Third and final part to when the time is right. Um, I don't entirely know what happened. Mostly I wanted to snuggle Emma all through "Manhattan" and kill almost everybody else. And then all the episodes after that, and, hah, okay, so, I have rage.

Anyway. Takes place during "Manhattan." Bookends the episode. Assumes that the events of "Tiny" were concurrent with "Manhattan." Also assumes that Emma wasn't lobotomized at any point in S2.

She's getting really, really good at fucking up. Between owing Gold in the first place, forgetting to feed Henry before they get in the car with the man threatening to kill them all, and, oh, right, failing to notify his mother that they're leaving town, Emma's basically got a lock on Screw Up of the Year, 2012 edition.

To be fair, she's been texting Regina since the Massachusetts state line so the extended radio silence is starting to gnaw at her stomach. Because yes, she's pulling a pretty shitty after-the-fact move, and so maybe Regina's being pissy for a reason, but it's about Henry, and Henry's everything, and just—God, what if she's not okay?

And it's not like there are emoji to ask, "Hey, so, that crazy magicky mother of yours. She on your case?"

But there are rules. Don't call. Don't text words. Don't use names. There are rules, so she hits the sleep button and tosses the phone into the smaller electronics bin at security.

Henry's scarfing down the third cinnabon—and where the kid got money from, she's not sure, because she damn well didn't give it to him and he's not supposed to touch his blizzard cash stash—when her phone finally rings. She's on her feet and over by the windows—away from Gold—before 'Round Midnight can even kick off. "Regina?"

"You have thirty seconds to tell me why I should not be on the phone with the FBI reporting a kidnapping right now."

Well, fuck. "Please—please don't. It's not like that. Please, just hear me out."

"Twenty."

"Gold came to the apartment this morning to collect on a favor I owed him. He threatened to kill all of us unless he gets what he wants. We're going to New York. I didn't know what else to do so I brought Henry."

"Ten."

"Regina—please. I just wanted to keep him safe. All we have to do is find Gold's son. We're coming back, I promise, but I just—I needed to keep him safe."

"Safe? Safe? You've taken him out of town, across state lines, headed to one of the most crowded and chaotic places on Earth with a man who is on his best day a manipulative sociopath and has apparently threatened my son's life, not to mention yours. You expect me to believe that you intend to keep him safe? That you actually intend to return? You didn't even have the decency to tell me."

That voice—Emma tries to think of it like it was last night, singing and sweet. Right now, Regina sounds as low and dangerous and cold as when they'd first butted heads, as when—oh.

God, she really is fucking up.

"I know. I'm sorry. I fucked up." She keeps her sentences short and clear and true and prays that Regina is actually listening, that she isn't just waiting to strike like she used to. "I should have told you right away. I—"

"You shouldn't have taken him at all."

"So he can hang around town with your crazy ass mother on the loose?" she snaps, because the issue shouldn't be that Henry's with her at all, but leave it to Regina to miss the fucking point. "That sounds like a brilliant fucking plan, Regina, why didn't I just leave him to die?"

"I could protect him!"

"You can't even protect yourself right now!"

There's silence on the line, and Emma deflates a little, glances back to where Henry's watching her and kicking his feet straight into Gold's line of pacing. "You've kidnapped my son, Emma. And this is what you do. You run. You always run. And I thought—I thought that now, with Henry, maybe you wouldn't, but—you've just brought him along for the ride. And I know you've tried to do this before. You've had a plan in place for so long—"

"We are coming back," Emma cuts in, because Regina has to believe that. "I am always going to bring him home."

"You run, Emma."

She turns away from Henry, presses her forehead against the sloping glass of the window, watches two planes taxi in. Thinks of that soft, sweet mouth. "I'm not running," she whispers, wraps her free hand up in the scarf around her neck. It still smells of cardamom and nutmeg—Regina, and Christmas.

A low, whistling breath comes through the speaker. "I went to your apartment. I risked it because—you made me think—" Regina cuts herself off, and Emma listens to her three slow inhales, to her calming routine. "You were gone already. You were gone, Henry was gone, you hadn't said a word and your mother…"

The way she spits your mother—Emma winces, because that's not going anywhere good. When Regina doesn't continue, when she can't or won't repeat whatever it is Snow said or did, Emma just sighs. "Don't—come on. All this time, you've never given any weight to a word she says. Don't start now, not when I'm screwing up enough for the whole family."

"I can't help it." That low, lyric voice wavers, hisses; the level of self-loathing in Regina's words scares her.

