Robin stands before the windows, curtains pulled back, three windows all in a row before him, a draft comes from the left most window, has a soft cool breeze blowing across his bare chest, he shivers even with the warm rays of sunrise washing him in light. He heaves a huge sigh, sipping from his steaming mug of coffee; he's added a bit too much sugar he thinks, grimacing as he drinks. Robin watches the sunrise every morning, watches the sun climb over the little ridge of hills far off in the distance, watches golden rays dancing in the fog that is dense over the park right across the street, watches a new day creep over the rather shabby roofs of his neighbors, Robin watches the pink rays of dawn transform the sky into a masterpiece every morning, here at these windows, as he did with Marian, before she- she-

Robin's jaw tenses, he rubs a hand through his hair, he's not looked in a mirror yet but he knows, can feel, that his hair is a riot, a mess, matted on one side and at the back. He smooths it out with his fingers, eyes closed, feeling the warmth of the new day on his skin. He sucks in a huge breath of air, and lets it out through his nose, another huge breath in, another slow exhale.

His home is quiet now, in the early morning hours, Roland fast asleep in his racecar bed, the fridge doesn't even make that awful thrumming clunking noise at this early hour, as if the world has paused, as if the world is waiting. Robin takes another sip of his coffee, liquid so hot as to burn his tongue, but he relishes the heat, the pain, smacks his lips before he lands his mug on the windowsill, it lands with a quiet plunk.

Robin has to wake Roland soon if he has any intention of getting the boy ready on time for preschool, Robin is still adjusting to getting the boy to daycare on time, and the boy too, is adjusting, to the notion that Roland has somewhere to be during the day. He used to stay in the shop with Robin and Marian, rolling out of bed only to stumble downstairs and sleep in the office at the back of the shop for a couple more hours before waking. Robin definitely has to wake Roland up soon, the boy won't like it, never does, always begging to sleep just a little more, his curls matted and wild about his sleep addled face. Roland is small enough still for Robin to pluck from the bed, when the boy asks for a little while longer Robin picks him up, tickling him and tickling him, until the lad squeals, his face red from laughter, 'I'm up, Papa! I'm up!'

Robin rubs at his eyes, they are still heavy from sleep, he reaches for his coffee once more, rising it up, sipping from it as he turns away from the sunrise, he pads softly over to the telly and brings the screen to life. He flips through the channels, finds the local news, the first voice he has heard all day is Tiffany giving him the weather, Robin mutes the television. He watches words form on the girl's mouth, watching without the sound, and thinks of how Marian's voice used to be the first he heard every morning.

A particularly loud car passes out front, brakes squealing at the lights; Robin shakes his head and places both his too sweet coffee and the remote down. It's time to wake up the grumpy goose named Roland Locksley.

They arrive late to the preschool, nearly ten minutes late, Mary-Margaret, Roland's favorite teacher, is there by the door and waiting with a disappointed frown and caring eyes as Robin parks his Jeep in the drop off zone, Robin does not look at her fully until he has Roland unclipped from his booster seat.

"Hello, Roland," she chirps, bending down to hug Roland as he makes a mad dash to the door.

"Did I miss Good Morning Sun?" Roland asks, dangerously close to being upset, he'd panicked in the car, speaking unintelligibly to Robin about how he was going to miss Song Time.

Mary-Margaret nods, "I'm sorry, buddy, you'll just have to sing extra hard tomorrow, okay?"

Roland nods, tears building in his little eyes; the sense that Robin is a failure buries itself in Robin's chest, right beside his heart. Robin turns Roland by a hand on his thin little shoulder, Robin kneels down, hugs the boy, "I love you, my boy," Robin says, for some inscrutable reason he feels close to crying himself, that ache beside his heart stabs and stabs as Roland sniffs and rubs his snot on Robin's shoulder.

Roland mumbles out an 'I love you' back, before he steps away, forlorn and stomping, each step has his heels flashing, his light up sneakers illuminating him on his path into the building.

Mary-Margaret watches him go down the hall before turning to Robin, her arms now crossed, "Mr. Locksley," she begins, and Robin has told her twice already that he prefers Robin, but it's always 'Mr. Locksley' when he's in trouble.

"Mrs. Nolan," Robin says back, head tipped forward, respectful to her, though he doesn't appreciate in the least the earful she's going to give him.

But she does nothing of the sort, merely sighs, that awful disappointed sigh, her brows pinch at the center, she almost looks pleading, "Song Time is Roland's favorite," she tells him.

"He'll be on time tomorrow," Robin promises, "I'm truly very sorry."

