Sweatshirt

Prompted by kreecey-nimbus

Regina sniffles, pressing her mouth into the crook of her elbow to cover the coughs that it sets off. Right. She needs to remember not to sniffle. Or breathe, really. She tugs the edges of her cashmere wrap tighter around her waist, but even that does little to stave off her shiver, and the clamminess clinging to her skin.

She glances at the clock. 2:14. Robin and the boys won't be home from Saturday afternoon archery until 4:30. She scowls, abandoning all hope of finishing the work she has spread out on the kitchen island, and heads upstairs. Still, as she tugs open her dresser and lifts sweater after sweater for inspection, nothing appeals. Cashmere isn't thick enough. Wool too rough. Side-zipped jackets too small to wear over her current sweater. She scowls, flattening out the piles before shoving the drawer closed with her hip, and turns her head around the room for a minute, considering.

Ah. That will do. She pads to the smaller dresser beside hers, tugging open the top drawer. Much more appealing choices. She grabs the sweater on top, a dark blue-grey, heavy cotton pullover that's a little worn, but looks gorgeous on Robin anyway. It's his favorite. She bought it for him, trying to get him to branch out of his typical dark greens. (Robin, just because you used to live in the forest and you smell like the forest doesn't mean you have to look like it, too, she'd said.) So she has rights to wearing it, right?

Regina sets her earrings back in their case, tugs the garment over her forehead. Mmm. Much better. Soft and worn and warm. And from what her nose can manage right now, which isn't much, it also smells like him. She lets her eyes fall shut, revels in feeling a little less shaky and clammy for just a few seconds, then heads back down the stairs to boil water for some tea. Illness does not knock Regina Mills out. A little tea, a few seconds to sink back onto a kitchen stool and close her eyes, and she'll be back to normal by evening.

Except, of course, illness doesn't really care that she's Regina Mills. So that's how her boys find her when they get back two hours later: forgotten, untouched tea in front of her, and Regina, asleep, with her head on her arms, slouched over the kitchen counter.

"I do believe that one's mine," Robin teases, waking her with a kiss to her temple.

She mumbles something unintelligible.

He sweeps her hair behind her shoulder as she turns her head, slowly waking up.

"You're back already?" she repeats, still slurring the words a little.

He takes her in for a second, grinning that insufferable grin. She really is adorable when she's all sleepy and grouchy "I like your fashion choices today."

"Hm?"

"My cotton sweater over slacks?"

She clears her throat. "There's only so far I'm willing to go," she rasps.

"Mhm," he hums.

When she sits up, it throws her into a fit of coughs. Robin rubs her back gently until the coughing subsides, then shifts his hand to her forehead.

She turns out of the touch. "I'm fine."

"You have a fever."

She shakes her head, and then stands. And if she holds onto his wrist for a few seconds when her legs wobble, well, she's just saying hello. She starts to walk over to the kettle to reheat the water. "I don't get sick, Robin."

"Be that as it may," he sighs, with just enough in his tone to make it clear he doesn't believe her, "I'll make you tea." He gathers her hand in his. "Go sit down."

She narrows her eyes at him.

He reaches to smooth the line of her lips with his thumb, the pads of his fingers playing across her skin. Regina leans into the touch subconsciously, to the way it eases the throbbing sinus pressure that's begun to settle in. Her eyes flutter closed, and she takes slow, deep breaths. Just as she's relaxed into the touch, his hand slips away.

"All right," he sighs.

"Hm?"

"Go ahead." He shrugs towards the kettle.

By the time steam leaks from the rims, Regina is drooping over the counter, eyes half-closed. She drops a bag of peppermint leaves into the mug, sighing as the fumes reach her nose and mouth. Robin doesn't miss the way lifting the heavy kettle of water makes her arms tremble weakly. He doesn't intervene either. He knows her well.

"Fine," she allows, dropping her hands to her sides, weak at even the thought of going back to her work, or making herself some soup.

Robin's eyes sparkle, and then his arms are around her, behind her knees and across her back, and she's in his arms.

"Robin!" she protests.

"Yes, milady?" He starts to walk them towards the living room.

"I meant that I'd let you make dinner. Not that I'd let you carry me to bed."

"You don't seem to mind that all of the time," he points out, waggling an eyebrow at her.

She grins over her scowl, burying her face in his shoulder to hide it, but that sets her off on another round of shaking coughs. He winces sympathetically. When they reach the living room, he deposits her on the couch, her head propped up on a pile of pillows.

He readjusts his sweatshirt around her, tugging the ends down. "I quite like this sweater on you."

She hums, but doesn't say anything back, settling herself into the pillows as his fingers work into her hair, pressing into her scalp in a delicious pattern that relieves some of her headache, and for a moment, she forgets about the way her body's rapidly deteriorating into sickness. "How was your afternoon with the boys?"

"Wonderful. Henry's really very talented with a bow."

She smirks. "He's inherited that from far too many places not to be. Speaking of—where are the boys?"

"Here!" Roland chirps.

"Umph," Regina grunts, as the boy runs around his daddy and right into her middle. He's dragging a blanket with him, and Robin helps him pull it up over her.

"Henry and I brought you things!" he explains, as a small pile tumbles out of his arms. A kleenex box, throat lozenges, a bottle of honey. Henry's behind him with her mug of peppermint tea and a bottle of tylenol. She reaches for the medicine gratefully, halted by another coughing fit, a flush coming over her face.

"I'm sick," Regina whines petulantly.

"Indeed, I think you are," Robin agrees, dropping a kiss to her jaw. "Sleep, love. You need the rest."

She snuggles into the couch, and his sweater, too exhausted to argue. As she drifts off with the soft cottony warmth around her, she has the fleeting thought that she should buy him several more of these. She's not entirely sure if she's going to feel like giving this one back.