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He misses her, and though he’d never admit that to anyone—especially not to her—he finds himself pacing the stretch of hallway in front of her rooms, trying to come up with an excuse to enter.
That morning, she’d been absent at breakfast. Roland had asked, frowning at the empty chair to his left where she usually sat, and Snow had explained she had a cold and would be resting in her room for the day. Roland continued to ask questions and Snow continued to explain—telling the boy about how the queen was no longer used to the bitter cold winters common in the Enchanted Forest and how in the land they’d been living in they’d become accustom to something called centralized heating.
Roland listened with wide, empathetic eyes while Robin fought against himself to keep his expression even, as though Snow were talking about the jam being served with breakfast.
He does a good enough job of it and continues the charade throughout the day, but nonetheless perking up as Snow gives Roland updates on the queen’s condition and then gives David the more accurate version. He chuckles softly as he listens to the details—how Regina had barked at Snow to stop pestering her, how in a moment of frustration she’d set her handkerchief on fire and used magic to conjure something called Kleenex, and how seemed to be wearing a perpetual scowl. It makes him smile, thinking of her this way, glad that illness or not, she’s still got her spunk.
As nighttime draws near, Snow once more assures Roland that the queen is just resting—but as she sits back down beside David, Robin hears her murmur something about a fever. His brow furrows as he rises to stoke the fire—a front to get closer to the Charmings and better overhear their hushed conversation. Snow looks worried as she goes on to say that Regina looks worse than she did in the morning and David wonders if they should call someone. Under ordinary circumstances, he’d have smirked when Snow sighed in annoyance and said that Regina was far too stubborn for that, but now, it only worries him.
Not long after, he’d scooped up Roland and announced that it was bedtime. He ignored the boy’s protests that it was too early and that he wasn’t tired. Robin tried to compromise, offering up an extra bedtime story and eventually, Roland conceded. Truthfully, he was glad to read stories about knights slaying dragons and princes saving princesses from trolls and ogres because he needed a distraction. He’d spent the whole day thinking about her—wondering and worrying—and it amazed and frustrated him that even in her absence, he found her maddening.
When he passes her door for the umpteenth time, he lets out an exasperated sigh and stops before it. He should knock before the cup of tea gets cold, he reasons, before taking a breath and rasping his knuckles against the door. When he gets no reply, he knocks again and again; and still, nothing. He feels his stomach churn and suddenly the silence from the other side of the door is deafening.
The parent in him sends a series of worst-case scenarios swirling through his head and he pushes open the door, not caring if he’s welcomed. It vaguely occurs to him that she’ll be angry for his intrusion, but in that moment, he doesn’t care—if he ends up charred to a crisp, so be it, if it means she’s alright. When he pushes into the bedroom and the queen comes into view, she looks so small—small and harmless—as she lies curled up beneath a mound of blankets, her fingers clutching at the edges and her chin tucked over top of them. Her eyes are pressed closed and her chin and fingers quiver; her lips look dry, her nose is red, and her cheeks are flushed; and despite the fire burning at the hearth, her room feels colder than the rest.
“M’lady?” He asks as he takes a few steps forward, exhaling in relief as her eyes flicker open and her brow almost immediately furrows into a scowl at the sight of him—at least she’s lucid, and alive. “Roland thought perhaps some tea would help.” She softens the mention of Roland—a lie that perks her up, even if just slightly. “It’s a special blend—chamomile, some spices, but mostly whiskey.”
“Why are you here?” She spats in a hoarse voice. “Don’t you know that when someone closes they’re door they don’t want to be bothered?”
A smirk forms on his lips, “I needn’t remind you that I am a thief. Locked doors mean little to me, a closed door means even less.” She rolls hers eyes and pulls the covers closer—she doesn’t ask him to leave, so he takes it as an invitation to come closer. She watches him with skeptical eyes as he comes to the edge of her bed and sits down. “This will help.”
“Ibuprofen would help,” she’s quick to counter, rolling her eyes when he shakes his head, not understanding. “Never mind,” she murmurs, none the less pulling herself up a little and accepting the tea. He watches as she takes a small sip and her face sours. “This is terrible.”
