God, did Emma feel awful. Her head throbbed. Her body ached. Her throat and lungs were sore, and on top of all of that, there was the queasiness. Every time she moved too suddenly, and even sometimes when she didn't, she had to clamp her lips together to keep from being ill. To round off her perfectly awful state, she felt disgusting, as well. Snow and Charming, who had jumped at the chance to play parents for their fully-grown daughter, had not allowed Emma to leave bed more than was strictly necessary for the past three days, which of course meant it had been over three days since she had been permitted to shower. She felt as though she were coated in a sheen of feverish sweat and a layer of scum from her illness.
"Sweetheart, is there anything I can get you?" Snow asked from the doorway of Emma's bedroom.
Maybe for you to leave me alone for more than five minutes, so I can actually get some rest, Emma thought in frustration, but instead croaked out, "No thanks, Mom. I'm still fine." She couldn't help but add a mumbled, "just like the last ten times you and Dad came in here."
Apparently she hadn't uttered it quietly enough because Snow sighed as she walked into the room, and Emma prepared herself for what she, even in her sick state, knew was going to be some sort of lecture. "Emma, sweetheart, your father and I are just worried about you. We want to help you get healthy again. You know, we only have your best interest at heart," Snow stated as she sat on the edge of Emma's bed. At that, Emma opened her mouth, prepared to say something about how she knew what her own best interest was, but all that escaped was a coughing fit—not nearly as violent as some she'd had in the past few days, but still enough to make her throat sear and her lungs clench painfully.
Snow started frantically fluttering her hands around Emma, trying to calm her coughing, until finally she settled with her hands patting Emma's back far more vigorously than was strictly necessary as she floundered, offering everything from tea to a decongestant. As Emma regained her ability to breathe, Snow still continued to bluster around her trying to help, yet in the process remaining completely and utterly unhelpful. "Mom. Mom, stop. I'm fine. Stop, Mom! Seriously!" Emma sighed exasperatedly, as she swatted Snow's hands away, only for them to return a moment later still fluttering and patting uselessly. They continued in this manner for a couple of seconds until Emma finally managed to get her attention as she wheezed out, "Snow! This is not helping!"
At the rasped exclamation, Snow settled back onto the edge of the bed, her hands clasped in her lap as she looked Emma with wide, wounded-puppy eyes. That was the first time Emma had referred to her as anything other than "Mom" in a while, and although she had not intended for it to hurt Snow—or even really intended to say it in the first place—it did succeed in getting her to focus.
"Sorry, Mom." Emma settled a hand hesitantly over Snow's and watched as she relaxed a bit, but didn't lose the hurt in her eyes. "Look, I get it. You and Dad want to take care of me and be good parents and all that, but I'm not a child. Sure, I'm sick, but I can take care of myself, just like I have for the past twenty-some years." At Emma's words, the hurt on Snow's face became more pronounced with the pout that settled deeply on her pale face. Emma quickly backtracked with, "Not that I don't appreciated the help! It's just a lot to take in! I'm not use to people looking after me, and there is just so much tea!" Emma bemoaned glancing at the six empty mugs situated on her nightstand just from today. "And you guys both took off work for the past three days to look after me—which was totally unnecessary by the way! I just feel a little smothered, and—shit! That's not what I meant! I just—I … well" Dammit!
Snow took pity on her sick, rambling daughter and held up a hand to prevent any more words from spewing out. "I think I understand. You're use to taking care of yourself when you're sick," Snow paused briefly, caught up in her thoughts as she unconsciously reached forward to brush a strand of hair from Emma's face. "And I guess your father and I have gone a little overboard trying to make you feel better." At Emma's face that clearly shouted Ya think?!, Snow added, "Well, we're just trying to make up for the times you had to take care of yourself when sick … No one should have to feel alone, especially when ill."
"Thanks, Mom." Emma's expression had softened as she listened to her mother's explanation and heard the pure love and sincerity behind her words. "But that doesn't change the fact that I'm not a little kid anymore. You don't need to check on me every two seconds, and you guys should go back to work tomorrow. I think I can survive a few hours on my own," Emma teased.
