No one spoke his name.
No one spoke about the men still living in the forest, or New York, or the two teenagers Emma had busted for pickpocketing last week.
A thousand conversation topics suddenly off-limits because a certain vengeance-and-bloodshed-prone mayor kept turning up at the loft like a stray. Ostensibly to help Henry with a chemistry project, or to finalize Mary Margaret's resignation and transferal of duties, and they all smiled tightly and pretended that this was the truth, that this wasn't about helping Regina stay away from the edge. A loose memory, like a stone, could pick up speed, become an avalanche, and bury a city.
Emma knew that. Her parents knew that. Even Henry was attuned to the sound of things falling out of place.
They had all seen the way Regina hesitated when she answered her phone, the unspoken Robin that hung in the space after every bated-breath "hello?"
They had all seen smoke, its warning cry of fire!, curling out of Regina's sleeves, rolling off her clothes in soft, startling waves.
And so they invited her in, kept a fifth place set at the dinner table, and let Regina guide their conversations into safe territory. It was like one of Henry's operations, Emma supposed, something worthy of a codename, as they played at deceiving each other, as they took turns looking the other way.
"You don't have to do that, you know," Regina snapped at her one day, after they brushed elbows in the narrow entryway.
"Do what?"
"Treat me like I'm going to break if you talk about Robin." Regina's eyes blazed into hers, indignant and asking for anything but pity, but her voice still caught on his name, the rasp of steel on flint, and Emma knew it was the first time she had spoken it aloud since the day at the town line. "He's gone, he left because he had to, and it's fine. It's done."
"Okay," Emma said, and she let Regina push past her, out the door and down the stairs, and the smell of something burning lingered in the room no matter how many times Emma scrubbed and aired and sprayed.
They didn't talk about it when Regina showed up a few hours later with a lasagna, dropping it on the kitchen table with a clatter that made Emma jump.
"I thought Henry…well, all of you could use something more digestible than grilled cheese," Regina said pointedly. "I trust you can handle a little heat."
Emma rolled her eyes. "It's a few red pepper flakes, Regina, not the fires of hell. I've got this."
They didn't talk about it on the nights Regina couldn't sleep, the nights when Emma stayed up past the point of exhaustion so she wouldn't be alone.
They didn't talk about it when Regina brought coffee to the sheriff's station or when Emma brought salads and root beer (and grilled cheese, once, just to give Regina reason to grudgingly accept comfort food) to the mayor's office, those long hours spent researching the Author and paging through the storybook in case it still had secrets to reveal.
They didn't talk about it, and the more they didn't, the better Regina seemed: stable, snarky, less dead in the eyes. She wasn't fine, not even close to it – Emma wasn't that much of an idiot – but if Regina chose to do her grieving in private, at least she was grieving, as much as she would allow herself to.
...
It was a Wednesday afternoon, a boredom-loves-company kind of day, and Emma balanced two take-out boxes and two sodas as she shouldered open the door to Regina's office. The scuffle took Regina by surprise – she was standing at the window behind her desk, back to the door, and at the sound of Emma's intrusion she slammed the sash down and whirled around, arms spread as if she was being pulled in different directions.
Emma stared back at her, coloring under the intensity of Regina's gaze. "Guess I should have knocked, huh?" she asked weakly.
The tension left Regina's body, not altogether but enough, and she nodded, sinking back against the glass until her posture was almost casual.
Emma didn't miss the glance Regina darted behind her, checking for something – someone? – through the window, and she stepped closer to the desk that separated them, until she could see the entire scene, until she could see the defensive fists Regina was making.
She might have wondered what Regina was hiding – protecting – this time, and what it had to do with Robin, if there hadn't been a single feather, brown edged with red, lying at Regina's feet.
Oh. Oh. That was…possibly a sign that Regina had finally lost it, but sweet. Really sweet.
Emma bit down the urge to say something, to needle her just a bit about communing with birds, but it was clear that Regina – alternately fidgety and watchful – wanted to keep this, whatever it was, for herself.
She grabbed one of the root beers and headed for the sofa, giving Regina time to pick up the feather and tuck it away in one of her drawers. A reminder, perhaps, that not all of her hopes had been grounded.
She heard the clink of a bottle, and Regina grumbled behind her, "No bottle opener? What, am I supposed to pry the cap off with my teeth?"
"You were Rumplestiltskin's best student, you absorbed a death curse, you've faced off against some seriously scary Big Bads, and you're telling me you can't remove a bottle cap?" Emma asked, shaking her head.
"Is that a challenge, dear?"
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Regina's face, and Emma couldn't help smiling in return. This was going to be good.