nine.

Upon their return to New York, they don't go straight back to the apartment—back home. Regina has a son to pick up, after all.

"He's a sweet boy," the babysitter—an Emily of forty-five—tells them over Regina's thank-you apple turnover. It's devoured with all the gusto of someone who has no inkling of her history with baked goods—although Emma can't exactly use that excuse, eternal nine-year-old around food that she is. "He's missed his parents, however."

"I know. We miss them too," Regina says, her voice laden with months-old exhaustion, as she runs her hand rhythmically through Roland's hair, the boy curled up sleepily on her lap. He's had no difficulty at all accepting her as his mother, but occasionally he still asks questions that Regina is not even remotely capable of answering.

Emily gives them a look. "I was actually talking about you two. Both of you."

Regina goes very, very still.

"Oh."

She glances sidelong at Emma, but the woman seems suddenly incapable of meeting her eyes.

On the drive back home, she finds out why.

"I'm actually okay with it, you know."

Regina tightens her grip on the steering wheel, looks across, but Emma's gaze is still firmly directed towards the multicoloured dazzle of upper Manhattan beyond the windshield. "What?"

"If you don't want me to be anything to Roland other than, um, his mom's girlfriend or a weird aunt or—"

"Emma."

"—whatever, that's totally cool, that's—"

"Emma." The extra edge in her voice is explicitly designed to stop Emma's nervous jabbering, and it works immediately. "Would you—" She pauses, purses her lips, ignores the way her chest seems to have contracted like it's being compressed by a metal band. "Would you like to be?"

"Be what?"

She fights to keep her voice strictly and rigorously neutral. "A mother to Roland. Do you want to be that?"

(She already knows the answer to this question, of course.)

A suppressed gasp, a sharp intake of stunned breath. "You'd do that? You'd let me?"

"It isn't up to me." And she knows that Emma is about to argue the point, but she doesn't have the time to explain the monolithic vastness, the unquantifiable power that is fate, so she continues: "If Roland thinks you're his—one of his mothers," she corrects herself, because her acceptance only reaches so far, "then I won't stand in the way. That's what family means, doesn't it?"

(You will have the life you've always wanted.)

Emma is looking at her, finally looking at her, bathing her with that same star-bright awe and gratitude that's both familiar and entirely unfamiliar. "I don't want you to feel like I'm taking your son away from you. I wouldn't do that." Again, Regina hears, and for one terrifying second something old and malevolent and pitch-black rises up within her—

But the light, that light being directed at her from the passenger's seat is even more addictive, and it takes every ounce of Regina's self-control to not reach across and touch. She is driving, after all.

"I know."

When they finally arrive home, Emma drags her by the hand to an empty room and kisses her so hard she actually begins to feel faint for a few seconds.

"That," she says at Regina's utterly bewildered expression, "was a thank you."

She could get used to this.

Nothing changes.

Okay, that's not strictly accurate. Emma, for one, becomes even more handsy, more uncoordinated around Regina's presence. Regina loses her phone to an upturned mug of coffee the next week as a result, and all she can do is roll her eyes and glare.

"You're distracting when you look like that!" Emma splutters between profuse apologies. "It's a serious problem—"

"I'm sure, dear." Fine, maybe the pencil skirt is a bit much, but she has to find her fun somewhere. Even if it does cost her a four-hundred-dollar phone.

Henry, on the other hand, becomes insufferable.

"Mo-oms," he whines when he catches them at it instead of cooking dinner. "Do you guys have to make out, like, all the time?"

Regina gives him what has to be the most intimidating scowl she's ever directed towards him, but the effect is rather lost. For one, there's the fact that one of her hands is still around the back of Emma's neck, the other on her lower waist. "Henry Daniel—"

"Like, I'm totally happy that you guys are together," he says, and the sincerity he exudes is literally the only reason Regina is tolerating such awful behaviour. Where had he learned tosmirk like that? She'd have to have a word with Mary Margaret, as it must surely be her fault. "But you don't have to be super-gross about it."

