So, for some reason tragic Swan Queen seems to be my favorite sort of Swan Queen?! And that's why this happened. It has been sitting on my hard drive half finished for ages already, and now I finally had the time and inspiration to finish it.
FYI: the whole "Zelena is pregnant with Robin's baby"-fuckery and the disaster that was the Dark Swan arc (including whatever is going to happen in the Underworld) didn't happen in this (because it's all absolute crap).
Oh, and please do yourself a favor and listen to the beautiful song by composer Scott Alan this story was inspired by before/while/after reading: /K-PHksGUW9g
When you see her, she looks absolutely breathtaking, even more so than on regular days. You think back to the first time you ever saw her, all short hair, formfitting dress, and killer heels.
It was easier then. Easier to hate her, easier to evade her. Four years ago when you first came to Storybrooke, she was just a pretty face you didn't particularly like. It was easier to not think about her all the time.
But at some point you fell—hard and fast—and you started to care. All you saw were brown eyes, a scare above full lips, a smile that, when genuine, almost blinded you. All you saw was beauty, inside and out.
Now she's in a gorgeous white dress, one of those mermaid cuts, her collarbone-long hair artfully pinned up into some sort of side braid situation. She is sitting in front of a vanity, but she isn't looking into the mirror, and, instead, staring out of the window to the side.
"You look beautiful," you say, because she simply does. Now. Always.
She visibly jumps because she didn't hear you come in, probably didn't expect you to turn up at all (and doesn't want you here, anyway). And why would she, you really have no place here. Not anymore.
She chose him, chose him over you, tossed away what you built together in the last few years, tossed away your family.
And that's why, even though she looks beautiful, seeing her like this only makes you sad.
In a perfect world, it would be you in a wedding dress next to her, not him in his stupid tuxedo. It would be the two of you getting married today, sharing your lives with each other. After all you have been through, all you've been through first individually and then together, you deserve it (more than he does, anyway). But this is not a perfect world, and you know you shouldn't be here. But you need to say this, need to try one more time, or you'll hate yourself forever (just a little more than you already do).
So you take a deep breath (because it's now or never) and finally say what you have wanted to say ever since you heard she is with him now.
"I love you. Still."
She doesn't say anything in return, barely even looks at you through the mirror, and a feeling of dread pools in your stomach. Her knuckles are white where she holds on to the edge of the vanity, and that, together with the vein on her forehead gaining prominence, is the only indication that she even heard you in the first place.
You didn't mean to ruin her wedding day by turning up in her room before the ceremony but—except for bringing Henry over and picking him up again a few days later—you didn't get to see her for weeks before this, didn't get a chance to talk to her.
You can't just let this happen, though; can't just let her marry someone who is a poor excuse for a supposed soulmate. They've barely known each other half a year, and you are still surprised that the woman who refused to call you her girlfriend until after five months, one week, and three days of dating (not that you counted or anything) rushes into a marriage with someone she barely knows.
You can bear the silence only a few more seconds before you talk again.
"Please, say something. Anything at all."
She still doesn't talk, still doesn't move.
"I know this is not the place or time, but I—I can't bear to lose you."
You tell yourself you would do better this time around. You'd love her twice as much, hold her twice as strong. But you are not even sure what you did wrong in the first place, why she decided that, suddenly, it wasn't enough anymore—that you weren't enough anymore.
"I never stopped, you know. Loving you. And I probably never will."
It's something you never said to anyone before. You don't use the word "love" lightly, haven't used it at all for the majority of your life simply because there was no one there to say it to. She knows that because you talked about it one night on the couch with a bottle of wine to loosen both of your tongues.
"Regina, please come home to me again."
You're begging now (and for a second you even thought about getting down on your knees, but you decided that was a bit too much on the dramatic side). What you say doesn't really make sense, it's not coherent or poetic, but it's honest and heartfelt, and, at some point, tears start rolling down your cheeks. Under different circumstances you would be embarrassed about it, but right now you're simply too desperate to even care.
It doesn't work, though. She still doesn't react, doesn't answer, so you decide to approach this with a different technique; provoking her has always worked best, after all.
"You just threw away what we had without a second thought, and I still don't understand why."
She takes the bait immediately, and you have to hold back a smile upon realizing just how well you know the woman in front of you. You know which buttons to push,
In one swift motion, she gets up, dress swirling around her, and stalks toward you, eyes on fire.
It's like the good old times when you were still regularly playing Personal Space Invaders, always fighting, always arguing. You thought she was beautiful, and special, and fascinating even back then (even if a bit on the bitchy side).
"But what did we have, Emma? Red hot passion, amazing sex, and a dysfunctional family? That's not enough."
The words sting and she knows it. Yes, you know how to push her buttons—but she also knows how to push yours. You both learned with time and experience. At this point, you probably know more about each other than you should—all the painful, dark stuff—but you also know that, despite different upbringings, different experiences, and a (technically) 30-year age difference, you just get each other; you both want the same thing: to love and be loved in return (and you thought you'd finally found that with her).
"Oh, but he is? You don't even know him!"