Emma doesn't know what to do, because she's said she's sorry, she's said she fucked up, she's said they're coming home, but she can hear just from the way Regina's breathing stutters and shakes that it's not okay and it's not enough. "I brought The Count with me."

Regina sighs, like it hurts that Emma's even trying.

"And it actually is a trillion pages, because I'm only halfway through and there's like a whole six volumes or whatever left. But you were right. It's really good, and Dantes is pretty badass, especially in that execution scene. But it's really slow going, 'cause I keep getting distracted by your notes in the margins. Which—I mean, how many times have you read this? Because you go really hard with these notes."

"Twelve."

It's a word and it's a lifeline. "Okay. Okay. So—so you don't trust me to bring our kid back, which, honestly, kind of bullshit, because to date I have brought him back to you every single time—but you can trust me to bring your book back, right? Because I don't steal people's books. You've got my record, you can check. I don't steal books. Especially not favorite books with margin notes. Okay?"

"You're an idiot." But Regina's given her a little chuckle, a little stuttering exhale. "Your criminal record is supposed to reassure me that you'll return with our son in one piece?"

And Emma grins, because she's got her. "That, and we didn't take the Bug."

"Well. If that heap of scrap metal is still here."

"I really am sorry. I panicked and I didn't prioritize right and I'm sorry that you got hurt because of it."

Regina's silent for a few heartbeats, then sighs again. "I slipped."

"You what? Are you oka—oh." She thinks, maybe, she wants to sit down. Sitting down seems like a really good idea. "How bad?"

Maybe, if Regina is capable of huffing out a laugh—however pained—it isn't bad. "Couple hundred thousand dollars of property damage. Your father may have another concussion."

"Oh. Yeah. Okay." And then, because she has no idea how to ask did you kill anyone this time around, Emma asks, "Anything… else?"

"No," Regina says quietly. Emma's legs give a little and she goes with it, slides down the window to sit on the edge of the metal sill. "No."

"Okay." Dealing with this—goddamnit. They left and Emma fucked up and Regina fucking—relapsed? Panicked? What the fuck is this? And how the hell is she going to tell Henry? "Um… Okay. So… that's not good." And then she can't hold it in anymore, whispers "Damn it, Regina," and lets her head hit the window, because fuck.

"I know," Regina whispers, and—shit, this probably means that they're after Regina again, and here she is sitting pretty in Logan and not able to do shit to protect her.

"Keep your head down. Keep your head down and—and don't do it again."

"That's it?"

Emma can't be responsible for this. She can't. She's not—there's not enough of her to be responsible for this. "What do you want me to say? 'How dare you, I'm taking Henry?'" The fact that there's just silence—that there's just the sound of small, unsteady breathing—damn it. "Look, I'm—I'm in your corner, Regina, but I'm not your keeper. You don't—you don't owe me this. This isn't about me, it's about you. And this whole thing is hard. And you're gonna make mistakes, and I'm gonna make mistakes, and—and Henry's gonna make mistakes. And we have, and we're learning. But—but we're in your corner, okay? I need—we believe in you. You gotta believe in us, too."

"I know."

"Okay."

"I'm trying."

What makes it hurt worse, just for a second, is that it's just so easy to give Regina what she needs. It costs Emma nothing. And when she's not being a fucking idiot, she knows exactly what to give. "I know you are. And that's what matters."

"You're not making it easy. Doing things like this. Doing things like—"

"Like last night?" She thinks again of that honey-sweet voice, of those dark, dark eyes and the traces of crimson lipstick on her fingertips. "I know." There's so much more she wants to say, but she doesn't really know how to, beyond saying I needed to know you were real and I needed to know how you feel. And none of that will help them now. "I just—"

"Needed to keep him safe." Regina gives her the out; Emma wishes taking it didn't feel so cheap. "I know." When she finally speaks again, it's in a voice more like herself—low-pitched but steady, strong. "Before he learned about the curse, Henry played baseball. Little League. If you're going to New York—"

"Abso-fucking-lutely not."

"—Perhaps some Mets gear would be in order."

"Oh. Well, yeah. Maybe."

She can pretty much hear Regina's eyeroll. "Honestly. It's just a stupid game and the rivalry—"

"They are the evil empire!"

Another silence, and Emma thinks maybe she's actually brain-damaged, because really, evil? There weren't any better words? But then Regina drawls, "Really? Evil, Miss Swan?" and she can breathe, she can laugh.

"On your worst day, you couldn't even come close to how evil the Yankees are."

