Disclaimer: I do not own Once Upon a Time.

When she retires from the council that evening—freedom, at last—there is a pine tree in the far corner of her chamber that wasn't there before, just sitting there, like a smug intruder, and her upper lip curls in a snarl because suddenly she isn't so alone.

Ballsy twig.

Who does it think it is?

The tall mirror that usually leans there has been shoved aside to make room for the sapling's girth. Holly is strewn across the branches, and gleaming tinsel coils the dark needles in a manner that very nearly suggests a grin, a familiar one at that. She can almost see the insufferably caring eyes that should accompany it, can almost hear the perky voice that is just as expressive.

"All we have is hope, Regina."

"You're family, Regina."

"If it's a girl, I'm thinking we should name her Eva. What do you think, Regina?"

Blasted Snow.

The insipid girl has been a whirlwind of seasonal spirit in the final stretch towards Christmas, skipping around the castle like some overgrown child and throwing holiday cheer at just about anyone, anything, who will indulge her—and everyone does.

Surprise, surprise.

Regina has tolerated it all for one reason and one reason alone. Roland. The thief's boy, who is so excited at the prospect of celebrating Christmas with "Gina" that his dimples haven't disappeared in days. The child is both a source of pain and pleasure for her in that he reminds her so much of Henry, from the brown mop of his hair to the crinkle of his eyes when he laughs. The similarity soothes at the same time it haunts.

But sometimes it haunts with a little more intensity than it should.

She is tolerating Snow's antics for him because how can she not? (It's becoming increasingly overt to everybody else and their cousins that the Evil Queen has a soft spot, a weakness for children.) But something akin to dread is beginning to pool in her chest as the days dwindle down, and left untreated, she might drown in it, but surely even that would be less painful than making it through. Coping. Betraying.

She wonders if Miss Swan knows that he prefers fudge to fruitcake.

—

It's Christmas Eve, and she doesn't want to get up. From the floor. Where she had laid all night because lying in the bed had somehow reminded her of all those wintry nights Henry had crawled under the sheets and wrapped a pudgy arm around her middle.

"I got cold, Mama."

Slowly, but surely though, she pulls herself to a sitting position and leans against the side of the mattress, aching legs pulling themselves to her chest. In the morning sky visible from her balcony, frothy clouds whip around a pale sun and chafe. Snow frosts the world.

"Merry Christmas, Henry," she whispers to herself. A timely draft ghosts her skin in reply.

I hope you suffer, Regina.

It and her both.

Snow makes her obligatory round about an hour later, knocking twice before letting herself in. Her billowing, pregnant robes swoosh in time with the princess as she makes her way around the bed where Regina still reclines, vaguely disinterested, fingers loosely templed on her knees.

And there's no way that she—her stomach as heavily ballooned as it is—can join her, so she settles for sitting on the edge of the bed, palms pressing into the comforter. The room groans in rhythm with the disturbance because that's what Snow White is insistent on doing—disturbing this. Her misery. Her wallowing. Her Christmas Eve.

"Beautiful day, isn't it, Regina?" she asks, singsong.

"It's cold."

"But still beautiful, nonetheless."

The next silence is loaded. It buzzes with unspoken words, with Snow trying to be considerate enough to shut the crap up, and Regina testily wonders why the woman didn't just skip the visit—the formality of caring—in the first place. She's tired though, doesn't have the strength to verbalize this, so instead, she sighs ever so slightly and cocks her head back to look at her former stepdaughter.

"I highly doubt that you came here for idle chat about the weather, Snow White, so get on with it before I feel generous enough to throw you off the balcony," she threatens, sans verve.

Ever unfazed, Snow smiles and snickers a little into her hand. "Glad to see that you're still creative with your insults, Regina—but yes, you're right. I'm here about the feast tonight. I wanted to make sure you would be still there."

Right. That. The gathering of idiots by idiots. Grumpy had enthused that there was even going to be a jester, and Regina had innocently suggested that they didn't need one when they had him.

She rolls her eyes. "I gave you my word, didn't I?"

"Indeed you did."

"What? You don't believe me?" And she sounds affronted, is affronted to think that they're still at this stage after all they've been through.

She has to remind herself that she shouldn't—doesn't—care.

"Oh, I do," Snow replies cryptically before standing up, grinning knowingly. She begins to saunter her way towards the door and only stops to look at Regina one last time. "The question is, do you?"

"That doesn't even make sense."

"See you this evening, Regina. Wear something festive!"

—

She dresses in all black for the occasion. It's a simple gown, form-fitting, but not as gaudy as she is used to, or more to the point, what they are used to. No painted sneers or heavy body armor tonight. Practical jewelry, shorter than normal high heels, and winged eyeliner without the leached white face. Twisted hair, but no intricate coiffing. Resigned posture.

Festive.

