Walking On Water

by hoovahoopah

Fucking August told you he'd give you twenty bucks to walk on water, so you did.

You're The Savior. The fucking Savior. And it's a title with correct punctuation and expectation. And even though it's been years since the curse broke, everyone still literally thinks you're Jesus. And it makes you angry when people stop and stare on the street, look at you reverently as you pass by. You're Emma Swan, you're you, you've always been you. Because you've only ever belonged to you. Now, you belong to everyone. You're a hero, a miracle.

But you can't walk on water. You found that out once, one cold November night after Henry was sound asleep and Regina had finished cleaning the kitchen. After she had proclaimed there was much business to be done and there would be no sex this evening. And then the door to her study closed and you were left in the hall like a forlorn labrador puppy.

So you met up with August and he listened sort of. But after most of that Maker's Mark was gone and your cheeks were rosy from the cold and the drink, and August's sloppy laughter cut through the nighttime air, he offered you twenty bucks. If you'd prove how far from the Messiah you actually were.

Fucking August told you he'd give you twenty bucks to walk on water, so you did. You got up and ambled toward the edge of the water, the part Regina always makes Henry stay away from. Even though he's fourteen now. And can most certainly swim.

"It drops off, Miss Swan," you imitate her before sticking one foot out over the dark water below. Next thing you know, your other foot follows, and then, god damn it, you're freezing and there's water up your nose. And fucking August is fucking laughing and everything is horrible. Because the water is fucking freezing and it's like someone took five thousand million rusty pocket knives and stabbed you everywhere.

It's ten minutes later that you're finally on land again, coughing up water and mucus and fuck this. Fuck this, which leads to rifling through August's pockets for his wallet. "You fucking owe me."

He can't stop laughing and he's wiping tears from his eyes with two gloved hands. So you take forty. Because you god damn deserve it now.

Your teeth are chattering the whole way home and the two twenties are soggy in your hand but you have two twenties more than you started with and you're still fairly intoxicated so all things considered, tonight isn't so bad. Maybe Regina will find it in the deepest recesses of her heart to warm you up. But most likely she will screech at you for tracking mud into her foyer and dripping water all over everything. And for being an idiot. Always for being an idiot.

She's there the moment the door swings open and you hold up your money hand in a silent show of triumph. And she crosses her arms over her chest. Because you're an idiot.

"Dare I ask," it's not a question. It's never a question.

"No."

So she doesn't. But you know that she knows that you're going to tell her anyway. If you even want to get into bed with her. Which you do. And she's wearing that maroon pencil skirt. With the super crisp white blouse. And she looks just angry enough to... Wait. She's talking again.

"Those clothes come off. Now. The muddy boots can stay outside. And that money? I'm certain you'll eventually tell me how you acquired it, but it is no longer yours."

And then you don't even have forty bucks to show for your idiot endeavor. Because Regina's tucking it into her bra.

"Regiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinaaaaaaaaa," you're whining and it's so unattractive, but the thoughts and intentions in your brain are not matching up with any of your actions. "I earned that."

She raises an eyebrow and watches you struggle out of your wet clothes. "Earned?"

"Earned. Won. Given."

She's not amused, but you catch her eyes lingering on your chest once your sweater is up and over your head.

"Something you like?" Your teeth are still chattering but you're cold and drunk. Your seductive smile looks simultaneously manic and lethargic. And squinty. So squinty that Regina's face blends into this flesh colored blob and it's almost as if she isn't scowling at you.

But she is.

"You look like a drowned rat, Miss Swan." She stifles a yawn and turns on her heel. "If you can manage to make it upstairs without any incident, there will be a bath waiting for you. And when that's finished, you will find yourself sleeping in the guest room."

"But-"

"Your snoring is absolutely horrific, Emma." She's already halfway up the stairs and you're still shivering in your underwear by the front door. "I'll not put up with it this evening. I've had a tiring day."

