Homeless AU "You gave me a dollar every day for three years and now I had a bit of luck, I have a job and I really want to pay you back."

It happens everyday, down to the minute, 7:12 am on the morning train that heads north into the bank district, and again at 6:08pm on the return trip home. Through the bustle of the crowds that pay no attention to the poor person, who sits against the third column with an empty crumpled up Boston Red Sox hat on the floor, not a single pair of eyes linger for longer than a disgusted grunt or worse, a pitiful stare. Those are like ice daggers. The sad longing glances and downturned lips as they pass by, not giving anything more than a quarter.

All except one person. The one who walks by at 7:12am to work, a job that surely pays well enough for expensive clothes and nice shoes, and returns at 6:08pm, clearly on their way home to a warm home, a decent meal and a family who eagerly waits. Every single day they walk by, drop a dollar into the dirty hat and bid a good morning. For three years since this underground tunnel has become a new home away from the harsh weather changes of the outside world. It's a dollar in the morning and the smell of dark roasted coffee in a stainless steel mug, and a dollar in the evening with a small smile.

Why they did was unknown. Who gives a homeless person a consistent amount of money for seven hundred and eighteen days. There had been a good week last year around thanksgiving they had been absent, probably on some wonderful vacation to Mexico or Bora Bora. And a very long nearly two and a half week stretch this past summer. Hunger had been rampant without the reliable $2.00 a day that could afford a single muffin at bakery down the road. Gratefully the owner, an older lady with grey curling hair and steel grey blue eyes had a soft enough heart to let the extra thirty-nine cents be waved off.

It had become somewhat of a strange routine. Waking up to the first rumble of the 5:30am train and the clicking of far too expensive shoes and mindless chattering of people who walked right by, holding steaming mugs of coffee and breakfast sandwiches that surely would have cost at least eight bucks. And then the clock would tick by slowly toward 7:10 am, the third train coming into the tunnel and there they would be. Walking with such purpose, poise and a smile as another dollar for the day was tossed in. They'd say good morning to each other, share some sort of strange eye contact that only held longer as each week passed by, and then they'd be gone, off to save the world like some sort of superhero only they could possibly be.

Three years.

Fourteen hundred and thirty six dollars in single dollar bills had traded from a generous hand to a desperate one.

And three years later, her hands are shaking as though she's been tasered by the police again as she stands in front of a solid oak door with a silver number 23 glistening in the barely rising sun. It is far too early for her to even be here, 6:02am. But from what she's been able to read about this man, where he lives in the suburbs of Portland, a ridiculously named place called Happy Valley, she figures that is he catches the 7:12 train, it would take at least 20 minutes to drive by transport to the nearest station, and he always looks fresh out of the shower, and impeccably dressed. So she's betting that hopefully he wakes up around 5:45am? To god damn early for her, but it's truly her only chance to do this.

There is only a single light on that she can see, and not much noise to be heard beyond the door. And still she can't fathom knocking just in case there are sleeping children inside. It's all memories of Henry at four years old and the absolute terror that boy could be if he was woken before he wished. But those days are long gone, and her gut knots tightly at the son she lost all those years ago to leukemia. A brutal disease that her brave little boy had fought tooth and nail against every step of the way. Through bone marrow transplants and blood infusions, he would squeeze her hand, wearing his batman pajama shirt and tell her it was going to be okay, he'd get better this time.

That was her life. Living in a hospital as her four year old comforted her through his own treatment like a soldier. He'd caught a flu, some stupid virus that snuck into his lungs and wreaked havoc on his already depressed immune system. That had been it. After sixteen months of back and forth ups and downs, her prince was resting in heaven with his father.

Her entire world spiralled after that. Depression got ahold of her, tore her apart piece by piece, consuming every last shred of light in her world till all that was left was darkness. Darkness that lead to losing her job at the school, which turned into an inability to pay her bills, foreclosure on her home after the market crash, and when her own mother turned her away, she was forced to live on the streets, in an underground subway tunnel, sleeping next to the third column on bricks on the left hand side. For forty eight months it was her home, if it can even be called that. A place that smelled like damp water and sweat, buzzed with noise and ticking clocks, and her only source of company, four legged creatures who were revolted by the common public.

But life had a way of tilting on it's axis. One year after Henry died, to the exact date, that man walked by and tossed in a dollar. He'd smiled, dimpled and softly, wished her a good morning and carried on his way. Only to return ten hours and fifty four minutes later with another bill and a tip of his chin in goodbye. She began to rely on seeing him, the bright sky blue of his eyes, sandy blonde peppered beard, and perfectly combed dark brown hair, save for the piece that never seemed to stay in place right in front of his eyes. His Elvis curls she began to silently admire it as. Perhaps that's only because the musician up the stairs had been an impersonator of the deceased King, and it played in her mind most days.

Oddly enough the day the blue eyed man actually squatted down in front of her and offered her a coffee had been in the ninth month of their strange friendship, and he offered her a coffee whilst the smooth melody of Elvis sang behind them. The moment her eyes connected with his, the muffled crooning words "I can't help falling in love with you…" echoed in her brain.

She doesn't love, the guy. She has no idea who he is, aside from his name and address. And the fact he wears perfectly tailored suits and smells like a forest rolled him up and spit him out.

