Storybrooke, ME, November 2001
Whale watches her so closely that, for a moment, Regina thinks her curse is broken and he remembers everything. She pushes the damp hair from her face one more time, and grits her teeth at the oncoming contraction.
"Almost there, dear," the nurse says from behind the blanket draped over Regina's knees. "Next one I need you to really push for me, okay?"
"Okay," Regina whispers, head falling back against the thin pillow for just a moment.
It's almost over.
"Are you sure?" Whale asks, looking to the plastic cot by Regina's bed one more time. "We can save the paperwork for another day, it's really no problem."
"I said I'm sure," Regina snaps, reaching for the clipboard with a hand that's only trembling very slightly. "I can't raise a child all by myself. He deserves his best chance."
She can't say the whole truth of it: that a child born in this world will age, and notice, and understand while everyone else stays frozen in time. She can't say that she thought herself incapable, that after almost eighteen years in this repeating roll of dreams and nightmares, she thought she would never be able to conceive a child at all.
All she can say, as she signs the papers to place him in the temporary care of a private adoption center in Boston, is "His name is Henry".
Graham is the one to hand the child over at the town line, late in the evening, in the driving rain. He doesn't know he's the father, won't remember this in the morning anyway. Too weak to walk, Regina watches from the passenger seat of the Sheriff's cruiser.
Regina refuses to see him for three weeks afterwards. He doesn't seem to mind.
The first three months, Regina's convinced she'll die.
Waking each morning to live a barely changing day, gray and miserable and so like the one where they took her baby away. She considers, sometimes, throwing herself on Gold's mercy and asking him to undo whatever back channel deal he made with the social worker. Here he isn't the teacher who ruined her; here he's just a man with the same knack for finding the shade in a world of slightly altered light and dark.
It's a dream of Cora than convinces her, in the end, not to alter the course already set. How can Regina be mother to anyone, when all she remembers is scolding and the salt of readily-spilled tears? Henry deserves better, and so she forces herself to start letting go.
She walks into the diner, orders a coffee, and sits in a room of people who don't remember she ever had a child at all.
Ten years are easier to bear when they don't really pass in any real way. Regina vents her frequent frustrations through petty bureaucracy and changing the town in small ways whenever the mood strikes her.
Every week she considers getting in her car and tracking down her son, but she knows enough of this world to know that its laws still come with harsh penalties. His family will see her as an interloper, a threat to all they've built and given him; even Regina can't find the cruelty in her to destroy that.
Besides, she can't trust the curse to persist without her, even if she is the only one able to cross the boundary. So she stays put in the prison she created for herself.
Allston, Boston, MA, November 2011
Emma flicks through her wallet one more time, shooting the cashier a nervous smile as she confirms that, no, her goddamned Mastercard is not exactly where it always is. Less of an issue if it weren't the only card with some kind of available balance.
Styling it out, she returns everything but the hot chocolate, paying for that with the handful of change she scoops from the pocket of her leather jacket. The woman behind the counter just wants to get on with closing, now that the lunch rush is over, so Emma doesn't linger with her takeout cup, or ask for a squirt of cream either.
Back in the Bug, she checks her phone and confirms there's still an hour until Henry's done with school. Time to get started on the laundry, or maybe a quick grocery run since the money from today's catch is tucked away inside her jacket.
Instead she fights her way through traffic, half-listening to the radio, and gets home in time to do nothing much but tidy away some of Henry's books, the latest raid from the second-hand bookstore littering their tiny kitchenette in wobbling towers.
It's not until he's an hour late that Emma starts to panic.
Storybrooke, ME, November 2011
Two days after his tenth birthday (Regina doesn't ever write them on the calendar, but the countdown is always there in her head) a Greyhound bus enters Storybrooke for the first time. The citizens barely notice, because everything that changes in this town is folded away as having happened before, the very second that they see it.
Regina has her morning coffee in her hand as the bus approaches. When a little boy steps down from it a moment later, the hot liquid falls to the ground, splashing all over her feet and speckling her thigh with red marks that will persist for days.
She doesn't feel a thing. All she sees are deep brown eyes so like the ones she sees in the mirror every day (so like her father's, as she clutched at his heart; so like her mother's as she pleaded to be saved from the quicksilver of the magic mirror). The hair is lighter than her own, and the smile far more crooked.
