Apologies for the... two month wait, dammit. Life, work, the universe all conspired to leave a complete void of inspiration. The wheels are very much back on the wagon though, so look out for the rest of this and then We Need To Talk About Henry.
"Regina?"
If she ignores the voice, perhaps it will go away.
"Regina? It's Dr Gold."
Her eyelids twitch, and Regina forces them open. The room swims at first, and she feels the unmistakable surge of bile at the back of her throat. Swallowing hard, she blinks a few times until the flickering light overhead becomes bearable.
"Doctor," she replies. He's familiar, in the way that they all are. White coats and not, they come and go, wheel her around, knock her out and gradually leave her feeling pleasantly numb, day after day. As treatments go, this isn't the worst she's felt.
"Your daughter is here," he says, nodding across the room. Regina pushes herself halfway to sitting, and sees Snow curled up on a visitor's chair, engrossed in some book or other. Without her glasses, the cover is a blur of purple to Regina's eyes.
"Sweetheart," she croaks. "You know you don't have to come in every time I get some volts."
"Mom has to work," Snow replies, snapping her book closed. "And at least when I'm here nobody bothers me. The nurses bring me coffee and jello, it's like study hall with perks."
"I'll be back after I speak to your attending." Gold excuses himself, and Regina knows this limited family interaction will dominate whenever her next session with him is. They've talked about post-treatment appointments, but she can't seem to retain the details. Emma will have written them down somewhere.
"What are you reading?" Regina asks, once the silence has stretched way past uncomfortable. "Come a little closer, I can't really see very well yet."
"They didn't say it would affect your vision," Snow grumbles, but she drags the chair closer with an ear-rending screech of metal against the linoleum floor. As her daughter comes into focus, Regina can't help but notice that her usually bouncy short, black hair is lank and greasy, hanging in her eyes which have dark circles outlined beneath them. Snow has always been closer to Emma in terms of personal style, but even Emma would draw the line at coffee-splashed sweatpants and a hoodie two sizes too small for going out in public.
"What's wrong?" Regina asks. "I'm the one being zapped, honey, but you look like hell."
"Thanks for the confidence boost," Snow says, stifling a yawn. "It's been a rough week, okay?"
Regina closes her eyes, just for a moment.
When she opens them, daylight has replaced the fluorescent strips and Emma is the one sitting in the chair.
"Where's Snow?"
"I sent her home," Emma explains. "You're doing just great. The doctors say you're right on track. I brought you some more pajamas from home. While I still appreciate seeing your ass, apparently you've been giving the rest of the floor a show overnight."
"They should be thanking me," Regina teases. "Are you eating okay? Snow didn't look well when I saw her."
"Ruby is keeping us fed and watered," Emma says, her smile barely wavering. "And don't worry about the kid for now, okay? She's… going through some stuff."
"Oh."
Regina turns onto her side, the bandage on her temple scratching against the pillow. "I'm just going to have a nap, darling."
"Snow?"
The room is dark, but there's definitely someone huddled in the chair in the corner. Regina can't summon her daughter's face to mind, or when she tries she sees only Snow as a toddler, and that isn't right, it can't possibly be.
"It's okay, mom," Snow replies, her voice slow and monotonous. "Go back to sleep."
"You don't sound okay," Regina argues, trying to get out of bed. She's restrained again. Right, the walking around at night. "Sweetheart, are you high?"
"That's rich, coming from the Pfizer customer of the year."
"I don't want you doing drugs," Regina warns. "You of all people should know what they do to a person."
"Not here for hypocrisy, Mom. Go back to sleep, okay?"
"I'm going to talk to your mother about this," Regina finishes, but she's already drowsy again. She hasn't slept this well in years, and it's seductive to fall back under. "She won't be happy either."
"Hey," Emma says. It's sunny again, the warm light actually cheering up the bleakness of the hospital room for a change. Too much institutional gray and wipe-clean surfaces for comfort, but this morning it looks radiant, almost welcoming. Which, of course, is why there are packed bags sitting by the door. "The nurses put all your things together, but you want to have a last check before we go?"
