He’d been there, every step of the way, through her heartache at the loss of her son.  It felt like a death, it felt like she was grieving his life because the life that she thought she would share with him, being his mother and watching him grow was gone.  It was gone the moment she had sent him over the town line with Emma, gone and Regina hadn’t known if she would have the strength to keep herself patched together. The wound of his loss like a gaping maw, threatening to swallow her whole.  Then the Wicked Witch had happened, and the anger she felt had given her purpose.  

Every day was precarious in the castle. Snow and Charming were constantly trying to bring hope back to the kingdom, while Regina was only interested in making Zelena pay.  As the days crept by, Regina found that she had developed a new admirer.  A four-foot admirer with chestnut curls, a stuffed monkey, and a father who tended to come visiting imploring her to share a drink with him and as the time crept by she swore that yes, she did enjoy him too.  

Christmas was coming, and though it would be her first without Henry, it would also be her first with Robin and Roland.  Her first with Snow and Charming and this thing they were building, this family. No matter how much they prodded each other, Regina knew that she loved them and would protect them with her life just as they would her.  It was something surreal, and to celebrate this, Snow White was hosting a ball, because of course she was!  This was Snow and Christmas plus the thing she had always hoped for – a resolution between them, a relationship like the one that she had always hoped they would have. For all she complained about her whimsical and hopeful ways, Regina couldn’t help but agree that this something beautiful and she was glad to be a part of it.  

Garlands of evergreen that twinkled with fairy dust were hung from every possible location.  There were baubles and bells that tinkled adorning the garland, and fairies that fluttered throughout every corner of the castle making it shimmer with holiday spirit.  Regina huffed and sighed in mock scorn, yet couldn’t help but feel secretly overjoyed at the thought of spending the holidays dancing beneath the moonlight with Robin of Locksley.  He’d become a staple in her daily life.  He’d soothed her down from the edge of the precipice of loneliness several times. He’d made every effort to show her that she was more than just what people had said about her, more than the villain who had had his face adorned on wanted posters and chased him with the fury of her Black Knights.  He saw her, and no one had truly seen her since Daniel.  

“Regina!”  

She could hear Snow’s voice call out to her, and though she though she felt an insuppressible urge to roll her eyes at her, she was also touched that she was calling on her for help.  Things truly had changed for her, and she was pinching herself every moment in fear that she was going to wake up from this dream. There was no sense in walking faster, Snow would just follow her anyway.  Regina feigned annoyance and turned on her heels.  Snow was always so damned happy!  Even in the bleakest situations the woman had that pestering smile on her face, and there was something about it that screamed love. Regina wanted that too – and it sent a little jolt of fear through her to realize that.  

Dear heavens, what had she become!

“Quick, call the fairies!  I think they missed a spot!”

“Regina,” Snow huffed, hands on hips and taking the teasing good naturedly as always.  Regina just didn’t know how she did that, but she had to admit that she was proud of her that she could.  Proud that Snow was just that tough.  

“Really, I think you should dig out the rainbow and unicorn stickers because they would go perfectly with the shimmering taffeta monstrosity you hung in my chambers this morning!”

“Regina Mills I know that you are enjoying the preparation for this ball just as much as I am so you can just stop with your snark because I’m having none of it!”

She rolled her eyes in a grand gesture of annoyance and came to stop, her arms crossed defensively across her chest. Regina was the master at deflecting anything that she didn’t want to feel, especially anything that made her feel vulnerable.  She’d been hiding her vulnerability for so long, she wasn’t quite sure just how to let go of her armour.  

“And just what is it that I can help you with, dear?”  Regina sighed in her own affected manner that spoke of what a nuisance this interruption was, however there was something small in her heart that was amazed and endeared that Snow White, the Bandit Princess who was beloved by all, wanted to include her – felt the need to make sure that Regina was coping without Henry and that she knew how welcome she was with them all.  

“I was just thinking… Do you think you could whip up something spectacular for us at the end of the night to usher everyone off to their beds?”

“Do you want sugar plums dancing in their heads too or is that where you draw the line at holiday magic?”

“You know you don’t have to make everything so difficult with me – I know how much you’re hurting.  Remember Regina, for better or worse we are a family.  Charming and I miss Henry just as much as you do, but we also know the pain of missing your child – and that’s something no parent should have to feel,” Snow’s voice was soft, yet firm, imploring her to see the light.  Regina was coming around, she just couldn’t stand feeling vulnerable no matter how much she loved that they wanted to help.

“You’re – You’re right,” her voice uncomfortably strained.  She couldn’t help but think of her vulnerability as weakness, when in fact it was what would enable her to live a more wholehearted life.  Like love, vulnerability wasn’t weakness – it was strength.  

Snow took this truth for what it was and took Regina’s arm, slipping it through hers and began leading her down the hallway to the grand staircase where one of at least twelve regally decorated Christmas trees festooned the castle halls.  She really was going to have to have a word with her about Holiday Overkill.  Had she never heard of the expression “Less is More?”

Throughout their walk, Snow spoke of Father Christmas, perhaps a sleigh and eight or nine reindeer flying said sleigh could be magicked across the sky above the balcony?  Or maybe she could make the Twelve Days of Christmas come to life? Snow was rolling so many ideas out so quickly that Regina could hardly keep up!  

When they came to the grand staircase, the hallways a bustle with people trying to decorate and set things up for the party.  Only one thing looked out of place to Regina – the rows of Nutcracker Soldiers, where one was not all that he seemed.  She glanced at Snow, as if to test if she had noticed but the Princess was lost in her own animated world of holly berry and mistletoe.  

Regina walked to the edge of the tree and gently touched a curved bauble with her finger.  The word’s ‘Baby’s First Christmas’ were etched along the silver ornament and it looked terribly familiar…

“Oh!  I see you’ve found it!  There were a few items that appeared back here with us it seems, and I thought that maybe…”

“This was for Henry,” tears welling in her eyes, Regina turned to face Snow, and she grasped for Snow’s hand with her left.  “Thank you.”

Snow White had never been one to resist a moment and suddenly she felt herself enveloped in a hug from the pixie like Princess.  She’d needed the connection, needed the hug at that moment, and somehow, she was feeling alright at being vulnerable for the moment because the strength of her friend was helping to hold her steady.  Regina saw through tears the memories of happy Christmases with her son, and the sorrow from missing him weighed heavily on her heart, but it was a sorrow shared.

“I do have some ideas as to what little magic I can do for this ball,” Regina pulled back to arm’s length and gave Snow a convincing smile.  “Now, leave me here and I will work on something amazing for you!   I promise!”

Snow’s gaze was still full of concern and suspicion, but she did squeeze Regina’s hand and move out of the foyer towards the kitchen where she would promptly be inundated with the many questions of the cooks for the celebratory Christmas feast.  This was going to be a ball to remember, for all those involved, and Regina could see why Snow would want her to produce a big surprise.  This would be a chance to show them all that even though they were back in the Enchanted Forest, there was no reason why Regina would revert to her old ways. There was no need.  Much as she was loathe to admit it, she wasn’t lonely now that she had a castle full of friends, rather than a castle full of servants and slaves scraping and bowing at her every whim.  Not that the bowing wasn’t nice, she did enjoy it, but no one was false with her – they were their honest selves and she found that refreshing.

Once she was out of sight, Regina squared her shoulders and moved towards the Nutcracker troops.  She could have done something magical with them – an army of Nutcrackers fighting off the Wicked Witch that was plaguing the castle, plaguing her.  She filed it away with other useful thoughts of how she could decimate the nasty green witch and send her packing back to Oz, right now there was a sweet young man who needed something from her more than they did.  

She found Roland in the centre of the pack.  The soldiers were five across and five rows back; twenty-five perfect little Nutcrackers – well, twenty-six if you counted the young man with chestnut curls and dimples in his cheeks who had taken up residence with them.  She had to admit, Roland had stood perfectly still throughout their impromptu hug at the Christmas Tree and for a boy of four that was no easy task!  She ran her fingers along the rims of the caps of the soldiers, one by one, row by row. When she reached Roland, she smiled and stood before him pondering just how to start this conversation.  She didn’t have to think long when the little boy soldier started to giggle, giving himself away completely.  

