Morning

Regina supposes she should be disoriented as she slips back into consciousness, in an unfamiliar room; the bed much lower than hers, the sunlight weaker than usual and streaming from a different corner of the room. But even without Robin's heavy, steady breaths washing over her neck, she would've known. For better or worse, this night has stayed with her. She's kept her awareness through sleep, remembers every second of how she got here, of how they got here. She hadn't slipped far enough away into her dreamless sleep to forget. Because she's worried, or because she's pleased, she wonders, and can't quite decide.

She's on her side, as she usually sleeps, arms tucked together beside her face, knees bent. As she stretches her legs down to ease out the stiffness in her muscles, her feet bump into his ankles, her toes grazing his skin. His warm hand is spread against her hips and belly, not clenched or tugging, but not exactly relaxed either, and though his body isn't pressed against hers, his nose is buried in her hair. She lifts one hand to cover his, settles for a moment, chuckles softly at the hum that escapes his lips, the way his fingers weave into hers. He doesn't wake.

She's wearing his button-up from last night; Robin had tugged it over her head with a soft smile when she shivered, pulled the edges straight and kissed her neck and moved her to rest against him. The vault's insulated, but not heated, and beneath only the linen sheet she'd needed something warmer, something more.

It smells like him. She hates how comforting that is.

Regina twists slowly, lifts her shoulder so that she can turn to face him, and she doesn't have a lot of experience, but she can't imagine an outlaw would be a heavy sleeper, so she is slow, careful, quiet. But when she finally sees his face, she wonders if it would've mattered, because he's out, his brow more relaxed than she's seen it in weeks, his lips curved into half a smile, his breath deep and slow and even.

It's tempting to touch, and when her whispered Robin garners no response, she does, lifting her right hand, tracing the pads of her fingers over his skin, over his forehead and across his temple, back up and down the bridge of his nose, over his lips and his scratchy stubble. She stares intently, and he doesn't wake, barely moves. She wonders what his face will be like when he wakes, if it'll be this relaxed, still, or if his brow will furrow again, and he will break her again and walk away from this as he should, as he must. (She's not entirely sure she'll be strong enough to push him away.)

For a moment, she considers staying like this, tucking her legs back into his and drifting off, and it is only then she realizes she's never woken in a bed with anyone who didn't make her at least a little nauseous, from guilt or disgust or distance.

The idea of staying is intoxicating. (And exactly what she can't allow.)

He snores, a heavy, churning breath, and it startles her enough to have her yanking her hand away.

Gently she reminds herself. She couldn't bear it if he opened his eyes and she had to watch the anguish paint itself across his face again.

So she picks his hand up, lingers only a moment to run her thumb over the mark that should have made him hers, once, a long time ago, when she was too scared and too angry and too hurt, too much of a coward, and rests it beside him, slipping out of the covers.

The stone floor is cold on her bare feet, enough to startle her back into some semblance of sense, and she tugs the henley back over her head, folds it into a neat pile, deposits it on the bed before she does the same to his undershirt and trousers. She swipes her bra off the floor, her panties, and her dress, and hurries into the other room. Walks. Calmly. People do this, one night of passion when they get carried away, and that should be nothing new to her, the thought should not make her skin crawl.

At least there was passion, she thinks, at least she had that, will always have that, the memory of one night when she was more than a warm body, and her partner was more than a warm body to her; when she was touched with love and reverence and respect. That should be enough. More than she's ever had, and she will remember the desperation of her name on his lips, her name and not Your Majesty or even Eva as she's heard a hundred times before; she will remember his breath on her skin and his gentle hands and scorching kisses. But it is not enough; she wants more, and she is angry at herself for it; she wants him, all of him, and after this morning she only wants him more.

"For once, stop thinking so much."

prompted by outlawqueener

"For once, stop thinking so much."

"Robin," she sighs, and his hand pauses halfway up her shirt, even as she tangles hers more firmly into his hair.

Because she wants this, she wants this, and he's oh-so-willing and half-naked (again) and it feels like her lungs have remembered the pleasure of breathing and her heart the pleasure of beating in a way they haven't for several weeks.

But still she doesn't move her hands, halts for a moment with his face suspended half an arm's length from hers, because what he's said is everything that's right about this, but it's also everything that's wrong.

