This is a belated offering for OQ week on tumblr, a sort of "Adoption Day" drabble. I hope you enjoy it. I thought it was lengthy enough to post as a stand-alone. Many thanks to the amazing starscythe for the inspiration for this story.

It's his scent she first notices. Clean. Woodsy. A mixture of pine and earth muted by the sweat of physical work and dirt beneath the fingernails. It's a scent she likes, one she finds appealing and soft, not soft in the sense of cotton or silk, but rather in the manner of moss, or grass, or piles of freshly fallen leaves left alone for the enjoyment of children and the occasional spontaneous adult.

He moves towards her then.

His warmth approaches in steady strides, not to fast, not too slow. He stops a comfortable distance from her, allowing soft billows of air brushed by human breath and skin to tickle her senses, giving her a moment to size him up as best she can at a first meeting.

"Miss Mills?"

His voice is deep, but not overly so, a bit rough around the edges yet plump with gentleness. It's a texture that reminds her of a broken in quilt, one that's been hand-stitched and pieced together with care, one capable of warding off the chills of life by its mere presence and pliability. A good sign, she thinks, especially for a man who does what he does, and she allows herself to take a step forward, extending her hand with what she hopes is a confident smile.

"Regina," she clarifies. The hand that greets hers is neither soft nor rough, but one of a working man who takes care of himself but doesn't bother with niceties. "And you're Mr. Locksley?"

His grip is firm, not painful, and his hands smell of Irish Spring soap. She scrunches her nose without thinking as fragments of clover and mint dust through her nostrils and into her sinuses, simultaneously noting a coarseness to his skin she rather likes.

"Robin," he states. His grin gives his voice a melodic lilt. "Please—just Robin."

He's closer now, and her pores react as if on cue. He's taller than she is, she realizes, feeling his breath feather across top of her hair, and although she's not sure why that should matter, she finds that she is pleased by the fact.

"Robin," she echoes, noting that he steps in just hair nearer as she utters his name. He clears his throat as he shifts slightly on his feet, and she hears him rub the back of his neck with the hand that isn't clutching hers.

"You're here to meet Miss Belle, then?" he asks, releasing her hand, exposing it to the coolness of empty air. She misses the warmth immediately and clutches the stick she holds in her other hand even tighter.

"Miss Belle?" she questions, hearing Henry's hurried approach from behind. He's breathing somewhat heavily as he moves to her side, the keys dangling noisily from his fingers, and she makes a mental note to discuss with him just how much is too much after-shave for a sixteen year old to wear.

"Short for the name my son bestowed upon her," Robin explains, his attention now divided between mother and son. "Tinkerbelle."

"Strange name for a Labrador," Henry muses with a laugh, piping down rather quickly when she shoots him a reprimanding look. "Sounds more like a name for a little dog."

"Not necessarily," Robin contradicts, his tone infused with the texture of warm honey, hinting at a wry grin and well-exercised sense of humor. "Wait until you've met her. She's a beauty, our Miss Belle, both inside and out." His stance shifts, and he extends his hand, the denim of his jacket whispering into the space between them. "I'm Robin Locksley."

"Henry Mills," her son replies, shaking the man's hand with enthusiasm.

"She's white, if I'm remembering correctly," Regina notes, now more than anxious to meet the canine that has brought them here, a nearly forty mile drive from their home, one she entrusted to her son with more than a small amount of trepidation.

"She is," Robin confirms. He rubs his hands together quickly, the sound vaguely reminiscent of soft leather rubbing up against freshly sanded wood. "And she's my son's favorite of all the dogs we are training. I apologize ahead of time if he gets emotional while you're getting to know her. He knows we can't keep her, but…"

There's a catch in his voice, one of a parent knowing that life is about to sting his child.

"Children become attached so easily," she offers, sensing his smile of gratitude. "Henry was that way with Merlin. The two of them forged an instant connection, even though he was technically my dog."

