#fixer-upper

It’s the Mills’ kitchen sink that first falls victim to their matchmaking.

Henry knows Regina is capable enough to handle minor things like a lightbulb switch, so those are out of the question. He’s considered a leaking toilet, but he’s not entirely sure how he’d go about causing that particular issue, and there’s plenty of bathrooms in the house for it to not be an urgent one anyway. Besides, a broken toilet just isn’t romantic.

So down the drain go popsicle sticks, peanut butter, and a bunch of other objects Henry can think to stuff in, effectively blocking it just minutes before Regina’s keys clink in the lock.

He meets her halfway between kitchen and foyer, twisting his face into a worried, urgent expression.

“Mom, I think the drain is clogged. We’ll have to call Ro—someone to look at it.”

But instead of dialling Robin Locksley, Mom unearths a mysterious bottle of home-made cleaning solution, which she pours a generous amount of down said drain. The blockage, and all of Henry’s hard work, dissolves within an hour.

Who knew Mom’s magic extended beyond lasagna to solving plumbing emergencies with a mere flick of the wrist?

Henry definitely has her stubbornness and determination though, and he won’t be easily deterred. The backup plan is put to practice the very same evening.

Mom likes things clean and proper, and even one missed load of laundry is bound to throw her. Surely she’ll want the washing machine fixed right away, and surely she’s going to turn to the one person whose contact she propitiously found in her pocket and flung onto the foyer table earlier—right?

Wrong.

“I’ll find someone to come over Monday,” she sighs with a hint of frustration. “We have enough fresh clothes for a couple of days.”

Henry cannot believe his ears. A couple of days? Who is this woman and what has she done with his mom?

Perhaps if he hinted at the card, or even mentioned in passing that his best friend’s dad just so happens to be a handyman, she’d reconsider.

Or see right through him.

That’s the more likely scenario actually, considering Mom and he can often communicate through looks alone. Normally he finds this cool and comforting, but it really complicates things when his intentions are, well, less innocent and just a bit devious. Like now.

Leroy the janitor turns up at the mansion the next day, grumpy (it’s the weekend, and he probably wouldn’t have bothered at all if Mom wasn’t the mayor) but efficient enough, and by the time he leaves, the laundry room’s abuzz with the quiet drone of the perfectly functional appliance.

“It’s almost as if she wanted to avoid Robin at all costs,” Henry sighs, leafing through an old issue of The Incredible Hulk. It’s too dark to really read in their pillow fort despite the torch, but Roland doesn’t feel much like comic books right now anyway.

Henry made another failed attempt to sabotage a vital appliance that afternoon, but as much as Regina loves her coffee, she only complained of a string of bad luck, joking that a vicious curse must be at work to have stricken a full three times now, and made herself a cup the old-fashioned way by boiling water on the stove.

When they’d first moved to Storybrooke, it was hard to imagine life without their old family. Uncle John and Will and Tuck had stayed behind in faraway England with the distant promise of visiting at Christmas. Daddy had promised Roland would find new friends here in Storybrooke. He’d been right of course—Henry took Roland under his wing the first day at school, and they’ve since become inseparable.

Between treehouses and pillow forts, sleepovers and daytrips, Roland gets to spend plenty of time with Henry’s mum. He likes Regina. He liked her the moment she waved at him through the classroom window while he’d sat gazing forlornly after Daddy’s disappearing pickup truck. He likes coming over to hang out at the mansion with either Mills or both of them, likes her happy smile when he tells her the food is delicious or that her hugs are the softest, even likes the way she rolls her eyes playfully when he and Henry make a mess of her gleaming kitchen or build the world’s biggest pillow fort using up her entire supply of bedding.

The door opens to a crack, and Regina pokes her head into the room.

“All right,” she says firmly. “Lights out, misters. You need your sleep before tomorrow’s soccer extravaganza.”

“It’s football, Regina,” Roland corrects for the gazillionth time, giggling at her little huff.

The torch goes out immediately—Regina is nice but also strict—and the blankets come off so that she can tuck them both in properly, kissing Henry’s forehead first and then Roland’s, and wishing them both sweet dreams.

It’s always like this with them—Regina treats Roland with just as much care as she does Henry when he’s staying over, and Robin does the same for Henry when they’re camped out at the Locksley cottage.

