When the World Turns Its Back On You, an once upon a time fanfic

When the World Turns Its Back on You

"…you turn your back on the world." Regina curses herself with new memories and crosses the town line so she can find a life of happiness, obliterating Regina Mills entirely. What she hadn't counted on was her darkness following her, going by the name of Emma Swan. ("Sometimes the darkness is so great, only darkness can save it." Dark Emma/Saviour. Swan Queen. Post The Miller's Daughter.)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters contained within nor the show from which they appear in. Any coincidence to real life is unintentional. This story is not used for profit and is for entertainment purposes only.

References to Buffy, Chicago, Lost Girl, Miami Medical, The Princess Bride, Black Swan, Fangirlin'It's story, This Happens to All Heroes. Lines from Melodies of Life. I also do not own any part of those nor the song 'It's a Sin.'

The lyrics for 'It's a Sin' by Eddy Arnold are as follows, as I did not feel they flowed with my narrative by inserting them:

It's a sin, my darling, how I love you

Because I know our love can never be

It's a sin to keep this memory of you

When silence proves you've forgotten me

The dream I built for us has tumbled

Each promise broken like my heart

It's a sin, my darling, how I love you

So much in love and yet so far apart

It's a sin to hid behind this heartache

To make believe that I've found someone new

It's a sin to say that I don't miss you

When people still know I'm in love with you

I'm sure you're happy with another

Who shares the love I couldn't win

Why pretend that I can't live without you

When deep inside I know that it's a sin

TRIGGER WARNING: Suicide, sexual situations and language are present in this story.

Author's Note:I have been working on this story for nearly a month, since The Miller's Daughter aired. It has been an arduous process and it is rather long but I could not break this up. I hope you enjoy it.

It makes you want to die.

When your heart breaks, you should, too.

There's a nightmare you've had, one that's plagued for as long as you could remember. In it, someone reigns over all you can see, committing the most awful of atrocities. Someone stalks all you've loved, hurting them in every way you can imagine, and even more that you couldn't even fathom. The nightmares always end the same though, as the ones you cherish are broken before your nightmare, they plead for death and that person grants it to them, like they were some benevolent ruler.

You open your eyes and the nightmare is you. That person who keeps living, living to see all you love crumble away, right there in your arms where they should have been safe.

It's enough to make you want to wreak your vengeance on all you cross. Not that you can spare them from your fate but simply because you want none of them to ever grow close to you, because that would damn them and you don't want to hurt anymore. There's nothing left for you but your anger, your darkness, your evil. When all you've loved has been taken away, they take your love with them.

So there.

There's nothing good left in you.

Nothing but vengeance.

Henry's still alive, but in some ways, that's more painful than him being dead. Yet, there's a thought that won't stop haunting you, now more than ever. Once upon a time, he loved you. Bad things happen to people who love you.

They die.

(In your arms.)

You can't decide whether your fear for his life is more than your need for vengeance.

You cry because you can't stop loving him.

"Regina," Rumplestiltskin calls to you. His voice echoes softly in the crypt.

There's a dim awareness you've got, that your knees are numb, that the cuts from the thorns are still bleeding.

Rumplestiltskin draws closer— you can sense it even though he moves silently, like a snake. "Give up this feud."

That snaps you into action, rage boiling hot and instantaneous in your veins. "You dare to tell me to give up on my vengeance! To stop searching for my happiness?" You whirl around to face him, the familiar mask of indifference upon his face.

"Only Henry's left," he reminds you, and there's something off about how he says it, your protectiveness rising. "If you keep at your revenge, something could happen to him."

"I would never hurt Henry," you snarl and throw the flowers to the ground, raise yourself to look him in the eye.

Gold shrugs flippantly. "You didn't mean to hurt Cora, either."

That strikes harder than any physical blow ever could.

Everything drains from you again, the emptiness filling you once more. "They have to pay."

"For something you would have done?"

You're so used to yourself, the truth doesn't hurt. "She was supposed to be good. She wasn't supposed to hurt me like this."

He steps closer. "You were taught how to be bad, how is Snow White any different? You went after what was hers, Regina, can you really blame her?"

"No," you answer softly. "Nothing will ever change. I'm the Evil Queen. Everyone I've loved has died in my arms."

Gold lays a hand on your mother's coffin. It's sacrilege, you think. "Have you ever considered changing yourself?"

"I have, I did. They won't ever forgive me, they didn't believe in me."

"Emma didn't believe in you, is what you mean."

You glance sharply at him.

His smile doesn't lose its edge. "You were used to Henry not believing in you, you didn't care about everyone else, and you knew Snow wouldn't, either. You finally found someone who could understand you, dearie, isn't that it?"

Fear floods over you and you struggle to breathe. "That's not true," you manage to bite out, gasps thankfully being omitted from the statement.

He laughs through his nose, obviously skeptical. That he has the powers of a Seer bothers you.

You can't win. Now Rumplestiltskin is on their side, heralding peace and moving on.

But there's something that gnaws at your mind. You know that you're…passionate. What if you destroyed the last person you loved in a moment of blind passion? You wouldn't mean to hurt Henry, but it could happen. You changed but you still wound up hurt again. You just can't change who you are, there's no way you're cursed, that's it and—

"You know how to do it," you whisper. "You created the Curse, so you must know."

Gold lifts an eyebrow. "Do what?" He questions.

The bag of flowers crunches under your feet. "To write my Happy Ending."

It figures Snow White would choose now, of all times, to come knocking at your door.

"Regina," she says hoarsely. You quirk an eyebrow because she looks simply wretched. "I'm sorry," Snow makes out plaintively.

You've already made your decision but there's no sense denying yourself a little fun before doing so. Without pretense your right hand shoots forward and yanks her heart out before she can even gasp. "I cast the Curse because I wanted to kill you and here I finally am, your heart in my hands."

"You have every reason to hate me, Regina, just don't take it out on my family," Snow pleads.

"Why shouldn't I? You didn't afford me the same courtesy," you shrug.

Snow bristles. "That was about Cora, not you."

You smirk victoriously. "So you admit it was about revenge, vengeance, then? And why didn't you simply control her? Imprison her? Because you hated her. And me. So you got us both in one swift blow; I have to admit I'm impressed."

"That was to protect my family!"

"Keep telling yourself that was the only reason," you coo condescendingly and it delights you the way her face folds from infuriated to squeamish. "Don't give me that sanctimonious spiel. We're the same: we've done despicable things to protect those we love. We've killed in pursuit of our Happy Endings. But the thing is: you'll always be forgiven. No matter what good I do, the second something good happens to me, it's ripped away."

You're leery of the situation, wondering how Snow possibly could have snuck out without anyone tailing her. Perhaps they are watching, too frightened that the wrong move would cause your grip to clench and to erase her forever.

"My mother was right: love is weakness. I wanted to experience Real Love and it got her killed. Because, my dear, no good deed goes unpunished."

"That's not true," Snow denies and she twitches like she wants to touch you and you're slightly horrified that a part of you wants her to.

"What was it like, Snow? That's how I killed your father, too. I had someone else do it for me. I manipulated love for evil."

Her face contorts, memories of her father's death, no doubt, pressing on her mind.

"You thought about it, you knew the options. The 'good' choices, yet you chose the 'evil' one. Tell me, Snow, how different are we, now? You'll know in your heart of hearts that you cost me the one thing you believed in so strongly–that no one should lose their mother."

The look on Snow's face dawns as dark as the setting sun. Idly, you wonder if that's what your mother wanted, for Snow to become dark, like she apparently viewed Snow's mother. It hits you then–that you both were just pawns in the schemes your mother hatched.

But your mother is a part of you and you can never run from your evil.

"At least you feel remorse," you sneer, and add, because you're full of spite, "this time."

Snow looks appropriately wounded. "I am sorry about Daniel. Now more than ever."

"Of course, since all that's happened was because of it. Well, not really," you amend. "I suppose it was our mothers that began all this. Sorry doesn't bring her back or absolve what you've done. I know. It's how you'll never forgive me."

"Do you know what I never had the courage to ask my mother?" You speak to Snow gently, like you did when you brushed her hair for her, before the visions began. "Why I was never enough for her. And, guess, just guess, what she told me right before she died?"

Snow keeps crying.

"That it would have been enough. That I would have been enough. So you were correct in that I never knew real love from my mother, but in her final moments. You see, I'm at a crossroads," and you drum your fingers around her heart in a bored fashion, slightly disappointed that you already cut your nails. "I finally got what I'd always wanted and then it was taken away from me, by my own hands. It's funny, really. I took my father's heart and he died; I gave my mother's back and she died. Funny in the same way mortal agony is," you laugh, hollow and bitter, as you tighten your hold on Snow's heart and she doubles over in pain.

And just like that, Snow overcomes her pain and manages to twist her head so she can glare at you. "Cora was evil, Regina, she hurt you, even. Regina, she tore out her own heart," her agony is painful even to your ears and you curse the wetness in your eyes.

"She may have been evil but she loved me! What does that tell you about me?" It hurts you that even now, even after everything, you're still confiding in Snow, still talking to her, still spilling things to her.

How terrible you two have become, such a far-cry from that stretch of time so long ago when you both were pure and good.

Snow gazes at you with such feeling that your entire being weakens and crumbles. You've waited years for her to be truly sorry, it's all you've wanted from her from the very beginning, if you weren't so foolish and naïve, so obsessed with magic, so you.

"I loved you," she admits quietly.

"And I loved you," you whisper back, "and look where that got us, Snow. We can't forgive each other because we don't deserve it."

"Forgiveness is an act of compassion," Snow says after a moment. "It's not done because people deserve it: it's done because it's needed."

"But we still haven't forgiven each other," you counter. "You've not forgiven my mother, nor I your father. We've done dreadful things to each other, and I'm not ashamed to say that I've done far, far worse, not even just to you. The things we've done, well, they're not things that people just forgive."

Snow looks affronted at the possibility that people can never forgive others. You don't know why it's a surprise to her. She knows just as well as you that you've not any compassion left in you.

"I've thought about it, you know, long and hard. What I could possibly do to avenge my mother, to pay you back from something that I would have done." Your words are slightly garbled at this point but you don't care anymore about putting on a face for Snow, protecting her from your real feelings as you did when she was a child.

"And do you know what I came up with? Nothing. So I'll leave. I've had it. There's nothing I can do to give you the same amount of pain that I've endured at your hands. Not even killing your precious Charming or Emma."

Snow's already huge eyes widen to a size so impossible you would scarcely believe it if it wasn't reality right in front of you. "What?"

"There is no happiness left for me in this life, so I'll fashion a new one. One where I will find happiness and you will never be able to take it from me again." You maintain eye contact as she watches, horrified beyond belief, as you return her heart to her. "What will hurt worse? You'll have to live with the knowledge that I am the better one, that I held your heart in my hand and showed you mercy."

Her hands immediately go to rest over her heart. You're sure you've upended her world for the…hell, even you've lost track.

"So I want you to live, Snow White, knowing that I will have happiness again, and you'll be stuck here, unable to take anything from me. Ever." You step closer. "Again." You're so close now that you can feel the anxious jets from her nostrils end on your face. "Because I'll be 'good', I'll do 'good' things and you won't be able to hurt me because it will no longer be 'me.' It's okay now because I'm evil but you won't lay a finger on someone 'pure.'"