"Emma?"
"Yeah, last time I checked."
"You look different," Regina tilts her head, taking in the changes one at a time. The long blonde curls are so much shorter now, shoulder-length and manageable. Though a newer red leather jacket remains, the clothes beneath it are much closer to Regina's mother's style than Emma's own, all clean lines and coordination. It's like watching someone play dress-up, with no explanation as to why.
"What's so different?" Emma says, and as she steps out of the sunbeam she's standing in, Regina can see the lines on her face. Emma's barely wearing makeup and her ever-present circle necklace isn't anywhere in evidence.
"Well, your piercing is gone, for a start."
"My… what?" Emma leans close, and her expression has that tight smile that says she's not happy about something. Usually she gets it when Regina carelessly shows off some college-learned fact, and Emma is nothing if not prickly about her lack of formal education.
"Your eyebrow," Regina says, eyes darting to the door before tracing the scar under Emma's eyebrow with one trembling fingertip. "How did it heal up so quickly? I thought I'd only been here a week?"
"Two, this time. Regina… I haven't had that piercing in… God, I think I took it out before Snow arrived. You remember what your mom used to say about it, right? Are you…"
"Am I what?"
"Why did you think I still had my piercing?"
"Because you showed up on my doorstep with it last week. And yes, my mother said it made you look even more like the crowd at the methadone clinic she drives past. Speaking of my mother, she's not coming to pick me up, is she?"
"Uh, no. No, she won't be. I'm just going to get the doc, okay?"
"Why? I thought you packed my things. That means I'm going."
"Just a last minute check," Emma assures her, but the panic is as clear as day. Regina feels a tickling at the back of her head, almost like something is trying to get her attention but one shake and the sensation is gone.
"What's wrong with me?" Regina pleads. "I don't like the way you're acting."
"You said I got my eyebrow pierced last week," Emma says slowly, lingering over each word with her hands firmly on her hips. "Regina, that was nineteen years ago."
"What are you talking about?"
"You've been in hospital for two weeks, and they did say the procedure could cause some memory loss… let me get the doctor, okay?"
Regina nods in agreement, dumbstruck by Emma's news. Lost years or not, Regina feels fresh and relaxed, if a little weak when she moves around. She forces herself out of bed and dresses briskly, marvelling at the unfamiliar clothes that fit her like a glove. The doctor will clear up this confusion, of that much she's sure. And then she can get back to the business of running Storybrooke, because a town should never go too long without its mayor.
"Hey," Emma greets Snow as they enter through the kitchen door. "Look who I brought home. Now, listen, there's something I need to warn you about-"
"My mother finally redecorated?" Regina gasps. "God, for years I begged her to clean up this gloomy old room with its smoke stains on the ceiling and everything in the most horrible shades of brown. I know it must have been quite modern when she moved in, but oh all this chrome and marble is exactly what I would have picked."
"Well, you did pick it," Snow retorts. "There was marble dust in my sandwiches for weeks."
"And who are you?" Regina asks, running her hand over the spotless worktop.
"Regina, we talked about this in the car. This is Snow… your daughter."
There's no shielding their kid from the blow, and although she puts a good face on it, it isn't hard to see how Snow crumples just a little under Regina's unknowing glance.
"Snow?" Regina replies after a moment. "I can't imagine ever naming a child of mine after weather, but… if you say so."
"This is just great," Snow groans. "If I thought I didn't exist before, well, now I really don't. Great upgrade, Mom."
"I thought," Emma pinches her nose, fighting off the early warning signs of a killer headache. "I thought seeing the house might bring something back. Seeing us here, like we used to be."
"I'm sure it will, in time," Regina soothes. "If not the house, maybe my office? If I've really been out for two whole weeks, there must be a mountain of paperwork forming. Belle will have started making her own Mount Rushmore out of it."
"Christ," Snow hisses. "What the hell did they do to her?"
"Calm down," Emma insists. "I'm going to make us all some hot chocolate, okay? Snow, why don't you go get some of the photo albums from the study? That should help." Her daughter, naturally, doesn't move an inch.
