Once Upon a Time 1. Chapter 1

_Written for the lovely broadwaybaggins in fulfillment of her OQ Civil War AU prompt. I hope you enjoy it. :)_

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They'd barely gotten him from the barn to the house, her muscles straining to pull him across the ground still muddy from the day's rain, a thick mud that sloshed into her boots and splattered across her worn petticoat, mud that would take more time than she had to scrub from her son's pants, frayed as they were at the hem. But he—this man, this stranger now lying in her spare bed, had been far dirtier than either she or Henry had ever dreamed of being.

And he'd been injured. Badly injured.

He had evidently passed out in her barn while she and Henry had been eating their dinner, his presence terrifying her son when he'd gone to check on the old milk cow they guarded with every means they possessed. The boy had run back to the house screaming for her, making her half-fear a band of deserters had happened upon them, and God knows what could happen if that were the case. Women were raped, boys were conscripted, and she'd die before she let either outcome happen to her or her son. She'd grabbed Daniel's rifle and had torn out into the cold drizzle, only to find a lone soldier lying unconscious, sprawled out awkwardly on the hay.

And a Confederate soldier, at that. What in God's name was she supposed to do with him?

She'd done the only thing she knew to do, dragging him through the muck and into the warmth of their home, heaving him on to the bed, straining her back, muddying sheets, making the room smell of pig shit, unwashed man and the remnants of battle.

"Is he dead?" Henry had asked, and she'd shaken her head, feeling a pulse in his neck, watching his chest rise and fall beneath layers of the enemy's uniform.

"Not yet," Regina had answered, brandishing her best shears to cut away what she couldn't unfasten, stripping him unceremoniously from the waist up, tossing the foul smelling garments into a dark corner of the room. "But there are no guarantees."

She sensed her son holding his breath in expectation.

She'd examined the man as best she could, suspecting blood loss and exhaustion had finally drawn this poor soldier under, praying infection hadn't already begun to set in on a wound that still looked somewhat fresh. Henry had brought her a basin of hot water as instructed, and she'd done her best to clean the man up, scrubbing layers of filth caked on to his skin, cleansing dried blood gently so as to not aggravate the gaping wound on his shoulder.

"I need my kit," she instructed, prying into the torn flesh once his ragged shirt had been removed, eliciting an actual groan from the soldier. That's when she felt it, there, just under her fingers, slippery and cool, immersed in blood and muscle. A bullet. Damn it, she'd have to get that out of him immediately—there was no question. "And your father's whisky, Henry. You know where that is, right?"

Henry nodded, his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets, and he dashed from the dimly lit bedroom towards an underground storage bin, hidden from prying eyes by a hooked rug and solid table. He returned with a bottle and a worn bag, one she guarded with her life, one filled with herbs and tools she had inherited from her father, much to her mother's chagrin.

"It's shameful, a young woman being more interested in practicing medicine than wooing a husband," her mother had chastised repeatedly, doing everything within her power to pry Regina from her father's side and to thrust her into Philadelphia society.

But it hadn't worked. And when Regina had actually eloped with the son of a farmer, her mother had disowned her all together.

"I need the whiskey first," she instructed, unwilling to remove her fingers from the bullet and risk losing its location. Henry carefully opened the bottle, the scent of it hitting her hard, and she had to keep her hands from trembling as thoughts of her late husband wafted over emotions already teetering on the brink.

"Forgive me, Daniel," she whispered, pouring a generous amount directly on to the soldier's wound. "It's for a good cause." She watched the man grimace, his light brown beard twitching as his brow creased in discomfort.

"That should help ward off infection," she breathed as Henry moved to the bedside, staring at the Confederate in overt curiosity. "But he really needs a doctor."

The boy gaped in her direction.

"Won't Doc Hamilton report him?" Henry asked, his tone somewhere between a whisper and a plea. "He's a Rebel, and you know how Doc feels about rebels."

Everyone within a thirty mile radius knew how Doc Hamilton felt about rebels, she mused, but she couldn't judge the man too harshly, not when the Confederate Army had killed the physician's only son.

"He could be put in prison," Henry continued, clearly distressed by the idea. "And I think he'd die there. Don't you. Mama?"

She exhaled loudly, tugging a damp strand of wayward hair behind her ear as she considered the words of her ten year old.

"He could die here," she stated, hating herself the moment the words left her mouth as the child's face crumpled before her eyes. She reached for Henry's hand, holding it firmly within her own, tugging him closer. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I know…"

"Pa died here," Henry cut in, drawing her gaze up quickly. "I know. I saw him."

Her eyes welled up, tears pressing their way through insistently, streaking down her face as she sniffed and blinked.

"I know how hard that was for you," Regina began, her voice splintering into a thousand pieces. "And I don't want you to have to see something like that again."

"There's a war, Mama," Henry returned, and she closed her eyes, trying to press out the horrible reality pressing in closer and closer with each passing moment. "People die all the time, and we can't do anything to stop it. But maybe we can save this one."

Her heart squeezed, her breath catching in her throat. This one. This one man. This one soldier who had managed to make his way to their barn and disrupt their evening, effectively placing his life in their hands.

There was no question of what had to be done.

"I'll need my tweezers," she managed, watching as a smile erupted across Henry's face. "You know how I clean them in the boiling water?"

"Yeah," he gushed. "I've watched you do it lots of times. Don't worry." He then ran from the room, her bag clutched under his arm, the echo of his shoes moving across the wooden floors sounding louder than normal to her ears.

"God help me," she breathed, her heart pounding sporadically, her throat suddenly the texture of saw dust. The man stirred just slightly at her words, and she stared at him, this one her son wanted her to save, this one with a wound she wasn't at all certain she could heal. Her fingers moved of their own accord towards his forehead, touching and feeling, learning the texture of his skin, reminding herself of his humanity, progressing into his wild forest of his hair. It was coarse and uncombed, she noted, not fine like Henry's, but thick and wiry and probably fair in color. Were his eyes blue or brown, she wondered, or green perhaps? Green like Daniel's….

His cheek then pressed into her touch, seeming to find a solace of sorts against the coolness of her palm, and her heart skipped a beat, this sign of life in one she'd been considering lost catching her off guard. God, she couldn't move, and her thumb ghosted a small trail over warm, stubbled flesh, wondering if he had a wife who loved him, perhaps a boy of his own who was waiting and hoping for his father to come home.

She drew her hand back as if she'd been burned when Henry's feet moved steadily back to the bedroom, carrying freshly sterilized tweezers carefully between a large pair of tongs along with a pitcher of fresh water. She took the instrument by its handle with her free hand, feeling the bullet's smooth and deadly surface between her index finger and thumb, rolling it between her digits, visualizing it in her mind.

She could do this. It was time.

"Wish me luck," she breathed, steadying herself as she dipped the instrument into torn flesh, securing and maneuvering with great care and precision, sweat beading across her forehead as she had to remind herself to breathe. It should have been easier than it was, she mused, but bodies followed their own set of rules, rules often blown to hell when ammunition and aggression came together in a lethal combination. She leaned back as she finally withdrew the cold intruder from his body, warmth gushing out from his wound as she laughed in spite of herself at this small victory.

"You did it, Mama!" Henry beamed, and she inhaled deeply for the first time since dinner, washing her hands in the fresh basin of water, digging into her bag for a needle and thread. "You really did it!"

"We did it," she corrected, flashing him a grin. "I couldn't have done it without your help."

He suddenly looked taller, more and more like his father with every passing day, and she swallowed down a lump in her throat, wishing with everything she had that Daniel could have seen him like this.

She poured more of the whiskey on the needle, stopping just before she began to stitch up his wound.

"We're not done yet," she said with a nod to her son. "Get me an empty glass. He may need a drink before I sew him up."

"But he's asleep," Henry noted, his expression scrunched in confusion.

"For now," she stated, arching a brow in his direction. "But he many not like it when I start administering stitches. The whiskey can help him stay asleep, Henry. If we can get it down him, that is." He turned on his heels to leave the room, nearly through the door when she suddenly called him back.

"And get me one of your Pa's shirts," she stated, her chin trembling as the words left her mouth, her chest muscles constricting of their own accord. "We'll need to make him a bandage."

Their eyes locked, a silent understanding bridged in the candlelight, and the boy nodded once, setting out on his mission with a determination that reminded her of his father. The father he'd lost far too soon. The man she still wept over silently into her pillow.

"Forgive me, Daniel," she sighed again as she stared at the nearly empty bottle. "It's been one hell of a night."

Getting whiskey down the soldier's throat proved nearly as difficult as removing the bullet from his shoulder, his dead weight difficult to manage, his refusal to swallow spilling alcohol across sheets that already bore the stench of war. But they finally got several gulps down his throat and reclined him back gently, Regina's arms trembling from the effort as Henry stepped back to survey the sleeping man.

"You may want to scoot back," she warned her son. "In case he moves or jerks when he shouldn't."

"I can help hold him down," Henry argued, moving in closer. "I'm not a child anymore."

She opened her mouth to protest but stopped herself, knowing some children his age served as drummer boys for the army and faced the perils of battle on a regular basis.

"You're right," she agreed. "You're a young man now. But you'll have to be strong to do this."

"I'll always be strong for you, Mama," he answered with a shrug. "You should know that by now."