“Oh my!”

“Teehee, don’t be scared!  It’s only me, Roland!”

“Well, I was beginning to worry that we were allowing anybody into our Nutcracker armies!”  Regina swished her skirt around her body and crouched down on her haunches so that she could be at eye level with Roland.  He seemed comforted by this action, and she knew that small children felt less intimidated when people came down to their level.  “Well Captain, what’s your report?  You’ve been monitoring the foyer – what have you seen that you can tell me today?”

The little man was full of stories, she was sure, and what better way to get to know what’s going on in the castle but through the eyes of a child.  They certainly saw more than many people gave them credit for.  She certainly hadn’t noticed what Henry had noticed when they were still under the curse all those years ago…  Her heart clenched at the thought of her son realms away, even though she knew he was safe with Emma.  

“Well, your majesty, I’ve –“

“You, my dear Captain, may call me Regina,” she smiled at Roland and ruffled his hair with her hand.  

“Regina.”

She saw him smile as he tested her name on his lips, saw the little flush of embarrassment that coloured his cheeks and the strengthening of his reserve to continue as he formed a hard line with his lips.  He was going to use her name, she could tell – or whatever approximation of her name made him most comfortable and that made her smile even more.  Robin of Locksley and his son had firmly implanted themselves in her heart and now that they were there, she didn’t think she could ever let them go.

“Come,” Regina reached out a hand as she stood for Roland, “lets you and I share a treat while you tell me what you’ve seen and heard, Captain Roland.”

Two hours later, Roland had relayed everything that he had seen and heard in the hallways.  Some of it was very interesting, and some of it was not but Regina pretended that that was the most interesting news of all.  They had found some lovely Apple Turnovers, not fresh from her own oven by her own hand, but tasty and deliciously dusted with powdered sugar.  Over turnovers and tea, Roland relayed the comings and goings of everyone he had seen in the castle, including one person that he couldn’t remember seeing before – a tall man with scraggly sandy blonde hair, he was thin and didn’t look like he was dressed quite right for a palace servant.  He’d seen the man several times, each time the man had been wearing a broach, it was a green sparkly jewel per Roland, and he had seemed almost in a trance as he walked muttering to himself.  Or rather, talking to himself in a sort of one sided conversation she had come to understand.  

One thing was certain – that green hag had spies in her castle and that would not stand!

Regina let the ideas flow through her, hands twitching at her sides to unleash the fire within her heart.  She wanted to vanquish that witch so she could start living her life again!  

That gave her pause.  She wanted to live!  There were no thoughts of a sleeping curse buried in her mind, no thoughts of being unable to continue without Henry here – the thought of continuing without Robin and Roland had overtaken that desire.  Now she wanted only to make their kingdom safe so that she could start living and see if there was some way to build another family here while honouring her former life.  

But none of that would be possible if greenie were still tormenting them, and so she needed a foolproof plan to ensure that she hopped right back on her broom to Oz.  Regina toyed with many things, but ultimately settled on preparing the Nutcracker troops to mount an impromptu defense.  Given her current track record with the Wicked Witch of the West, Regina knew that everyone should have a hand in the defense of the castle because they were friends, a family, and families worked together – didn’t they?  Wasn’t that what Snow was always telling her – that they were a family?

She’d worried enough about it, there was no room for hesitation, and when she found herself outside the library doors she thrust them open.  The clattering of the doors as they hit the stone wall startled the occupants said library causing the books on the table around them to tumble to the floor.  

“Oh my goodness!”

“REGINA!”

“Oh – sakes alive, this is a common room Charmings! A common room!”

Regina turned her back from the couple en deshabille, as a show of good nature but refused to leave the doorway. She could hear the rustle of papers and clothing behind her as they frantically scrambled to adjust themselves and rolled her eyes.  Amateurs!

“You know, you could always hang your broadsword on the door knob.  Maybe leave stockings hanging from the handle to let us know it’s not safe to come in.”

“Ha ha, Regina, very funny.”

She could hear Charming trying to stifle a laugh at her jab, and Snow’s chagrin, and couldn’t suppress her smile. Bless David and his ability to take a joke!

“Are you two decent yet?”

“This really couldn’t wait another –“

“Snow, if it could wait she wouldn’t still be standing in the doorway,” David’s voice was firm, yet she could hear the hint of amusement to his tone and she hazarded turning around to make light of the awkwardness of the situation.  

“If it could wait I would have just left you and your shepherd to frolic instead of barging in here looking for a little help from my friends!”

The silence that fell on the room was deafening.  The expressions of shock on Snow White and Prince Charming’s faces was something that she would have killed to see in days gone by, but now it was an act smacking with the taste of vulnerability.  Regina pretended to shrug it off as though their surprise didn’t affect her, but the racket of the toppling books and the shouting of both a frazzled Queen and a startled couple had attracted the attention of the dwarves who were all appearing out of nowhere singing a jaunty Beatles tune.  

Leroy was the last to arrive with his usual grumpy frown turned into a smile as he belted out, “Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends!”

Her wrist flicked involuntarily conjuring one of the brightest fireballs she’d ever seen.  The singing stopped immediately and scowls appeared on faces as the dwarves returned to their natural state of unrest around the formerly “evil” Queen.  Snow White stepped towards her and placed a hand on Regina’s arm.  

“What’s the matter, Regina?  How can we help?”

“I think we may need a few more heads at the table, though this is a good start.  Robin, Belle, the fairies, anyone who desires freedom from that Oz witch – she has spies in the castle and we need to be ready.”

Christmas Eve

 “O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree,

Much pleasure doth thou bring me!  

For every year, the Christmas tree,

Brings to us all both joy and glee,

O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree,

Much pleasure doth thou bring me!”

 They had spared no expense to put this ball together.  The minstrels played carols from multiple realms, though many were those they would have heard in Storybrooke.  Regina found herself staring in wonder at the regality of all those in attendance. Why, if she hadn’t known better she would have sworn that Granny was every bit the grand matriarch that her mother had always tried to be! 

Fairy dust sparkled from every corner. Candlelight twinkled in every recess and the hearths were a glow with the beauty and warmth of a roaring fire. Carolers were situated by the Christmas Tree in the middle of the ball room, their voices loud and strong in the din of the crowd.  Their songs ebbing and flowing like tinkling silver bells in the air.  

Regina felt like her skin was crawling. Forget visions of sugar plums, try visions of inadequacies danced in her head.  It was like a mental ticker tape, all that self-doubt, all that shame…

Evil witch.

You’re not good enough to be here.  

They will never love you.  

NO ONE can ever love you.  

The thought that that was true, that without Henry, no one would ever love her.  Regina felt as though her chest were caving in, struggling to breathe through the tears that were threatening to fall.  She had to get out of the ballroom.  

The party goers were too caught up in the revelry to notice that she had slipped out into the terrace garden and the open air.  No one would notice she was gone anyways.  Really, who would miss her in all this chaos.  

This courtyard had once been a thing of beauty.  Hers. The one place in the entire palace that had truly been hers throughout all her years here.  Her apple tree was back in the centre of the courtyard, still as beautiful and well cared for as the day she had transplanted it here. She sat on the edge of the planter box and placed a hand to her chest and closed her eyes, willing herself to take in the calm and serenity of the night around her.  By the time the song lilting from the ballroom had changed to ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ (or something that sounded suspiciously like it), Regina was beginning to feel somewhat steadier within herself.  

“Ahem.”

A slight clearing of the throat came from before her, a very masculine sound surrounded by a scent of balsam firs and pine and dirty…  All sense of composure was momentarily lost in the thrill that she found herself looking up into the eyes of Robin Hood, her lips parted slightly in a soft oh. She loved the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, those little crow’s feet that showed how well he had laughed and smiled over time.  The scruff of his beard along his jawline, the dimples when he smiled like he was smiling at her now, the touch of his hand on hers.

“You still owe me a drink, your majesty.”

