Emma's POV. Please R&R.
Life's fucked up, Emma thinks.
She's alone at home, nurturing a glass of scotch, at barely ten in the morning. She laughs, looking at the clock, and reading, 9:58.
Life's fucked up.
She presses her face into her hands and groans.
Must it always begin with a knock at the door? And must I always be dumb enough to answer it.
She could've just ignored it, could've just continued eating breakfast with her son. He was actually talking to her. And civilly at that. She'd felt like a mother again. He'd looked at her like she was a mother, his mother.
Hadn't he called her that? Mom?
Emma scoffs at herself. Who was she kidding? He hadn't even called her mom in years.
It hurts. More than she thought it could. It's like a physical pain in her chest to watch him grow up, to see the distance between them.
Is this how Regina felt? she wonders.
Emma thinks of all the doors slammed in her face, all the sullen silences, all the I hate yous she'd heard in the past year.
Yesterday, she would've told herself it's just teenage mood swings, that he didn't mean it, that he loved her, she'd think back to happy memories with her son. But now, she knows those memories are fake. And today, she can't even bring herself to cling to their comfort.
Yesterday she was... ordinary. She was a regular Joe. A single mom, trying to provide for her kid. Today... She downed her glass, hands shaking. Today she's the Saviour. And her kingdom needs saving. Again.
She lets out a bitter laugh and pours herself another drink, swishing the amber liquid around with the ice. The Saviour.
"You're gonna bring back the happy endings."
She laughs again because how can she? How can she possibly bring back the happy endings? What does that even mean?
"It's your destiny. You're gonna-"
"Yeah," she says out loud, "I know, kid. I know," she sighs, whispering the last part, "I'm gonna break the curse and then we'll all live happily ever after."
She thinks of Henry then. The sweet, adorable little boy who showed up outside her door and turned her life completely upside down. She remembers how she'd talk to him at nights through their walkie-talkies just so she could not say goodnight. How they'd steal time together and she'd walk him to and from school. The little kid who traveled from Maine to Boston just to find her. The one who called her mom before she was even sure she could be one. The boy who sacrificed himself for her, who ate that damn apple turnover, who went under a sleeping curse - for her.
She thinks of that little boy and cannot see a trace of him in Ryan.
The scotch warms up her throat deliciously.
"Are you Emma Swan?"
She nearly cries.
"My name's Henry. I'm your son."
"Oh, God," she mumbles to herself. "Oh, God. Oh, God."
Ryan. She sighs. Ryan is exactly like her. Suspicious, distrustful and emotionally distant. He can get so cold and vicious. They've fought a lot. Most of them recently. Ranging from anything as simple as day-to-day chores like doing the dishes or taking out the trash to complicated issues like his dad or his upbringing.
Emma groans.
That particular conversation had not gone well. She'd explained the truth of Neal to him when he was fifteen, thinking him old enough and mature enough to understand. She regretted it almost immediately, it seemed like he'd taken it as permission, throwing how old she was when she had him back in her face any time she brought up sex. He was too young. She didn't want him to screw up his life. Had told him as much. To which he replied, "So I screwed up your life, huh?" Then he'd left and she hadn't seen him for two days.
She'd failed. Horribly. Spectacularly. She couldn't be a mother.
She'd said as much sixteen years ago. But Regina wouldn't listen. No, instead she gave her these stupid fucking memories (that were probably hers) and expected her, Emma Swan a woman with no knowledge on children, to raise him.
How the fuck was she supposed to do that? How?
The weird thing, she admits to herself, is that he looks like her now. Henry looked like Regina sometimes. When he'd pull a certain face or something smart, he'd look like his adoptive mother. But Ryan... Ryan looks like Emma. He dyed his hair blonde and wears green eye contacts. During the conversation of Neal, he'd asked how his dad looked. Emma dug up an old photo and showed him. About three months later, she'd come home to blonde hair and green eyes. She hadn't known what to make of it or what to say. So she didn't.
"Bad move, Swan," she said to herself. "You should have said something."
Her little boy. She sighs. He's not little anymore. He's almost all grown up and she's not entirely sure she likes the man he's becoming.
"Regina's gonna kill me," she says before swallowing another mouthful. Emma almost hopes she will, then she wouldn't have to deal with all of this. Then she wouldn't have to be the Saviour. But she wouldn't, Emma sighs to herself. She'd gotten all heroic, trying to be a better person and mother for her son. Emma scofffs again.
She looks at the bottle on the counter top. It's nearly empty. She sighs, gets up and does her red leather jacket, her armour, and heads to the school.
This afternoon isn't going to end well.