She smiles at him, before bidding him a good day and turning back into the glorified daycare center, Robin stands there, facing the closed door decorated with the handprints of tiny children in multicolored paint for a long moment, he swallows before turning away.

"Good morning, Granny," Robin says, the little bells attached to the flower shop door jangling. He's late. But it's his shop really so what is there to say real-

"You're late," she growls, the old woman he's only hired two weeks ago admonishes him, looking at him from over the tops of her glasses, when she does that she looks very much like that one horribly strict schoolmarm Robin still has nightmares about. Robin rubs at the knuckles of his right hand as he shuffles into the shop, as if to sooth the sting of punishment doled out decades ago.

"Roland's teacher needed me for a moment," Robin defends, tugging off his coat and stowing it in the cubby under the register right next to Granny's purse and jacket. Granny's holding a pair of shears, working at the counter, trimming stems over a towel, "Any business?" Robin asks her.

The old woman nods, focusing once more on her task, snip go the shears, "A few businessmen who forgot their anniversaries," she answers, she smirks, head still tilted down, snip go the shears, "I love the panic in their eyes," Granny says darkly, and for someone who insists on being called Granny, going so far as to put it on her resume, she's quite a bit more blood thirsty then your regular grandmother.

Robin laughs a throaty chuckle, "Be kind," he urges, it's quarter till nine now, the shop's been open since eight, Robin's shop is the only flower shop that opens before ten in a ten mile radius, he makes good money off those fools that need something quick and early.

The bells jangle, both Robin and Granny move their eyes to the door, "Hey," a man sticks his head in, doesn't even come in fully, just letting all the heat Robin pays for out into the morning, "You guys know what time the tattoo place opens?"

"No, mate, I'm sorry," Robin says, nearly gritting his teeth, it's a lie; he knows the redhead comes and unlocks the door at eleven every day but Sunday and Monday. But Robin deals with at least one person daily asking about the tattoo place next door, honestly, the tattoo place, Apple Tree it's called, they can't post their hours like normal people do?

The man frowns, still holding the door open, "alright," he shrugs, looks about and seems to become aware suddenly of all the flowers around him, he turns away, "thanks," is heard right before the door slams shut, not before a particularly blustery blast of wind finds its way inside.

Granny tsks her tongue, placing the shears down, "What kind of ink for him, do you think?"

Robin's frustration, and god, he knows it's petty, but can't they buy a sign, they'd opened eight months ago and for eight months Robin has ha- Robin takes a deep breath, head tilted back as his eyes close, he breathes out, and his ire it melts away with a shake of his head, he runs his fingers over the scruff on his chin, down to his throat, "He looks like the type to have 'wanker' written across his neck," alright, maybe not all his ire.

Granny cackles, an explosion of mirth, her whole body shakes with the force of it, she throws the end clipping of a stem at him, it leaves a spot of wetness on his shirt, "Be kind," she mimics at him, mouth twisted quite unattractively, eyes narrowed behind her glasses.

Robin smiles at her, "Be kind to our customers," Robin responds.

He's got a couple coming in to talk about floral arrangements for their wedding in about an hour; he turns and checks the clock on the wall above him. "I'll be out back; can you show the love birds in when they get here?"

Granny rolls her eyes, knows immediately who he is speaking of, the sickly sweet couple who seem like really wonderful people, they just happen to be terribly ornery about their floral arrangements, "You got it, " she says, picking up her shears once more.

There's a car parking across the street, just on time, like every other day but Sunday and Monday. He watches the car maneuver between his own Jeep and a red truck, a little car, green, a more emerald then Robin's cameo Jeep, expensive looking, sleek, and clean, his Jeep looks like a dusty wreck in comparison, the parallel parking job is done flawlessly.

Out the redhead steps, busty and not at all afraid to show it, she's sinful looking for more reasons beside her curves. She looks right, left, right, before stepping away from her car and into the street that has exactly zero traffic but for one lone biker in spandex well down the road.

Her hair bounces with her steps, long, red, full hair, other parts of her bounce as well, but Robin looks away, looks back down to the bouquet he's fiddling with at the front window, not enticed in the least, though she is certainly beautiful. The redhead doesn't tempt him, she looks closed off, cold, Robin has not seen her smile in the entire eight months she's been opening the tattoo parlor, she must see him through his window as easily as he sees her, but they are strangers still that have not even made eye contact.

She unlocks the tattoo parlor door, an old creaky thing, hard wood and heavy, she has to use her entire body to open it, walks inside and only moments later the music starts, the music they play in there so loud that Robin can nearly feel the beat in his spine an entire building and tiny alley away.