Snow's eyes dart all over your face and you can practically hear her mind whirring. She's having difficulty thinking through this problem, this puzzle, just like when she was a child. She was always gifted like that, not so unlike Henry. It makes your chest squeeze a little when you think of how raising Henry could have been the way you raised Snow.

"Goodbye, Snow," you finish, closing the door behind you as you brush shoulders with Snow: gently, as befitting a final farewell.

When you cross the town line, you'll forget Regina. Forevermore.

You'll have parents who doted on you and loved you. You'll have memories filled with Real Love and she'll even have had True Love but they will have parted so they could pursue their dreams and freedom.

Because a Happy Ending doesn't have pain gnawing at you incessantly. Your guilt won't be a constant cloud over your head, your anger and hurt and pain won't be inhaled through your lungs every time you breathe. Angst won't punctuate your lunch break and fear won't rouse you from your sleep. People can look at you and you can look at them without an abiding awkwardness or hatred in every second.

You try to smooth out the crinkles in the wrapping around the flowers you left in your family crypt hours ago. It took you awhile but you gathered all the petals that were stomped off and placed them on top of the coffin.

It doesn't come as a shock that your hear her shuffling at the entrance of the crypt. Her mother was always a wrench in your plans, too. You wonder if Snow told her anything, but you use your magic to check that she is, indeed, all by herself.

Just like you.

"I'm sorry," Emma says, just like her mother. She takes another step closer to you. You straighten and look down your chin at her. She's still wearing the same outfit when you last faced her, so you look down your nose at her but she's used to that, now, and doesn't back down. Not like she ever did.

"Save it," you say, folding your arms around your middle. "It's worthless if you don't mean it. I know you didn't like my mother."

Emma shakes her head. "That's not it." You suck in a sharp breath. "I'm sorry for not believing you. Well, I mean, I did but then I didn't and that's what got us into this whole mess in the first place."

Her babbling confuses you, as always. "What, Miss Swan?"

Running a hand through her hair, Emma sighs. "You don't think about it, Regina? What would have happened if I kept believing in you? Do you think you would have believed Cora—"

"You don't get to say her name!" You bellow.

Emma blinks at you. "Look, I'm not saying that my mom did the right thing, but Cora needed to be stopped."

You purse your lips but cannot bring yourself to deny the truth.

Apparently your silent acknowledgement was not what Emma wanted for she huffs angrily and strides toward you. "Dammit, Regina! I'm sick and tired of that shit! You think that just 'cause you clam up and lash out, nobody knows what's going on with you!?"

You blink, confused. "Why are you so angry? Don't tell me you care."

Emma looks positively livid and the colour infuses her cheeks. "Can't you see she's not worth hurting yourself over? She's the one who killed Daniel!"

"Do not speak his name!" You threaten with the force of the entire world. "How are you any better, Miss Swan? You took Henry from me."

"And I would do it again, and again, so you would never hurt him," Emma threatens lowly, within a foot of you.

"I won't be the one to hurt Henry," you tell her, watch her carefully. "Do you honestly think that their love for Henry, for you, for Snow, outweighs their hatred for me?" She exhales shakily, loudly. "Do you believe that their need for vengeance will be stopped by their 'goodness?' It certainly didn't stop your mother."

Her shoulders slump in accordance with the fight leaving her. You know Emma does understand why you still love your mother, so you don't accuse her like you would anyone else. She looks sideways for a moment before gazing up at you from under her lashes. Your heart catches for a moment. "I know how you feel, now, Regina, about Henry, about magic."

"Excuse me? How do you mean?"

Emma sidles a little to the side and closer to you while keeping her eyes firmly situated on her feet. "Henry found out that I lied to him about his father."

"Oh," you say softly. "That's certainly…familiar." You watch as she fiddles with her hands. "I felt you in the barrier," you say and immediately regret speaking.

"Huh?" She whips her head to you so quickly her hair whips your face a little. She murmurs her apologies as you bat away the strands from your face. "How could you tell it was me?"

"Gold was in no position to perform magic," you fib. She eyes you, the half-truth good enough to pass her stupid lie detector.

"Yeah," she drawls, skepticism arching her brow. "I got pretty good at making barriers: it took ages for the second one to be broken."

"Really?" You can't help but be a little impressed. "So Gold is your master now? Careful, he was mine, too. He starts out that way, you know, making it seem like you're doing magic for you when it's really for him. But what do I care? In a few minutes, I won't."

"What do you mean you won't?" Emma demands. Figures she would latch onto that instead of the important warning you issued.

"I'm leaving." You huff irritably.

Emma mimics your pose and folds her arms. "Good. It'll be better with you gone."

"Fine."

"Fine!"

The two of you are so childish, standing side by side, disappointed and angry.

"I understand what it's like to run away," she ventures.

"When you're deceived into killing your own mother, then we'll talk understanding," your voice drips with scorn. "Besides, I told you not to talk to me."

Infuriated, Emma gets right up in your face. "Karma's a bitch, isn't it? You deserved it. She deserved it. Evil can't love. Love is what makes you human. She ripped her own heart out. At least my mother feels remorse for what she did, which is more than I can say for you."

She continues to spew out a mixture of truth and slander and you let her. It's far more painful for her, as with her mother, to live with the knowledge that their last actions and words toward you are hurtful, so their guilt will gnaw at their good conscience.

Emma's upset and hurt that you're not only leaving her (like all the others) but are rejecting her to the point that you will be eradicating her from your very mind.

"Yes, I did deserve it," you agree and it calms Emma. "She did, too, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. This all needs to end, Emma, and it cannot end while I am here, while I am just…me."

Something clicks in Emma's mind and her face betrays her. "Wait, can you even cross the town line? You didn't have any memories implanted from the Curse." She looks over the coffin and notices the dagger lying in repose next to the flowers. "You're going to curse yourself," she breathes in understanding as your jaw tenses.

"Brilliant deduction, Sheriff," you laugh. She lunges for the dagger but you anticipate her poor attempt and blast her away, a bittersweet feeling at using magic for one of the last times. Since Emma apparently wasn't instructed on how to defend herself, she goes flying out the doors of the crypt but she somehow twists and grabs the door with her right hand but the force from your magic wins out and she yelps as her hand slips and she tumbles the rest of the way out of the crypt.

You and Gold had already prepared the spell beforehand, and all that was left was for you to blood-bind your new memories using the dagger he provided for you. It's kind of simple, infusing a person with new memories, but since you were the one to cast the Curse, things were slightly more complicated.

For a second you think of Henry and you still the blade above your left wrist. For a second you lose yourself in love before you remember that you can't chain yourself to it anymore. It would become your Master once more and you would be that abused, mean dog that begged for scraps from it.

You quickly pierce your flesh and drop the dagger, your left hand trembling violently. The pulse in your right wrist is loud and mighty, drawing your other hand to it, the flesh already beginning to sear with the marking.

"Regina!"

Emma Swan, however, has other plans for you and she grabs your hand with hers and it burns.

"Let go!" You screech but the spell has already started to work and your magic is worse than unpredictable. "Don't you dare deny me this!"

"Shut up!" Emma snarls, her grip beyond painful. "You can't do this! This is wrong!"

You stop struggling for a moment and gape at her. "Incriminating me for wanting to be happy?"

Emma's grip loosens minimally. "You really think this will make you happy, Regina? Forgetting about Henry, even?"

"You don't understand this," you answer. "Take it all away, Emma, all the magic, all the love, all the hope and what's left? Me. That's what I have left, nothing but me. There's no happy ending for the Evil Queen, and I, just like anyone, want one."

She looks almost lost as she stares at you, and you're swayed slightly by the tears pooling in her eyes. "…just because I understand doesn't mean I'm going to let you do this."

"I do not recall requiring your permission to do what I want to myself," you snarl, incensed, and use the moment to yank your hand out of hers and bring it over to slap it against your other wrist.

You hear Emma's voice and a thousand little pricks on your wrist before your eyes close.

The first thing you're aware of is an immense pain emanating from your left hand. Groggily forcing your eyes open, you look to the burning sensation, a shallow wound beginning approximately 1.5 inches below your wrist and ending just under your ring finger. Your tattoo is smeared with what you hope is your blood.

The alarm blares on your phone in your coat pocket, the vibration scaring the piss out of you. You grab it with your right hand and stop the alarm. You're going to be late and you really don't have the spare cash to book another flight. You've your emergency med kit in your car so you can take care of your cut on the way to the airport.

A groan pulls you out of your pre-freak out warm-ups. You scramble to your side: woman, blonde, five-eight, looks to be around thirty. Gently, you find her pulse, deem her condition to be non-serious, feel around her head, find the humongous lump. Concussed. Likely knocked her head on the coffin.

You remember her: she's the Sheriff. There was a blockade on the road, of course the one time you actually stop in this hick of a town. Sheriff Hot-Pants here was finally taking down the barricade when she saw someone busting into this crypt. You heard a scream and you rushed to help her because someone, like, maybe, her, could be hurt and it's your sworn duty to aid others. There must have been an assailant or, or something because your hand is cut and you were kinda passed out on the ground next to the Sheriff.

"….'gina…." the Sheriff mumbles incoherently, as befitting a concussed patient. You dial 911 and tell off the operator for not wanting to help on account that you sound like some bitch they know. "Regina," the Sheriff speaks fluently and your attention snaps to her. She struggles to sit up and you help ease her into a sitting position. The Sheriff looks up at you and recognition blazes in her eyes. Good sign.

"Okay, Sheriff, I want you to follow my finger with your eyes, and," you waggle your finger in front of her eyes and recoil as she grabs your hand.

"Regina, I'm fine," the Sheriff whines.

You pull your hand out of hers. "I'm not Regina, you're concussed, Sheriff, and you need proper medical attention, which is on its way."

"Don't leave me," the Sheriff pleads, her voice breaking.

"I have to," you insist softly, treading carefully. The wail of the sirens cry ever closer so you hazard trying to move her. She's quite compliant, if a bit creepy with how she's looking at you, all sad and hopeful, like an orphaned puppy in a box on the street during rainy weather that's gone hungry because nobody wanted it and shit you're already tearing up. You pull it together like a champ, though, as you two exit the crypt to the ambulance pulling up at the curb, behind your car.

"Where are you going?" She tugs on your arm as you veer away from the ambulance.

"I've a flight to catch," you tell her but she persists in holding your arm. You look to the paramedics who are sporting rather angry looks. "The Sheriff has been concussed, minor scratches but it doesn't appear to be anything serious. She may be a little delusional, she thinks I'm some woman named Regina," you inform them. They pause on their way to the Sheriff to look at you strangely.

Sheriff Rapunzel grips you with surprising strength and twists you so that you're face to face. "You are Regina," she obstinately insists.

You fling a disbelieving look at the paramedics who happily extricate the Sheriff from you. "Well, thank you for all your help, Sheriff, and I hope you make an expedient recovery."

"No! Stop! Let me go!" The Sheriff growls at the paramedics as she attempts to chase after you. "I can't let her leave!"