Regina almost laughs, and Emma glances back towards Henry, catches his eye when he glances up from his DS. She flashes a thumbs up and when he grins, big and bright—she hopes that Regina can smile like that. She wants, so much, for Regina to smile like that.

So she asks, quietly, "Are you safe?" Because there's no happiness without safety.

"For now."

"Be careful," Emma says, again, because—because.

"Come home," Regina whispers back. "Just come home."

She crouches in the hallway outside Neal's door, presses her fist over her mouth and tries to tell herself to open her eyes. Stop shaking. Keep breathing. Stand up, for God's sake.

None of it works, because—God. Fuck. Fuck everything. Fuck everything, because she thought—she thought this would've been it, one last dumb quest and then home and safe and things would settle and they'd find a way to get rid of Cora and things would settle. She's wanted things to settle for so long, so so long—so of course. Of course. Stupid Emma—of course things would get worse.

So, so much worse, because Henry keeps looking at Neal like he's fucking meeting Santa Claus, and if there's anything in this world she's never wanted, it's Henry looking any type of way at Neal.

And Neal—Neal who's just laughed in her face, Neal who's so much worse than she'd ever feared, Neal who's even more of a liar than she'd known he could be—Neal has that look in his eye. Neal has that look like when they'd case a store—not the corner stores and tourist traps that were their bread and butter, but the actual stores, the ones where they could turn a profit or maybe just scratch an itch. Neal keeps looking at Henry like there's something in there I want to keep and—no. No. No. Neal can never—no.

And her mother—her fucking mother—her mother thought this was about Emma's feelings? About wanting to protect herself? Fuck that. Lying to Henry might not have been right, but letting Henry near Neal? That's wrong. That's so many different types of wrong.

She's got her phone out and she's sent one single symbol before her brain can catch up and say protect her, too. Because—it's not about her or Regina or Neal or Gold. It's about Henry, and the only person in the world Emma can trust to be unwaveringly for Henry—

Her phone buzzes almost as soon as the little SOS square goes through, and she feels something in her shatter, just a little bit, when she hears Regina's voice. "What happened? Is Henry all right? Are you all right?"

She can't find her voice. She can't even speak, because all she can see are those dark, dark eyes and how they looked in that gray dress and how all she's done since day one is—

"Emma? Answer me. Emma, please—please tell me you're both all right."

"I fucked up," comes out, and she chokes a little bit. "Regina, I fucked up so bad, I'm so sorry—I never meant to, I'm so sorry—"

"What happened?" And there's panic in Regina's voice, she's doing this all wrong, but—fuck. "Where is Henry?"

"His father," she gets out, and that's it. She tips, curls her body around her knees. "Gold's son is Henry's father."

Regina says nothing. Emma wants to throw up.

"I didn't know. I didn't—oh, God—" The nausea's overwhelming. They all probably knew. Every single one of them—knew about Gold's missing son, knew about Henry's missing father—what if Regina had known, what if she'd always known—why else would she adopt Henry, why else would she—

"No," she hears, and it's so horrified and desperate and afraid, so much more than Emma can handle. "No."

"Tell me you didn't know," she begs, and doesn't care if it's a shitty move, because—she needs someone to be safe, right now, and she wants, so badly, for it to be Regina. She just needs someone to be safe for her. "Swear you didn't know."

"Emma," Regina whispers, and her voice cracks in the middle of the name. "Emma."

She wants to throw up, even through the relief. "He—he wants to know Henry. He wants to spend time with him, and—God, I lied to the kid, last year, I told him his father was dead and a hero and—"

Regina's breathing scared again. She's safe but she's shattered and Emma just wants to erase everything until this doesn't hurt anybody anymore. "So this—this is it, isn't it? It all ties up neatly with a bow."

"Stop it."

"The three of you. Perfect little family—"

"Stop it! Just—just—just stop. Because Neal's not a good guy, Regina. He's cruel and he's cold and if I could cut every piece of him out of Henry, I'd do it, okay? And if I could make Henry forget him and if I could forget him—help me."

She isn't sure what she's asking for, but she just wants—she wants Henry safe. She wants him safe and out of here. She wants Neal away. She wants Regina to fix it because if anyone can it's the goddamned Evil Queen but Regina—Regina's just silent. All Emma can hear is that particular wheezing breath, the one where Regina's crying and remembering and feeling too helpless to do anything, and fuck, because that's where Emma is and they can't both be like that. Not now. Not when the world is falling apart around them.

"You can't be asking me to—"

"Could you?"

And God, Regina's trying so hard, and Emma's going to ruin her. "I wouldn't," she whispers, and that—Emma holds onto it, so so tight. She holds on until she stops shaking, until she stops crying. Until they're both just breathing again.