"I'm looking for Regina Mills," the confident little boy says as she approaches. "I think she's the town President?"
"Mayor," Regina corrects, unable to help herself. "Well, little man, you've found me."
She takes him to Granny's, orders him some apple juice, and tries not to choke on the hundred questions that want to come spilling out at once.
"Why are you looking for me?" She asks first, because the answer determines everything else. If she'd known he was coming, she could have worn something less severe than this navy pinstripe suit; she doesn't imagine it looks either maternal or welcoming.
"Did you give up a baby for adoption ten years ago?" He asks, question for question, because of course he wouldn't be any other way.
"Maybe I did," Regina concedes, sipping her own coffee to hide the trembling of her lower lip.
"Then Mayor Regina Mills," he follows up, after draining his glass of juice. "I'm your son."
Not at the school. Not at the arcade that he knows he's not allowed to go to without Emma, not since those boys made a point of cornering him and almost breaking his nose to get the fistful of quarters he refused to give up.
He's not at the grocery store on the corner, or anywhere at all on the three routes home that Emma knows of. It's only ten blocks, and short of him leaping from roof to roof there really isn't anywhere she hasn't looked.
When she gets back to their apartment, the one-bedroom with its messy living room and collapsing pull-out couch has never seemed bigger, even her footsteps echo as though the building can tell how suddenly and desperately alone Emma is.
She fires up the battered Acer that Henry sometimes borrows for homework, hoping that there's just some obvious detail she's overlooked.
Of all the things she expects in his deleted internet history (recovered with a technically illegal program, but her kid is missing) the site isn't even close. She should be punching the air in relief that he hasn't been groomed by some predator, but it's hard to confirm he used her credit card to pay the fee through the tears of what feels a lot like betrayal.
The bus ticket to some town she's never heard of in Maine is just the icing on the cake.
Emma knows she could call ahead, warn this woman and have her send Henry right back. Some quick research could confirm if Henry's birth mother is a crackhead or a petty criminal, but Emma can't exactly judge on that front anyway.
She throws some clean clothes for her and Henry in a backpack and scoops up her car keys again. It's at least three hours on the I-95, and Emma can hear the protesting rattle of the Bug in her mind already.
"Tell me about your family," Regina says, knowing the responsible thing to do is get a name and a number, set the wheels of returning Henry in motion right away. "Are there lots of you, all living together in Boston?"
She sees it plain as day on his face: the impulse to lie.
"No," Henry admits. "It's just me and my mom."
If Regina thought she was prepared to hear him say that word, and have it refer to someone else entirely, it's clear that she was wrong. The coffee she just swallowed swirls in her stomach, and for a moment she thinks she might actually be sick.
"She'll be worried about you," Regina manages to say a moment later. "Does she even know you're here?"
"She'll work it out," Henry says, brimming with confidence. "Finding people is kind of what she does."
Emma stops for gas about halfway, if only so she won't have to when she has Henry in the car on the way back. The ancient man behind the counter only comes to life when she approaches, wallet in hand.
"Where you headin'?" He asks, and Emma frowns at the invasion.
"Town called Storybrooke," she admits, after a moment. "Visiting my husband's family," she adds, because his look makes a shiver run down her spine. She isn't exactly dressed for November, apart from her usual dark jeans and knee-high brown boots. The green shirt she's wearing is thin enough to spit through, and the brown leather jacket on top doesn't do as much for warmth as it might.
"Ain't never heard of it," the man says, looking out at her empty Bug and then handing her the change. "You sure you read the address right?"
"I'm sure," Emma says.
"Is there a reason you came to find me?" Regina asks Henry as they walk down Main Street towards the park by the Town Hall. They spent a long time in the diner, and it's already getting dark. It's mild, for November, and she thinks it's probably best to stay in public as long as possible. "You're not sick, are you?"
"No," Henry replies, scurrying along beside her, backpack bouncing against his back with every step. She can't imagine she would ever have dressed him so casually, in a faded Spiderman t-shirt and clean but oversized khakis. At least his coat seems warm, one of those practical things you'd find in a camping store. "It's just time."
"Time?" Regina says as they approach the swingset, unoccupied while all the children of Storybrooke are safely tucked away at school.