Snow sighed quietly, but with a smile none the less, "Alright, sweetheart, if you say so. I guess I'll just tidy up and let you rest." True to her word, Snow got up, gathering all the used tissues and garbage into a bin and tossing a pair of dirty pajamas that had been heaped on the floor into the hamper before collecting all the dishes from the room and heading to the kitchen. She returned moments later handing Emma cough and fever medications followed by a glass of water. Settling the glass on Emma's nightstand after Emma finished taking the pills, Snow helped her recline comfortably before she couldn't resist tucking her in and placing a kiss followed by a damp rag on Emma's feverish forehead.
"I love you, sweetheart," Snow whispered.
"Love you, too, Mom," Emma mumbled back sleepily, causing Snow to smile as she shut the door. Downstairs, she relayed the talk to David, and the pair complied, letting Emma rest—only checking on her once more before bed when they found her dead to the world, snoring contentedly.
Emma awoke groggily, glancing around her darkened room to see the glowing numbers of her alarm clock shining 1:14 a.m. Ugh, she had started to feel a little better earlier that day, but any hope that she was recovering went right out the window as, at that moment, she felt shittier than she had during the past three days … probably combined. She went to put her hand to her aching, overheated head as she sat up, before flopping back again, her arms folding tightly over her now clenching abdomen. The nausea settled in as her stomach began to roll uneasily. How can I feel like I'm gonna puke, if I don't even have anything in my stomach?! She thought angrily, before it donned on her. The tea; it felt like an angry sea of bile was splashing around inside of her. She quickly sat up, grabbing her pillow, duvet, and mobile—because at this point, she deemed it quite likely that she'd be spending the rest of her night on the floor of the bathroom—and trudged her way across the hall, locking the door behind her and building herself a small, semi-comfortable nest on the floor, all the while hoping that this was just a precaution and she wouldn't actually be sick.
That hope was quickly lost as her stomach clenched again, more painfully this time, and bile rose in her throat. She leaned over, her hands clenching around the rim of the porcelain bowl as her knuckles whitened, and her eyes began to prickle and burn with tears as her throat and mouth began to burn similarly from the returning tea and bile. Once she could breathe again around her seizing and achingly raw throat, she brushed her damp eyes before unsteadily rising to sink to rinse her mouth, not even bothering to look in the mirror at her pale, sickly reflection. She then tied her currently stringy hair back into a messy, uneven ponytail, knowing that was probably only the first in a collection of times that would happen that night. Exhausted, she settled into her makeshift bed, snuggling into the duvet as she shivered.
Lord, this is probably the first time I've been sick enough to camp out on the bathroom floor since I was … what … twelve? She had been a relatively healthy kid, not getting sick nearly as often as the other kids in her homes, but one time when she was in sixth grade, not even she could escaped the bad bout of flu that was making its way around her middle school. She had been in one of the foster homes that she deemed livable. It wasn't exactly the kindest or most loving family to stay with, but at least they didn't smack her around and abuse her like in some of the other homes. When she had come down with the flu, she had hidden herself away in one of the bathrooms wrapped up in only a threadbare quilt, with her white-knit baby blanket pillowing her head. Her foster siblings had complained about her hogging the bathroom, and her foster mother had come banging up to the bathroom, likely to berate her for wasting everyone's time and space, but upon finding the poor, sick girl curled up on the floor against the bathtub, had mostly let her be—only bringing her a glass of water when it wasn't too much of an inconvienence and pretty much just letting the illness take its course. With that memory floating through her mind, she drifted into an uneasy sleep, prepared for a long night.
Emma groaned as her phone chirped beside her on the bathroom floor. Her joints crackled and popped as she sat up, stretching and smacking her chapped lips, her mouth and throat dry and raw from her many repeat performances that she had correctly predicted the night before. She cringed at a particularly stiff muscle in her neck, likely the result of spending the night on a hard, tile floor. Man, I am not as young as I use to be. Finally the ringing registered in her mind, a particularly royal-sounding rendition of "God Save the Queen." Regina. She quickly—but blindly—fumbled for her phone, hitting answer.