Roland and the thief intercept her in the ballroom turned banquet hall for the evening and amused, Regina notes that their faces look considerably shiner than usual. Someone had even attempted to comb out the natural tangles of Roland's curls, attempted being the keyword

"Your Majesty, Gina," Roland greets proudly, this being coupled with a concerted effort to bow on the toddler's part. Skewed equilibrium gets the best of him though, and he trips a little, those oversized boots of his catching on the cloak.

Robin chuckles before helping his son steady himself. "Easy there, m'boy."

"Your father is right," she teases, playing along, and out of the corner of her eye, she can see the outlaw smirking that crooked smile he knows just irritates her. Ignoring him, or trying to at least, Regina lowers her voice to a conspirational whisper and crouches down to meet Roland on an eye level. "I couldn't bear it if my favorite knight got hurt."

His milk chocolate and melting eyes widen in awe. "I'm you're bestest knight?"

She almost cracks right here, almost smiles, almost tears up, because Henry had been just as shocked to find out that he was her favorite prince. "Indeed. But don't tell anyone—they might get jealous."

"I will never tell nobody, Gina," he promises, bobbing his head vigorously.

She grins and tickles the boy's chin, wiping away his concentrated seriousness in an instant. "I'll hold you to it, my little knight."

A few minutes later, Robin suggests that Roland should find the rest of the Merry Men. It would be a shame for them to miss this wonderful celebration thrown by the princess.

"I'll go get them, Papa!" he exclaims, scampering off, cloak rustling behind him. It's just her and the thief now.

Regina returns to her rigid regality once more—head up, shoulders straight, and expression invariably distant, masked. Her lips purse. She refuses to look his way.

The polarity fascinates Robin.

"If I'm allowed to speak freely—"

"You already are, Thief."

"I just wanted to say that you look quite stunning tonight." (And sad. The Queen looks quite sad, too, but he keeps that thought to himself. Every Christmas she has shared with her lost boy flits across her features like a never ending nightmare, a seizure of misery. She doesn't need the obvious stated tonight.)

She can't help herself—she glances his way to see a small smile, a genuine one, softening his lips, and it captivates Regina as much as it repels.

It repels her, how easily this man, the thief of all people, is able to disarm her.

His eyes though are ever sparkling with childlike mischief, and she grants him a smirk in return.

"Likewise, Hood. I see you've found yourself a new river."

"Ah, yes. The fountain in your courtyard functions very nicely."

If only looks could kill.

—

The feast is as inevitably boring as she had imagined. The Uncharmings attempt to engage her in baby talk on one side, and the thief casts her smug looks on the other.

Regina focuses on the food she has no earthly appetite for and occasionally Roland, when the Merry Men aren't interesting enough to capture his fleeting attention.

And there's also the matter of Henry—but she's always thinking about Henry.

Eventually though, the meal winds down, and people begin to line up at the head of the table to thank the Charmings for the feast.

Also, Merry Christmas.

Regina prepares to excuse herself, but a small tug at the hem of her gown stops her shortly before she can leave. A sleepy-eyed Roland looks up at her with a dopey grin. He pulls on her dress again in an unspoken request that she should bend down, and so she does.

He throws his small arms around her neck, and surprised, she almost topples over with his weight.

The banquet hall turns to watch, and Snow smiles into the back of her head.

"G'night, Gina. I love you."

"I love you, Mama."

The reaction is reflexive, instantaneous. Her eyes are suddenly swimming and hot, and everything is blurry around the edges. She's suffocating.

She can't—she can't do this.

It's too much.

Roland looks scared that he has done something wrong, his lower lip beginning to tremble, and it takes every single scrap of her effort to muster up a smile and a lie.

"There, there," she murmurs and brushes away a tear from his cheek. "I'm fine, Roland."

"I love you, Mama."

Robin takes this as the opportunity to sweep his son up before she can do any more damage, like she always does. He rocks the toddler gently, soothing him, quieting his sobs.

"That's right, lad," he assures the boy. "The Queen is just quite happy to be friends with you. Right, Your Majesty?"

Slowly, Regina nods.

"You're not mad at me?" Roland timidly asks, twisting around in his father's hold to look at the creature broken on the floor. Everyone is looking at Regina.

She leadenly brings herself to stand. "I could never be mad at you, Sweetheart."

And he smiles, even though there is snot dribbling down his nose.

And she smiles, even though she is drowning, drowning fast.

She hopes it's over soon.

—

Christmas Day.

She stares at the ceiling from her place on the floor.

Submission.

She succumbs.

The demons dance around her body like wind and snow, and darkness and hail that beats into her skin.

Submission is cold.

And loud. But she thinks that's just the knocking, the people begging to come in.

They can't save her though.

No one can.

(But they do.)