"Oh, I love photo albums," Regina sounds enthused at last, instead of that vague way she's sounded since they left the hospital. "Mother keeps them-"
"Regina, you remember how I said the last thing you remember is about nineteen years ago?"
"Yes."
"Well…"
"Oh. Oh, of course," Regina looks as lost as she did the day Emma came home to find Cora dead on their living room floor. A heart attack, the paramedics declared, when Emma called them without ever asking why Regina hadn't already. "Life goes on. Or it doesn't, I suppose."
"I'm sorry," Emma says, and with the passing of years the words have become a little more sincere. As a ghost, as a memory, the grip of Cora's iron fist has lessened. Emma blames the dead woman, perhaps more than she should, for Regina's struggles. It's never exactly been confirmed, but Archie has strongly implied that a happier childhood might have given Regina better coping mechanisms. But his advice has changed with the seasons, blaming everything from brain chemistry to the vegetables in their diet, so Emma's no longer sure what to trust. "It was very peaceful. We can talk about that later."
"And speaking of people who aren't here-" Snow begins, a glint of malice in her eyes where the tears threatened to spill a few moments ago.
"Let's start with the happy," Emma interrupts. "Regina, the photo albums are right where they've always been, why don't you go get them in the den and we'll bring through some cocoa."
Regina nods, glancing between them before she leaves. Unfortunately for Emma, Regina has always had a keener than average sense for when she's being lied to, but for now the danger is averted.
"Happy?" Snow snorts. "I hope you're good at Photoshop, because I don't recall a lot of smiles in the Addams Family archives. Do you even need me here for this?"
"Yes."
"And what's with cutting me off about Hen-"
"No. No, okay? If she can't remember that right now? It's a blessing. And we get to rearrange the life we could have had, if that hadn't ruined everything. I'd think you of all people would understand that."
"It's dishonest," Snow accuses, arms folded over her chest before dropping over her stomach until she's essentially hugging herself. Emma wants to crumble at the sight of a daughter obviously so dependent on self-soothing, but right now she has to hold it all together long enough to reset things once and for all. "Aren't you always telling me how important the truth is?"
"We've been lying for a long time, kid," Emma reminds her. "This has to be better than all the times we pretended we could see the crazy shit, too. Just hang in there for a little while, I promise you: this is when it finally gets better."
"When are you going to learn to stop making that promise?" Snow sighs. "Come on, get the milk out, or we'll never have this damn drink."
"So is this chubby little girl-"
"Still me," Snow groans, from where she's leaning against the sofa. They're camped out on the floor, individual photographs littering the carpet, half-emptied albums stacked up on the cushions they could otherwise be sitting on. "Can we get past my awkward phase, please?"
"We could, if it hadn't lasted about fifteen years," Emma teases, ducking at the throw pillow that comes flying her way. "I'm just joking! You were always a lovely kid."
"You're very fair," Regina muses, flipping through more. "There's nothing of my coloring in you at all. But of course...you're adopted. Did we ever contact the birth parents?"
"Closed adoption, all the way," Emma explains. "It's been for the best, I think. No point dragging the past into things, you always said."
"How wise of me," Regina murmurs, swapping out the photos for another little stack she's made. "Some of these feel familiar. This house, with the red door…"
"That was our first place, out in the woods," Emma is instantly on edge. "We didn't live there long, moved in here once your mother's estate was settled."
"I'm sorry I don't remember our wedding," Regina is tearful then. "Would you tell me about it?"
"It was perfect," Emma smiles, and it isn't rewriting history, not really. "You looked so gorgeous. On the way to the ceremony, you stopped at this garden, I don't remember where, and you picked these two flowers. You put one in your hair, and pinned the other one to my dress."
"It sounds like everything we could have hoped for," Regina's smile is uncertain, and Emma reaches out to take her hand.
"Uh, it was raining," Snow butts in. "And you had to run off to Portland so Grandma wouldn't put a stop to it."