His smile made her warm, even as her heart ached to the point of pain.

"Alright then," she managed, swallowing back a fresh surge of tears. "Let's get to work."

She stitched and bandaged without incident, the soldier sleeping soundly throughout the procedure, thank God. She was worn and weary from both emotional and physical exertion, her fingers cramping, her neck catching at odd angles, her lids drooping stubbornly just as she completed her task.

"You should go to bed, Henry," she yawned after snipping the thread now binding marked flesh, wondering how in God's name her son was still standing. "I'll stay in here with him."

He began to protest, but she raised a hand, letting him know that further resistance would prove futile. He sighed and kissed her cheek, walking towards his bedroom, stretching his arms as he went, leaving her with the slumbering soldier now wearing a sling fashioned from one of her late husband's shirts.

One hell of a night, indeed.

She sat on the edge of the bed in the silence, hearing the sounds of the night just outside her window, wondering why death was always so ever present in a world brimming with life.

"I hope you appreciate this," she muttered under her breath, intending to move from the bed to the large chair in the corner to pass the night. She couldn't exactly leave the man unattended, both for his own safety as well as hers and Henry's. She knew nothing about him, for God's sake. He could be a thief, a swindler, a murderer, even, and she eyed him warily, wrinkling her nose at him in defiance. "I'm giving up my bed for you, Mr. Confederate, and my back is already unhappy with me for what I've put it through tonight. It will probably hate me come morning because of you."

He turned his head just so, his lips muttering something she couldn't make out, and her heart started pounding in an erratic fashion in time with her head. She leaned in closer, drawn in by a curiosity she couldn't explain, wondering if she'd simply heard the mutterings of a delusional man.

"Did you say something?" she questioned, her breath catching as eyes tried to flutter and his head moved back and forth. "Are you trying to say something to me?"

Then his good hand grabbed her wrist, and she jumped, biting back a scream as weary eyes blinked open, attempting to focus on her face. They were blue, she noted, or as best she could tell in the dim light, and the red whelp on his face somehow stood out all the more as his eyes creased in her direction.

"What is it?" she whispered, leaning down as close as she could, feeling both panic and elation at the strength of his grip. "Do you need something?"

He shook his head slowly and licked his lips, and she reached for a glass of water, pulling her other arm free from his grasp, tipping his head up so he could drink, setting it back down as he eased back on to the pillow. He was fighting to keep his eyes open, she noticed, and she smoothed his hair with her hand, watching the lines of his forehead soften at her touch.

"Thank you," he managed, his voice cracked and hollow, freezing her limbs to their spot and making her insides tremble. Then his face relaxed as his breathing deepened, and her mouth dropped open in silent shock, her tongue suddenly too thick for her mouth.

"You're welcome," she finally breathed, taking his hand within her own, stroking the rough skin with a rhythm that became automatic, sitting with him until her own body gave up, and she collapsed into a slumbering heap beside him.


	2. Chapter 2

He slept for two days.

It was a fevered sleep, one interrupted by cries of terror and body spasms that made her fear he might be seizing at irregular intervals. But he settled on his own, in spite of hot skin and gray, scaly lips. His speech was broken and unintelligible when it would come, yet the strength of his grip always surprised her, especially when she would lay a cool cloth on his forehead and murmur words of comfort into his ear.

_You're safe here. Rest so you can regain your strength and go home to your family._

His lips worked, yet no sound came out, and she couldn't help but wonder if he was trying to thank her again. So she breathed more words of encouragement, telling him that everything was alright, even though it wasn't, even though she was certain that if he had the wherewithal to understand her, he would have to know enough to realize that his circumstances were as far from alright as they could possibly be. Yet no matter his state of delirium or sleep, his face would lean into her palm, seeking comfort, finding some sort of solace, making her ache for another man lost to her for too many years.

He seemed to particularly like it when she read to him, whether the words came from Daniel's prized volume of Keats, her recently acquired copy of _A Tale of Two Cities_ or their worn family Bible.

_I will lift mine eyes to the hills..._the words from her favorite Psalm brought an actual name to his lips, one voiced with reverence and urgency that pulled her eyes from the crinkled page straight to his face.

_Marian._

Her heart stilled in her chest.

His wife, she reasoned, or perhaps the name of his betrothed. She wondered if the woman was alive or deceased, if she'd given him children, if she kept a prayer vigil even as Regina sat with the scriptures open upon her lap. Were these very words penned by David centuries ago being uttered by another set of lips, being worn as a shawl of comfort by a desperate would-be widow hoping against all odds that her lover would return unharmed and alive? Had she pressed a flower he'd picked for her between the pages of her Bible as a token of remembrance? Did she dream about him nightly, falling asleep with his name on her tongue, waking up to the cold reality of an empty bed?

If only prayer vigils restored life with the same expediency that war and disease destroyed it.

Forcing water and broth down his throat at regular intervals was no small feat, the pillow absorbing more than the soldier's body in spite of her and her son's continued prompting.

"Come on, mister. You aren't allowed to die now that you're in our house. Mama won't allow it."

She forced a smile to mask the reality that her boy had already seen too much death in his short lifetime.

"Drink. Drink so you can get better-so you can go back to your family and see them again."

She was almost certain that he'd whispered _I'll try. _

But in spite of small successes, his fever continued to climb throughout the day, making her wonder if she'd missed another problem in her haste to remove the bullet from his shoulder. A good doctor must be thorough, her father had taught her, never one to make assumptions when the body was full of mysteries, wonders, and layer upon layer of misleading symptoms.

She could only pray her assumptions hadn't doomed this one man to death. God help her if they had.

Henry helped her cut away what remained of his clothing as the sun began to sink, leaving him in the barest of essentials so they could wash his body and try to cool his heated skin. War had marked him, leaving trails of scratches and flea bites that were painful to the naked eye, but she continued to strip him of his Confederate garments, somehow making him far more human and achingly vulnerable to her eyes in the process. Under the enemy uniform, he was simply a man, a man of flesh, bone and blood-a man like her father. A man like Daniel.

It was then they discovered the leg wound.

It was raw and black, the stench partially masked by filth and bandages nearly overpowering when it was laid bare before their eyes. The gash ran from his ankle to just below his kneecap, the angry, red streaks emanating from it sending a cold rush of alarm all over her.

"Go and fetch Doc Hamilton, Henry. Now."

The boy offered no argument this time.

The doctor arrived nearly an hour later, bringing with him the surgical tools Regina had instructed her son to memorize and quote with accuracy. The older man stepped into the bedroom, his face reacting before his lips even moved.

"We can't save that leg if we want to save him."

It was exactly what she had feared. The room swayed beneath her feet.

"Can we save him?"

A husky exhale emerged from the doctor's bearded face, the words that followed weighted and hollow.

"I don't know. But it's the only chance he's got."

The unfairness of life struck her soundly in the gut.

She moved towards the soldier's side, reaching down to stroke his cheek, his fevered state hitting far too close to home.

"You have to keep fighting," she insisted, leaning in closer than necessary, hoping her proximity would somehow brand her words into his subconscious. "For Marian." He squirmed beneath her touch, his face thrashing from side to side before leaning into her touch.

_Marian._

His voice was broken, raspy from disuse, but the strength of his emotion was unmistakable.

"I'm here," she stated, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue even as the lines on his face relaxed. "You have to keep fighting. Don't give up." Doc Hamilton shot her a look she couldn't read. It was probably best to ignore it anyway.

Water was boiled, instruments were cleaned, and some blankets placed underneath the soldier's lower body while Henry deftly tore others into makeshift bandages.

"You should wait in the barn, Henry," she stated as her own stomach rebelled. "This isn't going to be pretty."

"I know. But I think I'll stay all the same. I want to pray for him."

"God can hear your prayers just as well from the barn," she assured him, burying her fingers into brown waves desperately in need of a trim.

"I don't know, Mama. Charlotte can get awfully noisy when she's upset, and I wouldn't want a cow to drown out my prayers before God can get them."

How could she refuse her son the opportunity to talk to God?

As it turned out, things were noisy enough in the house to block the prayers of the entire state of Pennsylvania. Whiskey had been generously poured down the man's throat, and he'd been strapped to the bed as best they could manage, both Regina and the doctor knowing that an amputation wouldn't be taken lightly by the one receiving it. Even if he was unconscious when they began the ghastly procedure, the odds of him remaining so when the cutting began was highly unlikely. She ended up practically sitting on his torso to keep him still, his cries of agony making spots swim in front of her eyes.

"Hold on," she'd practically screamed as he attempted to thrust her off of his body. "You can do this-I know you can." He bucked and yelled until his body went completely limp beneath her.

"Thank God," Doc Hamilton breathed . "His being unconscious will make sewing him up a hell of alot easier." He then handed her a rag to wipe her face as she sniffed and tried to catch her breath. She hadn't realized she'd been crying until that moment.

Her tears were mixed with blood not her own, blood now splattered all over her in a grotesque, crimson pattern that whispered war into marrow and bone. It made her feel that he was now a part of her, that she was now marked by him, responsible for his survival even though she bore no responsibility for his injuries.

Damn it all. She didn't need that in her life right now. Being responsible for Henry and a struggling farm was more than enough. A dying soldier just….

