So um, this is my grieving fic. You have been warned.
Hearing
She wakes without his voice in her ear, without the sleep-slurred Good morning, my love she's grown so accustomed and attached to in the past few months. It's hell, unending agony, to start her every morning with nothing but the wind, peppered here and there with the annoying chirp of birds.
She misses him, misses his voice, the way it would firmly wrap around words of hope meant exclusively for her, the way it would go low and raspy when he'd say things that were far too naughty for their surroundings, and his sharp intakes of breath when she'd retaliate with teasing words of her own.
She misses the way he'd breathe compliments into her ear, the way he'd murmur things to make her smile, she misses hearing him speak to her, hearing him coo at his daughter, hearing him laugh, full-bellied and happy. She misses the devotion that always colored his mention of her name. Regina, like it was the loveliest word in the universe, the most important one in his entire vocabulary.
She treasures all of it, every word he ever said to her, treasures his heartfelt Use mine for the both of us, and his cheeky If we don't leave this room, I think that this still just counts as the first time, don't you? Treasures his broken I'm in love with someone else (and the unspoken admission that that someone else was her). Even treasures his heartbreaking sob at the town line, when he'd choked out an I... that she'd needed to interrupt with a soft I know, because she couldn't bear hearing him say the words and watch him leave her.
She treasures the shocked and ecstatic way he'd whispered her name when she'd shown up at his apartment in New York, and his casual and somewhat amused I choose you when he'd followed his heart back to her. Treasures everything he'd told her about his life, his world, his darkness, and how he'd found happiness in her.
She treasures the resolute, loving tone in which he'd said You are my future, and the shaky gasp she'd given him when he'd kissed her right after. Treasures the sounds he'd make when he was happy, or angry, or worried, or aroused.
She still hears him, when she sinks into the memories, her body still reacting to the mere echoes of his moans as they resonate in her head.
And then reality crashes into her, cold and cruel, and reminds her that those times are gone now. Forever.
There's nothing but silence.
Sight
Their hectic lives have never really allowed time for pictures, and so she only has two of him. Saved on her phone so she can torture herself further, on the days where sinking into the pain seems easier than pushing it away.
One picture is of him with his children, the baby barely visible under her blankets, Roland's toothy smile and dimples mirroring his father's. The other one is with her, a 'selfie' he'd insisted on taking, back when he'd first discovered the wonder of camera phones. It's not a great picture (it's a little blurry, and her smile looks a bit self-conscious, she's come to notice), but it's theirs, and Robin has the most beautiful grin on his face, this look of pure happiness as he stares at her instead of the camera lens.
She spends hours looking at that picture sometimes, when she's so crippled by how much she misses him that doing anything else seems pointless. She thinks of his face, sees it in her dreams, handsome and smiling, dimples on full display for her to longingly etch into her soul.
Regina remembers the look of his toned body and his sun-kissed skin, remembers the sparkling blue of his eyes, and how they'd shine when he looked at his son, at the baby, at her. She remembers that grin of his, the teasing one he'd use when he was thinking of something particularly scandalous, often followed by a hungry rake of his gaze over her body that would maker her shiver.
She remembers the look of him that morning after their first time, white tank top tucked haphazardly into his trousers, his hair disheveled and his smile lazy, satisfied, perfect.
She remembers the way he'd look at her, how she could see the depth of his feelings for her reflected in his eyes, his whole face. She remembers the almost caramel color of his hair, and the gold flecks that the sun would bring out in it.
The greens and blues he'd often wear are now part of her own wardrobe, familiar shades that feel like a tether, an invisible thread keeping him with her. And sometimes it's not her pajamas she wears to bed, but his, if only so she can hold on to the memory of him asleep beside her.
She can still see him, offering his hand to her in that first meeting in the Enchanted Forest, see the gratitude on his face when she'd saved Roland from that flying monkey. She can still see him smiling as he'd pull her in for a kiss, still see him bandaging a cut on her hand in an alternate reality that no longer exists.
Regina can still see him crying with happiness, as he'd held his daughter in his arms for the first time. Laughing and firing a pretend-arrow at Roland as the boy ran towards his papa. She can still see him giving Henry a one-armed hug and an encouraging smile. Still see him waiting for her at the bottom of the steps of King Arthur's castle, offering his hand to her, guiding her to the dance floor, and the sheepish grin on his face when they'd missed the steps in that waltz.