"It was still perfect," Emma insists. "What's a little drizzle on your wedding day, huh?"
"Ironic, if you listen to Alanis," Snow snarks. "Is none of this sparking a memory? You don't remember me learning to walk? Or losing my first tooth?"
"Honestly?" Regina replies. "I feel like it's right there, like it's just in the next room and I need to figure out how to get in there. I am trying, dear."
"Screw this," Snow announces, getting up and going over to the drawers of the dresser. From there she pulls what looks like a school notebook, bringing it back and dropping it in Regina's lap. "Maybe we can't cover the whole truth today, but we can cover some of it."
"What's this?" Regina asks, opening the book with genuine curiosity. "Local woman scares shoppers…"
"That's the time you got convinced all the food at the market had been poisoned by government spies," Snow explains, all fake-helpfulness. "Turn over, you'll see the pictures of when you barricaded yourself in the old house, wouldn't come out for three days."
"Snow, I'm warning you-"
"This is a picture of last year's recital-you missed that one, too, by the way." Snow is pointing at the page with stabbing motions of one finger, the rage palpable.
"I remember!" Regina announces. "That was when they tried the higher dose of lithium, right? I couldn't get out of the car."
"Right," Emma says, awestruck at the sudden clarity.
"And the year before that, look," Regina is reading another article, this one culled from the student newsletter. "This is when I jumped in the pool."
"At my swim meet."
"I thought you were drowning," Regina remembers sheepishly. "Sweetheart… you've had a very strange life. I'm so sorry."
"Well, at least you get it now," Snow concedes, blushing furiously, and if her shoulders slump just a little, Emma can only hope it's some kind of relief. A daughter at peace after all this time would be a blessing.
"I think that's enough for one day," Emma tells them, getting up gingerly as she shakes out the cramp around her knees. "Maybe we should think about getting some food together. And then you can get settled back in?"
"I'd like to take a shower," Regina says. "I haven't had one in private for a while."
"I think we can manage that," Emma says. "I'll go get you some clean towels." What she doesn't add is that she'll be sweeping their bathroom for razors, nail files and anything else even close to sharp, but some things, for now, don't need to be shared out loud.
"You're saying this is normal?" Emma demands, standing halfway to the door of Gold's office. "It's not getting any better. It's like one flash of remembering, and we have to fill in the blanks on everything else. It's kinda exhausting, honestly." Regina isn't sure if she's expected to follow, but she edges forward in her seat just in case.
"Well, let's ask Regina, shall we?" There's an insincere patience in Gold's voice, unhappy at being challenged. "Tell me, have things felt clearer since the treatment?"
"I… yes," Regina admits, closing her eyes. Emma will see it as a betrayal, she can already tell.
"And things are less… frightening?"
"Yes."
"Do you still feel like these things are happening to someone else? That your life is barely your own?"
"Well, no."
"Really?" Emma is incredulous, hands on her hips. "It's that big an improvement?"
Regina nods, clasping her trembling hands together and clamping them between her thighs. She's dressed formally today, like this regular appointment could be considered some sort of interview or examination. Her navy pinstriped suit still fits perfectly, and the accessories were chosen with painstaking care. Even Emma doesn't know how early Regina started her preparations, up before dawn just like when Mother had still been alive.
"So," Gold preens, steepling his fingers in front of his face like he knows all the world's mysteries. "A little loss of memory is normal, Emma. This much is rare, admittedly, but the memories are still in there, waiting to be unearthed. You've already seen some, so like I said: perfectly normal."
"I don't give a damn about normal," Emma sighs. "We haven't seen a normal day in over a decade. I just want to know we've done the right thing."
"I would say so," Gold answers. "Just give it some more time. Keep doing what you've been doing with family stories and looking at photos. It should come. Now, Regina… shall we get on with the rest of your appointment? I'm sure Belle would be happy to fetch a coffee if your wife rejoins her in the waiting room."
