day five; favourite male-female pairing, obvs oq - even though it leads the way to a doq couple of ficlets. missing year, iridescence verse.
Mint
He is stealthy, sly at times, but even he can't do much against the creaking doors of the castle. She doesn't even stir when he comes in, her cheek glued to the page she was reading before sleep pulled her under its spell, her mouth slightly open. He loathes waking her, but he must, for she's been here for days – down in the library where spiders are frequent and maybe unkind, and splashes of wax tarnish the wooden tables. There is wax on the green velvet of her dress, a bottle of emerald ink has been knocked down by a misplaced elbow.
He carefully sets down the cup he's brought down all the way from the kitchen, and places a hand on her shoulder. "Milady," he whispers. "Regina."
Her arm twitches slightly, but she keeps sleeping, quiet, so quiet, he starts to rethink his actions when it comes to his mind that he still rather likes the feeling of his head at its rightful place, and maybe she'll be displeased to be woken up – even though her tea smells like mint and herbs, and the first rays of dawn are now battling with the candlelight. She makes a small sound, of displeasure, annoyance, but sleeps, her hair dusty of restless days, her fingers marred by ink drops. The book under her cheek is open, he can spot figures and words, but can't read properly, not in this position.
Regina stirs, a moment, her eyelashes flutter, he tightens for an instant his hand around her arm. "Regina, wake up," he murmurs.
"Mmm," she answers, her mind still too foggy with sleep to formulate a coherent answer. "Thief?" she slurs. "What is it?"
"Time to wake up, your Majesty," he tells her, keeping his voice down. "You have been up all night?"
Regina groans, her hand brushing on her cheek, her eyes finally open, and the brim of red and trails of dried tears on her skin betray her. Her palm is splayed on the book, her head lifts slowly, and Robin catches a glimpse of a black figure when she slams it close.
The table totters at the strong impulse, her tea sloshes in the mug and thankfully stays inside.
"I have been up all night," she confirms, straightens her back even though it has to be terribly sore. "I've been… researching, I…"
"About your sister?"
He's more blunt than he'd intended, but it will do, if it brings her to scowl, as she lifts the cup to her lips. "Not the witch, no," she murmurs. "I…"
Only then his eyes find the titles, golden letters on black covers, Dragons, wyverns and in between, his fingers skimming on the engraved words. He looks at her with questions in his gaze. Her hand trembles slightly around the cup, her other hand curls around his. "One day," she whispers. "Robin, please."
He squeezes her fingers, in understanding. After all – the time they've shared in this life is significant, but he doesn't want to force her. Not now, not ever.
A strong odor of mint permeates the air as she drinks, then positions the now-empty cup above the book. Her eyes close again, his fingers carding through her hair have her smiling. There have been moments like this one, where she is unguarded and allows him to be more affectionate. Never in public, not even with his son, but sometimes.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" he asks, daring, obtains a sober answer in return.
"No," she says. "Not yet."
He doesn't know of her past secrets, he doesn't know of the afternoons of summer haze in a dragon's lair, not yet. He will, eventually. He brushes with his thumb on her hand, taking as little as she allows him to have, and they wait for the dawn in silence.
Not yet.