The water is hot. Scalding really, and you're completely submerged, blowing bubbles, when Regina reenters the bathroom with a pair of sweatpants for you. You can hear her mumbling something and her tone is less than pleasant.

When you surface, she's sitting at the edge of the tub, already in her pajamas. "Finish up and come to bed," she reaches out with one hand, fingertips brushing against your cheek. She's gentle now, but she's tired.

"Where's my money?" You've become petulant and one-track minded and she rolls her eyes and moves to the sink.

"Of all the things," she's shaking her head and reaching for a fresh washcloth. "We'll discuss it in the morning. After you've mopped up your mess downstairs."

"I wanted a girlfriend, not a mom," you hug your knees to your chest and pout. You both know that's sort of a lie, because with Regina, sometimes you get both. And that should be weirder than it is. But it's not. She just knows what you need. Sometimes better than you do.

"You're lucky it's me you came home to and not your insufferable child of a mother," Regina can never resist. "I'm quite certain the last thing you need is coddling."

You're about to say something about how she'd coddle Henry if he came home resembling a drunken icicle. But Henry wouldn't dare. So instead, "I have a headache."

"I'm not surprised," is all she says, too engrossed in her nightly routine to care anymore. She's wiping off her makeup, preparing to wash her face. She hates being interrupted, hates upset to her nightly routine. When she's this tired, she's brusque and aloof, and completely fucking irritating.

You splash around for a while, until your skin is raw and red, until Regina pads back into the bedroom and slips under the covers. Until she reaches up to turn off the light. It's silent for another few minutes as you chew your lip, words at the tip of your tongue.

"Are you angry?"

Your voice comes out smaller than you intended. And you wonder if she even heard.

She sighs, "No, Emma. I'm not angry. I'm tired. Come to bed."

You don't bring up the guest room, nor do you bring up the forty dollars she took off your person an hour ago. Because even though you're still 100% shitfaced, you're regaining the ability to know better.

When you curl up underneath her chin, wet hair splayed across her shoulder and the pillow beneath, you reach out, trace one of the buttons on her nightshirt with your finger. She's warm and soft beneath you, and at night after the creams and cleansing waters, she smells rosy and expensive. And you sort of like it. You sort of love it.

"I was complaining," you start, reaching for her hand, blindly groping above the blankets. She reaches out to find you and then there's warmth and her heartbeat and the darkness. "About being The Savior. About being the Messiah of a small fucking town in buttfuck Maine."

You can hear her roll her eyes before she speaks, "My town. In picturesque small town Maine, excuse you."

"Alright, Your Majesty."

That doesn't make her tense like it used to. She doesn't push you off of her in a rage anymore, she chuckles. Deep in her chest. Like a soft rumble.

"I said something about walking on fucking water. I don't know. I was drunk. I am drunk. And fucking August told me he'd give me twenty bucks if I got up and did it."

"So you did, because you just can't help yourself."

"So I did, because. Just. Because."

"You're unbelievable," she sighs, twines her fingers through your damp hair. "It's November in Maine. And you've yet to buy a real winter coat. Why would you jump into the North Atlantic for twenty dollars."

"Because I'm an idiot," you say around a yawn, curling yourself closer to her in the dark.

"Oh, hush. You're not."

She's so gentle, so soft, and if you weren't already half asleep, you'd ask her about your god damn money.

Half appears on the breakfast table next to your coffee. The other half you find crumpled in the fist of your child.

"Where'd you get that?" You try to snatch it back, but the little shit's too quick. Little shit, he's almost as tall as you now. And he fences. Of course he does.

"Mom gave it to me. Said I could go to the movies later. But you're not invited."

"I'm not invited? And I'm paying for it?"

"Actually," Regina breezes into the dining room with two plates. "Isn't Mr. Booth paying for it?"

You shoot her a glare, because really? In front of the kid? But she's smirking and humming as she serves breakfast, and she's so fucking cute it hurts. So you're almost forgiving.

