Sequel to "Doesn't Mean Anything". Emma had proof of the mayor's guilt around Kathryn's disappearance but chose not to act on it. How does Regina feel about this? Swan Queen.

The request was to explore how Regina reacted after Emma had protected her, from Regina's point of view. I chose to write in second person to try to carry forward the mood created in "Doesn't Mean Anything". Hopefully I was able to sustain that.

This story is rated M for sexual content, the occasional swear word, and for references to self-harming behavior.

xxx

She's still here.

She drifted off to sleep a few minutes ago, blonde curls spilling carelessly on the pillow, an arm thrown over her eyes. A thin sheet barely covers her nude body. There is a soft smile playing around the corners of her lips.

You've never let her hang around after the sex before. You wonder why you're letting her now.

You have the sudden urge to shake her awake and tell her to leave. To get out of your space, out of your bed, out of your house. Now.

You need space to think.

And yet you find that you also want her to stay. Want her calming presence, want those safe arms around you again.

You hate indecision. And you hate weakness, especially in yourself.

Your jumbled thoughts drive you from the bed. Impatient hands tug on underwear, a pair of pants and a blouse. You're shaking. You can feel the anger bubbling up inside of you and you nurse it, fan the flames. The feeling is familiar, safe, and it makes you feel stronger. More in control.

You let the anger drive you from the room, long strides carrying you quickly out to the hall. You take care to pull the door firmly shut behind you. Henry's not due home from school for another hour or so, but it wouldn't do to have him find the sheriff in your bed.

In the kitchen you draw a glass from the cupboard. You need water.

Normally you drink bottled water. Expensive, only the best, and you keep your fridge well-stocked. But suddenly the Perrier feels pretentious, too good for what you have become. You turn your back on the fridge.

When you turn on the tap at the sink, the liquid that spills out is luke warm. You bite back your impatience and let it run, waiting for it to cool.

Your body is flushed, overheated from anger, embarrassment, and sex. You want the water cold.

Your mind returns to the woman sleeping upstairs. To her actions earlier in the day. She had proof of your guilt, maybe not enough to land you a jail term but certainly enough to indict you. To have you held on charges. To have your son taken away.

This has been your biggest fear from the moment she first turned up on your doorstep. The fear that you might lose Henry.

This is a very real threat that is amplified the longer she stays in town. It's the threat that keeps you awake at night, nervously plotting her downfall. And it's the threat that drives your nightmares, those horrible dreams in which there has been a natural disaster and you can't find your son, and then finally you do find him but he's living with the sheriff and he won't speak to you and now you're alone. So very alone.

You've been trying to mitigate this threat.

You've tried direct demands and menacing persuasion. You've tried your hand at skillful manipulation. And then, desperate, you've tried to use sex to keep her under your control.

But none of it seems to have worked, and you recognize that with her first real proof against you she's a bigger threat than ever.

And yet she has chosen not to act, at least not yet. Instead she has chosen to protect you. Why?

The resentment bubbles in your chest and your fingers tighten around the glass. You stare down at your white knuckles.

You were sloppy. She should never have found the shovel in the first place. And you certainly don't need to be protected. Especially not by her, the birth mother of your son.

You remember her arms holding you, rocking you like a child.

You remember crying. Sobbing, begging for forgiveness, for absolution. You remember the softness of her neck against your cheek and the warm way she looked into your eyes. You remember smiling at her. You remember the pathetic gratefulness you'd felt towards her.

You're weak. You're a failure. The words ring in your head, an echo of your childhood.

Your weakness, the embarrassment of your outburst and subsequent submission, twists your lips into a snarl. You lift your arm.

The glass shatters as it impacts the far wall. The sound is harsh, satisfying. The pieces of broken glass scatter wildly and loudly about the kitchen.

And then it's quiet.

You watch, captivated, as a transparent shard rocks gently on the counter, casting strange reflections in the weak sunlight before finally going still.

You shut off the water running in the sink.

Henry could hurt himself on the broken glass. You need to clean up the mess. You shake your head in an attempt to refocus.

First a broom and dustpan to capture the larger pieces, then the vacuum for any remaining splinters. You vacuum the floor wildly, then the counter, before storing the cleaning equipment neatly back in the closet. The broken glass tinkles in the garbage as you tie a knot in the top of the bag and carry it outside to the bin.

The broken evidence of your loss of control has been cleaned up. Erased. The tightness in your chest loosens ever so slightly.

The other evidence of your loss of control remains however, and you wonder how to rid yourself of the woman sleeping upstairs in your bed.

You're shaking, but you decide to blame it on low blood sugar. The sheriff found you at home on your lunch break, preparing to raid the fridge.

You never eat out. This was a rule of your mother's - never eat amongst the commoners.

And so the sheriff had found you at home in the middle of the day with her search warrant in hand. With her damned sympathetic eyes.

You open the refrigerator door and extract two containers with leftovers from last night's dinner. Spaghetti and a salad. The microwave hums softly as you claim a new glass from the cupboard. This time you choose the bottled water from the fridge. It's carbonated and the cap hisses pleasingly as you twist it off.

