Author's Note: For Outlaw Queen week, believe it or not. Day 4: Domesticity. It's been sitting on my computer, unposted. Oops!

There's dirt on her hands. Dirt, and water - she's grabbing freshly pulled potatoes from a basket near her feet, dunking them into a bucket of water, scrubbing at them with a worn old brush, dropping the clean ones into a bowl on her other side. Little drops of dirty water fall occasionally to her dress (midnight blue velvet, clinging to her in all the right places - he'd been admiring it privately during their council meeting only hours ago), but she doesn't seem to mind.

Robin is dumbfounded.

The notorious Evil Queen has surprised him more than once since they met, but this takes the cake. Of all the things he never imagined he'd see from her, scrubbing potatoes like a scullery maid hadn't even graced the list.

If it wasn't for her clothing, he'd have thought perhaps he'd inadvertently passed through a portal of some kind into another world, or that she was hiding a secret twin down in the kitchens. But no, this was Regina, definitely Regina, balanced on a rickety old stool, her back to the rest of the cavernous room as she worked. If she was trying to blend, she was doing horribly - there were others here, working, preparing the evening meal already (the castle was full to bursting with extra bodies these days), but they were all dressed in casual attire, some even clad in the servants' garb that must have been theirs before they'd been pulled away to that other land. And then there was the Queen, and her blue dress, the cut swooping down in the back, a deep vee of creamy flesh bared and framed in dark lace. She stood out like a lantern in the dark, and he was drawn to her, as ever, moth to flame.

He should get what he came for and leave, but he cannot resist engaging her, especially now.

"Do my eyes deceive me," he begins and she freezes, "Or is the great and terrible Evil Queen scrubbing potatoes in her own kitchens?"

She doesn't look at him, just sighs softly and dunks her empty hands into the dingy water, draws them back out, and reaches down beside herself for something he cannot quite see. "No," she denies, and then she sits back up and there's a small knife in her hand and one of the clean potatoes. "The great and terrible Evil Queen is peeling potatoes."

Her lips curve into a smirk, and he thinks it may be safe to approach. He grabs a nearby stool, plunks it across from hers and from this angle he can see she has a heavy pot of clean water nearby, waiting to be filled. "Would you like a hand?" he offers.

She juts her chin toward the basket of dirty potatoes, and tells him, "You can scrub."

Robin reaches to do just that without question, ignoring the dull pang of hunger that had sent him down here to forage in the first place.

She fascinates him, the grieving queen. He finds his thoughts drifting to her during the day when they have no cause to, settling on her often at night, in dreams. But it seems he irritates her, for reasons he's never been able to determine. At the moment, though, she doesn't seem to mind him much at all, and if she is willing to abide his company for a while, he is willing to ignore his empty stomach for a chance to explore her presence.

She is focused on her task, running the blade over the potato, separating skin from flesh with an ease he wouldn't have expected from someone who's spent a lifetime with servants. But then, she wasn't always queen, he reminds himself. At some point, the woman before him was a maiden, a girl, a toddler, a babe. It's hard to imagine now, with her elegant gown (even rucked up to her elbows and flecked with dirty water as it is), and her hair curled and held in place with a jeweled pin, her face painted with dark colors and smoky shadow. He wonders what she looks like underneath all the trappings, what she looks like when she sleeps, bare-faced, hair pulled free, that tempting body wrapped up in a dressing gown.

Realizes he'd like very much to find out.

And then he shakes his head, and reminds himself that's not likely to happen - certainly not any time soon. He focuses on his potatoes.

"You're quite good at that for a royal," he comments, and she stills, frowns, never takes her gaze from the potato. Robin finds himself rushing ahead, "I'm surprised to see such a mundane skill in the hands of someone who's surely spent most of her years with a full kitchen staff. Did you cook much as a child?"

She snorts, shakes her head. "Not once. My mother would never have stood for that, her precious daughter dirtying herself in the kitchens. Not when she was sure I was destined for the throne." She shifts the naked potato in her hand, slices it in a half, and then half again, again, deftly parsing it into chunks before dropping them into the pot with a series of wet plops. She reaches for another, begins to peel again. "But I've spent the last thirty years as mayor, not queen. And nobody cooks for the mayor." She pauses, smirks, glances up at him, finally, and he's struck by how dark her eyes are. How lovely. He thinks of Marian, then pushes the thought aside. They couldn't be more different, and yet... "A rude awakening at first, let me tell you."

Robin smirks, reaches for another dirty potato, dunks it into the chilly gray water. "I can only imagine. But it seems you learned."

"Well, it was that, starve, or leave the house for every meal." Her gaze drops back to her potato, and he finds himself remarkably disappointed at the action. He'd very much like to continue looking at her full-on. "I bought every book I could find on cooking, and taught myself - it wasn't as if I was short on time, after all." She graces him with something close to a smile, and it does something warm to his insides, his own smile broadening automatically in response despite the topic. She speaks so casually of her attempts to ruin the lives of everyone in this realm, he thinks. But then, why shouldn't she? It's not as though its a secret, and not as though it turned out all that well for her in the end. No triumph of evil to hold over her subjects, and she's returned them all home, taken her place as ruler along with the very person she ruined so many lives to destroy.

"Did you enjoy it?"

She looks up at him again and grins, punches him right in the gut with it, straight white teeth and happy crinkles at the corners of her eyes. By God, she truly is lovely when she wants to be.

"I loved it," she says, and for a moment she doesn't sound tortured or weighted by the grief of leaving behind her child. "There's a certain pride to making something with with your own two hands," and then that smile dims and she she says, "Especially when you've spent your whole life being told such pursuits were beneath you."

