My son's cheeks are extra rosy this evening and I know it has nothing to do with the flames burning bright in front of him. His goofy grin has turned lopsided sometime during this evening. His olive green eyes are glossy and somewhat squinted as he chuckles to every statement that sweeps through the space between us.
He's drunk.
"I mean ma, he was kinda a goofy looking fellow, don't you think?" He inquires playfully, leaning his elbows lazily onto his knees with that permanent crooked grin.
"He wasn't that bad," his birth mother rolls her eyes and sips her hard cider as a distraction. "If I recall, you really liked him at the time."
"Who names their kid Walsh?" Henry chuckles, provoking my teeth to suck in my lips to keep my smile at bay.
"I don't know. I mean wasn't he technically from Oz? Maybe he inherited his name from a member of the lollipop guild," she chuckles along with our son, while I snicker inwardly.
They both finish up the last of their beverages, tossing their bottles into a bag we have for garbage. Henry awkwardly clambers off his stump, like a baby deer learning to walk for the first time, wobbly knees and all.
"Henry, where are you going?" I softly question his motives for standing and watch as he stumbles toward the cooler.
"Another round," he cheers while Emma quickly jumps up from her log and rushes over to his side for support.
"I don't know kid, I think you're good. You're feeling warm and bubbly, correct?" She interrogates as her hand slips around his waist to keep him steady while I lean forward in my seat, ready to help if need be.
"Yeah, I'm feeling good," he slurs the slightest.
"Then this is the point where you stop, because one more and you'll spend the rest of the evening with your head in a toilet and the next day hating life with a splitting headache," she explains through a gentle smile while Henry beams at her and hangs on every word.
"There's no toilets," he rebuttals, gesturing widely around them.
"Well then my dear, you will spend the night freezing outside your tent with your head in a bush with a suspicious raccoon eyeing you," I chime in, standing tall from my seat and shuffling closer to my son.
Henry barks out a carefree laugh, the kind that makes his eyes all squinty and his cheeks burn red and all I see is a four year old version of my baby, giggling so hard when I would ruthlessly attack him with tickles and kisses.
"You're funny mom, you should let other people see your silly side," he suggests between his fit of laughter.
My eyes immediately shift to Emma, who is watching me with a soft smile and a twinkle of...maybe adoration in her eyes. I quickly avert my line of vision and cup Henry's chin.
"Honey, I think it's time to call it a night," I gently recommend and caress his chin with my thumb expressing my love and concern.
"I know, I know," he winks dramatically causing me to flinch from the action that holds some sort of hidden meaning behind it. "Alone time for Henry's moms," he laughs innocently.
"Don't ever refer to yourself in third person, girls don't like that," Emma playfully reprimands him, inspiring our son to mime zipping his lips shut and locking them before tossing away his imaginary key.
"Come along, honey." I move to his other side to help Emma guide him, but he quickly brushes us away.
"I don't need my moms tucking me in anymore," he snaps, but his words hold no bite, just teasing banter. "I got this." He straightens his posture and holds out his hands like he's testing the winds for balance. "I'm glad you two are spending time together." He slowly begins swaying away toward his tent trying so desperately to appear sober. "It's about time," he mumbles under his breath, but he's intoxicated and whispering is a foreign concept at this point.
He reaches his tent, dropping to his knees to fumble with the zipper before climbing in, but just before he zips it closed he peeks his head out. His eyes are heavy and glossy as he stares back at us, his cheeks pinched crimson and his smile is from ear to ear.
"Mom, tell her the truth," he firmly states before shoving his head back inside and zipping the tent shut.
My heart starts thumping a little faster, wondering what secret this mother and son share that they are keeping hidden away from me. Then my mind drifts to the name, mom, Henry usually refers to me as mom and Emma as ma. Panic spreads through my veins like a toxic infection from this enigma.
"Uh," Emma stammers like maybe our son was calling her out instead. "Another cider?" She quickly changes the subject completely, granting my body permission to breathe a little easier now.
What on Earth was Henry referring to?