And Regina is genuinely outraged, because they do not make out all the time. In fact they barely kiss or touch at all, outside of late evenings on the couch and in the morning before Emma goes to work and—

Okay. Maybe a little bit. But not all the time.

Emma, predictably, has recovered first. "Uh-huh. We'll remember that one every time you try to bring a girl home."

Henry's jaw falls open and he stares at her in mock offence, and Regina struggles to force down a laugh.

But no. Other than small things, things like Emma actually learning to make supremely awful apple cider, like enrolling Roland in the local daycare, like Regina's entire world being flipped on its head by little words like love and family, nothing changes.

They continue to live in the apartment with a temporary lease. Regina continues to leave silent roses on a gravestone every Sunday afternoon.

Her sister's trial soon enters its fifth month, and with it Regina and Emma are finally called to give their testimony.

It's actually far easier than Regina had expected. She'd practised for this with a contact of Emma's, a lawyer who owed a favour. Even without that, though, she's pretty sure she'd breeze through anyway; Zelena's lawyer is an irritant but she knows how to deal with those, and when he snarls out barbed challenges to her, she just smiles her most lethal smile.

Emma's path is not so smooth.

It seems to be at first. In fact, for the first half an hour of the cross-examination, Emma seems almost bored, answering every question with total ease. It's even more assured than Regina had been—not that she'd ever admit that—and Regina is starting to drift into settled confidence—

"Miss Swan, is it true that you know Regina Mills as the Evil Queen?"

Emma straightens as if given an electric shock. "What?"

It's enough to make Zelena's lawyer smile wickedly—and suddenly, with flooding horror, Regina realises where this question has come from, and where this is going. This isn't about helping Zelena's case, not at all. This is about Regina.

"Is it true that Regina Mills is also known as the Evil Queen?"

Emma has paled, her hands fidgeting on the wood in front of her. "Yes. It's a nickname."

"Mm. And why, exactly, would Regina have such a nickname?" he asks, pacing back and forth like a predator just waiting, waiting for the moment to strike. "Is it true that she despises my client, her sister?"

"Of course. She killed her boyfriend."

"So you say, yet Zelena was the one pregnant with Mr Locksley's child. Meanwhile, Regina shows up with you to Mr Locksley's house unannounced, and in mysterious circumstances Mr Locksley dies almost immediately afterwards," he says with a dramatic sigh, and Regina has to stop herself audibly grinding her teeth, because there's nothing mysterious about those circumstances at all. Not at the practical level, at least.

But he isn't finished. "Then, six months later, we find out that you two are apparently the most committed of couples. Does this not seem strange to you?"

Emma has that tension, that look that Regina knows from past experience means that she's feeling pressed and cornered. "I don't understand."

"Then let me put it another way: is it true that your girlfriend has a history of hurting people who get in the way of what she wants, which is you?"

"Objection!" The DA shoots to his feet. "Your honour, this is absolutely clear provocation of the witness—"

"Provocation? I'm merely asking a straightforward question to Miss Swan. After all, she seems to have done awfully well for herself following Mr Locksley's death—"

The DA objects again, and the courtroom soon dissolves into total chaos as the judge attempts to regain control of the situation. Eventually the question is ruled out of order, but Regina can see from the whiteness of Emma's knuckles, the hard set of her jaw, that the damage is done.

"I'm sorry," Emma blurts out immediately when they arrive home. "I—I wish you didn't have to hear that—"

Regina silences her with a kiss, open-mouthed and sweet. "I know, darling," she murmurs once she breaks off. "I know."

Emma ducks her head, looks away. "He—he was right, though. About me and this and—"

"It doesn't matter. Whatever Zelena says about us and about me doesn't matter," she says, low and fierce as she tangles blonde curls around her fingers. "What we have now is what matters."

It's almost as if she believes it.

(Even so, she thinks that Emma holds onto her just a little too tightly that evening, and Regina holds on a little too tightly back.)

Not long afterwards, Regina realises she needs to make one completely obvious and long-overdue change to their lives which is in no way minor. Or, rather, she needs to make one change to Henry's life.