He drops his clean potato onto the pile, plucks another from the bin. "So you've decided to join the kitchen staff now that you're back?" he teases her, knowing that can't possibly be right.

She peels another potato carefully and says to him, "Hardly. I have a free afternoon, and it's been pouring since dawn. It was something to do."

"All these many rooms, all of this glorious splendor, and the queen couldn't find herself anything better to do in her own castle than peel vegetables?" He's spent half his days wandering the halls with his son, and is still certain there are mysteries they've yet to unearth. "I can hardly keep Roland from ducking into every single room. He discovered the library in the east tower yesterday and I could barely tear him away for dinner."

Her lips purse disapprovingly. "There are dangers in the east library. Don't let him wander there alone. The one near the south common is better suited for a child." It's an unnecessary warning - he'd had to steer Roland far from the deep stacks once he'd found them crammed with bottles and boxes of mysterious substances, heavy leather-bound tomes with spines covered in languages he couldn't identify much less read. He'd insisted they stick to the extensive collection of fables near the front, and had read to the boy until his voice was hoarse, tales of naughty children and mischievous imps, talking hares, treacherous demons. Some he'd remembered from his own childhood, others so obscure he'd never heard tell of them.

"I'll keep that in mind," he says, then smirks and adds, "Although Roland is every bit his father's son - he can have a hard time staying away from things he's told aren't his to enjoy."

He thinks of vaults filled with jewels, carriages laden with gold, and the queen sitting before him. His words apply to all.

Those dark eyes roll, and she waves her hand dismissively, saying, "I'll see that it's sealed. Better nobody pokes around in there, anyway." Another potato is split efficiently, dropped into the pot. He thinks of the weight of the metal, the potatoes, the water. Wonders if she'll even be able to lift it when they're done. But then, he supposes, she has magic for that, now doesn't she? "As for my choice of activity, I spent a long time living in this castle, and much of it alone. I've read every book in every library, seen every painting on every wall, and know every corridor like the back of my own hand. There's nothing here to bring any fresh joy."

She looks suddenly weary, he notices. A sadness wrapping around her like a cloak, and he thinks he sees her, then - the barefaced woman underneath the trappings. There's something in her countenance, some depth of feeling he can't quite put his finger on, but it makes her look like she's in costume. For a moment, her makeup looks garish, her dress overly opulent. Like they don't belong on the woman who wears them, and then just like that it's gone, her expression shifts, and she looks every bit the queen. Potatoes and all.

Still, he's seen it, and he cannot ignore it. Cannot ignore her words, either, and he asks, "Were you happy living here? Before your curse?" because he suspects, perhaps, she wasn't.

She pauses, looks up at him and surprises him with a moment of frank honesty, no masks, just her. "Never." And then she's peeling again, eyes on her blade.

"Do you wish to leave?"

"Every day," she sighs, cloaked in sadness again, "But I have nowhere to go."

It's a painful thought, but undoubtedly true. Who would take in The Evil Queen? Who would trust her as their neighbor? She's here, and here she'll remain. Lonely. Sad. Desolate enough to permeate him where he sits feet away from her, this heavy sadness. The castle haunts her - he's noticed it in the way she moves through the halls sometimes, the flickers of pain that cross her face, the way she pauses to draw a shaky breath before resuming her steps. He'd always taken them to be pangs of longing for the boy she's left behind, but that word echoes in his head - Never - and he wonders if maybe it's the castle itself that brings her pain. If being here is enough to cause her misery.

He decides then that he'll take her away for a day. He'll find some excuse, he'll use the prince and princess if he has to. Anything to strip that dead look from her eyes - she's been too long cooped up, and it's only been weeks since they've returned.

"Do you ride, milady?"

A smile curves the corners of her lips at that, one she means, and it pleases him. "Since I was a girl."

"Perhaps you'll permit me the pleasure of your company for an afternoon on horseback?"

She pauses, looks up, arches a brow. He has her attention now.

"And where would we go?"

"Oh, anywhere," he reasons, shrugging, discarding another clean potato, picking up a dirty one. "Somewhere away from here - not too far, just a few hours' journey and back. Pardon me for saying it, but you look like a woman who could use a few hours of air and solitude."

"It wouldn't be solitude if I had company," she points out.

"Near solitude, then," he corrects, offering her a smile. "I'm not used to so much time spent indoors. A bit of fresh air and forest would do me good as well."

She surprises him by nodding, and he wonders just what mood he's caught her in today that she is so agreeable. So agreeable, in fact, that she's suggesting a destination: "There's a place not far from here - an hour's journey at most. Nothing special, just a lake. But it's peaceful."

Robin wants to pinch himself to make sure he's not dreaming.

"A fine place for a picnic, perhaps?" he suggests, pressing his luck. How many hours can he steal from her? He hopes enough to let him pick her apart, to find out who she really is, this Queen who hates her castle, who peels potatoes, who loves to cook.

"On a clearer day, it would be," she agrees, splitting another potato. "Perhaps you'll find me when this rain lets up."

"Perhaps I will," he tells her, and it's something close to flirting, something light, and he thinks perhaps he'll pursue her in earnest.

For now, though, he will enjoy her easy mood and prepare this whole pile of potatoes with her.

They never do take that picnic. The next time he sees her, her mood has shifted and she eyes him with disdain and says she'd never deign to cavort through the forest with a thief like him. Her mercurial moods baffle him, grate on his nerves, but he holds tight to the memory of her on a kitchen stool, dirt under her nails, methodically peeling potatoes to feed her subjects, and he thinks he's seen the truth of her.

She can hide behind the mask of Queen all she wants, shut herself away and think she's untouchable. Robin is quite adept at unearthing things kept under lock and key.