Emma takes her cue, offering an awkward half-wave to Regina as she departs the office. They haven't quite found a rhythm yet, when it comes to casual affection. Regina can see the intent in Emma's every gesture, how often she moves automatically to touch, to soothe, to guide… but those unexpected gestures cause Regina to freeze, to lose her words and thoughts for a long moment each time. The missing intimacy is like a mist hovering over them, and although Regina can't remember the existence of that simple closeness, its absence is putting them both on edge.
"What should we talk about?" Regina asks. "I can hardly remember half of what's wrong with me, after all."
"We can talk about whatever you'd like," Gold insists. "Don't feel you have to adjust or pretend to remember for my benefit. Is that how it's felt at home?"
Betrayal, Regina thinks once more. Selling out the happy lie Emma wants so desperately to present to the outside world, but therapy is worthless without honesty; Regina read that on a pamphlet in the waiting room just fifteen minutes ago.
"It's strange," she begins. "I suppose we should start with my daughter."
"Hey," David says, and Emma almost responds until she sees Snow on the porch, clearly the person he's talking to.
"Not now, Nolan," Snow groans. "I've been up all night and I still haven't touched my calculus."
Emma ducks out of sight behind the car, already feeling the first twinge of guilt about spying, but she hasn't exactly had the free time to keep track of their daughter the past little while. It's just checking in, of a sorts.
"Your mom's home, huh?"
"Yeah, she's off at the doctor again today, then I think she was going for some spa treatment. My other mom thinks it might chill her out."
"That's pretty sweet," David replies, shuffling one dirty workboot across their front path, before digging it into the loose earth of the nearest flowerbed. "So don't get mad, but I got us tickets for a thing."
"A concert?"
"A dance. It's the Spring Fling. Total cheese, I know. But it's our last year, so I thought…"
"What?" Snow snaps. "That I'd wear a pretty dress and you'd sweep me off my feet? We'll dance all formal, like it's a Ren Fayre or some freaking thing? I don't do dances. You know that."
"Well do this one dance. With me?"
"You should go. At least one of my moms will be home any minute."
"I can-"
"Just go, David."
Emma takes her cue, skirting around the car like she's approaching from the street.
"Hey, kids."
"David was just leaving," Snow announces. "I have homework. Call me, you know, if there's actually going to be dinner."
David slopes off down the path without further acknowledgment; neither Snow nor Emma turns to watch him go. They stand on the porch together instead, heads hanging in something between exhaustion and disappointment.
"Mom went to the spa?"
"Kathryn's going to bring her home later, yeah. You didn't go to school?"
"My own mom doesn't remember me. I figured I could skip a day of fart jokes and prom planning. I got more work done here, anyway."
"Don't make a habit-"
"Enough, okay? It's under control. I'll be in my room."
Emma sighs, watching her daughter traipse into the house like the weight of the world is on her shoulders, and in too many ways, it is. It will be easier now, with Regina home. At least, when she starts to really remember. It's not wrong to enjoy this little vacation without mention of Henry, without wondering if every distracted look means there's a hallucination in the corner. Emma shakes her head, following inside and heading straight for the kitchen. She'll rustle up some pizza-even she can't screw that up-and tonight they'll try again.
She calls Gold a few days later, watching Regina keep herself busy in the garden.
"You know I can't discuss the specifics-"
"Should I tell her about him? It's been two weeks and nothing."
"You should," Gold tells her. "Do it carefully, try not to upset her too much all at once. But she needs the complete set of memories to put her life back together."
"She's doing better," Emma says, for her own benefit more than anything. "She's tending to the roses and it's like… it's like before. When things were better."
"That's as may be," Gold sighs. "But the therapeutic guidelines are clear."
"Thank you, doctor."
"Think nothing of it."
Yeah, Emma sighs. It's always nothing until the next bill arrives.
Regina winces at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Her absence has been noted, then. Usually Emma sleeps through the night, and Regina's been able to continue her project undisturbed. Tonight, the luck is finally running out.
"Couldn't sleep?" Emma asks from the doorway of the den, hair tousled from sleep and her overstretched Red Sox t-shirt hanging off one shoulder. "You should wake me. I'll keep you company."
