So, I got a couple of prompts about 800 years ago to write a first date between these two, and I'm finally getting around to posting it! All the gratitude in the world to the wonderful narcolepticbadger for all her help. You are the best!

"What would you say if I said I wanted to take you on a date?" he asks her casually one afternoon, before they've finished catching their breath.

She looks down between them pointedly, at their naked chests, at her skirt rucked up around her waist, her sweaty thighs nestled in beside his hips. They are in his car this time, in what she hopes is a deserted parking lot, and God, she doesn't do this, she doesn't end up half-clothed in some guy's messy, beat-up old Ford Falcon, grinding down on him with her teeth dug into his shoulder to muffle her cries and hopefully avoid a public indecency charge.

She looks back at him.

"I'd say you're several steps behind. A little slow on the uptake, are you?"

He narrows his eyes at her, leans forward and lightly bites her breast in retaliation for her cheek. Her head falls back, a hum of approval falling from her lips.

"I realise this is a less than conventional point in the proceedings to be asking, but, if it wouldn't be entirely reprehensible to you, I'd like to get to know more than just your body."

She huffs her scorn, shifting slightly, his eyes falling shut with a grimace as he slips from within her. She settles back down on his thighs, rocking slightly, experimenting to see how quickly she can have him riled up and ready again.

"A few quickies and you think you know my body?" she scoffs. "Please. You're still so very much the amateur."

His eyes spark and smoulder in that way that he does when she provokes him. He purses his lips, fixes her with a half-glare, half-smirk that she still, damn it all, finds so terribly attractive.

"Oh, is that so?" he asks, dipping his fingers between her legs where she's still sensitive enough to jerk and gasp at his touch. It's a full-blown smirk that greets her when she opens her eyes again. "So you'd say I have a lot to learn, then?"

The pad of his thumb is swirling in her wetness, gathering enough to slip and slide over her clit.

"Aahh! –yes!" she affirms. "You're still – mmm – in the minor leagues."

In one deliciously skilled finger goes, crooking at just the right angle, and oh, bless archery, she'll never say another word against it.

He's leaning into her neck now, sucking and biting at the join of her neck and shoulder as he alternates between fucking his fingers – two fingers, oh God – into her and sliding them out to circle her clit. Her body is still alive and thrumming from her first orgasm, this won't take long.

"Well I've always been eager to improve myself," he husks, smug, annoyingly smug, but clearly affected enough that she can overlook it. He's stirring back to life between her thighs and she's lunging back and forth with her hips, half involuntary, half to tease out his hard on and even the playing field.

"I don't know what you – unh – hope to get out of it," she says, refusing to be the first to lose track of their conversation.

The fingers thrust hard up into her then, and she can't hold back her moan.

"What on earth do you mean?" he questions, seeming actually somewhat displeased by her statement.

"Well," she pants, eyes closed, her head dropping onto his shoulder, "Why would you bother with the formalities when you've already got the privileges?"

His fingers withdraw, and she opens her eyes to scowl at him, but the expression on his face surprises her. It's not glaring, it's not smirking, and she doesn't have the chance to define what it is before he's kissing her. Deeply, thoroughly, but slower than she's used to. Her brow is furrowed in question when he pulls back.

"Perhaps it's possible that I consider dinner with you a privilege equally worth earning."

Her eyes widen, but he seems to sense that she's not especially comfortable with this line of conversation, in these close quarters, with his fingers and her thighs still wet from their passion. Without another word, he pushes his fingers back up inside her, reaches down with the other hand to attend to her clit, and within minutes she is writhing in his lap, the car filled with her groans and sighs of pleasure, rolling through her in waves until she crests with a long, blissful moan.

Her knees are cramping, but she feels softer, relaxed, a little more powerful, and a little more playful, so she folds herself sideways over his thighs, her back against the car door, taps his nose like he's a naughty puppy.

"So, dinner, huh?"

"If that's agreeable to you."

"You actually want to do this?"

"Yes."

"You want to date me?"

"Yes."

"Why? I'm clearly not your type."

He raises his eyebrows incredulously at that.

"You're right," he says sarcastically. "Usually I prefer to date women who are a little less devastatingly sexy. Better for the self-esteem."

She rolls her eyes, reaches for his now-almost-fully-erect cock and flips it upwards with the pads of her fingers so it hits his belly. He oofs, and glares, grabbing her hands and trapping them with his own.

