The Secret's in the Telling

by pyrophoric

AU. Post-curse. "It's the sixth of October. A pivotal moment in Storybrooke's history and the turning point in Regina Mills' life. And it all began with a spell, a Sheriff, and a thief." Eventual Swan Queen.

11. Chapter 11: Home

CHAPTER ELEVEN: Home

OCTOBER 6, 2012.

Standing at the base of the metal scaffolding, the morning sun beating down on his face, Rufio looks up and squints at the billboard along Forest Road, his brown eyes drinking in the advertisement plastered high above. A violent shudder ripples down his body, stemming from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, eliciting the nastiest of frowns to crinkle his young face.

He hadn't thought it possible, but the ad is even more cringe-worthy up close.

Seriously.

Eyesore doesn't even begin to cover it.

To blatantly display his lack of shame, kooky old Sebastian Bishop––boutique owner and self-proclaimed designer extraordinaire––decided to be the face of his newly launched line of men's underwear. As if that's not horrifying enough, the guy's marketing campaign is turning out to be quite an aggressive promotional undertaking; with ads ranging from full-page newspaper spreads to bus stop posters to radio plugs, and, now, even frickin' billboards. So, there's Sebastian right there, all seventeen-feet of him, posing suggestively on a chaise lounge –– wearing nothing but a skimpy pair of tight-fitting boxer briefs (stuffed with a sock, obviously), sucking in his ginormous gut, and donning his trademark I-will-touch-you-in-inappropriate-places pedophiliac-looking smile. It's enough to give Rufio––well, anyone with a pair of eyes, actually––a bad case of the heebie-jeebies.

Frickin' disturbing.

He's been thinking—and saying—that since he first laid eyes on it two days ago.

Heck, he's got it on good authority that most of the people in this godforsaken town are saying it, too. But, of course, none of them have the cajones to do something about it; like always, only the Lost Boys have the balls to act.

"Think one spray can will do?" a wheezy-sounding voice interrupts his gawking, drawing Rufio's eyes away from Sebastian's stuffed junk. Johnny, the eldest of the Bacon triplets, waddles up next to him, his too-small shirt riding up and exposing his not-so-insignificant potbelly. "Jan and John think they saw another one 'side the tool shed back home. Want one of 'em to bike back to the convent and steal it?"

"Nah, this is all we need," Rufio says, patting the can of red spray paint sticking out of his front pocket. "I'm just gonna draw the usual things anyway," he continues, looking up at the ad and surveying his canvas. "Dicks, boobs, hairy balls... y'know, the works."

"And those are 'nuff to get rid of this shitty billboard?"

"The new mayor's a frickin' prude, man. Believe me, paint a bunch of penises on this thing and I bet that Snow White would tear it down herself."

"Alright... if ya say so," Johnny acquiesces easily, never one to question Rufio's authority, not like...

"Have you guys read this?" Thud Butt joins in the fray. Wedging himself between Rufio and Johnny, Rufio's lieutenant unfurls the latest issue of the Daily Mirror.

THE LOST BOYS EGGS BENEDICT, the headline screams.

Rufio snorts.

Doing a good, old-fashioned 'drive-by' on their bicycles and throwing eggs at Councilor Benedict—Humpty Dumpty, for the uninitiated—outside of Town Hall after he publicly denounced the group on local TV and called them a bunch of bratty scoundrels? Immature, sure, and it probably only served to validate Benedict's opinion of them, but it was damn well worth it, if only for the amount of entertainment it brought the boys.

"That's an awesome shot," Johnny hums in approval, gazing at the picture that accompanied the story. "Kinda looks like he's crying..."

"That's cause he is," Rufio smirks. "You and your brothers should've been there with us, man. It was epic."

"I bet it was," Johnny agrees. "Count us in at the next big egging, though. Got a new target yet?"

"No, but—"

"Sidney Glass," Thud Butt volunteers. "Cause this is bullshit."

"What is?" Johnny asks.

"This!" A frowning Thud Butt smacks the article with the back of his hand, pointing at the part where all the members of the group had been name-checked by the journalist. "Are they kidding me?! Seriously, Turd Butt?"

Rufio sniggers. Johnny does, too.

"It's not funny," Thud Butt grits out, crumpling the paper into a ball and chucking it towards the trees nearby. "This is the fourth effin' time they got my name wrong. I'm telling you, Glass and the jerks at the Mirror are doing it on purpose!"

"Whatever, dude," Johnny sniffles. Disgusting as ever, the eldest little pig wipes the snot flowing down his round, upturned nose onto the sleeve of his shirt. "It's not like Thud Butt isn't ugly 'nuff to begin with," he adds with a shrug.

"Yeah," Rufio seconds, much to his second-in-command's annoyance. "Besides, just be happy they didn't print your curse name, cause that would've been way worse. I dunno 'bout you, but I'd rather be called a turd than Norberto."

Thud Butt's nostrils flare.

Those are fighting words, and Rufio knows it. Hate is too mild a word to describe how the kid feels about that name, but... since answering back is synonymous to insubordination—and because Thud Butt had only recently recovered from one of Rufio's punishments because of his big mouth—the boy snaps his jaws shut, bottling his anger in, crimson heat washing over his face.

"Okay, enough dilly-dallying. Everybody, gather up!" Rufio claps his hands together, addressing his Lost Boys. In a heartbeat, the young ones are in place and standing at attention, and like a drill sergeant, he marches before them and starts barking out orders. "Ace and Pockets, you two take east. Bacons, go west. Norberto, come with me and watch from above. You boys know the drill; signal me when you spot anyone coming near. Ready?"

"Aye!"

"Alright, get in position."

"Bangarang!" they crow.

And just like that, the five boys—sans a quiet and sour-faced Thud Butt—scurry towards their respective lookout spots, eager to get their little act of vandalism underway.

"You all set?" Rufio turns to his lieutenant. Unsurprisingly, all he receives in reply is a noncommittal grunt.

Whatever.

Tugging at the ends of his fingerless gloves, Rufio heads to the metal ladder positioned at the side of the billboard's scaffolding, primed to climb up and begin the intricate task of tagging the ad with graffiti. Brown eyes shine with purpose, his right hand just mere millimeters away from a rung, he—

"I wouldn't do that if I were you..."

Shit!

Thud Butt lets out a mousy squeal. And if he were any less the badass he thinks himself to be, Rufio would've peed his pants. Whipping around simultaneously, they come face-to-face with a figure decked in all-black; leaning against a nearby oak tree, watching them openly with his arms crossed on his chest.

Thick leather jacket... hoodie... baggy motorcycle pants... weird-ass 'Friday the 13th' hockey mask...

What the hell...? Rufio makes a face.

Beside him, spooked to the core, Thud Butt springs into action. Taking initiative, the kid lets out a loud rooster's crow—a signal to the other Lost Boys to flee since the operation has been compromised. Eager to protect his own ass, Thud Butt scrambles away, and in his haste, accidentally hip-checks Rufio as he makes his escape. Distracted by the stranger's peculiar getup, Rufio hits the ground before his mind can even register that he's falling.

"Sorry, dude!" Thud Butt shouts over his shoulder—not sounding apologetic in the least—and hightails it out of there, without even offering a helping hand.

Bastard...!

"Hey, hey, relax... relax. I'm not here to cause trouble," the masked man ever so calmly proclaims, lifting up his hands in a placating gesture as Rufio grumbles, clambering up to his feet. "I just wanna talk to you..."

Being prone to doing stupid pranks does not make one stupid, no matter what anyone says. Smart enough to keep his guard up, Rufio takes a cautious step backwards, consciously maintaining a safe distance from the stranger. Unfortunately, he's not all that smart, though, cause even when Jethro's screaming in his head, telling him to make a run for it, Rufio ends up indulging his curiosity. "Whaddya want from me? You a cop?"

"Kid, seriously?" the mysterious man snorts. "Do I look like a cop?"

"Nah, but you sure look like a weirdo."

"Says the one whose hair looks like electrified roadkill."

"It's called punk," Rufio harrumphs, mildly offended. Returning the favor, he makes a show of eyeing the smart-ass's Jason-mask and scoffs, "What's yours called, ghetto-serial-killer? What's with the mask?"

"What's with the hair?"

Rufio lifts his chin. "It's my trademark."

"Same here."

They leave it at that.

As subtle as he can, Rufio lets his right hand glide over his back pocket, just enough to get the reassuring feel of the butterfly knife hidden within. "Who the fuck are you, anyway?"

"The guy who just saved your life. You're welcome, by the way."

Huh?

"The hell are you talking about?"

He doesn't get an answer. Not a verbal one, at least. Piquing Rufio's curiosity even further, the cryptic oddball in the mask bends down and picks up a stick lying near his feet, twirling it in his gloved hand for a few beats. And then, without warning, the weirdo chucks it in Rufio's direction.

He doesn't even have to duck to evade the incoming projectile; the stick simply sails over his signature 'do and hits the ladder behind him with a dull clank. To Rufio's astonishment, however, the moment wood hits metal, the stick bursts into purple flame. And within a matter of seconds, it's reduced to nothing but black ash.

Jaw hanging open like an idiot, he blinks dumbly at the plume of smoke swirling up into the air.

What the...?

"Jafar's newest ward," Hockey-mask enlightens, answering the question that's probably flashing on Rufio's face like gaudy neon lights. "It's still a prototype, though. And that's one of the defective ones. I guess flames are his way of setting himself apart from the crap Baba Yaga's hocking around town."

Well... shit. It's bad enough that the old witch's electric wards are popping up everywhere and putting a damper on their fun, now they have to worry about flaming ones too?

Staring at the smoking ashes by his feet, the extremely straight-laced part of Rufio—the part that's mindful of things like consequences, the part that's all Jethro—comes raging out to the surface. "Are these wards even legal? People could get hurt!" But more importantly... "I could've gotten hurt!"

"Yeah, I know, so like I've said, buddy, you're welcome," the man intones in a deep, gravelly voice. Rufio is so distracted that he fails to notice the strange guy take a tentative step forward, followed by another, inching closer and closer to where he's standing. "And now, on that note, I just have to ask... how grateful are you that I saved your ass from literally becoming toast?"

"Hm?"

"How much does your life mean to you?"

His words take a moment to sink in. And when they do, Rufio frowns in confusion before finally tearing his gaze away from the powdery remains of the wooden stick. That's when he realizes that he just unwittingly let himself be cornered between the guy and the enchanted scaffold.

