A/N: Happy birthday Hannah! This was originally one really long chapter but I split it into two. Chapter 3 is being edited, and Chapter 4 is on the way. Chapter 5 should be the end.
Thank you Bea, as always. No one should read a damn thing I write before Bea gets to it. And thank you Allison and Jess, for reading this damn thing before Bea beta-ed it and also giving me lots of great advice. You guys are the best!
There's more blood than expected.
Though, to be fair she hadn't really thought about the consequences of her tantrum, hadn't really thought about the blood that would stain her silk robe and run over her furniture.
It doesn't matter anyway.
She doubts she'll live long enough to see whether the stains will come out.
She doubts she'll make it to see the sunrise the next morning, actually.
She turns her attention to her bloodied hand, the skin barely visible through the harsh crimson of her blood and fractured pieces of glass. She flexes it, stretches her fingers, then makes a fist and releases, repeating the action over and over. The sharp sting of a hundred paper cuts overcome her as the glass shifts and cuts new, thin slices into unbroken skin, and as it splinters and digs further into her flesh there's a perfect complementary dull stabbing in her already open wounds as the shards are moving, shifting and slicing against raw skin, bloodied bits of glass clinking together inside her.
Pain on this level is overpowering, seeps into her mind and chases every last thought away, and so for a second her mind is blissfully free of anything else. But much like everything in her life, pain fades, dulls, disappoints and leaves her just a bit of room, just enough to let other thoughts and fears creep back in.
Thoughts of dark, icy blue eyes staring at her, looking at her so cold, so angry, so unforgiving. So different than the beautiful sparkling eyes that warmed her deep down to her very bones, thawed her frozen heart and opened her to love in a way she hadn't been before. Thoughts of dimpled smiles that made her feel like she was almost worth something to someone, like she almost mattered again.
Regina downs her whiskey in tribute to the life she almost had.
Christ, why won't he come back and put her out of her misery already?
Maybe he knows the agony she feels, if he wants to prolong it, wait until she's suffering, until the anxious knots in her stomach grow unduly tight, until she's vomiting and weak and bleeding out.
She looks to the nightstand, and thinks of the gun she purchased locked safely away. Such odd magic, in this world. She could still win, in a way. Die without much pain, knowing that she took herself out on her terms...
Regina suddenly decides that no, she won't kill herself. Not because she fears the hell that awaits her in death, but because she'd rather die by Robin's hands. Perhaps ending her will break the curse. And when that happens, will he get the recognition?
Will they fall at his feet and praise him for ridding them of the worst threat to their lives? For finally killing the Evil Queen?
Will they give him everything he wants?
She hopes so. He deserves it.
Regina pours a glass of whiskey into a rocks glass with her uninjured hand. She wills her uninjured hand not to shake, to stop quivering and trembling. For god's sake, she's the Evil Queen, quaking in her boots as she waits for a common thief to finally end her. It's pathetic, really, but isn't it somewhat deserved?
The great and powerful queen, who destroyed the lives of so many peasants, to finally be bested and killed by one of them. Yes, she'd rather this than be killed by another regal, another sorcerer or a mythical beast — no, a miller's daughter brought her into this world and a man of no greater title will cast her out of it.
God, what is taking him so long?
They spent just over a month together, wildly happy, in a honeymoon phase of sorts. A month of blissful companionship with someone who truly cared about her, who went out of his way to make her smile. He should have recognized that time stopped for everyone else in town, but honestly, when you are in that early stage of a relationship, that lustful, carnal stage, time seems to stand still anyway. When he would stop by her office to bring her lunch and beg her to lock her door so he could crawl under her desk and eat her out right there, while she sat in her chair and pretended to catch up on paperwork.
He never asked for anything in return. Was grateful for anything she gave or offered, of course, but never demanded it, never expected it, never tried to appeal to her sense of guilt or pity or even her sense of justice and equality to coerce her into returning the pleasure his mouth and tongue and fingers brought her.