"I just want to bring him home," Emma whispers, and lets her forehead fall onto her knees.

"Saying he can't know—Neal?"

"Neal."

"Saying he can't know Neal will only backfire."

The weight in those words stirs up the nausea again, but Emma replays I wouldn't until it goes down again. "I don't care if he hates me, as long as he's safe."

"He won't just hate you. He'll actively seek Neal out more than he would if we let it be."

She doesn't know how Regina can even bear to be on the phone with her. "What do we do?"

Regina finally asks about the part that makes Emma most sick. "Neal is Gold's—Rumplestiltskin's son? Henry is his grand—"

"No," she cuts Regina off, because no. No way. "Gold is nothing to him. Neal is nothing to him. End of story."

That heavy sigh, the one Regina gives when Emma's being irrational and there's no time to reason things out. "Emma—"

"Don't tell me I'm being hypocritical. Henry came looking for me. Okay? He came to find me, not Neal."

"And who's to say that if there were record of Neal, he wouldn't have gone looking for him, too?"

"Why the fuck are you being rational about this?" she hisses.

"Because I've been living this nightmare for a year already!"

Emma puts her head back down. It takes her a long time to find words again. She doesn't know where they come from. "Every day we wake up and it gets worse."

"Yes," Regina says gently, and that almost does her in again.

"They did this on purpose. He says he didn't know who I was but—that's bullshit, right? There's no way—he had to—it was all on purpose."

"Coincidences happen."

"But?" Emma prompts, because she knows when Regina has more to say, knows how her words curl at the ends when she's done.

"But…" and Regina holds her breath. Emma knows all the things she means then, too. Even if Regina doesn't know all of the story—and at this point, Emma isn't even sure she knows her own story—Regina getsit. Gets it the way no one else could, sees it the way no one else would. "It's been bigger than either of us, since the beginning."

They sit with that for a long time. The idea that both of them—most definitely both of them—have only ever been bit players in someone else's sick game—Emma wants to puke and rage, all at once. She gave birth in prison for this game. And Regina—Regina's been dying for decades for this game. Emma wants her rage, and she wants Regina's rage, and she wants to take all the sick and weary out of her body until nothing hurts anymore.

That smoky-silver voice comes through the line again. "You didn't deserve this."

Emma wants to cry. She wants to know Regina is real.

"You didn't deserve this but, Emma, there's no way to win."

"Fuck winning," she whispers. "I just wanted us to live."

"So live."

She wants it to mean so much more than it possibly can—wants it to mean warm and safe and steady and bright. She knows it couldn't mean any of that. "What do we do?"

"Talk to Henry. Tell him the truth. Tell him why you lied, what you were hiding."

"He's not ready—"

"He's been ready for far worse. He's had to hear and see far worse."

There's a headache building between her eyes, hoarseness settling into her throat. "And what about Neal?"

Regina stays silent for a long time. "Ironic, isn't it? An abundance of parents, and only one of them any type of good," she finally murmurs.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Emma doesn't have patience for—whatever this is. Whatever kind of emotion Regina's feeling. She needs an action, a plan. A way to fix it.

"Cruel and cold? Emma. I'm the Evil Queen."

She definitely can't handle this. Can't—she needs Regina to back her up, keep Henry safe. "Don't you fucking do this to me. You—you're his mom. You already—Neal's not even interested in—fuck you, Regina. I need you right now, I need you on my side."

And Regina sighs, again. "Emma. Whatever else happens—I am always on Henry's side."

"So am I."

"You're too scared right now to be on anyone's side. Not even your own."

"Fuck you—what the fuck would you know—"

"The worst things I have done have been because of fear," Regina hisses. "And if you are to be the only true good in Henry's life, you will—"

"I'm not good!" she bursts out, and hears Regina hold her breath.

"Emma—"

"All of you keep saying I'm this and I'm that and apparently it's all been written in the fucking stars but I'm—I'm me, okay? And I'm not good. I keep trying but I—"

"You're an idiot." But it's so soft, so gentle. So kind. "That's what good is. Trying. Continuously trying."

Mostly, Emma wants to be back inside the bug, parked at the playground, looking at Regina's smile while Henry tells them every detail of his day.

"Talk to Henry. Tell him the truth. Tell him it's okay to be angry with you. Come home. Hook's disappeared and all he wants is Gold's corpse so—so leave Neal and Gold to sort out their issues and come home."