Oh... shit.

Calm as hell, the masked man stops right in front of him, hands tucked inside his pockets. "Tell me, kid, is saving your ass worth doing me a favor in return?"

SQ - SQ - SQ

PRESENT DAY.

Up and down, the boy's chest rises and falls. Up and down, up and down, and on and on it goes.

It's in perfect sync with the rhythmic beeping coming from the machine the boy's hooked up to, like an orchestral suite playing in the background of a silent film.

"I see you're hovering again..."

Caught unawares, August's hand flies up and grabs hold of the glass partition, anchoring himself to disguise the fact that he practically jumped out of his skin.

Over at the armchair near the bed, a figure stirs under a thick, woolly blanket. It's half past four in the morning, and in the semi-darkness of the quiet ward, August sees a hand reaching out and hitting a switch. A tiny lamp flickers to life and an unkempt Jackson Peters comes into full view. The amnesiac—whose bleary eyes are less striking without all the ridiculous manliner—fixes him in place with a piercing gaze. "From one grown-ass man to another, I just gotta say," Jackson begins, his voice thick and heavy with slumber. "Watching a teenaged boy sleep? Nothing remotely pedo about that, at all."

Okay... maybe that wasn't completely undeserved.

"I was ordered by the Sheriff to keep a close watch on Mr. Gold and your brother," August says simply, adopting the professional tone he trained himself to use while on the job. "I'm sorry if I woke you up, Mr. Peters, I was just doing my job. Speaking of which, I had better head back out and watch the door."

And with that, he turns to leave.

.

.

.

"You feel guilty, don't you?"

He stops dead in his tracks.

Shoulders stiffening, walls coming up so high he can almost picture them punching a hole through the ceiling, August calmly turns around and meets Jackson's gaze. "Excuse me?"

"Guilty," the other man enunciates, wetting his chapped lips with his tongue. "You know, I may not be the smart one in my family, and more than half the time I ain't even lucid, but even I know that when someone knocks their head bad, you ain't supposed to move them. But... you bounced Jet around when you carried him up the bridge, didn't you? You probably should've been more careful, but you weren't. So, now, you're thinking you made the bleeding in his brain worse, and that's why he won't wake up," Jackson murmurs, hitting the nail right on the head, so to speak. "You feel guilty."

Unable to maintain eye contact, August works his jaw and scratches at the side of his beard.

And just when he's beginning to wonder if drowning the human brain in booze, day in and day out, will somehow open it up into developing telepathic abilities, Ruby's alcoholic ex-boyfriend admits: "I heard you asking Dr. Whale about it the other day."

"Ah," he breathes out.

That would explain it, then.

Still... the man did bring up an interesting point.

Maybe he does feel slightly culpable; maybe guilt is the reason why visiting the kid for a few minutes during the start of his watch has now become part of his daily routine. Out of all of Emma's deputies, he's always prided himself to be the by-the-book one, and, generally, he knows a sentry should be standing guard outside the ward, not observing the patients within. But, well, here he is, anyway. So, yes, maybe he does feel a tad responsible? It would definitely account for the dark, heavy cloud that's been hounding him since the day of the earthquake.

"You shouldn't, though."

"Hm?"

"Feel guilty," Jackson supplies. "Look, you saved his life. If you hadn't found the little bastard, I probably would have buried my brother already. I... I don't think I ever got to say it, but... thanks."

August stills.

He's the type of person who's always valued his own interests above everything else. At least, he used to. Most people are prone to curse him to damnation than to actually thank him for anything; so, to hear such a genuine expression of gratitude––no matter how simple and awkwardly expressed––is enough to render him momentarily speechless.

An uncomfortable couple of seconds pass before August clears his throat, and finally manages a gruff, "You're welcome." And although he could've easily left it at that, he chooses not to. "For what it's worth," he says quietly, taking a few steps closer so that he's standing at the end Rufio's bed, "I'm sorry, too. You were right; I should've been more careful with him."

"And I should've been doing a better job of looking after him," Jackson says in a perpetually tired tone, propping his legs up on the edge of the bed with a pained wince. "But there's no sense in beating myself up over it, is there? Hell, all this stupid, self-pitying bullshit is what got me in this mess in the first place. So, take my advice: just suck it up and be done with it. My brother's alive, that's the important thing. No one's blaming you, you hear?"

Sometimes, you don't even know that you needed to hear something until somebody finally says it.

"You hear?" Jackson repeats.

Clutching at the side of his neck, August gives the expectant man a weak nod.

"Good," Jackson says flatly, and just like that, the empathy on his face dissolves into complete and utter apathy. "Maybe now that we got that out of the way, you can quit watching me and my brother while we're asleep? This is the third time I've seen you here in the middle of the night, man, and you're creeping me the fuck out."

"All due respect, I wasn't watching you. And technically, it's not the middle of the night, it's morning already," Sheepish or not, August just can't help but point that out. He glances at his wristwatch. "It's ten to five, actually."

"It can be seven for all I care, and I'll still consider it the middle of the damn night." Jackson mumbles, pulling his blanket up to his neck, his eyelids drifting low. "So long as the sun isn't out, it ain't morning."

"Right."

Practically unhinging his jaw, the other man yawns. "Good night, Officer Booth."

"Good morning, Mr. Peters." August returns oh-so stubbornly. And in a remarkable case of history repeating itself, the moment he angles to leave, his ears pick up something that stops him cold in his tracks.

Anyone else would have missed it. It's almost imperceptible, but having been attuned to the noise the machine makes, he's about ninety-percent certain that the beeps coming from it just got a little bit faster.

Though, before he can truly ascertain the small change, he hears something else that makes him whip around in place.

"Th...a... dn...pnn..." Someone rasps out in voice so rough, it makes sandpaper seem as smooth as a baby's butt. "Whh... khhh... faa... we... tahhh... ab...mmmm..."

Jackson's eyes fly open.

For a beat, they freeze in place.

And they both look towards the bed with wide eyes, gaping at the kid who appears to be stirring from his weeks-long slumber, finally looking to rejoin the land of the living.

"I... I'll go get a doctor..." August backs away, and then runs out.

And he's not entirely sure, but before he gets out of earshot, he thinks he hears a shaky voice say, "Hey, little bro, good morning..."

He snorts.

"About time you woke up, you little bastard."

And only now does the cloud finally lift and melt away.

SQ - SQ - SQ

OCTOBER 6, 2012.

"That depends," Rufio squares his shoulders, putting up a confident, unaffected front. There's no way in hell he'd ever allow himself to be intimidated by anyone, least of all a weirdo in a Halloween mask. "What kinda favor are we talking about here?"

"Nothing shady, if that's what you're worried about," the guy clarifies. "I just need a place to stay in for about a month and a half. I heard the Lost Boys have a safehouse; got any room in there for one more?"

They do... but only if you consider a cramped walk-in closet a room. "Look, man, if you need a place to crash, go to Granny's." Rufio huffs. "What do you think I am, a frickin' innkeeper?"

"Sorry, lemme rephrase that then," Masked man waves a hand, undeterred. "I need a place to hide in. Help me out?"

SQ - SQ - SQ

PRESENT DAY.

Spending most of his years as a freelance writer, sitting by his lonesome at coffee shops just observing people, August isn't all that unaccustomed to blending into the background and just watching from the sidelines; so, that's exactly what he does while Whale and Jackson fuss over a disoriented Rufio.

And over at the opposite corner of the ward, he catches glimpse of a freshly woken Gold doing the same. Through the many glass partitions, their eyes meet, and a slow, lazy grin spreads across the imp's lips. Unimpressed, August tugs a curtain along the length of the glass, obstructing Gold's view of the hubbub surrounding the boy.

And with that, he returns to watching Whale trying to converse with the teen.

"––you tell me your name?"

For a moment, a befuddled Rufio looks around in a panic, his gaze flitting everywhere –– from Whale to Jackson to him.

"Can you tell me your name?" Whale asks again in a gentle, soothing tone of voice, proving that his allegedly sleazy, personal bedside manners don't affect his professional ones.

"Hhn–" Rufio tries to come up with a coherent reply but fails spectacularly. Recognizing the problem, Whale pours water into a plastic cup and places a straw near Rufio's lips, letting his patient drink and moisten up his desert of a mouth. "Ruhh..." Rufio tries again after nearly emptying the cup, but then stops abruptly, his wide gaze straying to the strange, tattered hat sitting beside the water pitcher.

"Tell the doctor your name," Jackson speaks up, drawing his brother's attention to him. "C'mon, man, you can do it," he encourages, trying––but ultimately failing––in hiding his anxiety from showing on his face.

"It's okay, don't force yourself," Whale pipes in, his tone a much calmer one than Jackson's. "There's no rush, take your time."

If Rufio's feeling a bit pressured, it couldn't have been more obvious from the daunted expression on his face. Inhaling a shaky breath, the kid swallows visibly, takes another quick look in the direction of the water pitcher, and finally rasps out: "J-Jethro Peters. Jet."

"See? What did I say?" Jackson smiles in relief, giving the boy's shoulder a firm pat.

Whale shares a quick, loaded look with August. "Do you go by any other name?"

Rufio looks at the doctor quizzically, looking genuinely confused. "...other n-name?"

"Sorry; other than Jet, I mean."

"...n-no?"

"No?"

The boy shakes his head.

"Are you sure?"

"...yes..."

Uh-oh.

August runs a hand through his hair, a bad feeling going down his spine.

"Oh... I see... alright. Do you know where you are, Jet?" Whale continues.

"H-hospital?"

"Yes, that's right. You're at the Storybrooke Gen."

"W-why?"

"Are you having trouble remembering?" Whale shines a pen-light onto the kid's pupils. "Do you know what the date is today?"

Rufio frowns. And then looks at Jackson in a helpless, almost-childlike way. His brother nods and gives his hand a comforting squeeze, urging him on. "A-April," the teen answers, brows furrowing deeply, like he's struggling to remember. "April... s-something... 2012..."

In other words, in the kid's head, it's presently way before the curse broke.

August fights the urge to groan.

Well... there goes their number one witness, it seems.

Thinking along the same lines, Whale shoots him another quick look, this one more worried than the last.

And it might just be August's mind playing tricks on him, but he thinks he hears a mocking snigger coming from the other side of the ward. Figment of his imagination or not, he mentally flips Gold the bird.