It was unusual for her to have that, and she let herself get swept up in those moments. She found she couldn't keep herself away from him, wanted him all the time, in the alley behind granny's, in his car one night, in middle of her kitchen while dinner cooked away…
But it was more than just raw desire that drew him to her. It was the way he opened himself to her and trusted her with all his being. He trusted her with parenting decisions with Roland, valued her opinion on the particular troubles he was facing – from everything from Roland's apparent lack of coordination to the far more serious concern that he would not remember his mother properly. He trusted her with the details of Marian's life and death – the life she thought she lived, at least...
Late one night, after a home-cooked meal at his house, after putting Roland to bed, he'd spoken to Regina about his late wife, the woman he had loved fiercely and truly in their short time together. He spoke of her heart, her beautiful, pure heart that never lost faith or abandoned others, that always saw the best in people. In this life, in the curse, Marian was veterinarian, and she had died trying to save a dead dog on the side of the road. Someone swerved and hit her while she worked, tirelessly, to save something innocent. Robin had relayed her tragic death with tears in his eyes, holding her hand and telling her how much it broke him.
Regina should have known then that a man who had such goodness and purity in his life was not for her. He was made for so much more, so much better than The Evil Queen.
She'd tried to guard herself from him, because she'd known it would be over soon, now. She'd known Robin would remember things eventually just like he'd eventually realize the town was stuck in an infinite five day loop, and it was only a matter of time before he realized it was a curse, and she was the culprit, and oh, she should've kept her distance, she should've ran.
But it was hard to not get attached, not at night when he'd hold her and comfort her in ways he would never know. He'd been kind and gentle in a way she hadn't experienced, demanded nothing, had not interrogated, just told her that he knew she was guarded, knew she was private, but he was here if she wanted to talk, because it seemed something was bothering her.
She told herself, over and over, to keep her distance.
But the month she spent with Robin, when they were together….before he came to her office panicked and frenzied, that month had been worth living for.
But the little bubble they lived in burst the day Robin barged in her office, his eyes wild and tormented. He told her feared he needed to be placed in the psych ward, he was afraid that he might be a danger to his own son, and he wouldn't have that. But when he looked into her eyes after his rant, he knew.
"I'm not crazy." He breathes out, relieved, "you...have you also noticed this?"
She nods her head, willing tears not to fall.
"I have, Robin. It's...hard to explain. But yes, we're caught in a loop, and —"
"Oh thank god!" he exclaims, throwing his arms around her. For awhile they say nothing, only embraced each other in silence. Then he pulls back, draws her into a kiss, and she takes it, returns it, she shouldn't, but she does.
"For how long has this been happening?" he asks when his lips finally parted from her, one hand still in her hair and the other around her waist.
"You...you need to sit down." she mumbles, her voice wavering, "This is heavy."
He sts and looks up at her with soft blue eyes, waiting for her to continue..
She'd told him right then and there that she used to be the only one who could tell time had reset — that he used to reset too. He had not believed her at first, until she'd reminded him of their date and how she asked him to wait five days before seeing her again. And then suddenly her hesitance to see him again, her insistence to wait five whole days, and her shock when he'd shown up on that fifth night makes sense.
He'd wanted to investigate, to drive down to the capital and have the town studied, surely there was something, was it poison? Was she immune? How did he become immune? They had to solve this.
"It's my fault." she says with a sigh, "I did this, Robin."
He'd been difficult to convince. Almost impossible, it turned out. Magic didn't exist in his mind, in their realm, so it was difficult enough to even explain the possibility of a curse. But what was surprising to her was that he refused to believe that even if magic did exist, that the woman who held his child at night was the woman who had cursed an entire town.
He believed that she was too good, too true, too wonderful to do this. He'd told her that five years — if it had been five years — was too long to be on one's own, stuck in this hell, and that he was half crazy after noticing this for a few days. Of course she had blamed herself, he had said to her. She needed to blame someone and blaming oneself is the easiest way out.