“I know,” he chuckles. “But it helps.”
She rolls her eyes, but nonetheless takes another sip of tea. “Roland’s worried?”
Robin nods, “He is. He’s….quite fond of you.” He watches as her eyes once more soften and he finds a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He won’t admit that he’s been worried, too; or, that he’s also become fond of her. “He’s been asking Snow White for updates all day.”
“Oh, is that why…”
“No,” he cuts in as he sees guilt beginning to resonate in her eyes. “No, Snow is also worried. She wanted to check up on you. Roland merely requested her reports after her visits.”
She nods, grimacing as she takes another sip of tea. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to kill me with this tea.” He laughs softly and shakes his head. “What spices did you say were in this?”
“I didn’t, and I won’t. It doesn’t matter.” He smirks—“spices” were what he told Roland; in truth the tea mixture was chamomile and cod liver oil; he’d added the whiskey, in hopes it might warm her. “Just drink it.”
“Why?”
“It’s a family secret and what’s in it isn’t important. What’s important is that it’ll help.” Reaching out, he pushes his index finger to the porcelain tea cup, pushing it back toward her as she shivers. “Drink up.”
He’s surprised when she listens to the instruction, taking a long sip of the tea—and he finds himself smiling as she closes her eyes pinches her nose closed, and her head falls back. Her long hair falls back, away from her shoulders, and he finds himself thinking that she looks so different this way—an innocence and a sort of youthfulness that he’d never noticed before, even in the all-too-short moments when he could see past the carefully crafted façade she normally wore.
“That was horrible,” she says, tipping her chin back toward him as her nose scrunches and she peers down into the empty tea cup. “I almost wish it had been poison…”
He laughs and a hint of a smile forms on her lips, quickly fading as she shivers again. He watches as she pulls the blankets back up and huddles down into them. Before he realizes what he’s doing, the back of his hand is pushed up against her cheek, moving quickly to her forehead then to the other cheek. Her eyes widen and her jaw tenses, but she doesn’t pull away or push him back.
“You’re burning up,” he says, as his hand turns against her cheek, cupping it as his thumb caresses her jaw.
“It doesn’t feel that way,” she says as she sinks lower into the blankets unintentionally, nuzzling against his hand, as her brow furrows in skepticism and her eyes “Why are you really here?”
He sighs, still rubbing his fingers against her cheek—slightly surprised that she’s allowing it. “You’re sick, Regina. You shouldn’t be alone tonight.” She rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t argue it. “I was…worried about…you.” Slowly, her eyes meet his. Her expression stays even, but again, she makes no effort to pull away from him. “Believe it or not, I’ve come to…like you.”
“Don’t choke on the words,” she murmurs in reply.
He chuckles softly and shakes his head—only she would respond that way. He holds her gaze for a moment, finding it softer—and no sooner than he realizes that, she pulls back and her eyes fall away from his. He sighs, but remains perched on the edge of her bed, looking around the room.
There are too many windows and they’re covered in frost, both inside and out. It’s snowing outside and collecting on the panes until the wind blows it away. He considers suggesting moving to a different room, perhaps one on the interior of the castle, but he knows she won’t go. So, reluctantly, he gets up and from the corner of his eye, he sees her sit up a bit, her brow creasing as she watches him move—and he wonders if she actually wants him there, if she’d protest if he tried to leave. But he’s left to wonder, turning toward the fire instead of the door. He tosses a few more logs in and stokes the fire, making the flame rise higher. He looks back at her from over his shoulder, watching as she pulls the blankets tighter around herself as her eyes sink closed.
And once more, the parental side of him comes out—if she were Roland, he’d have her in a bath to try to lower her fever, but he knows she would never allow it and even if she did, the logistics of it would be too messy in too many ways. So, instead he reaches for the pitcher and basin at her night stand and carries it back to her bedside. Reaching for the tea cup, he fills it with water and sits back down.
“Drink this,” he murmurs gently.
“More poison?”
“No,” he says, chuckling softly. “Just water. You need water.” Her eyes open and she looks up at him. “You need to stay hydrated, m’lady.”