In his outstretched hand was a goblet matching his own, a rich ruby nectar colouring the glass.  She took the proffered glass with a nod of the head and took a sip.  The sweetness flowed across her tongue and she wondered just what it would be like to taste it from his lips.  Just what flavours would be brought out of the wine when mixed with his skin.

“I didn’t know thieves drank fine wine.”

“I didn’t know that queens don’t really enjoy a good ball.  See, you learn something new every day, your highness.”

A moment of silence passed between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.  In fact, Regina was feeling steadier just by knowing that Robin was standing before her.  She got to her feet and turned to the apple tree, gesturing with her free hand to the nearest branch.  

“I bet you didn’t know that some queens are much more comfortable in the confines of their garden than in a room full of revelers.”

She could hear the two steps he took so that they were standing a hairsbreadth apart, feel the heat of his body as he drew in slow and steady breaths.  The rumble of his chest as he chuckled at her comment.  The scent of the forest…

“A room full of revelers that miss you, but then, I don’t think you’re quite like any queen I have ever met.”

“They don’t miss me, that group, they probably haven’t even noticed that I’m gone.”

“I noticed you were gone.  There was something… missing in the room, a brightness that had gone dark without you in it Regina,” Robin’s spoke her name with reverence.  It was like a heavenly prayer coming from his lips, not the curse she was so accustomed to hearing from others.  She chanced turning to face him, even though if he were insincere she couldn’t bear to see it in his eyes.  

The air between them heavy with promise. Regina dared to gaze up at him, eyes veiled by her lashes, and saw the same attraction staring back at her.  It sent a shiver down her spine and warmed her through and through.  

“Thank you, by the way, for the drink. I couldn’t stand another minute inside that room, I – I had to get out,” she let the truth come out, almost in a rush. This man made her feel so much and dared her to be her vulnerable self just by standing here.  She rose to the challenge because she knew that living that whole-hearted life was what she was supposed to do, and it felt right when she was with him.  

She wanted to lean forward and kiss him.  The space between their lips closing at a snail’s pace, both hesitantly leaning in to take from each other the comfort of a kiss.  Her hand came up to cup his cheek, his free hand curled about her waist and pulled her body closer until they could have been one flesh. Just as their lips were about to touch the wind whipped through the courtyard and the sound of wings flapping and apes chittering filled the air.  

“You have got to be kidding me!” Regina released all the frustration she could verbally as they pulled apart to see what was in store.  

They took off for the doors to the palace at a run, all thoughts of what had almost happened vanishing in the trail of dust formed by the legion of flying monkeys overhead.

 “Snow! Charming!  They’re coming!”

Regina found them by the Christmas Carolers, a gasp of fear coursing through the room.  The denizens of the Enchanted Forest were used to evil sorceresses trying to attack, but they certainly weren’t used to a witch with green skin who had a penchant for chimpanzees with wings.  This would be a new experience for them all, despite how many of them they had seen on the walk towards the castle.

Cackling laughter sounded overhead sounding out the arrival of their enemy.  Everyone that would be standing in the defense of the palace had taken their places at the cue of David and Robin’s gestures. Regina stood ready with a fireball in her hand, prepared to defend this castle or die trying.  

Arrows were flying from both Snow and Robin’s bows at the incoming torrent of simians. Those that were making in through the splay were batted out of the air by dwarves or Princes of various realms with swords and staffs.  They kept coming, driving at them from every front.  

Regina wasn’t sure just where the witch was going to appear, but she knew that she would be coming for her.  This was a personal vendetta, one of blood, that Zelena seemed determined to settle with blood shed.  She would be coming for her, and Regina wasn’t sure that she could handle the attack all alone.  

“Come on Zelena!  Stop hiding behind your circus monkeys and let’s settle this like grown-ups!”

It was like calling out into a hurricane, her voice dying on the wind and in the din of battle cries.  

“Do you really think we can settle this any other way?”

The voice was behind her, in front of her… Surrounding her.  For a heart stopping moment, Regina was afraid, but she wasn’t going to let that show in her actions.  Bravado had won her countless wars, she didn’t see where that was going to end just because the enemy was her own flesh and blood.

“You don’t want to go another round with my fireballs, I get it.  Let’s talk this out then.  There’s got to be a way!”

When she descended upon her like a cyclone in the air on her broom, Regina didn’t know if she could get a good shot in.  The wind kicked up and spiraled around her, sucking the life from the flames in her hands, sucking the power out of her.  The last thing she expected was what happened – Tinkerbell and the Blue Fairy throwing themselves between them and erecting a protective shield around her.  When her attacks were volleyed off the shield, Zelena turned her attention on to the gathered crowd, the children and the elderly who were not taking part in the battle themselves.  Regina could not let that stand.  

“Fairies can one of you walk with me, to the foyer, to set something in motion to protect the innocents?”

“Blue, I can keep her protected.  You do what you can here to help,” Tinkerbell put in as she and Regina hurried out to the Nutcracker soldiers in the hall.  

Regina had set this spell in motion a long time before, weaving the magic into the carpeting, the garlands, the very essence of the palace itself.  It had been a grand undertaking, but nothing that was in this palace could be harmed while the Nutcrackers stood to protect it. She wondered wryly if Tchaikovsky had had a similar experience in another realm.

The soldiers came to life, marching into the ballroom and fighting back against Zelena and everything that she could throw at them.  Tinkerbell had fortified them, making them impervious to all but actual physical attacks.  No fire or magic could take these brave men down.  

“Give it up, Zelena!  Your monkeys are failing – and my troops can’t lose!”  

There was an agonizing moment where a storm seemed to be brewing behind that green façade. Regina didn’t want to be anywhere near when that storm broke, but she would take comfort in the look of defeat that flashed in her wicked sister’s eyes.

“This isn’t over!  You haven’t seen the last of me!”

Zelena was back on her broom and up into the night sky within seconds, those simians that remained alive following quickly after her.  A cheer went up throughout the room, and as she took a deep breath in and let the fireball extinguish in her palm, Regina felt a warmth of welcome that she had never felt before surrounded by the heroes.  She was one of them, and it felt good.

People were hugging all around her.  Families finding each other, holding on to each other tightly and it was in the moment that Regina truly felt alone.  She had forgotten how truly alone she was in this land and her shoulders sagged in response.

“R’gina!”

A small voice cried out her name, or some facsimile thereof, and she felt a collision with her legs as the small body of Roland careened in to her skirts.  Thank heavens for small miracles, she bent down to the boy and scooped him up into her arms, hugging him tightly and checking for any cuts, scrapes or bruises in the process.

“Oh, Roland!  Are you okay? Did she hurt you?”

“I’m ok R’gina, but I was worried about you!”

He buried his head in the crook of her neck and Regina thought she might melt from the sweetness of this little boy in her arms.  She leaned her cheek against his curls and closed her eyes.  This was good, this was right… This was home.

“Regina! Roland!  You’re alright!”

The relief in Robin’s voice as he came running to them, the feel of his arm as it slipped around her waist, the touch of his forehead to hers all told her that this was right.  She was on the right path.  The touch of his lips later in the darkness told her even more.  

Regina rolls her eyes. Not the first time she’s heard that. “Lots of things will kill you,” she reasons after blowing a plume of smoke away to the side. “And I only smoke in Paris.”

“How cliché of you,” he teases, reaching for her free hand and weaving their fingers. He’s put on gloves; it’s chilly, but her hands are bare, so she lets him cocoon one in the warmth of his. There’s a clutch of butterflies in her chest for which she mentally berates herself. She’s not a schoolgirl.

Get a grip, Mills.

She clears her throat slightly, takes another quick drag, and tells him on the exhale, “I smoked when I was studying abroad here. Started here, and quit not long after I got back to the States.  It’s not Paris without a pack of menthols.”

He snorts. “Not even Gauloises? How terribly un-French,” and she finds her mouth twitching into another smirk.

“I was twenty; give me a break.”