He cared for her, and he would prove to her that she didn't cause this mess, certainly not intentionally, and he would prove to her the past she had invented was only a convenient nightmare she believed to be true
She let him try.
What else could she do? And for brief moments, she wondered if she really truly did dream it all up, if it was possible she were a victim of this nightmare all along.
But he'd been restless, spending nights in the library, researching for any record of mass memory loss being recorded in any area of the world at any time. Looking for an answer, for a cause, and for a cure, consumed him. He'd told her he had to do this for them, but also for his son, and for the people.
If he found nothing he would risk leaving town and trying to find someone to convince to come into town and study them, perhaps an outside medical doctor or scientist could discover why the town was like this, what had happened… it was a risk, but it was all he had.
"Robin Hood." She says his name clearly, out of the blue and braces herself, wondering if possibly his name is the trigger.
"What?" He asks a twinkle in his eye, lips turned up into that adorable half smirk, "What did you say?"
"Robin Hood. You were, before this, before we were moved to the land without magic, you were Robin Hood."
"Hmm, was I the cartoon fox or the man in tights?"
"Not funny. This is serious."
"Regina, I cannot imagine how difficult these years have been on you, but please, try to stay with me. I'm not Robin Hood. I just share his name. And you're not an evil queen. You're just the mayor. And a beautiful mayor, i'll add."
No amount of convincing would work.
She'd considered letting him keep searching for a cure and then burning out, perhaps they would continue to live together as the universe moved to its own special clock and they to their own - being uncursed in a cursed land.
But she couldn't bear to see him like that.
So she enacted a plan to free him and break her heart all at once.
She asked for him to come over to her house, just him, asked if John could watch Roland for the night (this wouldn't take all night, but she knew very well that Robin wouldn't be in a state to care for his son after learning the truth about her, about him, about the town). He immediately responded of course with a wink and a smile, and she hated that he was so happy, so excited at the prospect of her sharing more.
The night he came over, she opened the door for him, knowing she was sealing her fate.
In her hands, she held her most valued possession. Daniel's ring. She finds herself unable to let it go, unable to keep herself from rolling it between fingers. She is dreading what she must do tonight for so many reasons, and one of those reasons is after tonight, she will never hold this ring again.
"I want to. I want to tell you everything. But...first…" Tears sting at her eyes.
"Regina, what is it?"
"First...Let me see your hand," she says, her voice shaking and somber.
He looks confused, his brows knit in a frown before he releases those facial muscles into a playful gaze. "I don't think that's my size," he grins, pointing to the ring.
"I can't get you to believe what I tell you. It's impossible with your memories lost, the way they are. I'm not sure why they didn't come back to you the way the rest of the curse did...but…" her hands rub and stroke and soothe his own.
God, she loves his hands. She would miss them, so much.
"Do you trust me?" She asks staring into his eyes intently.
"Of course I do, Regina, I don't just trust you," he looked so confused by the question, as if it were one she should have known by now, "I know going through...what we're going through has emotions out of wack, but there are a few things I'm certain on, and one is the way I feel about you, and, Regina, I lo— "
"Stop!" Her eyes went wide. She knew he was about to tell her he loved her and she couldn't hear those words, wouldn't, not when he was about to learn the truth of who she was, about to learn just how intensely he hated her.
"This is the ring my fiance gave me," she says, rubbing the ring in her hands, "it's practically all I have left of him. I loved him. And lost him. In his name I did unspeakable things."
She takes the ring, and inhales sharply.
"I'm sorry."
It isn't his size. She can just get the ring past the first knuckle of his pinky finger.
Still, it works. She feels the magic explode, a powerful boom washing over him.
It was only then she realizes she is still holding her breath.
It is so fitting that the only object in this world that gives her comfort was also the only object that held the magic required to break the spell. She is unable to stop looking at it, and watches it crumble and fade into dust before her eyes, a victim of the magical spell she had just enacted.
All magic comes at a price.
And then she wills herself to be strong. To look at Robin.
His jaw is tight and locked. Eyes so cold, so angry.
