Chapter 9: Spilt Milk

Henry is up early. The house is quiet and dark, and he nearly misses a step going downstairs because he'd forgotten how to count them.

The hallway outside the kitchen still smells like smoke, but it's a bit better in the kitchen itself. He ducks his head into the pantry and reaches for the box of bran flakes. But then he pauses for a moment, remembering Sunday mornings when he was really little, when his mom would make French toast and fresh orange juice and they'd sit at the table and read comics together until it was far too late in the day to still be wearing pajamas.

He shuts the pantry, pulls the milk and eggs from the refrigerator, and puts a pan on the stove.

He doesn't quite remember how to make French toast, but he thinks there was something spicy in it, so he dumps some ground cloves in with the milk and eggs and uses a fork to mix it together because he can't find a whisk. (He drops the fork in the bowl four times, but by the third time back and forth to the sink to rinse it off, he's kind of beyond caring that the handle is covered in sticky egg and just keeps mixing anyway).

The brioche is on the top shelf of the pantry, so he carries a chair from the dining room to reach it. He cuts the bread into mostly-even slices with a butter knife, drops them in the batter, and then realizes only after he's dripped a trail of eggy-milk across the kitchen floor that he should have moved the bowl closer to the stove before he tried to put the bread in the pan. Also, some of the spilt batter has soaked through his socks.

He drags the chair over to the stove and stands on it so he can see the pan better and twists the knob to light the burner. It makes a weird clicking noise, and at first the fire is so big he's sure he's done something wrong, but then he panics and cranks the knob the other way and it turns down to a more manageable size.

Henry cooks the toast and only burns one slice—the first slice, because he had to go get a plate to put it on when it was done, which involved a lot more climbing and chair-dragging time than he had planned for. But the burnt piece is only a little browner than the others, and he likes things crispier anyway.

He's trying to carry the plate of French toast, the butter dish, the newspaper, and a jar of maple syrup to the dining room when he hears footsteps behind him.

"Henry?"

He turns around, nearly dropping the butter. "Mom? I—made French toast."

He watches as his mom takes in the sight of the kitchen: dirty bowl, spilt milk, eggshells on the counter. "I can see that," she says slowly.

"Um…I'll clean it?"

His mom shakes her head. "Let's worry about it later." A smile grows slowly across her face. "You want some help with that?" she asks, gesturing at the plate of French toast.

"Uh, yeah." He turns sideways, trying to show her the jar of maple syrup that's clamped under his arm. "Could you take this?"

"Anything else?" his mom asks, taking the jar.

"Could you get some plates and stuff?"

He hears her clattering around in the cupboards as he goes to put everything on the table. She comes out with three plates, a handful of silverware, and a stack of glasses. He helps her set them out and they take seats at their usual places.

"I didn't know you knew how to make French toast," his mom says after a moment. "Did Emma teach you?"

Henry shakes his head. "I sort of…guessed. From when we used to do it."

His mom nods slowly, her eyes going distant like she's remembering too.

"Henry, I—" she says, looking at him again, her eyes dark and sad. "I am so sorry for what I said yesterday about the couch. I never should have made you feel like Emma didn't want you."

"It's okay," Henry says softly, twisting the hem of his school sweater in his hands. He feels a pool of guilt in his stomach stir again, remembering Operation Horcrux.

"No, it's not," his mom says, reaching out to put a hand over his.

Henry shrugs. "I forgive you."

"Henry…"

He sighs sharply. "I listened to you last night, ok?"

"What?"

Henry doesn't look at his mom's face, but he can hear the confusion in her voice.

He tells her, in one long, rushed breath, about hearing them in the kitchen and being so sure they wouldn't tell him anything and hiding the walkie-talkie in the study.

"And I heard what Emma said about the potion making you remember things, and then I came downstairs and you—"

Henry stops then, remembering the choking fear he'd felt seeing his mom throwing fireballs at the bookshelves last night.

"Henry," his mom says, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry."

Henry shakes his head. "Why…why did you take a potion that could hurt you like that?"

"Because I wanted to take away my magic."

"But why?" Henry asks, utterly lost.

His mom leans down to look in his eyes. "Henry, after…after what happened in Mr. Gold's shop, I was so…so sad. And hurt. And angry. I thought I was going to hurt someone."

