It starts with the small things, trinkets and baubles here and there that to a less keen eye would go unnoticed in their absence—but nothing escapes Mr. Gold's attention, or so he thought, because he's never been able to catch the little thief in the act.

"Maybe it's Ariel," shrugs Regina when he confronts her outside of Belle's library; she's just picked up another Hardy Boys book to read to her own boys later that night. "I mean, didn't you say a fork was missing? Sounds like a thingamabob to me."

"It was a trident," Mr. Gold corrects her peevishly, which does little to help his case, so he tries a different approach. "Don't think I haven't seen that rug rat of yours nosing around my shop before."

"You mean when Belle is babysitting him? For God's sake, Gold." She rolls her eyes, tucking the book into her bag as she walks away from this ridiculous conversation.

"Besides," she adds dismissively over her shoulder, heels clicking on the pavement, "Roland doesn't steal."

"Are you sure about that?" he presses after her. "Because it's certainly in his genes."

Regina's completely unfazed. "To steal from the rich and give to the poor? Trust me, if that were the case, he wouldn't be starting with your pawnshop." She's halfway across the street now. "Goodbye, Mr. Gold."

She can see him grinding his teeth as she slips into her vintage Mercedes SL and drives away.

.

.

.

"Completely absurd," she huffs, dumping her things on the kitchen counter. Honestly. Roland, stealing from Rumplestiltskin. The very idea of it is just hysterical.

She sees that Henry has tossed an unsorted pile of mail there again on his way up to his room (he always makes a point to finish his homework before suppertime). Her sigh is a mixture of fondness and exasperation as she begins to sift through it.

"What's absurd, darling?" Robin responds absentmindedly, and she finally notices that he and Roland are crouched in front of the dishwasher, eyeing it with a pensive air of misgiving.

"What are you two monkeys doing?" she asks, highly amused.

"We were going to treat our queen to a home-cooked meal," Robin states, looking resigned as he stands and greets her properly with a kiss to her temple, his hand tracing the curve of her spine. Sure enough, she can smell the spaghetti sauce simmering away in a pot on the stove. "But we can't seem to procure any clean forks."

"No forks," Roland agrees, squeezing himself in between their legs. "What book did you bring back, Gina?"

"Another Hardy Boys," she beams with a grin to match his, and she's rifling for it to show him when something else falls out of her purse with a resounding clatter.

"What's this?" Robin says, and he's the one who looks amused now. "Is this why we're out of forks? Because you've taken to hiding them all in your bag?"

Regina opens and closes her mouth in shock. He's turning a tiny bronze object over in his fingers, three-pronged with an ornate design carved into the handle; it looks old, ancient even, and it positively reeks of Gold.

How the hell had that gotten in there?

Feeling guilty for even thinking it, she glances down at Roland, who's busy examining something in one of the cabinets. She's about to ask whether he has any idea how this fork—sorry, trident—found its way inside her belongings when he lugs out an armful of dinner plates. They're the kind with the everted lip meant to catch every last drop of spaghetti sauce, because first of all, it's delicious (Gina's secret recipe), and second of all, he knows how much she hates for them to dribble all over the dining cloth. Her heart melts and she promptly forgets about the stupid fork as they go about setting the table for dinner, and Robin calls up the stairs for Henry.

.

.

.

But it doesn't stop with the fork.

"We're out of eggs," Robin announces one morning, pulling out the empty carton that Henry must have placed back in the fridge in one of his half-conscious states of morning grogginess. (Teenage boys, Regina thinks ruefully.)

"Or—perhaps not—" He hefts the carton up and down in his hand as though it has suddenly acquired some additional weight to it, and when he opens the lid a brightly colored ball comes tumbling out and lands on the floor with a thud, rolling to a halt at Roland's feet.

It's a Fabergé egg, cobalt blue encased within an elaborate framework of gilded whorls. This one she recognizes; she's seen Belle cleaning it from time to time, because dust likes to settle in the crevices and Gold refuses to put it inside the display case, something about the blue needing to oxidize properly in order to maintain its brilliance of color.