And it scares the hell out of her.

Emma, who is in the middle of going through some semi-clandestine material from one of her equally mysterious contacts for a case, turns her attention cautiously to Regina when she brings it up. Emma's expression is cautious, guarded, unsure—in short, exactly what Regina had expected, exactly what she'd feared.

"That's kind of—"

"Yes." She doesn't need to hear the word temporary right now.

"Are you sure? I mean—"

"I won't have Henry falling behind on his education, Emma."

"No, I get that, and I—" Emma's words cease as if shorted out, and for one moment Regina thinks this is all going to collapse around her, because she knows Emma Swan now. She knows that Emma, at once the most open and the most closed-off person she knows, will give and give but balk at the first opportunity to take anything resembling solidity and permanence. And what Regina is suggesting—is offering—is far more than mere educational opportunities for her son.

So she's completely unprepared for Emma to say, "I'm in it if you are, but are you sure?"

No.

Regina inhales deeply, keeps her expression flat. "It's necessary."

And that, frankly, is all that's important here.

Henry is not a fan.

"But—but why? I don't get it, the trial's almost finished—"

"Henry." She bends down—not far, he's getting so tall—and clasps his chin with trembling fingers, pleading with her eyes. "This is important for you."

For me, she doesn't say.

He frowns a little—but then bows his head in acceptance, as if he hears her anyway.

(But of course he had. He's her son, after all.)

Regardless, when the time comes, he makes a show out of his reluctance. A ridiculously melodramatic show.

"Come on, Henry," Emma says, prodding him out the door as he makes a complete meal out of tying his shoelaces. "You're gonna be late."

He simply sighs dramatically, and trudges to the elevator.

His false show of moodiness persists right throughout the car trip, even after Emma tells him to 'cut the crap, kid'. She knows full well that Henry is doing it for Regina's amusement, trying to get her out of the frantic and unbalanced headspace she's been in for days now.

But Regina is distant, eyes fixed on traffic lights and pedestrians and license plates, and she barely even notices them.

(If this is what hope feels like, she'll have a pass on it in the future, thanks.)

Ten minutes later, he's gone.

Ten minutes of final instructions and rapid nods. Ten minutes of wide-eyed stares at the imposing brick-and-mortar facade of the charter school Regina and Emma had chosen (and persuaded to take Henry, in their own inimitable ways). Ten minutes of Regina watching him disappear into a veritable mass of humanity, tense and small, nervous and shy as he's always been around children his own age.

Emma had assured her that he's better here, he makes friends easily here, and that after the initial nervousness and reluctance to go back, he'd fit in brilliantly just like she had before. But that was a fake life built on fake memories, and now he remembers—

(He doesn't really have any friends. He's kind of a loner.)

Now—

"Regina." Emma has quietly moved up beside her, is pressing against her elbow. "Whatever you're thinking right now, stop."

She blinks moisture—moisture?—from her eyes, the voice breaking through her internal fog. Her breaths are harsh, uneven as if she's drowning in the very air she's breathing. Has she started crying without even noticing? "Emma, I—"

"You don't need to do anything. He'll be fine, okay? Trust me." An arm enclosing around her back at the waist, mooring her even as the storms, wild and furious and far beyond her control, bear down within her. "Please, Regina. Trust me."

In the doorway, a brown-haired boy turns back against the flood of schoolchildren pressing inwards, and smiles at her.

It's just about enough to get her through the day.

At least, it's enough until she has her son in her arms again.

She holds him tight, whispering three little words,and for a moment she collapses was and might be into is.

That night, as she trails light kisses across Emma's collarbone, Emma asks, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"About what? About this?" This, of course, being the fact that they're both naked, limbs tangled and with marks on each other's shoulders, a result of their desire to prevent Henry overhearing them.

(That had not been a comfortable conversation last week.)

Emma laughs, her voice roughened by exertion and the last traces of arousal. "Nah. This morning."

Regina looks up, frowning. Sex, apparently, does not have the mind-clearing effects she'd thought it would. A pity."Mm, and who replaced you with your mother?"