“Oh, alright,” he relents dramatically, his thumb rubbing along the knuckle of her index finger in lazy passes, pace easy as they make their way through the gardens. She wonders if he’s taking her anywhere particular – she hadn’t asked. He’d said dinner, she’d said yes, and then off they’d gone. Spontaneity has been serving her well so far, after all. Why give it up now? “I suppose we all had a few ill-advised ideas in our university years.”

“Mm, and what were yours?”

“Wiser than menthols,” he taunts her; there’s light enough left to see his dimples flash. But then he sucks in a lungful of cool air, breathes it out and confesses, “I chose the safe path that was expected of me, instead of the one that called to me.”

Her heart twists, squeezes like it’s wrapped in a fist as his words hit home. “Yeah, I’ve done that,” she murmurs almost to herself, adding, “I’d take the cancer sticks any day,” before drawing the cigarette to her lips for another pull.

“Touché.” His grip tightens for a moment, relaxing again. “What would you have done, then? If you’d chosen your own path.”

“I’d have stayed.” Her words are soft, but not quiet, tinged with sadness and regret, grief and heartbreak. “Here in Paris. I’d have stayed, and married a particular man, gotten a masters, a doctorate, a teaching post or maybe a curatorial position...“

“Sounds perfectly respectable,” he reasons, and that’s what’s always burned her, of course. It was a perfectly respectable life plan. To most people.

She drips with bitterness she cannot swallow even after all these years, as she replies, “And yet.”

“Not so, in the eyes of a parent?” he guesses, correctly.

“My mother,” Regina explains. “She always valued influence. Practicality. Art was… frivolous. Why would you want to teach a bunch of co-eds about some old drawings when you could walk a city block and know it’s there because you said it should be. To be honest, she wasn’t thrilled with city planning, either, but…” Wool-clad shoulders lift and fall. “It was a compromise.”

“It sounds interesting, at least. Challenging. I’d imagine most of us don’t give much thought toward what goes into making a successful city.”

It’s true. Urban planning is something the average person definitely takes for granted – but that’s fine. That’s as it ought to be. Means she’s doing her job, right, she supposes.

“You’re not wrong. And it could be worse. I don’t hate it, I’m just...”

“Burned out,” he finishes for her, and Regina nods.

“I haven’t taken a break in…” She’s not sure. Ages. Months. Not since Daddy’s funeral, she thinks, and that was last fall. More than a year. “Too long.”

“Until now.”

Her head bobs slowly, as she echoes, “Until now.”

Regina flicks ash off the end of her cigarette, her fingertips icy enough to make her consider abandoning it before it’s spent. It’s cold enough to have snowed today, can’t be above thirty, and there’s the occasional gust of wind like the one that just chapped against her cheeks and slithered between neck and scarf to coax a shiver through her. She’s glad for the knit cap on her head, for the stylish-but-warm boots keeping her toes toasty, for the warmth of his hand enveloping her own. For the way he steps just a bit closer, his arm pressing against hers now as they walk.

She probably should have brought something heavier than the peacoat. But she’ll manage; it’s not that cold. And the company is good. The conversation, too.

In that vein, she continues, “What about you? What did you do, before this?”

“I was a lawyer.”

Well, that’s not at all what she would have guessed. Regina gives him a look of mild incredulity.

“A lawyer?”

“Yes.” Those dimples are taunting her again.

“So you went to university,” she clarifies, and he Mmhmms, “and then law school...” His grin widens as he confirms, Yes. “And then said screw it all, I’m moving to Paris to draw tourists in museums.”

His smile dims a shade at that, head shaking as he frowns slightly and corrects, “Moving to Paris to draw beautiful things. And paint, and…” He trails off, licking his lips (she wants to do that, she thinks, and then she tells herself to rein in her hormones and takes another drag on her cigarette). “I was a criminal defense attorney. Like my father before him, and his before that. It was simply what was done as a Loc--” He stops suddenly, clears his throat, then continues pointedly, “In my family.”

Regina grins, warns, “Careful,” before she takes a last drag on her cigarette and stubs it out.

“I caught it,” he assures, eyes dancing with humor as he lifts their joined hands to his lips for a brief kiss. He lets them drop again, lets hers go completely so she can fish her own gloves from her purse as he adds, “Our anonymity is safe,” and then continues with his tale. “My mum passed when I was young, Dad right before I took my bar exams.” She murmurs a sympathetic apology, reaching for his hand again, then, both for the return of his warmth and the hope of any comfort in hers. “It was a long while ago, now.”

“Still hurts,” she says softly, and he looks at her, really looks at her for a moment, and sees without words what she’s saying: Me, too. Mine are gone, too. He nods in acknowledgement, gives her a sad little smile, one that she returns.

“It does,” he agrees, the moment holding for another breath, and then breaking as he inhales and continues, “Anyway, I had a job all lined up at my father’s firm. And I took it, of course. Continued the family legacy, and all that. So for the next few years, I spent all day in the ugly things. Murder, and extortion, and the like. It was… soul-crushing. Focusing every day on the worst things that people can do to each other. I needed a break, and so I took one. Came here, for that week. After that, it never felt right - sitting at a desk, or working late nights in a conference room, standing in a courtroom and trying to mask the ugliness of a person so that the world wouldn’t see. I hated it.”

“So you left.”

“I did.”

Her shoulder brushes his, not entirely accidentally, and he bumps back against her almost immediately, lips pulling into a smirk. So much for being subtle, she thinks.

But she might as well go with it now, so she moves a half-step closer, until her arm rubs against his with every step, biting the bottom edge of a smile for a moment before she says, “To show the world beautiful things. Like dissatisfied city planners with hat hair.”

He laughs at her, his smile wide (he has nice teeth, she thinks, and then she wonders who thinks that about someone? Her, apparently...).

“Exactly,” he chuckles, leaning in toward her to add, “Although I find your hair quite fetching.”

“It looks better when it hasn’t been snowed on,” she insists, another gust of wind whipping at them and making her reach for the lapels of her coat, tipping them up around her scarf, tugging it closed more tightly at the neck.

He frowns, then, declaring, “You’re cold.”

“I’m fine,” she dismisses. “It’s just the wind.”

Still, he’s undeterred, using their joined hands to draw her in until she’s pressed against his side, then wrapping an arm around her shoulders. It frees her hands to tuck into her pockets - her cozy, body-warmed, fleece-lined pockets. Which means that she is, yes, considerably warmer, especially when his hand rubs up and down her shoulder a few times before settling in place.

She smiles sheepishly at him, murmurs, “Thanks,” and breathes in that warm pine scent of him now that she’s close enough to really get a good whiff again. God, he smells good. She wants to bury her nose in his neck and drown in it. And maybe taste that spot just beneath his ear while she’s at it.

“A lady should never be uncomfortable,” he tells her, like it’s gospel, like it’s bare fact.

They fit well – he’s taller than she is, especially in her flat boots, but not so much taller that she feels like a shrimp. She slots in just right against his side, and they fall into step together, lapsing into meaningless conversation as they walk the last several yards of the Tuileries.

They talk about dinner – not about where, but what. Or rather, what sounds good, in general. He dislikes duck, she discovers, something she considers terribly unfortunate for a man living in a city where he can find such exquisite duck confit; he can’t believe she turns her nose up at strawberries, of all things. They agree on espresso – it should be hot and strong and available from first light to the toll of midnight. And chocolate, although he prefers white, and she dark.

By the time they emerge on la Place de la Concorde, the light is gone, only streetlights and the faint idea of stars above to illuminate their way. She looks up at him in the lamplight as they wait for a traffic light to change, and he glances down to meet her gaze, smiling blithely.

His arm tightens slightly along her back, pulls her in a little closer, and she doesn’t miss the way he breathes in, wets his lips.

Oh.

Oh, yes.

He’s going to kiss her.

And more importantly, she’s going to let him.

Regina presses her lips together for a moment, hopes they’re not too dry, then darts her tongue out to dampen them. He watches, his mouth twitching slightly, and the air grows thick. Charged. Her breath deepens.

Those blue eyes flick away from hers for a moment, and then he rasps, “Light’s changed,” and is stepping toward the crosswalk, Regina stumbling along with him, guided by his arm at her back.

