Contemplation after the adrenaline of the mine disaster is gone. Regina sits alone with a glass of wine and the thoughts that haunt her.
A/N – This will be a drawn out piece. This is the first fic I've written with these two, but man, don't they give so much love and confusion to work with? I hope this makes sense. I've been watching this show and reading fanfic all day and I just have to get this beginning out.
In the space between what's wrong and right, you will find me waiting for you.
She does not understand it and that is unacceptable.
She is a woman who prides herself on absolute knowledge in every situation.
She can feel the anger burning deep in her gut because she has never needed anyone. Let alone said it.
And yet somehow, with that purposeful swagger and inability to back down from her, she knows she has found something that she has never known before…
… a counterpart.
Someone who understands that through all of the anger and the bravado, there is fear and insecurity beneath. Fear and insecurity that fuel a passion so strong that no one could possibly understand unless they were made of the exact same parts.
And she understands that because she is, too.
Fearful and insecure over a small boy whom they both are connected to.
Over a past that they are both running from…
With a slight growl and a tilt of the glass in her hand, she knows the real reason she is so angry. She hates her understanding of it because it means that she understands her.
And that is unacceptable.
The glass is cold in her hand as she eases wearily back into the cushioned chair, eyes never daring to leave the flames flickering in the fireplace. Silence reigns through the mansion, pushing at every wall and filling up every impossibly empty space. Henry had long ago given way to exhaustion and was peacefully sleeping in her bed, a childhood refuge he had long ago stopped seeking. The surprise was evident on her face when he asked to stay there tonight, because sometimes she forgets, through everything that is happening in their lives, that he is still just her 10 year old child.
Her customary harshness was tinged with relief and happiness when she agreed, tucking him in with a promise to discuss everything tomorrow. It had felt good when he had said goodnight to her…even if he hadn't called her mom.
And yet even through that small victory, she feels as if her very skin is crawling. Her nerves on overtime, flexing themselves under her skin as if reeling from an overtiring workout. She hasn't felt like this is a very long time.
And so, she has forgone propriety and poured a very tall glass of whiskey.
A deep breath eases its way into her lungs as she rolls her head, one hand reaching up to massage the back of her neck roughly. She is aware that it is the tenseness of worry, as if she had lunged herself into that mine and were now feeling the weary remnants of the strength it would have taken. She has felt it often when Henry is concerned.
No, she is used to the worry with Henry.
Used to the hours of agonizing worry when he decides to run away from her. Used to the helplessness when he is in danger, like today. Used to the pain when he cuts her down as if she means little.
He is a child and that pain is uniformly tied together with the title of mother.
The glass tilts against her lips and is halfway empty before she releases the breath she had been holding. And suddenly, eyes boring into the flames, her mind pushes past the secondhand worry of parenting to settle back upon the issue at hand. The real reason she sits, mind working overtime, alone in her den.
Emma Swan.
And her seemingly uncanny ability to pierce her unfaltering exterior.
It is something that she has never abided by and yet, somehow something she is surprised to find herself longing for.
Because the truth is that although she's the only person who can leave this place and though she'll never admit the thought to anyone as it is quite against what she has stated in the past, she'd feel a sadness if she did.
Why is that?
Is it because of her utter refusal to tear her gaze away when the merest glance of her attention has always sent others running? She has longed for this, she knows it. Longed for something more than a mere existence of being the top among these playthings.
Another sigh snakes its way from her taunt frame. This feeling is new and it is unwelcome.
And she can claim it to be just like the person who invokes it, but she is starting to wonder if that is even true anymore.
Because through everything, she's found her on the front porch too often to count – seemingly as drawn to her.
That thought intrigues her and infuriates her at the same time and this time, she cannot deny that the connection between them is there.
No, she is not used to this feeling of helplessness, of something twisting in her gut.
She is used to instilling this feeling.
Fear and power are her favorite playthings and yet, somehow, there is an inexplicable vulnerability. And if she is honest, that is the reason she is sitting alone in her den.
Waiting.
Because she knows that after today, after pulling her close out of necessity, that something bothered her. Something in her eyes as she stared defiantly back, stood so close… She has always been a woman who knew the appreciation for a worthy adversary, but all she can feel is anger and frustration at her ability to leave her unpoised and reeling even for a moment.
No one has ever done that before.
The dark liquid burns as she tilts the glass back and empties it. Immediately, her hand is grasping the crystal container on the mahogany table beside her. The fire crackles embers and dances the shadow of its flames onto the rug below as she pulls the stopper free. It is only the tiniest of pauses that give notice with an uncertain sigh that her hand is trembling as she pours.
The only acknowledgement permitted to this betrayal is to tilt it more quickly, filling the glass in her hand before the bottle is slammed back to its ungrateful place at her side.
When did this happen?
She is not used to being weak.
Not used to be uncertain.
Even in impossibly solitary interactions in her own home.
A deep sigh racks its way from her lips as dark eyes bore once more into those dancing flames. The cool glass feels solid against her lips, grounding, as the warm liquid quickly coats her throat.
She hasn't even changed from her dirt ridden clothing.
And just like that, she has somehow managed to sneak her way back into her thoughts.
Emma Swan.
Those flashing blue eyes.
Pleading.
Questioning.
Angry.
A million other possible emotions as she refuses to step away.
And the only saving grace that she knows she can possibly take from their interactions is that she has seen her flounder for words in her presence, as well.
She, who stands so tall in the face of anything.
She, who throws herself at danger and uncertainty with the ferocity of a lion as if it is the most logical thing in the world.
This is no stranger to her either, but her calculations are impeccable and she is always certain of the outcome.
Yet, not today.
Today was new.
Today was frightening for a world of reasons.
She can feel the sigh begging to push itself from her lips, but silences it with another tilt of the glass.
Dark eyes close tightly, pushing against pain and memories of a lifetime and linger on the image that somehow she cannot escape. Watching her walk into the swirling dust of that mine without a second thought when the boy she has to admit they both love was in danger…
How fervently she had denied her request to go…without thought…
She was grateful that Graham was not watching her closely then, because without explanation, she had found herself reaching out, if only for the tiniest of moments to her retreating back.
The uncertainty was killing her because for a moment as they stood toe to toe… she had faltered.
And she cannot possibly find herself not questioning the actions.
Was it possible that she is just as confused? Or is she merely playing the arrogant hero until she decides it is time to uproot again?
They were so easily playing a game. So easily chipping away at each other's façade.
And why does she care?
What the hell is she even doing here?
What the hell is she doing to this place?
What the hell is she doing to her…
… but more importantly… what is she going to do about it?
The sound of the doorbell slides through the silence with ease and dark eyes slip open at the intrusion. She pauses for only a moment to stare at the flames before certainty rises within her chest and she tilts the glass of dark liquid back hurriedly.
When it is drained, she takes one last deep breath to steel herself to the sight she is certain will await her on the other side of that door. And before she knows what it means, what she is doing or where this will lead, she pushes tired bones out of the comfort of that chair and towards the door…
…where she knows she will find her once again.