You stand at the island in the middle of your spacious kitchen, fork in hand, and attempt to eat your lunch. The first bite sticks in your throat, a hard lump that chokes you as you attempt to swallow it down. You set down the fork.

Your eyes catch a glint of light across the room. Your broom missed a piece of broken glass.

You walk over and scoop it up carefully, intending to toss it in the trash. But in your hand the glass is cool to the touch and you find yourself studying it. It's a narrow shard, nearly two inches long and wickedly sharp. Almost without thought you find your fist closing around the glass, squeezing tight.

The pain is welcome. Sharp and real.

It's not messy, like the pain you feel from loving your son. Like the pain you feel when you think of the woman upstairs.

No, this pain is clean. Honest.

You open your hand and marvel at the red blood pooling in your palm. Against the clear glass your blood is dark and beautiful. You admire the sight for moment before the disgust wells up in your chest once again.

You're a failure. You're broken.

The shard of glass lands in the empty garbage can. You wash the blood from your palm with running water in the sink, then wrap your hand with a dish towel to stop the sluggish flow. Once you would have sealed the cut with little effort, but that power is no longer one that you command.

Out in the garage the shovel stands where you last saw it. Untouched. The broken corner makes you cringe at your own sloppiness. At your arrogance, your assumption that no one would be bold enough to question you.

You hide the shovel in the basement, buried under boxes of Henry's baby clothes. You will have someone dispose of it later.

Back in the house you pick up the phone and hit the speed dial. The voice on the other end sounds pathetically hopeful and your lip lifts involuntarily into a disgusted snarl.

"Sidney, I need you to go down to the hardware store and buy me a new shovel. Now!" you bark at him, pleased and slightly mollified by his immediate acquiescence.

You're almost as good at cleaning up messes as you are at making them.

And there's one more mess that needs cleaning.

You storm up the stairs and bang into the bedroom. She's still sleeping. The hand has fallen away from her face and her perfect features and milky skin can only belong to a princess.

Your good fist clenches the bottom of the sheet. With an abrupt tug, you whip the sheet from her body. She's lying before you, naked, and you glory in the feel of power it gives to stand above her, fully clothed, looking down on her body.

Her eyes blink open and she smiles up at you sleepily.

Your traitorous heart skips a beat in your chest. Your lips automatically start to lift in return, to smile back at her.

But you bite it down, force your expression to be hard. Cold. This woman is a weakness, and she needs to leave.

"Miss Swan, time to go." You keep your voice brittle, commanding. Brisk. In control.

The smile fades from her face.

The question in her eyes, the hurt, causes a painful tightness in your chest. But you ignore it.

You scoop her clothing from the floor and toss it in her direction. Then you stand, arms crossed, and watch as she dresses clumsily, scrambling into her clothes and tugging on her boots.

Only when her beautiful body is covered again do you have the strength to meet her eyes. Her grey-green eyes, looking at you with hurt and confusion. And resignation. Like perhaps she had expected this. Expected you to turn on her. Expected the proverbial kick in the shins after being nothing but kind.

You scoff at her hurt expression. She needs to learn that kindness will get her nowhere in life.

"Regina…" Her voice trails off. Those damned eyes are looking at you with hope. With tenderness. Probably best to put an end to that.

"Miss Swan, I said that it was time for you to go." You drum the fingers of your good hand impatiently.

You play this role so very well. The mayor. The queen, in control of her subjects.

"It was fun," you add a purposeful sneer to the word, tarnishing it, "but Henry will be home soon and it's time for you to leave."

The sheriff's gaze is shuttered now, guarded. She nods curtly.

"Oh, and don't bother returning with your pointless search warrant." You're on a roll now, the words flowing easily. "You'll find that what you thought you saw was incorrect. And I will lodge a complaint if you harass me at home again."

You don't bother to state who you'll be lodging the complaint with. It doesn't matter. She gets your point, loud and clear. The evidence is gone, covered up.

Her eyes narrow, and then she sighs in resignation.

That's what you get for being nice, Miss Swan, you think to yourself.

As she brushes past you, she notices the dish towel still wrapped around your throbbing hand. She glances up at you, a question in her eyes.

You narrow your gaze and tuck your injured hand tightly under your armpit, effectively hiding it from prying eyes.

"Good-bye, Miss Swan." You lace your voice with all the coldness and contempt that you learned from your mother.

This finally does the trick. The sheriff shakes her head stiffly and strides out of the room. She bounds angrily down the stairs, boots clattering loudly on the hardwood. You follow at a more dignified pace, reaching the foyer just in time to see the door slam behind flying blonde hair.

You take a deep breath, trying to ease that painful tightness in your chest.

And then another deep breath, and another.

It doesn't help.

Your hand is throbbing and your chest aches. You look down at the blood seeping through the dish towel and your vision blurs.

You still haven't had lunch, haven't had anything substantial to eat today, and so you decide that it's hunger making your knees weak as you sink to the bottom step. Your head drops to your knees as the tears begin to fall.