Note: This was supposed to be posted on Valentine's Day. Oops.

When Emma nearly faints after attempting to roll out of bed, she's legitimately confused for a moment. Emma hardly ever gets sick—maybe a mild cold once a year. This whole headache, nausea, and fatigue thing going on at the moment is an experience she could do without, much like the stuffed toys and treacly cards that have recently exploded all over her parents' place.

Emma squeezes her eyes shut and waits until the room stops spinning. Either a pack of ogres have repeatedly run her over in her sleep, or she's got the nastiest bug in the history of ever. Or both. Maybe both, way she feels. She risks reopening an eye to grab her phone and immediately slams it shut. Fuck. Too much light. She feels her stomach roil, fights down the nausea by sheer force of will and just sits, breathing in and out for a few minutes. Then she contacts the station—texts instead of calls, because she can't handle having a conversation right now. Someone else is going to have to wrangle paperwork and parking tickets because Emma Swan is taking a goddamn sick day.

Her second text is to Regina. It takes her three tries to compose something that makes any sense. Can't pick up Henry today, can you take him for the weekend? Emma pushes the phone away the moment she finishes typing and buries her head in her pillow. She hears the phone slide off the edge of the bed and drop to the floor, but she can't muster the energy to care, much less retrieve it when it buzzes a few minutes later. She'll regret the missed opportunity to stuff her son full of discount Valentine's Day candy over the next few days (and, okay, maybe give French toast another try, preferably without setting anything on fire this time). But she is definitely not up to the task of taking care of another human being right now. Dying, though. Dying's definitely on the very short list of things she is capable of doing. She tries to go over that very short list just to make sure everything's in order, but she keeps losing track of where she is, which makes for a rough couple hours of maybe-sleep.

The list does not include dealing with visitors. Someone's pounding on the door and shouting. "Miss Swan! Miss! Swan! I know you're in there!" Fucking hell, Emma thinks woozily, already hauling herself out of bed and downstairs on autopilot because when Regina yells like that you answer the damn door, never mind if you nearly faint twice trying to get to the damn thing. (The less said about navigating the stairs, the better.)

Emma yanks the door open. She's pretty sure the person standing there is Regina, what with the pounding and the shouting, although she can't really be sure who she's seeing because it's possible Emma's eyeballs are liquifying from a truly extraordinary amount of sinus pressure.

"Emma?" Regina's voice shades from angry to confused in two syllables.

"Tell me I'm wearing pants," Emma says hoarsely. She doesn't know why she says that. It's not like she's never opened the door in her underwear for Regina before (before she knew Regina, before everything).

"You are clothed, although I'd hesitate to dignify those rags with the term 'pants.'"

"Good," Emma says. She sways a bit, closes her eyes because Regina's still blurry and that's not right, Regina is always sharp-edged and vivid. "What. Uh. What." There should be more to that sentence—What's wrong, is Henry okay, why are you here, was all that racket really necessary because fuck, my head—but words are difficult at the moment.

"You didn't answer any of my texts."

"Your texts?"

"Yes, Miss Swan. My texts inquiring whether there was a reason you'd summarily canceled a sleepover Henry was very much looking forward to, and if you have seen his book report or his graphic novel." Regina seems to be scanning the apartment, from the way her voice sounds.

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that, I'm—I'm not feeling too good. Haven't seen his, uh. Book things."

"That's apparent. Perhaps next time you'll do us the courtesy of being more forthcoming about your ... illness." Regina's gone from confused to frigid in the last thirty seconds. That's important for some reason, Emma knows. Things need to be warm, not cold. Emma's cold. She's really cold.

"Said I was sorry," Emma croaks, which is not at all helpful.

