Author's Notes:

First off, I don't own Once Upon a Time or any of the characters therein. It's all just for funzies.

Second of all, this plot-bunny showed up in my mind after watching 5x07 and would not leave me alone, so here it is. I don't really do one-shots, but the jury's still out on whether I'll leave this here as is or keep exploring; guess it depends on how people react, so lemme know.

Either way, enjoy Zelena's sometimes ridiculous, always entertaining inner monologue as she has an unexpected run-in with a chamber maid who ruins her rug and puts her in an awkward situation.

As a side note, this is in first-person, Zelena's POV, just so we don't get confused.

It's taken some time, but this whole Wicked thing has ended up really working out for me; I've got a child of my very own on the way, a singular command of powerful magic, and, courtesy of King Arthur, a royal suite in a real live castle.

Now that I've got all that, I find what I really want is... some chicken.

With a flick of my wrist and a half a smile I feel my magic take hold around me - God, does it feel good to be fully myself again - and in a quarter second I'm no longer in my quarters, but in Arthur's "Grand Hall" (if one can call it that; mine in Oz was three times as magnificent!). He's standing there slack jawed, though that's possibly just his normal, everyday face, looking at me as though he'd never seen a magician before in his life.

"Arthur, dear," I say, pulling a chair out at his rather stupidly named "Round Table" and taking a seat. "Do send up a maid servant with some dinner for me, won't you?" I place a hand on my stomach. "The baby's so hungry."

Quite a treat this baby's turning out to be, honestly. Makes me wonder why I spent so long chasing after Snow White's when having one of my own is just so much more… lucrative.

"Of course, m'lady," Arthur obliges, though from the ever growing redness in his cheeks it's obvious to me he's not used to taking orders from anyone - much less a woman. But if I let gender politics weigh too heavily on me I'd never have made it big in Oz. Besides, what's poor, non-magical Arthur going to do defenseless, pregnant me?

Absolutely nothing, that's what.

Another snap of my fingers and I'm back in my room, surrounded by all my new things. I do so love to look around and know everything belongs to me. Good for the ego, if not the complexion - though I learned a spell for keeping the green off my skin shortly after coming to Storybrooke, the Land of a Thousand Idiots, the first time.

Speaking of looks, however, there are some necessary changes to be made if this chamber's going to become "home" for me and my bundle of joy. First off, we're going to need more mirrors. Lots of them. Luckily magic cures a multitude of ills, even interior decorating ones. Flick the wrist, think the thought, feel the magic, change the world. Delicious.

Just as I'm getting around to switching the walls from sporting Arthur's coat of arms to a far more appropriate shade of green there's a knock on the door. If it's not the dinner then I'm turning whoever it is into a roast goose.

"Hello?" someone mouses, poking her head through the door.

"Yes, come in." It's really getting so hard to find good help these days. From across the room I swing my arm and fling the door open, revealing a petite woman dressed in greying tatters - though thank the stars she's had the sense to find clothing that looks to have been at least formerly green - and carrying a silver platter.

"Shall I leave this on the table?" she asks sheepishly, her knees clacking together (It's a really annoying sound. Was she born with maracas for legs?).

"Yes dear, and do hurry. Saving your dreadful kingdom really does tire one out. And these days I'm scheming for two." One would think constantly finding ways to bring up one's pregnancy would get tiring after the first two months, but I'm finding it more and more exhilarating. The girl puts down the platter on one of my exquisitely decorated nighttables (I did the mouldings myself - flying monkeys; I love adding a home-y touch) and whips around to leave. Doing so, her sharp, almost aggressively angular hip bone smashes into the table and sends the glass of milk - my child's glass of milk - flying onto the carpet.

"I'm so sorry, madam, I'll clean it up. Just let me get a rag..." She starts tearing part of her skirt off and moves to sop up the milk with it. Disgusting.

"Don't bother," I say, calling the milk out of the rug, my rug, and back into the glass. She looks at me wide eyed, her knuckles clenched around the tattered piece of fabric. Little does the fool know I'm currently deciding whether or not to turn her into a toadstool or just a simple toad. Or maybe a fish, for the added comedic factor of -

"Thank you."

Wait, what?

"Wait, what?"

"Thank you, madam, for cleaning up the mess. I'll run down to the kitchen and fetch you another glass. Milk's good for the baby."

"Of course milk's good for the baby," I say, because what the hell else am I going to say to the idiot who thanked me for using magic to clean up her mess… who thanked me.

"Yes, madam, I'm sure you know." Without a word she's gone, off to the kitchen presumably to get another glass. Somehow, she's still alive. Maybe the baby's making me go soft. Maybe…

I look to the tray of food, stacked delicately with chicken and apples and loaves of bread and any number of other delicacies. Then I look to the glass of milk, then to the carpet, then back to the door, and against my better judgement I think of that damn maid, the maid that shouldn't still be alive.

The maid who thanked me.