"If I tell you something, do you promise not to kill me?" Henry asks, and he's so solemn and serious about it that Regina can only nod. "I mean, really really not kill me?"
"I'm the Mayor, Henry," Regina says as kindly as she can. "I don't go around killing children. Not even to keep taxes down."
"I know who you really are," Henry says, staring her down with bravery that is clearly costing him every bit of strength. "And I know what you did."
"Well, who am I?" Regina asks, the taste of metal on her tongue and heart pounding in her ears.
"You're the Evil Queen," Henry says. "And when my mom gets here? She's going to break your curse."
Emma's the only one who takes the exit, but traffic has been thinning out since she left New Hampshire. Her Bug protests every bump and pothole in the long and winding road, but just when she's about to give up and turn back, the green sign looms into view.
Welcome to Storybrooke, she acknowledges with a nod. Henry is so completely grounded just as soon as she knows he's okay.
"That's very cute," Regina tells him. "But aren't you a little big to still believe in fairytales?"
"Come on, Regina," Henry says, and he sounds so weary he might cry. "Isn't it nice that someone finally knows the truth?"
"Supposing it's true," Regina says, indulging him. "What makes you think your mother would even know where to begin with breaking my curse?"
"It's been twenty-eight years," Henry says, as though explaining to an idiot. "Oh, and she's the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming."
Emma is approaching the big building that's probably some kind of local government when she spies the little park, light up by the orange glow of streetlights; Henry's never been able to pass a swingset, even when they lived in terrible neighborhoods and the ground beneath the swings was littered with syringes, and worse, that Emma had to hastily kick away.
She slows the car and sure enough, Henry is there. A woman with dark-hair is crouched down, talking to him at eye level, and without seeing her face Emma is already sure that this is the woman Henry's came to find.
Blinking back tears, Emma kills the engine and steps out of the car. Unnoticed, she stands by the curb and watches the two closely. Evening has fallen over what appears to be a charming little town, and although the roads are quiet, Emma can't quite overheard the urgent conversation between Henry and the presumed Regina Mills.
"Hey, kid," she says after a minute, stepping through the small gate that opens into the playground. "You've got some explaining to do."
"You must be Ms Swan," Regina says, heading Henry off at the pass. She extends a hand, which Emma shakes firmly, though her eyes don't leave Henry for a second. "I'm Mayor Regina Mills. Welcome to Storybrooke. I just want you to know that although it was quite a surprise, Henry is perfectly fine."
"For now," Emma grumbles. "He's grounded until he's sixteen, but I'm glad he's in one piece. Sorry about all this."
"You've had a long drive," Regina says, not willing to let the boy out of her sight, not while he's brimming with plans to bring about her downfall. That's as handy an excuse as any for the fact that letting him go again will absolutely shatter her heart. She'll be picking up the pieces for the rest of her life, of that much she's already sure. "Would you like to stop by my house? I can offer you some of the best apple cider you've ever tasted."
"That actually might be nice?" Emma says, and she sounds so hopeful that Regina notices in that moment how young she is. "I already had a pretty long day, and an unexpected journey on top of that..."
"Say no more," Regina replies. "My house is just on the next street over. We'll walk."
The mansion is not what Emma expected, not even in the same zipcode as the homely small-town shack she'd been expecting. Maybe giving up Henry really had turned this lady's life around, but Emma feels her cheeks flush in embarrassment when she thinks of the soulless, messy apartment she's left behind. If Henry's already blabbed, or shown pictures, the jig is probably already up.
"Henry, would you like to watch some television in here?" Regina asks, nodding him into a living room that looks like something a Real Housewife would lounge around in, only decorated by someone with taste. "It's not a reward, but I think your mother and I should talk."
"Behave," Emma warns as he throws himself down on the sofa, pulling a juicebox from his backpack.
"Through here," Regina explains, leading Emma into some kind of den, all fancy wood-paneling and uncomfortable couches that probably cost more than Emma's car. When it was new. "Your son has quite the imagination, you know."
"He does?" Emma replies. "Well, he's really into comic books. That's probably my biggest outlay, after rent."
"And fairytales," Regina supplies, shrugging in an oddly playful way, which draws Emma's attention to the slender, bare arms that the fitted gray dress doesn't cover. "He's certainly been telling me some tall tales today."