"W-What's wrong?" Rufio asks, looking at the disquieted expressions of the people surrounding him.

"You were, uh, just a bit off-base there, little bro. It's actually December 7, 2012," Jackson supplies, slowly, calmly, trying not to freak the kid out any further. "Don't sweat it, though. You got your head banged up pretty bad, so it's normal that your memory's all screwed up a little. Right, doc?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Whale confirms.

"Banged... up?" Rufio echoes; carefully, almost fearfully, he touches the bandages wrapped around his head. The kid's eyes bug out of their sockets in horror. "Where's m-my hair?!"

"They had to hack it off," Jackson motions in Whale's direction.

Rufio's eyes widen even further. "Where's y-your hand?!"

"They had to hack it off, too." Jackson sighs somewhat resentfully, hiding his disability behind his back. "My accident happened months before yours. I'll tell you all about it later,"

"A-Accident? What the h-hell happened to me?" Rufio turns to Whale for answers, his trembling fingers still unable to leave his shaved head.

"There was an earthquake a few weeks ago and you got hurt near Toll Bridge," Whale begins, careful to dish out the severely edited, magic-less version of recent events, since, apparently, there are now two amnesiacs in the Peters family. "You hit your head, and your brother's right, it was pretty bad. There was a bit of swelling and bleeding in your brain, so we had to take you into surgery. It's been a little over two weeks since then, and you were in a coma until now. This one," Whale nods his head towards Jackson, "hasn't left your side the entire time. It's a good thing you're finally awake, because as I'm sure you can tell, your brother needs a shower."

Unsurprisingly, Whale's attempt at levity falls flat.

And while the doctor takes an awkward moment to chuckle at his own joke, August sees a frail Rufio studying an extremely haggard and unkempt Jackson, an indiscernible expression crossing the boy's pale face. It almost seems like a mixture of awe, confusion, and something else...

Sadness?

August stills, and then inwardly shrugs. He was never good at reading people.

SQ - SQ - SQ

"I want to run a few more tests, keep him under observation for a couple more days," Whale confides in him when they step out into the deserted third-floor hallway, the man's low voice made even more ominous by the thrums coming from the vending machine nearby. "Look, I know you're concerned, but I'm not hitting the panic button just yet. Retrograde amnesia is not uncommon in cases like Rufio's, and it's usually temporary, so don't stress about it too much. Good news is, aside from the memory lapse, his cognitive functions seem fine. His reflexes are a bit slow, but that's understandable given how long he's been unconscious. If everything checks out after all the tests, I think I can discharge him as early as Monday."

"Alright," August murmurs. He glances at the closed doors of the Trinity Ward with wary eyes, and even though the chance of them being overheard by the people inside were zero to nil, he drops his voice to a mere whisper and asks, "Do you think he's faking it?"

"What, memory loss?"

August nods.

Whale blows a puff of air from his lips, and then scratches at the side of his neck, giving his question some considerable thought. "The boy suffered a really bad head trauma, Booth. Dawson and I were in the OR for five hours trying to fix that bleed. I was optimistic with my prognosis, but to tell you the truth, we're lucky he even woke up in the first place," he shares with another sigh. "So... do I think he's faking it? No. Do you?"

"I don't know," he admits quietly.

The leader of the Lost Boys has always been outspoken about his hatred for Captain Hook, and as much as he's notorious for his pranks, Rufio is also infamous for the grudge he harbored against the man. Interestingly enough, the kid August saw inside the ward? The one who didn't recoil from an amnesiac pirate's touch? The one who was all teary-eyed when his mortal enemy gave him the tightest of hugs? That kid looks and acts just like a certain Jethro Peters that Ruby's been telling him about for weeks.

"If he's faking it," August sighs, meeting the other man's gaze, "then he's a damn good liar."

"And you'd know a thing or two about liars," Whale agrees.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, I didn't mean that as a bad thing," the doctor quickly clarifies. "I was just thinking about the movie Disney made about you. You know, that thing about lies making your nose grow longer? I've always come to associate Pinocchio with lying because of that. No offense, Booth."

"None taken." August smiles tightly. That cartoon has never been his favorite, and that particular scene? Takes the damn cake. He's lost count of the times that part––as well as the many pornographic images and videos that it inspired––had brought him grief from his colleagues at the station.

And speaking of said colleagues...

"Excuse me a sec, I guess I better let her know," he tells Whale, excusing himself from the man's company. Pulling out his cellphone, he hits number two on his speed dial.

The person on the other line picks up after seven agonizing rings.

"Boss, it's me."

"..."

"Sheriff?"

For a moment, static is all August gets. And then, he picks up muffled movements accompanying vexed groans. Some heartfelt grumbling follows suit, until finally, he hears an obscenely hoarse voice muttering: "Time... 'sit...?"

"Quarter to six."

"AM?"

"Yes,"

"In the morning?"

"Yes," he answers patiently. "AM means morning, Sheriff."

Predictably, another round of grumbling ensues, and then... "Quarter to six?"

"Yes, boss."

"Then you better be dying, or getting there; if it's not either, I'm hanging up."

"Wait! I'm sorry," August apologizes, rushing in the words before a dial tone starts beeping in his ears. "I just thought you might want to know that Rufio's awake," he says, and then pauses for effect. "Or, more to the point, Jethro Peters is awake –– if you know what I mean."

"..."

"Sheriff?"

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Yes. Unfortunately."

"...well, fu–"

August smiles ruefully, tugging the phone away from his ear.

Crass, but that pretty much sums everything up perfectly.

SQ - SQ - SQ

This infernal machine is taking forever.

A hearty yawn escaping from her lips, fingers drumming impatiently on a polished countertop, Emma looks down and glowers at Regina's newest purchase. She can't figure out if her housemate got a faulty unit, or if it really takes a hundred years for this overpriced contraption––a fancy schmancy Keurig––to do its job and brew one simple cup of coffee; either way, maybe if she glares at it hard enough, it'll take the hint and start hustling. It's a little past six, and the sun's barely out, but she pulled herself out of bed on this chilly Friday morning, because for some ungodly reason, August decided that the best time for her to find out that Rufio woke up from his coma is at the butt-crack of dawn. And not just that, it turns out, the kid doesn't remember jack, too. So, yes, goodness knows she needs some caffeine in her system, if only to offset the irritation that's coursing through her ve–

"G'morning!"

"Fuck!" Emma's heart jumps up to her throat. She almost swipes her favorite mug from the drip tray, too. Luckily, it just spins and rattles in place instead of flying off the counter and breaking into several pieces.

Naturally, the coffeemaker chooses that moment to finally start filling her cup.

Head snapping to the side––just about giving herself whiplash––Emma stares at the disheveled figure standing by the doorway. After a beat, her sleepy brain registers the identity of the intruder, and she finally allows herself to breathe.

"You said the F-word..." Henry yawns heartily, scratching at his belly.

"Well, you scared me," she says in her defense, following the boy with her eyes as he toddles barefoot inside the kitchen, the ends of his oversized Iron Man pajamas dragging across the floor like a pair of mops. Present grumpiness aside, Emma's not the biggest non-morning person in this house. That honor belongs to the kid. So, to see him up and about a full hour before his alarm is set to go off? Miraculous, to say the least. "What are you doing up so early?"

"Couldn't sleep anymore," Henry mutters, disappearing inside the pantry. "Excited, I guess."

"About what?"

"You remember the big fight scene I was telling you about? We're rehearsing it today. They're letting me fight three bad guys at the same time; all the other Knights just get to fight one."

"That's awesome," she lauds.

"I know."

"They must think you're really good with a sword,"

"Yeah, Gramps says I'm a genius."

"Are you, now?"

"I am." He says, matter-of-fact.

Emma holds back a snort. Well... at least what he lacks in humility, he more than makes up for in self-assurance.

Shaking her head, a soft grin on her lips, she dumps a buttload of caramel-flavored creamer in her coffee and then some. The whole thing looks like brownish milk when she's done 'corrupting' it, as Regina would often say, but that's just the way Emma likes her coffee –– heart palpitations and diabetes, all in one cup. Palming the green mug between both hands, she brings it up to her nose and takes a long, deep whiff, savoring the cavity-inducing aroma that permeates her sense of smell.

"Emma?"

"Hm?" she asks, taking a careful sip, and then humming in contentment as the hot liquid trickles down her throat, spreading warmth throughout her belly.

"May I have some?" Henry sticks his head out of the pantry and waves a box of her chocolate chip-flavored Pop-Tarts, giving her his best approximation of a puppy begging for a treat. "Kinda not in the mood for cereal today."

"Uh... I dunno, kid," Emma crinkles her nose, swallowing another mouthful of coffee. Prone to binging on them in the mornings ever since she was young, she's always considered Pop-Tarts a proper breakfast meal. Regina, on the other hand, thinks quite the opposite. It's one of their many philosophical differences. "I might get in trouble with your mom."

"Good," the grin disappears from Henry's face.

Emma stiffens, pausing mid-sip. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Good," he repeats, stepping out of the pantry. "If mom decides to yell at you, then good."

"Wait a sec, hold up," she lifts a finger, squinting at the poker-faced boy. "You want your mom to yell at me?"

In lieu of a reply, Henry just shrugs.

She'll take that as a tentative yes.

"And may I ask why?" Emma lifts a brow, taking another sip.

"Cause then maybe you guys would actually start talking to each other again."

She chokes on her drink.

"Or, shouting, I dunno, whatever."

"W-what––" Emma coughs, hitting her chest repeatedly with a fist. Piping hot coffee going down the wrong hole? Not fun. Her own kid blindsiding her? Even worse. "How did you––?"

"I'm ten, Emma, not stupid." Henry tells her, and the expression on his face is just teeming with such sass, it's as if she's getting some attitude from a miniaturized version of Regina, herself. And speak of the devil... Henry meets her gaze dead-on and asks her point blank, "Is something going on between you and mom?"

Her mug almost slips out of her grasp, so just to be safe, she goes ahead and sets it aside.

"You guys have been acting really weird around each other lately," Henry continues, placing a Pop-Tart inside the toaster oven –– even though she hasn't given him her blessings to do so. Either way, she doesn't stop him. More like she couldn't. Really, she's too damn flustered to object. "Mom's all quiet when you're around. You're all quiet when mom's around. And both of you haven't talked, or fought, for days now; it's weird," he makes a face, cranking the timer knob and heating up his sugar-loaded breakfast. Glancing at her sideways, Henry's eyes narrow into slits. "What did you do to mom, anyway?"