His resulting sigh is heavy.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he states. "Dogs, especially dogs like these are irreplaceable."

Tears sting her eyelids, swelling stubbornly until two break free and forge parallel tracks down her cheeks. She wipes them away as quickly as she can, hoping he didn't notice, fairly certain that he did.

"Shall we introduce you, then?"

She hiccups slightly, trying her best to disguise the indiscretion by clearing her throat.

"I suppose so," she answers, despising the nerves threatening to pull her under at this juncture in their lives. God, she hates this, times when she's certain her face is giving her away. It's at moments like these when she balks at the unfairness of it all, that others are given an advantage she'll never again possess, that her emotions sometimes betray her no matter how schooled she's become in reining them in and holding them close. They have color, oddly enough, her emotions, sometimes taste and texture, as well. She's currently awash in muted swirls of gray and white, yet there are blurred strokes of earth tones just beside her, tones that infuse his soft baritone and make her relax a measure at the mere proximity of his presence.

"Let's go, Mom," Henry cuts in, his brightness moving towards her as he takes her hand and gives it a squeeze of reassurance. His nails are rough, his skin as warm as towels freshly taken out of the dryer. She loves the feel of his hands-the feel of home. "Let's go meet Miss Belle."

"Let's," she agrees, hearing two distinct muted grunts of laughter that naturally accompany smiles. She clasps on to them for good measure, cradling them close, absorbing the strands that tingle like starlight, pressing them into her ribs and skin. She then extends her arm, taking a hesitant step forward as they move out of the shade and into the sun. It stings her cheeks, and she raises her face towards the sky, careful to follow the footfalls of the man in front of her as she breathes in the air of where he lives. It's open and free here, noise is sparse and travels without restriction, including the light clicks she makes on the smoothly paved walkway that takes them into the heart of the training grounds. Sounds and smells are borne upon breezes that move without interference, tugging at her skirt, brushing past her neck, making her long for a place like this for her and Henry to live in rather than the apartment they rent in the city. But its convenience that keeps them there-proximity to her workplace and his school paramount in choosing a place both suitable and comfortable for their family of two.

"How long have you been running this place?" she questions, his gait coming to a halt a few feet in front of her.

"Five years now," he answers. There's something else there, something hidden away in his voice, a shadow peeking out without permission, pecking on her shoulder, whispering in her ear. "My wife and I built this place together."

The word wife rubs against her in the wrong way-abrasive, intrusive-and she shrugs it off immediately, knowing she has no right to harbor such odd sensations, especially when the word was voiced with such reverence.

"Is she here?" she asks, schooling her voice and tone into threads of raw silk.

"In a manner of speaking," he answers. "She's buried by the stream at the edge of our property, under her favorite tree."

The words shatter at her feet. She feels their shards scrape her ankles as a heaviness infuses her lungs.

"I'm sorry," she answers, reaching out to touch his bicep, rubbing her fingertips against worn denim as his muscle flexes instinctively underneath.

"It's alright," he states, even though she knows that it isn't. She drops her hand from his jacket.

They're close to the kennel now, the smell of clean dogs is pungent and alive. It weaves around her, tugging her forward into a doorframe of coarse wood she caresses with care. There is activity here, canine and human, their mingled scents calling forward memories that both embrace and cut. It's her moment of truth, she muses, realizing she's anxious over whether or not the dog will actually like her.

How her mother would chide her for such childish notions.

She tries to swallow down her nerves, knowing Miss Belle won't be Merlin-no other dog can ever be Merlin-but hoping the two of them will hit it off well enough to begin building a bond. Her life has felt so restricted since they lost him, and it's been hard on both her and Henry, damned frustrating, if she's honest with herself. She can't stomach being dependent, can't stand having to ask her teenaged son for things she and Merlin had tackled with aplomb for most of Henry's life.

Its then she feels a touch to her arm, a large, confident hand applying just enough pressure to feel assuring but far from dominant. It's a touch she welcomes.

