Ultrasounds were a new cruelty, a product of the modern world Regina had cursed them all to. She did have an incredible proclivity to hurt herself in the deepest, most unintended ways. That thought earned her a dark chuckle as she blinked her burning eyes, staring at the small square of paper in Robin's hands. It all felt so stupid, because it was nothing. It was paper. And ink. (But then, what were any of their lives but stories in a book - paper and ink. And they weren't nothing.) But if she squinted even slightly, she could see it was far from nothing. The smallest outline of a crude sketch of a child. His child.

"She may have your nose," Regina offered with a smile, but the crack in her voice gave her away, forced him to look away from the image of his child and up into her dark eyes.

But what could he say? What words of comfort could he offer? Nothing was easy. Instead, he offered his own sad smile and turned to look back at the photo.

"Unfortunate for her," he replied grimly, a smile still lingering on his lips. Humor didn't have a place here. Not in this scenario.

Granny's Diner was crowded, but the booth felt private enough, and it's not as though any of this was a secret. Leroy had spotted them moving Zelena through the back entrance to the hospital, knowing fully well where those doors led. It didn't take long for rumors to fly through town, and then, to be confirmed.

Keenly aware of the heaviness of this, and in particular what it meant to Regina, Robin moved his hand to her knee beneath the table, squeezing gently. He set the photo down on the table, abandoning it to move his attention back to his love.

"Regina."

"Don't. You don't have to. You're not — this isn't.." she began, shaking her head and avoiding his gaze. "It's complicated. And neither of us is at fault." For once, she thought to herself. "We just have to…make the best out of a really, really horrible scenario," she laughed in the way you laugh when life kicks you in the teeth.

Any further conversation on the subject would be best had in the privacy of her home, where she could let her guards down, and there was no fear of a rogue tear escaping its prison and alerting the general public to the fact that Regina Mills was, in fact, a human with a soul and emotions. No. She couldn't have that. Even now, on the road to redemption. A select few were privy to her weaknesses (mainly Robin, Henry, Emma and Snow) and even that was too many.

She lifted her coffee mug between two hands and tried not to look at the stains of a thousand previous customers left behind. Closing her eyes, she let out a soft sigh as she brought the ceramic to her lips, drinking slowly — then a bit quicker when she remembered that Granny's coffee had likely been sitting in the pot since early that morning, slowly burning itself into a thick bitter brew. Blanching at the taste, she set the mug back down and pushed it slightly away. It was at least less offensive than what passed for coffee in Camelot.

Camelot. That little side trip had come with its own set of problems, most obviously that Emma was the Dark One and they had yet to understand fully just how they'd failed her. Their memories were gone — that much they knew. Six weeks were lost to them entirely, and were it not for the little lump (a rapidly growing one at that) below her sister's navel, Regina would have counted missing time as a blessing. Because six weeks of no memories meant she could imagine six weeks passing without this heaviness in her soul. The thought made her laugh as she twisted the small jeweled ring around her index finger. Heaviness felt wrong. Because what she truly felt was emptiness. An empty pit in her middle where a child never would be.

"What's funny?" Robin asked, his tone free of accusation or anger — just his genuine quizzical nature, his desire to know her every thought (and her every worry, insecurity, joy, and every other emotion she was so used to keeping to herself).

"Just…the irony of it all," she replied, turning to look into his eyes, a smile on her lips — one that was neither happy nor concealing anger. She shook her head and lifted her hand to tuck a lock of dark hair behind her ear.

"Can we go somewhere else," she asked, suddenly feeling stifled by the low hum of chatter around them.

"Of course," he replied, withholding the second half of that, feeling that 'mi'lady' was just a bit too playful under these circumstances.

They left Granny's without a word (and without paying the bill), and walked without thought to any particular direction, but ended up in a very predictable place. Eyeing the bench in front of the pond, Regina led Robin by the hand, walking slowly and silently along the path. Sitting in silence, Regina pulled her coat tightly across her chest, her fingers running along the collar, gaze fixed on the muddy waters.

A week earlier, they'd been in this very spot, Regina rescuing Robin from the Harpy who'd set its sights on his soul. "Popular guy", she thought to herself as she felt his arm go around her shoulders, pulling her in.

Alone here, with Robin, her walls could come down easily. He had that effect on her.

"I can't have children," she said quietly, the admission difficult to speak aloud — even to him. Maybe especially to him. She could feel his eyes on her now, and she could imagine his brow furrowed in concern and in willingness to hear about darker times in her life. She kept her gaze on the water, knowing that to see him now would break her. His silence begged her to continue.

"My — Cora," she said, deliberate in not using the title 'mother'. She didn't deserve it. Especially not here. Not now.

"Back in the Enchanted Forest. When I was younger. Tinkerbell had already shown me the possibility in you. And I ran from it. But time passed, and the King was dead, and…Cora, for her own motives, found a man to pretend to be you. To be the 'Man with the Lion Tattoo'," she laughed sadly, the moniker so weighty, so fated. "I hadn't seen your face that night at the tavern. I didn't know any better. Until I did."

"He didn't feel like a soulmate. And I think, had I not been so desperate for love initially, I could have seen that right from the start," she shrugged, this admission almost too much. Regina Mills was desperate for nothing.

"He explained…after some prodding," she remembered, unable to help but smirk at the memory — because if nothing else, she was creative in her magic and getting people to talk — "that Cora wanted me to have a child. He didn't know why. And it didn't matter. If she wanted it, I couldn't let it happen," she said softly. And she knew he understood. He had heard enough tales, had seen the fruit of her manipulations.

"I took a potion." Her voice cracked, and before she had the chance to pull away he was bringing her in closer, his arms strong and steady around her. It was enough to break her resolve, and she became suddenly aware of her own tears, first warm and then cold as the salt evaporated on her cheeks.

"Regina," Robin whispered, shifting in his place so that he could bring her in against him, letting her head come to rest on his chest, his chin perched atop her head, tucking her in fully. He understood now. He understood that this was an additional layer of complexity on top of an already ludicrous situation.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and he knew it wasn't enough. As soon as he spoke it, he felt a twinge of regret because those words were meaningless against the years of pain she had endured, and the lifetime ahead — of watching his child grow, knowing she could never share it with him fully.

"I know."

And she did. She knew what he meant. And she knew he hated saying it. And she could care a little bit less from this place against his chest, her hand resting just below his shoulder, fingertips running against the thick scratchy wool of his coat. It was in stark contrast to the soft, almost velvety fibers of his scarf. And comforting textures were nothing against his smell. Like earth and wind and campfire and pine. Like home.