"Regina." Emma shuffles onto her side, pulls Regina up so they're face to face. "That wasn't all about Henry, was it?"

She tries to duck her head, turn away—but Emma, stubborn and strong as she is, refuses to let her. "It was about a lot of things."

Hope. Family. A future.

(A future that's now gone.)

Emma closes the distance, brushes her lips softly, so softly against hers, and she feels herself reciprocating. "You're scared of losing all of this."

And in that softness, in that understanding, Regina knows she's not the only one. In fact, she wonders which of them is really more frightened of—well. Possibility. Fate. The future.

She wets her lips again, strokes a line up and down one of Emma's shoulders. "Can you blame me?"

"Not really. You've lost a lot already."

This time she does look away, refusing to let Emma see the swirling darkness she knows is still behind her eyes.

(An endless wave of screams, cries, pleas for mercy unheeded—)

"I've taken far more."

Emma pulls her back, grounds her again. "Yeah. And maybe you'll never be able to repay that," Emma says, and Regina closes her eyes because she knows, she knows—"But we're all still here, aren't we?"

"And tomorrow? The day after? Who will be the next demon from my past to come and take away the ones I—"

Care about—

Love—

Can't live without—

"We won't let them," Emma says, steel and determination. "I made you a promise, remember? I'm gonna try and keep it this time."

"Everyone deserves their happy ending," Regina murmurs.

(Including you.)

Those eyes are sparkling, and Regina is utterly lost to them. "All of ours."

(Because that's what love is, isn't it? A promise.)

ten.

The trial may be winding down, but Zelena's lawyer is continuing to find creative ways to waste enormous amounts of time. There are supposedly traffic-related delays to deal with; inane witnesses who babble for hours on end about matters which are surely irrelevant; objections on technicalities that even Regina—who has spent months studying every detail in the statues that could be relevant to the case—can't comprehend; and vexatious, nonsensical theories that chew up entire weeks in being dealt with.

The upshot: a supposedly four-week case, according to the DA, is now verging on six months.

Today is particularly bad, as one of their witnesses—a sixty-year-old man who'd lived two floors down from Robin—seems a little rattled by the whole experience, flustered and unsure of his evidence. It's hardly a problem in terms of the case, as he's really just here to back up what other, more confident witnesses (like, well, Emma and Regina themselves) had already given in their own statements.

But it is enough for the attorney to latch onto the vulnerability like a shark to the scent of blood, and it takes an age for them to just get to the part where the witness can actually describe what he'd heard that night—

"Objection! The witness's story is fascinating," the lawyer drawls with a sneer, "but entirely irrelevant to the details of this case."

In the dock, Zelena smiles.

(In a way, it's impressive just how much pleasure her sister seems to derive from utterly meaningless victories—although perhaps Regina shouldn't be so surprised.

She knows a thing or two about meaningless victories.)

And so it goes for another three hours.

It's enough to drive Regina around the bend. The moment the proceedings close for the day, she immediately stands and marches straight out, pausing only to give a death glare that Medusa herself would be proud of to some poor soul who gets in her way. She immediately heads to her car, and drives home with her jaw aching from being clamped down for so long—though on the way, she picks up Roland from daycare and Henry from school.

"Hey Mom," Henry says brightly upon closing the door. Then he catches a glimpse of her expression. "Mom?"

"Hm?" She glances at him in the rear-view mirror—but almost has to flinch away at the thinness of his lips, the doubt clouding his eyes which are usually beacons of clarity. "I'm sorry, honey, I—I was just thinking."

"You have your scary face on," he replies warily, his brow furrowed. "Was it the trial again?"

Her son. Her son, her shrewd, clever little prince. "It's been a long day."

His expression softens, and Regina's chest loosens. "Don't worry, Mom. You'll win soon."

(But then what?)

Despite Henry's encouragement—which she appreciates, she really, truly does—she spends the rest of the drive home in complete silence, unable to break the spiral of hate-worry-guilt-hate that's overtaken her mind ever since—well. She'd rather not complete that sentence. In fact, it makes her realise just how far she's sunk into herself, into that nameless pit deep within that she keeps promising herself—and, by extension, her family—that she'll avoid. But she's used to this sort of failure by now.

