Robin isn't sure how long they lie there together, his dying wife and his ailing son, whispering quietly to each other. It's as though time has slowed, stretched out, and stopped, and he is very aware that this may be the last time he will ever see mother and son together, so he watches them carefully. Watches every movement, listens carefully to every word, trying to write each moment to memory. Marian summons the strength to lift her hand and stroke through Roland's hair, likely for the last time. Roland climbs up and nuzzles his nose against his mother's - Eskimo kisses, that's what they call them here - likely for the last time. Then, he settles down against her neck again, and cuddles in close, and Marian looks to Robin, and she doesn't even have to request it, he moves immediately to them, squeezes himself into the bed beside her, mindful of the tubes, and wraps an arm over their bodies, his family whole, likely for the last time.
He aches in a way he wasn't aware one could, even after losing her once. This is different. Before, it had been sudden, it had felt so sudden, the loss of her. But even though it's been mere days, this time it feels slow, like long drawn out torture, like sinking into the mire inch by inch. Like the first time she nearly died, except this time he has no magic wand to seek out, no quarry to pursue that will bring her back to health. He feels useless, and helpless, and powerless to stop this, and he wants to be hopeful, but he finds his hope has run out. There's a finality to this, to saying goodbye, and for a moment he wishes Regina had never come here tonight, that he was still sitting in that chair willing himself to be hopeful, to believe that Roland will live and that Marian just might, and that they will make it to the morning, both of them, and there will be no need for goodbyes just yet.
But then Roland is seized with a coughing fit, an awful, violent thing, shaking his whole tiny body with the force of it, and Marian squeezes Robin's arm and says, "Get her," and he kisses her brow, dewy with sweat from the fever they can't seem to reduce, and he obeys.
Regina is there on the other side of the door, all he can see when he opens it, vigilant, waiting, looking past him to Roland, her face drawn in concern. He steps back enough for her to pass through the doorway, and she does so without a word, heading for the bed, for his boy who is gasping in breaths whenever his infected lungs will allow, looking scared, looking miserable. There's a look exchanged between Regina and Marian, and Robin cannot decipher it, but Marian nods and Regina scoops Roland back into her lap, and rocks and shushes, and presses him to her, and in a few moments the coughing subsides.
Roland looks pitifully up at her, his cheeks flushed and sweaty now, and wet with tears, and Regina rocks and rocks, and fishes into her pocket. She pulls out a small vial of liquid, glowing blue with magic, and Robin settles himself next to Marian on the bed as Regina thumbs the stopper out and tips it back, sipping half of it and then holding it for Roland, who downs the rest.
Roland makes a face, and Regina smiles softly at him, and says, "It's icky, I know, but it'll help," and then she asks him to sit very still for her, and he nods, and she presses one hand flat to his chest, tangles the other into his hair. Her eyes meet Robin's for a moment over Roland's head before she presses her lips to the boy's temple, and her lashes flutter closed. Her brow knits in concentration, and after a moment Robin sees that blue glow start to grow around her splayed hand, around the place where her lips make contact.
Robin watches, fascinated, as it shimmers and pulses, and he can see the flush leave Roland's cheeks, can see his boy's chest expand in a deep, free breath, and then Regina jerks suddenly against him, a burst of sound caught in her throat, and her fingers fist in Roland's hair to keep him anchored to her, her face scrunching tighter, and that blue glow pulses brighter and brighter and then fades.
It isn't until she breaks away from Roland - immediately, as soon as the glow is gone - and lets out a harsh, wracking cough that he realizes exactly what she has done.
Another cough seizes her, forceful and cracking, and she fists the blanket tightly and then reigns herself in with a deep, rattling breath and another small, sputtered cough, and her cheeks are flushed, her pallor sickly underneath, and Robin feels like the bottom has fallen out beneath him.
He stares at her, dumbfounded, horrified, and Roland says to him, "Papa, I'm all better!" his voice clear as a bell, and he cannot even look at the boy, because Regina is sitting before him, and she is suddenly very ill.
"Regina, what have you done?" he asks, stricken, and she looks to him, and breathes carefully, with effort.
"It's a simple trade. My health for his illness," and her voice is raspy and unwell. It's too high a cost, Robin thinks. He imagines the room differently, with Marian in one bed, Regina in the other, both of them near death and he shakes his head violently.
"I'd never ask this of you," he insists, because he is losing Marian, and he will not lose Regina as well. It is a selfish thought, that she will be waiting for him on the other side of his grief, but he knows it to be true, and it is one of the reasons he is so sure he can survive this again. The idea of losing them both, even if Regina falls by choice, is intolerable.
"You didn't ask," she reminds him, and she is weak, he can see it in the way she props herself with a palm against the mattress, her other hand pressed flat over her chest. "And I'll be fine. I asked Whale about the medication, I've taken it before with no problem." Something loosens in his chest at that, a part of him relaxes with relief, and before he can say anything, she continues her efforts to assuage his guilt and fear. "My body can fight this off. A week in bed, and I'll be fine. I won't be doing cartwheels, but... I'll be okay."
"If I'd known," he starts, but she interrupts him.
"It wouldn't have changed anything," she insists, looking to Roland, who is watching his now-sleeping mother with a small frown. "He's your son."
And it's simple as that, he thinks, and he knows she is right. He would not have stopped her, even if he'd known. Not if it meant risking Roland. Just as she would travel realms to save Henry, give him up if it meant he would live and be happy, Robin would pay any price for Roland's suddenly healthy color, for the light that is back in his eyes. Except he has not paid the price for this, she has, despite the fact that he left her, despite the sadness he knows he brought upon her, she has done this for him. Twice now, she's put herself in harm's way to save his boy, and Robin isn't sure he can ever repay her for that.
Roland turns, then, cranes his neck toward Regina and asks, "Is mama with the angels?" and Robin's heart is gripped in a sudden panic. He looks to the machines, and sees the steady beat of her heart, and over the blood rushing in his ears, he hears Regina assure his son that no, she's just sleeping, see the way her chest moves when she breathes?
Still, his heart is pounding, and he is suddenly incredibly weary, and when the door opens and Tinkerbell pokes her head in and asks if she's imposing, he finds it a relief.
Regina shakes her head, and says, "No, we should be going anyway," and "Did you get them?"
The fairy holds up a paper bag from the hospital pharmacy, and nods. "All ready," she confirms, and Regina looks to him.
"He'll be at Emma's," she reminds, and Robin nods and tells Roland he'll see him soon, and to go with Tinkerbell, and the boy scampers down off the bed and takes the fairy's hand.
Regina eases to her feet, and he doesn't miss the way she sways just slightly before she steadies herself. He says her name, "Regina-" but she shakes her head, and smiles at him, and says, "You've already thanked me," and then they're gone and he is alone with his wife.
