AN: This is actually based on apromptI wrote yesterday and I really liked the universe I set it in so naturally I had to expand it due to no requests to do so at all. The themes ofdomestic abuse,child abuseand probablymarital rapewill run throughout this fic so if that isn't your thing ignore this. Yeah, I clearly love creating a million aus that require them to become multi chapters for myself. I hope you likey
Quietly, she opens the door, careful not to let too much light in as she enters. She knows he's not asleep. No way would he be asleep with all the noise. But with the way he's huddled beneath the covers, silent like he's not there, she can kid herself that he is asleep and that the reason he's hiding isn't because he's scared, the reason he's quiet isn't because he wants to make himself unknown. He's just asleep, something simple and innocent.
She tiptoes across his room. His tidy room, nothing out of place, everything packed into tubs and pushed away into the corner, out of sight almost, like it's not touched. Like it's not played with.
Pulling the covers back, she gently climbs into his bed. It's a tiny thing, just about fits Henry, let alone the both of them; Regina balancing near the edge. They manage, though, once Henry rolls over. He's practically lying on her and Regina shifts into the space he's left behind.
He nuzzles into her chest, a tiny sob escaping before he's clamping down on the next, tensing, trying desperately not to let another one go.
It hurts.
It hurts more than the bruises, the ragged hair, the split lip.
It hurts that he feels like he can't cry, not even in front of her. Only her. He won't cry because Leo told him Men don't cry.
Because, according to Leo, men hit. Men rage. Men shout and have tantrums. They scream when things don't go their way. Don't go the only way they know.
Leo's no man.
How she wishes Henry would cry.
It's for selfish reasons, she knows. She doesn't want Henry to cry. No mother wants to see their child cry for any reason yet when he doesn't, she feels so helpless. Tight inside. That her helpless is eventually going to squeeze and squeeze, tighten and tighten until it can't anymore, until it pops.
And starts all over again.
She won't sleep tonight.
Henry will. It takes some time but he always falls asleep. He'll sleep because he knows so long as Regina is holding him, nothing can hurt him. That she'll put herself in the way for as long as possible, for as long as it takes for him to get away.
That's what she did tonight.
It was paint.
Paint that was accidentally spilled on the carpet, staining the expensive, white carpet.
They tried their best to clean it up; Henry and Mary Margaret. They tried but they didn't try enough.
Leo made it home first.
Leo sent his daughter home.
Leo made the first move when he saw the stain.
She needs to check his arm. Needs to make sure the marks, cuts, bruises, whatever awaits her behind his sleeve, isn't visible, isn't there.
If they're not visible, nobody will know what happened. What happens. That's what Leo wants.
Regina's a different story.
"Is he gone?" It's quiet, his voice. So quiet that it's barely even a whisper. He's terrified of speaking. He's made him terrified of speaking.
How did she let this happen?
"He's gone, baby."
And thank god, too. Thank god she's in here and not in there. It's always worse in there.
"Is he coming back?"
He asks this every time and every time it's the same answer. Yes, he's coming back. He'll be there when they get home tomorrow, waiting for them. Only he'll be all smiles, all laughter, apologise for the night before.
Regina used to fall for it, as stupid as she was then. Each night, even on the very nights it happened, she'd tell herself that he didn't mean it or that it was her fault, she did it, she started it.
She's not as stupid anymore. Not so easy to blame herself. Oh no, she'll blame him. Won't say it to his face, will probably never say it to his face, that's too risky, too risky for Henry.
Tomorrow will be another insincere apology. Another sweep under the rug. And the cycle will begin again. Something; she, Henry, anything will set him off and it'll begin again.
But tonight she'll hold Henry close to her, breathe in the scent of his hair. He needs a bath, fingers treading through it. She'll give him one tomorrow when Leo isn't here and he can't make passing-yet-completely-devastating comment about how He's six now, he should be bathing himself alone.
Then they'll watch a film or something. Disney or Pixar or something that's fun and friendly and will take his (and hopefully her) mind off everything that happened. She'll change the sheets and they'll both snuggle into her bed, their minds taken elsewhere.
She occupies herself with thoughts of tomorrow, happier memories they'll create with just the two of them. That's how it should have been; the two of them. Tucked away in some tiny, messy apartment watching films all day, happy in a house that they can call home every day. She should never have let Mother fill her brain with lies of how degrading it is to be a single parent, how selfish you're being to your child. She should have done it anyway, ran when she had that chance.
She should never have let herself be manipulated into marrying Leopold.