Damn it.

This time when she glances at Roland, she doesn't miss the guilty shuffle in his step as he toes the egg away from him, or the way he looks not at all surprised—and, in fact, seems rather upset—to see it there.

Regina realizes what's going on just as Roland becomes aware of the fact that she can't stop staring, and now he knows that she knows too.

"I didn't do it on purpose, Gina," he says plaintively.

She sighs.

Robin is going to be so furious with her.

.

.

.

Regina and Roland are sitting side by side on the couch with their hands folded in their laps, trying very, very hard not to make eye contact with each other as Robin paces back and forth in front of them, chin in hand.

"Let me repeat for the point of clarity." He stops pacing for a millisecond but the stress of standing still is overwhelming so he resumes, rubbing his forehead now. "You've been teaching him magic?"

"Light magic," Regina insists, and Roland nods vigorously. "I'm teaching him light magic."

Robin looks beside himself. "For how long?"

She grimaces.

"Five months," Roland pipes up, probably thinking that Papa will take the news better if it's coming from him.

"Five months?" Robin bellows, and Roland shrinks back into the couch. Guess not, then.

Out of the corner of her eye and through the archway to the den Regina sees Henry ambling into the formal dining room, only to find it vacant of both food and people. His gaze shifts over to meet hers and his eyes practically bug out of his head at what must be a most bizarre sight; she shakes her head almost imperceptibly and he heeds her warning, backing slowly away and she can hear his footfalls treading as lightly as possible up the stairs again.

"I'm so sorry, Robin," Regina tries. "I know how you feel about magic—"

"No," he cuts her off, "no, you don't."

Her face falls—she can't help it—and Roland burrows his head under her arm as his papa approaches, kneeling down in front of them. She's terrified of what she'll see in his eyes, but when she looks up, there's nothing in them but blue.

Sighing, he takes her hands in his. "Regina," he begins, and when he feels her withdrawing he holds fast, thumbs caressing the inside of her wrists. "Magic is a part of you, and it always will be."

She's finding it hard to breathe, and it doesn't help that Roland has latched himself around her stomach like a life preserver.

"I know you don't always believe me when I tell you this, but I love you," and Robin gently tugs her chin up to emphasize his point with the warmth in his eyes. "And when I say I love you, Regina, I truly mean all of you."

A laugh bubbles out of her as the couch sinks down under his weight and he pulls the both of them close, her shoulder falling into his chest and his lips onto her hair. Roland looks as relieved as she feels, but Robin's not finished.

"My boy, this doesn't mean stealing from Mr. Gold is the right thing to do," he tells him sternly.

"I didn't mean to, Papa!" Roland protests, and Robin looks to Regina for an explanation.

"From what I gather, Roland's magic is like a magnet for other magical objects." She chews her lip thoughtfully. "Our lessons must have triggered or amplified his ability without us even realizing it. This kind of gift is rare, but when it happens, he can basically summon anything that contains magical properties with the power of a single thought. Even a subconscious one."

"So…" Robin's brow furrows.

"My guess is that he sees people who are in need, figures out how he can help them, and then he just can't help himself." Regina runs her fingers through Roland's curls and he snuggles closer. "I wonder where he gets that from."

Robin's chest is rumbling with silent laughter, she can feel him smiling into her hair. "But it's something we can learn to control, with time and practice. Isn't that right, Roland?"

"Or something we can use to our advantage," Robin muses, and it's her turn to be confused.

"Do you think it would work on the imp's dagger?" he wants to know, grinning crookedly when she gives him a look.

Roland begins to squirm uncomfortably at her side.

"What is it, honey?" Regina asks, concerned.

"I gave it to Belle," he says in a very small voice. "The dagger."

"What?" says Regina.

"When?" says Robin.

"I thought Belle already had the dagger," says Regina.

"She said she felt like Mr. Gold was hiding something from her," Roland tells them. "So then I blinked and…"

"And?" Regina presses.

Roland shrugs. "Now she has two daggers."

"She what?"

A/N: Based off a tumblr prompt from the one and only rogersmeed.