"We aren't thinking," she insists, "and that's the problem."

He hums with the weight that assures her he's listening, and the bending pitch that tells her he disagrees. It's irksome, used to drive her absolutely mad in the Enchanted Forest, but now it's almost…it had become one of those beautifully annoying things of intimate habit, enough that she rolls her eyes gently as she had at his earlier quip about gossips.

He twists a hand in her hair, his eyes sweeping cross her face as his other hand settles at her hip. "I am thinking," he insists.

She softens ever so slightly, arches an eyebrow and slides one hand from his jaw into his hair. "Really?"

"Mm."

Her fingers tug absentmindedly at his hair. She can't quite hide the worry in her eyes from him as she prompts softly, "And?"

He shrugs, at once relaxed and half-smirking like he knows he's about to make her smile. His eyes on hers are warm, open, intense. "I'm in love with you."

She smiles.

(There it is! —she can nearly see him thinking that again, selflessly smug.)

He drinks in her smile for a moment, and she supposes that after the best…sleep they've both had in perhaps a lifetime, she'll let him.

"This is…complicated," he allows.

She can't help a snort. Or another grin at his dancing eyes when he hears it.

"I think that might be a more optimistic way of putting it than even Snow would attempt."

He sighs. "Regina, I don't mean to suggest that we ignore…I just…" He tips his forehead onto hers, exhaling slowly, heavily. "We'll figure it all out, eventually but for this hour, can't it be enough to…"

A tear has escaped, fallen out of the corner of her eye, and when he feels it he jolts back slightly, guilty, confused, the pad of his thumb on her skin to wipe the moisture away.

He'll leave her soon enough. He didn't this morning, and her stupid heart, but…

"Regina. Regina," he repeats, cradling her face, which she has schooled to be what she hopes is impassive and really fools neither of them.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Right now," she sighs, gesturing between them, "but the book has rules and the next chapter doesn't look like the villain of the story in bed with a hero."

It's not quite a laugh that escapes him, the harsh, broken noise from his throat. "You are no villain," he promises. "Not anymore. And I'm certainly no hero." (And it's a front, though she'd never admit it, isn't even aware. The book is a front for everything she hates and fears about herself.)

"Not with me," she whispers.

"I disagree."

"And will tomorrow be another one of those days?" She hates herself for pushing it—she has him here, in her bed, and willing, and why won't she let herself grab at the little beams of sunlight while they're in her reach? But it is because she is greedy; she wants more. More of sunlight, more of love, and happiness, and safety. More of him.

If only she could—if only the book could—if only she could…

"I'm not a hero, Robin. I'll keep you here if you let me. I'll let you stay. I'll let you do this again."

"Regina," he sighs, sad and gentle, like the hand that's cradling her face again. "How can it be honorable to hurt the woman I love?" he asks.

She swallows. "How can it be honorable for a married man to sleep with the Evil Queen?"

"Would you stop acting like this is shameful, Regina, I—," he trails off, frustrated, then starts again. "I'm grateful. I am, that Roland can know his mother, that we can figure this out and help her, but…" These moments always remind her of his confusion, of the mess this is. That was so easy to forget, she tried to make it easy to forget when he came to her office and broke her heart even though he'd said his heart was with her. " …we should be, I thought…I wanted…I thought we'd go to that party together, and you'd keep me from letting Roland have enough ice cream to get a stomach ache, and we'd…I thought I'd wake up the next morning like I did, today, except you'd stay in my arms. And I'd cook you and Roland breakfast at the camp, and…"

She interrupts him with a kiss, pulls him down with her hands tugging at his jaw, and he collapses onto her with an eager groan, palms digging into the mattress to hold his weight off of her, his body pressed into hers.

"I love you," he says again, nudging his forehead into hers, and then he's trailing heated kisses over her chin, up her jaw as her fingers wind into his hair.

She's been thinking the words in her head since that day on her couch and What went on between us was real, but even as he tangles a hand in her hair and slants his mouth over hers for a heady kiss, she cannot bring herself to say them.

She settles for, "I've missed you," spoken against his lips, quiet, and honest, and with the depth of his blue eyes, the tears shining in them as he pulls back to return the words, she gives in to this connection that shouldn't be, that can't be. That is.