"You know what I mean. You're all outdoorsy, one-with-nature, I-sleep-in-the-dirt-and-bathe-in-the-river wholesome man, while I'm – what was the word you used? Pretentious?"

He's distracted, guiding her hand over his cock, curling his fingers around hers and encouraging a much kinder touch than the one she just administered.

"If you can agree to be seen in public with me, I think I can manage the same," he says.

:

So they go to dinner.

Regina spends an hour and forty-seven minutes getting ready.

By the time she's finally decided on what to wear, what heels go best with her black skinny jeans, done her hair and makeup, changed once more after accidentally dropping the mascara brush and streaking black down her rose-pink top, she's feeling… well, crabby, actually.

It was just simple, before. When all they did was flirt and scratch a mutual itch. She knows he finds her physically attractive - that much is obvious - and it's something she's familiar and comfortable with.

A date, on the other hand. A dinner date. Which would involve a lot of necessary conversation, and dainty eating, and awkward moments with the bill, and awkward moments when it came time to part ways, or not. To kiss goodbye, or kiss their way into someone's bedroom.

(They'd never done it in a bedroom before.)

A dinner date where it would become painfully apparent if he found her less pleasing to talk to than she was to look at.

She doesn't even know what they have in common, besides each having a son, and archery, sort of. What would they talk about?

The whole thing is making her anxious in a way she hasn't felt in years, and she can't help but feel a little resentful for it. Why did he have to complicate things? What was so very wrong with the two of them dallying to mutual satisfaction and leaving it at that? What did he even see in her? Why did she care whether or not he liked her as a person anyway?

She should have said no. Thanks, but no thanks. She still could, she could call and tell him something's come up, that she'll see him on Saturday morning as usual. Nice and easy.

But he'd practically drunk her in as she walked from her Benz across the parking lot, and then sat beside her before the lessons started and whispered pretentious car you have there, m'lady in her ear like it was foreplay, and she'd used her pointy-toed shoe to jab him under the thigh, and he'd given her that heated look that he gives when he's thinking about fucking her. And then they'd ended up in his car, where she'd proceeded to show him that she was all pretension and no class.

Funnily enough, he never makes her feel that way.

No, he makes her feel sexy, and desirable, and young and carefree and wild, and she likes it.

She likes him.

He makes her laugh, and smile, and cry out his name, and she looks forward to seeing him every Saturday. He is good with her son, and good for her. She can feel it.

And she is going to ruin it.

:

Henry tells her she looks pretty as she kisses him goodbye, and Ruby, waitress at her local cafè and sometimes-sitter, gives her an annoyingly knowing look as she seconds the opinion. Regina had eventually decided (post-mascara spill) on a sheer cream blouse through which Robin can ogle her peach-and-black Dita Von Teese bra. Perhaps a bit racier than she'd normally wear on a first date, but then, it's nothing he hasn't seen (touched, licked, sucked, bitten) before. She paired it with designer black skinny jeans that make both her ass and her calves look good, and of course, the usual heels - her cobalt suede Blahniks, this time. She's covered the ensemble with a coat before leaving her bedroom - no need to traumatise her son with the sight of his mother's date night lingerie, after all.

:

Her tetchy mood is momentarily mollified when she approaches the table Robin's already sitting at (she's punctual; he's early), and for several moments he just sort of stares at her. It's not his usual deliberate roving gaze either, intended to set her alight with each slow, savouring pass of his eyes over her body. This seems slightly more involuntary. He gives his head a little shake, an almost bemused smile on his lips, and she finds herself blushing. How ridiculous.

"What?"

"I apologise, it's just that I've suddenly realised exactly how many miles out of my league you are."

She rolls her eyes, but can't stop the flattered smile that significantly softens her disdain.

He rises, closes the distance between them, traces a hand lightly over her waist to her hip, practically breathes his words to her mouth,

"You are a fucking goddess, Regina."

She thinks about arguing, just the semantics of such an outrageous statement of course, but then his other hand comes down to her other hip, just a light brushing of his fingertips against her, and he presses a kiss into her mouth; closed-lipped but somehow burning with promise. It leaves her a little breathless.

He nudges the corner of her chair with his foot, pushing it halfway out for her before sitting down again, smirking up at her.

"And I am a toad, I'm afraid."

She returns his smirk, slides neatly into her seat.

