I do not own Once Upon a Time, or any of the characters mentioned. I do however own this fanfiction. All Rights Reserved- Silver tears85
Regina doesn't like this. She doesn't like this one bit.
She doesn't like not using magic, nor does she like not being in control. More often than not , the two coincide.
(More like crash together, hard, in the most injurious and painful of ways).
She doesn't like the fact that her son has been kidnapped. She doesn't like the fact that she has to work with the not-so-charming Charmings to get him back.
She doesn't like how she had to pull Emma aside in order to propose the idea that they combine magic. That they use magic. And more importantly, that she regain control.
(Or as much as she could in this situation )
She doesn't like how desperate she sounds, how close it resembles begging. She doesn't like how Emma tells her no, with such finality, like she's a child asking for ice cream after bedtime.
Or even worse, how her self-assured look gives way to pity and how she attempts, (attempts being the operative word) to empathize with her and assure her that the plan will work.
That just burns.
So Regina does what she does best. She snarks, aiming to hit as low as and as hard as she can.
'Not too low though. This is Emma.'
The treacherous thought courses through her mind and she refuses to acknowledge it (Or the fact that she heeds it.)
She taunts her, asking if she's really willing to bet her son's life on her boyfriend's hunch, because she has to. She needs to feel in control and the only to do that is to hurt someone.
Lucky Emma.
She relishes in the look on Emma's face, offended and hurt as she disclaims him.
Snow admonishes her.
"She just lost Neal." She says, with a disapproving look that reminds her entirely too much of her mother.
"Right. Sorry." She says.
But she's not. She's not sorry at all.
She hates it. All of it. Her son's gone and the Charmings are acting like they've got more of a right to be here than she does, as though she hadn't raised Henry for ten whole years.
She abhors it. The complete and utter aversion for her circumstances boils in the pit of her stomach, right along side the piercing feeling of helplessness, the feeling that everything is spiraling out of control and all she can do is watch.
She loathes it and DAMNS IT ALL TO HELL.
Right along with the rum-soaked, one-handed pirate, because regardless of what the "savior" says she's can see.
She can see the way he looks at her and feel the damned tension that increases with every mile they walk.
She can feel the blonde inching away from her, slipping through her fingertips slowly, tauntingly, as if daring her to do something about it.
And then of course, she has to remind herself that she never had her at all and that burns even more, like pure cyanide being crammed down her throat.
She detests it because that's too much control lost all at once, too many things she has no say in, no purchase in and she can't take it.
Damn it. Damn it all to hell.
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