Regina is talking, softly, gently and Snow's gaze never leaves her. Hazel eyes are glued to ruby lips, taking in their movement, the way Regina's scar flickers in and out of view with the movement, clearly visible when the sunlight hits it just right, almost imperceptible the next moment. Snow shifts and wipes slightly sweaty hands on the skirts of her dress. She wants to kiss her. Regina. Her father's wife.
She can't say when it changed, when childlike wonder and adoration were replaced with the intensity of emotion she's feeling now. She only knows that Regina, in her mind, has evolved from a childhood hero, to a stepmother, to something so much more.
It should probably be reason for concern that Regina never leaves her mind, that, no matter what she is supposed to be doing, the queen is right there, lingering in her mind, filling it with fantasies of smiles and touches and something even more intimate.
Sometimes, in her more lucid moments, Snow realizes that it's most likely an obsession, something dark and unhealthy with the potential to destroy them all. But, regardless of those moments of enlightenment, she cannot bring herself to care. And there is nothing she could do to change her treacherous mind, either way.
Snow grows to hate her father little by little. It happens so slowly that at first, she doesn't even take notice. Adoration fades, and she finds she doesn't want to greet him anymore, doesn't want him to intrude on the moments she spends with Regina, who grows more important by the day.
She starts resenting him, resenting him for having the privilege of calling Regina, sweet, caring, wonderful Regina his wife, resenting him for taking her from Snow's room or the library, cutting their time short whenever he deems it time for his wife to join him in the royal bedchambers.
She hates him when she grows old enough to realize what it is he summons her for.
Hatred grows into loathing when she realizes that the dreams she has – dreams that make her wake covered in sweat and with a pleasant pulse between her legs- would never become reality because her father has that right and she never will.
She's overtaken by the desire to have Regina, to have her solely. For her to be Snow's and Snow's alone.
Snow finds that she doesn't want to touch her father anymore, doesn't want to join him on his travels. Anger burns in her veins whenever he puts a hand on his wife, no matter how innocent the touch, no matter how fleeting. She finds herself scowling at him so often; surely he must have forgotten what her smile even looked like.
He attempts to talk to her, wants to know what has her so dissatisfied. Of course she doesn't tell, only gives an unladylike shrug in response and tells him she wishes to be left alone. He leaves her, most likely feeling as uncomfortable in her presence as she feels in his.
And so they grow distant. And Snow can't bring herself to care.
There is nothing quite as painful as the overwhelming intensity of emotion that floods her heart upon looking at Regina's face, her beautiful features constantly tarnished by tight lines and hollow eyes.
There's something in the stiffness of her expressions -in the deep lines on her forehead- that makes Snow's chest clench with equal parts pain and anger.
She wants to know how to make it better. She would walk through hell and back to rid Regina of whatever demon is plaguing her. But the Queen doesn't speak of her feelings. In fact, she hardly speaks at all.
Snow asks, one day, in a rare moment of courage, but receives no answer save for a tightening of Regina's jaw and a darkening in her eyes. "I'm fine, dear." She says, but it sounds wooden and hollow and even Snow with her childlike naivety recognizes the upturn of her stepmother's lips as forced and mechanical.
And then, one night, everything changes.
She wakes with a start, groaning to discover the heat of desire between her legs once more. She should be used to it, to her body's reaction as well as the feeling of bitterness upon, once again, realizing what she can't have.
She wants to see Regina (she always does) and decides to look for her, hoping to find her still awake.
Taking the oil lamp from her nightstand, she leaves the warmth of her bed behind, trading it for the silent darkness of the castles eerie hallways. Her steps echo through the old murals as she takes a left turn and heads towards the east wing, approaching both the private library and the royal bedchambers. She hears the thuds when she draws nearer, and finds the heavy wooden doors to Regina's chambers not entirely closed. Peeking through the crack, she bears witness to his father's and Regina's coupling, all hard movements and heavy grunts of pleasure. Regina stays silent and unmoving below the shadow that Snow recognizes as her father, and then the queen turns her head to the side, the moonlight creeping in from the windows just enough to illuminate the hollow look in her eyes, the painful grimace of her face.
