A/N: Title from "Flaws" by Bastille.

"What now?"

Regina can feel it begin. It's not the curse itself, not really. She feels its tendrils of smoke evaporating everything she worked for in this forsaken world, but that's not it. The magic is coursing through her veins, and thrumming underneath her heart, and like so many times, is calling out for a responder. For an equal, for something to wrap around and hold onto tightly.

Something to ground her.

For years that was her anger, and no it didn't ground her. It let her soar. Let her conquer, conquer her own path with its turns and slippery slopes, gnarled ahead of her by the twisted hand of hate that seemed to hate her so. Her magic grabbed hold of her anger and pulled her up, let her feel the wind on her cheeks like how riding Rocainte used to feel. Like nothing could stop her.

Until.

Until the ache in her chest that never went away, not really, not ever, pulled her back and shoved her in front of a mirror and forced her to confront the person she'd become. She tried not to recognize Cora in her features, but as her training began her mother began to dominate her features and then she'd only look in the mirror when talking to the genie. Vain they called her. Wanted Snow dead for her looks.

She always had beauty, and it was never her crutch. She never cared, never cared, never cared.

Love, when love snuck through the anger it did more damage than anger ever did. Love was the source of her anger, after all, her destroyer and her savior. Love, the savior. How ironic. Her son, her son is love to her now. Every sweet song she sang him, every time he called her Mommy, and now that was going to be gone, gone gone, but at least he's safe and loved by her.

By her.

She feels it begin.

Feels everything and everyone she's going to lose, again.

Regina almost reaches out to cup her cheek. Emma Swan, who was the savior of so much more than she realized. Who reached into her heart and pulled her back out, Regina Mills, cowering somewhere in the corner of her mind, pressing through the edges. Whom she fought with, whom sheloathed with every bone in her body, but whom she could never hate. Emma. Emma, the name dances on her lips, and she steps forward to take her hand.

Emma looks confused, concerned, and there's a soft look in her eyes, the one Regina began to see in Neverland, and there's no time, there's no time, there's no-

Who knows what their happy ending could have been?

(She presses a hand to her cheek then, giving into the urge, and Emma hitches a breath, leans into the gloved hand with her cool reddened cheek.)

However Regina has learned that no matter what she does or tries to do, villain or not, she'll never have her happy ending.

"What?" Emma whispers again, and there's nothing to say, nothing offeelings of the heart before Regina has to say what she must, when she has to break Emma's beautiful heart, and she leans in to give her the smallest of kisses and Emma closes her eyes, reaches an around Regina's waist and pulls her in.

There might have been a gasp somewhere–perhaps Snow–but all Regina can do is feel tears begin to spill over her cheeks as she strokes Emma's.

It's not an I love you. They weren't there. Perhaps they were never destined to, but this kiss is evidence that the chance was there, for happiness, like every chance that's slipped through Regina's fingers.

As Emma's other hand comes to play at the hairs by Regina's neck, Regina breaks away, feeling their breaths intermingle.

And damn it all, she almost whispers it. Almost let's the words building up in her throat for a year without her knowledge slip through and be whispered in this chilly Maine air.

It's not as if Emma's going to remember.