"Is that your way of begging for a kiss?"

He laughs.

"I don't beg," he says, and a charged look passes between them, then he continues airily with, "But I would never refuse anything you happened to ask for."

He raises his brows as if to challenge her - she shakes her head, still smiling.

"You do know, of course, that it tends to be the daintier frog varieties - " (she snorts and repeats dainty?, unable to let that one go by unmocked, but he carries on talking and ignores her interruption completely, looking pleased with himself despite his self-deprecation) "- that transform into princes. We toads are far less prone to such spontaneous improvements."

"Well, there goes my hope for the evening," Regina says with a theatrical sigh.

"We may not be the best dinner partners," he concedes. "But I do hope the wine will make up for it."

He retrieves the bottle of red from the middle of their table, and Regina eyes the label.

"Is that a Bordeaux?"

"It is," he smiles, pleased.

"What year?"

"Er," he turns the bottle in his hand, inspects the label himself, "a '92."

"Ah, the '98 is better," she teases.

He falters for a second, just a second, a look of uncertainty and insecurity passing over his face, and it causes a sudden wave of insecurity and self-beration to wash over her as well. Why did she even say that? Stupid, she really is pretentious, and what a great way to make him realise spending more time with a stuck-up bitch like her was a giant mistake…

But he recovers quickly; smiles, and says, "Let's hope the conversation leaves nothing to be desired, then," and she is warmed by a flood of gratitude. She smiles back.

And they do make good conversation, at first. She can't help but feel like she needs to explain herself for the stupid wine comment, so she talks about her father and his beloved hobby, about childhood memories of his cellar and being educated on the superiority of this vintage or that vineyard in the half-light, the rich smell of fermenting wine all around them. Her Papi's soothing voice and red-stained fingernails, how even now she sends a silent apology to him whenever she drinks a white straight from the refrigerator without giving it the proper airing time.

She doesn't tell him how the wine cellar, the time spent down there with her father, became something of a safe haven from her mother, who found the smell overpowering. Nor does she give voice to the ache that the loss of her father still brings whenever she talks about him. No need to depress them both on the first date.

"He sounds like a wonderful father," Robin says, watching her with soft eyes, something almost a little wistful in his tone, or perhaps regretful.

"He was," she agrees. Her own eyes feel dangerously full, so she shifts topics. "Henry is named after him."

They talk about her son briefly, Robin gratifying her with praise of Henry's progress and general manner and attitude in class. He gets on well with everybody, and is always willing to help others - a generous, good-hearted young man, Robin says, and Regina beams with pride. Henry has made a good few archery friends, she knows (which has been mightily convenient for their mid-afternoon delights, she thinks with a twinge of guilt). Robin mentions his own son, Roland, who is shy and finds it a little harder to make friends. Regina has met the sweet little boy only once, and is eager to know more about him, but then they are interrupted by the waiter, and conversation is diverted to the task of deciding what to order.

They're distracted then, anticipating their food, sipping at the wine (the '92 is not a great year, but Robin wasn't to know. Though she does wonder why he didn't just go for a safer Pinot Noir or something instead), commenting on the patrons around them and eyeing up the meals that arrive at other tables.

"So, tell me about your job," Robin says eventually. "I know so little about it, and you are so intimately acquainted with mine."

And he says 'intimately' in this certain way, a way that has her smirking, and dropping her eyes, and shifting in her seat, heat stealing into her belly.

"I see, and you think it's your turn to get intimately acquainted, is that it?"

He grins. "Indubitably."

He accompanies the (in her opinion) ridiculous word with a waggle of his eyebrows, that for a moment has her unable to decide whether to laugh at him or kiss the pants off him. She settles for shaking her head as they grin stupidly at each other, and she takes a fortifying sip of wine before launching into an explanation of what she does for a living.

She should have known better, really. It's not a conversation topic that tends to bring out the best in her. She's a commercial producer, she explains (that is, a producer of commercials, spending her days and nights number-crunching and sweet-talking spoiled, rich clients into letting her help them sell their products, because she sold out herself). But she ends up doing more complaining than explaining, really. Never a good thing to do on a date.

"They're just so accustomed to getting what they want," she says. "And it's because they always do get what they want. Even if I say no, we can't give you all of those things and stay within budget, they'll just expect me to ask the crew to work for less. They're never willing to let go of their heli shots, or their crane rigs, or their five locations, or their rain towers, but if they can skimp on the people, oh, they can't sign that contract fast enough. Except when it comes to flying their preferred DP out of Australia, though. God forbid they hire somebody local."