No. She couldn't think of him like that. As long as he breathed, he was a living man, a person with a soul and a future, a human who deserved a second chance at life, even if that chance had been denied to her husband.

_Help me, Daniel. Please. Help him._

The room smelled of blood mixed with severed infection, sweat, and what she suspected was urine. Who could blame the man if he'd wet himself as a part of his body was hacked away, even if its gaps had been expertly sewn together after he'd passed out?

The fact that it was done to save his life made it no easier to stomach.

"I'm sorry," she'd whispered to him as Doc Hamilton cleaned up the room and the patient as best he could. "I'm so sorry it came to this." She held him to her as the older man stripped soiled sheets from under his unconscious form, awkwardly replacing them with a quilt she'd pulled out of her old hope chest, one hand-stitched by a grandmother she'd never known.

What would her mother say if she knew that very quilt now lay beneath a bloodied and dirty Rebel soldier, that her daughter's hands had extracted a bullet from heated flesh and that her legs had just straddled his torso while his lower leg was amputated?

Somehow within two days and two surgeries, the man's survival had become too important to both her and her son. Another death in the house was unacceptable.

_Don't you die on me._

She'd whispered those same words to Daniel, had begged him to live with everything she had. But his body hadn't had the strength to honor her request.

She hoped to God this one did.


	3. Chapter 3

Days passed with little to no response from the man Henry had taken to calling _Captain_, both as a nod to his rank and a need to call him something besides Mister. Regina supposed his deep sleep was a blessing, but she worried nonetheless, knowing that when he woke up-if he woke up-life for him would never be as it had been. A part of him had been permanently removed, cut away to allow for renewed life.

Of course, whose life remained unaffected by the hell being ravaged by one half of the nation upon the other? Had any American escaped the absolute devastation of this damned war?

She fell asleep in the chair beside his bed and dreamed of a life almost forgotten, one lived without a gaping hole in her soul, one in which Daniel still stood by her side and warmed her body. The ghost of his touch lingered on her skin, breaking through the realm of sleep, the rough tread of his fingertips branding themselves into her waking state until she realized they belonged to another man.

_Marian._

Not Daniel then. The soldier. Their Captain. She jerked upright and blinked in an attempt to focus.

"I'm here."

God forgive her for the mounting stack of lies piling up at her feet, lies given voice to prompt him to fight both infection and the lure of eternal sleep. But if believing his love was sitting here beside him, holding his hand, breathing words of life over a man barely clinging to its frays, then Marian she would be.

At least she would be until he was strong enough to know better.

Doc Hamilton came to check on him daily, bringing along an extra flask of whiskey on his first return trip along with a supply fresh bandages.

"He's a Rebel, isn't he?"

Her voice caught halfway up her throat, leaving a mute nod as her only option.

"Thought so," the older man continued. "He's a lucky bastard he wandered into your barn, Mrs. Mills. Not everyone around these parts would have acted in such a Christian-like manner."

She shuddered to think what Captain's fate would have been had he collapsed in the wrong barn.

"You aren't going to report him?"

Doc Hamilton paused, rubbing his white beard before adjusting his spectacles. He looked tired, she realized, tired and worn down by the horrors of war.

"After working so hard to save his life?" He chuckled then, accepting the small jar of honey she placed into his palm. "I'm a patriot, Mrs. Mills. Not a monster. I hope he makes it."

"So do I."

The doctor nodded slowly before seeing himself out.

Henry took to reading to their soldier as he slept, preferring to dwell in passages from the Gospels rather than the Psalms.

"You reckon if I pray hard enough I can multiply our food the way Jesus did the loaves and the fish?"

Her hands stilled while dressing still-angry wounds.

"It would be nice, wouldn't it?"

The boy grinned back at her, licking his lips as an overcast sky muted the light drifting in through the window.

"I'd start by multiplying your apple pie. It's my favorite."

She laughed softly, reaching over to rustle her son's hair, noting to herself that the boy could use a trim and a good bath.

"It was your father's favorite, too."

His nose scrunched, accentuating freckles beginning a slow fade with age.

"I remember, Mama."

"I'm glad, Henry."

She hoped he would never forget. There were times now when she had to concentrate in order to summon his features, when they would blur into a face she didn't recognize, one she tried to banish so it wouldn't taint what little she had left of him. It was bad enough she'd lost Daniel in life. To lose him in memory would be an entirely new sort of hell, one she feared she wouldn't survive.

Their Captain's first signs of life arrived in a sob, one that woke her from her slumped perch in the chair strategically placed beside his bed. His fingers fisted into her head, pulling at her scalp, seeking his lower left leg just where would have lain were it still attached to his body. She yelped as he tugged on her hair, feeling him release her as she stood and backed away.

"Where am I?"

Her heart's hammering drowned out his words.

"Where in God's name am I?" These words were shouted, thrown with a hard desperation that struck her head on.

"Pennsylvania," she answered, her breath still racing ahead of her. "Not far from Gettysburg."

Eyes silvered by the moon narrowed in fear.

"Who are you? And why am I here?"

She swallowed past the thickness in her throat, watching as he tried to take in the small bedroom in which he lay.

"You were injured," she began. "We found you in our barn…you'd fainted..."

"Who are you? Tell me who you are."

It was a command, not a request, one that robbed her lungs of air and left her dry-mouthed.

"She's my mom, and the person who saved your life."

Henry stood in the doorframe, his father's nightshirt nearly touching the floor, covering lanky legs to the point where only his feet stuck out.

"You saved my life?" His words were more of an accusation that an inquiry. She stepped forward, lifting her chin unconsciously.

"I did."

The man stirred, trying to push himself up into a sitting position, wincing as he did so, prompting Regina to move to his side. She propped his pillow up behind him, feeling him jerk away from her touch as he swore under his breath.

"Are you also the person who took my leg?"

She met his stare directly, smelling the palpable scent of fear that radiated from his body.

"No," she stated, willing herself not to blink. "But I held you down while the doctor did."

The lines on his face creased, his eyes blinking back tears his pride demanded be kept private.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, moving to offer him a drink of water as he coughed. "If he hadn't taken your leg, you'd be dead."

"Better dead than a cripple."

The soft lilt of his accent did little to take the sting from his words.

"That's not true," Henry cut in, his face scrunching in disagreement. "If my Pa were still alive, Mama and I wouldn't care if he couldn't walk. We'd just be happy to have him back."

The man refused to meet Henry's eyes, staring at blankets that couldn't conceal what was missing.

"You say that now, boy. But caring for an invalid would grow old after a while."

Anger surged up from pits of exhaustion and fear, making her tremble with a force that almost frightened her.

"You've obviously never lost anyone you'd do anything to bring back."

His stare sliced her with precision.

"I lost my wife five years ago. My father died when I was thirteen, and I've watched countless men fall into pools of their own blood, some of them not even old enough to sprout a beard." He paused, inhaling harshly as he pushed himself up as tall as he could manage. "Don't presume to tell me that I don't understand loss."

Her spine straightened another notch as her own eyes narrowed in retaliation.

"Don't you presume to give me orders in my own home."

She'd ushered Henry out of the room with a flounce.

"He's hurting, Mama," Henry had reminded her just before he set out towards the barn. "Don't be too hard on him."

"He's not the one I'll be hard on if there's not fresh milk on the table in a few minutes." Henry shook his head as he shrugged and walked out the door.

When she later returned to the bedroom, their captain hadn't moved. She walked to his bedside, lips tightly fastened, his silence as telling as her own. She felt his forehead, measured his pulse, noted the nearly empty glass of water sitting by his bedside.

"So you decided to drink," she grudgingly observed, wiping a strand of fallen hair from her forehead. He shrugged, studying her in a manner she found disconcerting.

"I was thirsty."

"Oh."

Her gaze faltered first.

"You never told me your name," he uttered, his tone softer yet still tinged with assumed authority. She continued to straighten his blanket, tucking it in around a body he now considered disfigured.

"That's because if you're going to curse me for saving your life, I'd rather you keep my name out of it."

He sighed in a mixture of frustration and shame.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his expression still dull. "Especially for acting that way in front of your boy. My behavior was inexcusable."

"Yes," she said, standing up tall and straightening her worn skirt. "It was." He swallowed, fisting the quilt that covered his stump with a grimace. "But it's also understandable."

He stared down at where his leg should be.

"And it's Regina," she added, trying to distract him before he tumbled back into a pit of melancholy.

He looked at her directly then, his eyes more gray than blue.

"Regina," he echoed, testing the name on his tongue. "I'm Robin."

Robin. She nodded. It suited him somehow.

"We've been calling you Captain," she volunteered. "Henry wanted to be able to call you something besides Mister in his prayers."

"He prayed for me?"

The surprise on his face was genuine, yet his entire body deflated when she nodded, and he sank into the bed, allowing the quilts and mattress to swallow what parts of him they could before turning his face towards the wall. "He should have saved his breath."

Anger welled up again, hot and anxious to surface.

"He didn't consider it a waste."

"That's because he's a child."

"A child who knows the value of life," she shot back. "Something you seem to have forgotten." She then turned on her heels and started to walk out of the room, fuming at the death wish he seemed to harbor, pressing back the sting of angry tears. How dare he value his leg over the woman whose name had escaped his lips in the throes of fever and pain? How dare he think death a better option when her Daniel had been given no choice in the matter?

