To those who suffer with alcoholism and know it to be a disease or have personal experiences with the matter, you do not have to read if you feel as though you will become uncomfortable or upset. It is not my intention to do either. This is an AU EC fic in which there is no curse and Storybrooke is a actual town-adaptations of the original show concept will take place and I hope to continue this story if it is well received. As far as those giving me the stink eye about this because I have yet to update Into the Deep, please bare with me on that. I am on holiday and have more time to spare. Hopefully this will spawn more updates. I loss my fervor for Into The Deep and it doesn't help to get reviews or PM's telling me what to do with the story with the implication that I, myself, am incapable of putting out an interesting and culminating storyline. With that said, I'll leave you to read and enjoy. Ciao!

-iiwasalwaysthequeen

"Drinking is an emotional thing. It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life, out of everything being the same. It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you're allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It's like killing yourself, and then you're reborn."

― Charles Bukowski

X

"I don't know what to do."

Ruth Nolan smelled of peppermint and mistletoe, not just around Christmas but everyday. She seemed to inhabit the joy that came only once a year, carrying a spirit so light and so fresh that it was impossible to take notice. He came to his mother with the intent to just touch the hem of her joy, to just glean a little for himself. Perhaps, if he was successful, he wouldn't fear going home and the palpable glee his mother always seemed to have would be for him as well.

Maybe the weight of the world would lift from his shoulders.

David Nolan sighed in his mother's love-seat with a lopsided grin and closed eyes; in fact, the grin was more of a grimace. But he had always been an awkward man and child, never quite knowing how to express himself without fumbling through offense. Usually he'd sit in silence with hope that the joy would spread like a magic panacea, but alas, that day held a different set of cards.

He laid does his pride and metaphorically sat at his mother's feet with a childlike wonder and eager hands, wishing and wanting for the wisdom she could offer him. Because he simply didn't know what to do or how to go about it.

"Have you told her that, son?" She didn't judge him, instead, looking for that which troubled him. What caused him to pinch the bridge of his nose and furrow his brows as if an invisible itch laid in the middle of his temple. It was the only thing she loathed: to see her son in such pain, to see them both in such pain. And the worst part was that every attempt to help felt as though they were in a bubble and she just couldn't reach them.

No matter how hard she tried.

"She..." It was a habit he had picked up, not using her name when the mere thought of her set a flame in his eyes. Sometimes he would just get so...angry with her, he'd swear he was seconds from shaking her. It was like talking to a brick wall; stoic and cold. "She's...not listening. Every time I try to tell her what she's doing to us, she doesn't listen..."

"Ah.." Gray tendrils hung by her face in loose curls as she nodded knowingly at her son's frustration. With a pricked brow, David lifted his glance toward's his mother's; he knew that look.

The 'You seem to have forgotten something' look.

"Son," a gentle tone was all that would get through to him, "..have you thought about trying to find out WHY she's doing it..." Ruth looked at her son skeptically, fiddling with the glasses around her neck. "Someone doesn't seek comfort in a bottle unless there's something in there they can't find anywhere else."

"You think it's my fault?" He questioned, disbelief hinted in his tone as he scooted closer to the edge of the cushion. It didn't compute in his mind; how could her weakness be his shortcoming? He hadn't placed it in her hand or poured it down her throat.

Life was about choices and those were all hers.

His mother smiled sheepishly at her son's alarm, sitting up just as he had to mirror his actions and quell his upset. "I'm not placing fault with either of you, sweetheart..." He settled back at the term of endearment, letting out a breath that had stress written all over it. Seeing him worked up was hard enough, but quelling his anger? Sometimes the fire that burned within him seemed unquenchable. "All..I'm suggesting is that you take the time to understand her...before you lose her."

His mouth opened at the suggestion but she was quick to continue, finishing her sentiment. "Both of you have come a long way since college." She leaned to catch his eye. "From stealing my Chevrolet to go skinny-dipping in the lake...to the power couple of this town" she smiled with her eyes "... you can't hold her up against the same measuring stick...she's grown and changed, just as you have-Accommodate her, son."

He quirked his brow, fiddling with the glass his mother had set before him upon his arrival. "Really sounds like you're blaming me, mom." With a nervous chuckle, the blonde vet sipped at the iced tea in his hand with a lazy fervor before asking the question he never grew tired of. "What about her?"