Yes, Roland likes things the way they are just fine—but why not make them even better?

If only there were a failsafe way to wreck something and make sure no one but Daddy is fit for the task of repairing it…

The pristine facade and neatly trimmed hedges of 108 Mifflin Street greet Robin with silence. Not that he expected yelling, never that; but Roland sounded beyond agitated on the phone, reiterating over and over again that he wanted his Daddy to come over immediately.

Roland had always been a bit of a mischief—not unlike his father, if Robin’s honest—but he’s a good lad, had never gotten into any sort of serious trouble before.

What has gotten into him now?

Eager to find out, Robin’s barely a step into the porch when the front door flies open, and Henry tugs him inside with a subdued but unmistakable little grin that seems most suspiciously out of place.

“In here,” he says, dragging Robin through the foyer and into the kitchen.

Roland at least is appropriately enthused to see him as he waves energetically, but much to Robin's surprise he remains sitting on his stool, shooting furtive looks Regina's way.

Regina turns around from the counter just then, and Robin almost doesn't recognise her. She's dressed down, casual by her standards in black slacks and black waistcoat over a grey tee, tucking away a strand of hair just come loose from her short pony. Even so, even here in the privacy of her home, she's still stylish—and still stunning. Somehow even more so than in her usual pantsuits, tailored dresses, or decadent gowns—and that's saying something.

If only she didn't loathe him so.

As things stand between them, she barely spares Robin a glance and acknowledges him with no more than a curt nod and a polite hello as she lays a tall glass of milk and two cookies in front of each boy, ruffling Roland’s messy curls with a reassuring smile. The boy beams up at her with not a trace of trepidation, and not only is it clear Regina has been nothing but understanding about the incident, but Roland seems oddly cavalier about the whole thing—and that is most certainly unlike him.

“And have you apologised to Regina?”

Roland is suddenly too busy chewing and not meeting Robin's eye.

“He has,” Regina says curtly, a speck of annoyance clearly somehow stirred by the elder Locksley. “And there's no need for you to do anything—I only called you because he’d been so upset about it and asked for you.”

But Roland is the furthest thing from upset right now, stuffing a cookie into his mouth happily and snickering into his milk for no apparent reason.

Perhaps once home, he'll get to the bottom of his boy’s peculiar behaviour.

But Robin has a job to do first—it’s only fair after all.

“I've all I need to fix it for you right now.”

“You have a window pane with you,” she immediately challenges, eyebrow arching to very nearly disappear in her hairline.

“That I do,” he can’t help but smirk as her haughty expression falls just a tad. “Roland wasn't exactly articulate on the phone, but I did manage to catch that much. Now, if you would lead the way?”

Robin starts out on the wrong foot. First he tramples Regina’s tulips; then he walks right into a rather obvious trap when he defends his ignorance of some town ordinance or other as he makes a painful attempt at conversation in a rather strained silence.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he teases a tad with the bold moniker, “I’m still somewhat new in town.”

“You’ve been here four months,” she scoffs. She’s hovering behind him with her arms crossed, as though he needed supervision for the simple task of fixing a broken window. “How much longer do you expect to get a free pass based on that excuse?”

“Not a minute longer, it seems,” Robin returns, throwing her a wink she takes none too kindly to. Every venture of his has only ever been met with disdain or dismay on her part; yet he still can’t help himself. “The boys tell me there’s been quite the epidemic sweeping through your house lately,” he muses. “Clogged drains, leaky taps, broken down appliances? Bit of a bummer for a mansion this stately.”

“Oh, so now you’re a real estate expert, too?”

“Just a handyman, milady,” he shrugs in mock innocence. “Best one in town.”

“Debatable.”

“Not for long,” Robin says, pulling himself up and brushing off his jeans. “All done here.”

A shadow crosses her features—or so Robin fancies. Surprise, most likely—she doesn’t think much of him after all. Either way, he blinks and it’s gone.

Not so the football peeking from under the rosebush, chequered black and white against the lush green—and miles away from the miniature goalpost.

“Something doesn’t add up here.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” she shoots back, going from crossed arms to hands on hips in an eye-blink.

But this isn’t an accusation—not yet, and definitely not against her.

“You said Roland kicked the ball?”