"Of course," I reply, encouraging the blonde to retrieve two more bottles as I reclaim my seat.
The moment I take a seat, my eyes become transfixed on the tranquil movement of red and orange. I rest my elbows upon my knees, fingers wiggling toward the fire to capture some of the heat to warm my chilled bones. Suddenly, there's a bottle disrupting my view, so I quickly snatch it up and twist the cap.
"Sometimes that kid can be annoyingly cryptic," Emma points out, somewhat steering us back toward the conversation I thought we safely sailed away from.
"He's far too intelligent for his own good."
"Well you only have yourself to blame," Emma teases lightly. "I bet he was reading by two."
"Don't be so silly, he was three," I conceitedly reply.
"Oh my god, Regina, I was teasing. Neal is almost four and our mother is a school teacher and he's nowhere near learning."
"Henry was very inquisitive as a little boy, just like he is now. He was always so eager to learn. So, one day I decided to just try and he just picked it up so quickly. I wasn't about to hold him back."
"I very faintly recall that time in his life. I try to hold onto those fake memories you gave me, but when I awoke and remembered that they were just fake memories, they started to fade away. But, that's amazing, you're such an amazing mother," she sighs, dropping her gaze so she can peel back another label. "I'm so thankful that you found him and raised him," she confesses through a watery wobble quivering in the back of her throat.
"How can you even say that after all he's been through?" I quickly argue as regret and embarrassment about my life choices regarding my son, creep up my spine like a disgusting hairy tarantula.
"What?" She blinks, those piercing green eyes snapping in my direction to meet my cold gaze.
"After everything I put our son though with the curse and lying to him and making him feel inadequate, how can you sit there and say you're happy that I adopted him?"
"Seriously?"
"Emma, he hated me when he brought you to Storybrooke."
"He didn't hate you, Regina. He was ten and confused."
"Stop! Don't try and make excuses-"
"You stop! I'm not making any excuses," she firmly demands while I roll my eyes in return. "No, Regina, I mean it, stop." I scoff, drowning in my suffocating self loathing, that no matter how much I fight to swim to the top of, I'm always sinking right to the bottom in. "Look at me," I refuse, staring aimlessly at the wild flames rippling in the small wind breezing around us. "Regina, look at me," she commands more assertively and I reluctantly obey, making sure I roll my eyes in the process again. "Do you honestly think, if you were such a terrible mother, that Henry would have begged and pleaded with me to protect you?"
"Emma-"
"No, think about Regina. If you were honestly an abusive mother and Henry really hated you, do you think he would have had me swear to keep you safe and alive?" I purse my lips, unsure of how to respond. "Listen, he was ten, and he just found out he was adopted. Take it from a foster child, there's this gaping hole in your heart from not knowing your birth parents. Regina, Henry could have been adopted by Oprah-"
"Oprah?"
"Yeah, she has a ton of money and just gives cars away, you know? Like the nicest person..."
"I know who Oprah is, Emma," I deadpan.
"Anyways, all I'm saying is it doesn't matter who adopted him, he still would have this hole in his heart from not knowing his birth parents. Curiosity gets the best of us sometimes. And yes, he was angry and confused and he lashed out on you, but that doesn't mean you were a terrible mother."
"Please-"
"No, I mean it. Henry is wise beyond his years, he's scrappy, he's lovable, he has a heart of gold and so inquisitive, like you said. Do you honestly think if you tortured him and were such a terrible mother, he would have turned out the way that he did?"
"Charming genes?" I weakly protest, with tears glistening in my eyes from her admission, which earns me a small snicker from the passionate blonde beside me.
"Somethings are nature, I'll give you that, but somethings are nurture and there's no denying that. He wouldn't be the young man we have today if you didn't raise him so well. He's intelligent, witty and so damn lovable because of you. Because you taught him how to love. So don't sit here and say it's because he's the Savior's son, because he wouldn't know how to love very well if he didn't receive hugs, kisses and support as a child growing up."