There's a chill in the air as she speaks the words and you turn on your heel and power-walk your way to your car. The sounds of the Sheriff struggling with the paramedics follows you the whole way. It makes you…want to run. You nearly break the key off in the ignition in your haste.

Out of the rearview mirror you spy the Sheriff bodily shrugging off the paramedics and stumbling as she tries to catch up to your car.

"I'll find you, Regina!" She screams at the top of her lungs. You're blindly trying to press the switch to roll up the windows, to block her words before she can become a blip in the mirror. "It doesn't matter how long it takes! I WILL FIND YOU! I'LL ALWAYS FIND YOU!"

You're gripping the steering wheel so hard it takes you hours to pry your stiff joints from it, the words of that woman terrifying and infuriating you to the point there's bloodstains left on the wheel from both hands.

Your flight to California took forever, mostly because of the stuffy old man who picked his nose sitting on your left but really it's just because you kept hearing the Sheriff's words cycling through your head constantly, even over the sound of the coot flicking his boogers at the window.

The first time you see it is in October, approximately two months after you left Maine.

Your new position as a surgeon at an intimate hospital near Santa Maria draws just short of epic. There are plenty of nice people on the staff and you wonder if it's because they actually get to see the sun out here instead of their breath like in Maine. A friend from work, Karen, kinda steel-armed you into helping her shop for baby stuff, cribs and that whole lot. She's just ending her second trimester and her boyfriend has been working some overtime, citing that her plans for the nursery were beyond the means of any normal working-class person.

He always dotes on her like that.

Karen has dragged you into what must be the fifth baby store when something tickles right under your shoulder blade. You turn around to see nothing but your reflection in the mirror of a little play pen but as you peer closer, your eyes appear to have changed colour to a greenish tint. You blink and they're back to normal. Shaking your head, you turn back to see Karen gushing over a rosewood crib.

"Look at this," she squeals excitedly, hand unconsciously going to rest on her stomach. "Isn't this mobile pretty? It's got all sorts of animals on it, Enrique is sure to love it!"

"Plus they're all silver so you can play with the lights and their reflections, to entertain both of you. Even adults love the shinies," you chuckle as her eyes get large with excitement.

Karen nudges you. "You know a lot about babies." You mindlessly toy with the silver swan on the mobile. "Why didn't you go into pediatrics?"

To save lives is engrained on the tip of your tongue, but it sounds trite even to your heart. "It's where I was supposed to be," you shrug. "God, I hate swans." You bat the object fiercely and turn away.

You hate swans but you are obsessed with Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake (and, if you're truthful in the shelter of the blinds in your apartment, Black Swan.) There's something you love about the White and Black Swan, how it's essentially the same person, the haunting melody so beautiful it twists your heartstrings and coils them until they want to break to be free from the pain.

The next time you see it is when this super-cute guy from ER asks you out on a date and the two of you are boozing, having a few laughs, when he leans forward to kiss you and his eyes shine a bright emerald. When he pulls back, they're light blue again.

You lift a shoulder when he asks you for another date. "I want a cookie, not a boyfriend."

Sometimes, when you've just finished your graveyards, a single person will stand out from the throngs of people on the street. A mane of golden hair and bouncing curls separates from the crowd, always holding hands with a little brown-haired boy.

That's when you decide to pop into the nearest pizza parlour and remember that one sit-up you did this year.

You can't comprehend why you sometimes twitch when you hear the word 'Mom.' There are a few names that do that to you, too, like Daniel and Emma and Henry. It's the same sort of pain when you think of snow. The prickles in your eyes and heart slowly but surely piercing you in a depth that words never should. It's as if that prickle took residence and clawed its way into your throat and died there, the desiccated corpse suffocating your life.

After another exhausting day, you slump into the bestest most comfortable La-Z boy in the history of ever in the break room at work. Chris eyes you with that same sorta smile on his face.

"What?" You always humour him.

"Nothin'," he shrugs. "You just look so, I dunno, regal, like that chair is a throne."

"Well it's mine," you laugh hollowly.

You've noticed that there are five days out of the year that you are inexplicably broken. There are tears when you wake up and your hands are digging into the skin over your heart so tightly that you've gotten scars from the action. Everything simply hurts for the remainder of the day and you feel a disconnect from reality, like you're a ghost and you're merely watching your body from the astral plane and directing it with a mechanical precision.

Not one to believe in hocus-pocus being something other than a trippy movie from your youth, you nonetheless can't help the thought that something is sort of magical when the day after your birthday, you see her.

(Your birthday cupcake wish was spent on wishing for a total mind repression of her. Figures it would come in a roundabout way, like some sort of epic closure moment. You've never been one for half-assing things, anyway.)

You're a quarter of a mile from the hospital, at the ass-crack of dawn, when you see her lying in repose on the ground, a few stragglers coming to see what the fuss was about. "Hey! You're a doctor, right, can you help my friend out?" The man who left the Sheriff's side to accost you on your way is really hot, in that scruffy nerf-herder way that you've always liked.

It's kind of a pathetic ruse and normal people would ignore it or alert the authorities but you're not normal and there's a sort of finality that can be achieved in this, right here, right now.

So you level him with a condescending look and he flashes you a charming smile that's surely won his way into many…things. "Really, Sheriff, stalking is unbecoming of an authority figure."

The shadow you've always known for the past two years grins up at you, strangely pleased by your telling her off. "I require medical attention," she informs you, gesturing to her ankle and tilting her head so you can see a three inch cut across her cheek.

You stop yourself before your inspection turns into a caress.

"Lots of attention," the man jokes and grunts when the Sheriff backhands him in the shin.

"It's legitimate," the Sheriff assures. "I was tracking someone from home and they gave me the slip."

"Well, aren't you punny," you tease and bend down to look at her ankle. She hisses slightly when you poke at it through her pant leg. This time she's wearing a pair of jeans and boots, coupled with a periwinkle shirt and an incredibly tacky leather jacket that's seen better days. Quite a far-cry from the classy outfit you last saw her in, but it still seemed to fit her well. "Lucky for you, I think applying a bandage and ice pack is within my repertoire. So, who were you tracking from home?" You ask as you and the man help the Sheriff up.

She leans a little too heavily on your shoulder. "Fugitive from justice."

Your professional diagnosis concluded that the Sheriff is, indeed, an extreme klutz. Her ankle was a bit swollen and there were scrapes on her right shoulder, complete with a super nasty bruise forming at the apex. Her boyfriend had left to get something to drink while you finished patching up the woman. It was sorta awkward when you were cleaning the cut on her cheek, the woman watching you carefully, the sweetest sadness in her eyes.

"My name is Emma," she whispers, unwittingly adding to your quixotic thoughts.

You fight desperately against the feeling crashing over you because you'll drown. "Eva," you inform her with a quarter-smile because people tend to get dizzy when you unleash one full-blast.

"Eva?" Emma snorts. "Couldn't resist one last dig at my mom, huh?"

"Excuse me?" You blink, your fingertips stilling on the rise of her zygomatic arch. She starts to lean against them and you pull away abruptly.

"Sorry," she says and you're unsure of what exactly she is apologizing for. Emma is flexing her right hand slowly and running her fingers against the palm of it. You spy the broken skin dotting along the knuckles and sigh, preparing more cotton swabs.

"A concussion usually doesn't last this long. Did you acquire a more severe head trauma?" You frown with concern, mentally kicking yourself for not following through on her care, being selfish and stupid like that.

Emma shakes her head quickly and you tut at her, pointing to your cheek. She grins sheepishly and settles down, flinching mildly when you dab at her knuckles. "No, it wasn't anything severe. I was, just, confused, I guess. You," she struggles for a moment and you pause, the swab hovering above her knuckles, her hand in yours. "…you look like someone I…knew…from home."

You tilt your head quizzically. "Regina?"

The name off your lips tastes a little like poison but Emma lights up at the sound. "Yeah. Yeah," she repeats to herself, eyes clouding over. "She…died that day."

"Oh," you breathe out a little louder than you intended. Your fingers play with hers for a moment, the action comforting the both of you. "I'm sorry for your loss," you say politely.

"So am I," she says and you can feel her eyes on you as you resume cleaning her hand. "Henry misses her a lot."

You're used to the sensation, so you school the clench of your jaw to the side not visible to Emma. "Her family?"

"Ours," she says after a beat. You take a deep breath. "I wish I was there when he was a kid."

The urge to pry pounds in your head but you brush it off, look to levity instead. "You and your boyfriend will make beautiful babies," you give her a half-smile this time, to assuage her pain.

Emma's smile is gentle even if her eyes are probing. "We already have."

Awwwwwwkward, you gulp as silently as you can. You set aside the used swabs and use your right hand to flip hers over and your left one is inching toward it when it jumps back seemingly of its own accord. You hyperventilate as the scar on her right hand is revealed to you, nearly identical to the one on your left.

"Re—er, Eva, uh, are you okay?" Emma is quick to try to calm you and her eagerness endears her to you.

Standing, you turn your back to her and begin cleaning up the refuse. It has to be a coincidence. Well, she was chasing someone from the crypt…OHMIGOD! What if it's like some sort of serial killer and they've been tracking you and Emma is here to save you from some sort of psycho? What if Emma is the psycho?

"Emma, is someone after me?" You demand, whirling back to Emma and bite back a laugh as she literally jumps off the table, eyes going wide.

You're kinda into awkward Emma.

(When you and her boyfriend were helping her to the hospital, she was nothing short of rude to him and various on-lookers and you're a little aghast that you find her abrasive, brash side horribly endearing as well.)

"Whu-wha-no!" She vehemently answers and makes to grab your shoulders but stops at the last moment, fists forming instead that slowly drop to her sides, like a robot shutting down. "I know people from Storybrooke call me 'Saviour' and all—"

"Saviour?" You cut her off, arms folding. "What have you come to save me from? You?"

Emma rolls her eyes. For some reason, this simple, common–place gesturing has your heart fluttering. "No, of course not, I was just bragging a little." She purses her lips as the two of you stare at each other.

You cave first. "You're clear to go."

"Wait!" Emma nearly shouts and when you stop from your position in the doorway to look back at her, gone is the aggressive posture from moments before. "I…forgot to thank you."

Casting a glance over your shoulder to see your friends mouthing nonsense, you flip them the bird and turn back to Emma. "It's my job," you clarify and you can see the little cogs in her pretty head churning.

"Snacks!" She chirps.

You feel your lip curl in confusion and notice that Emma appears transfixed by the movement. "Snacks?"

"Yeah, uh, you know, to, uh, thank you for having to put up with me and taking care of me and stuff," Emma explains poorly.

You decide to put her out of her misery. "You've gone through an awful lot of trouble to ask me on a date, Sheriff," you smirk as she blushes.

Emma's eyes crinkle and her face makes a sigh and the smile that appears is somewhat…more, than the others she's shown you and it makes you feel light-headed. "Well, I'm leaving tomorrow."

"And you're not planning to take me with you?" You joke.

Emma smiles tightly. "You're not the one I was trying to bring back."

(That hurts you deeply, for some reason.)