And Snow is overtaken with anger. It's a heat in her gut, burning flames licking at her insides and she wants to run in and pull her father away from Regina, precious, strong, wonderful Regina and never let him near her again. She wants to kick him, hit him, fight him, all for Regina. She wants to see him bleed.
The thought makes her gasp, and she almost feels ashamed for those fantasies, but she's too far gone to worry for more than a second.
Her father groans and stops his movement, collapsing onto the petite form of Snow's stepmother.
And Snow White swears to make him suffer.
Her dreams have changed. She doesn't dream as much of Regina's lips and fingertips anymore, but instead has vivid visions of blood and death. She dreams to see her father die a thousand deaths. Sometimes, she strangles him with her own hands, other times she kills him with a knife or sword, the blade gleaming in the moonlight before it slices through his throat. Sometimes she poisons him, sneakily, and watches him die a slow and painful death in the very bed he used to disgrace his second wife.
She dreams of many different versions of his death, but they all end the same. Regina, her eyes young and her smile sincere in a way Snow hasn't seen it in many years, meets Snow's gaze, knowing, appreciating, accepting. And then she takes Snow's hand, whispers, "Thank you, dear", and presses a kiss to her lips before they'd both turn to watch the casket being lowered into the ground, both of them smiling so wide that their cheeks hurt.
She wakes from one of those dreams, heart pounding gleefully and her hands shaking with leftover exertion. Killing is an exhausting act, even in dreams.
She tries to fall back asleep, but fails, her mind to riled up, filled to the brim with thoughts of blood and revenge in the name of the queen. So after two hours of tossing and turning, Snow stands and wanders down the castle halls. She feels oddly mechanical, lead by an unknown instinct, and she doesn't notice that she's made her way to the library until she's standing in front of the elaborate armchair, staring down at the sleeping form of the queen.
Father will be mad.
He hates it when she falls asleep reading.
She hates him for hating it.
She hates him for more.
She loathes him for taking Regina from her.
Snow doesn't think. She spends no thought on her actions, simply leans over and presses her lips to the queen's, lightly, carefully, mindful not to wake her, for she knows she'll most likely never get the chance to kiss her with Regina being lucid.
She never wants Regina to suffer again, never wants her to be touched again by her father. It almost frightens her how little she cares about him by now, how cold her feelings have grown. Almost.
Her eyes take a few minutes to study Regina's form, the tightness of her jaw lose for once, eyelids fluttering, dark lashes casting shadows on her cheeks.
And Snow thinks of a young woman with a radiant smile. She thinks of a young girl who used to be full of light, who used to be so friendly, so warm, so playful.
And her heart constricts painfully.
Her decision is made in a split second, the images of her dreams still fresh in her mind. She struts into her father's bedchambers without noticing. She's on autopilot, filled with anger and jealousy and rage, and she has the pillow pressed onto his face before she has the time to question herself.
He wakes, of course he does, and she might've stopped had the pillow not blocked his eyes from her view. Perhaps the panicked gaze of the man she'd known her entire life would have made her hesitate. But then again, perhaps it would only have made her anger rise. Perhaps it would've made things worse (if there even was a "worse").
He struggles, as much as he can with her holding him down. His hand tries to grab for his attacker, but he only blindly brushes his fingers against her nightgown. And then he stills. His struggles stop. Snow keeps the pillow pressed to his face, momentarily unable to move. She breathes heavily, catches her breath.
And then she lifts the pillow, throws it to the side. It hits a long burned out candle on the nightstand and it falls to the ground with a thud.
Her father's face is still. Snow stares in morbid fascination.
Until she hears her voice.
"Snow!" It's higher pitched than normal and Snow turns to meet her stepmother's eyes, widened in horror.
"What have you done?!"
And Snow comes out of her delirium, eyes wide and flickering from her father's lifeless form to the queen's shocked expression. And then the tears fall. Because she doesn't know.