The staff of the tattoo place arrive in drifts and drabs, Robin is always in his shop, is able to watch each employee arrive, he does it in the way one might absentmindedly listen to the radio, and has done so for eight months. First after the redhead is the man, brown hair and a sneer on his face, as if everything in the world makes him unhappy, sunglasses on no matter how overcast the day, always with a large styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand. Across the man's neck, spanning right across his throat, is a tattoo of a rabbit mid leap, the man always nods to Robin through the window, and Robin nods in return. About an hour after him the blonde woman, lovely and confident, she hops off the bus at the corner with ear buds in, she doesn't look up the entire way from the bus stop to the Apple Tree, her red leather coat, no matter how cold or hot it is, always the red leather coat, wrapped around her frame.

And last, sometimes not at all, is the dark haired woman with her arms entirely inked. She'd worn short sleeved shirts and sleeveless dresses in the summer when the tattoo place opened, her arms bare, the ink crawling up her arms easy to see, on her right it goes up into her shoulder, and down her back. Robin's hands still, the wreath he is meant to be hanging in the front window held in the air before him as he looks at the dark haired woman.

She's wearing a coat today, her sleeves hidden, all her skin but her face hidden, the riot of color that Robin knows is there is covered, Robin has never been close enough to distinguish the pattern or design those tattoos depict, has only been able to see the royal purple and deep red splashed over both arms, deep verdant greens and bright orange, the rich colors clear even from far away, even through his front window. The black coat is cinched tightly around her waist; black hair shining brightly in the sun, a phone held to her ear and she is frowning, scowling, her brows drawn together, her lip curled in a twitching snarl, through the single pane of glass in his window Robin can hear her just as she stops before the old wooden door of the Apple Tree, "Leo, if you don't bring him back tonight I will call the police and have you arrested for kidnapping, do you hear me? You have no right to him at all, I have sole cus-"

"Robin," Granny calls from the register, mouth pursed in concentration and looking down at their schedule.

Robin hooks the wreath and turns away from the window, licking his lips and shaking his head, "What do you need, Granny?" He walks towards the old woman and does not wait to see the woman end her phone call and use here entire short little body to haul open the creaky wooden door.

Not minutes after the dark haired woman enters the tattoo place though, the music is turned down, just like every other day. Granny sighs, "Thank god for that woman," she rubs at the bridge of her nose, "Really Robin, we should file a noise complaint."

Robin smiles, going back to hanging his wreaths, "That seems a slight overreaction," he says.

"It'd be an excuse for you to talk to her at any rate," Granny grumbles, and when he turns to look at Granny she's pursed her lips at him, a knowing look in her eyes.

"Pardon?" Robin bites, though he heard her fine, she shakes her head.

"Nothing," she says with raised eyebrows that clearly say a lot more than nothing.

Roland talks and talks and talks the entire way back to the shop, back home, his tears from the morning nowhere in sight, he's happily buckled into his booster, chomping at a cheese stick and kicking his feet against the back of the passenger seat.

He stops mid-sentence to gasp, looking out the window at the play structure in the park as Robin maneuvers into a space, "Papa, Maria is in the park! Can I play with her? Please, please?"

Robin cuts the engine, twists to look out his son's window and sure enough his little friend is in the park, at the swings with her mother pushing her softly. Robin chuckles, unbuckles himself before opening his door and rounding the Jeep and doing the same for Roland.

"Lola!" Robin calls as he's turning his head to look back into the park, lifting Roland under the armpits and landing him safe on the sidewalk as he does, Maria and her mother both look up, waving, "Can the boy play with you in a bit?"

Lola nods, and Maria jumps from the swings, bouncing excitedly, her pigtails whipping wildly as she runs to the slide.

"You have to say hello to Granny first," Robin looks down to Roland, holding the boys hand as they cross the street to the flower shop.

The bells jangle, and Roland's sweet high voice is instant, "HI GRANNY," he belts out, not caring at all about the customer at the counter that he talks over. Roland looks up at Robin, imploring eyes, and Robin was always a sucker for those puppy eyes.

"Alright, now," Robin laughs, shaking his head at his boy's antics, Robin bends down and straightens out Roland's hoodie, zipping the zip closer to his chin, before pulling the Spiderman backpack from Roland's back, "finish your snack," Robin taps the cheese stick, and chuckles as Roland shoves the rest of it into his mouth.