"She's just here," Robin tells her, and she takes another step towards the dog, biting her lower lip, reminding herself to breathe in and out as she allows him to help her kneel down gracefully. It's then she realizes that someone else is sitting just in front of her.

He smells of fresh dirt, bubble gum toothpaste and dog hair, and she can't help but smile as the boy shuffles nervously, obviously taking her in from his seat on the ground beside Miss Belle.

"You're here for Miss Belle?"

His voice is tentative, and he sniffs then, once, twice before his father moves to kneel beside both of them. The man's warmth is a balm, one she cannot quite understand or categorize but lets rush over her with the freshness of a mountain stream.

"This is Miss Regina," Robin explains, his touch on her arm still soft and assured.

"Miss 'Gina," the boy repeats, and she laughs, she can't help it. He sounds five or six, older than four but by no means seven or eight. "I'm Roland. And this is Miss Belle."

Small fingers take her hand, and the boy's father removes his touch from her elbow, allowing her the freedom to extend her arm towards warm fur and an even warmer tongue. The dog licks her, sniffs her, then nuzzles her head beneath her hand, breaking a wall of reserve inside of her she's been constructing since they'd lost Merlin. The coarse fur invites her fingers to lose themselves in its depths, and they do as tears form through yellowed hues of relief.

"Miss Belle," she voices, not caring that her voice is broken and full of life. "I'm Regina."

They're matched. She feels it already.

"She likes you," Roland states, and she leans into the dog, relishing the contact that wafts through pores and nerves to the core of who she is. The white lab is a mixture of vanilla, shampoo and earth, so different than the cinnamon that was Merlin, yet comforting all the same.

"I like her, too," she replies, hearing two decidedly masculine sniffs over her shoulder.

"I can tell," Henry laughs. "She's a beauty, mom. Just like you."

"You don't have to butter me up," she smirks, remembering how rebellious her hair had felt this morning, stubborn strands waving in all the wrong places. For some reason, she wonders how it looks now. "You're already driving home."

Robin laughs at that, a musical, fuzzy sound that brushes over her arms like fleece.

"Forgive me," the man adds, the emotion in his voice palpable. He's still kneeling beside her, Henry's standing to her left, and Roland is still touching her arm, just in front of her, still attached to the dog, still taking care of Miss Belle. "I love what I do, but I don't always get this emotional when one of our dogs finds her match. I think you two were meant for each other."

"So do I," she agrees, her world now awash in pinks and yellows, as if the sun is washing over her insides, painting them in its own whimsical hues. "It's odd how things like this just happen."

There's a pause that carries meaning, a movement beside her that allows his body to barely brush up against her own.

"Yes," he murmurs, his tone so personal she wonders if he's even moved his lips. "It is."

A sniff in front of her alerts her to the fact that this is difficult for the smallest member of their assembly, and she reaches out to touch Roland's arm, clasping it gently when he offers no resistance.

"I'll take good care of her. I promise."

The boy goes practically boneless as he moves into her space, the lingering scent of oatmeal on his breath somehow nudging its way inside her. He touches her face, something that astonishes her, something that catches her completely by surprise. Small fingers begin to map the contours of her face, touching her forehead, her eyebrows, her nose, cheekbones and mouth, his palms cupping her when he finishes, a new connection now forged, one of shining metal wrapped in sweets and cotton.

Roland is blind, too. Just like her.

"You are beautiful," the boy states, and she's crying now. She' can't help it, and she lays her hands over his, the small ones still attached to her face. Yet his touch moves far beyond the physical, reaching inside of her and squeezing her heart, branding her, marking her, binding the two of them together in a world of sound, smell and touch.