"I... didn't know he was into all that," Emma admits, wondering what else Henry has kept from her. Not to mention what else he's been blabbing about.
"You didn't adopt him, did you?" Regina pounces, dark eyes gleaming. "At least, not officially."
"Why would you say that?" Emma pretends to be baffled, as if it's the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever said. Thank God Regina can't see the bead of sweat that's just rolled down Emma's back in instant panic.
"Because anyone else would simply be relieved to see their son safe and sound. Oh, you were, of course," Regina amends. "But the panic didn't leave your eyes once you saw him. So you clearly have reason to worry."
"My son running off to find his birth mother isn't reason enough for you?" Emma demands. "Because that's always been my nightmare."
"The social worker who arranged Henry's adoption never mentioned an Emma Swan," Regina continues. "I can put the pieces of a puzzle together."
"I have been a mother to that boy for ten years," Emma says, slamming her glass down on the table and standing to leave. "That is all that matters."
"Do you love him?" Regina challenges, blocking the doorway with her body. Emma wishes she could suppress the urge to let her eyes roam over the perfect figure, but she's tired and really only human.
"What the hell?" Emma blurts. "The woman who gave him away is asking me if I love him?"
"Well?" Regina persists.
Emma grits her teeth, and summons the will to say the words she's never been comfortable saying to anyone.
"Of course I love him," Emma practically growls, shaking with the effort. Regina hoped to be smirking in victory, but even she can't deny the truth of it.
"Then tell me how my baby ended up with a bounty hunter, someone with a criminal record, and no family or friends that Henry could tell me about," Regina says, still blocking the door as best she can. Truthfully, this Emma Swan would have the edge on her if it got physical, but the tiredness and emotional punches seem to be swaying things in Regina's favor for now. "I had a colleague do some digging on you while Henry and I ate lunch," she adds.
If she has to claw this girl's eyes out, Regina will do it before she'll let Henry leave with someone untrustworthy. If he already knows about the curse, surely Regina can just talk him round and maybe they'll have a life here after all. She never did get the happy ending that Rumple promised her.
"Your fancy family that you picked out found out the wife was pregnant, right before Henry showed up," Emma explains, shoving her hands in her pockets. "I was doing some work for them: cleaning, a few odd jobs, you know? The wife was on the board of the charity I went to for help: reforming juvenile offenders so we didn't reoffend."
"How noble," Regina admits. "Plenty of people would have used prison as an excuse not to try at all."
"Yeah, well," Emma screws up her face at some memory. "It wasn't exactly my idea to go to jail in the first place. Anyway, they didn't want to
adopt after all. I'm sure you've heard that story before."
"Surely they didn't hand off Henry to you? How old were you?"
"Eighteen," Emma says, pursing her lips for a moment in defiance. "They were going to put him in the foster system. Just send him away like the agency delivered a pizza with the wrong toppings."
"Would that have been so bad?" Regina persists, and the pain radiating off Emma is almost intoxicating.
"Yes!" Emma snaps. "I couldn't let them do that to him. So I offered to change his diaper while the social worker was taking her payoff from the husband, and I walked right out of there."
"You took Henry without any way of providing for him?" Regina feels her heart break just a little. This is what she cursed her own child to.
"I had money saved," Emma corrects her. "And it's possible I stole the social worker's car. All the baby essentials were right there on the backseat. That got us all the way to Florida."
They both hear footsteps in the hallway, and suddenly Emma's eyes are desperate, pleading silently with Regina not to destroy her happiness.
"Henry," Regina says, all syrupy sweet and enough to make Emma's heart plummet. "Your mom was just telling me what a smart little boy you are."
"Did you tell her who you are?" Henry asks, hands on his hips the way he does when arguing that it's not his job to put his dirty laundry in the basket. Emma smiles weakly at the familiarity of it.
"Who is she, kid?" Emma asks, eager to wrestle control of the conversation from Regina.
"I was waiting for the best time to tell you this," Henry says, his face solemn. "But you know how you told me you were found by the freeway when you were a baby?"
"Yeah?" Emma says, wondering if her kidnapping ten years ago is about to blow up in her face.
"Well, this book," Henry continues, pulling a huge leather-bound book that Emma has never laid eyes on from his backpack. "Explains where you were right before that happened."
