When Regina started her professional career, she swore she'd never cancel on a client. They were children who had been through immense trauma. Sometimes she was the one person who truly spoke to them in a helpful way. It meant her missing happy hour with friends, putting off dates, even going to work while sick.
Then she was granted custody of Henry. She took 2 weeks off then only did televisits for the remainder of the month. Since then there have been doctor's appointments, last minute emergencies and of course, illness. Despite being in daycare full time, Henry rarely got sick during those first few months. She chalked it up to him building an immune system after attending the same one since birth.
Just a week after she stomped down Robin's olive branch, Henry was a bit fussy in the morning. He tugged on his ears and rubbed his eyes, but Regina chalked it up to his current sleep regression and rushed him off to daycare.
By 2 PM, she gets the call. Henry has a fever of 102, he's congested and fussy. Regina cancels the rest of her clients and rushes to get him. In her hurry, she texts Robin. Despite what's going on between them, this is his kid too. He has the right to know. She quickly follows it up with a reminder that it's her night with him and she'll take care of everything.
The rest of the afternoon is a mess. The doctor diagnoses Henry with a double ear infection and prescribes antibiotics. Regina runs a cool bath in hopes of reducing the fever but Henry shrieks furiously through it the evening, accepting no food and only a little water. Regina manages to change into a crimson Harvard sweatshirt and a pair of black leggings as she paces the room, trying to get him to calm down. Just when she finally thinks she has, he starts again.
"I'm sorry you don't feel good," Regina soothes as she rubs his clammy back. "But I'm here, I'm right here."
That brings the 1-year old absolutely no comfort which springs tears to her eyes. She lowers herself onto her bed and gently rocks him, noticing a great deal of snot up his nose. Regina grabs the bulb syringe and attempts to extract the boogers, which only upsets him more.
"Oh my little prince, this'll make you feel so much better. Please let me do this." She goes in again and Henry arches his back, screaming in offense to the strange blue object before him.
Hunger pains tech through Regina's stomach and combine with the tears of frustration burning down her cheeks. She's a Harvard graduate, with a master's for crying out loud. How can she not get her child to stay still for a bulb syringe.
"Need some help?"
Regina's head snaps up at the soft voice that breaks through the crying. Robin stands there, changed into a pair of basketball shorts and a soft gray hoodie. Every part of her wants to scream for him to leave. It's her night. She's not incompetent, she can handle it.
The other part of her is just exhausted.
"He won't let me do it," she practically whines.
Robin enters the room and carefully sits next to her on the bed. It's the first time they've been this close since it happened. He takes the syringe from her and manages to clear the shrieking baby's nose. Regina watches in awe as he gently takes Henry into his own arms and manages to calm him down enough to drink a few sips of water from his bottle.
"Do you think he knows?" Regina whispers. Robin's eyes meet her own and she shrugs. They've done so much to embrace the identity of Henry's parents. To escape the shadow of Emma and Neal. Their ghosts linger above them, reminding Regina exactly how she came into motherhood. "Do you think he knows I'm not his mother? Do you think he knows I'm the wrong person?"
Robin's free hand gently grazes her arm. That alone sends another wave of tears to her eyes.
" The right person," Robin whispers. "Is the one that's there for him."
A shaky breath escapes her lips. Robin tells her to lay down and the emotional exhaustion is enough for her to comply. He tends to Henry, eventually laying him on her chest. Regina snuggles the half-sleeping boy close to her as Robin leaves. He returns a half hour later with a tray containing soup and a cup of tea.
"You can't get sick either."
He holds the baby while she eats. The soup is from a can and normally she'd scoff at that, but she's at the point of hunger where anything will taste good. By the time the bowl and cup are empty, Henry is asleep in Robin's arms. Anytime Robin attempts to lay him on the bed, he fusses, tiny yet chubby fists clinging to Robin's hoodie.
"You can stay, if you want," Regina mumbles.
"Are you sure?"
"It's for him."
They lay what feels like miles apart, an invisible line between the two. Regina stares up at the ceiling fan, gnawing on her lip.
Robin is the first to speak up. "If he's still like this tomorrow, I'll stay home with him."
"Are you sure?"
"I can get a sub. I don't have practice tomorrow anyway."
Regina nods. "Thank you."
"What else am I here for?"
Regina hums. "Do you believe what you said?" She glances over to find him staring her down. "That we're the right people?"
"I think in a perfect world, Neal and Emma would still be alive. They could raise their son and Henry wouldn't have to wonder about them."
"Of course."
"But the world isn't perfect. Parents die." A pained look crosses his face but he quickly regains composure. "And if anyone had to raise Henry instead of them, I do think we are the right people."
"Robin, we hate each other."
"I don't hate you. And hey, maybe you hate me." Her mouth opens but he holds up a hand to stop her. "But we both love him. We're both here. And that's a lot more than what some kids get."
Regina sighs, inching closer to him on the bed. His hand reaches out and her fingers brush against it, before pulling away.
"I'm not ready for that," she whispers.
Robin nods and resumes his attention to Henry. Regina licks her lips, thinking about the brief warmth his touch brought her. Maybe she isn't ready for the physical affection or comfort, but she's been in the same room as him for over an hour and they managed to get through it without sniping.
They say after all, the journey starts with one single step.