"Mary Margaret?"

His mom nods. "Yes, I thought I might hurt her. But I also knew that if I hurt her it would hurt you." She presses her lips together in a sad smile, eyes blinking rapidly. "And I didn't know what else to do. I've never been good at controlling my anger, and I knew that if I had my magic, all it would take was for Mary Margaret to show up at my door, and I…would have killed her."

Henry is torn between shock and understanding, so he just nods. "She made you kill your mom," he says, holding out a reason for her to grab on to.

"She did," his mom says smoothly, her face blank enough that Henry knows there is more she could say, but isn't.

"So you took the potion to stop yourself?"

"Yes. And to give myself a chance to be free of everything magic has made me."

The Evil Queen, Henry thinks. But he has a hard time thinking of that name while looking at his mom just now.

He remembers something he'd heard them talking about in the study. "But Emma said…she said you could still have light magic."

His mom looks at him with sad eyes. "I don't think so, Henry."

Henry shakes his head. "But you could. You're—you're good now. You have to be."

His mom opens her mouth to speak, to tell him it's impossible, just like she'd told Emma last night.

He cuts her off before she can say anything, feeling tears in his voice. "No, you have to be. You're my mom. I want you back." He stands up. "You have to come back," he says, not sure if she'll understand what he means. "I miss you."

His mom blinks up at him, her eyes wet. "Oh, Henry…"

Henry throws himself at her and she pulls him into her lap like she used to when he was four and afraid of the monsters living in his window blinds. He's bigger now, and doesn't fit quite as neatly against her, but he wraps his arms around her chest and she rests her chin against his head and it's just as warm and safe as he remembers.


Emma towels off her hair as she walks the short space of hallway between Henry's bathroom and Regina's bedroom.

"Hey, can I use your mirror?" she calls out. "The one in Henry's bathroom is still—well, broken, and—Regina?"

The bedroom, where she'd left Regina to get dressed not ten minutes before, is empty. Bed made. Sleeping bag rolled. Bathroom door wide open. Empty.

Dammit. Leave her alone for five seconds… "I don't need a babysitter, Miss Swan." "Don't be dramatic, Miss Swan." Yeah, well, if you're out barbecuing the neighbor's cat, it's about to get real dramatic around here, lady.

God—"Regina!"

Henry's bedroom is also empty. Emma jogs down the hall and stumbles down the stairs, phone in hand, ready to call…someone. But then she sees them.

They're sitting together at the dining room table, Henry held on Regina's lap, the pair of them half hidden behind The Storybrooke Mirror. She can see the shadow of Henry's hand through the comics section, the thin paper made translucent by the rising sun in the back window. He's pointing to something, whispering to Regina, who ducks her head to see, her sun-caught hair brushing against Henry's cheek. They make faces at each other, sniggering.

Emma finds herself absorbed in the sight, vaguely aware of a strange stirring in her breastbone.

"Emma," Henry says, catching sight of her. "I made French toast! Want some?"

Emma blinks. "Um, yeah. Sure."

She makes her way to the table and sits next to them, feeling Regina's eyes on her.

"I thought you were going to wait upstairs," Emma comments lightly, studying the butter dish and ignoring the weight in Regina's gaze. She'd said more than she'd meant to last night, and daylight makes everything she'd shared seem both more and less than it was. She's afraid to see how the knowledge of it sits in Regina's eyes.

"I would have," Regina says after a moment, the carelessness in her voice just barely covering something Emma can't quantify, "but I heard a burglar in the kitchen."

Emma raises her eyebrows, spearing a slice of slightly soggy toast and putting it on the plate in front of her.

"It turns out it was just an overzealous chef."

Henry grins through a mouthful of French toast.

Emma smiles briefly, takes a bite of her own toast, and splutters.

Regina smirks at her over the top of Henry's head. "Cloves," she says silkily. "An ingenious substitution, wouldn't you agree?"

Emma wrinkles her nose, glaring half-heartedly. A little warning, maybe?

"Mmmhmm" is all she says.

Regina hands her the jar of maple syrup, her eyes focused back on the paper. "Try this, dear."

Emma does, and the sweet-spicy combination isn't half-bad. "Coffee?"

"Hmm," Regina says, through a sip from her own mug. She swallows. "Yes. In the pot. Watch the batter."