She shakes her head and looks to the side, her bandaged cheek facing you. In your mind's eye, you can still see the cut, and the most tender ache to touch her forces you to bite your tongue. "Sorry," she apologizes again. "There's a café a couple blocks over that has the best bearclaws, 'The Big Bear,'" she makes a funny voice when saying it and you have to stifle your giggle but she catches it, anyway. Emma's eyes smile and you feel yourself begin to blush. "Do you know it?"

A trickle of anticipation worms its way down your neck. "Yeah."

"Yeah, I can meet you there after you're done here, for, ya know, snacks and stuff," she grins and it's sorta charming even though you hate that word with every fibre of your being.

You smile and roll your eyes. "Okay, I'm done at two, so I'll see you at four."

Emma is gawping at you when you conclude your eye roll. "Uh-huh," she eloquently agrees. She shuffles a little and hooks her thumbs through her belt loops. "So I'm gonna go. Have a good day patching people up and saving lives or whatever it is you do."

With that, Emma scurries out of the room and bowls into her apparently not-boyfriend and he waves exuberantly back to you before Emma forcibly drags him out the entrance. Karen and Chris immediately convene at your side, poking you in the ribs until you push them back, fighting a giggle.

"Dude, she's hot," Chris informs you and doesn't stop staring at the doors where Emma left until you smack the back of his head.

"She is pretty," Karen agrees and smirks at you. "Your hotness just reels 'em in."

"Guys, shut up," you implore petulantly. "She's leaving tomorrow, so don't get all excited."

"Like you're not," Chris huffs.

Your scar tickles and you rub it until the skin is burning.

Never in the history of nevers, will you admit how long you toiled over picking out the right outfit for your sorta-date/possible prelude to kidnapping with Emma. Karen informed you that you were being overly paranoid but agreed to be your look-out in case Emma or her baby daddy or whoever else tucked into the shadows of their cover story follows you and tries any funny business.

Because that's definitely not what you need.

You settle on a soft, lilac-coloured sundress that's casual but still classy and appropriate enough for a date and not a hidden message saying 'take me. In any way, shape or form.'

It's a few minutes before four when you arrive at the café, taking a soothing breath as your hand lingers on the warm metal of the door handle. You can see Emma through the window, her back to you. Pulling your shoulders back and giving your hair a toss, you yank open the door and stroll in…and abruptly get plowed into. You stumble for a few moments, gracefully, of course, and are thankful your heels aren't too thin. You right yourself and bring your head back up to glare at the offender when there isn't anyone at eye-level.

"I'm sorry," a hesitant voice pipes up and you tilt your head down slightly to see a boy with shaggy brown hair and Emma's eyes looking up at you.

(But then again, a part of you always sees Emma's eyes.)

Your stomach plummets momentarily before you glare at him. "It's okay," you answer instead, your face transforming into a bright smile instead of a scowl. You lift up your sunglasses so you can see him the way he is. "Are you alright?"

The boy's lower lip is fighting back a tremble. You wonder if he got hurt; maybe his nose crashed into you at the right angle, it could explain why his eyes are welling up. He nods slowly. Your hand touches the top of his head for a moment before pulling back. "I'm sorry," he repeats.

"I know," you answer hesitantly and watch, confused, as he bites his lip and throws his arms around you. You're aware that some people are starting to stare so you pat his shoulders awkwardly. "Hey, kid, everything's okay," you whisper, various reasons for his behaviour popping into your head. Was he abused?

"No, it's not," his muffled answer makes its way to your ears, all broken like dreams and love.

You startle as that thought flits about your head.

The boy pulls from you and struggles to smile up at you before he shoulders past you. The door bangs shut behind him and you stare out the window for several moments, watching him run from you.

Emma's back is still towards you when you meander through the crowd, embarrassment colouring your cheeks. She's sitting in the prime spot of the cafe: a pair of cushy chairs and a small table right next to a large window that catches the sun brilliantly at this time of day. You greet her by calling her name and she snaps to you, like she was naught but a stranger in the world until you arrived.

There's something in her eyes that makes you want to hold onto her forever.

"Hey!" Emma makes out stiltedly and she shoots up from her seat, hands flying about to fix her hair and…you bite the corner of your mouth when you look over Emma's gentle, light green sundress, a cut similar to yours.

"My heels are better," you sniff but tamper it with a wry grin and sit, feeling pleased when Emma waits to lower herself into her seat after you. "Chivalrous," you note and Emma's cheeks turn pink. "You're sure you're not a Princess instead of a Saviour?"

"I would've sat down first," Emma counters with a smug smirk.

You cross your legs slowly and note how Emma's eyes struggle to remain on yours. "Unless I was a Queen," you say lowly and breathe deeply as her eyes darken.

"Or an old–timer," Emma quips and you break, chuckling softly. Her curls are golden in a way that steals the sunshine pouring through the window. You look out through the window, mindlessly searching for that lost boy. "D'you want something to drink?"

You blink and return your attention to her. God, she's pretty, you think fleetingly. "I can see you held back," you note and indicate the crumbs littering the plate next to her.

Emma laughs bashfully. "I was a little early. I wanted to have this spot."

You nod. "It is beautiful."

She gazes at you with a half–smile playing on her lips that makes your heart catch but her words make it stop. "It is."

You're certainly in for it, now. To cover up your smitten self, you raise your right hand to flag down an employee. Emma clears her throat and you look back to her. "What is it?"

"Cool ink," she says and you quirk an eyebrow at her. "Well, y'know, trying to segue politely into getting you to tell me something about yourself," she huffs and leans back in her chair, all childish and pouty.

"It's a feather," you drawl condescendingly, just to get a rise out of her and she doesn't fail to disappoint. You let her stew for a couple more moments before offering your wrist to her. Immediately her dark expression lifts into one of curiosity and she cups your hand in hers and uses the back of her nails to trace your tattoo, sending tingles sparking throughout your body. "I like freedom, running. I kinda ran away a lot as a kid," you admit, the words tumbling out as your ears heat.

Emma stares at you. "You run away, like I have. It's like our roles reversed. God, Regina, that's fucked up. You want to be like me because I'm the only one who found happiness."

"That's a lie," you snap immediately and collect yourself. Emma gapes at you and something about the sight is so familiar it tinges your frustration with fondness.

"I'm sorry," you both apologize at the same time. Emma's hands tighten around yours when you try to retract your hand.

"No…Eva…"and you frown at how Emma struggles to say your name. "I'm the one who should be apologizing. I shouldn't forget who I'm with," she says and looks out the window, grip hardening for a split second before she drops her hands to her lap, gaze turning to them.

This is easily the strangest experience you've ever had in your life and you cannot fathom why, but you're transfixed. There's a part of you that is literally screaming to be closer to her while another is adamant in the idea to run from her as fast and as far as possible. There is a moment where these two desires war inside of you before you remember that you hate black and white and choose neither option.

You simply stay.

"Emma," you say softly, injecting her name with gentleness like the ocean kissing the sand. "I forgive you." You reach across the table between you and lift her jaw with your fingertips so that your faces are level.

Her visage was passive but then she looks up at you from under her lashes, raises her head and smiles and you can see why Regina loved her.

"Can I help you?" A lanky man beckons your attention from over your shoulder and you withdraw your hand, Emma jerking after it.

"Uh, yeah," Emma recovers quickly. "We'll take two apple ciders," she says.

You grimace. "Not for me, thanks."

She gawps at you.

"I hate apples," you inform her as the flush leaves her cheeks. "A cocoa with cinnamon for me, please," you flutter your eyelashes up at the guy and he grins back at you before leaving.

There's something odd in the way Emma looks at you, an absurd concoction of contradictions. Her gaze is intense and harsh before it morphs into one that you've only ever dreamt of.

(You've always wanted someone to look at you like that.)

But you don't believe in love at first sight. Because that's what true love is. You believe it's something to be worked for.

(Sacrificed for.)

The two of you must have spent an inordinate amount of time staring at each other for the man returns with your drinks and sets them down on the table, breaking up the tension.

Emma reaches for her mug and the action reveals her scar to you. Your heart-rate quickens when you think of how it would feel, winding its way across your skin, if it feels like yours, how Emma would apply pressure to the wind of your ribs…

"Are you alright?" You ask as Emma begins to splutter, nearly dropping her mug. Her eyes comically widen and peer at you over her mug, her body hunched over, a blush on her cheeks.

Her garbled reply and subsequent flailing are beyond amusing. You lean back in your chair and sip at your delicious cocoa and find that you're incredibly peaceful in this moment. You and Emma spend the next half-hour gabbing and jousting at each other, Emma proving to be both an easy target and formidable opponent.

You're laughing at something that would normally make you scowl and you're having such a good time, your hand alights atop Emma's knee across the table. Shaking your head, you begin to pull back but the sight on Emma's face anchors your fingers to her, renders you immobile.

Emma looks like she wants to cry.

There's something about this moment. It strikes hard and beautiful against your heart. You want to beg her to stay by your side always. You want her to fall to her knees before you in supplication, whispering your name against your thighs, her lips searching for absolution in your skin. It's as if you can see the two of you, now and then and to come. You can picture yourself watching her, brushing the life of her curls behind her ear long after they've shifted from her face and you can literally feel yourself slowly bending down and pressing the most intimate of kisses against her cheek, hoping to burn your love forever into it.

You both surge forward and stop yourselves inches from each other, exchanging harried glances back and forth towards your eyes and lips.

"Can I kiss you?" Emma whispers.

She acts like it can come true, when you know it can't.

(Even though you've cultivated the hope and dream inside of you for a long time.)

"This isn't some fairytale," you caution as she gazes at you and the emotion in her actions turns your insides to ash. "When I kiss you, you don't wake up from a deep sleep and live happily ever after."

Emma kisses you then, soft and chaste like you were some precious gift. Her lips linger on yours long after they stop moving in tandem.

Her eyes glisten red in the sunset. "No. When you kiss me, I want to die."

You want to tell her.

Tell her.

Tell her.

Tellhertellhertellher.

That you, too, feel like dying when she kisses you.

But that it also makes you become alive the very next second. That you see the beauty of the world compressed in the reflection of her eyes. That you just experienced the stuff of legend, that it was one of the fabled 'Eight' greatest kisses of all time.

(That you can see yourself being able to fall in love with her.)

Your pager beeps and duty tears you from her.

Emma is swallowing a sob while you snarl obscenities at the device, exasperation driving you to your feet with more force than necessary. You stumble on your heels and Emma is instantly in front of you, steadying you.

You've six seconds to break out of the hold before oxytocin floods your system, so, with effort, with will you didn't even know you possessed, you step out of Emma's hold, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on your waist. Overcome, you brush the back of your hand to her cheek and blink rapidly when she sighs against it. "You found me," you whisper.

Emma shakes her head, face contorting in anguish. "You're leaving me again."

It's funny.

"I have to," you repeat and you're not sure how much of this good–bye you're going to be able to bear.

She gulps audibly and entwines the fingers of her right hand with your left. The pounding in your hand mesmerizes you and you can feel something a lot like sleep beginning to shut the curtain of your eyelids. Fear, however, runs hot and frigid down your spine and you're wide awake and making your exit, Emma's hand holding onto yours as long as possible.

(Funny in the same way agony is.)