Ruth shook her head, seeing that he didn't understand. She leaned forward shortly, a hand pressed into the cushion as an aid before standing up from the sofa that sat opposite her son. God, she was so very proud of him-what he'd done. He had a family, a career, he was growing up but sometimes he was just so bull-headed. What was the worth of a family and a career if the only person he heard and understood was himself? He'd muted himself to the empathy of the world.

Just like his father.

She hoped that he understood what she meant rather than just what she was saying, having the capacity to see passed what was to see what could be. Lifting his empty glass from the coffee table, her eyes fell with a glint of sadness as she spoke, hoping that, if only this once, he understood "She's broken."

David paused, watching as his mother disappeared into the kitchen. She's broken? That's the reason why she hits below the belt in their arguments? The reason why he sleeps on the couch more than he sleeps in their bed, is because she's broken? It's the reason she'd rather see a scotch bottle than his face.

She's broken?

David Nolan could barely finish contemplating before he took flight at the sound of a crash in the direction his mother had gone.

And the sound of his world spinning on it's head.

X

The black peacoat she wore clung to her body in a desperate attempt to keep warm, the wind having a mind of it's own as it brassed against her skin. Though begrudging, her son hung on two gloved fingers as they stood in silence, in respect. They would say nothing, they would just breathe and exit in the plethora of black peacoats and wind whipped mourners.

She pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth before clearing her throat, the only noise heard in the seconds following. She could still savor her simple pleasure, an indulgence she had before leaving the house but now her throat was dry. There was nothing that could be done, standing on the edge of an open grave as a town of black peacoats looked at her and her family.

No she hadn't cried, only fueling the thoughts that she was an unfeeling shrew, bereft of the capacity of emotion. It was an hyperbole, of course, but to some extent she agreed. She felt...Numb.

Numbed.

Numbed to the world and numbed to herself. She dazed in and out of her emotions when it suited her or sometimes, when liquid courage did it's job and she had four walls to hide behind. But in public? In public she'd rather be feared than inconvenienced by others and their emotions. No one cared for hers; so her only concern was Henry.

The boy that hung onto her fingers out of obligation instead of want, occasionally casting a glance her way when he believed she wasn't looking. He was up to something, but she couldn't decipher the look in his eyes. Perhaps she had a bit much before leaving but she couldn't handle this bare, she had to kill her insides to survive on the outside.

To maintain herself.

But her husband didn't understand, no he never did. He had a rags to riches back story but a prep town outlook, charming any pair of hips, lips and fingertips that came his way. Part of her wondered if he ever acted on it. Part of her was sure he did. The other part, well the other part didn't give a damn.

It just wanted to quench her dry throat.

When death became a reality and a rose gold coffin finally made it's descension, it hit her. Ruth was gone-the only person that taught her what maternity was, what true womanhood was...was gone. She was pinned up in a gold box that Regina knew Ruth would think to be extravagant, but David insisted. They were gonna shovel dirt on her and let a patch of grass grow over her body. Maybe flowers would grow.

Or an anthill.

They'd visit on the day she died and maybe even talk to her like she was there. She'd be buried next to a man she loved and loathed and dust she would return to.

Ruth Nolan is dead.

Her heart clenches at the sentiment but she doesn't succumb to it, swallowing the sorrow, the discouragement, the loneliness. She'll swallow it because she's the only one that can handle herself at her lowest point-tonight, tonight she'll give herself the chance to grieve; for her blonde husband would surely keep to himself.

He'd barely looked at her all ceremony, reserving his glances for their son and his coffin covered mother. It's probably the reason her body went rigid when he grabbed her hand.

The coffin was lowered and the mourners were beginning to dispatch into their selective directions. Thinking that he'd want his space, she turned to walk away but he, he grabbed her hand. No, it wasn't forceful-that's she was used to. But not the weak brush of his fingers against her palm as the tears slid down his face.

He was like a child, helplessly grasping at anything that could be given to him. Feeling Henry tug at her fingers, she looked behind her to see one of the few matriarchs left in the town. Widow Lucas; she was holding onto Henry's shoulder as a silent release of the Mayor to comfort her husband as if they were a happily married couple. As if they were closer to repaired than broken.

