It had happened gradually for Regina, surrounded by places they'd been together - fighting, fucking, both, and also, sometimes, sharing a rare afternoon or evening of truce (for Henry's sake, they told themselves) - and spending precious hours, gradually granted by David, interacting with their son, who was learning to truly love - and even like - both of his moms.
So the realization that she genuinely loved the woman she'd been ritualistically hate-fucking (before the younger woman got sucked into another realm, busy saving the older woman's soul) had happened over time, over memories, over watching the sheriff's lopsided grin overtake their son's face, over grappling with the meaning of "she's not dying," over coping with "then love again." The realization that she already did was overwhelming, even appalling - really, the arrogance of the blonde, clomping around in those boots and those horrendous jackets like she had any claim over the town - but it was one that bled through for her over time, culminating in the desperation of the fear she felt as she concluded that Cora must have killed - or worse, overtaken - the blonde, the security of her faith in Emma, knowing her would rather die than let anything hurt Henry (or, she hoped, herself).
Emma had not the luxury of a gradual realization. The shock had hit her hard and fast - much like the brunette herself - as she heard her mother explaining that Regina had loved someone else, had some other True Love, some man. She felt no hostility, oddly, towards the man himself: only heartbreak at Regina's pain and obviously continued grieving, and an overwhelmingly sharp pang as she realized what she thought must be the case - that Regina could only have one True Love, so it could never be her. Why the hell would I care? Her world spun out of control and she let cold anger at her own heart's betrayal of her rules against love take over her as she spoke the words that she was surprised to hear coming from her own lips: "Regina. That's who we should blame."
She found herself desperate to know the answer to one question, a question that would change everything. She thought she'd seen something far deeper than angry lust in Regina's eyes on those rare, brief occasions that she was let in before being violently chucked out again: when Henry was trapped in the mine; when Emma, letting her own guard down, tenderly kissed the inside of the older woman's thigh as she recovered from a deep orgasm into the blonde's mouth; when the brunette had admitted to being the Evil Queen; when she allowed Emma, at Henry's insistence, to tuck him into bed after one of their sanctioned evenings at Granny's together, and Emma had caught the older woman gazing at her with something almost akin to shocked reverence and reluctant adoration as she read Henry a bedtime story, stumbled through an awkward song, and kissed the boy goodnight; when their eyes met as magic flowed through them moments before Emma was pulled into the portal; when the curse was broken: "You did it."
But Emma had convinced herself herself that all this was in her imagination, her fantasy, her ego, her wish to give Henry more stability. Now, forced to acknowledge her own love - why else would she have reacted so strongly to Mary Margaret's revelation? - she could feel it, just feel it, that persistent hope that maybe Regina shared her feelings, that she wasn't imagining the depth of affection in those stolen moments. If only she could know - and the desire to know threatened to consume her - whether it was possible for Regina - for anyone - to have more than one True Love in a lifetime...
