Yet another banner day in Storybrooke, I tell myself as my watch beeps another hour. From inside my desk I hear my doughnut calling to me. I know it's bad for my weight, and my cholesterol, and terribly cliché – as Madame Mayor so kindly informs me – but I like them and I'm determined not to care. I bought it from Granny's, intended it for my lunch, but I'm hungry and I guess 11 o'clock is close enough. Besides, if I leave it, the cream will seep through, leaving a soggy mess in my drawer. If there's one thing I'd make a crime, it'd be letting a doughnut go soggy. That, perhaps, and being as pig-headed as Regina Mills.
The doughnut is most of the way to my mouth, just a few inches from destiny, when the phone rings. It's the emergency line, and I pick it up before it rings three times.
"Sherriff's department," I say, and fully expect the call to demand my help in rescuing a cat, breaking up one of Leroy's bar fights again. Crime hasn't exactly skyrocketed since the end of the curse and the battle for Storybrooke. With only half the population of before, life seems, if possible, even slower.
The voice I hear on the other end is frightened, small, and not at all what I expected to hear.
"Please, I think I've had an accident, and I have no idea where I am." I sit forward, drop my uneaten sweet to the desk.
"What can you see?" I ask, trying to keep my voice and breathing level. Accidents on forest roads, at this time of year, are sudden and quick, over before they begin. The roads twist and turn, and the overhanging trees cast shadows and hide the black ice that builds up on corners.
"A town sign?" comes the tentative reply. "I don't recognize the name. Storybrooke?" My hand is reaching for my keys before she has even stopped speaking.
"Hang in there," I say, shrugging into my winter jacket. "I'm coming." The streets are empty as the patrol car moves across town. I want to rush, to hurry along, but I cannot afford an accident myself. From the car's radio I contact the ambulance department, tell them to meet me. The road around that sign is dangerous, even after the boundary broke, and I know that the town will have to look into its roads' safety records, after this accident.
Eventually, I round a bend in the road and can see the tyres' tracks, skidding and slewing across the road. The car is not visible, so I leave the cruiser and follow the marks, off the road and into the woods. There, heart clenching, I see a familiar black sedan, its bonnet crushed against a tree, windscreens shattered and smashed. There's no fire, no immediate danger, but there's no occupant either. The driver's door stands open, and footprints lead away from the wreck.
"Hello," I call out, hands cupping my mouth for greater effect. "Regina!" There is no answer, and I head in the direction of the footprints, climbing back up the bank towards the road, beyond that dangerous sign. I clamber, slipping, up the incline, holding on to small saplings for support, When I reach the top, I find myself directly behind a hunched figure, crouching down beside the tarmac, her expensive coat muddied, hair in disarray.
"Regina," I repeat. "Are you OK?" She turns around, and I see a long, shallow cut across her frightened face. At the sight of me, she closes her eyes and sighs with relief.
"Are you the Sherriff?" she asks, hope flooding her voice. She reaches out a hand and lays it on my arm, fingers gripping the leather of my jacket. "I'm sorry to call you out. I don't know what happened. I just found myself here. Well down there, and I rang the only number I could think of." The tone of voice is so unlike herself, unguarded, softer, but before I can answer, can ask what's going on, the flash and noise of the ambulance roar up the road, stopping carefully next to us.
The paramedics jump out, and run towards her.
"Madam Mayor," the first one says, shakily, his eyes darting to me for reassurance. The title is old, now, but folk are still wary of using her name, and 'Evil Queen' is hardly the way to address a patient. "Are you alright?" She nods, a strange kind of sideways shake, too indecisive and vague a motion for Regina Mills to make. As they rush forward, she pulls away from me, smiles, and gestures at her face.
"Just this," she says, but there's clearly more. They move her into the ambulance, sitting her on the bed, breaking open sterile bandages and cleaning buds. I hesitate as the medics tend to her, knowing that if I am wrong, I will be the one needing an ambulance, then decide I have to risk it. I take out my notebook and pen, clear my throat, and fall into my official role.
"Can you tell me who you are?" I ask, as if routinely. A moment passes in silence and then she seems to collect herself, drawing her shoulders higher. Then comes that megawatt smile, the insincere, Mayoral smile that I have seen directed at me so many times before.
"Sherriff," she says, and her tone is light, condescending, "I'm Regina, the Mayor. Surely you know that?" To others, perhaps, outsiders, it would be convincing, but she's trying too hard to be affable, repeating facts that we ourselves have told her. I laugh, a little huff of breath.
"Yes, of course. Just routine. Can you tell me what happened?" Again, there's a momentary pause, an instant of blankness. Her eyes flicker between me and the man carefully swabbing her face, judging, analysing.
"I must have hit a patch of ice. It was over so quickly, I can't really tell you." Now that rings true, but there's no need to lie. I smile, and check with the ambulance crew that she's good to go.
"Thanks, boys," I say, "I'll run the Mayor home. There's some accident forms to fill in." They smile at me, pat my arm, and nod, deferentially, at Regina, tell her to see a doctor in the next few days. Watching from the corner of my eye, I can see her confusion at their treatment. I jump out of the ambulance, hold my hand up to Regina, who takes it, daintily, and steps down after me. Once we're on the ground, the ambulance sets off, heading back into town, and we set off too, walking towards the parked patrol car.
"I'll have the garage come and collect your car," I say, "let's get you home." It's only as we reach the car that I realise, we're still holding hands. I let go, her hand resistant and unwilling, and as I look down I see the faint outline of goosebumps rising up her arm. It's then I realise how cold she must be, having waited by the road for me to get there. Her coat, although expensive and flattering, is hardly thick enough.