What?

She’d been sure he was about to kiss her, had been positive of it. The moment had been right there, and now they’re scuttling across several lanes of traffic and she is very confused. He wants to kiss her, she’s fairly certain of that. Has suspected for a while – not a hard thing to speculate of a man who spends half an hour drawing you and then God knows how long weaving through tourists and talking about art with you, walking through a twilight park, warming your hands, warming your shoulders.

Is it the cigarette? she wonders, swallowing anxiously. Was Mother right? She tastes like an ashtray, and it’s a turnoff, no matter what he’d said?

Or maybe he just thinks she doesn’t want to be kissed. She knows she can be a bit… frosty. Can sometimes go too far in the sass, and leave people – men – people – thinking she’s not interested.

But he must know she’s interested. She’s spent the whole afternoon with him, is letting him take her to dinner. She’s been flirting in a manner she is fairly certain qualifies as “shamelessly.”

Maybe he just needs a little push. A little permission. It’s not her favorite thing – a hesitant man – and he hasn’t struck her as lacking an assertive streak up until now, but maybe he’s just being overly polite. Considerate. Chivalrous even.

So, as they hit the Champs-Élysées, she steels her own guts, and cranks up the flirting, making her position perfectly clear with, “You can, you know. Kiss me. I don’t mind.”

One side of his mouth curves up for a moment, and then he frowns pleasantly and dismisses, “Nah,” and adds, “I'm waiting. After dinner, perhaps.”

Her brow furrows.

“You’re waiting?”

“Yes.”

Well, that’s… silly.

“May I ask why?”

“Certainly.” His arm falls from her shoulder, grazes against her ass as it rounds back between them and urges her hand from her pocket, grasping it in his again and then letting clasped fingers swinging between them like a pendulum. “You see, once I’ve kissed you, then I’ve kissed you.”

“I...see?”

“Mm.” That pendulum swings up and up, bringing leather-clad fingers to his lips for a kiss much more chaste than the kind she was hoping they’d be sharing right about now. “And while I’m quite certain that I’ll want to keep kissing you, that first kiss will be over. And to be honest, I rather enjoy the anticipation. So for now, I’m quite content to walk with you, and eat with you, and to want very, very badly to kiss you. In fact, I’m going to spend all of dinner wanting to kiss you. And, if I’m lucky, dessert. And then, m’amourette, then I will kiss you, possibly goodnight.”

Oh. Well. Well, that’s… Her cheeks are flushed, and not just from the chill, her palms warm inside her soft-lined gloves. He’s certainly a smooth talker, her charming stranger.

That second-to-last word sticks with her, though, has her brow lifting in question and challenge: “Possibly?”

She catches sight of his dimples in the glow of streetlight as they pass beneath it.

“You did catch the part about how certain I am I’ll want more than one kiss, yes?” he teases, and then she’s smiling, too.

“I did.”

“So that ‘possibly’ depends on you, milady,” he explains, drawing their joined hands behind his back, until she’s looped around his waist, and then he encircles her shoulder in solid warmth again. “And just how many kisses you let me steal from you.”

“Ah.” A lot, she thinks. She’s going to let him steal a lot of them. But in the meantime, “Well, let’s worry about dinner first.”

His chuckle is as warm as his body against hers, makes her warm, too, right through the middle and lower down.

And then he tells her, “Of course.”

§§§

They pick a place on the Champs-Élysée, and she wonders at such a stereotypically touristy locale, instead of some delightful local hole-in-the-wall, but he tells her it’s better for people-watching, and she can’t very well deny that.

The street is festooned in twinkle lights, festive and bustling despite the slickness of the footstep-melted snow coating the sidewalk. She wishes for a moment that it was summer, that they could find somewhere to sit outside and watch the people pass, enjoy the weather. But it’s too cold for that now, so they seek out a place on the street with a good menu, and decent prices, and he requests a seat near the window. It’s as close to outdoors as they can manage, but they needn’t have bothered. They could be tucked away in a quiet corner booth in the back for all the attention they pay to anything outside of their own table.

They order wine - she orders a glass, he suggests a bottle to share instead, and she figures why not? She’s on vacation, and she has a feeling, a very strong feeling, that she’s going to do something ill-advised but very enjoyable before the night is out. No point in staying sensibly sober when she has no desire to be sensible in the first place. And it’s good wine.

Her fingers toy with the smooth glass of the stem, twirling it this way and that as they get into a discussion about what a shame it is she’s not here long enough for them to take in the Musée d’Orsay together, what a shame she’s visiting Christmas week, and they both dance around what he must know as well as she does: the museums are only closed on Christmas Day; they could go in the morning. But dinner is one thing, making plans “for the morning” implies quite another, or at the very least requires commitment to something past the next hour or two, so she doesn’t suggest it, and neither does he.

Somewhere in the midst of a conversation about the museum’s lesser-appreciated works (Degas, at the moment), and whether either of them has actually consumed absinthe (they have, both), his hand makes its way across the table, his fingertip coasting along the edge of hers. It’s a miniscule touch, a tiny thing, but she feels it immensely, the slow, teasing tickle. It’s enough to coax her hand open to the tabletop, his fingers following the blooming descent before linking loosely with hers. They’re restless, or rather, simply not still, toying with her fingertips, stroking with deceptive nonchalance between her knuckles while they talk. But it’s not accidental, she doesn’t think it can be. He likes the anticipation, after all, and as light as it is, the touch is stirring, arousing.

Distracting.

She’s not sure how she manages to follow the conversation when he swirls a figure-eight across her palm with his index finger, telling her something about the delectable use of light in Starry Night Over the Rhone.

“I’ve always preferred it to The Starry Night,” she admits. “But maybe that’s because you see that one so much more often.”

“Mm,” he agrees into his wine, anointing her palm with a cross. “Familiarity breeds boredom.”

Ain’t that the truth, she thinks.

So much in her life has become familiar, routine, and while it’s a comfort sometimes, it’s also… stagnant. Which is why she’s here. In Paris. Shaking up the snow globe, as it were. She hadn’t planned for her Parisian reset to involve a gorgeous man, to involve even the possibility of taking a lover, but the idea is sounding more and more appealing the longer she sits here, endlessly stimulated – both intellectually and otherwise.

“In life, as in art,” she murmurs, and he lets out a single, soft chuckle. A sort of agreeable hmph, and traces the fleshy part of her palm, just beneath her thumb.

“And are you bored, milady?” he questions, tilting his head slightly, blue eyes narrowing.

Regina smiles, and answers back, “Not just now.”

§§§

Regina means to sip slowly, but somehow she’s downed most of her first glass of wine by the time the waiter comes to take their dinner orders. She orders duck, just to spite him (because she has a weakness for duck confit), and stops him from ordering mussels with a grimacing confession that she’s allergic. He switches to lamb, and then they’re left alone. Just them, and the wine, and the sexual tension.

The conversation shifts to allergies, to the sadness of living in New England and being unable to partake of crab cakes, or lobster rolls, or clam chowder. He’s allergic to bees, and welts up like a golf-ball any time he falls prey to a mosquito. She suffers with ragweed and mold.

And all the while, his fingers trace the map of her hand, her own twitching beneath him from time to time, until finally dragging themselves to lazy life, her thumb strolling the length of his, short nails scraping gently over his wrist as it passes. She manages to draw a shiver out of him with that last one, and grins, oddly triumphant, as she watches the little ripple trace through him.

He’s unashamed, unapologetic, his expression softening as he studies her face for a moment, before murmuring, “You are so beautiful. Truly. I could look at you for days.”

It would be cheesy if it wasn’t so sincere; as it is, it’s just… hot. Flattering. Bolstering.

Her first thought is a terribly inappropriate, Would you like to?, but she doesn’t lend voice to it for obvious reasons. Instead she draws her hand back almost reluctantly, and offers a quiet, “Thank you,” as she reaches for the wine. “If you weren’t so attractive, that might be a little creepy,” she adds, unable to tamp down the urge to tease.