—

The thief scales the side of the castle just to reach her. He is frostbitten and haggard when he collapses onto the balcony, and angry as he storms inside, a vortex of concern.

But with a gentle touch, a warm touch, he scoops her shivering body into his arms and cradles it until it is safe in the bed, protected there. He is careful to keep his eyes on her face, on the blueness of her lips, because her black gown is discarded on the floor. All that is left is a corset and some bones.

She's frail—so vulnerable—and Robin doesn't want the satisfaction of seeing her this way.

Because that's not who Regina Mills is.

Regina is strong and passionate, a whirlwind that opposes nature and wins even in her losses. She's the type of woman to glare at him with feverish eyes because how dare he be concerned for her?

She's not giving up, not if he can help it—and he's not alone in this endeavor either.

Her support system waits behind the door.

—

Dr. Whale predicts that she's going to die.

Her cold had turned into pneumonia, and the pneumonia was happy to fester in her already-weakened state.

He gives her a week, two at the most. Anyone wanna take bets?

David is delighted to have a reason to punch the doctor again. No one talks bad about his family.

They've moved her to a room next to the kitchens, where the hearth is almost constantly going, and Granny can more easily shove food into her emaciated form. (She's bitter, not a monster. Regina won't snuff on the widow's watch.) It's warmer down there, but she still shivers and tremors. Her body still convulses with every cough that rattles her lungs.

The delirium is what will kill her though, and maybe everyone else, too. That is undisputed.

Snow is sick for days after Regina mistakes her to be Cora once. She thinks that if she ever sees Emma again—if only for a short minute—she will spend every second telling her daughter that she is loved.

But it's not just Cora. It's Daniel, Leopold, Rumplestiltskin, and Henry. It's a repertoire of the Queen's nightmares being played out for the world to see, and no one was prepared to see.

Somewhere along the lines, there's a tacit consensus that if she does die, it won't be the most she has ever suffered.

But they don't want her to die.

Please don't die, Regina.

—

A fortnight comes and goes, and Regina is still holding on.

Just barely, but barely is better than nothing for the Charmings. For Robin.

(Robin is relieved that he doesn't have to tell his poor boy that Gina is going where his mother is. That was horrible enough the first time.)

Snow writes a short missive to Whale, gloating:

She's still alive, you insensitive scumbag.

Hope you're well.

- Snow

—

It's on a bright Saturday morning a few weeks later when she asks Granny for something more substantial than her watery soup.

And Granny allows a small smile before forcing the spoon down the woman's throat.

—

In early February, Regina is still weak, but certainly on the uprise. Her sarcastic barbs are back to top form at any rate.

(David has never been more glad to be called an imbecilic mouthpiece in all of his life, and Robin proudly takes his share like a champ because a month ago, she hadn't even been able muster the energy to call him "Thief.")

It's on one of the season's warmer days when Snow finds her sitting on a bench in the gardens. She has her back to the castle and eyes on the setting sun that's a vivid orange in a similarly fiery sky. She stiffens when she hears the crunch of feet, the shuffling of bulky robes, then relaxes as the distended torso of her former nemesis comes into view. Nothing new—Snow White stumbling into places.

"Beautiful evening, isn't it, Regina?"

She lowers herself on the other side of the bench, head upwardly mobile as she takes in the view with that trademark optimistic smile. Regina's lips part in a small smirk.

"Admittedly, it isn't the worst thing to look at out here."

"I feel like that's an insult geared towards me," the younger woman huffs.

"And to think I thought you were an invalid growing up."

The silence that follows is comfortable, therapeutic almost, and Regina doesn't feel pressured to say anything, let alone something resonating. It just comes out, like a habit, and maybe one that isn't the most horrible of tics.

"I suppose it would be accurate to say that I was…touched by your persistence during these last few weeks." The sunset is bruising now, purpling to night, and she can feel the surprise radiating off Snow like a beacon. "I distinctly remember that one evening where you cursed me out for dying."

The memory is blurry like most things were during that time, but she dimly recalls Snow's pale fists slamming into the mattress and the alarm she had felt at the jolt. It had resurfaced her to some form of rare clarity, where she had taken in the watery tracks on her former stepdaughter's face, the desperation in her eyes, and that was a first one for the Queen—seeing the girl, this particularly girl, so shaken.

Snow shakes her head disbelievingly, snorts in an almost endearing way. "Of all things, you have to remember that?"

Fortunately, yes.

"My point is, and I mean this very lightly so don't get sentimental, thank you, Snow White." She clears her throat. "For being you."

There are no words after that.

There is no need for them.

Instead, they watch the sky for a little while longer, only Regina isn't seeing the stars, not when the center of her universe is astronomically better.

He flashes her a thumbs up before running off to join his friends, and the image of his bright smile before he turns away burns in her mind like a warmth there to stay. It gives her just a little more incentive to be.

And she's glad to be here to see it.