"You won twenty, you came home with forty. Henry wants to see the thousandth Wolverine movie, and I figured what better to do with the half you most certainly don't deserve than give it to our son for recreational activities that don't involve drugs, alcohol, or finding himself in an early grave."

You grimace and reach for the bacon.

"Heard you went for a swim last night," Henry's almost as bad as his mother sometimes and he never misses a beat. He's still toothy and cheeky when he grins, but his voice is deeper. And he's growing faster than either of you can keep up with.

"None of your business, kid."

He makes an irritated sound in the back of his throat, his mother's child, and you snort in response.

"At least you didn't get hypothermia," Henry points out, already buttering his toast. You shoot him a look, because god damn it, you're about to be the butt of every joke for the next three thousand years. "And at least you get to keep half of your winnings."

You're positive Henry is going to fist bump August later. Maybe even treat him to a movie and some popcorn. "Yeah, well maybe I was going to buy a winter coat with the other half."

It's Regina's turn to snort now. She's incredibly aware of the fact that you haven't owned a real winter coat in the entire time you've known her. You borrow hers when you're desperate, but the majority of them are cashmere and cost more than your life. And you're not about to cash in your savings to replace one.

"A winter coat that would end up in similar condition to the garish red jacket lying in a heap in my foyer," Regina spears a piece of melon onto her fork and sighs.

"Shit!" You're up and running before either of them can say another word. The jacket has been through hell and high water, but salt water is new for the trusty leather. "No, no, no." You've almost made it to the wet pile near the door, but the puddle has spread and next thing you know you're sprawled on your back, shouting obscenities as your head hits the floor.

"Oh, shit."

"Henry!"

"Mom!"

And then there are two sets of eyes, two faces, hovering above yours. Henry's is concerned and amused and his eyes sparkle as he tries to help you up. Regina is not amused, not at all, and she simply stands near the stairs with her arms crossed over her chest.

"Miss Swan, you're -"

"An idiot. I know."

Henry reaches for your jacket and extends it to you, a wordless apology. The leather is stiff and cold, but you clutch the jacket to your chest. It's the one thing you know, the one thing that's yours.

"Oh, Emma," Regina sighs, holds out a hand as the frost melts and understanding takes over. She's gentle again, gentle like she is at night, gentle like she is in the dark. "We'll fix it. We will. Henry will clean up the rest of this," she holds up a hand as your son begins to protest. "In exchange for the twenty dollars he was so generously allowed. And you, Miss Swan, will go to work."

It's hanging in the closet when you get home. Soft and buttery again, clean and smooth and yours. And hanging next to it is a black garment bag with your name pinned to it. You inspect it carefully before tugging on the zipper.

It's grey and wool, but it's soft and you carefully pull it from the bag. She bought you a coat, a warm coat, a coat that doesn't look uptight and grownup. It has a hood, and toggle closures, and it's grey and your size. You slip it off the hanger and onto your body, and it's warm and it smells like Regina. Like she'd tried it on, just to be sure.

"What do you think?"

You startle and whip around when you hear her voice. She's leaning against the doorframe, watching you with a curious expression.

"Thank you," you smile into the thick knit of your scarf, sometimes she makes you shy. "For the coat. For fixing my jacket. For knowing me."

She doesn't say 'It's nothing' because that would be fucking trite. It's nothing to do something for someone she loves, but to love someone, that's fucking everything. You know that. You know that laboring over your jacket was done without thought, without complaint, but it's everything because she's showing you. She's loving you. And that's what sends you barreling toward her, nearly tripping over yourself in the process.

"Oh, Emma," she murmurs against your neck, accepts the way she stumbles backwards once you collide. "My sweet Emma."

Sometimes with her, you're girl and woman all at once, heart thumping with anxiety and she calms you, her hands in your hair. "Thank you," you whisper again, trembling and tugging at the back of her blouse, searching for something to hold, to touch, to ground yourself to.

"My sweet, sweet girl," she murmurs, solid and warm against you. "You're right here, you're right here with me." She understands, she knows what she's giving you, what she's offering.

And you're alright, you are.