He flashes her those dimples again, and says, “Then I should thank my father – God rest his soul – for my good looks.”

Her brows lift.

“But not, clearly, your modesty.”

He laughs softly. “I’ve not had much cause for that in a long while, no, I suppose you’re right. Besides, I rather enjoy flirting with you, and while subtlety has its place in flirtation, I find candor and boldness to be much more pleasant in the end.”

“Well, then I’m surprised you didn’t say you wanted to peruse L’Origine du Monde,” she shoots back, pleased at the rumbling laugh that the comment draws immediately. His dimples deepen, head shaking back and forth as he grins.

“You really are delightful,” he tells her. “Bold, and audacious. Quite a woman, milady.”

Blood flushes pleasantly into her cheeks, and she thanks heaven for dim lighting so he cannot see how much the compliment thrills her. She lifts her glass in a little toast, and volleys, “And you’ve only known me for an afternoon.”

“Best afternoon I’ve had all year,” he swears to her, and it’s a surprise to realize that she agrees. After months of monotony, she feels finally like she’s come alive. A part of her long-dormant, long-private – the quiet-Saturday-afternoons-at-the-MFA part of her – has awoken and stretched cramped limbs, muscles vibrating with the need to run full-tilt toward a rare equal. She has the distinct feeling that when she leaves this man, that precious, yearning part of her will want to curl back up and lie in wait again, so she feels the urge to make this as memorable as possible.

She wants to walk into the European Paintings wing a month from now, a year, or more, wants to stand in front of Renoir’s Dance at Bougival and imagine that bearded man is this one. Wants to remember the taste of his kiss, and the pressure of his hands, the soft rasp of his beard against her neck.

She wants to take him to bed. It’s reckless and foolish and not at all something she does – sleeping with men whose names she doesn’t know, whose names she flat-out refuses to know; men who will not be in her life more than a few days, if even that; men who openly pursue her and God knows who else – but tonight she wants to be a lover in Paris.

Nothing more, nothing less.

A woman, enamoured with a man, who is enamoured with her.

She wants to spread herself out like the Odalisque, and let him bask in her just the way she intends to bask in him.

She is done saying no. For the rest of the night, her answer is yes.

Decision made.

Of course, as much as they both appreciate bluntness, there’s something to be said for playing it coy. For making him work for it, even though he has already won. For flirtation.

So Regina says nothing about her newly arrived decision, simply tells him, “After dinner, let’s get dessert somewhere else. Walk a little more. Make the afternoon into an evening.”

He’d had his wine halfway to his lips again, hesitates for just a moment, long enough for her to wonder if he’s realized her intentions after all, but the smile he gives her is more pleased than lustful.

“I think that’s a fine plan, m’amourette,” he says, before lifting his wine the rest of the way.

His little fling, she translates to herself.

§§§

By eight o'clock the time difference has her head feeling like it's been stuffed with cotton balls instead of grey matter, and her eyes are so tired they hurt. It's late enough, she decides, returning to her hotel on legs that are numb from a day spent walking mostly outdoors. Her fingers are stiff and cold, aching as she uncurls them from around the strap of her purse to fish out her room key.

She takes a long, hot shower, letting the water warm her to her core and then crawls into bed and sleeps clear through until noon the next day.

§§§

She's been in Paris two whole days before she meets him.

It's December twenty-third, just after midday, and she is hugging the wall in a very crowded room of the Denon wing, her day dedicated to a slow and leisurely survey of the Louvre. The others in the room are not so slow, not so leisurely. They're all packed in around a half-circle rail, murmuring excitedly about the painting on the far wall.

The Mona Lisa.

What is it about this one painting, she wonders, that makes so many people jockey for space just to get close to it, just to see it, just to snap a picture? It's a masterpiece – of course it is. But the Louvre is full of masterpieces. Stunning paintings. Exquisite sculpture. Yes, La Joconde is a singular piece, but Regina rather thinks the whole world has been duped. They throw adoration at this one small rectangle of oil paint on panel, as if it is imbued with some sort of magic, while practically ignoring the Rubens and Degas and Renoirs. Hell, she'd wager most of the people in this room won't even bother to spare a third glance to Leonardo's Virgin on the Rocks, but this painting, oh, they go nuts for this one.

And why?

People are so odd. So easily swayed. Sheep.

Still, they make for good entertainment, and she's been on her feet for an awfully long time today. She stretches her ankle, rolls her neck, and watches as a mother snaps a photo of her incredibly bored looking teenage son and overly excited elementary-aged daughter, the crowd behind them, and no doubt some corner or edge of the Mona Lisa visible somewhere in the shot.

We were here! Like they're standing in front of the pyramids, and not a single painting among thousands.

"Vous ne voulez pas la regarder de plus près?"

The voice is warm and smooth, teasing. And decidedly not French. The accent is all wrong. Good pronunciation, but there's a… something, a je ne sais quoi to native French that is hard to master, even if you've lived among it for a while. So not French, but fluent. Maybe English?

She looks to her right, toward the source, and her heart knocks twice. He's gorgeous. Could melt into some mix of paint and canvas on any of these walls, and nobody would think him out of place. Light brown hair a little disheveled, with a short beard and deep dimples showing around his curious smirk. And those eyes. So blue, and teasing, and friendly.

If someone is going to disturb her people-watching to chat her up in the Louvre, she's glad he's at least a good-looking someone.

"Non," she replies. "Ce n'est pas ma première visite au Louvre. Et je parle anglais."

His smirk widens into a grin, and those dimples sink deeper into his cheeks. "And French," he notes, his accent now distinctly English. So she was right about that, at least.

"Well enough," she replies with a shrug, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She's not usually this easy to charm, something she's always prided herself on, so she tries not to give in to the curving of lips too easily. She drops her voice and leans in conspiratorially, telling him, "I think she's overrated."

He chuckles, this stranger, and mutters back, "Don't let that lot hear you."

"That lot couldn't tell a David from a Delacroix," she counters, glancing back over at the throngs of people, and declaring confidently, "I could take 'em."

"Beautiful, witty, and intelligent," he sighs. "How fortunate for me."

Regina rolls her eyes, but she hasn't yet managed to tamp down that smile.

"So tell me…" He leads off purposefully, like he's waiting for her to finish his sentence. Her name, she realizes, as she spares him a glance to find him hovering expectantly at the end of his sentence.

"Oh, I'm not that easy," she warns teasingly. "Finish your sentence."

He's chuckling again at that, not at all bothered by her refusal to give up her name. There's power in names, she knows, and what would be the point, anyway? She's in Paris for three more days, and he'll never be more than some man who flirted with her in the Louvre. Why not keep an air of mystery? Besides, what if his name is terrible? What if he's Larry the Louvre Guy for the rest of her life? No, she thinks she'd rather not know.

"Alright, then. So tell me, milady…" (Regina snorts. That'll do, she supposes.) "Why would a woman so unenthused by the Mona Lisa spend half an hour in this godforsaken room with her and her admirers?"

"Maybe I like the Veronese," Regina challenges, tilting her head toward the massive painting nearby, Veronese's Wedding Feast at Cana.

"Well, who wouldn't?" he agrees, turning to look at it properly, his back to her for a moment. "It's massive."

It dominates the wall nearby, easily double both their heights, and yet everyone is still funneling toward the other side of the room. Largest painting in the Louvre at their backs, but the Mona Lisa is the one they can't miss. Regina turns pointedly toward the Veronese, snubs La Joconde in its favor (it has nothing to do with standing shoulder to shoulder with her charming stranger).

When they're side-by-side again, he says, "Of course, you've not spared a glance for it until now. So I think perhaps you're lying to me, milady."

Regina purses her lips to keep from smiling. Caught.

"I like people-watching," she admits. "They're always more interesting when they think nobody's looking."

But, wait.

Her brow furrows; her head turns away from Jesus' miracle and toward the wonder of God's creation standing beside her.

"How do you know how long I've been in this room?"

His smile had faded into an expression of contemplative serenity, his attention on the massive painting before them although she'd had no doubt he was listening to her. But now, he smiles, and shifts the sketchbook in his arms, tipping it down and toward her.