"Here," I say, pulling my jacket off. "Wear this, for now, you should stay warm." She doesn't complain, but happily shrugs the jacket over her shoulders, burrowing down into its warmth, pressing her face against its lining. There's none of the disgust or revulsion I expected to greet my offer, no fastidious sniffing or checking for dirt. I watch her as she climbs into the passenger seat and twists to fit the seatbelt. She pulls the sleeves of my jacket down over her hands, bunching the fabric over, closing the sleeves against the cold air. I turn the heater on full blast, and sit for a moment, until she catches my gaze. She shifts uncomfortably, and gestures forwards with her head.
"When you're ready then, Sherriff."
I nod, and the car moves forward, pulling out onto the road and towards town. We drive in silence, and I wait for her to correct my direction, comment and complain as we pass turning after turning that would lead us to the mansion. As we stop outside Snow's apartment, her eyes scrunch slightly, as if she's trying to remember something long lost. I run round and open the door for her, again offering my hand as she swings her legs out, heels wobbling awkwardly on the tarmac. This time, she lets go of my hand quickly, staring at it as if burnt. We climb the stairs to the apartment, and my keys are in the door before I realise my mistake.
"You have keys?" she asks, frowning. I nod, smile.
"Sure I have keys," I say, and usher her inside. She looks around, taking in the wooden cupboards, the artificially rustic decor, and frowns.
"I don't live here," she says, suddenly certain, "This is not my home."
I shrug, caught finally in my deception.
"No," I say, "I do." She sits, heavily, on the couch, and refuses to meet my eyes. I sit next to her and cover her hands with mine. "Tell me, Regina, how much do you actually remember?" I make sure to keep my voice soft, reassuring. She sniffs.
"I remember that I would not live in a place like this. It's too," she grimaces, and waves her hands in front of her, "fussy. And I remember that I like you." I cannot help but laugh at her, but am cut short by her later words.
"You remember that you like me?" I ask.
"Yes, I knew as soon as I saw you. We're friends." She stops, and her face slowly falls. I dunno, perhaps I look as surprised as I feel. "We are friends, right?"
We're not, not even close, but she seems so sincere, so genuine. It's been so long since anyone looked at me like that, like they trust me totally, perhaps no-one's ever looked at me that way, and I cannot let her down.
"We are," I say, and am rewarded with a smile that melts my insides. Her hands turn towards mine, and she laces her fingers through mine. The touch of her palm sends shivers along my spine, and I feel myself blushing. "I think, you know, that we ought to get you checked out. See why you can't remember."
The drive to the hospital is again silent, Regina wrapped again in my jacket, hair smoothed and tamed by copious amounts of products I bought and never used. This time the silence isn't tense or awkward, broken only by soft breathing. As I drive, Regina's hand lightly trails across the dashboard, fiddling with the radio and air conditioning system. Occasionally, her arm brushes mine where it rests on the gearstick, and finally I feel a warm hand descend and cover mine, turn my head to see Regina staring fixedly out of the side window, and feel a small smile slide across my lips.
We enter the hospital, and the staff are hardly falling over themselves to see to the Mayor. She treats them all with equal, if detached, gratefulness, and frowns at the surprise in their expressions. Dr Whale insists on a CAT scan, to check for serious damage, and as she enters the machine room Regina looks at me.
"Don't leave me," she pleads, and I know that I won't. She lies down, pulling the hospital gown self-consciously around her.
"It's alright, Regina," says Whale, and his hand drops to rest high on her thigh. It's meant to be a comforting gesture, one he can reach from the scanner's control panel, but as he touches her I see her flinch, eyes fixed on the wandering limb, wide with horror. I clear my throat, loudly, and as he turns round, I stare pointedly, and he pulls his hand away, embarrassed.
"You have to leave the room, Sherriff," he says. "X-rays." Despite my promise, I know I will have to follow the doctor's orders, and make my way to Regina, laying small and fragile on the moving bed.
"I'll be right outside," I say, "with the doctors. And I'll be back soon." She nods, her mouth set into a grim, determined line.
In the next room, I lean against the wall and watch the coloured images move and change across the screen. I don't know what they mean, and the only thing that seems odd is why scientists would choose to display the brain in vibrant Technicolor. Surely there's a less… artistic method they could have used. After what seems like hours, but is probably only minutes, the bed starts again to move, pulling Regina out of the machine, exposing her to the light inch by inch.
"Talk to me," I say. "What needs to be done?"
"Well, we won't have the full results of this scan for a few days, but this kind of amnesia is generally transient – non permanent – so she should recover her memories from before the accident in time. Without any way to estimate how long she remained unconscious, I can't give you an exact timeline." The doctor shifts, uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. "In the meantime, we could keep her in for observation, but…" He leaves the sentence unfinished, as his eyes flit nervously to Regina, who is currently sitting demurely for the nurse to take her blood pressure, arm held out obligingly. The scene is so far from usual I can't help but expect her suddenly to snap, to stand up and yell at the other woman, storming out of the room with dramatic flair. With a sigh, I get it. She might not be the Evil Queen anymore, but she's still a difficult woman to please, and Dr Whale is protecting his staff from her wrath.
"So what's the alternative?" I ask, transferring my weight to one leg and shoving my hands in my pockets. I haven't forgotten the scene outside the mansion as the purple smoke cleared, I haven't forgotten the way Whale led the call for her blood, and my voice is hard and cold.
"If she returns to her own home, among familiar surroundings, it may trigger her memory." He stops, again, and rubs his neck. Whatever he's working up to, he thinks I won't like it. As it turns out, he's damn right. "She shouldn't be left, however. She needs someone to stay with her, overnight. For observation."
He wants me to be the one to stay, and her hopeful little smile from inside the treatment room just confirms I'm gonna have to say yes.