"It's fine," Regina insists, forcing a smile. "I'm just… doing my homework, I guess." She gestures to the photos spread out on the table, and the journal she's been filling with anecdotes and reminders.
"You can't take the memories out of the dork," Emma teases gently. "But that dork still shows up when she's looking for her memories."
"There's nothing dorky about being organized," Regina huffs. Emma enters the room at last, moving behind Regina and sliding her palms down over shoulders and chest until they're wrapped up in a lazy hug, Emma bent over Regina's chair. "And they took plenty of my memories out, didn't they?"
"They're coming back. You're missing your mom?" Emma asks, her voice warm against Regina's ear. "I guess it feels like losing her all over again."
"It does, and it doesn't. Part of me still feels a little shocked, but it's like there's some background program running, and it knows I already dealt with this. Sort of like the twinge in my knee when the weather gets cold, it isn't injured anymore, but it's like the muscles remember even without me."
"You haven't ridden a horse since you hurt your knee," Emma adds, and it's definitely wistful. "You know, if you come back to bed…"
"I won't sleep anyway," Regina adds, patting Emma's hand and not thinking about the gesture until afterwards. It is coming back, she thinks. Her body remembers Emma and the closeness of her wife seems to activate it. She sighs, a stuttering breath that catches behind her teeth, and offers a silent thanks for the progress. "It just feels like I'm missing something."
"Just the details," Emma insists. "It probably feels like more than it is."
"Our wedding is mostly coming back. The albums have helped with Snow. But there's something tugging at me, like an errand I forgot to run."
"I think that's just part of getting older. We're not twenty-three anymore, Regina. Hell, I spend half my working day wondering where my keys are, and that's even when I can hear them jangling in my pocket."
"You go back up," Regina insists. "I won't be much longer."
"Don't push too hard, okay?" It's hard to hear it as anything but a warning. "The memories will come back if they're supposed to."
"Mmhmm."
Regina picks up the photographs as Emma retreats, arranging them in neat rows once more. There are even more on the computer, but Regina can't remember her password and that's another thing Emma doesn't want to rush. It's likely that Snow knows, given that she frequently disappears into the study for hours at a time, but Regina is reluctant to ask. It's only then she frowns, wondering if Emma's use of 'if' instead of 'when' is intentional or not.
Eventually she stands and stretches, clicking off the lamp she's been working by. As she moves towards the door, there's a thump from the porch that startles her. Too curious to be scared, Regina moves towards the front door and eases it open.
"Oh, hi, Mrs… Regina," David blurts, rubbing his ass as he stands up. "I was just dropping off some homework for Snow."
"And you couldn't use the door like a civilized person?"
"She wasn't answering her phone. I didn't want to disturb anyone else. So I guess I thought playing Spiderman would be cooler. Is… everything okay? I totally get it if you're mad, but you look a little…"
"David," Regina says, the word unfamiliar on her lips. "You're David."
"Right," David nods enthusiastically. "Hey, if you remember me first time, that's a good sign, right? Snow said you had some memory issues."
"You remind me of someone," Regina continues, ignoring his chatter. "How old are you?"
"Seventeen," David replies, standing up straight. "Why?"
"I have no idea," Regina sighs. "Snow is in her room. Come in, but be quiet going upstairs, or the Sheriff will chase you out."
"Thanks," David says, pushing past her eagerly. He's halfway up the stairs when Regina feels the prickling at the base of her skull, an insistent little itch that tells her to turn around. But when she looks out, back at the porch, there's nothing to see but shadows.
"It's been four weeks," Regina barks, tapping her foot impatiently as Gold watches her. After a moment, she resumes pacing, far too agitated to sit. "And my mind makes my teenage daughter's bedroom look tidy by comparison. How do I know what I've forgotten if I've forgotten it? What I still need to remember is beyond me, it keeps just happening in flashes. I thought this treatment would give me control."
"If you're feeling anxious, perhaps I can prescribe-"
"Put that pad away, you quack," Regina mocks, her smile cruel although she isn't aiming to hurt, not today. "And give me some answers, for once."