“Yes?”

Robin shakes his head. None of this is making sense to him, but the facts speak for themselves.

“Well, Roland’s got better aim than that. As a matter of fact, everybody has.”

“Your point, Locksley?”

But she’s figured it out already—he can tell by how her brows knit, and by the subtle way she bites her lip before she catches herself.

“Roland may have a puckish streak,” she frowns. “But he’d never do something like that. Not on purpose anyway.”

Robin swallows as her words, brimming with confidence and trust for his son, touch some chord in him that makes his chest expand fit to burst with affection for Regina Mills. His instinct, however, tells him they’re going to have to face a different reality soon. That, and his observation skills.

Roland,” he addresses the trainered foot his son has failed to conceal behind the hazelnut bush. “You can come out now.”

And he does, slowly, dragging himself all slumped shoulders and hanging head, the very personification of defeat.

Regina steps forward and crouches in front of a miserable Roland, who simply won’t look her in the eye.

“Sweetheart, it’s okay. I know it was an accident.”

Far from soothed by this, Roland sniffs, his shoulders sagging further. All it does is confirm Robin’s suspicion.

“Roland, my boy—was it an accident?”

The child chokes out a little sob, eyes trained on his the tips of his shoes, messy curls falling into his face and bouncing as he shakes his head and whispers: “I’m s-sorry, Regina.”

“It’s my fault, too.” Henry emerges out of nowhere, cheeks flushed but eyes shining with determination. He swallows, then squares his shoulders and puts an arm around Roland. “If you punish Roland, then I should be punished, too. I did all the other stuff.”

“The other stuff?” Regina stutters, exchanging an incredulous looks with Robin as understanding dawns. Ah, yes, the streak of bad luck—not mere chance after all.

Roland drowns out every possible follow-up question though as he throws his arm around Henry and insists: “Together.”

“You’ve planned this together?” Robin clarifies.

The boys nod vehemently—and they’re an admirable twosome really, what with their mutual loyalty and courage when it comes to having the other’s back, Robin has to give them that.

Regina looks between the two of them, brow furrowed as her mouth opens and closes several times before she gets out an entirely puzzled:

“But—why?”

That’s all it takes, though, a perfectly logical questions spoken softly and without a trace of anger, for Roland’s tears, kept at bay for so long, to finally spill as he stutters brokenly:

“We j-just wanted us to be a f-family.”

Robin Locksley’s left nothing but his toolbox behind, forgotten on her lawn as the man had carried a sniffling, miserable Roland to the truck and driven off.

They’re back in the kitchen—Henry sitting stiffly in his chair awaiting a stern talking to, and Regina battling with the defiant coffee machine, playing for time.

Honestly, what had gotten into these children?

The damn appliance simply won’t cooperate, and if she can have neither her glass of whiskey (not exactly a coping mechanism she wants to model to her ten-year-old) nor her cup of good, strong coffee, she heaves a sigh and leans back against the counter.

“You know you’re grounded, don’t you?” she opens, relieved she’s actually managed to keep the full brunt of her anger out of her voice. He wouldn’t understand where it’s really coming from—not yet anyway. Not unless she tries.

“I know.”

It’s sincere, and unhappy, but she needs to make sure he gets why he’s being punished.

“Henry, I hope you understand what you did was wrong?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Do you also understand why it was wrong?”

“We were just trying to help,” he defends, his arms raised from the table palms up in a vehement gesture, his frustration clear. Then, just like that, he deflates. Before she can get a word in edgewise, his expression softens, and Regina’s prepared neither for the gentle, reassuring tone nor the words her son speaks. “I know you loved my dad, so much. But he wouldn’t want you to be all alone forever.”

Regina’s jaw drops, her heartbeat going staccato as her chest tightens.

“I am not alone,” she says, her voice higher than she’d like, a touch hurt. “I have you, and...I thought-I thought we were perfectly happy, just the two of us.”

“We are,” Henry assures her quickly, leaning forward over the table. She sinks into the chair next to him, taking the hand he offers as he trudges on. “And I love the two of us. But I also really like Roland, and I like having Robin in my life. I know you just act like you can’t stand him. Everyone deserves a second chance, Mom. If you just opened your heart to it—”

Is that what this is all about? Two boys playing matchmaker for their single parents? It would almost be sweet, or amusing, if it weren't so overwhelmingly terrifying. Shit.