"Me?" Emma points to herself, and if she appears to be a little bit more defensive than usual, it's probably because she is. "What makes you think I did something to her?"

"No bear claws." The kid simply says.

"What?"

Henry makes a production of glancing around the room. "I don't see any bear claws anywhere,"

"Bear... claws?"

"The doughnut kind, not the real thing."

"Oh," she breathes out. And then frowns. "What the heck does a bear claw have to do with anything?"

"It's just something I kinda noticed before," he shrugs, still barely making a lick of sense. While his food's still warming up, Henry walks around the island counter and props himself up onto it, making their gazes level. "Remember the time you fell into the lake, and mom did a wind spell to dry your clothes, but she ended up giving you gas instead?"

Seeing how she did nothing but fart and burp and embarrass herself till Regina's wonky magic wore off––two whole days later, mind you––that incident is likely something that she'll never forget. "What about it?"

"How about when she erased all the Futurama and Walking Dead episodes you recorded on the DVR and replaced them with Antique Roadshow?" Henry continues. "Or, the time your car was blocking hers on the driveway, and instead of just asking you to move it, she had it towed away?"

A dark cloud passes across her face. Oh, she does remember those slights. She also recalls giving Regina the silent treatment shortly afterwards.

"And also when––"

"What are you getting at, kid?" A weary Emma interrupts, eager to just move things along. "Is there a point in here somewhere?"

"There is," he nods.

She looks at him expectantly. "And that's...?" she prods.

"I told you: bear claws," Henry reiterates. "You love them, right?"

"I do..." she says slowly, still struggling to follow his train of thought.

"And after she did those things to you, mom bought bear claws, remember?"

"She did, but so what?"

"So, there aren't any bear claws in here now," he says for the second time, motioning around the kitchen.

Whatever his point is, she's still not seeing it.

Sighing softly, Emma clutches at the side of her neck, massaging away a non-existent kink. She's feeling hopelessly clueless, and it's probably showing on her face –– if the impatient little eyeroll the kid gives her is anything to go by. "Emma," Henry says a little huffily, "didn't you ever notice that when mom did something that made you super mad or sad, she went to the bakery and bought you a box of bear claws?"

At the other side of the kitchen, the toaster oven dings.

Emma stills. Then, blinks. And the epiphanic kind of amazement that suddenly washes over her is matched only in intensity by how stupid she also feels.

Here she is, the Sheriff of Storybrooke––who, for all intents and purposes, should be the most perceptive individual in this entire town based on her job description alone––and she didn't even notice Regina's habit of using baked goods as form of conciliation until their kid pointed it out. Jesus. Maybe she did inherit more of her father's denseness than she'd care to admit.

"So... since there are no bear claws in here," Henry points out for the nth time, jumping off the counter and grabbing a plate for his Pop-Tart, "whatever it is that's going on between you and mom, it's obviously your fault."

Yes and no.

She didn't do anything wrong, but... well... she may have said something to Regina that wasn't entirely right.

It depends on whom you ask, really.

"Just say sorry," Henry advises some time later, when he's finished wolfing down his third Pop-Tart and just wiping away the crumbs from his face. "Cause this is silly, Emma. Whatever you did, just apologize. Mom likes to play hard to get, but she'll forgive you; she always does."

And then he strolls out of the kitchen as casually as he came in, as if he didn't just turn her head inside out with his astuteness.

Just say sorry, huh?

Emma sighs, depositing her empty mug into the sink.

That's easier said than done.

It truly is.

Cause how can you even begin to apologize for professing your fondness to someone? It's not like her and Regina's still undefined, and extremely ambiguous, love-hate relationship isn't complicated enough already.

.

.

.

Like.

Emma re-thinks, pinking up to the tips of her ears.

Like-hate relationship.

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Henry's right, though.

This is silly.

It's been days.

Three days, to be exact, since that now infamous joyride around Storybrooke that sent many a tongues waging about her and Regina's alleged romance. And if she's counting, also, two days since Emma gamely endured the relentless teasing of her deputies; from Leroy and August's over-the-top nuzzling while they did their sleazy reenactment of the bike ride, to Ruby's shit-eating grin whenever their gazes met over their desks. On top of it all, it's been a day since she had to sit through the most exhausting brunch she's ever had with her parents; with Mary Margaret and David blathering on and on about the pros and cons––but mostly just the cons––of riding motorcycles. And, also, Evil Queens. Of course, the latter was more implied by the stammering, purple-faced pair than said upfront, even though no amount of subtlety could've lessened the awkwardness of the whole situation. Really. Getting the birds and bees talk would've been a million times less painful for everyone involved.

It's been a hell of a few days, and so much has happened to Emma since that fateful afternoon. But... truth be told, it's what hasn't happened that's been bothering her the most.

Ever since her spur-of-the-moment declaration at Sherwood Park, she and Regina haven't been speaking to each other.

Hell, they can't even look at each other.

And even if Emma keeps telling herself otherwise, it's bothering her more than she'd care to admit.

Because never in a million years did she ever think that she'd care so much about not being able to speak with somebody else. Especially if that somebody happens to be Regina frickin' Mills.

But, well, this is Storybrooke after all, and stranger things have happened.

Still, that doesn't make accepting things any easier. Denial, she finds, is both her salvation and her downfall.

SQ - SQ - SQ

This evening's family movie night is no different from the dinners they've been having these past couple of nights, quiet and awkward. Gone are Emma's colorful, off-hand commentaries while the villain manages to outsmart the heroes, and in effect, so are Regina's snippy remarks to shush her up. Henry, bless him, tries extra hard to initiate a conversation between her and Regina, he truly does, even if he's never been the biggest fan of talking during superhero movies. Towards the middle of the flick, however, he throws in the towel and gives up. It's fairly obvious that their mutual love for their child is not enough to force them to get over themselves, grow a pair of steel ovaries, and just talk.

The movie couldn't have ended fast enough for everyone in the household.

As soon as the screen fades to black and the ending theme begins to play, Regina grabs hold of her decanter and pours herself a glass of cider. Emma, on the other hand, reaches for the lamp at her side and flicks it on, bathing her corner of the living room with soft, muted light. The heat from someone's glare prickles at the back of her neck, and she isn't all that surprised when she turns around and finds the kid leveling her with a disapproving frown.

She never saw herself a coward. And prone to hero-worshipping her for being the White Knight, Henry never did either.

Well... not until tonight at least, judging from the guilt-inducing look flashing in his eyes.

Ah... crap.

"I don't know why it's so hard for you to just say you-know-what," Henry tells her, low and quiet, shaking his head at her apparent cowardice.

"Look, kid, it's com––" she starts to say, but before she can even finish, an obviously disappointed Henry bounds out of the couch and heads for the stairs, leaving her all alone with Regina.

Running a hand down her face, Emma lets out a sigh. Over at the opposite corner of the sofa, Regina takes a long sip from her drink and sighs too.

.

.

.

And then, like magnets, their eyes meet and lock onto each other.

Regina stills. Emma does too.

Rather unsurprisingly, they quickly avert their gazes.

The awkwardness between them is stifling as ever, it seems. Despite that, she finds it quite remarkable how neither one of them makes a move to leave the room.

Maybe they're both masochists.

.

.

.

Or... maybe she's not the only one who's beginning to yearn for the other's company.

Maybe... maybe... maybe.

SQ - SQ - SQ

Emma drowned once when she was eight-years old.

It happened at a local YMCA; one of her foster brothers had promised to teach her how to swim –– unfortunately for her, he never told her that his method involved catching her off-guard and kicking her into the deep end of the pool. That plan of his was as flawed as it was nearly fatal. A teenage lifeguard saved her, thank God, but other than the scary memory of feeling like her lungs were burning, Emma doesn't remember much about that harrowing, near-death experience. It's quite similar to her limited recollection of the fire that broke out at Town Hall––courtesy of a shady Gold and his machinations––the night before the big Sheriff debate. Apart from the doe-eyed, unbelieving look on Regina's face when she came back for the injured woman, it's the feeling of her airways constricting and her chest tightening that stayed with Emma the most. Like déjà vu, it was eerily similar to what she felt on that fateful day at the overcrowded community pool.

So, yes, she's experienced what it feels like to suffocate from both water and smoke, and while she never bothered with which one was worse, it wasn't until this very moment––as the credits continue to roll on the screen and Regina swirls the cider in her glass––that Emma has an epiphany: the answer's neither.

Between a copious amount of water or thick smoke assaulting her lungs, neither was more suffocating than this silence.

Because the kind of silence existing between the two of them this evening is especially smothering. It's not the comfortable type; it's not the easy one. It's the kind that weighs down on one's shoulders, heavy and exhausting; the kind of silence that's just begging to be filled.

Mostly because it's teeming with all the things that need to be said.

The proverbial elephant in the room, as some people would say.

Stealing a glance at the woman to her right, Emma rubs a hand behind her neck.

It's a big frickin' elephant.

And it's sitting on her chest, squeezing the air out of her lungs like nobody's business.

SQ - SQ - SQ

There are so many things she wants to say.

Little things, like how the Daily Mirror's saying it's gonna snow on Sunday, so she probably needs to store her bike in the garage soon, and big things, like Regina getting asked to light the ceremonial bonfire at the upcoming Lantern Festival, or Rufio waking up this morning as Jethro Peters, having little to no recollection of Argos, the Lost Boys, or Neverland.

Hell, maybe even...

You-know-what... Henry's words echo in her ears.

Emma chews on her lower lip.

Yes, there're a million and one things she wants to say––little things, big things––but when she opens her mouth, not a single one of them manages to make it out of her lips. The words all catch in her throat and die on her tongue.

Regina finishes her drink and leaves.

Henry's disappointed face flashes in her mind's eye.

And Emma feels like an even bigger coward.

But... she's not a coward. Never was, never will be.

So, Emma does the first thing that comes to mind before she completely loses her nerve:

She follows after Regina.

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Just say sor––

"I let the kid eat Pop-Tarts for breakfast this morning," she blurts out the instant she reaches the foot of the staircase. It's not what she meant to say, but it's what comes out, so, hell, she's just going to stick with it. Taken by surprise, Regina falters mid-step and stops halfway up the stairs, turning around and looking down at her with confusion painted on her face.