"Was it the war?"

Her feet froze in place before her mind could catch up.

"Was what the war?"

"That took your husband from you?"

His words flew at her, stabbing her in several places at once, making her wince as she took a step back.

"No," she breathed, straightening her spine. "Smallpox. Nearly killed Henry, too."

The words gushed from her until they stopped, those that escaped pooling at her feet in a tide of memories she'd rather forget.

"I'm glad he lived-your Henry."

"So am I."

She left him then.

It was the crash that brought her running back nearly an hour later, only to find Robin sprawled across the floor, muttering obscenities that ceased the moment Henry bounded into the bedroom.

"What are you doing?" she cried, kneeling to work her way under his shoulder, hoisting his arm around her neck. The sweat of exertion dampened his shirt and skin, mixing his own scent with the mustiness of a garment preserved, calling forward memories of Daniel and a most inopportune time.

"Trying to stand," he answered through gritted teeth, muscles tensing within her grasp. Sweat dripped from his nose as Henry took a matching position to hers on his opposite side, helping Robin place his good leg under his body to give them extra leverage. He cried out as they moved, whether from the pain in his shoulder or his leg she couldn't tell. It was probably a combination-God knew his body had been through more than the Creator had intended, and they nearly collapsed back to the floor in the process of standing, a combination of grit and sheer stubbornness keeping the three of three of them upright.

"If you need something, ask. Henry and I can help you."

He was panting when they finally sat him on the edge of the bed, his teeth bared and clenched.

"I have to relieve myself, Miss Regina," he managed, shame coloring his face a shade of crimson that matched her mother's prized tulips. "Something for which I'd rather not have to ask for your assistance."

His mortification deflated her ire on contact. She nodded, her eyes locking with her son's, avoiding Robin's .

"I understand," she stated, unwinding her body from under his wounded shoulder as carefully as she could. "I'll step out and let Henry help you." His wince was pronounced but controlled, and she wondered if the gesture was for Henry's sake or for her own. She brought the bedpan to the edge of the bed, moving to exit only after receiving a smile of reassurance from her son.

"I'd prefer to do this in private, if you don't mind. There's no need for young Henry to stay behind."

The prospect of a child helping him urinate was as painful as the notion of her doing so, it would seem.

"It's risky," she returned. "You could fall again-"

"Please, Miss Regina. I need to do this."

He stared back at her, his eyes the color of a stormy sea straining to skim a shore just out of reach. She swallowed, fighting down an instinctive urge to straighten his hair, to touch his cheek, to let herself simply feel the flesh of a living man, even if it didn't belong to the man whose memory reached out to her in the form of her ten year old son. Hands fisted into the folds of her skirt in an effort to keep them in their place.

"Alright," she agreed. "Just yell if you need anything. Don't try to do too much all at once."

"I don't think there's any danger of that," he stated, gesturing to his bandaged stump.

No. She supposed that there wasn't.

She'd been out of the room all of three minutes when all hell broke loose.

He'd slipped, fallen directly into the side table and bumped his head, managing to slosh urine out of the bedpan all over the floor and himself in the process. The room stank, and she had to bite her lower lip to keep from cursing in front of her son, but it was Robin's cry of fury that had scorched both her skin and spirit. She'd banned Henry from the room once they managed to get him back on the bed, instructing her son to heat water for a bath while she checked his shoulder and leg thoroughly.

"Are you alright?"

His jaw tightened until she feared it might snap.

"What do you think?"

He was baiting her, calling her out for his tragedy, a game she wasn't willing to play when she was about to clean up a floor wet with his piss.

"I think you're lucky you didn't hurt yourself any worse than you did."

He coughed, yet refused the water glass she tried to press into his hand.

"Lucky." The word bore the sting of a curse.

Robin was fine. Disgraced in his own mind, but physically fine. Angry at himself, at the war, her, Doc Hamilton and God only knew who and what else, but alive and breathing, although he was going to sport a nasty bruise just above his left eye.

She'd bathed him as best she could, mopping a sponge over scarred skin, keeping her gaze carefully detached even as he winced under her touch.

"Leave me," he'd uttered to the wall after she helped him dress. The bastard couldn't even summon up a word of thanks for all of the extra work she'd just put in for his benefit, couldn't even spare a modicum of gratitude that she was letting him wear some of Daniel's old clothes.

So she left him. And he didn't speak for days.


	4. Chapter 4

Robin's silence angered Regina more than his defiance, and the fact that it was accompanied by a surliness that clung to her uncomfortably like humidity in July made it even worse. He didn't look at her, didn't answer her, his gaze going as limp as his body when she helped him with the bedpan, his refusal to eat frightening her to the point of fury.

"Let me try," Henry offered one afternoon when she'd slammed out of the bedroom with his untouched dinner rattling atop his the wooden tray. "Maybe I can get him to eat."

"Nobody should have to beg him to eat," she fought back, slamming the tray on the kitchen table loudly enough she hoped he could hear her through the walls that separated them. "There are people starving because of this war, thousands of soldiers dead and dying, but he decides that it's more manly to pout than to accept the fact that he's going to have to live with one leg."

Her chest heaved at a rate that matched her pounding pulse.

"He's grieving, Mama. I think we should just be patient."

Patience was not one of her strongest virtues by any stretch of the imagination. And Robin's silence became even more stifling, wearing her patience down until it was frayed and threadbare.

"And I think he needs to stop acting like a child and be thankful for the life he has."

The words were yelled loud enough she wondered if President Lincoln himself had heard them.

Weeks blurred into a muted tapestry as patched skin glued itself together in an artful menagerie of scars. Fever stayed away, thank God, but apathy had taken its place, its smothering presence dissipating only a fraction when Henry when would pay Robin a visit. He'd borrowed a copy of _The Three Musketeers _from Doc Hamilton, one he read from aloud as best as he could. There were times Regina heard the soldier's voice supply a word Henry couldn't manage, her heart skipping a beat every time as the gesture reminded her far too much of Daniel. So she tried to avoid hovering by the door when these reading sessions would take place, but her feet betrayed her on a regular basis, prompting her to sneak the book from Henry's bedside at night while he slept and pour over the words as if they were golden contraband. She lost herself in a world of French intrigue and courtly manners, wondering if the escapades of d'Artagnan and Milady were a bit too grown up for her son to be reading, unable to reel in fantasies that began to sneak into her own private thoughts and broken dreams, fantasies involving herself and a certain soldier who frustrated her to no end.

Then one day, Robin began to speak to her again.

At first, there were only one word greetings followed by gravelly _thank you's _and husky _goodnights. _She'd nearly jumped the first time she'd he'd whispered _Good morning_, sloshing coffee she'd brought to him on her hand and swearing under her breath, nearly springing out of her skin as he took her injured hand within his to make certain it was alright. She'd bolted from his bedside like a frightened hare, wondering just what in God's name had gotten into her. Whatever it was, it wasn't good.

Her bed felt lonelier that night than it had in years. She cursed the man in the other room for no other reason than that she could.

It was Henry who finally convinced Robin to eat, a once Herculean task her son had assumed with the easy nature of his father and accomplished with little fanfare but much satisfaction. Henry was making inroads she seemed incapable of doing, a fact which bothered her on one level but relieved her on another. Robin's manners were more polite towards her now, although his demeanor remained stiff and guarded, and he watched her in a way that made her uneasy, a way that made her aware of her stubborn hair and ragged dresses, a way she tried to shove aside at night when a pillow was all she had to fill her empty arms.

Had Marian been beautiful, she wondered? By God, she was acting like the empty-headed heiress her mother had always wanted her to be.

He askd her to cut his hair and shave him one day, a process she completed through sheer determination, unwilling to allow herself to entertain notions of how his beard would feel brushing against her skin, of how his eyes would be accentuated once unruly hair had been shorn and combed.

Dear God. He looked even better than she had imagined. He thanked her, nodded with respect, but there was no smile to be given, only a hasty aversion of eyes, a reminder of this waltz they'd somehow perfected, a dance she'd tired of weeks ago but didn't know how to stop.

She'd never been very good at dancing, much to her mother's chagrin.

A week later, Doc Hamilton arrived with more enthusiasm than she'd witnessed from the man since the war had broken out. He toted a large sack over his shoulder, one that caught both her and Henry's attention as soon as he walked in the door.

"A piece of luck, Mrs. Mills," the older man stated as he turned to hang up his jacket. "A colleague from Pittsburgh was on his way to deliver these to the wounded soldiers, so I spoke up and let him know that I had a patient who lost his leg in battle. He had one delivered to my office less than an hour later along with a note instructing me to take good care of our captain."

Her eyes rounded at how he'd called Robin _their captain, _this enemy soldier who'd been making her life a living hell and every nerve stand on high alert. But that line of thought ceased the moment he withdrew the prosthesis, an expertly carved wooden leg infused with what appeared to be iron and leather where it would attach at his knee.

"A thing of beauty, isn't it?"

The thought of restoring what was lost was bubbling up from inside him, the doctor's eagerness infectious as Henry stepped forward and stroked the smooth maple. She stood in awe of it, reaching out but almost afraid to touch it, as if it were a holy relic rather than an artificial leg.