"Can I go, Papa?" Roland asks around the cheese, holding the wrapper out to Robin, still with those puppy eyes. Robin takes the trash from the boy, fondly rubbing a hand at the top of Roland's curls as he straightens.

"Yes, be careful," Roland's out the door before Robin is even done speaking, leaving Robin chuckling and heading towards the back office.

"Am I gonna miss Song Time?" Roland asks, desperate, eyes huge.

Robin looks at the clock on the dash, looks in the rearview to see Roland for one second as he answers, "No, my boy, don't worry."

Roland nods, his hands clenching at the toy dinosaur he insisted he needed to bring with him today. "Are you sure? Papa, I'm not gonna miss it?"

They slow to a half at a red light, Robin turns in his seat, smiling at Roland reassuringly, "You're not going to miss Song Time, Roland, I promise."

Roland nods again, looking out the window at the world, that toy triceratops held tightly in his hands.

They arrive at the preschool with minutes to spare, the last to show up, but they are on time. Roland kisses Robin on the cheek, an exaggerated 'mmwwuh' leaving his tiny mouth before he's jogging to the hook with his name written above it, hanging up his bag and his little jacket. His dimples are deep as he jogs to his little friends, humming excitedly, practically skipping to his classmates.

Mary-Margaret waves and smiles, occupied with another parent. Robin does not wait for her to come to him.

The day passes much the same as any other, bouquets' sold, floral arrangements for another wedding finalized, wreathes for a funeral made, the day passes.

The dark haired women with the colorful sleeves doesn't go to the tattoo parlor that day, Robin doesn't notice that he notices, until Granny throws a pencil at him as he's staring out the window. Robin clears his throat, ignores the look that Granny is throwing him.

Robin and Granny grit their teeth through the muffled music that drifts through the windows and wall.

"Hello, Marian," Robin says, placing the roses down upon the grass at the base of her headstone.

The wind blows cold over the graveyard, Robin shivers, hands retreating to his pockets, his eyes dig and dig, rereading her name, Marian Locksley, her epitaph, The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

Robin bites his bottom lip, turns away from the granite slab, his throat bobs, he used to speak to her grave, to her headstone, a year ago, right after she passed, he would come and sit for hours and speak about his day, as if they were sitting down to dinner. He doesn't do that anymore, doesn't share his days with her as if she were still alive, because that was not healthy; he'd been told that was not healthy.

He visits his wife every Friday, Friday was their date day, a picnic alone at lunch, or a concert in town in the night, Friday was always their day to share and love and remember the fun they could have with each other. Robin visits her every Friday, and leaves a bouquet of roses, her favorite was always red, deep, dark red, nearly purple, he brings a dozen every Friday. They get stolen, he is sure, he never sees any evidence of them being there at all when he comes with a new bouquet.

"Roland's doing well," Robin nearly whispers, looking about, as if to find Archie with his sympathetic frown, the therapist there to reprimand him, to remind him it's not healthy to pretend Marian can speak back to him. Robin lets out a quiet breath, looking once more to her name, written in cursive, Marian Locksley. "I'll bring him to see you next time, would you like that?" Robin clears his throat, taking a step back, she can't answer, he knows that, he shakes his head and stares and stares, in silence, the graveyard empty but for him.

The morning after that Roland is again late, Robin opens the door and nearly trips as Roland dashes past his legs, they open the door in the middle of Song Time. Roland strips his backpack off himself and lets it drop to the carpet without a look back, he jumps in and begins to sings the last half of the song with the other children. Robin bends and grabs the backpack, he puts it and Roland's lunchbox on the little boy's labeled hook on the wall and steadfastly refuses to look at the disappointment Mary-Margaret will have in her huge eyes.

He'll try better tomorrow, Robin promises in his own head, promises Roland. Promises Marian.

"Can I play with Maria in the park?" Roland asks, tugging at Robin's hand, he'd been coloring in the office, but now he's at Robin's side, looking up at him pleadingly.

Robin turns away from the customer that stands before the counter, he smiles down at Roland and tips his head back to the office, "Grab you jacket," Robin says, and that ache beside his heart throbs as Roland smiles, dimples and teeth and joy, the boy turns and runs back into the office.

"How old is he?" the customer asks, a man looking for flowers a very exact shade of pink.

"Four," Robin says, crouching to zip the jacket Roland has thrown on, Robin tips Roland's chin up, "Be careful, when Maria and her Mommy are done playing you come back here."

Roland nods, he's practically vibrating, biting his lips he is so excited about spending time with his little friend, Robin is so happy that his boy can be so happy.

He swats Roland on the bum and shoos him off, "Go on, boy."