"…Emma," you say her name like there was so much more before it, things you and her were thinking and things you weren't even aware of saturating her name. She doesn't say anything but her eyes scream it all. You turn and grind your teeth together when your fingers slip from hers and your feet bring you to the door, hand hovering above the handle.

Something forces you to incline your head back to Emma. Her shoulders are heaving, head burrowing into her hands, like the darkness found in them will comfort her.

(The sound of the door shutting behind you follows you for days.)

Surgery took four hours. It was easy to lose yourself in the task, your duty, your mission.

The second it was complete, however, your sensations crashed upon you from all angles and you had to choke back your own emotions. Every scene replayed in your mind, various little details and eccentricities of Emma piling upon you and you find yourself crying silently, phone pressed to your ear.

You can't stop thinking about that kiss.

The kiss was far too intimate, but that's what Emma wanted, so you let her. She wanted Regina to kiss her, after all.

(Part of you feels betrayed by that.)

It's just… It's like you're ripping apart at the seams and someone else is crawling their way out.

You cluck your tongue as you glance at the clock on the wall. You've missed the entire forty minute conversation.

This whole thing has shaken you, rattled you and unwound you. You can't stay here, you know this now. You'll come back to visit Karen and Chris and your other friends but you can't be here anymore. Not when you know this place holds memories that threaten to overwhelm you, where your damn cupcake wish backfired.

You know what you must do.

First: hang up. One step at a time. These are things you can handle.

"Goodbye, Mother, I love you." You end the call. Sighing, you run a hand through your hair and turn around and immediately freeze.

He's there.

Nightmare made flesh.

Monster in the form of a man.

"You're so very predictable, dearie," and his words wriggle their way between your vertebrae.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you engage instead of walking away, alerting security, anything.

"How were Henry and Miss Swan?" He inquires instead, mimicking you, mocking you, impeccably pressed pinstripe suit, cane for clubbing for…

"I don't know, old man," you snarl, sweat beginning to pool in your socks, running, running, you have to run—Emma. Today you met Emma. Today you came face-to-face with your nightmare.

It's no coincidence that they both speak of a Henry.

"I knew it!" You hiss vehemently, more to yourself, more because you don't want to deal with everything. "I knew she was some sort of psycho! Tell me: am I next on her hit list, the next body for her collection?" Your mind whirls with images and stories of those kinds of sociopaths, menaces to society.

The man laughs, hearty and warm and the combination gives you pause. You draw your shoulders back when he meets your gaze again, a chilling sort of mirth in his eyes. "None of the above, dearie. At least, not yet," he adds, ominous words wrapped in nonchalance. "You may call me Mr. Gold," he bows and the lower he dips, the higher your chin rises.

It appears that he's waiting for your introduction but fuck politeness so you sneer down at him, which apparently pleases him.

"What do you remember of Cora?" Gold presses.

"Her smile," you answer automatically. "…I don't know any 'Cora.'"

Gold studies you, a crease appearing on his forehead. "I see," he says.

"See what," you huff, irritated.

"You shouldn't have remembered," he shrugs.

Your left hand instantly clamps itself to your tattoo, gripping so hard your knuckles turn white. "I've nothing to remember."

The man smirks and it's equal parts pitying and triumphant. "I suppose not. I just had to see for myself, and… to make sure. But it's of no matter to you, Eva," he draws your name out like poison and you find that you'd rather the poison of 'Regina,' instead.

Damn his cryptic ass, you think sourly as he inclines his head. There's the ding of an elevator behind you and you turn to it out of instinct. When a nurse gets off and sends you that polite smile which you reciprocate, you remember that, hello, danger, and turn back to Gold but you're met with nothing but an empty hallway and goosebumps.

After a few days with no incident, you finagle a transfer to Miami.

Three months and you're settled into Miami. Not as well as you had in Santa Maria, though, and some days you feel it.

(Like a void in your chest.)

You alternate between being furious with Emma and wishing that either of you had the strength to stay. Sometimes you think you're losing your mind. Sometimes you see Emma when you wish to, when you hope, when you dream, really, really hard. But you're scared. So you run again.

One day you ran for so long you stumbled upon this quaint little bar three miles near your apartment. It is always clean, and nearly always vacant, except on Saturday night, where it's packed with all manner of people. You haven't a clue as to how the place stays open. Every once in awhile, you see the proprietor, a cute old man who always tips his hat to you, and looks like he hasn't a care in the world. The two of you will sit at the bar at any and all hours, just listening to his ancient music collection and the impressive vinyls he's got stashed in his safe for after-hours.

Three months and you've never been trapped. Three months of sighs and anger and seclusion. Three months of wearing your favourite dress to the bar on Saturday night and three months of staying well after everyone else had left.

It figures when you've nearly lost it, she finds you, again.

The scratch of the needle against the record is identical to the one that crawls up your spine, from L5 to C1, through the very hollow of your bones.

"Hey."

You swivel on your stool and nearly tumble off it when you behold Emma in quite possibly the most seductive little crimson dress you've ever seen, or maybe you're just drunk enough to forget everything but her. She looks as surprised as you are, every bit as lonely and dark. There are matching circles under her eyes but when she looks at you, she seems to light up and become alive. The two of you take your time sweeping each other's form and you struggle to reply back when your gaze gets stuck on the generous cut of her dress, her chest heaving slightly.

"You're a stalker," you rasp out, far less defensive and suspicious than you ought to be.

"You wanted to see me," Emma replies, a jagged edge to her voice. You cross your legs against the flood of desire that's welling between them.

Your ears prick as you discern the song that started when Emma arrived. Taking a huge gulp of air, you slide off your stool and stalk up to Emma. "This is my favourite song," you inform her.

The lights are down low but you can see how Emma's eyes darken the closer you step to her. You frown as you peer closer at them. They don't look the same. "Do you want me to go?" Emma inquires, stands stock still as you edge ever closer to her.

You can smell her, now, and it drives you a little wild.

(You could never imagine her scent and there's not much you can think of to describe it other than Emma.)

"Do you know this song," you ignore Emma and begin to sway a little. She shakes her head slowly and takes an audible breath when you place your arms around her neck and draw closer. "It's sung by Eddy Arnold. 'It's a Sin,'" you explain while you tilt your head to breathe the words under her jaw. Emma trembles violently and her hands grip your hips and yank you so that you're flush against each other.

"…I wanted to follow you," Emma admits, her nose brushing against yours. The pounding in your chest is nearly unbearable. "I wanted to find you, I wanted to stay with you," she whispers against your lips like tiny little promises.

That doesn't make sense, you think absently. Didn't Emma find you just now?

"Every night, every day, I think of you," Emma continues, fingers flexing against your skin. "I just wanted to see you but I couldn't find you, you left me again and it's not fair of you to ask me to never leave you because I promised I would always do the same thing, I'd return to you, every time, no matter what," she rambles hurriedly, her words sticking to your upper lip and you should be frightened and backing away because she's making no sense but you're only encouraging her as your fingers weave their way through her hair and down her neck.

Both of you gasp, something primal and needy, when Emma slips one of her thighs between yours. Your body arches up of its own volition and her hands descend to grab your ass and yank you further up. It's the single most erotic experience you can remember and thinking of what it would be like when the two of you go even further makes you shudder so hard you nearly buck off her.

"Your cab's here," the bartender's voice cuts through your lusty haze and everything plummets as you return to reality.

You tear your eyes open to find that you're by yourself.

(If it was a dream you never want to wake.)

You're taking a leisurely stroll in the park when you stumble over your own feet when you spy Emma sitting on a bench. She looks melancholy and vastly out of place, in plaid pajamas, putrid yellow fuzzy slippers and coveting a bowl to her chest. Her eyes are blank and she doesn't seem to notice your approach. You halt a couple of feet in front of her and lean down to see her eyes rimmed with red and the green prominent in her irises so that she reminds you of Christmas.

(It's silly, but you want to have an authentic pine tree and presents and some geezer crooning in the background and Emma in a red ¾ sweater with a black skirt and tights and ridiculous Scooby-Doo socks and her pressed against the wall, pinned by your lips, her smile against them being your favourite gift.)

"…Hey," you wave a hand under her line of vision and she startles.

There's your Emma. She's clutching her bowl of Froot Loops like a life-line and she kinda gapes at you when you lower yourself next to her on the bench. "I wanted to see you," she admits.

"Did you miss me something fierce?" You tease, just a hint of mirth and a lot curiosity.

She frowns in a way that's more like pouting and you scooch closer to her. Emma watches you and how the back of your left hand brushes against her right. "Yeah, yeah, yeah I did," she says softly and leans against your shoulder.

"I've got to get back in a couple minutes," you warn her and begin to steel yourself to leave her again.

Emma looks down for a moment before nodding. She shifts the bowl of cereal to her left hand and wraps her right arm around you and burrows into your side, head going to tuck itself under your chin.

It's nice.

(There's something about simply touching this woman that makes you feel full and elated.)

"Holy shit!" You yelp, startled, as you open the door to your apartment and find Emma sitting in your chair, lazily flicking through the channels on the television.

Emma doesn't look the least bit guilty so you scowl at her, a silent reprimand. She grins cheekily up at you and you know enough of her to realize that's as close to an apology as you're getting. "You wanted to see me," she says, bright and chipper.

You furrow your brows in confusion, as she almost always says that when the two of you are together. It's a bit odd that whenever you truly want to see her, you do. Whether it's here, or a flash of her in your normal life, Emma finds you.

(Or you always seem to find Emma.)

"I see that you like 'Lost Girl'," Emma teases, waggling her eyebrows. You slug her in the shoulder as you plop down next to her and she winces comically and collapses into your body. "You wound me."

"You're fine," you growl as she continues to drape herself over your body, all your senses firing up and escalating ever higher.

Emma rolls her head so that her chin is resting on your breast and looks up at you. "Kiss it better?" She implores.

Your mouth goes dry even as your body instantly assents to her request. She smiles as your hand brushes the hair out of her face before tilting her chin up so that her lips mold into yours. Your desire sky-rockets the instant your lips connect with hers and soon enough, her tongue edges at your lips, itching to take your contact further. As soon as your lips part, Emma shifts into something far more assertive and her body surges up and into yours even more, her hands moving to hold your face in place as your hips rise into hers.

After several moments that you wished stretched for eternity, she retreats, leaving the both of you flustered. It's her eyes that finish you, though. For weeks they were sad and angry, dark and calculating, but now, now they're hers again, the real Emma. Your hands wind their way from their position on her back to her stomach and she moans as they worm their way under her shirt and up. As soon as they conform to the contour of her breasts, Emma grinds her hips down on yours, both of you groaning and she brings her arms down to rip her shirt off before diving forward to attack your neck.

She crushes her body into yours so completely that your arms are pinned. You struggle for a moment to reposition them so that you're grabbing her ass to pull her further into you. There doesn't seem to be a way for the two of you to be even closer, but you both try, anyway. Emma pauses over your pulse point for several seconds before lapping up the sweat forming there.

You thrust your hips forward and she nearly falls off if not for your firm grip on her. She takes the opportunity to whip your top off and the cold air against your skin creates the most delicious sensation, magnified by the way Emma gazes at your body before dragging her gaze up you, sensual, adoring, breath-taking.