"Emma," the tears are stinging my eyes, but I fight them back. Slowly, I lean into the small space between us and place my hand upon her knee for comfort. "You're lovable too," I delicately whisper, because I think she's projecting her childhood in some of this rant, halting her hand midair from taking a sip from her bottle.
She laughs humorlessly and tosses back the remainder of her drink. "I have a very hard time loving anyone beside my son." My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach, and again I find myself pleading with my tears not to spill over the brim. "I can only say, I love you, when the person is about to die and sometimes even then I struggle."
Very carefully, hoping I don't pop this intimate bubble that we have created around us, I sweep my thumb over her knee so she's knows I'm right here with her and that I hope she can continue opening up to me.
She gradually turns her head to meet my watery gaze, her lips firmly pressing into a straight line before she continues.
"Did you know, I told Neal I loved him after Tamara shot him and he was hopelessly falling into a portal?"
"Em-" my voice cracks because I know that gut wrenching sensation of feeling like you don't know how to love very well.
"And I did. I fucking loved that man so hard that I swore to never love another like that again, because I never wanted to feel that type of loss again."
"I get it, that's how I felt with Daniel," I whisper through her painful confession with one single tear finally leaking down my cheek.
"Then I started dating Killian and every time he was around, I swear he was holding his breath just waiting for me to say those three little words, but I couldn't. When we were cursed in Heroes and Villains, I watched him die, Regina, and didn't mutter those three words."
"I know, I remember you coming and confessing about the situation," I gently respond.
"And I swore to myself, 'next time I see him, I'm gonna jump in his arms and scream I love you on the top of my lungs' and you know what?" She angrily questions while my stomach coils up like a twisted slinky from her mention of the pirate. "I didn't say it. I saw him and I choked on the words, because he was safe and I didn't need to put myself out there again."
"But you did say it later that evening, right before you became the Dark One," I rudely comment, harsher than I anticipated, but I can't stand the way jealousy bubbles up inside of me when I have to sit here and listen to her talk about loving a worthless pirate.
"I did," she tosses her bottle into the fire with a sudden fury that angers the flames to spark and shatter the glass into millions of little pieces, just like my heart. "Because I thought I was a goner. I thought I was becoming the Dark One and there was no way out and our relationship was done for."
"But don't you love...Hook?" I swallow down the bitter vile stinging my throat and force myself to mask my emotions.
"I have to tell you something," she chokes out as she abruptly spins on her stump to offer her full attention.
"Okay," I drag out the word because I cannot think of anything else to say in this moment while her knees are pressed up against mine and we are both leaning in dangerously close because there's suddenly something thick in the air, drawing us closer and closer together.
"There's a reason why Henry hasn't been sleeping at my house anymore, I-well we never discussed it, but he's smart...he knows." My hand has never left her knee, so I continue caressing the soft denim as I listen to her every word. "I've been sleeping on the couch at home. I-I-I just don't know anymore."
"Emma, are you and Hook just going through a rough patch?" I whisper, the words barely making it passed my lips as I hold my breath for what's to come.
"I rushed everything. I rushed into our proposal and our wedding because I thought my life was coming to an end. I wanted to have a wedding and marry someone who loved me before my time was up. I thought my life had an expiration date and when I beat fate and I actually won and time slowed down around me, I realized this is not the life I wanted. I don't love Killian the way a wife is suppose to love her husband. I just don't. I tried, I tried so many times to explain it to him, but he doesn't get it. He thinks I'm just bored with life because there are no villains and I don't know who I am without them. And maybe that's a part of it, but it's so much more," she desperately vows, through her scratchy voice from never taking a moment to breathe during her confession.
Thick tears are clinging to her eyes, provoking those golden specks to shine brighter than all the twinkling stars above. We both lean forward, maybe on instinct, maybe because she's vulnerable and is seeking comfort in her time of need, but I continue caressing her warm knee, silently vowing to always be there for her.
"This isn't how my life was suppose to be. This isn't how I envisioned my future. I-I don't love him. I don't want him. God, and I definitely don't want to bring a child into this world with him. I haven't even slept with him in two months," she breathes out like that secret has been weighing down on her lungs, crushing every opportunity to take a breath.