A silent thank you was all that was needed for Henry to be led away, and happily so, having escaped the hold of his mother. She figured, he would go to the overpass at Granny's and find Miss Swan, where he'd undoubtedly attempt to abscond with her once again.

With a deep breath, she accepted the hold he had on her hand and stood beside him as if she didn't resent his very being and he didn't resent hers. For only a moment, they were just black peacoats, holding hands in the brazing wind as silent tears washed down his face and a few slid down hers.

After a few necessary moments, he sniffled to compose himself but it was futile. He had lost his mother, the first person in the world he trusted, the first bond he'd ever made. No one could ever deny the bond between mother and child but when death chooses to sever it, the feeling is like a blow to the chest.

At first you wonder what happened.

You yearn for breath.

It's not there.

There's pain.

There's anguish.

And the breath comes back.

But the pain stays.

For a second he holds his breath, once again stuck in contemplation. Over analyzing and over thinking. "Thank you," is what he breathes out after baited silence. Blue eyes minced with a pink haze turn to her and repeats what's spoken so rarely between them.

"Thank you..."

He lifts the hand he holds and in an effortless move, and places a chaste kiss on her gloved skin. Surprisingly enough, she doesn't stiffen at the attempt at contact, she smiles weakly and let's the wind hit them.

Maybe there's a point to it all.

X

Granny's is somber at best but the tears have stopped. That's good enough. He finds comfort in talking to others, sharing anecdotes and doesn't grow tired of the condolences offered his way. He accepts them graciously with one eye on theirs and another on his wife's. She's on her best Mayoral behavior, working the room, accepting condolences just as he was.

He hadn't seen Henry, but since Emma Swan's arrival two weeks prior, he wasn't surprised. She was his best bet concerning Henry's whereabouts and part of him, part of him was relieved. As the months went on and the tension grew thicker, having Henry out of the midst of conflict seemed to do him some good. Though they tried not to fight in front of him, their voices carry, well...Regina's does.

And she tries not to watch him. After Henry went to his Castle she was left to her own devices and didn't blink before a tan tonic swirled down her throat. The burn was comforting and with each turn he looked away, she let it burn. It's not like he'd ask her how she was handling anything but, it was his mother so the care lies with him. She snorts, 'It's as if she wasn't my mother as well', with a thought. Well, technically, she wasn't but she was closest thing she had.

Let him soak up the attention; it does his ego well. Not that he needed it with Prince worthy hair, a striking smile and lips pinker than her own. Another snort and another sip-oh wait...

She paused in her moment as a certain brunette swung her arms around his neck, rubbing soothing circles on his back as her lips moved against his ear with optimistic words of unicorns and butterflies. With a flick of her wrist, she finished off her courage and tapped it on the counter. Ruby looked over with a nod, knowing to top the Mayor off while she walked away.

Perhaps she should join her husband after all.

"Mary Margaret Blanchard!" She'd mastered her high voice, spoofed with ungenuine surprise as to catch the other woman off guard. David, pulled away from her embrace, eyes opening to see Regina's knowing eyes and slighted smile.

The pixie haired brunette turned slowly, eyes wide as she stepped back into David's chest to avoid the presence before her. Neither of them said a word, eyes locking with the unintentional effect of creating tension. "Regina I-"

The Mayor's brows fell crumpled on her forehead as Mary Margaret took a leap of faith and wrapped her arms around the Mayor just as she had done to David, "I'm so...sorry for your loss...Ruth was a good woman."

She felt like a bisque doll, arms still held out as the woman clung to her in an attempt at comfort. Mary Margaret pulled away shortly, her fingers trailing at Regina's arms and she sniffed back her own phantom tears, "I know we've had our differences in the past but...it's times like this that breed forgiveness.."

Regina's head nearly reared back, hard eyes searching the doe eyes before her, filled with hope and rainbows. Not only did she hug her but she touched her. She. Touched. Her. She had the audacity to saunter her bald head over and hug her as if she was a pitiful child in need of consolation and now she's asking for forgiveness as though time healed all wounds, as if time even attempted to mend the hate that quelled between them.

"Regina!" A cold hand touched her arm and snatched her from her thoughts, from that safe place of loathing and thoughts. She liked that place-

Warmer than reality.