She hadn't even noticed he'd been holding it all this time, too caught up in blue eyes and dimples and fluent, wrong-accented French.

But she notices now, her mouth dropping open slightly at the image on the paper in front of her. It's a pencil sketch, lines drawn in graphite with a practiced hand. And it's her. Hair curling at her shoulders (it had been snowing when she made her way here, and the flakes had stuck in her hair, dampening it and bringing out some of its natural wave), lips slightly pouted, arms crossed over a torso that disappears into nothing.

"You're not the only one who likes to observe," he tells her quietly, and though there's a levity to his voice, there's an underlying tension that wasn't there before. And why wouldn't there be, she supposes. He's just shown her his work; no matter who you are, that takes a certain amount of guts.

"You're an artist," she says needlessly, one hand rising to ghost against the edge of the paper, smooth and cool under her fingertips.

"Of sorts," he confirms, and she tilts her head a little to one side, lets her hand slip off the book and drop down to hook into her coat pocket.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she questions with a narrowing of her eyes. "You drew this; it's…" She breathes in, and out, gaze skimming her own rendered form again before finishing with, "Excellent. I'd say that makes you an artist. And I don't give out compliments lightly, so don't downplay it. Humility is only so attractive."

He laughs again, softly – so good-natured, this man. "Well, then, thank you, milady. I simply meant it can be difficult to see oneself as an artist when one spends his day begging passersby to let him sketch them for a few euros."

"Ah, you're one of those," she teases, brows lifting and falling appraisingly.

"For now," he shrugs, his lips pressing together in an odd combination of smirk and frown. "Hopefully not forever." He waggles the book in his grasp, offering, "And this is yours, if you want it."

Regina narrows her eyes, just cynical enough to doubt anything offered to her for free – especially from a Paris street artist. Still, she makes sure she sounds as teasing as she does skeptical when she asks, "What's the price, Rembrandt?"

"No price," he assures, but then his brow pinches just a little, his head jinking slightly to the side. "On second thought… Walk with me a while?"

One dark brow arches. "That's your price?"

"That's my price," he nods, shifting his hold on the sketchbook. "To be honest, the sketch was mostly just an excuse to talk to you."

"You spent half an hour coming up with an excuse to talk to me instead of just walking up and flashing those dimples?"

He grins, shrugs. "I've been told one's chances of success in life are greatly enhanced by visual aids." Regina scoffs. Ridiculous. "Also, you're stunning. I didn't mind the wait."

He says it with a disarming sort of honesty, one that knocks the sardonic smirk right off her face. And then, he offers his arm, and another of those bone-melting smiles.

"Now, milady. Show me something better than the Mona Lisa."

§§§

She doesn't have to lead him far. They skirt the edges of the room, worm their way up closer to the lady herself, until they're standing in front of another portrait. Titian's Man with a Glove, a portrait of a young man with one hand gloved, one bare. The dark background brings face, and hands, and shirtfront to stark attention. The man is handsome, and handsomely painted. No secret smile for him, just a look of intensity.

"Ah, the Titian."

She bobs her head, waiting until he steps in closer to her, just a little bit behind, his chest scant inches from her shoulder (she can smell his cologne, something woodsy and clean and masculine), then turns her head toward him to be heard as she says, "Cleaner lines, a sense of light and shadow that precurses Caravaggian-level chiaroscuro, and no busy background to draw your eye from the figure. The subject is enough; no need for extra noise. This is right here, a brilliant example of portraiture done right, and everyone in this room is obsessed with the other one."

He lets out an appreciative little groan, his knuckles brushing her back as he lifts a hand to his chest as if wounded (it's a ghost of a touch through layers of wool and cashmere, but her skin prickles with goosebumps nonetheless). "Not so much bedroom talk, milady, my heart can't take it."

He gets another eye roll for that one, but she's given up on fighting the smile. It's more fun to flirt, especially now that she's found someone she suspects has a decent IQ with which to do so. And a working knowledge of art history.

He shifts his attention from her to the painting, and she does the same, both of them taking a moment in the hubbub of the room to observe quietly.

After a few seconds of silence – from them at least – he tells her, "If we're going for Titian, I'm rather partial to Bacchus and Ariadne. Every single person in that painting looks like they're throwing shade."

Her laugh is sudden and loud, and thankfully short. He's not wrong about that one… She manages to tamp herself down to a snicker (not that her outburst would even draw an eye in this room), turning to look at him again and watching his face shift from anticipatory amusement to a sort of slack-jawed awe that smacks an awful lot of the way she'd looked at his portrait of her, she thinks.

It's over in a blink, and then he shakes his head and murmurs as though it's a revelation, "You have the loveliest smile."

Regina presses her lips together self-consciously, the opposite effect his words probably should have, but she feels suddenly naked, exposed. One hand lifts to tuck her hair behind her ear, and she thinks inexplicably of kissing him. Wonders for one, insane moment what his mouth would taste like against hers.

She swallows heavily, pushes back at the thought. They've known each other, what? Five minutes? She doesn't even know his name.

And then he's jerking his head toward the doorway and urging, "Come on, let's escape the chaos."

§§§

They wander. All over the place. Meandering through the first floor painting galleries, and making small talk as they go. He's an art student, has lived in Paris for the last fourteen months, and he comes here to the Louvre, now and then (to the other museums as well) to study people, and art. To sketch the statues and the tourists.

Regina tells him that she was overworked and overtired, that her little Parisian holiday was meant to de-stress and de-compress.

"Has it done so?" he asks, as they turn a corner, from Italian Baroque toward 19th century French, already having taken a spin through the Murillo room.

"So far." She adjusts her purse on her shoulder, wishing she'd have checked it, or left it at the hotel. But she hadn't had the fortitude to brave the Louvre's coat room during holiday season, so she'll suffer through the tugging weight, switching it to her other shoulder for a while in an attempt to balance out the misery. Her stranger watches her, presses his lips together for a moment but says nothing. "I've slept, and shopped, eaten good food and had some excellent French wine."

"Sounds like a happy Christmas, then, if perhaps a lonely one."

"I'm not lonely right now." She's not sure what made her say it – she hasn't felt lonely since she stepped off the plane – but it's out there now, and she just hopes it doesn't make her sound like a desperate idiot.

But it must not, because he flashes her those dimples again, shallow this time, a small, pleased sort of smile, and nods his head.

"Good. I suppose we'll have to see to it that you stay that way."

They spend twenty minutes standing in front of The Raft of the Medusa, murmuring in museum-appropriate tones about the use of light and shadow and color, the emotions it evokes, the magnitude of it. She'd done her thesis on this piece, and so she gushes, cannot help herself, gives him half a lecture on the historical significance of the piece, its influence throughout the subsequent generation of French art, the actual shipwreck itself.

When she realizes he's been silent for five whole minutes while she prattles on, she stutters out, flushes with embarrassment as much as excitement and shakes her head, offers up a self-deprecating apology for her motormouth.

But he shakes head, insists no apology is necessary. And then he asks questions, and he gives opinions, and he listens with genuine interest. This man does not for a moment look bored, or frightened, or like he thinks perhaps he has bitten off more than he can chew. Not the least bit intimidated by her knowledge, her competence. (What a refreshing change.)

Instead he looks at her like… like she's the ocean and he's hoping to drown.

No, not like that. Nothing as romantic or sappy as that. But like she's fascinating, like she's interesting, like his attraction to her (clear as day even without knowing that he'd spent half an hour drawing her) is as much about her mind as whatever he sees beneath her wool peacoat and cashmere scarf and less-than-perfect hair.

Is he for real?

The thought that eventually they will part ways – that he will go to his home, and she to her hotel, and that will be that – lingers in the back of her mind, a painful itch that she tries to leave alone, tries not to scratch at with her consciousness because scratching only ever makes it worse.

So she delays, abandons the Medusa after more than a reasonable amount of discussion, but stops again in front of Ingres' La Grande Odalisque.

He tilts his head to and fro, then leans in and whispers, "Is it just me, or is her arse in her knees?"