Regina sniffs. "Perhaps next time you'll also think twice about drinking an entire bottle of whiskey the night before you're to take my son," she says. Emma has no idea what whiskey has anything to do with anything, but figuring that out isn't the priority right now, because oh shit, my son, not our son. Our son means having a Henry schedule and regular dinners at 108 Mifflin and the occasional nightcap in Regina's study after Henry goes to bed and even coffee at Granny's once, just her and Regina, all of which has been a little weird but not weird at the same time, because they're Henry's moms and they have to make this work for him, and Emma knows Regina well enough by now to realize there's disappointment and hurt behind the bite in that voice.

"Regina. Hey." Emma gropes in front of her and grabs something (an arm?), hoping desperately she isn't actually groping Regina because suddenly it's absolutely vital that she be reassuring. She blinks hard and Regina swims into view, that formidable jaw clenched. "I'm sick, okay? I called into work."

"They said you didn't give a reason, just that you weren't coming in."

Emma's grip tightens, partly at the tone of Regina's voice and partly because she feels like she's about to fall over. "You really think I'd be that selfish? Let myself get too hungover to take care of our kid?" She waits, waits until Regina shifts slightly under her hand. "You know I wouldn't do that, right? To him or you. That's not me."

Regina says finally, almost reluctantly, "I know."

Emma sighs and scrubs her free hand over her face. "I should be kinda pissed at you for ... all this ... but I really don't have the energy right now. Can you, um. I need to sit down." The couch is an entire football field away. Regina's arm goes around her waist and Emma leans into her out of necessity, not because she's warm and smells good, of course. "Jesus, my head."

"You do seem rather unwell."

Emma collapses onto the couch. "Understatement of the century. Pretty sure I'm dying. Or already dead."

"There's no need for hyperbole, Emma." Regina snags a blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it across her lap. "What you need is a cup of tea."

"Some in the far cupboard, I think."

"Where are your insipid parents, anyway? Shouldn't they be jumping at the chance to fawn over you on your sickbed?"

"On a couch, not a bed, and no ... fawning. Camping. Outside. S'posed to be romantic." Not exactly the way Emma would want to spend Valentine's Day, but then her parents seem to love running around forests in all sorts of weather.

"Camping does tend to involve the outdoors, dear," Regina drawls in what could be easily mistaken for condescension.

Emma lets a corner of her mouth quirk up. It drops when she hears the clink of the empty whiskey bottle falling into the garbage. Oh, she thinks. Oh. "They poured it into a canteen," she says, because she wants Regina to know. "Told 'em just take the bottle, but they bought all this camping gear, so."

"Idiots," Regina comments lightly. Emma listens to Regina bustle around the kitchen, making both tea and little disapproving noises as she straightens up various messes. Emma enjoys the whole production as much as she's capable of enjoying anything at the moment. It's not every day you get a former queen being aggressively domestic at you as a form of apology.

The next thing she's aware of is the back of a hand on her forehead. Emma struggles to open her eyes. "Fell 'sleep," she mutters. It must have only been for a few moments—she's sure she would've heard the kettle whistling.

"I think you need to be in bed."

"Was till you showed up," Emma grumbles. She fights back a shiver. Regina just sets a warm hand on her shoulder. "What," Emma starts, and then her inner ear complains as everything shifts around her. As the haze of purple dissipates, Emma realizes she's now sitting on her bed. Regina's hand moves to brush a strand of hair away from Emma's face. The gesture is gentle, although Regina's tone is as brisk as usual.

"You look terrible, Emma. Lie down, the tea's almost ready."

Emma's too exhausted to respond to Regina's sort-of insult (is it an insult if it's completely accurate?). She falls onto her side, tugging weakly at the covers. She's still cold. When Regina reappears with the tea, she clicks her tongue and makes an increasingly drowsy Emma sit up so she can drink while Regina arranges the blankets and pillows, muttering about threadbare something-or-other. A buzzing noise makes the former mayor cock her head.

"Where is your phone?"

"Hnh."

"...I see you've taken to storing it under your bed."

Emma slurs, "See who it is?"