Matching David's eyes, he searched her own, flickering between that and Mary Margaret's. "Regina..."

Her mouth opened to form a word but silence was what came of it, prompting Mary Margaret to keep her hands to herself, concern draped in her features, "You spaced out there for a second.."

Ever the formidable Mayor, Regina left a weak smile to remember her by before nodding curtly, "I believe I did... Will you excuse me for just a moment?" and walking away.

"Hey-Hey, Madam Mayor.." Ruby's wolfish grin was replaced with a solemn smile for the occasion as she attempted to follow behind the Mayor, the requested drink in her hand. Stopping short, she turned to see Mary Margaret's disgruntled face as David turned around, hearing Ruby call after her. "It's hers..." She pushed the drink in his grasps, "...but you look like you need it..."

She didn't know why she came out there or why the brisk cold without a coat was more appealing than a denizen filled diner that happened to have heat. It was all just so bizarre. Ruth was dead, her son was always babbling about fairytales, her husband looked at her as if she was the bane of his existence and Mary Margaret goddamn Blanchard just hugged her.

"Regina..."

She heard his voice but didn't bother turning around, instead allowing her heels to line against the cracks of the pavement. "I'm fine.."

"I didn't ask you that.." His response solicited her glare and she turned around, arms wrapped around the black sheath dress that held to her body. Though fashionable, it's thin material was evident against the wiles of winter.

He took small steps towards her-not for dramatics, but observations. He watched the way she pivoted the point of her heel every couple of seconds, the clearing of her throat at mild intervals, glazed eyes that-"

"Are you," He met her presence with his own, closing the space between them, "Are you plastered?"

Regina chuckled in response, tongue pressed against her cheek. She refused to be questioned on the sidewalk with an audience, their cheeks and ears pressed against the glass of the diner just itching to get a listen. She'd walk home and let goosebumps find new places on her body before she was humiliated like that. "I'm going home..." She turned on her heels without the repose to bare him a final glance, not caring if her purse and coat were still in the diner. The door was never locked and the longer she stayed in the cold, the more familiar it became.

"Regina!" The blonde vet stood on the sidewalk, calling her name louder than either cared for. Patrons would begin to stare, hell they were already staring and the town Mayor and Veterinarian having a showdown on the sidewalk was the last thing that needed to happen. Rumors already swirled about them, there was no pride in letting it continue.

X

She didn't give a damn. Plainly stated and plainly put. With the pad of her finger trailing the rim of her glass, she didn't care that it was her third, she didn't care that one earring was gone and the other wasn't; she didn't care that the mascara so carefully applied that morning was smudged or that her arm was wet because she had spilled something on herself. She didn't care that her dress was wrinkled and she didn't give a damn that her hair looked like it had been teased by a tipsy waitress from Granny's.

She was over it.

It's your crutch, they said. It's your addiction, they said. It's hurting you, they said. She let out a dry chuckle that dissipated into a gurgle as she downed the last bit of amber in her glass. Had she had anyone to lean on, she wouldn't need a crutch. Had she had anyone truly there for her, she would need an addiction to deflect from her loneliness. If she didn't feel so beaten down by those around her then perhaps she wouldn't seek a pain that she was at least numbed to, a pain she could handle. Her liver shutting down? At least she couldn't feel it.

Her heart breaking?

It was inescapable.

Keys clinked against the door in the foyer and she could hear it all the way in the kitchen; laughing internally, she knew she wasn't too drunk if she was still that keen. Hard feet pressed against the tile and she hiccuped into her hand, leaning on her fist as she emptied the bottle, watching the drips like sand through an hour glass.

Even that seemed to have a purpose: To get to the other side. But she, she was a horrible mother whose son preferred the woman that spewed him from her loins rather then the one that cared for him for a decade. He preferred the woman that carried him in her stomach rather than the one that carried him in her heart.

"Henry?" He asked of the boy's whereabouts (as if he didn't know) with a sigh before crossing his arms over his dress shirt, spine leaning on the opposite counter.

She shook her head, setting the bottle down, "Ms..." She burped, covering her mouth quickly as a tangy aroma hit the atmosphere, "...Swan.."

She didn't give a damn.