Emma takes the book, looking at Regina and expecting to see the same puzzlement she feels staring right back at her. Instead, Regina looks faintly terrified, and not far from throwing up.
Sitting back down on the couch with a careless thump, Emma begins to turn the pages.
"I don't get it," Emma says, over and over again.
Regina looks at the clock, sees it's already past ten, and her old life comes roaring back, with the customs of hospitality and all the obligations they include.
"We're going to eat," she announces. "And I have guest rooms. You'll stay the night."
Emma looks up at her then, sweeping aside the blonde curls that have fallen in her face. Regina's breath catches in her throat at the intensity of the look that passes between them, though she has no idea why that should be.
Perhaps it's that no one has looked at her so clearly in twenty-eight years; or maybe it's that despite the strangeness of their situation, Regina can't help but stare right back.
"Should I be worried?" Emma asks, when she's hovering by the kitchen sink, Henry upstairs to wash up and put on the pajamas she thought to bring. "About Henry, I mean. I don't know that I can afford some fancy shrink right now, but if he needs it..."
The options present themselves to Regina as clearly as a sudden fork in the road.
One path, a continuation of this world she's made for herself with its lies and contradictions and aching, unending loneliness; it's the easiest in so many ways. Her curse is her shield, her shelter and her cold comfort, although she's felt it weaken since that first morning of sickness ten years ago, right down to this moment where it seems like the very ground is shaking beneath her feet.
The other path, the terrifying one that looks like nothing so much as a headlong fall into a blinding light and not knowing, is the one that Henry seems to be calling her down, even though she can hear the pipes through the wall to say that water is running, meaning he's still safely in the guest bathroom.
It's her choice, after all this time.
"He doesn't need psychiatric help," Regina answers. "Although we have an excellent doctor right here in town and... no," she corrects herself. The light, after all this time, is surely the warm and welcoming place. "There's nothing wrong with Henry," she reaffirms.
"Because all kids go through a phase like this?" Emma asks, unsure. "I don't know, he thinks he has evidence, and the level of detail..."
"Did you ever find your parents?" Regina demands, watching the color drain from Emma's face moment by moment. Regina's surprised, almost, at how beautiful the girl is. In this world or their own, she would certainly be considered the fairest by now; these things must run in the family.
"No," Emma concedes.
"But it's why you do the job that you do, correct?" Regina follows up.
"I suppose," Emma says. "It's also regular money, decent money, for someone who didn't even get her GED."
"What would you say to your parents, if you were to find them?" Regina's hands are shaking so hard she grips the counter in a vain bid to hide it.
"I'd ask them why they abandoned me," Emma whispers.
Why is this woman prying into the most painful parts of Emma's life, she wonders. More to the point, why is Emma allowing it? Something about this town, about this house even, makes her skin crawl and yet she feels the strongest urge to go to bed, confident that here she might finally have a decent night's sleep.
She thinks it might be what home feels like, and that doesn't make the slightest bit of sense.
Whatever it is, it's related to this woman standing in front of her. Regina looks like she's going to fall over, but she opens her mouth to speak again, leaving Emma feeling like she's the one who's going to be hitting the floor.
"Your parents are here, just like Henry says," Regina informs her. "Your father is in a coma, I'm afraid. But if you wanted to, right now, you could walk down Main Street and meet your mother."
"You're lying," Emma says.
"For once, I'm not," Regina responds.
Henry walks in then, just as Emma looks ready to grab her things and bolt. He looks at each woman in turn, smiling at Regina as he realizes what she's done.
"The truth is better," he says. "Are we still having sandwiches, though? I'm pretty hungry."
Emma takes the book to bed, although she mumbles for a while about getting a hotel room, about not being too tired to drive back to Boston. Regina stays quiet and lets Henry tend to the woman he knows much better than Regina does.
"Bed," she urges, once Emma has reluctantly gone up. "I have the feeling tomorrow will be a very long day."
"Did you really give me up just to protect your curse?" Henry asks, foot on the first stair. "Because my book says it was always going to break anyway, when the Savior turned 28."
"That's not why," Regina says. "But we'll talk about that another time."
Emma's standing by Regina's bed before the sun rises.
"Are they really here?"
"Yes," Regina sighs. "But they won't know who you are, Emma."