He jerks his hand away sharply, as if her very touch burned him.
"You." he gasps, eyes incredulous, "You….are the evil queen."
"Yes," she responds, swallowing heavy, taking a moment to transform into what he needs her to be. She paints her face with the expression he would find on the evil queen, plastering on that fake, coy smile, those cold, dark eyes, but oh, how her voice shook when she added, "finally you see me for what I am."
"You're a monster — an absolute monster!" He stumbles out of his chair in horror, knocking it over in his rush to stand up and move away from her. The chair knocks over as he jumps out, and the sound of the chair tipping and falling against him seems to anger him more. He grabs two legs of the fallen chair and lifts and throws it hard against the far wall. The chair smashes and breaks against the wall, puts a hole in the drywall and causes a few nearby picture frames to break. Well then.
"And you had me — you let me bed you, and then you had me fiddle around with research, you let try to find a reason for this god damned curse and you knew — you knew!"
"I tried to tell you!" she responds, can't help but defend herself, "You were so pigheaded you —"
"And why was I so pigheaded, your majesty? Did you make me that way when you wrote my life in your curse?
"I didn't write your life. The curse filled you in. I didn't even purposely take you here."
"Well thank you very much for making me an unintentional casualty!" he cries, "My son - my son will be four forever, he will never learn anything, he will never progress, you did this."
"I...that was…" she sighs, shakes her head, wills tears not to fall. "I'm the Evil Queen. Why would I care about children of thieves and transient workers?"
They entered into a staring contest then, he's calling her bluff, and she's staring back, willing herself to stay strong. There's no use, none at all, in apologizing, telling him what's in her heart. It would just make him conflicted, just make it harder in the end. He looks like he's searching her eyes for something — a glimmer of a lie, some sort of weakness. She tries not to show her hand.
"You fucking vindictive, evil, witch. You ruined our lives. You should pay. You WILL pay."
She realizes, then, that this is the moment it is over for her. The moment he will kill her. There were no shortage of deadly weapons around the house. Kitchen knives, heavy, pewter candlesticks, and hell, she's small and defenseless without magic (looks even more so in the clothes of this world, no thick, bejeweled dresses with strong collars to hide her small frame). His own hands would do just fine in ending her. It would be almost poetic, wouldn't it?
But instead of beating her, torturing her, or killing her, he just storms out. Walks right past her and out of her house, shutting the door on her. As if to say he was giving her her life back — a life of unbearing, unending loneliness.
She'd rather accept her death than face that kind of life again.
She self medicates with ambien and whiskey in order to facilitate the sleep she needs to come. But when she passes by her bedroom mirror she catches a glance at the face staring back at her. So pathetic, puffy, wet eyes, tear streaked cheeks, that quivering lip…
She smashes that full-length mirror to bits with her own hand, over and over, until glass is everywhere and there is nothing left to smash.
It's been moments since her tantrum, and she's finally feeling that gentle haze brought on by the pills and alcohol.
She empties the glass in her hand. The sharp burn hits her tongue first before trailing a path of fire down her throat and mixing with the smooth, smoky sweetness that fill her tastebuds. So sharp, so satisfying.
She will miss whiskey.
She feels sleep pulling at her...fading in and out of consciousness as she drinks, consumed in thoughts of him, of their lives together, of what his life would be after hers was gone.
"Regina? Oh god, Regina, what have you done?"
She must be farther gone than she thinks, because she hears someone who sounds a lot like Robin, feels his hands on hers, lifting the empty glass from her hand, cursing and grasping at the elbow of her maimed arm and turning it.
"Regina, Regina, god, why did you do this, your hand, the blood….you're hurt, so hurt…"
His voice fades in and out as she struggles to understand what is going on.
"What does it matter to you?" She manages to ask, fighting to keep her voice from slurring, "You're going to kill me anyway."
"Kill you?" he asks and he sounds upset, worried, but she must be misunderstanding him because he adds, "Regina, I would never — I could never. Why would you think that?"