"Robin will be so happy," Henry gushed, grinning up at Doc Hamilton before locking eyes with her. She smiled as quickly as she could, wondering if he would be or if the contraption would shove him back into a lifeless existence that allowed for neither speech nor emotion. She didn't think she could stand it if that happened.

"Don't you think so, Mama?"

Her son's bright hope was too beautiful to extinguish.

"I hope so, Henry."

She'd leave the extinguishing to the man behind the bedroom door. And by God she'd rip him into shreds if he let her son down.

She declined the offer to go in with them, fearing her presence would only reminded him of the fact that she'd bathed him, helped him urinate, emptied his bedpan and wiped shit off his bottom. No-it was better that she stay away when Doc showed him the prosthesis for the first time, better he not be reminded of his lost dignity while receiving what would replace his lost leg. No wonder he had difficulty speaking to her. If their roles were reversed, she wondered if she'd be able to look him in the eye.

But by God, she wanted this to work. She wanted it so badly it terrified her.

There were no yells, no cries of panic that seeped through walls or wafted under doorframes as she waited for what seemed like hours. Rather, the sound that greeted her was one she'd never expected, one that somehow shocked her senseless.

It was applause, followed by the unmistakable sound of her son's laughter.

"Mama," Henry cried as he burst into the kitchen. "You gotta come and see this. It's a perfect fit!"

Her heart was pounding in a way she couldn't decipher, nearly making her legs wobble with its force as she crossed the short distance from one room to the other. She arrived nearly breathless, only to be frozen into place by the view standing-yes _standing_ in front of her. He seemed taller than she'd anticipated, thinner than he should be, but he was there-just in front of her-_standing_. Standing. Dear God in heaven.

She hadn't realized she was crying until Doc Hamilton passed her his handkerchief.

"He looks rather dashing, doesn't he, Mrs. Mills?" the physician stated, nodding his head in approval.

Something fluttered inside of her, something girlish and whimsical, something that had no business beside the bedside of a recovering Rebel soldier who'd been hell to treat and had taken to haunting both her waking and sleeping thoughts. But she tingled, nonetheless, the unbearable lightness she felt increasing in both speed and intensity when a dimple managed to peek through the scruff on his face and seek her out from where he stood.

She wiped her cheeks in embarrassment, wondering just how pink her face had become, wondering why it bothered her so much to let him see how much this affected her. But when she finally dared to look up again, she saw something she'd thought had died back at Gettysburg, something he'd buried forever when he'd awoken without a lower leg.

A smile. An actual smile. His dimples nearly knocked her over this time.

"What do you think, Miss Regina?"

Her eyes flew open at the sound of his voice, her lips moving before speech could catch up with her thoughts.

"I think it's wonderful."

Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears, and she felt as though she were disembodied, as if she were watching this scene play out from outside of herself as her body began to entertain thoughts that were completely inappropriate and not exactly Christian.

He nodded in return.

"So do I."

She smiled back before turning to flee to the relative safety of the barn, pressing her face into the cool, rough wood of the walls, scared senseless by a new awareness that struck her in too many places at once. For Robin Locksley was no longer simply a patient, a mere houseguest, a wounded enemy who aggravated the living daylights out of her and tempted her to use language that would have made Daniel blush.

He was a man-a man who had reminded her of the fact that she was still very much a woman, a man she would have to touch in one way when she now longed to touch him in another.

God help her.

Henry helped him practice with his new cane, careful not to wander too far until Robin could familiarize himself with the sensation of balancing on something he couldn't feel. Regina noticed when he would wince, wondering if parts of his wound hurt when pressure was applied by the prosthesis or if he were simply afraid of falling. If he was in pain, he said nothing, but rather bit his lower lip as a means of summoning his determination. She decided he'd probably much prefer it if she were to let him test his new boundaries with as little interference as possible, so she made her way back to the kitchen and out to the barn, keeping an ear open for any sounds of distress that her son and their captain couldn't handle.

Of course, the fact that her fingers twitched with the desire to touch the man had nothing to do with her decision to let Henry guide him rather than she herself. Nothing whatsoever.

He ate dinner at the table with them that night, clearly uncomfortable in the hard, wooden chair yet polite in a manner she'd never witnessed as he served himself a small portion of stew. Conversation was stilted, but it existed, stopping and starting with awkward jerks and delays, but continuing in spite of the rough journey. She felt his eyes on her constantly, and she caught herself staring back at him at the most inopportune of times, the thick tension their little game was brewing making her barely been able to finish her meal.

"I'm really glad you decided to eat with us tonight instead of in your room," Henry stated, receiving a glare from her for speaking with his mouth full.

"Well, I decided it was time I stopped acting like a child and started being thankful for the life I have," Robin uttered, casting her a look that was undeniable. Her arm froze in route to her mouth as words she'd yelled in anger were recited with a gentleness that nearly did her in.

They said nothing else to each other through the remainder of dinner.

"It was your son, you know."

The words tumbled out of him later that night as she helped him remove the prosthesis, her hands quivering in a manner she refused to entertain.

"What was?" she questioned, the hoarseness of her tone matching his. He cleared his throat, jerking as the leather slid away from his upper leg, making her wonder if the material chafed his skin.

"He said he was proud of me," Robin uttered, drawing a quick breath that broke apart on its way inside. "When I let Doc Hamilton try it on me." His chin trembled in the candle's low light, his body casting misshapen shadows on the wall behind him. "I've acted like a horse's ass, have sat around and moped while the two of you have worked harder than any two people I've ever seen, but Henry stood before me and stated that he was proud...of _me_."

The final sentence was no more than a whisper, a product of profound disbelief, yet each word seared into her skin like molten fire.

"That's because he is," she returned, choosing to stare at his wound rather than into his eyes. "So am I."

"Then you're both better people than I'll ever be."

A dull roar pulsed between her temples as she watched his fingers toy with the fabric of his nightshirt.

"I have a son, too."

Whatever response she'd been formulating died on her lips at his simple declaration, her heart beating an arhythmic tattoo that made her chest ache. His eyes met hers directly, and she found she could not have looked away from him, even if her house had fallen down around them in a pile of wood and stone.

"I couldn't imagine letting him see me like…" He paused, looking down at the stump now raw and exposed to her, gesturing towards it as he licked cracked lips. "Like this."

His face reddened, she could tell even in the dim light, and she felt his pulse accelerate under her hand where she still touched the exposed flesh just above his wound.

"But when Henry...when he said what he did, well, I thought for the first time that maybe, just maybe, my Roland might be able to see me as his father, not a man to be pitied."

She leaned into him on instinct, her hand moving towards his cheek as if instructed to do so by an invisible force. He shuddered when she made contact, sending shivers down her spine as his beard scratched the surface of her palm.

"I don't pity you," she stated, her forehead now nearly touching his own.

"I know," he whispered. "Thank God." Something strained to break loose inside of her.

He was sweating, but it was not perspiration that dampened his cheek. Her fingers brushed tears away before she realized what she was doing, the salt from his body marking her in ways she couldn't bring herself to consider at the moment as she crawled up beside him on the bed and cupped his face between her palms. She then drew his head into her breasts, feeling him clasp on to her as if she were a raft and he a man lost at sea. He wept then, and she let him, allowed herself to absorb his sobs, to take in his grief, to be baptized by the aftermath of a war neither of them had wanted until they were wrapped up together in a mass of tangled limbs and emotions on top of the mattress.

She couldn't bring herself to move, so she laid there, the skin of his chest hot and damp through Daniel's shirt, the material now smelling only of Robin, imprinted by the here and now. He told her of his life in Virginia, of his parents, of a kind-hearted, benevolent father who died when Robin was but thirteen, of an emotionally distant mother who now looked after her only grandson while his father was away fighting a war in which he believed there would be no true victors.

She told him of her father, of her fascination with medicine and his joy in teaching her as much as he could of his profession, of her mother's insistence that she do something better with her life, of her own rebellion and marriage that led to a simple, happy life before her husband died of smallpox leaving her and her son nearly destitute.

He spoke to her of Marian-the daughter of a slave and a white man-an educated and free woman who worked as a seamstress and made dresses for his mother, a woman whose eyes and spirit bewitched him from the moment he met her. He told her of how they came to Pennsylvania to marry, of how his mother had disowned him until his wife had died in childbirth and he'd returned to his native Virginia, a broken man with a son his mother couldn't turn away, even if she refused to acknowledge the truth of her grandson's biology.

He'd waited as she'd absorbed it all, sighing audibly into the room when she breathed, "I'm sorry you lost her. I know how hard that is."

She gazed at a spot on the ceiling illuminated by the candle's flickering halo, pressing her back into his hand as his fingers drew pathways across her spine through the fabric of her dress.

"I know you do."

He was watching her so intently she couldn't breathe.

Her thumb reached out instinctively and traced his bottom lip, memorizing its contours, marvelling at its softness. Then his mouth drew it softly inside his lips, and she closed her eyes as he kissed it, sucked air into her lungs as he pressed himself up on his elbow so he could kiss her temple, her forehead, her ear, her cheek. When his mouth finally brushed hers, her mind ceased to function, and she allowed herself to be sucked into a vortex of pulsing sensation and feeling, wrapping her arms around him until they were body to body on his bed. She opened her mouth to him, and they tasted of each other, losing themselves in a wave of life that had escaped them for too long.