"Emma, why didn't you come to me sooner? I would have helped you through this," I murmur for just her ears, feeling her pain within the confines of my own heart.
"I couldn't," she exhales slowly, her warm breath, sweet from the cider, brushing against my lips, and tingling them in the process. "I haven't told anyone. He's been wanting to work it out, but my heart isn't in it anymore," she discloses as her eyes flick down to my lips, still tingling from her gentle breath.
"Emma," I softly reply and it's a plea for her not to continue, because I'm not sure if I can handle the truth, if my assumptions are correct on where this conversation is headed, I'm doomed.
"It's so hard to continue on, ignoring. Aren't you tired?" She whimpers, her voice thick with emotions, persuading mine to bubble up to the surface as well so she's not in this alone.
"What?" I breathlessly whisper, the entire word never finishing.
"God, Regina, please don't tell me that I'm being an idiot here. Please tell me you feel it?" She begs for me to relieve her from her torture and agree with all my heart to end this constant torture.
I swallow back the sob threatening to break passed my lips and the tears ready to tumble down hazardously because, yes, if she's declaring what I think she is, then yes, I've waited forever.
Watery green eyes drop down to my lips, as Emma licks her own. My heart thumps murderously in my chest, threatening my life from the tangible tension and apprehension of what's to come. Ever so delicately, she presses those dainty lips up against mine, immobilizing every cell in my body. I don't breathe, I don't swallow, I don't move a hair, because there's no way that Emma Swan is actually kissing me right now.
The silky soft flesh slowly disentangles from my lips, the sound of our lips cracking and parting left in her awake. But she doesn't pull back very far and her eyes are still closed when she whispers, "ut-oh."
"Ut-oh, indeed," I breathe upon her lips because we both know we are in trouble now.
It was the tiniest taste of the forbidden fruit that we both know that cannot happen anytime in the near future, but now there's no turning back. She felt, I felt and there's no denying a connection that deep. If this was one of her sappy, eighties, romantic comedies, there would be fireworks exploding their cheer of approval behind us.
While her eyes are still closed and she's trying to breathe through this moment, I search her face, hopelessly scanning for the truth behind this kiss, but all I see upon her delicate features and soft pout is sincerity. I'm not sure how long she has felt this way, or maybe she's vulnerable and searching for comfort, but I know there's nothing but honesty behind her words.
Tenderly, my shaking fingers slide up her soft cheeks, my thumbs absentmindedly caressing the flushed skin below as I take a chance and guide her lips back to mine. She doesn't protest the least bit, in fact she eagerly captures my lips again and sighs like maybe I'm her Savior when in reality she's mine.
Her slender fingers slither into my hair, firmly holding the back of my head as she gently guides me in closer to her mouth. My lips immediately part from the delicious sensation humming through my blood, encouraging me to deepen the kiss. Emma's mouth doesn't skip a beat, her lips parting and her tongue quickly meeting mine that sends sparks through my extremities.
We both moan into the passionate kiss, and that's when my mind is dragged back to reality and I quickly break apart the kiss.
"Emma, we can't," I sadly profess while those glistening green irises search my face for an explanation. "You're married. I can't be responsible for breaking up a marriage," I declare, my fingers slipping away from her face like my one chance at happiness slipping through my fingertips. And I have never loathed being a hero more than in this moment.
"But my marriage is done, it's over," she declares with every bit of sincerity she can offer.
"Nothing more can happen, until it's officially over."
"But, Reg-"
I slowly stand from my log, whisking away the last of Emma's sentence. "You know where I'll be when you're ready to end your marriage." Affectionately, I cup her chin, making sure I have her full attention at this point. "Then we can sit down and discuss whatever it is that you think this is," I vow, my thumb lightly tracing the outline of the pout embedded into her lower lip.
With that being said, I waltz toward my tent with my head held high, knowing I did the right thing, but with an ache in my heart that has never been so fierce from craving the savior so hopelessly.