He's staring at her when she finishes, his expression blank. She's suddenly aware of just how much she's been talking.

"What exactly is a DP?" he asks after a short pause.

"Oh, sorry," she always uses too much jargon when she talks about work, "Director of Photography. The Cinematographer, head of the camera department."

"Right, got it," he says, and there's something oddly snippy in the way he says it. "So they'll pay only for the most important people."

"Sad but true. They never fly economy either. It's always business class."

"Which your company pays for?"

She nods.

"And, what, they just get away with undercutting crew? Can't you tell them you won't do it?"

She almost winces. Almost lies. He's not going to be impressed with her answer, she knows.

"I could. But then there's always somebody else out there who will do it. And the clients know it."

"So if you're not willing to underpay the worker bees, somebody else will get the job who is."

She bristles a little at the implication, can't help it. She tries to reign it in though, telling herself he doesn't mean anything by it.

"It's not the best industry for taking a stand, unfortunately," she admits.

"No," he hums. "That sort of thing is never the most convenient course of action."

If it had been said in a lighter tone, if he'd been smiling or even looking her in the eye when he said it, she might have taken it as a wry comment on society at large, or even a bit of cynical understanding. But there's a noticeable strain of bitterness in his voice that fails to ease the feeling that it's aimed directly at her.

"It's never convenient," she says, trying to sound totally composed and not at all defensive. "But we all have to keep working, and actually a large part of my job is not burning bridges with the people who bring money to my door."

"Whoever has the gold makes the rules, right?"

"Which is true in any business," she snaps, and damn it, but she does sound defensive now.

He looks up, almost appearing startled by her sudden sharpness, and his strange, forcibly blank expression melts into contrition.

"I'm sorry, I'm being an arse," he says. "I didn't mean to offend you. I guess I'm just a little too predisposed to think ill of wealthy people who are in the habit of getting their way."

At her frown, he elaborates: "My father was one. And he very much wanted me to become one too."

"You don't seem the type," she says, and then instantly cringes when she realises how it sounded. What's happened? Things were going so well, and now there seem to be feet in mouths all over the place.

He catches her wince, and chuckles softly, placing his hand over hers.

"It's okay. You're right. I am neither the type to accumulate excessive wealth, nor the type to become a little too used to getting what I want. Which is why I'm still rather surprised you agreed to have dinner with me."

He smiles, and she smiles.

"So, if I'm understanding this correctly, being a television commercial producer basically involves mastering the art of sucking up, am I right?"

He's still smiling as he says it, so she knows he means it in fun, but she's never been especially good at laughing at herself, and she already feels off-kilter from the rocky progress of the conversation so far, and, no, actually, that's not all her job entails (a part of it, sure, but not all). Though she can see there's not much point in explaining that to him. And she really doesn't want to be the shrew who ruins their date, so she plasters on a smile and says,

"Pretty much, yes."

"Well I hope they don't try to undercut your pay. I'd say you earn it for dealing with plonkers like that," he says, smiling, smiling, and she keeps smiling too and doesn't answer, because no, they don't undercut her, and she has a feeling he's very well aware of that. She crosses her ankles, tucking her Blahniks further under her chair, and takes another large sip of inferior wine.

:

Regina is relieved when the food arrives, but things only go downhill from there. Apparently it's Robin's turn to feel the need to explain himself, telling her about his struggles with Roland's private school ('Which he's only going to at all because my father, who liked to look down his nose at absolutely everyone, insisted on it'), and why he's particularly tetchy about the 'golden rule' right now.

She wants to point out the Aladdin reference, knows it well herself from multiple rewatchings with Henry, wonders if Roland had (or has?) a similar fixation with the flying carpet, wants desperately to lighten the mood and steer the conversation back to the easy back-and-forth it's always been between them. But it feels rude to change the subject now, like she's bored or uncomfortable or doesn't care. So she listens, and tries to sympathise, even tries to offer advice. But it seems that the more she tries, the more prickly he becomes, and the more he rolls his eyes at her or impatiently dismisses something she says, the closer her own hurt and temper get to the surface.

"If Roland's not eligible for a scholarship, maybe you should consider putting him into public school. Your father's standards don't have to be yours."