She can still see the sincerity in his gaze as he'd told her he loved her, still see him biting his lip the way he always would before undressing her...
But she can also still see Hades with the crystal, can still see the lightning bolt erupt from it and slam into Robin's heart, still see the smug satisfaction on the hell god's face as he'd realized what happened.
She can still see Robin's face as he'd turned to look at her on that fateful day, his resigned smile as his soul was ripped away from this world. She can see his body, falling heavy and lifeless to the floor, and suddenly she wishes she were blind to it all.
Taste
Home.
She's been trying to think of other ways to describe it, to come up with another word that won't shatter her heart when she thinks of it, but she can't. She can't, because that's what he tasted like. He tasted like home.
The flavor of his kisses was always different. The slight bitterness of the wine or champagne they'd share on particularly romantic nights, or the honeyed smokiness of the bourbon they'd often drink when things got rough. The dulcet freshness of the raindrops that showered over them that time they'd made love under the canopy of the forest, or the refreshing tang of the cold lemonade he'd favor on warmer days. Different, always different, but mixed with the velvety sweetness of his tongue, they were all wonderful, all familiar, all him.
She misses the taste of his skin, the smooth saltiness of it under her tongue. Yearns for the sugary spiciness of whipped cream and cinnamon, but not just any whipped cream and cinnamon. No, only the kind she'd kiss off the tip of his nose when he drank hot chocolate by her fireplace.
She misses the way he'd savor her. How he'd kiss up her jaw, and describe the flavor of her skin in sexy whispers as he'd dive in for more. She misses how he couldn't get enough of her, how he'd explore every bit of her flesh with his mouth, even misses tasting herself on his tongue.
She will never have that again, and what little food she eats now tastes like ashes.
More than once, she finds herself preparing her tea with far more heat than necessary, lets the liquid scald her tongue. The pain of it numbs her, helps erase the phantom taste of his lips, if only momentarily.
It always comes back, though, an echo of the soft sweetness of his tongue, and Regina welcomes it, clings to it like a drug. A drug that later triggers screams and sobs and the angry flinging of things across the room.
Because it's not enough. It never will be.
She's lost him, and the only thing she can taste now is the salt of her own tears.
Touch
He gave the best hugs.
The kind that would make her sigh and relax and feel confident no matter the situation. His arms would wrap around her, and he'd press her tight against his body, breathing reassurances into her ear and running his hands up and down her back.
She wishes she could have one of those hugs now, because it's the only thing that would soothe the ache in her heart.
His touch was always gentle, soft, fingertips ghosting over her naked body. She'd told him once that she wasn't made of glass, frustrated as she was by his feather-light teasing, but even as he'd gone a little rougher, pressed his thumb over her nipple more firmly, he was always loving, always reverent.
His hands were magical in their own raw, human way. They could both comfort her and rile her up with the lightest of caresses, communicate his every intention without ever needing words.
She still feels him sometimes, when her dreams overpower the oblivion she tends to sink into. Feels his palms as they coast up her legs, his fingertips as they dig into her thighs, feels his stubble rub against her neck, his lips brush against her cheek. It's a fantasy, and she knows it, but it's too vivid to pass up, too carnal, too wonderful.
She misses the tug of his fingers in her hair, the way he'd play with the ends of it, how he'd bury his hand in her dark tresses, and fall asleep only after he'd gotten his fill of the silky texture. He loved her hair down, loved to feel it slide between his fingers, and the pain of knowing she won't ever feel that again, has her wearing it tied up and away from her face, as if that will somehow keep the hurt at bay.
His side of the bed is cold now, lacks the warmth from his body and the smoothness of his skin as she'd sleepily search for him every morning. Sometimes he was already downstairs, preparing coffee and breakfast, and she'd feel the echo of his body heat beside her, would burrow into it and wait til he came back in to wake her properly. But other times —most times— he was there, waiting for her, caressing what he could reach of her as he watched her sleep. Her hand would travel up his side while her eyes remained closed, would thread in the hair on the nape of his neck as she'd cuddle closer to him, and she'd feel rather than hear his morning greeting, whispered among soft kisses against her cheek.
Now she wakes alone, chilly and miserable, and often wonders why she even bothers waking at all. Wonders what the point is in carrying on with life, when it only seems to screw her over...