She cups your cheeks and if there are tears in your eyes, you feel better to see them reflected in Emma's. "You're beautiful," she tells you.

"So are you," you remind her, eyes searching for hers as she looks downcast for a moment.

"I know you're a good person," Emma murmurs, confusing you. "I don't care about anything else. Everything about you, everything that you were, are, will be…" she trails off and you're sure she's looking at you, but not just you, all of you. "…I want it all," she asserts, a fierce look of determination in her features.

(A part of you is worried that she's talking about herself, now, too. It worries you but it also bolsters you and makes you love her all the more.)

Once more she's waiting for your express permission and the gesture touches you more than anything you could have imagined. You touch her cheek gently and smile as she looks to the hand before returning her eyes to you. "Emma," and with the way you say her name, you think you've given her the most precious gift of all, the way you light up when you see her do the same. You swivel on the couch and lower yourself, Emma taking care in how she maneuvers after you.

You want to echo her declarations but there's a part of you that's missing in order for you to do that, so you nod instead, letting her take as she pleased from what you have to give her. She seems to understand and she looks at you seriously for a moment and you stare back until you see the happiness begin to filter back into her eyes.

Emma hones in on the scars above your heart straightaway. Perhaps she's of the mind that she can read them like a storybook if she looks at them long enough. She's settled on top of your hips, elevated enough that there's little to no pressure on your body. You watch her closely as she peers down at your scars and shake as the tips of her fingers caress each of them in turn. Then she slides further down you so her mouth hovers over them and she spends several seconds just exhaling on them, her lips centimeters above your skin, mouthing words you can't understand. She kisses the scars then, alternating between closed and open-mouthed as she tilts her head up and down, to and fro, a nuzzle against your breast.

The gesture was inversely possessive and reverent.

When her right hand begins to climb up your forearm and turn it so that you're palm up, while her left descends, you're assaulted with physical sensations bordering on the line of pleasure and pain and images you can't ever remember creep in the edge of your mind, coming faster as Emma places more pressure on your arm through her hand. It builds and builds and builds the closer it gets to your scar like some sort of beacon, some sort of Death Star ray powering up and she's inside you and you cross your eyes from the sensation. She lifts her hand up, completely parallel to yours and she tears her lips from your chest and gazes into your eyes. You're aware of how fast you're breathing and every–little–reaction your body is going through and how Emma is virtually a mirror of you.

The ashes in your body begin to spark as she stares at you and you can see her words in her eyes: intense, tender, sweet, damning.

Emma drops her lips to yours the instant her hand slams onto yours, your scars aligning, her claiming you in your entirety from your mouth. Everything explodes and you're crying and it's so painful in its intensity and pleasure that you've lost complete control and your only thought is that you love it.

"You'll come home to me, right? Because home is where the heart is. That's why I always return to you."

Emma is mumbling these words to you, long after you've fallen asleep. You're in that place between dreams and awake so you're not entirely sure she's saying these words. You can feel her body pressed into yours, her hand caressing your face and weaving its way through your hair.

"I'm stronger, stronger than him, I can bring her back, I will bring her back, this is happening this is real, somehow it's real," Emma murmurs, frenzied, garbled, elated.

A part of you wants to wake while the other is adamant that you return to the darkness. Something about her words trigger warning bells in your mind, for both aspects of you, the part that accepts what's happening in your life with Emma and another warning you that this is not supposed to happen.

You burrow yourself into Emma further and are relieved when she stops talking and holds you.

At this point you're used to seeing Emma in your place but something is different this time. There's something missing. You can't discern what it is but as you inspect her, you recoil when you see the litany of bruises and cuts that are visible on her body. "Emma!" You cry and rush to her and start formulating your response plan, which wounds you should address first, when she grips your arm and you stop, stop moving, stop talking, stop breathing.

Her hands are like death. Ice.

(Like alone.)

"I'll bring you back," and her voice is foreign to your ears, a forbidden promise dripping from her tongue.

"Emma, let go," you say sternly and only your body betrays your terror.

Emma looks up and you start trembling. Her eyes are colder than even her hands. Your Emma, Regina's Emma, is gone, utterly vanished. "No, you'll return to me, I have the power now."

You struggle in her grip. "Get out," you demand.

"No, I want to be with you. I'll keep you safe. I can protect us now, you don't have to worry," Emma insists, a manic plea underlying her words.

"Yes, I do have to worry, this isn't like you!" You shout and try tugging your arm out of her grasp but her grip is relentless.

She makes a noise and you think it could be laughter. "I thought you didn't remember me."

"Shut up! Shut up shut up shutupshutupshutup!" You start kicking at her and wrenching your body in every which way, hoping to get her to release you. "You're not my Emma, so get out of my head!" You roar so loudly your ears begin to hurt and your eyes are watering, because that's the only reason they are dripping with tears that's the only reason your chest aches and you want to die and—

…and you're alone. Your arm hangs limply at your side, light bruises already forming on it. The scar burns an icy river of blood and you feel so very, very cold.

She haunts your dreams and waking moments such that you can hardly distinguish between reality and her nightmare.

Three days of cat naps, coffee and twitching finds you stumbling through the hallways after another graveyard shift. Thankfully your predicament doesn't affect your performance at work, wells of adrenalin and willpower steaming your way through work. You can feel Emma constantly, knocking on the back of your skull, begging and demanding to be let in and you vehemently build the walls in your mind and heart to keep her away.

You just need to forget about her and everything can be normal again.

(But you were never normal, you never wanted a normal life. You always wanted that kind of romance and love but never imagined, in your naiveté, the amount of anguish and darkness you'd have to go through to attain it.)

At this point, you're rather fed up when the little boy you bumped into years ago is sitting patiently in the chairs of the waiting room, next to Emma's…whatever he is. Nerf-herder. Sir Scruff-A-Lot.

Except he's not so little, you remind yourself as he gets up and walks swiftly up to you the second your eyes land on him. "Mom," he greets you.

You frown at the title even as a part of your heart rejoices. "I'm not your mom, kid."

He stares at you, now at eye–level. "It's me, Henry."

It feels as if your entire chest seizes and you fight back the wheeze that's threatening to escape your lips. Henry and the man watch your reaction carefully. "You're Emma's son."

"Emma, Regina and mine," the man responds, moving so that he is shoulder to should with his son. "Neal," he nods at you, like the two of you have some sort of secret camaraderie.

Henry is desperately peering at you and you turn your head from him. You can't look him in the eye because you'll see your memories of Emma and then you'll care. "You need to come back, Mom."

Stop calling me that, you think fleetingly but when you try to say the words, your jaw shuts like a steel trap, punishing you for even thinking the phrase. "And why do I need to do that?"

Neal lays a hand on your arm and you recoil, jerking yourself away from him, hugging yourself, glaring at his soft eyes and compassionate expression. "It's Emma," he says, as if he didn't just discern your appearance, see the darkness and sadness in you.

Unfortunately your body must betray you for Henry's eyes (which you weren't supposed to be looking at) light up and something jovial emanates off him, despite the direness of the situation. "You can save her, Mom, you're the only one who can! She's gone…she's gone dark," he simmers down, and Neal's arm curls around his shoulders and pulls him into Neal's body.

"Oh, so she's gone 'dark'," you echo mockingly. "Might I suggest the mental institution? Instead of, say, a fucking stranger?!"

No. No. You're not angry. Being angry means you care.

"I can't save your precious Emma," you snarl viciously, clenching your fists so tight you cut your flesh.

"Of course you can't," this Henry says. "But Regina can."

You throw your hands up in frustration, forgetting that they're bleeding. "I'm. NOT. HER! Get it through your thick skulls! Your Regina is gone! I am me! There's no reason for me to help you!"

"But you love me," Henry whispers.

"Wrong." Your eye twitches. "I don't care about you. If I was this, purported Regina, and did love you, why did I leave you? If you loved me, why didn't you stop me? Why didn't you come looking for me?"

The kid looks to the ground, ashamed, curtailed.

"I thought so," you spit out, spite bubbling in your stomach and rising to burn on your tongue.

"Hey, that's not true," Neal cuts in. "We did go looking for you, we found you in California."

You exhale loudly through your nose. "Over two years after I left your dump of a town, and it was Emma who found me just like—" You stop yourself from revealing what's going on.

Henry, however, steps closer to you and you fight the urge to open your arms to him. "I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry it took me so long to accept that I love you and so long to find you. Please, please believe me."

You halt your frenetic thoughts as your throat closes and you start to cry. That's not you. It's not you.

(They're words you've waited so long to hear, confessions you longed to be true.)

"Emma loves you, too," Henry continues and he grabs your hands and you try to pull back, tell him about the blood and your teeth clatter when he claims he doesn't care because blood doesn't matter to him. "Please, Mom, please listen to us."

Neal lets the two of you gaze at each other for a few minutes before telling you what he's figured out. "Emma's already found you. She won't stop until you come back."

Henry doesn't seem surprised by the revelation. "She needs you to save her," he tells you.

"She doesn't deserve it," you snap and you know you're not talking about just Emma anymore. "No matter why she did what he did. No matter if she knows now that it was wrong and selfish and stupid it's just something she's gonna have to live with, alone and forgotten."

You're trapped. You have to choose between anger and love because you don't know how to be both.

"Weren't you listening?" They're imbeciles. "I don't care. All you want me back for is to fix your problems. I was fine before Emma found me. I didn't ask her to come looking for me, I didn't ask her to love me and I certainly didn't ask to love again!" Your tirade ends and your left hand frees itself from Henry's to touch at your lips.

You don't know where those words came from.

You don't know you.

There's a shock that travels through your body as you see Emma lurking in the shadows behind Henry and Neal, beckoning you.

"Mom!" Henry calls for you as your break free of his grasp with a surprising show of strength and dodge Neal's outstretched hands and you run.

It takes approximately 32 minutes for you to succumb to Emma's call, and you close your eyes, reveling in the darkness cradling you.

Time seems to have gone by in what seems like seconds to you, but you're jolted back to reality without warning, like waking from a nightmare and you gasp as you find yourself driving your car along a county road, the sky pitch black. Your control returns instantly and you ease up on the gas and your stomach clenches so that you swallow down your bile as your headlights shine on your destination and who awaits you there.

It is with great trepidation that you bring your car to a stop, mere feet in front of the 'Welcome to Storybrooke' sign and the old man, Mr. Gold, staring at you, gaze unwavering, as you step out of the car and pull yourself up short of the town line. You rub the tattoo on your wrist absently.

"I knew you'd return." His voice irritates you even more than his face. God, how you'd love to wring his scrawny little neck and–

You freeze.

That's not you.

You don't fantasize about goddamn murder.

"I just want to be free," you mumble instead, staring at the feather, mind easing into dreams of flight.

"At least that's the same," Gold says, louder than the echoes in your head.

"I'm a good person," you insist strongly. "I save lives."

Gold laughs and it causes your insides to lurch. "What do you know of goodness? Deep down, dearie, you are wicked."

(Damn his worthless hide!)

Your stride toward him menacingly. "I am not wicked!" You roar and cross the border, shoving him with all your fury.