She's sounding a little frustrated now, but, well, she is.

"His opinions weren't entirely unfounded, though," Robin argues, clearly getting frustrated too. "The quality of education, the opportunities and all that are much better, and I want the best for my boy. It's just without my father's financial backing - "

"There's nothing wrong with public school if you're in the right area, Robin," Regina says. "They have plenty of opportunities and really wonderful teachers, and frankly, all this stress and struggle on Roland's behalf isn't going to be doing him any good anyway."

It's Robin's turn to bristle. His features harden, his brows inch closer together, and he leans back in his chair, away from her.

"You'll have to excuse me, but I think our experiences of stress and struggle as a parent are probably vastly different," he bites out.

Regina feels herself grow cold.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Look, no offense, Regina, but your kid has probably never wanted for anything in his life. I've no doubt you've already put aside his Ivy League college fund, which is lovely for you both, but I find it a little hard to accept platitudes about struggling from someone born sucking on a silver spoon."

And as he says it, he sweeps his arm in front of him in frustration, and just catches the edge of the table number in its metal stand. It topples, knocks into the side of her wine glass and sends it flying into her lap, completely soaking her cream silk blouse in red wine.

She gasps.

He freezes.

The patrons around them turn to look. A waitress spots the spill and hurries over.

"Oh gosh, hang on, I can get you some club soda – "

"Don't bother," Regina snaps. Dousing the entire blouse in wine to even out the colour would be more efficient than club soda at this point. It's ruined, and it's not the only thing that is.

Regina stands up, yanking her purse off the back of her chair and digging through it for a handful of bills, which she tosses on the table.

"Well, as much fun as this was, I have to go be insulted and have wine thrown over me elsewhere now."

"Oh come on, you know that was an accident, Regina – "

She rounds on him ferociously, suddenly seething with rage and sick with hurt and bitter disappointment.

"How dare you treat me like I'm somehow less of a parent than you are, because you think I haven't had hardships enough for you? You know absolutely nothing about me, what the hell gives you the right to decide that my struggles couldn't possibly measure up to yours?"

He's gaping at her, looking utterly shocked at her outburst, seemingly lost for words. Her hold on her emotions is feeling dangerously tenuous, and she realises she doesn't want to hear his response anyway, so she turns abruptly for the exit.

That snaps him out of it, and later, when she's morosely replaying the whole scene in her head, she'll never be quite sure if she imagined the anxiety in his voice when he says her name.

She does turn around, but doesn't give him a chance to say anything else.

"You know what, you were right," she says, as viciously as she can manage in a voice that's just a touch unsteady. "If this is the league you're in, I am most definitely out of it."

And she's gone, leaving him scrambling out of his seat, fumbling for his wallet, stuttering apologies to the waitress (pompous English asshole) and shouting after her all at the same time.

She doesn't slow her pace, and luckily she's more than capable of walking quickly in high heels. Not that she should have even bothered. She thinks of how long she spent deliberating over what to wear this evening, and her throat tightens with anger and humiliation. She should have known. She should have known he'd judge her just like everybody else.

She practically jumps straight in front of the first cab she sees, climbing in and ignoring his huff of I can see you perfectly well from the sidewalk, y'know. She tersely gives him her address and spends the entire ride raging at Robin in her head, using anger and sheer force of will to stop the tears from spilling down her cheeks.

:

It may be the cowardly thing to do, but she calls in a favour and has her friend Kathryn take Henry to archery lessons the following Saturday. Avoiding the man she's been sleeping with after they had a spectacularly terrible date seems like a reasonable course of action to her. The very rare free morning is spent much like she's spent the rest of the week: brooding, picking up after Henry and answering emails in front of Revenge. She tries to make the most of it, because, really, she knows she can't carry on like this. Kathryn can't take Henry to archery for her every Saturday. And besides, this was her mistake, she should have known it could only end badly, and she went and did it anyway, so now she has to own it. And she will. Next Saturday.

Next Saturday comes around faster than she might have preferred.

It's with churning anxiety that she picks out her heels, resentful that this has become a thing now, a thing she associates with him. At least when they were just fuck-buddies, she felt sexy and confident when she chose her shoes, eagerly anticipating the reaction she knew he'd have.

She doesn't know what his reaction will be this time.

She almost considers wearing something else. But it still feels like admitting defeat, and Regina doesn't do that.