You're seriously mad now. All the frustration, all the disappointment and desperation you've tried to burry deep down inside you for the last few weeks rushes to the surface, and you let it. Because you're tired of hiding, tired of pretending.
"He is my soulmate," she says matter-of-factly, and you don't know if you'd rather scoff at that or cry.
Yes, they are apparently pixie dust approved soulmates. Have been in another realm, in another time, anyway. But this is neither there nor then. This is the world in which she is happy with you. In which you love each other, and build a family, and a home, and a future.
"Soulmate my ass," you mutter. And then, "do you love him?"
"I—" she hesitates and you know—you just know—that you're actually on to something here, that it's not just wishful thinking because you're pathetic and got your heart broken. So, naturally, you push further.
"Do you love me? Did you ever?"
"Emma—"
Both her voice and eyes are pleading, and, in any other situation, under different circumstances, you would feel bad for her, would stop immediately and take her into your arms; but you need to know. You need to hear her say it.
"Answer my question."
You're only inches apart and it's at the same time extremely familiar and incredibly foreign. You've done this so many times, riled each other up until the point of no return. But this time it is different; it feels like now or never, all or nothing.
"Yes," she all but whispers eventually, gaze glued to your shoes.
"Yes what? Yes, you love him? Yes, you love me? Loved me?"
You press although you know perfectly well what she meant, simply because (dangerously enough) goading her comes just as easily to you as loving her. It has always been a balancing act between pleasure and pain with you, right from the beginning.
The first time you kissed her is still vivid in your mind. It was rough, passionate. It was all about control, and power, and dominance. The first time you slept with her, way back before the first curse broke, actually, it was all about leaving marks; bruises from where you bit her on her thighs, scratches from her fingernails on your back.
It got softer from there, more affectionate. Every time you slept together it was less fucking and more making love. Gradually, letting off steam turned into family dinners, day trips, and movie nights. The son you gave away and the woman you resented turned into something you never dared to hope you'd finally have one day: a family.
"Yes, I love you. But sometimes love isn't enough," she says, face suspiciously void of emotion, and you know a poker face when you see one.
"Bullshit," you all but spit out.
"I'm destined to be with him."
It sounds a lot like she doesn't only want to convince you, but herself as well. If this was anyone else, you'd think her behavior was absolutely pathetic; but this is the strongest, most graceful woman you know. A woman with a past lacking in love and acceptance just like your own, so you actually kind of get it (which is the worst part). He is the safe choice, the average good guy, while you are a fucked up ex-orphan with a shitload of issues (it's still crueler than anything else she has ever done; to you, anyway).
"Whatever happened to 'I make my own destiny'?" you ask, cocky as ever (God, you're a true asshole sometimes).
She is obviously distressed (confused, sad), but you just can't let it, let her, go. Not yet. (Not ever.)
Thinking about it, it's actually kind of ironic (if it wasn't that painful), because normally it's always you who runs, who leaves because it seems like the reasonable thing to do in order to spare everyone involved even greater heartbreak.
"Everyone I've ever loved has died. Being with me is bad luck. I won't—you—"
It's scary how similar your brains work sometimes.
"I won't die, Regina."
You know that you can't really promise her that, but you have survived so much bullshit already, have seen so many things that you wouldn't even have believed existed until a few years ago, that you are pretty sure you're resilient enough to survive being with Regina (Maleficent did as well, and you've even tried to kill her yourself at some point). You're not good at staying, or commitment, or relationships, but if there's one thing you're good at, it's staying alive (and, considering Regina, the other three things don't seem so hard anymore either).
You want to touch her, comfort her, take her into your arms because she actually started crying now and you don't want her to be sad (obviously you fucked up too bad for that already). But you know that touching her right now would make everything even worse.
She wraps her arms around herself, looks so small, so devastated, and you hate yourself even more than you already did for pushing her to this point.
"You can't promise me that. Everybody who loves me dies. I can't—I can't do that to you. I love you too much to have you die because of me."
Under different circumstances—completely different circumstances—hearing her say something like this would make your heart swell, but right now, you'd rather hear that she doesn't want to be with you because she doesn't love you, not because she loves you too much. It would make eventually letting go and moving on a lot easier.
You sigh, because has she even paid attention to anything that happened in the past few years?
"Regina. You tried to kill me. Your mother tried to kill me. Your sister tried to kill me. Hook tried to kill me. A weird beast from hell tried to kill me. A homicidal teenager who turned out to be our son's great grandfather tried to kill me. And I'm still here. I'm still here and I love you."
Again, she chooses not to reply, not to look at you, and, instead, just shakes her head, defeated.
"Please don't do this, Regina. Don't make both of us unhappy if it would be so easy to do the exact opposite," you whisper and have to seriously hold yourself back in order not to reach out and touch her arm, her cheek, her hand.
You're usually not one for ultimatums, and you know that Regina hates them as well, but you can't live on like this, still wishing, still hoping. So, as you make your exit, you turn around one last time, voice even, and give her a tight-lipped smile.
"Make up your mind; I'll be waiting. But I won't wait forever, not even for you."