"He told me he wanted some and I didn't stop him," Emma continues, basically digging her own grave, consequences be damned. "And I didn't just let him have seconds, I let him have thirds."

The muscle on the side of Regina's face tics involuntarily. The woman's a complete stickler when it comes to what their child eats, as any good parent should be.

Pop-Tarts are unhealthy because they have little to no nutritional value considering the obscene amount of calories they contain, the other woman told her once in the past. Or, twice. Well, probably closer to a thousand times.

"I even gave him a box to bring to school," Emma finishes, observing the almost imperceptible way Regina's jaw tightens.

Steeling herself, Emma plants both feet on the floor and waits with baited breath, anticipating a huge torrent of indignation to come slamming her way.

It never comes.

The mind-numbing silence continues to hang over them like a thick fog, squeezing around her neck like a noose.

"Aren't you gonna say something?" Emma prompts, unable to mask the pathetic little whine in her voice. "Anything?"

Regina parts her lips, looking to be on the verge of a reproachful remark, but at the last second, the woman decides against it and just turns around, intending to leave her with nothing but a huffy, disapproving look.

Seriously?

Emma closes her eyes and balls her hands into fists. If they're playing a game of chicken, it's clearly she who balked first, not the brunette. And despite Emma setting aside her pride, Regina doesn't budge. One can never accuse the former Evil Queen of making things any easier for people, huh?

Just say...

"I'm sorry!" Emma cries out in desperation, stopping Regina in her tracks for the second time. Exhaling a shaky breath, she opens her eyes and takes a step up the stairs, her hand seeking purchase on the banister, holding on to it like a vice. "I'm sorry," she says again, quieter, but no less firm. "Not for the Pop-Tarts, though," she clarifies. "I'm sorry about the other day, about what I told you at the park. When I said that I... well, that I like you."

The slight annoyance on Regina's face melts away in place of something else; an inscrutable look flickering in her eyes. Vulnerability, perhaps? The tiny chink in her armor.

"I–I mean, I'm not sorry for saying it. And I'm not saying that I didn't mean it. But I just," she pauses, grappling for the right words. Nothing comes. And for a second, she wishes she'd inherited even half of her mother's eloquence, if only to stop feeling like a bumbling fool now and again. Inhaling a deep breath, Emma takes a moment to gather her thoughts, and then tries again. "Look, if I made you uncomfortable, if you feel that I put you in a damn awkward position, then I'm really, really sorry."

She takes one more step up. And then another. And in a gentler, almost pleading tone of voice, Emma carries on, "But we can't keep doing this, Regina. You can't keep doing this. You can't ignore me forever. We work together, we live under the same roof. And for heaven's sake, we share a kid –– who, by the way, is starting to notice something's up between the two of us."

Regina's wary gaze flits up to their son's bedroom door, a worried little crease manifesting itself between her brows. Still, the woman remains mum. Emma sighs inwardly. And Regina has the nerve to call her stubborn?

"So, if you want to, we can try to pretend it never happened; forget I even said it. It's your call; just say the word. Cause you know what, hearing you snark at me, or be mean to me, or poke fun at everything I do or say, is better than this," Emma waves her hands between the two of them as she continues to climb up the stairs, gesturing at the nothingness and silence that define every single one of their interactions––or lack, thereof––since her slip at the park. "This no talking thing? I don't know about you, but it's driving me up the wall."

She stops right in front of Regina and holds the woman's gaze unflinchingly, her confidence spurred on by desperation than anything else. "Honestly, Regina," she murmurs softly. "As much as I complain about you being a pain in the ass, I like it when you're actually being a pain in my ass. So, please, just... you know... say something. Anything..."

And as expected, Regina being Regina, says nothing.

Not a damn thing.

The infuriating woman just turns on her heels and makes her way up the rest of the staircase, leaving an utterly dejected––and now, confused––Emma in her wake.

SQ - SQ - SQ

Sleep does not visit her that night.

Apparently, being bone-tired is no match for feeling sorely disappointed.

So, for the good part of the evening, Emma just lies in bed and replays everything in her head, feeling more foolish and forlorn by the minute.

Because Jesus effin' Christ, god forbid Regina Mills actually sets her pride aside for one measly second, act like a grown woman, and just... just...

Just talk... and act... and, hell, just be her Regina again.

Emma pulls a pillow over her face, muffling a frustrated yell.

SQ - SQ - SQ

The following morning, she drags her weary self up to the kitchen and stumbles upon her stash of Pop-Tarts in the trashcan. The very same trashcan, mind you, that's always been kept out of sight in the cabinet under the sink, but for some reason or another, is now lying in full display right by the basement door. To add insult to injury, the snacks are unboxed and out of their wrappers; which basically means they haven't only been compromised, but they've also been made unsalvageable.

Over by the breakfast table, a relaxed Regina sips her coffee and leisurely flips a page of today's Daily Mirror, looking about as innocent as a teething puppy in a shoe closet.

And as she stares down at the contents of the bin and inwardly laments the grim fate of her precious Pop-Tarts, Emma pinches her eyes shut and counts to ten in her head. There's no bigger sin than wasting food. And if the food in question happens to be of the junk variety and hers to boot, well, that's an even bigger crime, isn't it? Even if it was done as punishment for spoiling their son's diet.

"Seriously, Regina? This is––" Emma grits out, but then trails off; the words dying pathetically on her lips like air coming out of a deflating balloon. Because as soon as she opens her eyes, she spots it: a stark white box sitting on the island counter, the easily recognizable logo of the bakery that's printed on it visible from a mile away.

Closer inspection of said box confirms what Emma already knows: it contains bear claws. A dozen of them. And thanks to Henry, she now sees the sugar-loaded pastries for what they truly are: an olive branch––an apology––wrapped in dough, sprinkled with almonds and raisins, and glazed with Regina Mills' proclivity to make peace through bribery.

Sweet, sweet bribery.

And like a salve on a Regina-shaped burn, somehow, someway, it rights everything that feels wrong in Emma's world. And no amount of hurt feelings, bruised egos, and torturous hours spent tossing and turning in bed, can stop the smile that's spreading like wildfire across Emma' lips.

And this grin of hers stays on while she makes herself a cup of coffee. It gets even larger when she takes out the biggest bear claw from the box. And it reaches epic, face-splitting proportions when she finally plops down across from Regina at the table, green mug in one hand and gigantic bear claw in another.

Her smile doesn't leave her face even while she eats, and barely two minutes into her breakfast, Regina's mask of nonchalance cracks under duress from Emma's blatant grinning. And true to form, despite days of avoiding interacting with her as if it were a plague, the first thing out of the woman's lips is a short and reproachful: "Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"That." Regina sighs, setting aside her newspaper. "If you must persist on grinning like a fool, Miss Swan, then I insist that you stop looking at me while you're doing so."

"Why?"

"It's distracting,"

"You find me distracting?"

The look she receives is anything but amused. "Stop it," Regina tells her again, bristling in her seat, the lightest of red tints coloring her cheeks.

Emma's smile grows even bigger, if that's even possible. "I can't, sorry. You see, your majesty, people generally tend to smile when they're happy."

Regina's eyebrow rises, slow and deliberate. "You're happy?"

"Obviously."

"That I disposed of those vile snacks that you love so much?" The woman challenges, a wicked little gleam in her eyes.

"Well, not so much about that, no. And that's not what I'm smiling about and you know it," Emma calls Regina out on her not-so-subtle attempt at feigning ignorance.

The brunette, for her part, just gives her an unimpressed look instead of denying things outright like they both would've normally done. "They're only bear claws, Miss Swan."

But they're not only bear claws, they're more than that, and they both know it.

So, Emma just shrugs. "What can I say, I'm very easy to please––"

"That much is evident, my dear."

"––and appease."

Regina clamps her lips shut.

Letting out a soft hum, Emma takes a huge chomp out of her half-eaten bear claw and smiles even brightly at the woman. "Wanna bite?" she offers generously.

"No, thank you."

"C'mon, have some..." Emma goads, insistent as ever.

"No."

"They're really good."

"Considering how much that Martha Woodberry charges for one box, they have no right to be anything but," Regina says haughtily, swatting away Emma's outstretched hand.

"Fine, have it your way," she stuffs the remaining piece of the pastry in her mouth. "Your loss."

"Your gain." Regina retorts, watching her chew with a disapproving frown. "Those things are riddled with calories, princess, they're no better than those disgusting things I threw away."

"Then why buy them, then?"

"Because heaven forbid, you'd like anything remotely healthy and––" Regina stops abruptly, catching herself.

It's too late, though.

Realizing just what she'd revealed, Regina's lips pucker in distaste.

Emma's smile, however, just broadens.

And even when the temptation to rub this on Regina's face is strong, Emma graciously lets a moment pass and allows her housemate to regain her composure. "So..." she begins after the redness on Regina's face recedes.

"So...?"

"Bear claws."

The brunette's wariness is apparent from the long, drawn-out sigh that leaves Regina's lungs. "What about them?"

"They do mean 'clean slate', don't they?"

Sighing softly, Regina drinks from her cup, meeting her gaze over its brim. "No,"

Emma stops mid-chew. "No?"

"No." Regina confirms, the vein protruding on her forehead telling Emma that whatever it is that Regina is about to say, it's taking a significant amount of effort to get out. "Miss Swan, if your definition of 'clean slate' is still sweeping everything under a rug and pretending it never happened –– then my answer is no," Regina says, frowning slightly, as if what she's admitting is killing her a little inside. "Those bear claws aren't cleaning any slates, so to speak."

For a moment, Emma's brain blanks out.

Because if she understands what Regina just said correctly, it seems her previous night's offer of glossing over her accidental confession at the park has just been rebuffed. It's... unexpected. Especially coming from someone as guarded as Regina.

The food in her mouth has barely been masticated, but Emma swallows it anyway. It almost catches in her throat, but she forces it down so she doesn't choke. "So, uh," Emma straightens, sloppily brushing off the crumbs from her mouth with the back of her hand. "Do you wanna talk about what I said at the pa––"

"No." Regina is quick to cut her off. And Emma would've been severely let down if her ears didn't pick up the murmured, "Not yet, at least," that comes out of Regina's lips as the woman takes another sip of coffee.

She'll take that.