Emma, already out of her chair and across the room, looks back questioningly.

"On the floor," Regina says, her face deliberately blank.

Emma wrinkles her nose, then turns back around and walks into the kitchen. "Oh—wow."

It looks like a raccoon got loose and tracked half the contents of the pantry across the room.

Emma steps carefully over the trail of batter on the floor and pours herself a mug of coffee.

Her phone rings.

"David?"

"Emma. There's a water main break down on Grimm Avenue. The whole street's flooded, and there are people stranded in Phil's Gym. I've got Mary Margaret on the call line and the dwarves and I are on our way to the scene, but we're probably going to need all the help we can get."

"Ok. Yeah," Emma says, setting the mug back on the counter and weaving her way back to the dining room. "Do we have time to drop Henry off at the bus—or, wait, is school still on?"

Regina and Henry turn to look at her in interest.

"School?" David asks, his voice muffled. "As far as I know?...Mary Margaret's nodding at me. So, yes? The break is far enough away that it shouldn't be a problem for the buses. It's not in a residential neighborhood or anything."

"Ok. Well, give me like fifteen minutes and we'll be there."

"We? Are you still at…?"

Emma sighs. "Look, David. Can we argue about this some other time? I'll see you in fifteen."

She hangs up the phone and shoves it in her pocket.

"What happened?" Henry asks.

"Water main break," Emma says, picking up her plate and shoving a large bite of toast in her mouth. "Gotta go."

"But I still have school?" Henry asks, his face falling.

"Yeah, kid," Emma says, chewing. "Go grab your stuff. We have to get going."

Henry reluctantly gets off Regina's lap. "What about Mom?"

Emma swallows her mouthful of toast. "Kid. Stuff. Now," Emma says, mock-forcefully, before turning to Regina. "Regina, if you want to come, we could probably use your help."

Regina folds the newspaper carefully and places it on the table in front of her. "I would find that flattering, Miss Swan, if I weren't aware of your…ulterior motives."

"If you want to call me not wanting you accidentally blowing up the refrigerator while we're gone ulterior motives, then, yeah, there's that too," Emma says blandly, helping to clear the table and following Regina into the kitchen as Henry leaves to gather his school things.

"I can feel them coming when I'm awake," Regina says shortly, filling the sink with soapy water and throwing dishes into it haphazardly. "So the refrigerator is likely safe. Though your concern for the food supply is noted."

Emma stops in her tracks, taken aback by the sudden waspishness in Regina's voice. "You can feel them…" she repeats, confused. "You can feel the memories coming?"

"I just said that," Regina snaps, snatching the greasy frying pan from the stove and tossing it with a clang into the sink.

Emma rolls her eyes. "Excuse me for taking a millisecond to catch up. When were you going to tell me?"

"It never came up," Regina says smoothly, dumping Henry's mixing bowl into the soapy water on top of the pan. "And, though you seem to think otherwise, you are not entitled to know every minute detail of my life."

Not entitled to…? "Ok," Emma says harshly. "Firstly, I don't think that. And, secondly, don't you think that telling me you can feel one of those things coming on would help me—I don't know, do something about it?"

"No, I don't," Regina says, whipping around with a dishcloth in her hand, spraying soap suds on the floor and across the front of Emma's shirt. "Considering the last time I tried to tell you I felt something coming, you ignored me and continued to SCREAM IN MY FACE!"

Regina's eyes blaze with anger and something like hurt. Emma stands frozen, backed up against the island, remembering yesterday afternoon when she'd come barging into the house, remembering Regina pressing herself up against the wall, remembering Regina's voice straining as she tried to get a word in edgewise.

Damn.

"Regina, I—"

"Mom? Emma?"

Henry's standing in the doorway, looking at them in confusion. "Don't we have to go?"

Emma takes a breath. "Yeah, kid. I'll meet you in the car."

She turns back to Regina, but Regina has her back to her again, scrubbing at the frying pan with unnecessary force.

"Regina…"

Regina's back stiffens.

Emma sighs heavily. Just…stay safe.

She spends the drive to Henry's bus stop trying to convince him that his mom will be fine while they're gone. She spends the drive to the water main break trying to convince herself of the same thing.

