It's somewhere only she knows, or so she thinks, but he knows all the secrets of this forest he's made his home.
(Or so he thinks, the forest has been known to surprise him with new treasures)
He doesn't intrude often, when she journeys this far from the castle it's hardly for company, but welcome or not he's not willing to leave her to her own devices. The glimpse she'd allowed into herself in her rooms that day had stayed with him. He wasn't always sure what he thought of this prickly, frustrating woman, or why exactly he gave twig for what would happen to this not-quite Evil queen, but care he did, and if the comfort of that eternal middle ever called to her again, he'd be here.
It's with this thought brimming in his mind that the clearing she favours comes into view and he veers off to the left to silently scale the ancient oak that will allow him a clear view undetected. Sometimes she paces; the pressure of the castle and its demands needing relief, sometimes she weeps softly and he looks down and away, shamed at his spying on these broken moments but knowing that it's then that the lure of sleep calls most strong. Sometimes she just sits, back against the bark of an auspiciously placed tree, breathing even and quiet, a moment to rest and fully relax.
It's with a cold biting in his stomach that he realizes today she is doing none of these things. Today she's lying in the grass in a guileless sweep among the flora that has him down his tree in a fast half tumble before he really finishing processing it (nobody anyone will miss, his mind echoes frantically, but how would she know so unwilling to see?) and half way to her, heart thudding in his ears in time with his steps on the ground.
When she turns and gives a sigh, mere feet from him grabbing and shaking her, crying out her name, he has to stop so fast it would be comical, sending him perilously close to sprawling on the earth with her. Not cursed, but sleeping. He grows roots for the next breath, two, three, silently willing her to settle back into slumber. He'll have a hell of a time explaining himself if she wakes, and she'll be no more temperate for being caught vulnerable. His prayers are answered a few moments later when she sinks imperceptibly deeper into the cushion of the earth. He allows himself to breathe again. My but she's beautiful, is Regina. The queen always is, but it's like looking into fire, or into the eyes of some exotic, feral beast. Admire and awe it says, but don't touch or you'll pay.
(And God he would. He'd pay a hundred times over to drag a single thumb over the invitation of her lip)
Here though she's softer; sun-warmed and day-drowsed. More the person her behaviour occasionally hints of than the legend she perpetuates of herself. Dressed more practically than the feather and jewels she's usually armed with, she looks younger, more the woman she must once have been, her beauty a luminous pearl seeping through her skin.
He doesn't know how long her stares at her (Regina, he whispers in his head. He's taken to thinking of her by her given name, an entirely too personal liberty she would never consciously allow him), but he knows that he's sitting now, and the afternoon is beginning to lose the yellow haze of sun. She won't sleep much longer, and he needs to go. Unwilling to entirely let go of the moment he takes a slow look around, eyes snagging on a tiny mound some ways above them. Mouth curving in a half smile he pulls his belt knife from its sheath and reaches up.
When Regina awakens she's stiff, but feeling better-rested than she's felt in quite some time. She's been unable to settle back in this old world, the familiar surroundings chafing her, like a skin that no longer quite fits. She stretched languidly, then startles slightly at the soft stroke of petals. A flower, lush and sweetly-scented, lain next to her cheek. She looks hard into the tree line, straining for something out of the ordinary, but the forest noise continues undisturbed. Tracing the edge of the petals she takes in the dented impression of another in the grass next to her.
Who?
A flash of warm crinkled eyes and suddenly she knows. No rhyme, no reason, certainly no proof, but she knows it was the dimpled thief that is always so disturbingly present wherever she goes. Knows that if anyone would find her cradled deep in these woods it would be him. She tries to work up some irritation, impertinent thief, but ire is noticeably, frustratingly silent. She will not like this she vows. Will not let the warmth trickle through her like fresh rain through leaves.
Pretends it's an accident that she starts her walk back still holding the gift.
Does not notice his smile as he follows her safely home.