So she saunters into the archery club with a hand on Henry's shoulder, head held high and heels clacking, acting for all the world as if she belongs.

Her traitorous eyes find Robin almost immediately, and so she does not miss the way he practically lights up at the sight of her. It throws her a little, and Henry has already run off to catch up with his friends (she was careful not to let him become aware of her maudlin mood these past two weeks, but right now she almost wishes he was aware, so he'd know how little she wanted to be left alone), and for a moment they just stand there, on almost opposite sides of the range, just staring at each other. It only takes a slight twitch of his arm, a miniscule hint of movement in her direction to snap her out of it, and she hurries to her usual seat without looking at him again. Her heart pounds as she fossicks in her bag for her phone, sure she can feel his eyes on her, but when she next dares to look up, his attention has moved elsewhere. She watches him cautiously, prepared to be very occupied with checking emails should he turn in her direction. But then the lesson is starting, and he doesn't look at her again.

She's disappointed, and irritated with herself.

The entire lesson drags. She's a tightly-wound ball of tension, spending a great deal of energy appearing calm and collected. She absolutely refuses to gaze mournfully at him like some sort of pathetic teen romance heroine, but in her determination not to look up, she's been staring so hard at her phone that her head is beginning to hurt.

When the lesson finally does end, Robin is caught up talking to a couple of other parents. Relieved to have an easy escape (yes, relief is what she's feeling), she waves Henry over and leads the way out the door.

"What's the big rush?" Henry asks when he catches up to her.

"I have a couple of work things I need to take care of," she says, not really a lie - there were some questions in her emails that she needs to follow up on - "But maybe later on we could go to a movie. Would you like that?"

"Cool," Henry nods. "What movie?"

"How about that Batman one?"

Henry stops in his tracks and grabs her arm dramatically.

"Wait. You'd let me go see an R-rated movie?"

She shrugs casually. "Maybe just this once."

"Yes!" Henry releases her arm to punch the air excitedly. Regina smiles. She does so love to make her son happy.

"Can you see on your phone what time it's on?" he asks eagerly.

"Why don't you -" -look it up when we get home, was what she was going to say, but she's interrupted by someone calling her name. She turns, though she'd know his voice anywhere.

Robin.

He was jogging towards her, but he slows to a walk when he sees he's got her attention. She turns back to Henry, half crouches to his level, asks him to wait for her in the car, she'll just be a minute. She watches him trot away, taking a minute to control her expression before she turns to face Robin.

He's caught up to her, standing almost within arm's reach of her, the closest they've been in two weeks. His eyes move over her face, drinking her in like she's a sight for sore eyes, like he's missed her. She shifts uncomfortably under his gaze, not sure what to make of it, looks down at his hands instead. He's holding his green canvas backpack in one, and the other is extended, offering something to her.

It's a white shirt.

A nasty, cheap white shirt.

The cut isn't too bad, the shape passable, but the material is horrid. Coarse, stiff, bleached to within an inch of its life, obviously cheap polyester.

"What's that?" she asks.

He smiles sheepishly, tentatively.

"An apology?" he says.

She crosses her arms. Waits.

"Look, Regina, I'm sorry. I was an idiot. A thoughtless, unfair and inexcusably rude moron."

She used slightly stronger words, she thinks, but doesn't reply.

"You might have reason to doubt this now, after I behaved so terribly, but I really like you. I wanted to impress you. I was trying too hard, because I was nervous, and somehow I ended up treating you like my own feelings of inadequacy were your fault. They weren't, and you deserved a whole lot better. Even before I ruined your shirt. So -" he offers the shirt in his hand again - "I wanted to say I'm sorry. Truly."

She hesitates, eyeing him, eyeing the shirt.

"That is a terrible shirt," she pronounces.

To her surprise, he concedes with a nod and a tentative smile.

"I thought perhaps you'd like the opportunity to dye this one yourself."

And from his backpack he produces a bottle of wine. A '98 Bordeaux, if she's not very much mistaken.

She's surprised, impressed even, and she's sure it shows on her face. She keeps her arms folded, though.

"You didn't have to do that. That's an expensive wine."

"Well, I was assured it's a good vintage."

She falters, unsure if he's making fun of her. He eases a little closer.

"I just wanted to show you I can offer more than quickies in sweaty change rooms. I'd still like to try and prove that to you. That I'm worthy of you."