David nodded with a jutted chest and risen eyebrows. With a quick flick of her wrist, the liquid was gone and her eyes were closed, salvaging the bit of comfort that came before it's bitter end. When her eyes did open they met the judgment in his eyes, the disapproval that she could almost liken to Cora. Rather than sit and become a victim of his indignation, she steadied herself on the counter and hopped down, taking her empty glass with her. "I'll be in the living room."

Missing her usually swagger, her shoulders hunched as she patted her shoulder, fanning down the heat that irritated her neck. It refused to lie down and she shrugged with an eye roll before entering the living room only to find suspender clad judgment staring her in the eyes. Standing in front of her comfort, her resignation, the shoulder to cry on that he wouldn't give her.

"Move."

How dare he refuse to love her the way she needed? How dare he shut her out, cut her down and act as though she was the culprit for all things wrong? How dare he remove himself from her and then attempt to take away his replacement as well?

"I'm not.." He set his arms on his hips; he wasn't going to enable her, watch her drink herself to death in a stupor because of a bad day.

Her eyes fell closed, but not in defeat, in frustration. "David, we've had a long day and I-"

"How many have you had today? You smelled of gin at the grave site-You had wine at the overpass..."

She opened her eyes, shaking her head, "That has absolutely nothing-"

"You're slurring already, so my guess is 6 since you got home-"

"It was a slip of the tongue-"

"Slip of the tongue my ass, Regina." he took a step forward and she did as well, accepting the subtle challenge that he didn't know he was making. "You've had quite enough..."

Regina nodded, clenching her glass against the same fingertips that ran around it's rim. With a tinge of reticence, she turned her back to him, running a shaky hair through her teased hair. It was a mess as is, far from being able to get any worse, so she really didn't care what happened at that point.

But something broke within her.

He came home from the funeral after yelling at her on the sidewalk and didn't even say hello, as if she had inconvenienced him just by being there, just by living. His tone was monotonous, lacking any feeling or concern and now he was telling her what to do as if she was a child incapable of making actual choices. He didn't care about her pain, he didn't care about her anguish. She had taken a blow to the chest as well. Where was her moment to breathe?

Slowly, her heels pivoted and she found herself turning back to him. Her hand rose and she found herself throwing a glass in his direction. Her hand was empty and she found herself feeling vindicated, seeing him duck as the crystal broke against the wall. "Regina what the hell?!"

They quickly were back at square one, toe to toe and nose to nose. Chests puffing and fists balled-And she had to ask herself. Is this what marriage was? The balled fists? The heaving chests? The angry sentiments no one wants to say but has no problem acting out?

Love?

Honor?

Cherish?

Do they even exist anymore or are those just temporary sentiments to placate ignorant newlyweds?

"Move..." He was un-moving and she had had it, she was fed up, she was done, she didn't care

She didn't give a damn.

She pushed at his chest as if she were moving a boulder; that's what he felt like at this point. Not a partner, but dead weight.

"Regina-Re-Regina wait..." She typically wasn't a physical person so when he found himself fending off her small hands, he could barely sustain his morale, his judgment.

"You don't," she punched, "...get to.." she scratched, "...tell me.." she clawed, "when enough.." she fought, "...is enough..." until she couldn't fight anymore.

With a final shove, he stumbled back, eyes wide as he looked into her reddened eyes, teeth bared. "You left me!" Emotionally, he left her flailing in the wind with not so much as a care if she made it. She choked back a sob, running a hand through her hair once more, before pushing at his chest once more, not even caring that he had already met a wall, "You bastard..." Her breath was escaping her and her words were mulled by her tears, "You..." She opened her mouth to speak but she couldn't, she could only cover her eyes with her wet arm and soak it once more, but this time with salted tears.

She could only sob into an atmosphere tinged with the smell of bourbon and scotch. She could only cry tears from mascara smudged eyes and let them fall on her wrinkled shirt, praying that she didn't die right then. Her heart felt like it was swimming in it's own abyss and the longer she reached, the farther it went and the farther she got caught out there without a life jacket. And worst of all, she felt alone when someone was standing right next to her; but he was invisible

So she wept, an agonizing cry that failed her knees and left her to fall on the couch in a fit of her tears. Matted hair, stained eyes, a missing earring and a wet arm; she wept.

And she didn't give a damn.