking the surroundings for guards. A warm torch in his hand against the crisp late night wind, more than enough wide open space to accommodate his wistfulness and his concerns, and it was the only time of the day when he felt he could truly breathe.
He pictures the men with their heads bent during Friar Tuck’s prayers; backtracks to his mother’s hand on his forehead as she read him a bedtime story, so many years ago that he wouldn’t know how to describe the feeling; pictures Regina readying the boys to leave the house on a snowy winter day, checking them for hats and scarves and mittens and heavy boots.
And he knows its more of a ritual than a routine, really, more of a moment to shed the weight of the day — of the people who still throw her untrusting looks and cross the street, the burden of a comment from Emma about Henry that Regina won’t be able to shake off for days, of the history and the memories that might just turn up in her dreams yet again.
When she closes the tap and unties her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders, he pushes off the doorway to shuffle up behind her. Leans in to place a kiss on her shoulder and catches her eye through the mirror again.
It is a ritual, her ritual, and he has just been let in on it; has become a part of it without even really knowing. Feels silly with the knowledge that he’ll want her to be a part of his moments too, that they’re already creating their rituals and traditions and routines.
She looks at him, eyes wide open in wonder, like she can tell every sorry-assed, saccharine thought going through his head.
And she smiles.