“Henry,” she sighs, “a heart isn’t like a household appliance. It takes more than a handyman to mend a broken one. And it takes time.”

“But it’s been years!” Regina winces—there’s some truth to Henry’s argument, she just doesn't necessarily want to admit it. Admitting it would mean confronting ugly truths and hurt feelings she doesn’t care to or dare acknowledge. But Henry, bless his heart, is relentless. “I just want you to be happy, Mom.”

“I don’t even like Robin.” And that's a lie. She doesn't lie to Henry, ever. So she amends: “Not like—well, not like that anyway. Besides, he definitely doesn’t like me.”

And that, she thinks as the dreadful lead of something-she-won’t-name settles deep in her belly, is definitely true. There’s been ample evidence for that.

“Sure he does—and yes, you do. I saw you bring him lemonade.”

“It’s common courtesy, Henry.” What is a jar of iced water and lemon zest with a hint of lime on a summer day, after all? Not even a little bother.

Henry grins.

“You made it with mint,” he says triumphantly, as though she’d just handed him a victory. Shit, she really did—she casually accommodated a preference he’d mentioned in passing weeks ago, and didn't even realise. “You remembered. You only act like you don’t like him because you’re scared.”

“Henry,” she sighs.

“Aaand I saw you checking him out while he was fixing our window.”

“Henry! How’d— Where’d you even—?”

“Mooom,” he rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you just—?”

“Give him a chance?” she groans, rolling her eyes in turn—but she knows she's not fooling anyone here.

Henry smiles with a wisdom belying his age, and squeezes her hand.

“Give yourself a chance.”

Regina has the toolbox ready when the doorbell rings to announce Robin Locksley’s presence at her door for the second time that day.

“How’s Roland doing?” she asks as she hands the toolbox to him. The poor boy was shaken up far worse than Henry. This town, and this life, is still reasonably new to him after all, and what sense of security he’d gained here seemed to have gone right out of that stupid broken window when Roland burst into sobs in her backyard.

“Asleep. Belle French is watching him.”

Regina winces. So much for Henry’s pep talk. Not that she didn’t already know any attempt on her side to stop hiding from her feelings would amount to nothing anyway.

“I see. Well, I imagine you wanna get right back to them then.”

“Actually,” he says as he adjust his stance, the toolbox swinging awkwardly between them, “Belle said no need to rush, her date doesn’t start till later tonight. Ruby has a shift to finish first.”

Wait—what now?

“Regina, I must apologise again on my son’s behalf. The boys meant well, but their behaviour is still unacceptable.” Robin sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, then looks her in the eye with grave sincerity and conviction. “No woman should have a man’s presence imposed upon her by force or by trick. It won’t happen again.”

“Right,” Regina says, clearing her throat. If only her mind would stop buzzing and mulling over things it has no business dwelling on. “Neither should you. Be forced to be around someone you dislike, I mean. I’m sorry, too, on Henry’s behalf.”

Robin tilts his head at that, his eyes boring into hers. She’s torn between wanting to bask in those brilliant blue depths and struggling to stop him from seeing too much in her own eyes. Whatever it is he’s looking for, whether or not he finds it, he takes a deep breath and, clutching his toolbox with both hands (because the thing is heavy or merely to occupy his hands?) as he makes a startling admission.

“I do like you, actually. A fair bit, too, in all honesty.” His gaze has gone soft, his smile gentle—and her heart flutters uninvited. It’s over all too soon though, for Robin gathers himself and settles on that earnest tone again, the dreaminess of his earlier expression gone. “But you’ve made it abundantly clear you’re the furthest thing from interested in pursuing any sort of relationship—not to mention a romantic one—with me, so obviously I’d never act on it.”

Well this is just absurd.

“You don’t like me,” she counters, because what he’s saying just doesn’t make sense, does it? “You challenge me at every public forum.”

Robin chuckles at that.

“Well, someone has to do it. Good projects have come out of our, well,” he winks at her, “fiery exchanges, wouldn’t you say? And I get to see you in your element—the way I see it, it’s a win-win.”

Not many people can boast having stunned Regina Mills to silence, and boast truthfully; but Robin Lockley’s just made the list.