Robin Locksley. CEO of a tech company that specializes in some sort of outdoor wilderness gear that had absolutely taken off about five years ago thanks to a new design in filtering water with a travel camel pack. From what she's read, it's been rated as one of the top 100 inventions of the decade, and he named one of the most influential people of the decade. No wonder he can spare two dollars everyday.

And yet, for a guy who clearly isn't lacking in the financial department, his home is rather, well, ordinary. Just a two story brown copperstone brick style, with an oak door and truly not much else aside from the massive tree in the front yard that gentle sways a tire swing from one of its many branches.

Taking a breath, and tucking her hair behind her ears, she adjust her blazer, recently bought, not nearly as nice as the ones she seen him in, but it's better than the black zip up and grey tank she'd been living in previously. With one last tug on buttons that are already done up and a swipe of her dark denim jeans, an anxious breath blows out through her nose and she knocks, three times rather lightly. It's still obscenely early after all.

It takes a few moments before a light turns on behind the door, and she prays to the high heavens that it's him who answers the door in somewhat of an okay morning mood. Granted the guy never fails to be seen with a smile.

The knob clicks and twists and there he is.

His eyebrows arch curiously, with a soft "Good Morning."

Nerves hit her like a frieght train. For three years she's barely spoken a word to the man who changed her entire life, and she feels like a bloody mute standing on his stoop, gawking at the way his clean crisp white linen shirt frames his shoulders, tucked into a pair of navy blue dress pants and a brown leather belt. He looks like he's from some sort of magazine, being this close to him she can see the light peppering of grey in his dark blonde hair, the slight crinkles hugging bright blue eyes. How did she fail to notice how damn handsome the guy was?

"Can I help you with something?"

Their eyes lock and her throat runs dry.

"Hi." She mumbles out against the lump in her chest.

He chuckles, nods his head, "Hello."

"You probably don't know who I am. Well, I know you don't actually." She starts to ramble, but he steps out, bare feet and all, lands a hand on her forearm and smiles, "I do."

"You do?"

"You're the woman I see every morning on my way to work."

Well that is one way to put it she supposes. He knows she was the homeless person who he gave money too. Suddenly she feels rather shameful standing in front of him. Their lives so different, he clearly above her league.

"You look lovely by the way. Not that you don't always, but the jacket, it suits you."

She blushes.

"Thank you"

For a moment they simply stand there, with his hand still firmly placed on her arm, a warmth she hasn't felt in a really long time. She feels the way he is looking at her, curiously, a touch of ease in his eyes that travel across her face as he waits for her to speak.

"For three years you gave me a dollar, well two dollars really." She swallows, brushing back that stupid lock of hair that refuses to stay put. "I just wanted to say thank you."

He smiles, and his dimples deepen as he squeezes her arm. "You're welcome, though I feel as though I should have given you more. You were the first person I looked for every morning you know."

"I was?"

He nods, bites his bottom lip rather bashfully. It's cute. He is cute she decides. Very damn cute.

"You changed my life."

Their eyes connect once more, and something shifts in his gaze, something that looks strangely like understanding, though she can't fathom he had ever been homeless.

"Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?"

"Oh no, I couldn't. You need to get going if you're going to catch your train."

"Perhaps I'd like to take the next train for once. Change up the routine."

Her eyebrows crease together confused as to why he would do such a thing. "I haven't had breakfast yet either anyway. Roland and I are making pancakes."

"Roland?"

"My son."

Her heart clenches tight in her chest. The memory of her own little boy elbow deep in waffle batter and chocolate chips swirls into her mind.

"We always make extra and it is Friday after all."

"What does Friday have to do with making too many pancakes?"

He laughs, lets go of her arm, the warmth tingling in his palm's absence, "Nothing if I am being truthful. But I honestly would just like to get a chance to talk to you. Properly."

"Why?"

"Well we've known each other for three years now, and I don't even know if you take sugar or cream in your coffee. Doesn't seem like I've been very good in our friendship if you ask me."

"Friendship?"

"I'd like to hope so. I want to get to know you, Regina."

The sound of her name on his lips steals her breath away. It had only been one time that she told him her name. Just once, nearly a year ago, and he remembered it. And she hasn't had a friend in a very, very long time. Strange as their start may have been, perhaps it's all about timing.

"One sugar, no cream."

At her answer Robin beams, lets out a relieved breath and nods, "Noted. And trust me, Roland will insist you eat a stack of his famous pancakes, blueberries, syrup and whip cream loaded."

He opens the door, allowing her to step in, but her feet are frozen to the spot as her heart thumps erratically in her chest. It feels so strange and yet so natural wanting to go inside and have breakfast with this man and his son.

"Is something wrong?" He turns, tipping his head to the side questioningly as to why she stands there like a statue, staring at him as though he is a mirage. "You don't have to eat the pancakes if you don't want too."

"It's not that, I actually love them." She huffs out a tearful chuckle.

He steps back towards her, thumbing away a stray fallen tear, "Then what is is?"

"I just can't believe you want to be friends, or that you even remember me."

His hand falls to lace into one of her own, his eyes dropping for a moment from hers as he chews on his cheek shyly, tracing his thumb over her knuckles before looking up again.

"I doubt I'd ever forget meeting you."

FIN.