She sighs, holds out her hand for the bottle, but doesn't take it entirely from him, instead just brushes his hand with hers.

"Did I ever give you any indication that I thought you weren't worthy of me?" she asks.

"You mean apart from when you said I was out of your league?" he teases, seeming to sense he's going to be let off the hook.

"I think you decided that all on your own," she murmurs.

He smiles at her, really smiles, not a smirk or a cocky grin or that lip-biting, tongue swiping restless coy thing he does sometimes, but a real smile, small but soft and affectionate in a way that makes her drop his gaze and snatch the wine from him just to have something else to do. She makes a show of reading the label carefully, turning the bottle over and over in her hands, and she's not blushing, not blushing at all.

"Does it pass muster?" he asks.

She shrugs one shoulder carelessly. But she looks up at him from under her lashes and smiles.

"Will it compliment a good spag bol?" he continues, and it is a teasing smile now.

She shakes her head, doesn't even know what he's talking about, but she can't stop smiling.

"Undoubtedly."

She feels light for the first time in two weeks; she missed this, the banter, the flirting. But she's aware of Henry waiting in the car, probably getting impatient, so she takes a step back.

"I have to go," she says. "Henry's waiting."

He catches her free hand, a sudden earnestness in his eyes.

"Will you let me try and make it up to you? I'll cook you dinner at my place, tomorrow. We can drink that wine and spill spaghetti sauce down our fronts. I can try and impress you in a less moronic fashion. Please?"

She feels warm, from his hand holding hers, to the light blush on her face, to somewhere fuzzy and sentimental in her chest at the way he's looking at her, the sincere hope in his expression.

"Okay," she agrees. "Let me know a time."

He breaks out into a delighted grin, strokes his thumb across the back of her hand.

"I'll text you," he says. "You bring the wine."

She adjusts her grip on the bottle in her hand with another eye roll. She nods towards his other gift.

"I'm not taking that shirt," she says.

"It's okay, I prefer you shirtless anyway," he shrugs cheekily, and she chuckles.

:

That Sunday night, for the first time, they share a bed.

They even spoon.

She arrives early when she'd meant to be late, and he sports a grin as wide as his face when he opens the door.

"Can I just tell you I'm very, very glad to see you?" he says, and kisses her gently, almost tentatively. She's smiling too when he pulls back.

She hands back his bottle of Bordeaux, and he takes it with pursed lips and a frown.

"Pity," he says, eyes sparkling as he checks her face for a reaction.

"What?" she plays along.

"Well, I have heard the '92 has a much better colour."

He's smiling, his playful, teasing intent clear, but there's an air of slight uncertainty about him too. Hoping that this will be okay, that they can joke about it and put it behind them. And Regina smiles, and laughs a little, and she's relieved because it comes easily, naturally, they can laugh about it, and she feels better about this date already. Robin's relief is obvious too, and he pecks her lips again before ushering her inside, declaring,

"Enough of this nonsense, I have a culinary masterpiece to attend to."

:

So he cooks, and she uncorks the wine, and refuses to pour it until it's had a chance to breathe. He is long-suffering and dramatic, and bemoans the fact that her father didn't see fit to teach his only daughter all about football teams instead. She smiles warmly at him, stupidly pleased that he listened so well to her stories about her father.

She leans on the bench to watch him as they wait for the wine ('An absurd notion'), and it turns out his 'spag bol' is her spaghetti sauce, both of which are bastardised versions of the genuine Italian article. Though, she smugly insists, her heritage naturally puts her sauce ahead in the running.

"Outrageous claims like that must be backed up, I'm afraid," he tells her.

"What makes you think I can't?" she challenges, toe-to-toe with him, a cutting board of fresh basil behind him and the sauce bubbling away at her elbow.

"Oh, I don't doubt you for a minute," he says, his eyes on her mouth. "It's only that I quite enjoy watching you prove a point."

She can't help it - her eyes are on his mouth too, and she watches his tongue dart out to wet his lips and then his teeth catch the lower one - she kisses him fiercely, suddenly oh-so-aware that it's been two weeks since they last had sex.

They kiss heatedly against the kitchen bench, his hand making its way under her shirt and teasing around the underwire of her bra before a sudden hissing, sizzling sound startles them apart. Robin leaps to the rescue of the spaghetti sauce, and Regina finally pours the wine.

He joins her on the couch when the sauce is under control, and they clink glasses. He curses softly after his first sip.