“I know that,” she spats, as a hint of a smile forms on her lips.
He watches her take the first sip, then pours some of water into the basin and moves back to the fire to heat it. Looking back, he continues to watch her, making sure she drinks the water and offering her more and refilling the cup. When the water is warm, he pulls it away from the fire and returns to her bedside, dipping a cloth into it and instructing her to lay back. She blinks a couple of time, then hesitantly lays back. He situates the blankets around her, then lays the warm, wet cloth across her forehead.
“Tell me when it gets cold, okay?” She nods and for several minutes, they’re both quiet. She continues to shiver and he continues to warm the cloth, applying warm compress again and again to no avail. It’s too little and too late. Depsite that, she doesn’t complain or criticize, instead she closes her eyes as her jaw quivers. “Can I…try something else?” He asks in a tentative voice, again thinking of Roland when he’s sick and the things that comfort him. Her eyes open and she nods. “Turn onto your side,” he instructs as he rises from the edge of the bed. She watches him with skeptical eyes and doesn’t move. “Do you trust me?” He asks with a sigh, trying not to think of all the ways this could backfire on him. She blinks a couple of times and then slowly, almost reluctantly, she turns. He waits for her to situate herself before pulling back the blankets.
Her head turns sharply as he slips into the bed beside her. “Do you have death wish?” She barks, her voice suddenly stronger as she sits up. “What the hell are you doing?”
He sighs. “Body heat will help warm you up and…”
“I have a fever, not hypothermia.”
He rolls his eyes. “I know that. That’s why we’re still clothed. And considering how cold this room is, it’s only a matter of time before you can add that to the list of your ailments.” Her eyes widen and he chuckles softly. “You raised a son. When he was feverish, or sick in anyway, what was your instinct?”
She blinks, “To…hold him.”
“Right,” he sighs. “And why did you want to do that?”
“To comfort him,” she murmurs quietly.
“Why else did you want to hold him? Especially at night…”
He watches as she takes a breath, conceding as her shoulders relax a little. “I could keep him warm. I could monitor his breathing. If he got sick suddenly, I’d be there with him.”
“Exactly,” he tells her, reaching out and giving her hand a soft squeeze. “Human contact has all sorts of benefits—as parents, we can certainly attest to that.”
“But I am not a child.”
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, “Are you sure?” Her eyes widen, but instead of snapping back at him, she grins. “Regina, you’re burning up. You’re chilled. Fevers can go from uncomfortable to dangerous with a moment’s notice. You shouldn’t alone.” He sighs and grins back at her. “And trust me, I’m not doing this in an attempt to seduce you—don’t take this the wrong way but that drippy nose isn’t exactly attractive.” Her bottom lip catches between her teeth as she fights against herself, trying not to smile. “This isn’t even an attempt to cuddle—you’re far too prickly for that, anyway. ”
She holds his gaze for a moment before rolling back onto her side. He slides into the bed beside her, pulling the several blankets she’s accumulated up around them. His arm slips around her waist and he pulls her close. She’s warm to the touch, but he rubs his hand up and down the length of her arm—and then to his surprise, she turns in his arms. She cuddles closer, resting her forehead on his chest as his hands move to her back. Though he can’t see her face, the way she breathes feels like she’s on the verge of tears; so, wordlessly, he continues to rub her back and stroke her hair until her breathing steadies and her shivers lessen.
“M’lady?” He whispers in a barely audible voice. “Are you still awake?”
“M-hmm,” she murmurs groggily, before tilting her chin upward. “Robin?”
“Yes?”
“If you tell anyone—especially the Charmings—about this, I will murder you.”
He chuckles softly, “Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are, M’lady. This will be our secret.”
“It’s Your Majesty…”
“Of course it is…”
After that, she’s quiet and when he peers down at her, he sees that she’s asleep. He smiles gently and continues to stroke his fingers through her hair and rub her back. He’s happy to be able to comfort her, even in some small way, and even happier than she let him. Because as much as he’s tried to deny it, he loves her and this is what you do for the people you love.