Touches moved from hesitant to desperate, kisses from gentle to those of two starving for what only the other could give. Hands began to fist into clothing, needing to feel what lay underneath, wanting to explore what remained hidden from the other.

"Are you certain about this?"

He'd drawn back just enough to allow them space to breathe.

"You could certainly do much better than…"

He broke off then, his insecurities staring back at her in a manner that hurt. She rolled out from under him and pushed herself up from the bed, swallowing down any misgivings she might have as bindings were unlaced and her dress slowly nudged from her body. She felt wanton, somewhat wicked, and completely and utterly alive, the tingling of her skin only accentuated by the coolness of the air brushing against it. Her hair was released from its confines only after she stood bare before him, and she gave him a moment to simply stare at her, to take her in, thinking it only fair since she'd seen his naked body on far more than one occasion.

But not like this. Never like this. Her legs shook violently beneath her.

"God," he breathed, almost panted. She then moved to stand in front of him, guiding his hand to her breast, stifling a moan in her throat as he rubbed and cupped her nipple. "You're breathtaking."

"So are you."

"Regina," he uttered, his expression almost pained as he reached for her other breast, teasing it as thoroughly as he had the other. She was drowning, completely and utterly submerged, her lungs to the point of bursting even as she refused to come up for air.

Her hands made quick work of his sleepshirt and drawers, moving them gently over flesh and air until he was as naked as she. He was hard for her already, pulsing and alive in a way she'd never seen him. They both remained silent for a moment, simply staring as the candle cast shadows in a way that now seemed erotic.

"And you don't...you don't mind…"

He looked down towards his leg, biting his lower lip, trembling in both fear and anticipation of whatever she would do next. Her hand went to his stump deliberately, tracing its curvature, rubbing it's newly formed scars, blocking out thoughts of the surgery that took it from him and choosing to see instead the marvel of a man who'd lost it.

"I don't mind."

He drew her into his chest, nuzzling his mouth in between her breasts, kneading her bottom until the ache between her legs pulsed raw and primal. They maneuvered themselves back on the bed, skin to skin, mouth to mouth, need to need. She rolled on top of him, allowing him to bury rough fingers in her hair as she eased herself back on to his hips, teasing him with her body and a smile that felt as natural as breathing.

"I'm not quite certain how to do this," he confessed. "To make love to a woman properly when I...I have only one leg."

She eased herself down his body, cupping his stump, kissing the flesh above it, spurred on by his body's jerk and the staccato hiss that flew out of his mouth. Her mouth worked its way back up the planes of his skin, kissing his thighs, the coarse hair around his penis, his stomach and scared chest, until she found herself nose to nose with him, their lips a finger's width apart, their eyes locked firmly into the other's.

"I'm sure we can figure it out," she breathed, rewarded by a kiss that signaled the end of all conversation as she took him inside of her body.


	5. Chapter 5

It was impossible not to touch him now.

She supposed she was grinning like an idiot, but so was he. No matter how they tried to keep their relationship to themselves and not be obvious in front of Henry, the boy picked up on the changed atmosphere immediately. Thankfully, he credited Robin's prosthesis for their new friendliness towards each other, and she prayed that explanation would satisfy him for the time being. It certainly wouldn't do for him to know that his mother was sleeping with a man who was not her husband.

Her mother would have labeled her a whore for far less.

Robin was a gentle and generous lover, although to say that his disability never frustrated him when they were intimate would be a lie. It seemed to bother him far more than it did her, actually, but it didn't stop him from kissing her, from penetrating her, from teasing her with his fingers and mouth until a thousand stars exploded behind her eyelids and her body pulsed around him until neither of them could think.

"I've never had a lover before," she whispered one night, her limbs heavy and sated as his fingers traced the contours of her spine. "Besides my husband, of course."

She snuggled into his side, rubbing her cheek against the soft down of his chest, careful with the shoulder she knew still hurt him at times.

"And how do you like it?" he questioned, tipping her chin up in his direction. She tossed him a sly grin before kissing him, slow, wet and open-mouthed.

"I feel evil and decadent," she whispered, reaching down over his torso to stroke him from root to tip. He moaned as she continued to caress his penis, swearing as she found the spot just below his tip that made him buck into her hand.

"Come here, you decadently evil woman," he chuckled just before pulling her on top of his chest and taking her breast into his mouth. He sucked her hard and possessively, leaning back to blow cool air on her nipple, grinning as she shivered in his arms. "And let me love you properly." His hand moved between them to stroke and tease her clitoris before sliding one finger inside of her, causing her to hiss through her teeth.

God help her-she hadn't felt this alive in years.

Robin had composed a letter to his mother, asking after Roland and letting Mrs. Locksley know that her only child was alive and well and recovering from wounds received in battle. He refused to tell her of his amputation, reasoning it would only upset her and could frighten Roland if she decided to tell the boy about it.

"She'll find out soon enough, you know," Regina admonished before heading towards town to post it. "Mothers always do."

"I know," he returned. "But in this case, the later, the better." He paused then, laying his ink pen aside with a heavy sigh. "Besides-I've been dead to her since I chose to marry a woman of color. She may not even open my letter, Regina. She might choose to burn it on sight."

Her arms had wrapped around him then, stroking hair whose texture was now as familiar to her as her own.

"I doubt that," she stated. "War has a way of rearranging priorities."

He held her as close as he could as she kissed the top of his head. She prayed silently that any news they received from Virginia would be good.

Robin began accompanying Henry out to the barn, doing his best to be useful in whatever manner he could. His balance and agility improved daily, but he was still slow and somewhat clumsy when he walked. There were still difficult moments, such as the time he fell face-first into a puddle of mud and pig shit and had stormed back into the house, cursing like a proverbial sailor and pouting like a five year old. But he'd been mortified by his own behavior and had apologized when she'd brought him his prosthesis, now cleaner than it had been prior to his fall, thanks to her.

"Why do you put up with me?" he asked her later that night as he stroked her hair until her eyelids drifted shut. She opened her eyes then and looked at him, pressing herself up on his chest so she could see him clearly.

"Because you're great in bed," she stated with a quirk of her brow, making him laugh so robustly she feared Henry would come bursting into the bedroom at any moment.

Making herself go back to her own room after their lovemaking was now the hardest part of her day. The mattress seemed to engulf her, her sheets cool and crisp rather than warm and soft, accentuating the fact that the man with whom she shared her body was not allowed to share her bed. But he made her happy, made her feel things she'd feared lost to her forever, made her gasp in ways she'd never known, made her feel cherished in a manner she feared she didn't deserve.

God help her, she was falling in love with the man, a man with a son and a life in Virginia, a Rebel who could all too easily walk away from her and leave her heart in tatters once again.

Days grew colder and shorter as the roll-call of the dead continued to expand. The magistrate's son, the Fairview twins, Mrs. Carter's oldest nephew, all were lost, and at moments it hit her-really hit her just how close they'd come to losing Robin. If he hadn't stumbled into their barn, if Henry hadn't found him when he did, if she hadn't discovered the infection in his leg, he wouldn't be here in her kitchen, peeling potatoes while Henry explained in great detail his ideas for expanding the barn and digging a new well.

"Ambitious thoughts, young man," Robin stated with a quick look in her direction. "What does your mother think of all of your plans?"

Henry sheepishly bowed his head, casting glances between Robin and her.

"I don't know," the boy admitted. "I haven't said anything until now."

Dear God, he looked like Daniel, the way he tucked his hands into his pockets, the way one lock of hair fell into his eyes no matter how short she cut it. He was her little man now, she realized, no longer the small boy clinging to her skirts and following her around the chicken coop, but a young man with ideas of his own who saw himself in some ways as her protector.

"I'd like to know your thoughts on expanding the pig pen," she stated, surprising her son with a quirk of her brow. "This growing batch of piglets are testing the limits of our current one."

Henry looked to Robin before turning back to his mother.

"Challenge accepted," he said, before grabbing his coat and practically running out the door.

"He's a good boy, Regina."

"I know." She watched as his head fell forward to study his hands, a gesture she recognized for what it was. "You miss Roland."

His eyes shot in her direction, piercing her with the intensity of a parent separated from his child.

"Far more than I miss my leg."

She swallowed past the lump in her throat.

"I'm certain he misses you, too."

He shook his head then, rubbing a hand over his scalp.

"He won't remember me, Regina. He was far too young when I left, and for me to come back to him like…" He paused, motioning to the fake leg that was now a part of his body. "Like this. He may well consider me a monster."

His swallow was audible from across the room, and she moved into him then and there, regardless of the fact that Henry could burst in on them at any moment. He cradled her head to his chest, breathing in the scent of her freshly washed hair that still bore strands of dampness.

"He'll come to know you again," she assured him, pausing to kiss him with a softness that made him tremble. "At least he'll have you in his life."

She didn't voice what they both knew to be true-that to be reunited with Roland, he would have to leave her. She felt his grip around her tighten.

They made love fiercely that night, accentuated by gasps and swallowed cries that left them trembling and sticky with sweat and spent desire. She felt like a goddess atop him, the way he watched her move, how he clasped her hips and panted her name, the way her hair fell around her body as his touch unleashed raw fire in her belly, the way she fit around him snugly as if they'd been molded from of the same lump of clay simply for each other's pleasure.