"May I?" she asks, and he nods, knowing she wants to see him, too. His skin is soft, bearing the texture only young children possess, one that begs to be snuggled and kissed and tucked in at night after rounds of stories and hugs. His nose is pert, his brows thick enough to match the curls that fall recklessly over his forehead, curls that bounce and smell faintly of baby shampoo. He giggles as her nails graze his cheek, revealing deep dimples that quickly catch her attention and make her grin in response. Then she traces the contours of his eyes, eyes that should be seeing the world around him rather than abandoning him at such a young age. They're round and full, those eyes of his, and she somehow knows they're dark like her own, that Roland is made of chocolate and midnight, that he is a kindred spirit in more realms than those simply devoid of sight.

"What a handsome young man you are, Roland," she states, and he giggles again, his father sniffing beside him, affected as much by this as she. His emotions are transparent, they roll off of him in crystal waves of salt, of loss mixed with hope, of determination fueled by a personal crusade, of single parent meets struggling adult.

"You learned to train service dogs after Roland was born," she muses, and she feels him nod beside her. It's then she realizes there is another dog present, one lying perfectly still at Roland's feet. It's Roland's dog, she knows it without needing confirmation from anyone. He's the boy's eyes, his guide, his companion in a world that is inherently solitary, even when people press in.

"Little John was our first," Robin states, reaching out hand to gently caress the bearer of that name just in front of them. "Once we started, we couldn't stop. It became a passion for me and for Marian, and after she died…"

He breaks off again, remnants of grief playing tug of war with the passionate resilience she senses in this man.

"Well, I knew she'd want me to keep this going. For Roland. And for me."

She wants to touch him but knows she doesn't have the right.

"I'm glad you did," she states. "Think of all the people you're helping." She wonders if he'll touch her again instead.

He doesn't.

She could get used to these people, she realizes with a start, could enjoy their nearness and easy manner, could revel in their scents and broken, earthy textures. But she no longer has a reason to stay here, her decision has been made, the only thing now left for them to do together the simple working out of finalities and arrangements. Icy wisps of pale blue wrap around her shins from the bottom up. She doesn't want to leave.

"Shall I deliver her to you on Friday? Or do you need some time to think things over?"

She shakes her head, allowing Robin to help her stand upright again, wondering why his touch reminds her of summer. Her legs ache from the prolonged crouched position, and he grunts in understanding as she stretches her lower back.

"I can't stay in that position for a long time, either," he muses, his words feathering across her ear. Perhaps it's her emotional state, the rawness of the moment, the loss of Merlin, the touch of his son, but she can't fight the heat that rushes to her face and pools in her cheeks at his nearness. She's blushing, she knows it. And Robin can see.

"Friday will be fine," she replies, gathering her lost composure back to herself as quickly as she can manage. "Henry?"

She hears her son rustling in his jacket pockets as he locates and extracts the paper she'd had him write, one that contains her contact information and their address.

"You live near Marco's Pizzeria?" he questions, and she nods, hearing a deep chuckle in response. "Roland and I don't go into the city all that often, but when we do, we always make sure to stop and eat at Marco's."

"It's our favorite, too," Henry adds as he moves to stand beside her. "We eat there at least once a week."

She senses a shift, a crossing of an invisible border as Robin's body temperature rises in time with her own. He's sweating, she realizes, such knowledge making her smile and sweat a bit herself.

"Perhaps we can all go out for a bite together once we've introduced Miss Belle to her new home," he proposes, the timbre of his voice about a third higher than it had been just seconds earlier. "That is, if the two of you are game."

She feels her son's eyes on her face, and she laces her fingers together, wondering how they're so icy when the rest of her is burning up.

"We're game," she states, Robin's and Henry's joined sighs of relief brushing her skin from both sides at once. She smiles then, understanding that Robin is as nervous about all of this as she is.

Good.

"How about you, Roland?"

The sound of rubber meeting wood draws ever nearer as the boy's sneakers deliver him back to her touch. He takes her hand before answering her question, she accepts it readily, and their fingers intertwine, a visual representation for those who can see it of what has already happened between the two of them in secret.

"I'm always game for pizza," Roland answers, and they laugh in time together, wrapping the four of them in translucent rainbows they can all feel everywhere at once.