Robin opens the bathroom door to a billow of steam that seems far too robust for the amount of time he's been out of the room. All he'd done was return her medicine to the nightstand, grab the robe that had slipped off the end of the bed to puddle on the floor, and fished a fresh pair of pajamas from her drawer. She hadn't asked for them, but he figures she can't very well traipse around the place naked, or in just her robe. He hadn't brought her any underthings - rifling through her underwear drawer had seemed inappropriately intimate.

He's been gone for mere minutes, but already the bathroom air is heavy, like breathing soup, steam making everything hazy, fogging the mirror, and he asks of her, "Am I going to have to treat you for burns when you emerge, milady?"

"What?"

"That water must be scalding. I can feel the heat from here."

Robin is already sweating lightly.

"Steam is good for the lungs," Regina tells him, dismissively. The sound of her voice pains him. There's more to it than there was when he arrived today, but it still sounds awful. She probably shouldn't speak. He probably shouldn't prompt her to.

He decides to let her rest her voice and steam herself, and resolves that he is here for only what he promised - a sentry to watch over her, to ensure she's safe, that she doesn't slip and crack her head open in the midst of a coughing spell. He can see it then, in his mind's eye, the gash in her brow, the crimson spill of blood, running down her forehead, feathering out over wet porcelain as she gasps for breath between harsh coughs, all the while being pelted with hot water. Robin blinks hard, shakes his head to clear the image. Grief makes him morbid - he'd been that way after Marian, the last time. Seeing peril for those he cared about everywhere he looked, and all too often in vivid detail.

She's probably right. She'd probably be fine on her own. But it makes Robin feel better to stand here, to look after her, to be sure.

He leans against the edge of the sink, and tries very hard not to think any more dark thoughts. He also tries very hard not to look at the shower curtain, because it will only remind him of what is just beyond it - a very naked, very wet Regina - and that isn't a thought he wants to indulge right now either. As lovely of an escape as it might be.

Guilt twists in his chest at even that small admission. He shouldn't be thinking of her that way, not with Marian so recently gone. (Shouldn't have thought of it as much as he had when Marian was still here.)

He probably shouldn't be here at all, and certainly not for as long as he has been. He's been gone for hours, now. They're probably growing worried for him. But the dull ache of grief he's been carrying has shifted, become something numb and selfish, and he finds he doesn't care about the others or their worries. Roland is safe, and everyone else can take care of themselves. His own private way of dealing with his grief - seeking her out - is his alone, and not theirs to judge.

He feels surly, all of a sudden. Eyes gritty, still tired, and a frown drawing down his lips. Maybe it's the nap, maybe it's the grief, maybe it's the guilt.

He's not doing so well, left to his own thoughts, he realizes. Maybe silence wasn't the right choice, after all.

As he thinks it, all that heavy steam suddenly goes fragrant, the distinct scent of lavender filling the room, and he hears a soft sigh from Regina. At least she sounds content.

He probably shouldn't bother her.

He's not sure what he'd say to her anyway. He doesn't want to talk of Marian - he's done that already, and it's not terribly fair to her. He knows he hurt her when he chose his family over her happiness, probably doesn't deserve the care and kindness she's shown him today. Doesn't deserve her sacrificing her health for Roland - and as much as she's been insisting she's fine, she hadn't been fine earlier. When she was bent over the sink, red-faced, gasping for air. She hadn't been fine.

He thinks of Roland again, thinks that however much he'd feared for Regina in that moment, it would have been ten times worse if it had been Roland whose lungs were constantly betraying him (had been ten times worse when it was Roland in that hospital bed), except then he'd have had to be strong. Hide his fear.

He thinks back, for a moment, on when she'd first told him she could heal his boy, and suddenly he knows what he can say to her. Something resembling neutral territory: "What happened with Snow White?"

She makes a noise he can barely hear, then clears her throat and says, "What?" He hears the shift of the spray, the quiet pop of a bottle cap opening, and then the whole room starts to smell warm and rich. Her shampoo. He inhales the smell deeply, stronger and more concentrated than it ever was when he caught whiffs of it off her hair.

"When she was a child," Robin explains. "You said she was delirious with fever, and that imp taught you the spell to spare her. But you must've fallen ill, no?"

It was a simple trade, after all. Her health, for a child's illness.

There's a second before she answers, "I nearly died," and her voice is dark and bitter, even through the roughness of her illness. His numb heart clenches for her, though. For the thought of a world where she was taken before he'd ever been able to lay eyes on her. Her voice is more casual when she continues, "Fever so high I'm surprised it didn't cook my brain. The servants spent days forcing folk cures down my gullet, shocking me into ice cold baths. It was horrid - what little I remember of it, anyway. The fever broke eventually." She sighs - heavily enough that he can hear it, and Robin worries for a moment that her lungs will seize again, but they don't. The steam really does seem to be doing her some good.

"My dear husband," she continues, her tone sharp and acidic - Robin is well aware how she feels for her husband, they spent a long night in the forest talking about it, after her run-in with Cora's ghost. "Gave me a necklace as thanks. Diamonds and rubies. So heavy I thought I might tip over wearing it. He had it sent to my chambers with a note. Couldn't even be bothered to hand-deliver."