He flies ten feet off the ground and drops with a sickening crunch.

You can't decide what you feel as you gaze from your hands to his crumpled body. Shock? Fury? Joy?

Then you remember yourself, your bloody oath, and race to his side to assess the damage.

"I knew you still had it in you," Gold coughs out, a strange mixture of pride in his voice as you help him up. "It will take more than just a push to harm me, dearie," he says, as if that was some sort of comfort for you against the assault you just rained upon him.

"I don't know what's in me," you tremulously admit.

He looks at you with a thoughtful expression and you can't decide how you feel about him in that moment. "You can find out," he says after a moment.

(Once the blackness is in your heart, it only grows.)

You want to be free but you can't be unless you're all…you. You nod.

Gold offers his hand to you and you place yours in it and the action makes him smile. You quirk an eyebrow and realize that you offered your hand to his, like royalty to a peasant. You hear a tiny pop and you feel like you're the ice cream oozing out of a dispenser, swirling like a twister, cold with just a hint of heat at the sensation.

You keep your hand in his as you blink your way through the puffs of smoke and clench your jaw as you realize you're in the crypt you and Emma were in all those years ago.

"Miscommunication, distrust…dark magic," he says, gripping your hand gently. "That's our problem, Regina. Power drives us, fills us, fills everyone who uses magic. No matter what kind of magic, the threat of losing that power makes everyone afraid."

Stepping closer to the coffin, you shake your head. "When you're away from your power long enough, it lessens it hold on you."

"It still called to you," Gold's voice echoes in the crypt.

"Emma called to me," you correct absently, looking over the coffin.

'Cora Mills.'

Gold relinquishes his hold on your hand in favor of placing it between your shoulder blades. "Remember all that you are."

You close your eyes as you touch the plaque proclaiming the resident of the coffin. There's a terribly warm sort of feeling that starts in your head before a painful throbbing blossoms on your wrists.

A smile.

A heart.

A love.

"She's really dead. And I killed her." Your memories filter into you like through a sieve and years of rage, heartache, love and vengeance fill you, bring you to your knees.

And it's back.

Back to you.

Both of you, now.

But just as importantly, you're back to magic.

It is so, so very happy to be back in you that it erupts into flames along the walls and you remember it all, Regina and Eva, and Rumplestiltskin so that you bring yourself up, his hand still on your back and turn to face him, his hand moving to your shoulder.

"Mom!" Henry's voice rings out in the crypt and you step away from Gold and run to your son, finally spreading your arms out to receive him and the joy that washes over you as he hugs you tightly is quite unlike any you've ever felt before.

"Henry, Henry, my son, I love you," you murmur into his hair and the both of you are crying and swaying with each other.

"Mom, you're really back," Henry confirms as he draws back, his hand holding onto yours, to make sure you don't slip away again, to make sure you know that he wants to be by your side.

"Yes," you say with a sad sort of resignation and notice that Neal has come to stand between Henry and Gold. Something is off about how he stands, as if he's protecting Henry and your heckles rise. "What has happened?"

"It's magic that's the problem," Henry starts and you tear your suspicious gaze away from Gold and back to him. "You're a good person, Mom, it's magic that ruins people, I figured it out. It changed you, Emma, everyone." You shiver a little at the mention of Emma. "When you didn't remember us in California, mom and I tried to find a way to get rid of magic. It's magic that took your memories away, so if magic was gone, your memories would return to you and you would come back to me," he says with such tenderness that you stroke his cheek.

"Henry, dear, only magic could have restored my memories. They were supposed to be destroyed but…"you pause, using both sets of memories to put the pieces together. "…except they weren't. Emma did something. I used the darkest of magic to eradicate my memories but they wound up sealed instead." You bring your left hand up and Henry looks to the scar and back to you, patiently waiting for you to explain. "It was blood magic…Emma had a cut on her right hand…she touched my cut…she was adamant that I not leave her or you…she must have accidentally used her magic when our blood connected…we were blood–bound."

Henry pales at your conclusion and you feel yourself do the same. "Why would you want to do that?"

"I didn't want to hurt anymore, Henry, please try to understand," you plea.

"You were gonna kill yourself…you did," he accuses and back is the petulant child that spent so many years chiseling at your love. But as your mind whirls to try and explain it to him, the expression lifts into one of sadness. "I'm sorry that you felt that way, Mom. I'm sorry that we didn't talk."

"Oh, Henry, so am I," you agree quickly. "I didn't know how to stop hurting and you were all I had left. I wanted to protect you and myself," you admit. "You…and Emma and the two idiots…I…"

You were alone.

They had all turned away from you and you were tired of trying to get them to return to you.

"I didn't know how to be both," you say. "How to be able to love despite all of my darkness."

"But you can, now?" He asks, hopeful. A fresh wave of love washes over you and you realize that you missed this, you missed how this could and does heal you.

You nod and smile tremulously as he mimics you.

The ground shakes slightly and you ensconce Henry in your arms to protect him. "What was that?" You demand of Gold.

"Emma," Neal answers you.

You hug Henry to your chest a bit tighter. "You said that I could save her, that I was the only one. Tell me what happened to her."

Gold clears his throat. "I tried to kill Henry."

Your rage crescendos in accordance with the flames still burning in the crypt.

"How dare you," you begin to roar and move Henry so that he is behind you.

"Wait, Regina!" Neal steps in front of you and if he thinks his worthless sack of a body will protect that far more worthless speck of a creature behind him, he is sorely mistaken—

"Listen to him, Mom," Henry grips your shirt and you obey. "I wanted you to be yourself again and I tried to destroy the well."

You swivel to face him and frown down at him. "That was dangerous, Henry, not to mention fruitless." You soften your face as you realize that was your knee–jerk reaction and remember that is something you wanted to change about yourself. "I'm sorry, dear, I'm glad you're alright and that you care for me," you smile at his shocked expression.

"A Seer foretold that Henry would be the one to take my power from me," Gold speaks and you whirl around, still shielding Henry. "…I'm a coward," he admits and looks to Neal who is fighting between anger and compassion. "Bae interrupted my attack on Henry and was bringing me back to my senses when Emma showed up."

"She had been trying to help Henry get rid of magic until one day when she started to use magic constantly," Neal says. "It got worse when Snow told us she was pregnant."

You tense. "Snow must have had the sense to tell her, or at least run the idea by her before she actually got pregnant."

"She did," Henry confirms. "But, it still hurt Emma, I think she felt like she was being abandoned again. She told me her first family…discarded her when they had a child of their own."

There's a moment where you want to destroy their happiness for doing that to Emma before you remember that it was you who damned her in the first place. "Snow wouldn't do that," you insist, startled by your belief in the one you once loved. "And Emma knows that," you say firmly. "But…by blood–binding us together, the magic may have taken root in her, caused her fears to escalate and overwhelm her, especially if it was untreated," you glare at Gold. "You used magic to appear before me, so you must have known."

Gold swallows, the only sign of his discomfort. "When you lie to yourself long enough, it becomes the truth."

You take a huge breath to try and reign in your fury. "Did Emma use dark magic?"

Neal licks his lips. "Emma was enraged and she started to fight my father. She shot at him but he used magic to stop the bullet in the air and Emma, I dunno, tweaked out and started to infuse the bullet with her own magic. They kept at it for awhile until Emma used dark magic."

"It was weak, considering the only dark magic she used was your connection through blood magic, and that was benign, benevolent, even," Gold tells you. For a second you feel better, ascertaining that the small shreds in time and space kept Emma sane, for a time. "I was startled, however, and managed to repel it but it was a reflex, I wasn't expecting her to be able to stand up to my power," he rambles and his agitation causes Henry to press himself into your back and you place your hand on his where he grips your shoulder to let him know he is safe and secure with you.

"The bullet ricocheted and hit me," Neal says and pulls the collar of his shirt down to reveal an inky blotch on his skin, evidence of dark magic.

"But you're alright," you say.

"Yeah," he nods. "Emma's necklace and the thimble from Wendy stopped the bullet from killing me."

You cock your head. "Not that Wendy."

Neal rolls his eyes. "Yes, that Wendy."

"Between you and your father, you've plenty of identities to fill a book," you sneer and roll your eyes back at him. Neal grins a bit and you fight the smile that threatens to surface.

"We tried to show Mom that Dad was fine but she just lost it," Henry steps away from you a bit but grips your hand a bit tighter. "She kept believing that she killed Neal and she said something about how there is nothing to distinguish between illusion and reality except for pain, and whichever reality hurts the most is real." He grimaces and you bite your lip, that line of thinking, those very words chillingly familiar. "She went mad, Mom, her magic just went out of control. None of us could stop her, and she just went on a rampage. She kept thinking that everyone was Gold and so she started to hurt them."

She killed people, you read in his words and the pain and guilt you feel threaten to overwhelm you.

"Grandma and Gramps couldn't reach her, either, but Mr. Gold drew away her fire and he and the Blue Fairy used their magic to trap her at home. The mansion," he confirms for you and the thoughts that he still considers that home warms your heart and banishes your guilt.

"She's expecting you," Gold breaks your moment.

"I should release her so we can get rid of you," your voice is oozing contempt and Gold snarls right back at you. "But I don't want her to suffer anymore so I'll let you be for now, but rest assured, Henry is under our protection now and further hostilities won't end in a peaceful negotiation," you threaten. "I'm sure your magic is protecting Snow as well as keeping Emma from further harm so that is enough for this time."

Gold has the decency to look ashamed and you hope that one day you and your family find a way to be rid of magic so that he can wallow in his cowardice and despair.

"Grandma talks about you all the time, too," Henry informs you and he sounds as happy as you feel about it. "She'll be happy to see you."

"I don't know about being happy," you shrug, "but once Emma is herself again, maybe we can try again to be…better," you attempt a smile but it comes out as more of a grimace. Henry, however, seems pleased by your willingness and smiles sweetly at you.

"The barrier around the mansion will allow you in," Gold says.

"You're not going like that, are you?" Henry looks you over with apparent disapproval that he picked up from you. You look down and laugh lightly as you take in that you're wearing jeans and a t–shirt. "She's expecting you, not you alter-ego," he crosses his arms.

"Power suit it up!" Neal exclaims and high-fives Henry and you think he's not so awful for a scruffy thief.

"Maybe take it a bit further," you grin wryly and wave your hand over your body to clothe yourself in one of your favourite gowns as the Evil Queen. Your hair is still short enough to avoid the intricate hairdo but you feel imposing all the same and take in the astonished stares of Henry and Neal, Neal's being rather inappropriate.

"Nice outfit, Mom," Henry smirks approvingly.

You cuff him lightly on the shoulder and he laughs at you and you think this is how it should always be.

Loathe as you are to do it, you face Gold. "Not. One. Hair. Else I'll make you beg me for death," you threaten him and he looks impressed. You're not afraid of his nightmare anymore.

"You can do it, Mom, you can save Emma. She wants to be saved like you did," Henry whispers as he engulfs you in a bear hug that you think he got from Emma. Six seconds…seven…ten…it fills you to the brim and you sigh, content.

Emma's presence is insistent on the edges of your mind now so you take it as your cue to teleport yourself to your home.