Where the hell did all that even come from? We're always in the middle of these things before I know they've started…

Emma's never actually seen a water main break in person before, so she's not sure how bad this one is, relatively speaking. But the street is covered in at least eight inches of water and it takes four trips for the fire truck they've commandeered to get everyone out of the gym safely and Emma's stuck directing increasingly irritable commuters around the disaster zone for most of the morning and by the end of it all, there's still water bubbling out of a crater in the asphalt and nobody seems to know who's in charge of fixing it anymore. So: bad. It's pretty bad.

After the first rush is over, David stays at the scene with some of the dwarves, trying to contain the damage. Emma takes a brief detour to City Hall and grabs a bunch of blueprints before rushing back to the sheriff's station and calling everyone in the phonebook who might have something to do with water.

She's just gotten off the phone with the sanitation guys, who say they can shut off the water in that section of town, when the call line rings. And then it doesn't stop ringing for three hours.

—"The boil order is only for drinking water, Mrs. Boot…I don't know. Well, if you think he's going to drink the bathwater, I guess you should boil it. Well…sorry. Yeah, a pleasant day to you, too."—

—"Tiana? I just got off the phone with David and he' going to send some people over to try and deal with the flooding. For now, just keep the customers out of the basement. And maybe don't serve any more food."—

—"I'm sorry—Mrs. Feely, I'm sorry but I really just can't deal with your cat right now…I understand he's important to you…I just said—Well if he's in a tree, at least he's not about to drown in the street!"—

It's early afternoon before Emma has five free minutes to scavenge change for the vending machine from the bottoms of her desk drawers.

She's managed to gather $1.35 when the door opens.

"Ok, I'm about to kill—Ruby?"

"Hey, Emma."

Ruby's standing in the doorway, looking winded, hair blown in a tangled mess across her cheeks.

"Hey," Emma gets up from the desk. "What's up?"

Ruby steps inside, unwinding her scarf from around her neck. "David called. He said you might need help answering the call line while Snow's at school. I would have come earlier, but we had a huge rush at Granny's. Apparently half the town's water is cut off, and everyone had the same back-up plan. Anyway, I brought you a grilled cheese."

Ruby holds out a paper bag, and Emma lunges forward to grab it.

"Remind me sometime that I pretty much owe you my life," Emma says, digging into the bag and pulling out the sandwich. Still warm. Yes.

"So, it's been a disaster around here, huh?" Ruby says, perching herself on the edge of Emma's desk.

"Yeah," Emma says through a mouthful of sandwich. "People are going crazy. That whole section of town around Phil's is still flooded, even after we got the water turned off. So business is shut down and I've got people crawling up my ass about when they can open again and I have nothing to tell them except 'We're handling it,' which just makes me sound like a bureaucratic asshat. Traffic this afternoon is going to be a bitch. And there was another break on Camelot Circle about an hour ago—up near Ashley's husband's old house—so of course Spencer and his McMansion people are talking about suing the town for negligence." Emma wipes a greasy hand on her jeans. "And I'm supposed to be looking through these blueprints to see where they can dig for repairs without hitting anything else, but I've had like two seconds to breathe since this morning."

Ruby shrugs. "I can take care of the call line if you want to hit the blueprints."

"You're the best," Emma says, crumpling the paper bag and throwing it in the trashcan. "Seriously."

"Yeah, yeah," Ruby says as she walks out into the main office to sit by the call line phone. "You owe me a drink."

"You'll need a drink after dealing with the citizenry today. If Mrs. Feely calls again about her cat, tell her to get her own ladder."

"She's ninety-six."

"Well, they're already suing us for negligence."


Regina spends the morning scrubbing every surface in the kitchen, studiously ignoring the barely-touched mug of coffee Emma had left on the counter. When she's gotten the last of the French toast batter out of the grain of the hardwood floors, she starts polishing the silver serving set with a foul-smelling cream she'd bought from a mail-order catalogue in the early 90's.

You wanted her to hate you, Cora's voice taunts as Regina scrubs a pair of silver salad tongs. You wanted her to leave. You've certainly solved that problem this morning, my dear.

She scrubs harder.

In the afternoon she makes the mistake of turning on the radio; it's full of frantic callers reporting road closures and flooding and a second water main break. She pauses in the middle of rinsing a bunch of kale and looks again at the cup of cold coffee on the counter.