"I'm not your personal assistant, Miss Swan," Regina says acerbically. She puts the phone on the nightstand and pulls the nearly-empty mug from Emma's hands. "Get some rest. I'm sure whatever it is can wait. I have to go pick up Henry, so I'll leave you to your recovery." She starts to pull the covers up to Emma's chin, something no one has ever done for her before, and Emma works a hand out from under the blankets to catch the other woman's wrist.

"Thanks, Regina."

Regina's eyes are unreadable. "Feel better."

Her eyes are sliding shut, but she summons up the strength to smile briefly. "Or what?"

Emma never hears Regina's retort. The next time she wakes, it's late afternoon and she has to pee like a racehorse. She wants a shower next. She also wants to sleep forever. Sleep wins out and she crawls back into bed. When she wakes again, she hears movement downstairs. Shit, someone would pick today to break in. Emma pulls a hoodie over her ratty thermal and stumbles downstairs. Halfway down, she realizes her gun is still locked in the nightstand. The thought of going back up to get it seems overwhelming—keeping her balance right now is hard enough—and anyway the dark head bent over the stove is probably not plotting her demise. Probably not.

"You," she says, clutching the handrail.

Regina quirks a perfect eyebrow at her. "Were you expecting someone else, Miss Swan?"

There's that icy undertone again for some reason. "No," she says. "I didn't think you'd ... I thought you were a burglar. Or something."

"Oh? Has Storybrooke's crime rate risen to record levels recently without my knowledge?"

"Nope." Emma leans on the counter. "Good thing, too. Left my gun upstairs."

"And how exactly were you going to repel me without it?"

"I would've sneezed on you. And you totally would've deserved it. If you were, uh. A burglar." A thought strikes her. "Where's Henry? You didn't bring him—"

"Here? No, Miss Swan, I have no intention of exposing him to your germs firsthand. He's at a friend's house, and Granny Lucas will be keeping an eye on him this evening. Why, would you like me to bring him by so you can sneeze on him?"

"Really not necessary," Emma mumbles.

"I thought not." Regina passes her a bowl of soup. Her fingers linger for a brief moment, making sure Emma's slightly shaky hands grip the bowl. "Eat."

"You made this from scratch?"

"I did. Would you rather I conjure it out of thin air?"

"I mean. You came back and made this. For me."

Regina stiffens and busies herself wiping the counter. "You've expressed no trepidation about eating my cooking on Wednesdays."

"That's not ... " Ugh, poison is really not what she was going for. "I'm just used to taking care of myself when I'm sick." She tries to think of a better way to ask Why are you here in my house being nice to me, but Regina beats her to it.

"Henry asked me to look after you," she admits. She sets a glass of water in front of Emma and comes to sit next to her at the breakfast nook. "He's worried about you."

Henry. Right. Regina wouldn't have come back for any other reason, of course. "That's really nice of the kid, but I can look after myself."

"Considering you almost fell down the stairs a few moments ago, I would disagree."

"I did not!"

Regina leans closer. "I don't miss much, Miss Swan, and I certainly did not miss that. Now finish your soup."

Emma hunches over her bowl and eats. She slants a look at Regina. The woman's smirking at her, and damn that pretty mouth for making it look so good when Emma—

She clears her throat. "So you're gonna hang out for a while?"

"Yes. Henry insisted on sending some entertainmentfor us."

"What, comics?"

"Movies, dear. Generally one watches movies when sick."

"I wouldn't know. I don't get sick." Regina lifts an eyebrow and Emma hastens to explain before Regina can point out that clearly it does happen. "Built up a pretty strong immune system when I was a kid. Group homes, new families, lotta germs. Plus if I did get sick, I had to go to school anyway. It wasn't like anyone ... " Her throat already feels thick and swollen, and her words catch in it. It wasn't like anyone would take care of me. From the way Regina looks down, she heard Emma anyway. Fuck, Emma thinks blearily. She opens her mouth to say something, but Regina slides off the stool.