Every part of her, every muscle and every instinct, wants to just ride this out, immerse herself in the joy and light and love of her children. But instead, upon arriving home, she gives Henry and Roland a hug, heads into her and Emma's bedroom, carefully pulls the double curtains closed, and shuts the door.

She can't put this on them. She can't. She owes them that much.

As a result, when Emma gets home half an hour later, she's still sitting dead still in her darkened room, slowly letting the darkness drift away, washing over her in ever-weakening waves. Not for the first time, she's thankful, so thankful that she doesn't have her magic here.

She hears the thud of Emma's boots abruptly cease right outside the room, a sigh and a light double-tap on the door. "Regina—"

"Not now, Emma," she interjects, gentle and soft yet dangerous, reflecting a glimmer of her actual emotions which are anything but gentle and soft. Emma has given her much—more than she'd ever believed possible, frankly—but this is hers to deal with and hers alone. "Give me one hour."

A pause, and Regina can just imagine Emma leaning her forehead on the door, exasperated and helpless. "One hour."

An hour passes, but it isn't Emma who opens the door. It's her younger son.

"Mommy, come play with me," Roland says—says, not asks, because Regina's lessons about phrasing questions as actual questions hasn't quite stuck yet. Right now, though, she doesn't care.

She smiles—beams, almost—down at him, ruffles his hair. "Of course, sweetheart."

Dinner is a somewhat tense, quiet affair salvaged mainly by a mercifully pointless debate about comic book superheroes. Even so, there are knots in Emma's shoulders and her arms are stiff in that way that means she's upset. Or angry.

It's probably the latter, to be honest—Emma, like herself, has always found more ease in righteous fury than in sadness.

It's no surprise, then when Emma finally corners her in their room. She's in the middle of replying to an essay-length email from Maleficent, the dragon-slash-Mayor having finally learned how to use a computer, and pestering Regina for Mayoral advice as a result. She sighs when Emma drops herself down unceremoniously on the bed behind her, and she closes the screen.

"Emma, if this is about—"

"It isn't. I mean," Emma adds, wetting her lips a little, her lips still thinned. "It isn't just about this afternoon."

"But it is mostly about that."

"Yeah. You know it freaks Henry out when you're like that, right? And me a little as well."

And Regina knows, of course, and she hates herself more than a little for it, but—"We're in New York, dear. I'm not the Queen here."

"Nah, just a gay mother with two kids," Emma says with a hint of a wry smile, but the lines around her eyes remain fixed and well-defined. "But you don't need magic to hurt people."

"I'm not—"

"No. But you want to." Emma reaches over, tugs her around in the chair so they're properly facing each other. "Part of you wishes you could."

Yes. Yes, it does. Oh, how it wishes, how it burns—and how the rest of her knows that she can't. "This is who I am, Emma," she says, low and fierce, "I may not—she may not be me any more, but she's in me. She isn't going away." And her breath hitches, her throat constricts, because she might not go away, but—

But Emma, Emma who had protected her because her son had requested it, Emma who had believed her when no one else would, simply understands. "I know. Just let us in too, yeah? Can you do that for us?"

She closes her eyes and doesn't answer.

(She wants to, of course. She so dearly wants to. But want isn't enough.)

There is one more thing she has to do this evening. One thing that she absolutely must do.

She pauses for a fraction of a second before opening the door—but only for a fraction of a second. "Henry, do you have a moment?"

"Uh, sure." He puts down his pen and closes his notebook—history, Regina notes. Not Henry's favourite subject yet, but one that Regina is very keen on ensuring that Henry excels in, as she finds the history of this world infinitely richer than that of her own. "What's up?"

She sits down next to him, spends a moment taking in his expression, prepares herself.

"I'd—about this afternoon," she starts slowly. "I know it scares you when I behave like that. I know it reminds you of—those times. And I'm sorry—"

"Mom." He leans over, places a hand on her forearm. "It's okay. I wasn't scared."