"—the boil order is for residents of the 6-block area between Fable St. and 7th Avenue. Again, drinking water only. And a reminder for the folks at home: the sheriff's station is being overloaded with non-emergency calls on their emergency call line. If you have a question about road closures, water pressure, or any other non-emergency issue, please direct your attention to the Storybrooke Township website. Again, please refer to the town website for non-emergency questions and leave the call-line open for those who need it—"

Regina growls, drying her hands and grabbing the carafe to start a new pot of coffee.

Fifteen minutes later, she's headed to the sheriff's station with a fresh thermos of coffee on the passenger's seat and a pit in her stomach that has everything to do with the memory of Emma's eyes in the kitchen that morning.

The hallways of the station are deceptively quiet, but the office itself it buzzing with activity. Ruby is sitting at one of the desks, clamping the emergency phone between her ear and shoulder, scribbling something down on a pad of paper. She tears off the note and hands it to a dwarf who nearly knocks Regina over in his haste to get out of the room.

From the doorway, Regina can see Emma behind the glass interior walls, talking to Belle over a desk strewn with what look like blueprints. She wonders idly if Emma had even bothered to keep them in order, or if she'd find them, years later, stuffed haphazardly into a back corner of the City Hall records room.

"Shit, I'm sorry," Emma's saying. "I totally forgot to call you about this afternoon."

Belle shrugs, looking around the blueprint-strewn office. "It's alright. I know you're really busy. I just came by to ask…" She hesitates. "I was having dinner with my dad last night, and he told me about what happened in his shop. And I was wondering if that was what you wanted my help with."

Emma nods. "That was it."

"I didn't know if it was supposed to be confidential or…"

"Well, technically, yeah. But no worries. He's your dad. And it's not like we ever manage to follow protocol around here for more than an hour straight, anyway."

"Well, good," Belle says, crossing her arms and taking a breath. "It'll be easier to help you look if I actually have some idea of what you're looking for. I'll see what I can find in the library about potions or objects that might cause something like that."

"Ok, great," Emma says. "Keep me updated? I don't know how long it will take to get this mess taken care of, but I'll be by to help in the next few days if I can."

"Sure," Belle says. She turns to leave, but then stops and faces Emma again, looking troubled. "My dad said…he said Regina did it."

Emma sinks down in her office chair, running one hand through tangled hair. "Yeah. I know."

Regina feels the blood leave her face.

Emma doesn't—she can't think…

She'd spent hours trying to identify the things she'd seen in Emma that morning, trying to understand what she had heard in Emma's words after breakfast that had made her feel so cornered and snappish. Her mind had circled around the answer all day: fear. Fear, as Emma avoided Regina's eyes at the table. Fear, in her reluctance to leave Regina alone in an empty house. Fear that Regina might destroy something in her absence.

Fear, as Regina had screamed at her in the kitchen for not knowing something Emma could not possibly have known.

Fear.

She'd tired to push those thoughts away, tried to convince herself that Emma couldn't be afraid of her. Emma wasn't afraid of anything.

Emma had stayed when no one else would have. Emma had sat with her last night on the study floor and held her hand, even after she'd nearly burnt the house down with dark magic.

But then, Regina considers as she backs absentmindedly against the wall, what if it had all been a lie? What if the…familiarity…of these last few days had been born of necessity? A stakeout, a ruse to get close enough to gather evidence for this case she's working with Belle?

Emma had certainly seen enough to make her case. An evil sorceress with uncontrollable, erratic bursts of magic.

And Regina had just told Emma she could feel them coming. Perhaps Emma had taken that as an admission of some kind of control over it all.

Regina closes her eyes.

She thinks you've done something to Belle's father. Of course she's afraid of you, you fool.

She throws the thermos of coffee at a filing cabinet and stays just long enough to hear the satisfying clang of metal on metal before elbowing her way back through the doors.

You wanted this, her mother's voice sing-songs. It was inevitable.

"Regina?"

Hurried footsteps follow her down the hallway. She walks faster.

"Regina?"

She feels a hand at her elbow as they reach the entryway.

"Unhand me, Miss Swan," she growls, yanking her arm free.

Emma circles around in front of her, tilting her head to look into Regina's hooded eyes. "What's going on? Are you ok?"