Regina snickers, her nose wrinkling, teeth catching her lower lip for moment before she taunts, "Now who's throwing shade?"

He laughs, and shrugs, then mock-confesses, "Professional jealousy, I suppose. Although perhaps unwarranted. Ingres wasn't terribly well-received for much of his career, was he?"

It's not a question, more a statement of fact – and a correct one, at that – but she appreciates that he accepts she'll know that as well he as does.

"He wasn't. And this," Regina juts her chin toward the nude before them, "Was never paid for. And you're not wrong, her spine really is about six inches too long."

"And yet here she hangs, in the Louvre," he sighs, then he aims another smile her way and teases, "Perhaps one day you will, too. La Grande Touriste."

Regina wrinkles her nose at the title, balking at the label of tourist, even though she knows full well she is now. After all these years, she can't really claim Paris as her own.

"The Scholar in Contemplation, then?" he tries again, and that's better.

Much, much better.

They stick with the French paintings, making their way upstairs to the rest of the collection, and she tells him art history was a passion and a compromise – she was only allowed to study it under the guise of architecture, and eventually urban planning, but the buildings had never been her favorite. She appreciates them well enough, and can rattle off all the facts and trivia, but she'd fallen hard for the paintings, the sculpture, the sense of time, and gravity, and evolution.

He'd found himself thirty and unfulfilled, uninspired. Had come to Paris to spend a week in a remedial art intensive (he'd always sketched, always doodled in the margins, but had never taken it seriously) and had finally felt that spark again. It had taken a while longer for him to uproot and immerse himself, but he'd done it, finally.

Regina is suddenly, terribly jealous of Larry the Louvre Guy (she should never have thought that; now it's going to stick), a burning envy searing her lungs, stealing her voice as they walk.

If he notices her silence (and he must, for he's an observer, too), he doesn't say anything. They walk an entire room without speaking, until he stops in front of Regnault's Three Graces, with their sumptuous curves, their soft edges. Regina thinks they're… peaceful. Soothing. She traces thighs and knees and toes, the highlight of a shoulder and the shadow of a hip. Breathes out her envy for her mystery man's freedom, and inhales a breath to continue their flirtation anew.

"Brought to a halt by the naked ladies, huh?" she teases, and he chuckles (oh, how she likes when he does that).

"They are a favorite of mine," he retorts, unclear whether he means naked ladies in general or these three in particular. Regina imagines the answer is probably both.

"They are beautiful," she agrees.

"Exquisite," he corrects, his gaze moving over the painting in a lazy perusal not unlike the kind she's caught him giving her now and again.

"Does this mean you're an ass man?"

It's a bold taunt, especially for a man she's just met, but she can't resist it. Right there in the center is a perfectly rendered rear end, after all.

He doesn't miss a beat, turns to her with mischief in his eyes and lobs back, "Why do you think I'm talking to you?"

Regina's brows shoot up to her hairline for a brief second, and she reassesses her definition of "bold."

"Too much?" he questions with a grimace.

Regina dismisses good concerns with an easy, "No, no…" Turning her attention back to the painting as she adds, "I do have a great ass." Because why should he be the only shameless flirt in the room.

It earns her another of those toe-curling laughs of his, and a murmured, "Oh, I like you. Nothing like a woman with a healthy dose of self-confidence."

She squints at the painting, scowling in concentration to keep from smiling. Her cheeks are starting to ache.

He's not wrong about the confidence, and yet, he is. She knows she's beautiful, has been told time and again (has been told by one coworker in particular that she has "an ass that won't quit"), but she doesn't always feel it. She looks in the mirror and sees every scar, and freckle, every fine wrinkle. But confidence is attractive, and relatively easy to fake. She's gotten good at saying all the right things. At burying insecurity under bluster.

What does he see when he looks at her?, she wonders.

He'd probably tell her – his candor seems endless. But she doesn't ask.

She comments on the graces instead.

"The breasts look a little… pasted on, though. But I suppose you can't have everything."

His curiosity is all mock-sincerity when he asks, "You mean that's not what they look like in the flesh?"

Her head swivels to glare playfully at him. "Oh, please. Mr. Charming Art Student with Dimples Who Picks Up Women in Museums by Drawing Them Portraits. Don't play innocent with me. You've seen your fair share of breasts, I'm sure."

He grins. Guilty, but unashamed. "We all had our youths." Then he turns back to the Graces, his body close again. She can smell that cologne, can almost feel the heat of him but that's ridiculous. She can't, not really. There's several inches between them, still. "They could be worse, though. Half of the Italian Renaissance looks like someone slapped a couple of cantaloupes on a flat chest and called them womanly curves."

"Well, what do you expect when all the models were men?"

"Foolish lot if you ask me," he says sagely, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans and letting his shoulders rise and settle. "When God grants you a legitimate excuse to spend all day staring at naked women without feeling like a lech, you thank your stars for the gift and take advantage."

Men.

"Is that what you do, then?" she taunts. "When you're not sketching tourists, that is."

"Not as often as you'd think," he tells her. They're looking at each other now, attention pulled from the artwork for a moment. "The opportunity to draw a woman in all her glory doesn't arise frequently. Not outside of a classroom, anyway."

"Maybe you should spend more time offering unsolicited drawings to unwitting women in museums," she teases, waggling her brows at him, and realizing a moment too late the implication in her words. "Drum up some interest."

"Is that an offer?"

She feels heat up the back of her neck, the apple of her cheeks. That hadn't been what she meant, not really. She laughs softly, shaking her head in dismissal and telling him in no uncertain terms, "No. It was not."

Still, she can't help imagining, for just a moment. Letting him. Her naked, him with a pencil in hand, tracing her curves on paper. She licks her lips unconsciously, and his gaze flicks down, and back up. His eyes are so blue. So blue, and inviting, and the Three Graces stand by, forgotten, as the air between Regina and her charming stranger grows charged, electric. Like the first breath outside after a thunderstorm.

He's biting his lower lip, teeth caught on the bottom of a smile, her rejection tumbling off him like water off a duck's back, and as the tension between them sparks and zings, he says, "Have dinner with me."

Regina blinks, snapping back to her senses, shaking her head a little to clear it.

"What?"

"I'm starving," he says, shrugging nonchalantly. "Let me take you to dinner."

Oh, that's… that may not be a good idea. This is a gossamer moment of frivolous flirtation, a bubble that will pop just as soon as she steps outside the museum, and she knows that, she's alright with that. With this ébauche of a masterpiece that will never be covered over with paint, never be finished. But if she leaves this place with him… Well, then there's no telling what will happen.

"I'm leaving in a few days," she protests weakly, regret coloring her words more than she'd like, but he is undeterred, reaching for her hand, and holding it gently in his.

"I'm not asking about a few days, I'm asking about tonight," he dismisses. "You will have to eat dinner, yes?"

And, well, "Yes…" she will.

"So have it with me. No promises, no expectations. No nude modeling, I promise." He smiles again, and she feels her mouth echo without thought or hesitation. His thumb skims her knuckles, those warm eyes imploring her. "I find I don't want to part ways with you quite yet, milady."

She doesn't either. Not at all. She wants to say yes. But it's foolish, and she's leaving, and… And screw it. She's on vacation. In Paris, alone, to relax, to unplug and unwind, and undo the stifling effects of a nine-to-five job that leaves her all too often with a headache, and a backache, and a deep-soul ache of dissatisfaction. And a beautiful man is asking her to dinner, so screw it. And maybe him, if she's so inclined.

With one caveat.

"No names," she demands, making his brows rise slightly. "Ever. When you have names, you get attached. You go home and you think 'I wonder what Larry is up to these days, and you get sad, and I am not here for sad."

He seems to understand, or at least agree, because those brows sink back down and he nods, then smirks. "It's not Larry, I'll give you that much." Thank God. Goodbye, Larry the Louvre Guy. "But alright. No names." He lifts her knuckles to his lips, presses a kiss there and asks overtop of them, eyes sweetly boyish but with an edge of promise, "Will you dine with me, beautiful stranger?"

Regina smiles.