Home. Home where things are simple and make sense, even when they don't. She should probably be making a bigger deal of this—this first moment in her life where she can list the things that make a place home—but, mostly, she just wants to be back at the playground listening to Regina sing.

"And if Neal intends to be a part of Henry's life, then we'll work it out then. All of us, together, with Henry." Regina makes it sound so easy, so calm and rational. Like it will all come together smoothly instead of with sharp edges and tears and pain. And Emma wants, so much, to trust Regina with this, because Regina's the goddamn North Star when it comes to the things that matter: their son, and magic, and being safe.

She wants to trust her but everything hurts. "He—he said I'm just like you. That you used to lie to him, too." She doesn't say it to be mean, but—everything hurts. Her head hurts, her heart hurts, her stomach is in knots and Regina is being that woman again, the one with tears in her eyes and kindness at her mouth. Emma wants to reach out, know she's real.

"So start telling him the truth."

She's just so tired. "Where are you?"

"The car."

"I want you here."

"I can't fix it."

"I want you here," she says again, because if it's all bigger than them anyway, she might as well fuck it up while she can.

Regina breathes steady and strong but doesn't speak. Emma is just so tired. "I'm no good, Emma," Regina finally murmurs.

"Neither am I."

"You're obscenely good."

"Okay. Then I'm an idiot."

Regina's chuckle sounds strangled by tears. Emma wants, so much, to be able to touch her, know she's real. "You don't know what you're asking."

"Yeah, I do. You, me, Henry."

"We can't escape who we've been."

"I'm not asking us to."

There's a quiet little sob, and Emma thinks of honey-bright eyes, how they look lit up with love. "I've been too bad for too long."

Something about that—all the nausea comes roaring up, and all her exhaustion settles deeper into her bones. "No."

"Emma—"

"I just want to come home," she pleads, and Regina's breathing hiccups again. "Just tell me I'll make it home."

It takes a long to for Regina to speak again. "Put Henry on the phone." Her voice is resigned and soft and Emma knows what it means: you're an idiot and yes. "Clean yourself up and put Henry on the phone."

"I have to blow my nose in your scarf."

Regina huffs, and Emma can't help but smile. "Of course you do. Be quick about it."

She wipes her tears with the scarf, finds a receipt scrap in in her pocket for her nose. "Okay. I'm—I'm cleaned up."

"Don't bring the scarf back."

"I'm gonna smother you with it. Snotty side first."

"That's disgusting." And then, in a different tone—sweeter, stronger, brighter: "We love him enough."

"What?"

"Henry. You—this is going to be hard. It's going to be very, very hard, on you and on me and on Henry. But you have to believe that we love him enough. You have to trust that."

She wants, so so much, to touch her. Put a hand out and know she's real. "We'll be home soon," she promises, and opens the door to the apartment.

Her stomach twists, just a little, when she sees Henry grinning at Neal, still out on the fire escape. "Henry?" she calls, and hesitates when they both turn to her. Neal doesn't know about Regina and most of her wants to savor the moment when he finds out. "You have a phone call."

The kid's eyes narrow at her, and it sticks right under her lungs, but the further away he gets from Neal, the looser her ribs get. He takes the phone, says "Hello?" curiously. When his face splits into his best smile, she lets out the breath she's holding. "Hi, Mommy," he says softly.

If Neal gives himself whiplash, if his face is frozen in shock—she's not memorizing it. She's not reveling in it. She's not.

Gold clears his throat, glares at her. "There was no need to involve her," he snaps.

"You have no say in my parenting decisions," she retorts, "and my parenting decisions involve her."

"Like packing him up for an impromptu trip to New York?"

She narrows her eyes, because he couldn't have known she didn't tell Regina—but she doesn't trust anything about him and what he could or couldn't know. "She knows about that. And everything else, too," and she throws a glance at Neal, raises an eyebrow to Gold. She can't possibly look intimidating—not with cry-eyes and snot-nose—but the way Gold's jaw clenches, the way his fingers twist on his cane, lets her know that it's not about looks, at all.

Henry's talking softly, saying something like, "He seems really cool, Mom. Really laid back." That snippet makes her sick to her stomach again, but Neal keeps staring blankly, bug-eyed and slack-jawed, and Gold's scowl deepens, and she'll take it.

"He's got another mom?" Neal finally rasps.

It costs her nothing to say it. "Yeah. A good one."

Henry nudges her at that, smiles at her when she looks down. She doesn't know what Regina could possibly be saying to soften his anger, his sense of betrayal, but she can see so much of that Mills-type love in his eyes right now. It's bright and burnished and it feels, so much, like home.