"Thank you, Papa!" he calls, using all his weight to pull the door open, he was across the store in seconds, the bells jangle and jangle.

"How about thi-" Robin is gesturing to a display, hoping this will be the elusive pink this man needs, when the sound of screeching tires fills the air. The screech of tires, a huge crash, metal against metal and then there is screaming, urgent hollering after a high pitched cry filled with awful pain. Robin stops, not even breathing, eyes widening, he can see through the lettering on his front windows, a red SUV pressed shoulder to shoulder against a parked van on the other side of the street. No air is making it into his lungs, Roland, Robin thinks, taking a lurching step around the counter, the man is talking, it's like a buzz in Robin's ear, Roland, who'd left the flower shop seconds ago, seconds, to go play with his friend across the street at the park.

"No," Robin gasps, and things speed back up, too fast. He pelts across the shop, flings the door back.

"Roland!" he screams, torn from his lungs, desperate and terrible, it was only seconds ago, seconds, and Roland, all Robin has left, no, oh god, Robin can't breathe.

Robin runs into the road, his heart thudding in his chest painfully as he searches for a dark head of curls, looks for a little body thrown and bloodied and broken laying upon the ground, Roland no, god, Robin pushes a man out of the way, no time even for an apology.

Roland crashes into Robin's legs.

A great whooping breath of relief gushes into Robin's mouth before a wail barks out, he picks Roland up under the armpits, tears he had not noticed falling freely down his face, Robin flings the crying boy up into his arms, "Roland, oh god, Roland," Robin cries, crushing the boy to him.

The boy is sobbing.

Robin's heart is still pounding, holding Roland safe against his chest, Robin looks about the scene. Looks at the SUV, looks as people gather, and he hears a voice, just a pedestrian, a women with shopping bags in her hands, "She saved that little boy," she's saying to someone just walking up.

Robin turns to look at the SUV, glass crunching under his boots as he walks closer, Roland still sobbing in his arms.

"Is she alri-"

"-id you see, it hit her after sh-"

"-under there, oh my god, call an ambu-"

There is a woman under the SUV, one hand and half her forearm sticking out of it, a tattooed arm, deep purples and verdant green, colors under the blood, there is blood there on her thin wrist, the rest of her is hidden under the large car, hidden by metal. Robin holds his sobbing son close to him, crushing the boy to his chest as Roland heaves desperate breaths against Robin's neck.

The woman, Robin blinks, looking at that bloodstained wrist, he takes another step closer, and sees the deep red ink in her arm, as if from far away, like this is a dream, a nightmare, Roland still held to his chest, he notices that they are roses, deep red roses colored and drawn into her skin.

Robin hears sirens, streets away, the sirens are no match for the shrill cry that comes from the redhead, Robin turns to look at her, she stands frozen at the door of the Apple Tree, blue eyes impossibly wide, emotions Robin had never imagined on her pinched face playing over her features, anguish, panic, awful and desperate fear, "Regina!" the redhead screams, moving forward, lurching, she bats away the arm the blonde behind her tries to hold her back with. The redhead rushes past Robin, broken glass crunching under her shoes, it must bite into her knees as she falls down on them, she's down on her belly then, sliding half under the car, "Regina, sis, little sis! Regina!"

"Hey, be careful," the blonde follows after, kneels next to the redhead and curves her spine to look under the SUV. The blonde's entire demeanor changes in an instant as she peers under the SUV, her voice soothing, "Hey, it's gonna be okay, okay? You're doing so great, just stay calm, hey, talk to me, hey-" she reaches out and clasps the limp hand lying on the concrete.

The woman is awake under there, under all the metal, Robin falls to his knees too, the broken glass biting through his jeans, Roland's grip around his neck tightening, his sobs no less loud. The sirens are closer, a police car pulls in at the top of the road as Robin bends and angles himself and tries to look at the woman under the SUV, she's bloodied, wearing black, he can barely see her between the redhead and the blonde, the only thing he can see clearly at all is the forearm of her, the tattooed arm, the red are roses, he sees now.

The redhead is sobbing, reaching under the car and touching the woman's face, Regina's face softly, "Open your eyes, little sis, look at me."

Her eyes do open, dark eyes, open halfway, "the boy," she breathes out, as her sister caresses the side of her face.

The blonde turns then, hair long and hanging limply as she looks and finds Roland sobbing in Robin's arms not steps away, "You saved him," she turns back to the woman under the car, the blonde squeezes the hand she's holding, it does nothing in return, "You saved the little boy, Regina."

DISCLAIMER: Never ever mine