"Hello? What—" she cleared her throat, although not remotely managing to remove the croak from her strained, raspy voice. "What time is it?" she asked cracking her eyes open and squinting around, her bleary eyes not able to take much of the harsh light reflecting off the white surfaces of the bathroom.
"It's six in the morning, dear," came the crisp reply over the line. God, 6 a.m. How does she manage to sound so awake and put together at 6 a.m.? Emma grumbled internally. "I hope I didn't wake you," Regina's voice softened in a way it never would have during their first year of acquaintanceship, or well more accurately enmity. But they were friends now, and Regina sometimes allowed her walls to fall around her in minor ways such as this softened voice. Friends, Emma smiled, rubbing her tired eyes.
"No, s'all good. Wassup?" she scratched out, voice roughened by sleep and the strain of the prior night.
"Are you sure you're alright, dear? I heard from one, Miss Lucas, that the True Love party of two had taken off work the past couple of days to care for their darling and devastatingly ill daughter." Emma could her the playful smirk in Regina's voice and couldn't help but grin, too.
"Okay, yes. I'm a little sick, but honestly, I agree that it was ridiculous for them both to take off work to look after me. I'm a grown woman after all!"
Regina chuckled, "Oh sometimes, I seriously doubt that, my dear."
"Oh ha-ha, R'gina, very funny. Did you just call to make fun of me? Cos that could have waited for a more reasonable hour," Emma only half-joked. The woman valued sleep even on her healthier days.
"No, I called about Henry—"
"What about Henry?" she sat up straighter, tense and much more alert. "He's alright, isn't he?"
"He's fine, dear. Don't worry. I was merely curious as to whether you, in your weakened state, were still intending to take him for the coming week, as originally planned."
Emma sighed, rubbing her hand over her tired face. She had honestly forgotten she was supposed to have Henry, what with her fever-addled brain. "I don't think that would be the best idea," her voice soft, sadness seeping into it. She loved spending time with her son. She could honestly say that he was the most important person in her life, and giving up more time with him than she already had, killed her a little bit inside. "I'd love to see the kid, but I really don't want to infect him with whatever bug this is I've got." She paused for a moment, waiting for Regina to speak, but when she didn't, she added, "Maybe we could switch weeks, just for this month. You take him for two weeks, and I'll take him for the two weeks after that. Then we go back to alternating weeks. I mean if that's alright. I just miss the kid when I don't get to see him often. Just like I know you do—"
"Miss Swan, you're rambling," Regina cut in chuckling. "That arrangement sounds perfectly amenable to me; however, Henry has been missing you. So as long as you promise not to sneeze, cough, or spread your unsavory germs to our son, why don't I have him walk to the loft after school, and I'll pick him up there once I am through at work?"
Despite their new status as allies, friends, co-parents—honestly it was quite the complicated relationship the pair shared—Emma had anticipated the worst for throwing a wrench in Regina's always-perfectly-planned schedule, so with Regina's more than willing acceptance, Emma couldn't contain, "Thanks, Regina! You're the best!"
"Well, Miss Swan, I—" Regina's witty remark was cut off by a harsh, barking coughing fit from Emma.
"Sorry," Emma rasped in what Regina could clearly tell was a pained gasp.
"Goodness, Emma! You sound dreadful! Are you quite alright, dear?"
"Yeah, I'm fine R'gina. But next time," Emma grunted, "when Pongo escapes during a thunderstorm, Archie can be the one to risk pneumonia and chase after him, 'cause it sure as hell won't be me again!" Emma shivered just thinking about her hours spent out in the freezing rain, searching for a sopping Dalmatian to calm the hysterical psychologist. "You'd think he'd find a better way of containing that mutt after the amount of times he's gotten out."
"One would think so, but that obviously isn't the case," Regina chuckled. "Anyway, I must be getting ready for work. Get plenty of rest, dear, and remember, Henry will be there at a little after three as that's when school lets out. I'll be by no later than six.
"Yeah, yeah. I know. Thanks, R'gina. I'll seeya then."
"Goodbye, dear."