There's this thing he used to do. This little rub of his thumb over her knuckles when he'd hold her hand, that would ground her, connect her to the here and now. She loved that little rub, loved how it brought her out of her every self-deprecating trance and flooded her heart with the love that his soul radiated onto hers.
But his soul is gone now, and so is that little gesture, and no one, not even Henry, has managed to bring her back from this whirlwind of self loathing she's blanketed herself in. She goes through the motions of life, but isn't really living, and Regina knows she should snap out of it, knows it won't help her in the long run.
But then at night he visits her again, in those dreams she can't seem to shake, and his lips touch her chest, just over her battered heart, and it's worth every second of misery she feels during the day.
His last kiss is probably her favorite of all the ones they shared. He'd just been cradling the side of her face, thumb rubbing over her cheek in that tender, so tender way of his, as he'd told her he wanted a future with her. And yes, his touch was gentle, and caring, and reverent, but the passion behind his statement was palpable in the fierce press of his lips to her own, the love he had for her bathing her like sunshine. Warm and bright and beautiful.
She remembers how they'd both gone in for a second kiss, a slower, softer one this time, and then he'd bumped the tip of his nose into hers, and for that one tiny moment, they'd been invincible, in love and together against the world.
I'm with you. Always.
They hadn't known that kiss would be their last. Hadn't known it would be their goodbye.
Everyone keeps rubbing her back, her arm, keeps holding her hand, keeps hugging her, as if somehow their touch will erase his, as if it'll dull the sting of his absence from her life.
It only makes it worse.
Smell
The scent of roses sickens her. Ignites a wave of nausea that overpowers every other urge inside her, her mind instantly taken back to the day of his funeral. To the red blossoms adorning the arrows left on his coffin. A coffin that shouldn't be there, because his death should never have happened. It isn't fair. None of this is.
She kills thousands of roses one day, simply because she can. Poofs herself in a purple cloud to the nearest field in bloom and torches it. It belongs to Belle's father, and she knows it's not right to rob a man of his property this way, but in that moment she doesn't care. She's livid. And tired, so tired of losing, of watching love be torn from her grasp so harshly.
And so that day, she takes it out on Mr. French's roses. Throws fireball after fireball at the mass of green thorns and soft red petals, until she's crying and screaming her frustration, with no one to hear her suffering but the wind as it carries it away.
Her arm aches from the violent waving motions of conjuring and releasing all that magic, and she's panting, exhausted and drained from unleashing her anger. But she doesn't stop, not until the smell of smoke overpowers the disgustingly sweet fragrance that brings her nothing but misery.
On the other hand, there's the smell of forest, and the measure of peace it offers when it reaches her as she walks through the woods. It's soothing, takes her back to better times. Like the first time they'd kissed, right in this very place, the scent of pine and fresh air enveloping them as he'd pulled back, looked at her in shock, and then crashed their lips together once more.
But dwelling on the good memories doesn't do her much good, either, and after a few minutes, that wonderful, clean scent of the woods has her crying as she slumps against a tree, alone and unwilling to share her pain with anyone except this forest, the same one that saw her embrace hope and willingly give her heart to a thief.
It happens with the scent of the dark roast her son lovingly makes for her in the mornings, thinking it'll comfort her. And it does, at first. Reminds her of the days Robin had been learning to master the coffee machine, how she'd laughed and teased him, how she'd kissed his proud smile when he'd finally managed a decent brew.
And then it strikes her, that her cup of coffee will never be accompanied by that proud smile again.
It happens with the soft, breezy smell of her detergent. The hint of it on her clothes taking her back to when it'd cling to his, mix with the scent of him in a way that would both soothe and seduce her. It takes her back to teaching him to do laundry with modern appliances. Back, again, to that proud smile when he'd accomplished it.
She cleans her clothes with magic now, and the box of detergent lies shoved into a corner of her laundry room. Untouched.
It happens with the vanilla scent of her soap. The sweet, familiar fragrance now triggering flashbacks to when she'd smell it on his skin after they showered together. To how she'd tease him about smelling like her instead of forest now, and how he'd laugh and kiss her, and tell her that was something he was willing to live with.
She's changed soaps now. No longer vanilla, but forest pine.
A poor imitation of what she truly seeks, but it's all she's got...
Because she will never smell him again.
She will never touch him again.
Will never taste him again.
Never see him again.
Hear him again.
And her soul is forever incomplete without his.