"I can't lose you," she whispered when she was certain he slept, sliding away from the warmth that was him back into the cold reality of how life would be once he left. Tears spilled over the moment she reached her bedroom, sobs that tore through her until her body shook.

"I don't want to lose you, either."

She turned to stare at him in wonder.

That he'd managed to make it into her bedroom without her hearing him attested to just how intensely she'd been weeping. He limped to the bedside, falling clumsily into her mattress to pull her to his chest, to stroke her hair, to kiss her forehead, to whisper endearments over her until her weeping abated.

"I miss my son, Regina. But I don't want that life anymore."

Her cheek pressed into his shoulder as her hands fisted his shirt.

"What life do you want?"

"This one," he whispered without hesitation, cupping her face with both hands. "With you."

She kissed him hard, breathing him in, tasting his passion, needing all of him all at once. They drew back long enough to breathe, and he touched his forehead to hers as she dotted a kiss to the tip of his nose.

"Bring Roland here."

The words slid out of her with ease, infusing her with a warmth that intensified with the look of wonder staring back at her.

"Are you certain?" He paused, studying her with renewed intensity. "Taking on both of us may be more than you realize." Her hand drifted to where flesh met leather and wood.

"I'm certain."

His smile made her so giddy her toes tingled. He chuckled softly, shaking his head in wonder.

"So am I," he uttered, brushing her nose with his own. Her fingers wrapped around his arms as his began to stroke her back, enticing her to close her eyes until his next words made her sit up and take notice. "Marry me."

She couldn't breathe, couldn't focus, couldn't do anything except stare dumbfoundedly at eyes now watching her with an anticipation she could feel. Her ribs ached when she breathed in, and she exhaled with force, still gaping at him in disbelief.

"Yes," she managed, needing to touch him to make certain this was real. "Yes."

It was a wonder Henry didn't hear them that night.

The ceremony was held a few weeks later. It was small and private, held in her home, officiated by the Presbyterian Minister and witnessed by Henry and Doctor and Mrs. Hamilton. She'd indulged in purchasing a new dress for the occasion, a powder blue gown with silver buttons and lace cuffs, one elegant enough to make her feel like a bride but not so extravagant as to make her uncomfortable. It fit tighter across her breasts than it had just two weeks ago, a fact which only exacerbated the headache she'd fought since she forced herself out of bed that morning. She teared up while repeating her vows, barely making it through the ceremony before dashing outside to vomit repeatedly into the bushes as soon as they'd been pronounced man and wife.

Robin found and held her until the retching stopped.

"If you didn't want to marry me, you could have just said _no_," he whispered, making her laugh and cry simultaneously as he attempted to scoop her up into his chest, his leg nearly giving out in the process.

"I can walk," she admonished, allowing herself to lean into him once he'd set her down gently. He led her back into the house, his frustration in not being able to lift her wafting off him palpably.

It was a frustration that didn't last long.

"Congratulations," Doc Hamilton stated after shooing everyone away and examining her in her bedroom. Her hands rested on her stomach as she forced herself to look him in the eye.

"You don't think any less of us?" she asked quietly, his answer more important to her than it should be. He'd become a friend over the past few months, a friend and colleague she'd come to value. The older man took her hand within hers, giving it a gentle squeeze as he smiled.

"War changes the rules, Mrs. Locksley. And how can bringing a new life into this world overridden by death be a bad thing?" He paused, wiping his cheek, and she knew he was remembering his son. "Besides, I can't think of two people who deserve a second chance at happiness more than the two of you."

She burst into tears all over again.

Robin fussed over her, trying to convince her not to work so hard, to sleep more and stay on her feet less. He wrapped her in extra blankets and made her plenty of hot tea, insisting she eat even when the very thought of food made her stomach revolt. He took to reading to her at night, kissing her belly sweetly before finding her lips with far more passion, even though most nights she had energy to do little more than fall asleep in his arms. She was exhausted, truth be told, so bone-weary by mid-day that she feared if she were to lie down for a nap, she wouldn't wake up until the next morning.

One day, she actually proved herself right.

December arrived, and the air smelled of snow, the bite of it unmistakable as moisture mixed with bitter cold. She'd already tended to the chickens after Robin had left for town, leaving the milking to Henry as she kneaded a rounded loaf of bread on her wooden counter.

The knock on her door came as a surprise.

She brushed her hands on her apron, certain there must be flour on her face as she wiped it blindly with the back of her hand. She straightened her dress as best she could, opening the door to two people she'd never met but knew instantly.

"Mrs. Mills?"

Robin's mother stood just before her on her doorstep.

"I'm Penelope Locksley," the older woman continued, the soft lilt of her Virginia accent so very similar to her son's it took Regina by surprise. Mrs. Locksley held the hand of a child, a small boy with dark curls and even darker eyes that watched Regina with both fear and suspicion.

Roland.

"Please," Regina stated, taking a step back. "Come inside where it's warm."

The quality of their clothing made her uneasy, and she stared at her worn shoes, biting her lower lip without realizing she did so. The lace peeking out from under Mrs. Locksley's coat could pay for a new fence on its own, she reasoned, making her pause before she offered them something to eat.

"I'm not here to socialize. I'm simply here to deliver Roland to his father. That is all."

Their features were similar, but there was no warmth to the woman who'd given birth to Robin, no kinship between their personalities, no dimples in her cheeks.

"Won't you sit down?"

Blue eyes studied her dispassionately.

"I'd rather not, Mrs. Mills."

"Mrs. Locksley," Regina corrected, taking a step towards her new mother-in-law. "Robin and I were married two weeks ago."

Only silence greeted her declaration.

"Well, Roland," Penelope stated, choosing to look at her grandson rather than her daughter-in-law. "It would seem you have a new mother."

The boy looked at her without saying a word, uncertainty prompting him to bite his lower lip in a manner that made him look like his father. Penelope then squared her shoulders, finally looking at Regina, her chin high and regal. "There's actually a resemblance between the two of you. That's very fortunate. It should stave off any uncomfortable questions about his lineage."

Frightened eyes stared up at Regina, and she knelt until she was eye-level with the boy, slowly reaching out to touch his shoulder, cautious of frightening him further yet needing him to know that he was welcome and wanted.

"Hello, Roland," she began. "I'm Regina." The boy tried to hide in his grandmother's skirt, clinging to what he knew in the face of a change he didn't understand. He was nudged towards Regina unceremoniously, prompting his chin to quiver and his eyes to fill.

"I'll have his belongings brought in," the older woman stated as she turned to make her exit. Roland ran after her, grabbing her skirt, thrusting his arms up in her direction, begging the woman to pick him up and hug him close.

"You're not even going to wait for your son?"

Henry slipped inside quietly, observing the scene playing out in front of him as he deposited the firewood just beside the hearth.

"He's been through hell and back," Regina continued. "Managed to survive Gettysburg, fought off infection…He lost his lower leg."

She couldn't tell if the gasp she'd heard had been real or imagined. But the face of the woman before her remained impassive.

"My son was lost to me years ago," Penelope stated, prying Roland's hands from her skirt, looking down at the boy with an expression Regina couldn't decipher. "And I've done my Christian duty by my grandson."

Roland was crying in earnest now, his wails increasing in volume until Regina couldn't stand it anymore. She moved forward and scooped the boy up, holding him close even as he strained to break away from her.

"You're really just going to walk away from your family? Without saying hello to Robin? Without hugging Roland goodbye?" She had to yell to be heard over Roland's sobs, her chest heaving with emotional strain and effort. "We're expecting a child, Robin and I, in the summer. You're going to have another grandchild. Aren't you interested in being a part of his or her life? Of remaining a part of Roland's?"

Eyes that matched Robin's bore into her with a look that hovered between pity and disdain.

"Now I see why you married so quickly." Her tone was as unwavering as her lack of compassion. Regina's body shivered as the older woman turned once again to leave, fighting back the urge to vomit as she clung to a child made victim by circumstances he couldn't control. "Goodbye, Mrs. Locksley."

With that, she was gone.

When Robin returned an hour later, he found Regina sitting on the sofa, cradling a boy on her lap who clung to her with one arm while he sucked his thumb and pressed his face into her chest. It took him a moment to register what had happened and just who the child was, but when realization dawned, he practically collapsed into the seat beside her. He reached out to touch his son with hands that shook, trying not to wince as the boy pulled away from him and burrowed further into Regina.

"He's frightened," she breathed, kissing curls matted with tears and sweat. "He doesn't understand what just happened."

Robin could only nod and swallow.

"I'd be frightened, too."

His face creased as he tried to rein in emotions Roland wasn't ready to face. He looked so vulnerable, so open and utterly raw that she longed to gather him into her chest and comfort him just as she had Roland. She then turned the boy in her lap until he faced his father, never ceasing to stroke Roland's arm as she murmured to him softly.

"It's your Daddy, Roland. Your daddy who loves you."

The thumb remained in the child's mouth, a measure of security in a world he didn't understand. They sat like that for minutes, for an hour, just breathing and touching, adjusting to this new family dynamic that felt as sacred as it did terrifying.

"He's beautiful."

Robin's words were broken as he stared at his son who had fallen into an exhausted sleep in Regina's lap.

"He is," she agreed, continuing to stroke curls that somehow matched the color of her own hair. "Does he look like Marian?"