Eventually is better than never; hell, it may even be considered progress for two painfully stubborn and hopeless people who just can't seem to get their act together.

So, yeah, it's not nothing.

It's most definitely something.

SQ - SQ - SQ

Nibbling away at her second bear claw, Emma leans back into her chair and sighs contentedly. "You have no idea how much I've missed this,"

A pair of wide, brown eyes snaps up to meet hers.

"I'm talking about the bear claws," she clarifies, motioning at the pastry in her hand. "I haven't had these in a long time."

Regina hums in acknowledgment and goes back to perusing the paper's lifestyle section, visibly relaxing––or deflating––depending on how one chooses to interpret what they see.

And as Emma chews on her food, she tilts her head slightly and studies her companion's peculiar demeanor. "Oh, fine," she sighs after a moment, feeling reckless enough to test the waters. "I missed you, too."

The look on Regina's face? Priceless.

The look on her face when a flushed Regina accidentally flicks a wrist and sends a raisin from the bear claw inside her mouth? Golden.

And horror upon horrors, even though it goes inside her mouth, because Emma had been in the middle of breathing in air when it happened, the raisin decides to come out through her nose.

It lands in the middle of the table with laser-like precision. And for a moment, nobody moves. Or even breathes.

Until Regina decides to break character and laugh, that is. Well... it's not a laugh, per se. It's more of a cackle. And it's such a rich, genuinely heartfelt sound that even a pajama-clad Henry decides to plod out of his bedroom and come down to the kitchen, curiosity and fascination intermingling on his face.

In spite of herself, and the slight embarrassment she still feels, Emma begins to chuckle, too. Even Henry, who has no clue what's gotten his mothers so happy, decides to join in.

And it is in this very simple moment of lightheartedness and laughter that Emma finally realizes the truth:

The void that's always been present in her chest has already been filled. Since she's moved into this town, the loneliness that plagued her for years and years has all but disappeared.

And even though Emma tells herself every day––from the very first moment she decided to stay in this place for good––that Storybrooke is where she's meant to be, this is the very first time she actually believes it.

Here, in this moment, with her family.

SQ - SQ - SQ

Christmas is exactly fifteen days away.

Life's different now, and for the first time in a long, long while, she's actually looking forward to the holidays. She's got friends and family to buy gifts for, a whole house and tree to decorate, and two very special people to spend Christmas morning with –– and she's not just talking about her usual holiday buddies Johnnie, Jack or Jim. So, yes, Emma's anticipating this so-called season of joy with a zeal that's been missing in her life for ages... even if it has been extremely disappointing to find out that Santa Clause is real, and that he happens to be the maddeningly disagreeable judge that seems to get a kick out of putting her department through hell.

And since we're on the topic of that not-so jolly old man...

"Hey, Rubes?" Emma calls out, glancing up from the Christmas list she's writing to look at the woman who's hard at work sorting out permit applications. "What's the update on that ward-lock incident? Is Judge Poole's wife filing a suit against Jafar?"

"I'm not sure, but they're probably going to settle out of court. Their lawyers have been meeting at the diner all week. Granny says that Jafar might cough up at least seven figures," Ruby reveals as she, in rapid succession, stamps several permits with the department's seal. "He's claiming that the ones that catch fire are the prototypes that he gave away as samples a few months ago, but the judge, and even Snow, are pressuring him to issue a complete product recall."

"That greedy bastard ain't gonna do that; he does that, he goes bankrupt," a sleepy Leroy chimes in from one of the beds, the dwarf still prone to using his old jail cell as a second bedroom while he's working nights. "Baba Yaga's gonna make a killing if Jafar goes out of business."

"What're you guys talking about?" a newly arrived August inquires, fresh from his trip to the Peters' household at Sheppard Lane. Fluffing out his flattened hair, he places his helmet on his desk and plunks down on his chair with a worn breath. "Who's going out of business?"

"Jafar," Ruby supplies.

"If he issues a complete product recall," Leroy stresses. "And that ain't gonna happen, I tell ya."

"How's the kid?" Emma asks August.

"He's... okay, I guess. Memory's still shot and he's been complaining of headaches, but he seems happy to be back home."

"That's good. And his brother?"

"Been sober since Friday, if you can believe that," August shares, throwing a quick, meaningful glance in Ruby's direction. The woman, however, does not appear to notice the look he's giving her –– or, at least, is pretending not to. So, August just shifts his attention back to Emma. "The whole time I was doing the home check, Jackson kept telling me to pass on to you that Rufio won't go running off with the Lost Boys again, he'll make sure of it."

"He damn well better," Leroy grumbles.

Emma hums softly in agreement, wishing for the best.

See, Whale had given Rufio the all-clear over the weekend, and had the boy discharged from the hospital yesterday morning. And after discussing what to do with the kid ad nauseum with Regina and her deputies, Emma ended up listening to Ruby's suggestion and offered a deal with Jackson. The terms were simple enough: they won't book Rufio for his numerous misdemeanor offenses in exchange for Jackson keeping a close eye on the kid, and making sure that Rufio, or Jethro, stays the hell away from his old gang. With luck, the Lost Boys would disband without their leader, and its members would go back to being rambunctious children instead of pint-sized hoodlums. Not surprisingly, Jackson readily agreed. The brothers will still be monitored twice a day by August, but they're generally free to move around as they please. It's a damn risky gamble, Emma knows this, but it's one she's hoping would pay off in the long run.

Everyone deserves a second chance, right?

Well... not everyone. Case in point, Mr. Gold. But as undeserving of a second chance as that imp might be––thanks to a very flawed justice system and an army of presumably, very expensive lawyers––Gold's getting off with just a slap on the wrist and a couple of fines. Granted, very hefty fines, but still. It just goes to show how utterly ridiculous it is to enforce real-world laws in a magical town. Last time Emma checked––and she checked a lot––there were no laws against destroying two legendary blades, and consequently, causing an earthquake and screwing over Storybrooke. So, restricted by the same system that gives her authority, even if it rankles her ass to no apparent end, Gold's getting away with murder and there's nothing she can do about it.

Twirling the emerald ring on her finger, Emma just sighs. And rather than dwell on the issue and let it ruin this blissfully uneventful Tuesday morning, she picks up her pen and goes back to her list. Christmas shopping might be frustratingly tedious, but at least it won't be as stressful as trying to incarcerate a slippery imp.

Tapping her pen at the empty space beside the names of her deputies, she starts to brainstorm for gifts. Barely two minutes into the task, Emma finds her mind becoming tired of drawing blanks, so she gives up and addresses the three. "What do you guys want for Christmas?"

"A raise," Ruby provides.

"Money," Leroy mumbles.

"What they said," August nods.

And Emma being a very, very good boss, does only what a good boss would do: she laughs. Mightily, at that.

"We're serious," Ruby chides, her expression puckering in mock offense. "Don't you think it's high-time for us to get one, Em? How many more near-death experiences do we have to face before this town decides to reward us a little bit?"

"Hey, you're preaching to the choir, Rubes," Emma is quick to point out. "Why do you think I've been sucking up to Mary Margaret and Worthington for weeks? A pay increase is part of my big plan when they approve our next budget."

That seems to appease the three a little bit.

"Now, seriously," she begins anew. "What do you guys want for Christmas? Remember though, I'm still a few thousand dollars poorer since I doubt that bastard stalker of mine can write checks from beyond the grave, so don't go crazy."

"I want a total spa package at Nail Tropics."

Obviously, Ruby did not hear what she'd just said.

However, ridiculously pricey or not, the girl does deserve some pampering. Goodness knows this place would've fallen apart without Ruby helping her run things. So, with that in mind, Emma offers no protests. "What about you, August?"

"Uh... I don't know. Anything, I guess," he says while he sorts through the station's mail, perhaps trying to be considerate –– but only succeeding in looking indecisive and annoyingly unhelpful. A second later, much to Emma's relief, August changes his tune, "Actually... a gift card from the autoshop would be nice," he smiles hopefully. "I'm planning on modding my bike this winter."

"Alright," she says, writing a hasty, 'Auto World giftcard' beside his name. "And you, Leroy?"

Lying flat on his back, hands resting behind his head, and the newest issue of Motor Trend placed on his belly, the dwarf in question just yawns heartily and declares: "I want something that can go from 0 to 250 in two seconds flat."

"Zero to two-fifty, got it," Emma murmurs, scribbling on her list, "Leroy: weighing scale."

August snorts.

"Not funny," the dwarf huffs.

"What? It's what you asked for," Emma says innocently, shrugging.

"Oh!" Ruby suddenly pipes up, much to everyone's surprise. "Emma, I ran into Mary Margaret at the diner this morning..."

"Okay?"

"She wanted me to ask you if you were willing to escort––her words, not mine––an old friend of hers at the festival this Friday? I think she said he works at the hardware store; cute guy, shaved head, big arms..."

Oh, Jesus Christ.

The urge to roll her eyes is so damn powerful, Emma doesn't even bother fighting it. Since the joyride, her mother's efforts to set her up with one of her so-called 'friends'––who are probably just random people Mary Margaret picked off the street––has not only grown in intensity, it's quadrupled in levels of absurdity, too.

Although...

Emma squints her eyes in thought. Hardware store, huh? "I think I know him..."

"You do?"

"Mhmm," she nods. "I met him once. Mike, right?"

"Yeah... I think that's what she said his name was," Ruby confirms, chewing on her lower lip in a thoughtful manner. "When did you guys meet?"

"About two, three months ago during a night patrol. He was out on a date, and things were getting hot and heavy in his car, so I had to step in. I remember he was parked along the pier, and I asked him to move things indoors before the kids at Seafood Shuffle start asking their parents if they could ride the bouncing car."

"Ooh," Ruby straightens up, permit applications momentarily forgotten, her deputy looking absolutely electrified at the prospect of fresh gossip. "Who was he getting down and dirty with?"

Archie.

"I don't know," Emma says instead, lying through her teeth. She did give Archie her word, after all. And as far as she's concerned, he's the only one who gets to decide just when, and how, he'll come out and share his sexuality with others.

Emma sighs in her head.

If only people would give her the same level of respect she's giving Regina's therapist. She's practically being yanked out of her own "closet" by just about everyone with regards to her attraction to Regina, and it's not a very pleasant experience.