"I'm the Evil Queen," she reminds him, and then cackles bitterly, "you'd be crazy to leave me alive."
"Enough!" he begs, "Downstairs. Now..."
She's tired of fighting. So she lets him lead her, lets him place that hand on her back and walk her downstairs. Lets him guide her to the kitchen.
"Come." He directs her to the sink, it's still running (he must have turned it on at some point).
He sticks her hand underneath the faucet, and she winces as the stream of water pushes against the shards of glass inside her. She hears small clinks as bits of glass are washed off her by the steady current of the spicket.
"God, Regina what did you do?" he mutters again, not looking for an answer.
He leads her to the kitchen table, sits her down in her usual chair. Her mind is still clouded, her vision is blurry, and she's not quite sure that this is even real.
"Do you have iodine? Rubbing alcohol? Tweezers?"
His memories from the modern world helped him after all, it seems he had some sort of plan.
"Medicine cabinet," she slurs, and then she shuts her eyes.
She could sleep standing up, right here. Instead, she feels a hand behind her, pushing her and guiding her somewhere. When it stops, she feels pressure on either shoulder pushing firmly down, urging her to sit.
She does.
"Stay there," he orders.
She does not listen to orders. Does not, should not. But she's tired. Her fight is over. And the chair is comfortable, and warm and familiar.
It's a fine place to die. She opens her eyes enough to see she's at the kitchen table, then plants an elbow on the table and rests her head into her good hand.
She hears him coming back, hears him jostling some random objects he must have picked up from her medicine cabinet, and maybe from the kitchen. She hears the clinking of a plate, or a bowl.
"Give me your hand," he barks, and she gives it to him willingly.
For a while they are silent. He focuses on her injuries, picking out bits of glass by hand first, and then, when there are only small pieces, he uses tweezers. He drops each shard, each tiny sliver, into an empty bowl, the steady sound of glass hitting ceramic the only noise between them.
That and his frustrated sighs.
"Why are you doing this?" she asks, her eyes finally opening as he turns her hand palm side up to complete his task.
"Doing what?" he asks, his brow furrowed, lip bit in concentration.
"Fixing my hand. We know what you have to do."
"Will killing you help anything? Will it break the curse?" he asks, eyes never leaving her mangled hand.
"I don't know. Possibly." She replies truthfully.
"I have questions. I need you to answer them," he says right before pulling out a shard that has stuck particularly deep inside her, causing her to gasp slightly. He looks up at her. "I know you don't like to share, but under the circumstances, I think you owe me, don't you?"
"I won't beg for my life." Her response is guarded, far meeker than it should be, but if he thinks she'll answer questions under threat of death he's wrong.
"I told you, I'm not here to kill you," he responds, his eyes focused on the glass, brow knit, tongue peeking out between clenched teeth, "I'm here for answers".
She wants to protest, to fight, to be sassy and uncompromising. But she's hurting, and weak. And so, so tired of pretending to be strong.
How many decades has she fought to try to stay strong?
"Go on. Ask your questions."
"Why did you cast this curse?" he asks, he searches for her eyes, and she regrettably meets them. God, he has beautiful eyes.
"To destroy Snow White's happiness," she reminds him, "to destroy everyone's happiness."
"But it's not so bad here, though," he presses, "When I didn't realize time was resetting, I wasn't at all unhappy. Even Snow, I recognize her, you know. She's the school teacher. She's not...miserable. But you, you knew time was standing still. I think you were the most miserable of all of us."
Regina winces as he picks out a particularly long splinter of glass with the tweezer.
"I guess I failed then," she says so clenched teeth, "as always."
"It makes no sense," he says ignoring her flippant reply, "A land of no magic. I know you, Regina, I got to know you over these last few weeks, and the moment I got my memories back I knew it made no sense. Your magic is all you had to protect you, it was your only weapon against those you felt wronged you. Why would you take us to a land of no magic?"
"True love, light magic, always bested me," she replies almost as if she is reciting something, "a land without magic protects against that."