"That's okay," Emma assures her, but Regina's quite sure that nothing will ever be okay again.
It takes three attempts to walk down the street to the converted factory that houses Mary Margaret Blanchard's apartment. Emma knows she only has ten minutes before the woman leaves for school, but her legs feel like they're made of lead as she approaches the oversized wooden door with its peeling green paint.
She can't do it.
Instead she sits on a bench, on the opposite side of the street, grateful that running away has made her feet light again. Emma pulls an old receipt from her pocket and folds it over and over, making crude shapes as she waits and watches, like it's just another bail jumper who won't see her coming.
Even from across the street, Emma sees it the minute the petite, dark-haired woman emerges into the morning light. It's starting to rain, but all Emma notices is the woman who has her chin, whose bones all seem to be arranged behind a face that, for the first time, resembles Emma's own.
After a lifetime of telling herself it didn't matter, of feeling sure that it was better to be alone than unwanted, Emma feels that certainty come tumbling down.
The rage comes then, sudden and deafening. Walking out in traffic, Emma breaks into a run; she needs more answers, and Regina is going to provide them.
Henry watches them argue for the first hour, head bobbing back and forth like he's at Wimbledon. When Emma's steam runs out the first time, he fetches Diet Coke from Regina's refrigerator without anyone having to ask.
"Kid," Emma says when Regina storms into the kitchen to make a very grudging lunch. "How attached are you to Boston?"
"I'm not," Henry tells her, with just a little bit of a pout, because they both already knew that. "Why? Thinking of sticking around?"
"Maybe," Emma replies, wondering how her kid became the one person with the power to make her squirm like she's back in middle school. "I'm not saying I actually believe all of this, but..."
"It's okay, Mom," Henry insists. "The Savior never believes right away."
On their third day in town, Emma has insisted she and Henry move into the B&B. Reluctant to see her son go, Regina's nonetheless relieved that he's staying in town.
It's why she barely pauses when the clock tower suddenly shudders into life, around about the moment Emma would be paying for her room at Granny's.
This was always supposed to end sometime, Regina reminds herself, counting the beats of her heels against the pavement.
Gold comes to find her that afternoon, his expression no longer vacant and his words no longer kind.
"Your reign is slipping, your Majesty," he taunts, as a parting shot. She doesn't bother to tell him that she's ready to let go.
Despite the room at Granny's, Emma shows up for dinner that night, Henry left in the care of the grandmother he's only just met. The cover story is that Emma's waiting to see if the town is a fit before enroling Henry in school, and what better test than letting him meet his potential fourth grade teacher?
There's no point in sharing the instant connection Emma felt with Mary Margaret, or the fact that over two mugs of cocoa she became the closest friend Emma has ever had, because none of that is anyone else's business at all.
"Why don't I hate you?" Emma asks over the apple pie that she calls 'too good to eat' while shoveling it into her mouth by the forkful. "I mean, I'm even letting you serve me apples. What's that about, Regina?"
"I don't know," Regina confesses. "But then, I'm supposed to hate you too, since you're weakening my curse by the day."
Emma looks at her, in the warm light of the dining room, and tells herself that directly and indirectly, this woman caused every crappy thing in her life. But Regina also looks like Henry, right down to the way they purse their lips when Emma says something stupid, and it's hard to get mad at anyone who gave you the person you love more than your own life.
"If this is supposed to be your happy ending," Emma muses. "Why are you all alone?"
Seeing David is what does it, in the end.
Regina insists that Emma only refer to him as John Doe, sneaking her in to visit after hours when the hospital is all but deserted. Emma stands awkwardly by the bed, unsure of what to say or do, until she notices the scar on his shoulder, peeking out above his hospital gown.
"In the book," Emma breathes. "He was stabbed right here on the way to put the baby-to put me-in the wardrobe."
"Yes," Regina confirms. "You were gone by the time my guards got there."
"You really did this," Emma sighs. She turns to Regina, hands raised in surrender. "You have to make it better."
Regina will do no such thing. She has her limits, after all.
Arguing this point with Emma takes days, until they realize it's been over two weeks since Henry came to town, and they've seen each other almost every day in that time.
Emma has made fast friends with her unknowing mother, and despite the turmoil and the shock to the system of accepting this reality, Emma feels somehow more secure than she ever has before. It makes that difficult truth-of loving Henry so much that it hurts-easier to bear, and easier to show. He's blossoming under her newfound ability to express these things, and the additional care and attention from Regina doesn't hurt, either.