Robin smiled at this, nodding before gazing back at her in wonder.

"But he also looks like you. How is that possible?"

She smiled and shrugged, kissing the child's forehead, accepting her role as his mama with a full heart and nervous stomach.

"Your mother told me the same thing," she admitted. "She said we were fortunate, that people wouldn't wonder about…"

"About the fact that his grandmother was a slave."

His words were hard, and she traced the lines of his face, watching them relax one by one.

"I don't care," she breathed. "Henry doesn't care, and neither do you. He's your son-my son now, and Henry's brother. We're family. That's all that matters."

He kissed her lightly, careful not to wake Roland, lingering just long enough to take in the mixed scents of his son and wife.

"I love you," he whispered, kissing her temple for good measure. "So very, very much."

Roland followed Regina everywhere except for the privy once he woke up, staring unabashedly at his father's wooden leg, watching Henry and ducking behind Regina's skirts whenever the older boy would smile at him.

"He's used to women," Regina explained to Henry after dinner as Roland crawled into her lap as soon as she sat down on the sofa. "His grandmother raised him."

Robin's scoff nearly echoed off the walls.

"My mother didn't raise him," he argued, careful not to raise his voice too loud. "That I can guarantee. My guess is that Sarah took care of him, just as she took care of me when I was a boy." He paused, taking in Regina and Henry's confusion. "Sarah is a house slave, one of the most compassionate and intelligent people I've ever known. It was she who raised me in every way that mattered. My mother couldn't be bothered by such trivialities." The bite in his tone bore the distinct edge of hurt, something Regina understood all too well.

Roland sat up straighter, looking at his father with hesitant curiosity, still clinging fast to Regina's arm.

"You know Sarah?"

The child's voice was small but hopeful, and it drew Robin to sit beside him on the sofa, careful not to frighten him away.

"I do," Robin confirmed with a smile. "She used to take me on walks, tell me stories, and sing to me at night when I couldn't sleep."

Brown eyes widened at this, a small mouth forming a soft _O_.

"Did she tell you about the boy who cried wolf?" Roland asked, scooting forward on Regina's lap. "Or Pandora's box?"

Robin smiled, daring to ruffle the boy's already unruly hair.

"Many times. But my favorite had to be _The Aunt and The Grasshopper_."

"I love that one," Henry chimed in, coming to sit on the other side of his mother. "I haven't heard it in a long time."

"Well, perhaps it's time for a retelling."

Regina's eyes shone as Robin settled back into the sofa as best as he could manage, angling his body so he could better see his wife and sons before clearing his throat.

"In a field one hot summer's day, a grasshopper was hopping about, chirping and singing to its heart's content. Then an ant passed by, straining to carry an ear of corn to his nest."

His voice rose and fell with a magical lilt, his tone changing to convey the two characters, making Roland giggle and lean in even closer. His accent bore traces of that of a Southern slave, and Regina knew both he and Roland were hearing Sarah's voice in their heads, making her wish she could meet this woman who obviously meant so much to both of them. Roland began to chime in as the story neared conclusion, sliding over into his father's lap by the time it was over, completely oblivious to the artificial leg beneath him.

"You're almost as good at telling stories as Sarah," Roland uttered, reaching up to touch his father's cheek with a shyness that was precious to behold. "But nobody's as good as she is."

She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until it burst from her lungs in the form of laughter. Robin chuckled in time with her, blinking back tears as he agreed with his son.

"You're right, Roland. No one can tell a story like Sarah."

"Can we do _The Tortoise and The Hare _next?"

Getting him to sleep in a new bed was tricky, but he eventually settled in with Henry after a retelling of _The Ant and The Grasshopper _and the promise of more stories the next day. His small arms wrapped around Robin, making Regina's heart swell until she thought it would burst out of her chest. She hugged Roland and kissed his forehead, telling him how glad she was to be his new Mama, melting at the dimples that reached out to her just before his thumb once again found his mouth and she tucked in the quilt in around his body.

"I've never had a mama," the boy whispered, nearly making her weep on the spot. "But I'll bet you're a good one."

"She's the best," Henry uttered, crumbling the last of her emotional resolve as those blasted pregnancy hormones had their way with her.

"We're complete now," she whispered once her weeping had subsided and she crawled into bed beside her husband. He smiled as she blew out the bedside candle and snuggled into his chest, practically collapsing into him after the day they had experienced. His hand drifted to her stomach, still flat but warm and soft with the promise of new life.

"Almost complete," he murmured, kissing her temple and pulling her closer until they both willingly surrendered to sleep.

Life progressed slowly and surely.

Roland took to farm life like the proverbial duck to water, eagerly accompanying Regina to the chicken coop, watching in fascination as Henry would milk Charlotte or slop the pigs. He quickly claimed one ornery piglet as his favorite and named him "Oscar", instructing everyone in the house that they were not allowed to even think about eating him.

"Oscar could be a prized ham," Robin muttered when Roland wasn't listening, prompting Regina to swat him soundly on his good shoulder before huffing out of the kitchen.

Influenza was winter's most unwelcome guest. It attacked Roland first, showing up in the middle of the night in the form of a high fever and sore throat. Robin worried both over him and Regina, practically forcing his wife to leave the boy's care to him so as not to endanger either her or the baby. The wear and tear took a toll on his body, making his leg and shoulder hurt in ways they hadn't for months. His limp became more pronounced, his arm motion more constricted, yet he worked tirelessly until Roland's fever had finally broken.

Then Henry caught the illness.

He had a tougher time of it than Roland, his fever rising to dangerously high temperatures that made his sleep restless and his skin deathly pale. Regina was afraid to sleep, but the baby inside of her insisted that she do so, making her fear for both her firstborn and the child she had yet to meet. Doc Hamilton checked on him regularly, insisting along with Robin that Regina leave Henry's care to him, holding her hand as memories of smallpox's devastation played repeatedly through her mind.

"I can't lose him," she insisted. Words spoken earlier to Doc Hamilton were now uttered in an impassioned plea to The Almighty.

Two days later, his fever was gone. And Regina collapsed in relief.

Doc Hamilton prescribed a week of bedrest much to Regina's chagrin, and he sent his niece over to help with chores, childcare, and cooking. Violet was fourteen, a tall and kind-hearted girl who was a decent cook, had a lovely singing voice and sent Henry running every time she spoke to him directly.

"He likes her," Robin murmured just after Henry had stepped out to take care of his chores, nodding discreetly in Violet's direction.

"Bite your tongue," Regina had shot back, unwilling to entertain the idea that her son was old enough to notice a girl. He wiggled his eyebrows in her direction, making her even more determined to be up and about as soon as possible.

Her belly ripened as spring finally arrived, ushering in a season of back aches and swollen feet, along with the wonder of feeling her child move within her. Roland was fascinated with her stomach, squealing in delight whenever he would feel a kick or a nudge against his hand.

"I'm never going to make it until July," she sighed, lying atop the quilts in her shift, fanning herself to chase off June's dogged humidity.

"You almost have," Robin reminded her as he slid off his prosthesis with an ease learned over time. His hand then rubbed the swell of her belly, pausing when a limb thumped against his palm. "You only have one month to go." He then kissed her with a sweetness tinged with reverence, rubbing her stomach as he often did her back until she finally managed to get comfortable.

It turned out that the baby had other ideas.

She arrived two weeks early on the fifth of July, exactly one year after her father stumbled into their barn and collapsed into their lives. She was a perfect compilation of black hair, pink skin and powerful lungs she knew exactly how to use from the moment she made her entrance into the world. Doc Hamilton delivered her in the wee hours of the morning after twelve hours of hard labor, handing her gently to her exhausted mother with a look of pride on his face before turning to her father and giving him a small nod.

"A daughter," Robin breathed, gasping in awe as small fingers curled reflexively around his own. "We have a daughter."

She leaned into his kiss just as the baby started to fidget, allowing herself a moment to breathe before bringing her child to her breast. Regina stared down at her, touching her cheeks, stroking her eyebrows, counting fingers and toes as her husband made his way to her bedside and sat in the chair pulled up beside it.

"We're complete now," she uttered as she adjusted her nipple so the baby could latch on. He cupped his daughter's head with utmost tenderness, gazing at her in awe before leaning in to kiss his wife.

"That we are."

Minutes later, the baby's mouth went slack on her breast, her body clearly sated as she slept the sound sleep of the innocent. Regina watched her child in fascination, memorizing every detail, amazed by tiny fingers and little toes that curled in her sleep even as her mouth continued to suckle. One year ago, her father had been unknown to Regina, had nearly died under her roof from the horrors of war, had lost a leg in order to preserve his life, a life he'd once scorned but now valued with a ferocity she shared.

Yet tonight, the war was the furthest thing from any of their minds. It was life they now celebrated, renewed life along with the promise of second chances, family and hope against all odds. For they'd beaten the odds, Regina mused silently as she watched blue eyes gaze in wonder at the bundle curled into her chest. They had stared death in the face and walked away from it, scarred and sewn together, but all the stronger from the experience. She kissed her daughter's head before allowing her own to relax into the pillows, sending up a silent prayer of gratitude as her husband kept watch over them.

"Welcome to the family, Mary Margaret Locksley," she breathed before sliding into a peaceful, well-earned sleep.


End file.