The tweezers go still, and his eyes aren't on her hands, they are too focused on her, her eyes, her mouth, the tilt of her head, the evasive movements of her face.
"I don't think you believe that," he decides, "who told you this was the curse to best get your revenge?"
She groans. He would find out anyway. "It was Rumple's curse. He taught me, he wanted me to cast it. But it benefited me."
"You don't believe that," he mutters, focusing on her tiny cuts and scrapes, "not anymore, at least."
"What does it matter what I believe now? At the time I wanted to take away everyone's happiness." She lets out a deep breath. "I'm a monster. You said so yourself."
"Maybe," he concedes, and there are no more words as he works over her hand, and she concentrates on the stead clink of glass into her bowl.
"Why did you break the curse for me?" He asks softly, grabbing a wet rag and dabbing her hand, wiping away the blood that hides more bits of glass, "And how? How did I notice the passage of time? What did you use to break that part of the curse for me?"
"Nothing" she croaks. The question reminds her of lion tattoos and passionate kisses and four letter words that they dare not speak, and it's all too much in her state. She gives herself a moment to look down, then schools her features into something more dignified, "I — I don't know how that happened."
He looks at her with raised eyebrows and tilted head. He doesn't seem to believe her. Still, he lets it go.
"Why give me back my memories? Why show me who you were?"
Hot tears sting at her eyes. She pushes them away.
"You were boring me. Wouldn't stop researching and babbling about the curse I figured I could shut you up."
"You know what I've been thinking, though? You could have used that bit of magic to make me forget. To make me forget time like everyone else. Instead you chose this. Why?"
She says nothing, focusing her eyes on her injured hand as if to avoid the question. She considered it, oh, how she considered it, but the truth of the matter was she was tired of this lie between them. It didn't feel right to keep it from him anymore. But this truth is one she will not reveal.
They sit in silence for awhile until it is Robin who breaks, with a frustrated sigh.
"I'm not going to sit here and pretend I haven't tried to figure out what piece of magic allowed me to see the curse for what it was. That it started…it could have started, the night we first...were together."
Her pulse quickens, and she pushes down whatever hint of hope threatens to bloom in her chest. This isn't going where she'd like it to. He still hates her.
He lets the silence becomes deafening before speaking again.
"I just don't understand you."
She can't tear her eyes away from her hand. Most of the glass is gone now. It's impressive, his work, but then again, he has the memories of a park ranger trained extensively in first aid, and the memories of a skillful, resourceful thief who battled guards and lived in the woods. It's safe to say he had experience with patching up related injuries.
So yes, he's done a fine job. There's still a lot of blood, dripping, dripping, dripping onto the towel below her, but she doesn't see glass anymore.
He takes the wet rag — once white, now stained bright red, and dabs at her hand again.
"These cuts are too deep, and I can't get out all the glass. We need to get you to the hospital."
Those words finally spring her to life.
"Over my dead body," Regina sneers, "I won't get in a car with you and I most certainly won't let any of the doctors or nurses look at me. I might be good enough to write a curse that teaches people how to drive, but I'm certainly not equipped with the knowledge required to write a curse that gives doctor's proper medical training."
She laughs bitterly at her own joke.
"Dr. Whale did a fine job stitching Roland up when he cut his knee, and arm, and head..." he sighs, "five years is a lot of injuries for a clumsy three year old who has to relive the same overly active day at the park. But you know about that, don't you?"
She knows what he's asking about. She ignores his directed question and focuses on the technicalities.
"The curse resets injuries in five days. We don't age, we don't change. In five days this hand will heal just as well as your son's injuries did, even without Whale's help."
She seems to convince him with that. Then he takes her hand, inspects it carefully, nods to himself, and then gets up from his seat. He dumps the bowl filled with bloodied bits of glass, washest the wet, bloody rag in the sink. And then, he starts opening cabinets.
"What are you doing?" she asks sharply.
"Do you have honey?"