"Anyway, tell MM I can't go to the festival with Mike," she tells Ruby, writing 'dinner for two, Seafood Shuffle' beside Archie's name.

"Why not?"

"Cause not only am I not interested in getting pimped out by my own parents, I'm actually going to the festival with someone else."

Ruby and August exchange looks. "Who?" they both pry.

Emma doesn't even think before answering, it just comes out naturally: "Regina, who else?"

It gets so damn quiet all of a sudden, that the only thing missing is the sound of crickets chirping.

.

.

.

And then, shattering the stillness in the room, August sighs in defeat and pulls out a wad of cash from his wallet. Like a sad little puppy, he hands over half to a grinning Ruby and then throws the rest on a chuckling Leroy's desk.

Seriously?

Emma groans. If they're being this brazenly insubordinate, maybe she needs to re-think that pay hike they're demanding. "You know, from all the money you've been making at my expense, I think it's only fair that I start getting a cut from your winnings," she grumbles at Ruby.

Pocketing about forty bucks from the looks of it, Ruby just flashes her a salacious grin and does that whole eyebrow-wagging thing. "So... did you ask Regina out?"

"No."

"She asked you, then?"

Yes and no.

"She didn't ask me out," Emma mumbles feebly, finding herself squirming in her seat. "She told me to go with her."

Ordered, really.

"She got asked to light the bonfire this year, remember? So, unless you guys want the ceremonial bonfire to become a roasting, I better be there to hold Regina's hand and make sure her magic won't wonkify everything, and, you know, accidentally set everyone on fire."

"Okay... that's perfectly acceptable," Ruby agrees, though still looking a tad unconvinced. "But... you do know that the reason why the kids get to have their own thing at the school that very same night, is because the Lantern Festival is a couples event, right?"

What?

Emma stops drawing circles on her list. "It is?"

"It is," Ruby nods.

"It is?" August mimics.

Leroy clears his throat.

"Oh! Right, right, it is," August nods vigorously. "I think I heard my dad say something about that, yeah. It's a date night."

...huh.

"Did he also tell you about the wish thing?" Ruby turns to August, who then promptly shakes his head in the negative. "You see, towards the end of the festival, someone would ring a bell, and that's the signal for everyone to start lighting their balloon lanterns and releasing them into the sky. You're supposed to make a wish with your special someone, and they say it will come true, but only if you seal it with a kiss."

...double huh.

"Better bring some mints, Sheriff," Leroy snorts. "But stick with Tic-Tacs. Chewing on gum will make you fart, I shit you not."

Butterflies start fluttering in Emma's stomach; her mind racing a mile a minute.

Just the mere thought of kissing Regina? Again? Without a convenient excuse––like, say, performing an uber-important, lifesaving protection spell––to hide behind? It's... daunting.

And it's enough to make her mouth go bone dry.

But before her nerves can swallow her whole, Emma narrows her eyes at the two cherubic faces smiling at her from the bullpen, and also at that one smirking devil inside the jail cell. "Aren't all of you going, too? Who're your dates, then?"

"Don't have one. I'm helping Granny man her booth," Ruby volunteers. "It's gonna be difficult to move around with my foot still healing."

"And I'll be helping my dad string up all the lights and give out all the lanterns," August chimes in.

Leroy opens his mouth to speak, but Emma beats him to the punch. "Lemme guess, you're following Sister Astrid around like a puppy for the entire evening? Let's be honest here, Leroy, I'm pretty sure your definition of a date fits everyone else's description of stalking."

A grinning August hides his amusement by coughing on a fist. Ruby, who's always been a little more brazen, throws her head back and laughs gregariously.

"I volunteered to do security for the whole damn thing, actually," a beet red Leroy harrumphs, propping his torso up with his elbows. "So, the way I see it, the only one who's going to be following anyone around like a puppy is you, sister."

He's got her there.

But Leroy's not done, it seems. "Not like you don't do that every single day, anyway. Everyone knows you're the Evil Queen's bi––"

Emma's eyes widen. So does Ruby's and August's.

"––better half," Leroy finishes lamely, catching himself at the last second and averting a sure-fire mess, much to everyone's relief.

"Anyway," Ruby speaks up, taking point before things get awkward. "Are you excited?"

She's petrified, actually.

"No," Emma says. That's lie number two for today. Her tummy's doing somersaults, and she kinda feels like throwing up, but in spite of her frayed nerves, there's anticipation lying just below the surface. But damn if she admits that to her deputies and give them more ammunition to torture her with.

"No?"

"No," she confirms.

"But there's going to be some kissing..."

The warmth that spreads across her face is enough to make Ruby smile like a damn Cheshire cat.

"You're not excited about the kissing?" her deputy continues to goad.

"N-no."

"Oh, well. That's good, I suppose," Ruby then says. "Cause I just made that part up."

Emma's face falls so hard and so fast, she might have just given herself whiplash.

"Kidding!"

The three assholes snigger.

Emma rolls her eyes.

Jerks.

SQ - SQ - SQ

The 'abuse' continues for the next couple of hours, and no amount of glaring and huffing and barking things like: 'stop it,' and 'shut it,' and 'get back to work,' can seem to make the trio quit their relentless teasing. So, when noon rolls around and lunch hour begins, Emma grabs her brown bag and water bottle and makes a run for it.

Despite reeking of floor wax and disinfectant, the interrogation room is nice and quiet; a welcome change to the incessant hooting and hollering that she left behind at the office. And with her back leaning against the cool metal seat and her booted feet resting on the table, Emma is able to enjoy her Chipotle Chicken Panini in peace.

Time alone... truly relaxing and invigorating; too bad, it's also just as fleeting. After all, hiding is a pointless endeavor when one of the people you're trying to avoid happens to have superhuman tracking abilities.

"Hey..."

She sighs, glancing towards the door. "Hey..."

"Are you angry?" Ruby asks quietly as she leans against the doorframe, arms folded across her chest.

"No."

"Really? Cause you're wearing your pissy face again..."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not wearing my pissy face," an exhausted Emma swallows the last bite of her lunch, wiping off the chipotle sauce on her chin a little too roughly that the napkin chafes her skin. "I don't even have a pissy face. This is just my usual, normal face."

"You mean you normally look pissy?"

"I don't have a pissy face!"

"Fine," Ruby shrugs in surrender. "But I gotta say, you sound awfully pissy, though."

"..."

"You okay?"

Patience... she needs it. Pinching the bridge of her nose, Emma expels a deep, cleansing breath from her lungs. "Haven't you had your fun already, Ruby? Did you honestly follow me here just to annoy me some more?"

Uncrossing her arms, her deputy takes several slow steps into the dimly lit room and casually perches herself at the edge of the table, sitting close to her. "You know," Ruby begins softly, meeting her wary gaze. "The guys and I, we annoy you cause we love you."

"You annoy me 'cause you want to," Emma returns with a bitter grumble. "And because you enjoy it."

Not bothering with a denial, Ruby just flashes her the tiniest of smiles, looking coy as hell.

Balling her now empty panini wrapper, Emma throws it at the trash can. It hits the rim and bounces out, adding to her frustrations. "Seriously, what do you want?"

"Per your orders, Sheriff, I sent Snow a text a few hours ago telling her that you won't be escorting Mike to the festival. She asked why, and I kinda let it slip that you were going with Regina."

Emma suppresses a groan.

Mary Margaret probably ruptured an aneurysm.

"Needless to say, I think she popped a hernia."

Close enough.

"She came by a few minutes ago, we told her you were out on patrol. That's probably her," Ruby ventures a guess, the werewolf's sharp hearing picking up the faint buzzing of Emma's phone coming from inside her pocket. True enough, it's her mother. Never been used, or comfortable, in playing the part of the dutiful daughter, Emma lets it go to voicemail. The last thing she wants to suffer through right now is one of Mary Margaret's long winded, 'why don't you like the parental-approved penis I'm throwing at you?' spiels.

It's draining.

And the exhausted sigh that leaves Emma lips is one that cannot be helped.

"She'll come around... eventually." Ruby says in an attempt to give comfort, reaching a hand out and gently squeezing her shoulder. "Give her time, she's still in a bit of denial about you and Regina."

'A bit' is a gross understatement. Besides...

"There's no 'me and Regina'..." Emma counters stubbornly, though it's a half-hearted attempt at best.

"Not yet, at least," Ruby declares. "C'mon, even you would have to know by now that it's not a question of if, it's a question of when. It's only a matter of time, and judging from recent developments, I'd say: sooner rather than later."

The blank look that Emma adopts on her face is a lame attempt at playing dumb, and Ruby probably knows this, so the woman spells it out for her:

"You're going on your first official date with Regina. That's a major development, right?"

Official date, huh? Riiiiight.

"There's nothing 'official' about it," Emma snorts, trying to quell the fluttering in her tummy by clenching her stomach muscles. Her abs are getting a workout today, that's for sure. "She didn't even ask me out to the festival..."

"Emma, it's Regina," Ruby reminds her, sounding mildly exasperated. "When has she ever asked anyone to do anything? She tells, she orders, she bullies. More than anyone else in this town, that woman knows what the Lantern Festival is all about, and yet, she still told you to go with her. Trust me, it's official."

The butterflies are now having a full-blown party inside her tummy, and if they persist with their tickle-fest, Emma's got a strong feeling that she'll be seeing her lunch again.

"Anyway, I better head back to the bullpen and make sure Leroy hasn't stolen my food. He's been eyeing my burger all morning," Ruby jumps off the table, angling to leave. Before she can go past the door, Emma stops the woman in her tracks with a murmured: "How come?"

"Hm?" Ruby turns around.

"How come you guys seem to be okay with it? You, August, and heck, even Leroy."

"Okay with what?"

Emma clutches at the back of her neck, all feeble and embarrassed. "You know... the idea of me and... y'know..."

"Regina?" Ruby fills in the blanks.

The redness that explodes on her face is all the confirmation her friend needs.

It takes a few torturous moments for Ruby to respond, and when she's finally ready to talk, her deputy walks to the chair across from her and sits down. "You're our friend," is all Ruby says.

"You're also Mary Margaret's bestfriend. Same goes for Leroy," Emma points out. "And you hate Regina."

"I hated the Evil Queen," Ruby doesn't deny it. "But Regina hasn't been that woman for the longest time, has she?"

"No," Emma shakes her head. Though Regina, of course, has her Evil Queen moments –– but they're few and far in between.

