In retrospect, yeah, it sounds like a dumb question—so the Wicked Witch and Oz and flying monkeys, they're all real too. Just. Jesus, there has to be a line, somewhere, right? Is she going to run into Princess Buttercup next? Aragorn? Morgan le Fay?

Wait. She did meet Lancelot, or, well, Cora-as-Lancelot, so: yeah, probably. Crap.

"…Hook and I will go back to the woods, talk to the rest of the Merry Men, see if there's anything we missed," David is saying, and Emma snaps back to attention.

"Just be careful," Mary Margaret nods.

Emma stares determinedly at her boots when her parents kiss goodbye, because if she looks up, she'll have to meet Hook's eyes.

And it's not that she doesn't want to—not that she's sure she does want to, either—it's just, she isn't ready to deal the weight of all that hope in his gaze. Not with the mess of Neal and Walsh and three decades of freshly reestablished abandonment issues she's got going on.

She sees him glance over his shoulder, though, perplexed and a little grave, as he and David head down the stairs.

Mary Margaret goes inside to call Belle, because if anyone's read up on Oz, it's the local fairy tale princess who's also a librarian.

Obviously.

God she misses New York.

Emma tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Want a ride back?" She turns to Regina, who's the only other person still standing awkwardly in the hallway. "Or are you just gonna, y'know," she waves a hand vaguely, "Poof home or something?"

Regina doesn't look at her like she's a complete idiot, which is something, but she's pretty obviously still depressed as all hell about Henry, so it isn't much.

"Actually, I thought I'd 'poof' back to my office. Perhaps we missed something as well. Now that I have an idea who we're up against—"

"Maybe we can put some pieces together," Emma finishes, starts turning on one heel. "I'll drive us."

Regina stops her. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you keep…helping me?"

Emma isn't really at a place where she can feel anything like affection towards Regina—gratitude, sure, compassion, maybe—but all the same, there's something fondly familiar about the way the woman can't trust help at face value.

Emma knows what that's like. A little too well.

They don't find anything useful in Regina's office the second time, either, except a bottle of scotch Regina'd kept on hand years ago, which, at least, she doesn't hurl at the wall like a defective potion.

Although she looks pretty murderous all the same.

Emma stuffs her hands in her pockets, rocks back on her heels. She signed on for an uneasy partnership with Regina, not running interference on her destructive tendencies.

The sound of a glass being slammed down on the desk gets her attention. Regina pours herself a generous amount of scotch and downs it all in one go.

"Seriously? That's your solution? How does that help our situation?"

"It keeps me sane," Regina snaps. "And believe me, dear, that is in everyone's interest."

"Fair point," she concedes, and watches Regina let out a slow, satisfied breath. "No scotch back in the Enchanted Forest, huh?"

She seats herself behind the desk. "Certainly nothing like this. Sit down, Miss Swan," she orders, pulling out another glass.

Thank God, Emma thinks, and does.

"A flying monkey," Regina repeats, looking for all the world like she's just been handed the greatest of possible opportunities for sass.

"Oh, okay, yeah, don't—" Emma slumps forward on her elbows, slurring the words a little. Booze really does nothing for her eloquence.

"He's no unwashed pirate, that's for certain," Regina observes, drily, "Perhaps I should have offered you rum instead."

"Ha ha," she mumbles, swallowing another gulp of her drink. "Here's to eight months of my social life being part of another evil plot."

Eight months of someone she finally, finally let in actually lying to her the whole time. She remembers the truth about Neal, now, but it feels like Neal all over again.

Regina looks at her, glassy-eyed but still a little too consciously—God, they've both been someone else's pawns too many times, haven't they?—and doesn't push the subject.

"Meaning the Wicked Witch has been planning this for at least that long," she says, slowly. "Maybe almost from the moment we all left Storybrooke."

Emma sits up. "So what does that mean?"

But Regina just shakes her head. "I don't know," she replies, and divides what's left in the bottle between their glasses. "But I have every intention of finding out."