She starts a little in surprise. "You—you weren't?"

"Nah. I know you'd never hurt me or Roland or Mom any more," he says, and the relief Regina feels clashes with the shame at any more. "But you're really freaky when you're like that, and I guess I was kinda worried."

It's better than outright fear, but not much. Not enough. She starts brushing loose brown hair delicately away from his eyes, so bright like his mother's. "Worried? Why?"

He shrugs. "I just wish you didn't hate Zelena so much."

She sighs, but continues drawing lines down his temple. "Henry—"

"I know why you're still angry. I'm mad at her too. But once she's in jail, can't you just… let it go?"

"I—I don't know, Henry. I don't think I can. What she did to Robin—to me—isn't something I think anyone can forgive."

"But that's what everyone said about you once," Henry points out, and that isn't an argument Regina has any reasonable response to, "and Mom and I and my grandparents all love you anyway."

Which is, frankly, still somewhat incomprehensible to her—particularly when it comes to Snow and Charming—but she can't argue with that either. "Henry, even if I wanted to, I'm not sure she wants to be forgiven. It isn't something that anyone else can do for you."

Because that's the difference, isn't it? Regina, regardless of all the terrible crimes she'd committed in the past, had at least wanted redemption. She'd given up her own son along the way to getting it.

(She tries not to think about the fact that Zelena doesn't have anything to give up in the first place.)

And Henry knows, of course. Henry knows this better than anyone. "Sure. But it isn't about her, it's about you. I don't want you to hurt any more, Mom," he mumbles shyly.

Regina just rests her forehead against his and wonders how she could possibly have been so lucky.

The closing arguments happen shortly afterwards. The DA is methodical, calm and precise, going through the reams of evidence in exactly the way Regina and Emma had instructed. The defense attorney is not.

"And here we see this woman," he proclaims with a absurd flourish, gesturing at Regina in a way that once upon a time would surely have seen him lose an arm, "casting the most baseless and vindictive aspersions upon my client, a pregnant woman with nothing, out of anger and spite. I submit that..."

But Regina is beyond caring, and beyond listening. After six months of pain and grief and rage, of too late and blood and trying to hide silent tears from her family, she's had enough of Zelena's tricks and of this trial. All she wants now is for this to end.

(Even though the prospect, frankly, terrifies her.)

Two weeks later, two weeks of jury deliberations, two weeks of waiting and hoping and dreading, two weeks of silent nights with Emma's hand wrapped up in hers beneath the blanket, squeezing as if she could just crush her fears and worries inside their shared grips, it's time.

"You ready?" Emma asks, her face impassive.

She isn't. She really, really isn't.

"Yes."

The courtroom is packed, but it's so quiet that Regina can hear the muffled coughs of the jurors, the rub of their clothes as they enter and take their seats. There's a small discussion of protocol, the courtroom equivalent of small talk, and then—

"Miss Mills," the judge says to Zelena, "Could you please stand and face the jury?"

She does so, her expression as impassive as ever—but when Regina looks closer, she notices that some of that wild, manic flame usually lighting her sister's eyes has gone. It's probably related to the now-considerable swell of her stomach, she figures.

The lead juror stands, pulls out a piece of paper from an envelope.

"Is everyone ready? Very well. Mr Robinson, if you please."

The man unfolds the paper, begins to read in a clear, emotionless, almost robotic voice: "This is the verdict of the Supreme Court of the State of New York, in the matter of the State of New York against Zelena Mills."

Regina takes a breath, holds it, feels Emma's hand on her thigh—

"We, the jury, in the aforementioned action, find the defendant Zelena Mills guilty of the crime of murder of Robin Locksley..."

Guilty.

Guilty.

A squeeze, a touch of her shoulder as Emma leans into her. She looks over to the dock, where her sister is still standing, looking—

Is she relieved?

Regina doesn't know. Regina doesn't care—because it's irrelevant, isn't it? It's over. It's over, and after six months she has her justice at last.

(So why doesn't she care?)