"In the cabinet next to the fridge, why?"
He takes it out and places it on the table with the now-empty bowl, and looks at the variety of bandages available.
"First things first," he says, taking out the hydrogen peroxide, "this will sting."
She shrugs, "I don't fear pain," she says cooly.
He rolls his eyes at that, opens his mouth as if to answer, but shuts it, returning to his task.
He holds her hand over the bowl of bloody water and pours the bottle of peroxide over her hand.
Oh, it burns. And then her hand goes numb from the pain.
A smart response the body has to overly intense pain. Would her body go numb like this if it were burned alive?
"The worst is over," he soothes, and she hates her body, hates her face for betraying her and showing signs of pain.
He starts mixing a concoction in the other bowl, honey and iodine, it looks like. She's a bit puzzled as to what he's doing.
Once, she tortured a peasant she knew was responsible for hiding Snow White. She slathered him in honey and tied them to a tree, then let the bugs and the animals gnaw at him until she got information out of him. His wife found him, untied him, saved him, but he was scarred and sickly from the exposure. He never truly recovered.
Would this be her fate?
"This will draw out the glass I couldn't quite see," he explains, slathering the iodine-and-honey concoction, "and promote healing."
"Why?" she asks meekly, far too meekly. She doesn't elaborate, doesn't need to. He understands. And he will not answer the question.
"Roland had some serious accidents, all the time in the park," he recalls solemnly, "when it rained, that day, the day he had no school and I had the day off from work, we'd go to that little indoor play ground. He has had some bad falls there. When it was winter, we'd go ice skating and whatever clumsy, uncoordinated moment he was doomed to relive would surface. But do you know what I remember?"
"What?" she grits her teeth together. She knows.
"A curious thing, how often you'd show up at all those places and be there at just the right time to pick him up and prevent a fall. Wouldn't you say that was curious? Oh, you didn't always get there in time, but it was most times, wasn't it?"
She can't see the soft expression on his face, not while she refuses to look at him.
He wraps her wounded hand in gauze and elastic bandages and for a while, neither say a word.
"There," he sighs, looking at his work with some pride.
Her hand feels better, a bit better at least. She curses herself for the warmth that spreads over when she meets his gaze.
God, the way he looked at her. The way he still looks at her.
He shouldn't look at her like that anymore.
"Promise me you won't do this again," he stares at her intently, his hands stroking over her wounded one lightly.
"Why does it matter to you?" she asks.
He just shakes his head and lets out an exasperated sigh. He rises from his chair, and in the process leans into her, placing a hand on the back of her head and guiding it forwards so he can press a kiss to her forehead.
She closes her eyes the second his soft lips meet her forehead. It feels warm, and soothing, and somehow just a little bit electric.
But it's just a second, a quick thing, and he parts quickly, standing, moving back from her.
"Yes, well," he runs fingers through his hair, slicking it back and rustling it a bit, and god, he looks so lost, so conflicted, "I don't know why, i just can't see you hurt. And I — you know what? the reason shouldn't matter. It matters to me, and you owe me. God, Regina, you owe me, you owe me so bloody much, for what you did. So I am asking you not to hurt yourself. Understand?"
He's mad now, hand rubbing the back of his neck, eyes dark, glaring at her, and the weight of that stare is overwhelming and she can only nod.
He exhales slowly at that, and she sees his face tender before it hardens.
"And the other thing I'm going to ask you is to leave me alone. I don't speak to you, and you don't speak to me." He stares daggers at her, his eyes dark, jaw tense and squared.
"Understood," Regina says without looking back at him. She tries to keep her voice nonchalant, as if his declaration means nothing to her. But oh, how wrong that is. He has power, far too much power in the land without magic. He's crushed her heart and turned it to ash, without even needing to touch it.
He does not turn to look back at her after she chokes out the word. He just walks out the door.
She had expected him to kill her. So she doesn't get to be upset when all he does is promise to ignore her, to hate her from afar, to take himself away from her forever.
It feels worse somehow.