He takes her lack of response for something other than it is, though.

“Right, well, I won’t impose on you any longer. Just—feel free to call me any time. I’ll be glad to help—and I promise I won’t be underfoot.”

With that he turns to walk away, and no, she realises she doesn’t want that.

“Robin, wait.” He spins back around, not quite able to tamp down the hopeful expression her words elicit. Regina needs time. She needs just a bit more time to process the latest revelations and just where to go from here. “The—the coffee maker could use fixing up, if you don’t mind.”

He slips inside the moments she opens the door wider for him, and heads straight to the kitchen with a spring in his step that may or may not melt her heart a bit. He’s fast and efficient, and instead of untangling her thoughts she catches herself watching him work, quite fascinated by the way his fingers work away at tiny components without the faintest hint of hesitation. He has deft fingers. Her mind definitely doesn’t wander to other things he could do with them, and whether they would make her purr the way her coffee maker is now that Robin’s finished with it.

“Maybe you’re not so bad after all,” she teases, her voice hoarse somehow, and what the hell is wrong with her? Hell, repair works should definitely not be so arousing.

“Why Madam Mayor, is that a compliment I hear?” he returns glibly. “There’s not a single thing about me you didn’t object to in that half hour on Miner’s Day, and ever since then you’ve been—” He trails off, leaving the sentence hanging.

Oh yes, Miner’s Day. They were flirting. Sassing each other, leading a prickly back and forth she rather enjoyed. And then, just as Regina had almost worked up the courage to even begin to consider there may be something there—

“You went home with—” Belle. He went home with Belle—but Belle is dating Ruby apparently, not Robin.

He lets out an ah of comprehension, and Regina wants desperately to duck under the counter and never come up again.

“Jealous?” he asks, amusement dancing in his eyes as he bites down on that blasted smirk the way that makes her belly jolt pleasantly.

“You wish.”

“As a matter of fact I do.”

Oh. That’s—oh. She’d be mad if this had all been a trick designed to make her jealous, but his surprise just a moment earlier was genuine. They’re both staring now, eyes flickering across the other’s features, sweeping gazes up and down their bodies, and perhaps the next thing she’s going to need fixed is the heating, for it sure seems to have gone up by its own volition in the middle of summer.

They both take a rushed step forward at the same time, toes brushing, breaths mingling in a mix much headier than the smell of coffee wafting through her kitchen.

“I don’t need to be fixed,” she tells him as his hands hover mere inches over her waist. “I’m not another thing for you to mend.”

“I quite agree. Regina, I wouldn’t dream of changing a single thing about you. You’re—” He hesitates, and Regina finds herself leaning forward, drawn to him, drinking in his words as a determined look settles on his face and a most astonishing brightness in his gaze, and he finishes with the slightest hitch in his voice. “Stunning, in every way.”

He tastes like mint when she pulls him to her, fisting the lapels of his jacket and kissing his breath away as her head spins, as hearts quicken and small gasps fill the room. Robin’s fingers weave through her hair, and Regina sighs against his lips. The floor seems to tilt under her feet just as something deep inside her comes to life again—a corner of her heart she’d locked away years ago now reawakened.

Somehow, she knows: they’re going to work.

It’s not a thing done at your average Storybrooke wedding, but Henry’s inherited every bit of Regina’s stubbornness, and Roland lacks none of his father’s charm. It is hardly a surprise then nobody denies the brothers (in heart for a while and now, finally, as of two minutes ago, also on paper)  this first mischief as new family.

Mr Mills and Mrs Locksley, as their parents have been referring to each other with hopelessly lovesick grins for weeks now, are positively beaming with happiness—and just a touch of wariness—as Roland runs forward with a large, very breakable, precariously balanced plate, and hands it to Henry gamely.

Never before has he seen his mom this radiant, nor have Robin’s dimples seemed so deep.

Henry smiles at Mom, grins at Robin, gives Roland a conspiratorial nod as they bring the plate up over their heads before smashing it into a million particles scattering on the floor—countless shards of china not even a handyman of Robin’s calibre could ever dream to put back together.

Broken glass brought them together; broken china bears witness to their happy beginning.

And maybe, Henry wonders, it’s not about fixing someone’s heart so much as it is about healing side by side.