Something twists in Regina's gut. A knife, maybe. "Oh, give it up, Swan."

Emma's brow wrinkles. "What are you talking about?"

Regina looks away, studying a flyer on the wall calling for Miner's Day volunteers. "I know what you're doing."

"Uh. Great. Would you mind filling me in? Because I'm lost."

"Stop!" Regina yells, turning back to face Emma. "Just. Stop."

Emma's eyes go wide. She frowns. "I would stop if I knew what the hell you were talking about."

Regina closes her eyes, clamping her fists at her side. "Stop pretending."

Emma groans. "You are actually—ugh! What? Stop pretending what?"

Regina grabs Emma by the upper arm, sneering in her face. "I know what you think of me. Stop pretending you care."

Emma's eyes narrow, studying Regina's face. She seems to decide something. "I do care," she says bluntly.

Regina's grip slackens unconsciously.

Emma pulls her arm back. "And I honestly have no fucking clue what you're talking about," she snaps irritably. "So could you please just calm down and explain it to me? Especially the part where you storm in here and throw a thermos full of coffee into my office for no apparent reason. I know we fought this morning, but—"

Regina feels lost, which just tightens the growing knot of frustration in her chest. "You told Belle you knew I was involved with what happened to her father."

"I—what?"

"I didn't do it!" Regina yells.

"Regina—What, the tree?" Emma says, clearly bewildered. "I know you didn't do it. Of course you didn't."

Tree? Regina stares. "But, you said—"

Emma looks at her for a moment, then drops down to sit on the wooden bench under the bulletin board, head in her hands. "Belle told me her father thinks you grew a tree through the floor of his shop. I said 'I know,' because I had a fifteen-minute conversation about it with him the other night during which I was unable to convince him that you don't go around growing trees through people's floors just to piss them off." Emma looks up at her again. "'I know' Moe thinks you did it, just like I know Whale thinks he'll have a chance with Ruby if he grows a mustache. Just like I know Mary Margaret thinks she did the right thing when she killed your mom." She sighs. "Of course I don't think you did it."

Regina swallows an inexplicable lump in her throat. "Then why did you look at me like that this morning?"

Emma wrinkles her nose. "Like what?"

Regina throws up her hands, looking away. "I was yelling at you in the kitchen," she says, picking the simplest and most pressing example. "You looked at me like…I scared you."

Emma shakes her head. "I was…remembering." She folds her hands and rests them under her chin, staring across the hallway past Regina. "You were saying how I didn't listen to you yesterday when you tried to tell me a memory was coming. I was remembering the way you looked at me and realizing I should have seen how I was hurting you. I mean, I did, kind of, but I…" She puts her hands down and looks Regina in the eye. "Regina…I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Regina crosses her arms over her chest, studying the street outside through the glass door and feeling oddly flustered. "How could you have?"

They fall into silence for a few moments. Then Emma shifts on the bench.

"So, what was with the coffee?"

Regina's cheeks darken. "It was…an apology."

Emma snorts. "Really?"

"I—you didn't finish your coffee this morning. So I made some to bring to you," Regina explains, feeling ridiculous.

"And then you threw it on the floor."

Regina turns around with a ready scowl only to find Emma grinning up at her.

She's…teasing.

Something warm blossoms in Regina's chest. She rolls her eyes. "Yes. Well, I'm not sure a bit of spilled coffee will make much of a difference to your disaster of an office. A squirrel could build a nest on your desk and you wouldn't notice."

Emma shrugs, standing up. "I've been going through some blueprints to try and help them with repairs. It took me forty-five minutes to figure out that they're organized categorically and not chronologically or alphabetically."

"I could have told you that."

"I know," Emma says, glancing toward the office and then back at Regina. "Hey, do you, um…do you want to stay and help? I meant what I said this morning. We could use it. I've been drowning in paper all day, and Ruby's just barely keeping up with the calls. We're thinking about ordering some pizza from Stromboli's for dinner later—I know that's not your thing, but we could have a salad or something sent over from Granny's. And Henry'll be here in—" she checks her watch "—about an hour, so…"

Emma trails off, looking at Regina with something like guarded hope.

The warmth in Regina's chest migrates to her cheeks. She tucks her hands into the pockets of her coat and nods once. "Alright."


Happy New Year!