"Perhaps you'd like to select a movie while I clean up," she says. The tea kettle whistles and she goes over to it, turning her back to Emma.

"Okay," Emma mumbles. She shuffles over to the couch, which takes about all the remaining strength she has, and stares at the bag on the coffee table. It's so far away.

"What did you pick, dear?"

"I don't know, my x-ray vision's on the fritz."

Regina sighs, annoyed, and pulls the bag over before she sits next to Emma and hands her a giant-ass mug of tea. "Henry has furnished us with an array of action movies, mostly comic book adaptions."

"Avengers," Emma says immediately. She figures if they put a movie on they don't have to talk. She doesn't currently have the wit it takes to navigate a conversation with Regina. "You okay with that?"

"Mmm."

" ... What?"

"Your choice is fine, Emma."

"Come on. What."

Regina's lips purse briefly before she goes to pop the DVD in. "It's ... decent, for a comic adaptation, I suppose. The core ensemble is inaccurate, however."

"Wait. What?"

"The earliest iteration of the Avengers was Iron Man, Thor, Ant-Man, the Hulk, and the Wasp, and then Captain America was added," Regina says, as if everyone knows that. In fact, Emma's heard some of this from Henry, but hearing it from the former evil queen is surreal. "Hawkeye and the Black Widow joined the Avengers much later, and the Hulk actually—"

"Oh my god," Emma says. She lifts a hand and points weakly at Regina. "You. Are a giant nerd."

Regina bristles. "I am not—"

"Hey. No. You totally are. It's cute," she adds, and stifles a smile when Regina frowns at her. "You can explain all the differences to me, okay?" It's Emma's turn to frown. "On second thought, I'm probably going to fall asleep on you, so maybe not so much with the talking."

"If you need a pillow, Miss Swan, I will provide you with one. But I will not have you drooling all over me."

"Great, fine. Can we start the movie?" Emma's suddenly freezing. Regina settles next to her, not close enough for Emma to feel her body heat, so Emma lets her head droop over the mug instead. The steam feels good on her face. She breathes it in slowly, feels a hand brush her shoulder again as Regina wraps a blanket around her. She thinks for a moment of their son.

"Were you scared the first time Henry got sick?" Emma asks quietly. Regina's leaning into her space, pulling the blanket around Emma's shoulders, and her brown eyes meet Emma's from only a few inches away.

"Terrified. I slept in his room for three days until the worst of it had passed. I learned after a while not to be afraid when he'd contract a cold. I think perhaps I spoiled him, though." Her lips curve up briefly. "New movies, comics, special treats, anything he wanted."

"That's good."

"Is it? Some might say it was too much."

A shadow passes over Regina's face, perhaps remnants of a recent time when nothing she could give Henry seemed like enough, and Emma sets her tea down. She relaxes into the couch, rolls her head so she can keep looking at Regina. "I say it's good. Everything I wanted for him. You gave that to him. You did that, Regina." The other woman looks down, fiddling with the remote in her lap as the menu loops in front of them, and it occurs to Emma that people don't often tell Regina she's a good mother. Emma traces that profile with her eyes. "Regina," she says.

"Yes?"

Emma shifts, burrowing into Regina's side and resting her head on Regina's shoulder. She hears and feels Regina's intake of breath. "Start the damn movie, okay?"

It takes a while for Regina to relax under her. Emma just keeps breathing. She's focused so much on breathing that she starts drifting off. Then Regina moves, jostling her slightly. The complaint Emma's mustering dies in her throat when Regina puts an arm around her.

"My arm's going to sleep," she explains.

"Mmm," Emma says. She closes her eyes just for a moment, just to rest them before Scarlett Johannsen and her perfect fucking face come back on the screen, drifts into an easy slumber in the circle of Regina's arm. She wakes to find the windows dark and the menu looping again on mute. Regina's still holding her.

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