She asks Regina at least once a day to tell her how to break the curse, break it completely instead of these little cracks that Regina frets over when she thinks no one is looking, but she refuses each time. Emma is nothing if not persistent, and she places a call to her old landlord, asking him to let the movers she's called into the apartment to pack up their things.
"You said you'd tell me why you gave me up," Henry reminds Regina, as they sit in her office at the Town Hall.
"It wasn't easy," Regina says, playing for time. "But there's never just one reason, Henry."
"If that was true, you'd tell me all of them," Henry replies, putting her back on the spot. "So 'fess up, your Majesty."
"You really want to know?" Regina asks. "The answer is actually in your book, Henry."
"I know," Henry says. "But I think this is another time when the truth is better. I think we both need to hear it out loud."
"I don't know how to love very well," Regina says, in a voice that's barely above a whisper. "My own mother was a very difficult woman. I didn't want you to have a life like that. I didn't want you to have a mother who might hurt you."
"I didn't," Henry says, rising slowly from the couch and approaching Regina where she sits at her spotless desk. "Emma might not be perfect, but I'm always safe. I'm always loved."
"I want you to stay," Regina tells him, letting Henry pull her into a hug that makes her feel like her heart might burst.
"Do you want Emma to stay, too?" Henry asks. Regina nods against his shoulder, because the words are still a step too far.
"She's bringing our stuff here," Henry says a little while later, disentangling from the hug. "I don't think any of us need to be lonely anymore."
"I want my parents to know me," Emma says over the dinner table. Henry is already excused, next door with a math textbook to catch up before starting school on Monday. "I want them to know Henry."
"You really don't give up, do you?" Regina sighs, rubbing her temples to soothe the headache that's been plaguing her all day. There's a charge in the air, like the residue of old magic. Here, it's just the tension before a good thunderstorm, and Regina's more than ready for it to break.
"You have no idea what I'm capable of," Emma warns her, and the ferocious glint in her eyes is so familiar that Regina might laugh, under other circumstances. This is a woman after her own heart, although not in the way that Regina once understood.
"Why are you still here?" Regina questions, not expecting an answer. "I don't even know that my curse can be broken."
"The book says-"
"The book doesn't know everything," Regina says, the wave of dismissal as natural as breathing. She's so convinced that the line of questioning is over that she doesn't think twice when Emma stands to leave the table.
Only Emma doesn't really leave it, so much as she walks around it, dropping to her knees beside Regina's chair with uncharacteristic grace.
"The book says there's one magic that transcends all realms," Emma finishes, undeterred. She takes Regina's hand in her own, turning it to one side and then the other, learning the lines of it like a navigator scouring a brand new map.
"You can't possibly-" Regina begins, but she's silenced by the gentle pressure of Emma's mouth on hers.
Nothing happens, at first.
Emma knows she's going to do it for at least two days beforehand, and even when the voice of reason says that curses aren't real and maybe Regina and Henry just share the same very specific mental illness, she still wants to kiss Regina more than she's ever wanted anything before.
There's a soft 'oh' of recognition from Regina when their lips first meet, both of them frozen at the thought of what to do next, of whose idea it should be to take it any further.
It might be three years since Emma even had a date, but instinct kicks in just when she needs it most. She presses her palm against Regina's cheek and when they kiss again it's something far more real.
At first the pounding just seems to be Emma's heart thundering in her chest, but when Regina pulls away it seems there's a real storm breaking outside. They look out of the window together, and Emma doesn't ask why the clouds are purple and the sky has turned pink; she already knows the answer.
"We did it," Regina says, and it's more of a croak than anything else. "Things are going to be very different now, Emma Swan."
"Different is better," Henry pipes up, coming into the dining room to join them. "The truth is always better."
Emma doesn't flinch when he hugs Regina first.
The clouds roll past and the sounds of commotion on the street reach them, faintly, through the French windows that Regina opens despite the rain and evening chill.
"I'd like to go and meet my parents," Emma says, squeezing the hand that Henry offers her.
"Will you come back when you're done?" Regina asks.
"Of course," Emma tells her. "It turns out this is where we belong."