"What?" she asks, suddenly anxious.

"It is better," he scowls, and she laughs.

She watches from the couch, her now-bare feet on the armrest, as he moves smoothly around his kitchen. She has to admit (not aloud, of course) it smells fairly heavenly. They make idle conversation in short bytes across the room, and when their spaghetti is ready, he sits on the floor without missing a beat, his back against the couch she's hogging.

Banter is exchanged about his DVD collection. It transpires that Roland is more of a fan of Abu the monkey than of the magic carpet. Robin himself claims a crush on Princess Jasmine as his own reason for multiple viewings, making Regina laugh.

"Oh dear, how shall I ever compete?" she smirks.

"A fair concern, m'lady, you are distinctly lacking in pet tigers."

She swats him on the shoulder with her fork (licked clean). He tips his head back to look at her, warmth in his eyes and a spot of sauce on his chin.

"But in every other way - beauty, intelligence, bravery, wit and certainly attitude - you exceed by far."

She rolls her eyes in order to stave off her flattered smile, wiping the sauce away with her thumb.

"Delighted to hear I come out on top against a Disney princess," she snarks.

"You come out on top in all things," he replies with a wink and a kiss to her knee - which is the only part of her he can reach.

She chuckles lowly. He's not wrong.

After dinner, they watch a movie, some black and white old romance thing that Regina eyes with great suspicion.

"You're not trying to impress me again, are you?" she accuses.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he replies. "As a matter of fact, I'm counting on it boring you so completely that you will be forced to make out with me just to pass the time."

"What a game plan."

He grins at her, and her chest flutters a little.

It's not just to spite him that she finds herself getting rather invested in the outcome of Rick and Ilsa's trials and tribulations, but she's also absentmindedly running her fingers through his hair and down the back of his neck, and the quiet mmm of appreciation he lets out, leaning his head further back into her touch, effectively distracts her from the movie.

She sits up and forward, sliding a hand over his jaw to accompany the one already cradling the back of his head he looks at her, as best he can from his awkward angle, and she kisses him. And kisses him. And kisses him. And when the Spider-Man kisses get uncomfortable, she slides off the couch and joins him on the floor, straddles his lap in fact, her back to the TV and his fingers tight on her hips.

It doesn't take long for her to be practically riding him through his jeans, his hands encouraging every grind of her pelvis down into his. He wastes no time in tugging her shirt up and off, then there's a brief struggle over whether she gets to pull his shirt off or if he gets to remove her bra first. She wins, and he makes up for lost time by pushing one bra cup down and sucking hard on her nipple. She throws her head back and moans loudly, and he grins around his mouthful of her breast, his other hand leaving her hip and working the button on her jeans.

His touch feels electric, her arousal already reaching a fever pitch, and she doesn't know if it's the two-week abstinence or the happy relief of their reunion, but it only takes a minute or two for her first orgasm to hit her, with both of them still fully clothed from the waist down.

She achieves her second half-sitting on the couch, divested of her jeans and underwear but her bra still on and askew; his head between her legs and his tongue flickering over her in a way that makes her shriek her orgasm to the ceiling.

"I have neighbours, you know," he admonishes, which would be more effective if he wasn't wearing such a shit-eating grin.

She sits up and gives him a tongue-filled kiss.

"Let them jerk off if they must," she grins.

When he finally gets her naked and suggests they move to the bedroom, she surprises them both by crawling to him on all fours and whispering,

"No. Here. Like this."

She wiggles her ass for good measure, even though he isn't getting the full view of it, and he groans aloud. But instead of taking her very well-presented offer, he cups her jaw with unbearable gentleness and kisses her. It's a long kiss, exploratory, with none of the urgency of the others. Her heart is racing when they separate, and she can barely meet his intense gaze.

"You're sure?" he asks, running his hand over her shoulder and down her spine.

She does meet his gaze then. She's never offered this before - she's almost always on top, except when they do it against a wall. Granted, a lot of the confined spaces they tend to find themselves fucking in do make woman-on-top a logical choice - but still, this is a significant first. One he's clearly aware of.

She smiles. And nods.

And that's how she reaches her third orgasm: on her hands and knees on his living room floor, his cock deep inside her and his skilled fingers dancing over her clit.

They still haven't had sex in a bed.

But they will wake up together in one, and that's a whole different kind of first.