And just as he had that night in the forest, Robin finds himself seething for the indifferent king. Hating a man he'd always thought relatively fair as far as kings went (no saint, certainly, but far from the worst in their land), for his utter lack of regard for a wife he ought to have cherished. He's stopped short of wishing she'd gone into that tavern all those years ago, because it would have cost him Roland and he wouldn't trade anything for the boy. Not Regina. Not anything. But he'd be lying if he said he didn't wonder how things might have been different. If he could have spared her years of miserable marriage, if he could have protected her heart before it became quite so dark and resilient. Protected it so it hadn't had to be. If they could have had some great love affair then, without the heaps of pain they always seemed to find themselves slogging through now just for the chance to grasp at each other. He'd have loved her so much better than that wretched king.

"He was a fool," Robin says quietly, and the revulsion is there in his voice.

"Yes, well. He paid in the end," she says simply, and with no remorse, and knowing what he now knows, Robin can't find it in his heart to blame her.

So he offers, "That he did," and falls silent again. It's not an endorsement of her crime, he won't go that far, but he won't deride her for it either. She'd wanted free of her shackles, and she'd done what she felt she must. Surely there must have been other, less bloody courses she could have followed, but it was the past, and he's vowed to himself more than once to love her for her future and overlook her dark history.

He doesn't say any more, just stares at the foggy glass pane of the frame on the wall opposite him. It's a drawing of some sort, perhaps a bird, he can't quite make it out through the film the steam has left behind. He listens to her, listens to the dull sound of plastic bottles shifting, the subtle shifts in the spray of the water. After a few moments, he hears the metallic squeak of knobs being turned and the water shuts off.

"Could you grab me a towel from under the sink?" She asks, and he shifts wordlessly to do so. There's a small stack of them, blood-red and plush, and as he draws one out she says his name, questioningly, and he realizes she can't see him and he offered her no acknowledgment.

"Yes," he murmurs, straightening and stepping closer until he can pass the towel around the curtain still hiding her from view. He feels it tug from his hand and lets go, then moves to retrieve her robe from a hook on the back of the door. She'll need it soon enough.

He drapes it over the shower bar, and she says, "Thank you." Her voice sounds better, he thinks. Not well, not normal, but considerably better. A minute later, she tugs the robe down behind the curtain as well, a moment after that she slides it open to reveal herself, and he thinks she looks better too. Refreshed. A bit pink with heat from her scalding water, but refreshed nonetheless.

She steps out of the tub carefully, and he can't help reaching out a hand to steady her. She holds his hand, the other moving to grip tightly at where her robe gaps open slightly toward the top.

"Better?" he asks. He should let go of her hand now that she's steady on her feet, but he doesn't and neither does she. Right now he quite likes the anchor of her fingers, the warmth of them curled around his.

"Much," Regina confirms, and then she looks up at him and frowns, tilts her head slightly. Sees right through him the way he so often does to her. Her brows draw together, the very picture of concern, and she settles her palm flat over his heart. "What can I do for you?"

He's troubled, and she can see it, wants to help, but she already has. She's already done far too much for him this week, and he tells her so, again.

Robin shakes his head. "You've done enough." When she starts to protest again, he drops his forehead to hers, and says, "I just need time." It's something she understands, he knows that, and she confirms it by nodding subtly and staying just as she is. She doesn't move away, and neither does he. The opposite, in fact. He moves his arms to circle her waist, drawing her even closer, and then he shuts his eyes and simply absorbs her for a moment. She smells like lavender and whatever that warm, spicy scent of her shampoo is, and Robin shifts his nose up to her hairline and breathes in deep. Because he can, because he knows she'll let him.

"You smell amazing," he murmurs, lips brushing against her skin as he speaks, and she lets out one of those low, pleased chuckles he used to so love drawing out of her.

"Vastly improved, I'm sure," she says and he tips his head back down and smiles at her.

"You weren't so bad before," he assures, and suddenly he's very aware of how close they are. Of the scant inches between their mouths, of the way her breath washes against his chin when she exhales. The way her eyes flick down to his mouth when the sudden awareness translates into uncommon nerves that have him licking his lips. The air around them feels charged suddenly, and he feels the pull of her, like a magnet, their mouths drifting closer and closer, and he feels his breath pick up, his heart not so numb now, thudding steadily in his chest. He shouldn't do this, but oh he should, he has to, and then when they're so close their intent is obvious, they both seem to pause. They're sharing breath, he can feel the heat of her, but neither seems quite willing to be the one to cross that line.

And then there's a loud, low gurgle in the tense silence of the room, and Regina jerks back like she's been burned, her cheeks pinking from something other than heat, fingers tucking damp hair behind her ear that way she does when she's been caught out. The sudden shift leaves Robin dizzy, but it's probably for the best, he tells himself, and then she's apologizing and saying she hasn't eaten all day and Robin's jaw drops indignantly. That gurgle had been her stomach.

It's nearly nightfall and she's yet to eat? She'll never recover from this illness if she starves herself. "Nothing?" he asks with brows raised high and she shakes her head and he finds himself huffing, and insisting, "Get dressed, and I'll fix you something. I assume there's food in that kitchen of yours?"

She tells him yes, there is, and thank you, and she'll be down in a minute. Her arms are crossed protectively over her middle now, but he's not sure who she's trying to keep at bay - him or herself.

He should take a step back, but instead he steps forward, grips her lapels lightly and presses a warm kiss to her brow. It's not the contact his mouth was burning for only moments ago, but it's far more appropriate under the circumstances.

And then he heads off in search of something to feed her.