"Temper, dearie," Gold shoots back, but he's grinning at the display of strength, damn him. "Are you talking to your wife about all this? What does she say about it?"
"She doesn't say much of anything. Although I do seem to remember that she's never been one for talking about problems. Emma was always hit and run on emotional matters."
"And yet she's been with you every step of the way," Gold admonishes, leaning forward. "Plenty wouldn't have stayed even half as long. Do you discuss your depression with her?"
"Of course."
"The delusions?"
"As far as I know, I'm not having any lately. But we've been through the greatest hits of my crazy behavior, if that's what you're asking."
"And has it helped to talk about your son?"
Regina's body stops so suddenly that she almost falls flat on her face, one pointed heel catching in the swirls of the shag carpeting.
"My… what?"
"Ah. I thought your wife had… we discussed… no matter. Clearly, you two need to talk more."
"More? Doctor, I barely remember marrying this woman, beyond being in Portland, in some gray building."
"It's for the best. I can't fill in memories that I didn't share with you, Regina. Go to Emma. Talk to her."
Regina takes her seat at last, with barely ten minutes of the appointment left. Her head is throbbing with the sudden burst of new information, and she can't pick a single piece of the puzzle to latch on to. She drops her head forward, pressing her palms against her forehead in a bid to find some calm.
She feels the prickle at the back of her neck, and swallows hard.
"Regina?" Emma calls out, although she's already following the sound of music coming from the dining room. The tune is familiar, but after a day spent chasing punk-ass kids she's too tired to concentrate.
There's no reply, so Emma walks in to find the chairs pushed back from the table, photos and tchotkes scattered all over the large table, spilling onto the floor in a bunch of places. Regina has her back turned, so it isn't clear right away what she's holding. It's only when Emma gets close enough to look over Regina's shoulder that she sees it: that goddamned music box.
"Still doing homework?" Emma asks, trying to keep it light. "You always were a total teacher's pet, huh?"
She reaches casually for the box, but the minute she tries to take it from her wife, Regina clutches it like she's just caught a Hail Mary pass in the dying seconds of the Superbowl. She looks up at Emma from where Regina has knelt among the souvenirs of their life together, eyes red-rimmed and stormy, darker than Emma can ever remember seeing them. It's almost chilling in its intensity, but Emma doesn't let go of the music box.
"It's just a dumb old music box," Emma insists, giving another tug. It's ridiculous to be squabbling like toddlers over a toy. "Let me put it back and we'll go through the photos some more."
"We used to play it for the baby," Regina says, looking back down at the item in her hands. Her voice is hoarse again, like she's been crying for a really long time. Emma's heart starts to sink towards her boots. "It was the only thing… it soothed him. When he couldn't sleep. We had a son."
It's pure accusation, and without a good excuse, Emma simply pulls at the box again. Regina pulls away this time, scrambling on her knees until she can leverage herself up with one of the dining room chairs. She opens the box once more, closing her eyes and humming along with the plinking noises.
"We had only been living here a few months," Regina whispers, rounding the chair and sitting on it, legs crossed at the ankles like the proper lady she'd been raised to be. "And I had that coat, do you remember? The black one with the high collar. I just pulled it on over my pajamas. Blue, weren't they?"
"Regina, this isn't going to help…"
"Shut up!" Regina snaps. "Shut your mouth, and let me finish remembering. You drove so fast, I thought the Bug was going to tip over. How we didn't crash, I'll never know."
"Please," Emma sinks to her knees in front of Regina, their voices both harsh as the music starts to slow down, the handle needing to be wound again. "I'm begging you, Regina. I don't want to talk about this now. Anything but this."
"How could I forget?" Regina pleads, and when she lets the box fall to the floor, the lid snaps off cleanly.
"If we're going to talk about it, I need a drink. " Emma stalls, wanting just one more minute of the tentative peace they've been enjoying. "You want one?"
Regina shakes her head.
"Meet me in the bedroom," Emma tells her. "I don't want Snow overhearing all of this."