Not even a minute that you're back in your home before you're clenching your fists, frustrated. Emma has trashed the place. You can tell that she's been messy on purpose, likely because she knows it will bother you. Probably because she was hoping you could sense the disorderly disarray of your home and be pissed enough to return to punish her for her insolence.

Easily as it arrived, your frustration melts into pity and affection for the broken woman awaiting you in your study, a fitting parallel to your first meeting. You begin to make your way towards Emma when you spy letters written on your wall:

Alone for awhile, I've been searching through the dark

For traces of the love you left inside my heart

The words may have well been engraved upon your heart.

In your dearest memories, do you remember loving me?

Was it fate that brought us close and now leaves me behind?

That's right, you think to yourself. You left Emma more than anyone. The memory of the fire at City Hall and your fear that she would leave you crawls from your brain down to your scar and you scratch at it furiously.

If I should leave this lonely world behind, your voice will still remember our melody

In my dearest memories, I see you reaching out to me

It's simultaneously sweet and heart–breaking how Emma knows you so well. You think of all the times you saw her since you were Eva, you connection through magic growing stronger, day by day, sorrow growing when you tried to forget her.

Though you're gone, I still believe that you can call out my name

You have to hand it to Emma: from day one, she could always make you feel. So you stomp your way to your study, resolving to feel all of your emotions and finally being able to hold onto the contradictory feelings.

Yanking the door open, you filter your gasp through your nose so it sound more like exasperation instead of relief. You have to play this carefully.

Emma is dancing around the room gaily, with a fucking feather duster, and each time she brushes a book on the shelf it flies off, her magic making it twirl around her head before imploding, bits of paper slowly floating to the ground. She's wearing the same outfit as when you first met and she whirls around to face you suddenly and for a moment she is shocked, as if she can't believe that you really came for her.

For a second you see it.

It's still there, looking at you. Her eyes imploring you to hold onto her till time has gone past.

"I saw you," Emma sing–songs. "It was once upon a dream," she giggles, eyes blackening, not red and green, not reminiscent of Christmas and bittersweet happiness.

You bite your tongue. You're rather soulless in your darkness, not mad like this woman before you. A clearly drawn difference. One gap that you're not sure you can bridge.

(But there's so much of you in her that you have to try.)

"You couldn't leave well enough alone, could you, Emma!" You place your hands on her hips and give her Mayor Mills and she squeals gleefully at your potent rage. "Besides demolishing my abode in an uncalled for fit of madness," you yell so that she knows just how much you're incensed at her gall, "We've been manacled together," you inform her and raise your left hand and are pleased when she raises her right instantly, so that your scars are facing. Emma twists her hand and inclines her head toward it and turns it back as she connects her eyes with yours.

There's a soft sort of vulnerability in her eyes, then, that makes her human, that drives you with the urge to fall to your knees with her, to rest your foreheads together until everything melts away, a burn on the imprint of her place in your heart.

But you left her behind. She was right; your unspoken plea to her so long ago that she not leave you like the others. Emma heard you and she came back for you and not for the last time. Yet you still pushed her, pulled her, tried to forget about her, tried to leave her in every sense of the word.

Except she didn't leave you, her eyes cropping up in your thoughts. Your whole chest constricts, hundreds of memories converging to pool into a giant ache in the cavern of your heart.

You wound up hurting the one who answered your call, unleashed your worst fear upon her.

"Through magic," Emma claps her hands merrily. "And through Henry. Without him, we'd both be alone and miserable in the world," she confesses with a moment of clarity.

How true that is, you think and watch Emma struggle to be herself. It seems familiar, and it hits you then that you remember doing that, long, long ago, when you married the King. "I knew how to be good, it's just that I never had a reason to for a long time, and Henry changed that for me. So, thank you, Emma," you politely express your gratitude. "But…you need me to be evil, don't you," you coo softly. "Your light can't exist without my darkness. When I changed to nothing but light, you had to compensate."

"What?" Emma sneers, deciding on her darkness. "Are you going to be like everyone and tell me ya love me?"

"Of course not," you chide. "I hate you. I've nightmares of you killing me, realities of you taking everything from me. I hate you even more than Snow White." Emma smirks at your blatant lie, superior and jarring in a way that's reminiscent. So that plan didn't work, you conclude, and try a different tack. "Evil can't love, remember?"

Her posture snaps and she looks at you, wide–eyed and trusting. "But you do," she gently breathes the truth. "Everyone knows when your hearts breaks. Because you die."

Your body erupts in a violent shiver at her words.

"I was scared when you left, but mostly of magic," and this time it's Emma who lies but you let her. "He was right, ya know," Emma whispers like she's sharing a secret. "You don't have to fear anything if you can control it."

Not for the first time, you curse Rumplestiltskin. "Powers controls you," you caution. "I know what it's like to run away, to find comfort in magic, in power, in fear, in darkness." You begin to edge closer to her and she watches you, wary. You stop within an arm's reach of her. "Listen, Emma," your words reaching for that flicker of the woman trapped inside a lonely and broken heart. "I'm sorry."

Emma draws her head back, skeptical. "What?"

"I'll repeat it because it's important. I'm sorry. You know I don't apologize to just anyone," you remind her, breathing easier as her shoulders slump a little. "I'm sorry that I left you, that I've hurt you, that I didn't come back in enough time to be there for you. For Henry. For everything."

She gulps a lungful of air like she can't process your statements. "That's how it happened with my first family. I was good enough until they had their own child. Then they left me behind. I was no longer good enough."

Your heart lurches as your mother's final words echo in your head, thoughts of finally getting the answer to the question you had asked your whole life.

"Emma," you say her name gently, repeat it until she looks at you. "You are good enough. Henry still loves you, and so do your parents. Snow didn't do this to hurt you or to abandon you, Emma. Things were so messed up by the Curse that…that, things are confusing and, and messy but none of that means they love you any less," you assure and jump backwards as Emma's face snaps into unadulterated rage and sparks jet from her fingertips and scorch the floor.

"You're lying!" Emma accuses. "You're not Regina! She doesn't defend my mother!"

You bat away a book flying off the shelf and frown. "Of course I am, don't you dare tell me who I am and are not! I know it's a foreign concept and it makes me want to gag, defending her, but I can guarantee that this is me, Ms. Swan!"

Like turning off a switch, Emma's magic dies down and her chest heaves with the exertion. "I hate you," she declares.

"As you should," you agree but it doesn't throw her; rather it apparently infuriates her more.

"Am I monster like you?" She searches her hands, no doubt seeing the invisible blood, much like Lady MacBeth.

This is a gamble. You're clever so you've never thrown caution to the wind like this but you've run out of options. You step forward, refuse to flinch when Emma bares her teeth at you. Standing so close you can feel Emma's breath, you think of when you and her joined forces to save Henry. You steel your eyes and your heart as you prepare your final move. "The question is, my dear, whether or not you're human?"

With that, Emma rips your heart out.

You feel naught but exquisite agony before the thought flits through your mind that while you're evil, you died good.

You had woken up, the sheets draped across you when you knew that you hadn't been covered when you fell asleep. You turned and settled on your side when you beheld Emma lying next to you, and your gaze blurred as you watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

"Don't let me be alone," she had begged you before you had fallen asleep and you had acquiesced to her wish and let her join you. She had sat cross-legged and stroked your hair as you fell asleep, and this time she didn't say anything, just stayed by your side, her warmth gentle and comforting.

You laid your head over her heart and spent several minutes listening to the organ work, your own heart feeling like it was hugged from the inside out. It was addictive, the feeling. Emma had kept still and you marveled at how she slept like the dead. You pressed your lips to the swell of her breast and murmured your promise.

"Call my name from the heart. Call my name from your heart and I will never leave you, for I will be there always."

You hadn't been able to recite any sentiments to her but for that single moment, where all of you had gathered in your heart and you words came from deep inside of you, and you realized that you had always struggled to be both and for this moment, you were completely and utterly you.

And you loved her.

The worst choking sensation racks your chest and you jerk your entire body, gasping and gulping down hair, lungs on fire. You know it's Emma, you can feel her presence even before she grabs your shoulders and calls your name frantically. Minutes tick by in an agonizingly slow fashion as your body pumps blood and oxygen through your system and Emma holds you while you bring yourself back to life.

Long after your breathing evens out, Emma and you rock your bodies together and let yourselves weep.

"I'm sorry, Regina, I'm so sorry," Emma repeats as she buries her face into your neck. You pull your shoulder back and she draws back from you and folds into herself.

"You've taken everything from me," your voice echoes softly. Emma's gaze is still downcast. "Even my life and death. I've nothing left for you to take. But," your traitorous body begins to thrum, "there is something I've yet to give you."

Emma's eyes shoot to yours and your release a huge breath. She wasn't so far gone as to immediately shun or suspect at a kindness. Her goodness was still present and you find yourself thankful of that. So you place your hands on her neck and feel her body tense as you sensually drag your fingers down and stop them as they converge over her heart. The organ is pounding so hard your hands begin to vibrate. You grin and your fingers dance as your left hand traverses its way up to cup Emma's jaw. Desire and disbelief bat back and forth in her eyes and face and the thrill that you get from that pools low inside you.

"A kiss," you murmur against her lips before sealing them together.

It's nothing like the last time, or even as they were in the visions, tears in time and space, but it's more…Emma and Regina. Wild, messy, obnoxiously so. Somehow your hands remain anchored where they are but Emma has no such compunctions and her hands roam freely. You nearly come undone when her nails scrape the jut of your pelvis through the fabric of your dress.

The Evil Queen began the kiss, as Emma had wished, but you end it. That's what Emma needs, so you give it to her. That's the kiss that is familiar to you both, sighing against each other's philtrum.

Your grip changes into a caress against her cheek as you wait for her eyes to open. "Do you still want to die?"

Emma's face is frustratingly inscrutable, a skill you know she picked up from you.

"I know how you are, who you are and who you will always be. And you're good, Emma." Her lips twitch as she remembers that moment in time.

She shakes her head. "I killed Neal."

"You didn't mean to hurt him. He still lives," you comfort her.

"My negligence, my pride, my darkness– they led to it, as sure as intent. And I lost control of my magic when I was fighting against Gold. It's scary how easy it is to kill someone."

"It is," you admit. "And some deaths you don't feel remorse for, or bad things…horrible things," you murmur.

"I'm so lost," she whimpers, and there she is, her eyes open into that red and green that's never left you.

( I was lost without you.)

Your Emma.

"Fret not, dear. Everyone gets lost on our paths to find who we are. This happens to all heroes," you tease softly, feel your heart skip at Emma's watery smile. "When the world turns its back on you, you turn your back on the world. Turn so you don't see them leave you. But that's why I'm here." Your fingers skirt around her jawbone, your eyes committing the little imperfections on her face to the most tender of memories. "So you're not alone."

The two of you rise to your feet and you step back slightly and keep your smile for her on your face to assure her. You extend your left hand to her and there is no hesitation as her right one fits into it. It's cold but the warmth from your hand permeates hers and soon they are both tender heat and silent vows.

You think the words the moment Emma speaks them. "I don't want to die."

(Because with you I am alive.)