It's a tricky thing, making someone want you.
Emma's spent most of her life trying to work out the secret, only to discover that she'd never come across the kind of people those tricks would ever work on.
The day she realized that, when her birthday card for a not-the-worst foster mother had earned her a backhanded slap for 'calling me old', Emma reached very deep inside herself and vowed to stop trying, to stop caring if anyone wanted her or not.
Fifteen years later she finds out that her family wanted her all along, but they gave her up anyway. And sorry doesn't make up for the side of the highway and a lifetime of being returned like an unwanted Christmas sweater.
What does it mean to be wanted (she can't conceive that she is loved, because love doesn't feel like crying in the shower every night) when most of the time, she doesn't want them back?
Regina breaks the pattern. But then, Emma broke her curse, so it seems only fair in the end.
Regina wants things with a desperation that Emma hasn't seen anywhere but staring back at her from a mirror. They both claw at scraps of love, only to reject compassion and second chances because somewhere in all their disappointments, both women have developed a great deal of pride.
"I don't want this," Regina lies, grabbing Emma's shirt hard enough to make the buttons scatter on the floor.
"Good," Emma lies right back. "I don't want you either."
Emma should know better by now. Five months is barely time to admit she's happy, before a prince sweeps Regina off her once-evil feet. The fight is horrific, even by Storybrooke standards, and half the town calls the police before realizing the Sheriff is one of the screaming women amidst the smashing crockery.
Henry comes to find her that evening, when she's drunk and swaying on the deck at the marina, and Emma accepts his hand like a life preserver, pulling her back from more edges than can possibly be safe.
"What happened?" He asks, because kids are curious, and their kid is definitely too curious for anyone's own good.
"I shouldn't have wanted it," Emma explains, and Henry pats her shoulder like he understands.
The Bug is crammed full of her possessions, more gained in two years here than the rest of her life combined. Emma thinks about leaving the trinkets behind, the borrowed clothes that became gifts and the birthday presents on top of Christmas presents, some hastily shoved back in their wrapping to get the job done quickly.
Only one person knows her well enough to show up before dawn, and in her black trenchcoat Regina could be a Cold War spy. Emma wonders if they'd have done better with codewords and secret meetings, instead of trying to be like normal people, trying to carve out a fairytale that the books had no space for.
"Please, don't go," Regina asks, and it's the first time she's said please in so long, that it might as well be a foreign language after all. "Think of Henry. You'll break his heart."
"Like you broke mine?" Emma asks, placing the last box in the trunk and slamming it shut. On the empty street it sounds like a thunderclap, or the opening act of yet another curse.
"Emma, I'm sorry," Regina says, and for once it almost sounds sincere. She grabs Emma by the elbow, pulling her into a kiss that makes them both cry before their lips part. "It's better to hurt each other now, than two years down the road."
"I hope you'll be very happy together," says a robotic voice that Emma can't believe came from her. A smile is too much to ask, but at least she doesn't confess the truth: that she wants them to be so miserable Regina will come running after Emma before the month is out.
"Leave an address," Regina warns. "And try to be happy for me, some day. He'll make a very good husband."
"I would have made a pretty good wife," Emma lies, but when she turns around, Regina is already gone.
Emma changes her number when she reaches Boston. They have her address, at least for the next month. That's enough time to decide how thoroughly she wants to disappear.
Twenty-eight days later, there's a pounding on the door, just before dawn. Emma stumbles, panicked, through boxes of still-packed possessions and wrenches the door open, gun in hand.
"I was wrong," Regina says, and Emma checks the marble floor to make sure a gateway to Hell hasn't just opened up. "I want you, Emma. I want you so much it terrifies me, and nothing else is going to do."
"You married someone else, Regina," Emma reminds her, hoping nosy Mrs Swanson isn't already on the chair behind her front door, spying on the neighbors. "
"No, I didn't," Regina confesses. "I postponed, and postponed. I faked illness, and then the stress of it made me truly ill. I knew I would never feel better again unless I came to find you."
"What makes you think I want you back?" Emma demands, still blocking entry to the apartment with her body.
"Because I know you, as well as I know myself," Regina challenges right back. "And no matter how much you wish you didn't, you love me, Emma Swan."
Emma should slam the door in her face for that (there's a rule, just because nobody said it out loud doesn't make it any less real, and that's a word they're not ever supposed to use).
Instead she lowers her gun, and Regina is in her arms before anything can be done about the door.
"I want to start again," Regina promises in a ragged whisper against the column of Emma's neck. "Henry does too. We missed you so much."
It's a tricky thing, making someone want you.
But however she managed it, Emma can't help but be glad she did.