As the line went dead, Emma couldn't help but smile; conversations with Regina, more often than not these days, left in a happy mood. She called me Emma. She was worried about me. Her heart warmed. She cares enough to remind me to get more rest. And as she was no longer feeling overly queasy, rest was exactly what she planned to do. Rising, slightly unsteadily, she quickly brushed her teeth at the sink before gathering her things from the floor and staggering back across the hall to her room where she flopped stomach first onto the bed—only staying awake long enough to set an alarm for a little before Henry would arrive.
When Emma awoke that afternoon, she felt much like she had when she had awoken late the night before. Her head felt simultaneously too heavy, as if it had been packed full of cotton, and too light, like she very well might just topple over if she hadn't already been lying down. Her stomach was, again, roiling with nausea, but at this point contained nothing to expel. As she rolled onto her back, she noticed a damp cloth on the back of her neck that had long ago stopped being cool. One of her parents must have placed it there before leaving for work. The thought warmed her heart even if it could do nothing to ease her illness. I need to get up, she told herself, but still took several attempts to actually get herself, aching muscles and all, out of bed.
She headed downstairs, intending to prepare Henry an after-school snack, but had barely managed to make it to the kitchen, when a particularly bad dizzy spell hit her. With her vision blurring around the edges and her ears filling with a sound akin to rushing water, she clasped her hands desperately to the island, trying to remain upright and thanking every deity she could think of for saving this vertigo until she had reached the bottom of the staircase. She did not want to imagine faring those narrow metal rungs in a state as unsteady and pained as this one was.
Finally, after her fingers had started to numb from her clenched grip around the edge of the countertop, the vise-grip on her head lessened and the lightheadedness seem to pass slightly. Sighing in relief, Emma stepped towards the pantry, hoping she could scrounge up a tasty snack for the kid, only to be hit with a wave of dizziness twice as bad as the last bout. She barely even noticed that she had somehow wound up sprawled on the ground despite never making the conscious decision to lie down. All she could think as the kitchen faded around her and her vision went dark was SHIT!
A couple minutes later, the front door of the loft swung open, revealing a young Henry. The boy, who was becoming much more teenager than boy, was all angles, gangly limbs, and floppy hair, standing in the doorway looking every bit a mix of Regina and Emma, in jeans and a sweater that screamed casual, but expensive. He dropped his bag and jacket by the door, slamming it shut behind; despite Regina having tried so hard to train it out of him, door slamming was just one habit the boy refused to unlearn. Ma does it! He would whine at Regina, but rather than save him from a lecture, it usually just threw Emma under the Regina-bus, as well.
"Ma? I'm home from school! You down here?" He shouted, glancing towards the kitchen and lounge areas, both of which looked empty. It was unusual for Emma not to be downstairs or at least making her way downstairs when she was expecting him over at the loft, but he chalked it up to what his mom said about Emma being really sick. "Ma?" he called out again. When he received no answer, the kid assumed she must be upstairs resting, but still he couldn't help but feel uneasy. Something didn't feel right; even if Emma was napping, she had always woken up and given him some sort of response in the past. "Ma? I'm gonna grab a snack and then head up in a minute, kay?" he yelled towards the staircase, and made his way towards the kitchen. The now increasingly anxious kid still heard no response, and as he rounded the island, he understood why.
There sprawled across the floor between the counter and the island, lay an unconscious Emma, looking pale and sickly with wild hair and limbs positioned haphazardly around her. "Ma!" Henry shouted, running to Emma's side, as adrenalin thrust his anxiety into full-blown terror. Dropping down beside her, he started poking at her, trying to coerce a response, any response from his birth mother. "Oh God, Ma! Wake up!" He shook her shoulders as panic set in around the boy's heart, tightening painfully when she still didn't wake up. As a last resort, he threw himself towards the sink, filling a glass with freezing water which he promptly dumped over Emma, and then the mother and son had matching dampened faces, one with tap water and the other with tears. Henry dropped back down beside her, "Please, Ma. Wake up," he whispered, tears thickening on his face and in his throat, but Emma continued to lay there, unresponsive.