"I still have my reservations, I won't lie," Ruby continues softly, playing with the leather cuff on her wrist. "Leroy, too –– and he's more vocal about it than I am. But..."

Ruby blows a puff of air from her lips.

"We've both lost people we love, Emma; because of Blue's meddling, in Leroy's case, and because of an empty stomach in mine. And I think I can speak for Leroy when I say that we both know how it feels like to have fate and people get in the way of our happiness, so, what kind of friends would we be if we keep you from something––or someone––that obviously makes you happy? Even if you are being annoyingly dense about the whole thing."

"Hey!" A token protest.

"It's true," Ruby just shrugs. "Look, we may not agree with it a hundred percent, but we're also not going to be assholes or hypocrites about it. If Regina's it for you, then you don't have to worry about us raining on your pride parade. We're your deputies, we'll always have your back, Sheriff."

A lump lodges itself inside her throat. "Thanks... I think," Emma mumbles, scratching the side of her neck.

"The way I see it, what's going on between you and Regina isn't all that different from what happened to me and Peter, so I shouldn't really judge anyway."

Emma stops. Wait... "Are you comparing my... thing with Regina––" she can't even say it without turning into a tomato, "––to you eating your ex-boyfriend?"

"They're similar."

Uh, no.

"In that we just couldn't help ourselves," Ruby expounds further, pushing her chair back and standing up with a sigh. "As much as I couldn't keep myself from eating Peter, you couldn't stop yourself from developing feelings for Regina."

Unable to meet her deputy's eyes, Emma looks down at the table. And, of course, her gaze lands on the emerald ring on her finger.

"Let's face it, there are some things in life that we just don't have any power over," Ruby continues. And before she closes the door behind her, the woman imparts: "It's a terrible cliché, but it's also true: you can't choose who you love."

"..."

"Or, you know, eat."

And then, Ruby leaves.

Emma doesn't breathe for a full minute.

Love?

Who says anything about love?

Like, that's all it is.

She just likes Regina.

And maybe the more she tells herself this, the greater the chance of shushing the treacherous organ in her chest from constantly telling her otherwise.

SQ - SQ - SQ

"Mary Margaret just tried to set me up with Mike from the hardware store. Pass the potatoes please."

A pair of brown eyes flickers in her direction. Swallowing a morsel of roast beef, Regina hands over the bowl of mashed potatoes and then wipes her mouth clean with a napkin. "And you feel the need to tell us this, why?"

Chewing silently on his food, Henry watches the two of them with open interest.

"Just making conversation," Emma shrugs, dumping several helpings onto her plate.

After several beats, she sets the bowl aside and glances up. The vein on Regina's forehead is protruding again, Emma notes wryly.

"I said no, by the way," she clears up in a completely nonchalant fashion, shoveling a spoonful of potatoes and beef into her mouth.

Slowly, slowly, the angry vein disappears from sight.

"Why?" Henry probes. "Why'd you say no?"

"He's not my type." And she's pretty damn sure she's not his, either.

"Oh. Are you going to start dating guys soon?" he follows up after a moment, appraising her over the mountain of food lying between them on the table.

"Probably not."

And that's the goddamn truth. Now, if he said something other than 'guys' then, well...

Emma downs several gulps of water.

"Good," Henry says, much to her surprise.

"You don't want me to start seeing guys, kid?"

"Nope."

"How about your mom?" Emma asks. Realizing that that question of hers can be taken in a completely different way, she hastily adds, "I-I mean, you don't want her to start dating other guys, too?"

"Nope."

This time, it's Regina who follows up with a curious: "And why not?"

"Cause I like our family just the way it is right now," the kid simply says, with all the innocence of his age, and the astuteness of someone beyond his years. "You, me, and Emma. Just the three of us."

Emma and Regina share a look.

And it's not all that surprising that the rest of the meal is finished in relative silence.

SQ - SQ - SQ

OCTOBER 6, 2012.

"I need a place to hide."

"From whom?"

"From the same people who're hounding your ass––the cops."

Interesting, but unsurprising.

"Why? What the heck did you do? Murder someone?" Rufio lifts a brow, folding his hands behind his back, letting his fingers ghost over the knife in his pocket once more. Thanks to that stupid outfit of his, the guy already looks the part of a mass-murdering maniac, so it wouldn't be that big of a stretch to assume any different.

"Don't let the mask fool you, kid. I'm not in the business of hacking people to death," the stranger reassures, as if reading his mind. "I did, however, just pull off one––if not, the––biggest prank this town has ever seen, and I'm pretty sure the Sheriff is going to start hunting me down soon."

Prank, huh?

Rufio lets out a derisive snort. He's the authority on pranks and mischief in this town, and unless Hockey Mask can prove otherwise, he's nothing but a sad, second-rate poser in Rufio's eyes.

And as if following his train of thought, the man sticks his hand inside his leather jacket and proceeds to pull out a garment from the pocket within. Holding the cloth between his thumb and forefinger, he shows it to Rufio.

It's a white little thing. All plain and dull. Kinda ugly, too. Like something one of those chaste and virginal fairy nuns would probably own.

"The heck is that?" Rufio wrinkles his nose in distaste.

"Panties," Captain Obvious says matter-of-factly. "Ever seen one up-close?"

"Duh... the hell kinda question is that? 'Course I've seen plenty," Rufio brags. He's seen a lot up-close –– if one can consider watching porn on a laptop 'up-close and personal,' that is."That's probably the fugliest one I've ever seen, though."

"...ugliest?"

"Fugliest," he reiterates monotonously. "So, why the heck are you showing them to me?"

Hockey Mask sighs. "Cause I went through the trouble of breaking into someone's house this morning and stealing them."

"You swiped a girl's panties? That's your big prank?" Rufio scoffs, rolling his eyes at the depraved asshat. "Dude, that's not a prank, you were just being a perv."

"That wasn't the prank. And she isn't a girl, she's a woman," the thief corrects. "Emma Swan. Heard of her?"

Rufio stills.

Who hasn't heard of the frickin' Savior?

"You stole one of the Sheriff's panties?"

"Not just one, kid, all of 'em," the ballsy guy declares. "And when I say all, I also mean every... single... piece of clothing she owns. Panties, bras, shirts, pants, jackets, socks, shoes––the whole nine yards. I left the Sheriff completely clothesless––that's the prank."

SQ - SQ - SQ

PRESENT.

The fourteenth of December, the day of the Lantern Festival, comes in a blink of an eye.

And it isn't all that shocking that the day turns out to be a complete aberration –– weather-wise.

The weather guy had forecasted snow. So, naturally, not one flake fell from the sky the entire day. And instead of the usual eighteens or twenties that they've been getting most of the week, the temperature by time the festival is set to begin in the late afternoon is a decent––almost balmy by winter standards––thirty five degrees Fahrenheit.

So, now, here's Emma, feeling so darn silly––and sweaty––as she goes home and steps out of the Bug after a quick trip to the pharmacy, wearing one of Regina's down jackets, a knitted hat, and leather gloves. So, one by one, she peels them off and throws them inside the passenger seat, until she's left in nothing but her jeans and a red, v-neck cotton sweater. The light breeze that hits her warm body is something that she welcomes with a refreshed sigh.

Thank God.

She was cooking in her own clothes for a while there.

After a few moments, when her body has significantly cooled down, she shrugs on the black bomber jacket from the backseat––a Christmas gift from David that he gave her weeks early after he found out that Argos oh-so-generously donated her coats to the thrift store––and it's a hundred times more forgiving than the one she'd just discarded.

It's almost by chance that she glances at her wristwatch. And so out of it is she, that it takes a moment for her brain to register what the hands on her sixty-dollar watch are telling her, and when it finally clicks, Emma quickly shuts the car door with the heel of her boot and bolts towards the house.

Shit.

It's five-forty in the afternoon.

Regina's going to skin her alive. Quite an auspicious start to a maybe–slash–maybe-not official date, huh?

"You're late." The door swings open before she can even insert her key in the hole, revealing a glowering Regina in a pair of hot boots and a fitted black dress that Emma's never seen on her before. "We agreed on five-thirty, did we not?" Regina fumes, forcing Emma's eyes to snap back up to the brunette's face. "What was so damn important that you had to run out of the house ten minutes before we were set to leave?"

Tic-Tacs.

But, of course, she's not going to admit that. "Gas-X," Emma fibs, saying the first thing that pops in mind, as if flatulence is significantly less embarrassing than admitting to buying mints to prepare for a kiss that may or may not even happen.

Predictably, Regina makes an unsavory face.

"And I'm really, really sorry for being late," Emma says earnestly, knowing that it really is her fault. The apology works, kind of; Regina's taut expression relaxes a tiniest bit. "Oh, I got you something, too."

"Gas-X?"

"No," Emma bites back a smile. "Why, do you need some?"

She promptly gets smacked with an unamused glare.

"Thought not," she mumbles. Digging inside her jeans, she pulls out a small tube from her front pocket. "This is the one you like to use, right? I noticed you ran out of it yesterday, so..."

Quite gracelessly, she thrusts the apple cinnamon-flavored lip-gloss at Regina and drops it onto the woman's palm.

"Just in case... you know..." Emma trails off, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

Obviously, subtlety is not her strong suit.

"Just in case, what?" the brunette asks.

"Uh... just in case you need it. I hate it when I get chapped lips; you probably do, too. So, um, I just saw it and thought of you, that's all."

Regina just looks down at the lip gloss with a perplexed frown, unsure of what to make of the gift. But in the end, the woman just takes it for what it is and gives Emma a quiet, "Thank you... I suppose."

"You're welcome," she smiles lopsidedly. "You all set to go?"

That is probably one of the worst questions you can possibly ask when you arrive late to a date.

"Who am I kidding? Of course, you are," Emma dishes a quick save, stepping to the side to give Regina room to pass. Pulling on her favorite trench coat, Regina shoots Emma a mystified look as she closes the door behind her and walks ahead.

As soon as she locks the door, Emma catches up to the woman.

Walking past their respective vehicles, traversing the clear, snow-free paths, they head towards Main Street. There really is no point in bringing a car when most of the roads have been blocked off for the evening's festivities; that, and, well, no matter how the evening ends, she's got a very strong feeling that alcohol will come into play somehow. And really, no one wants to be the sober one stuck with driving duties at the end of the night. Especially if things go south, as most things in her life usually do.

SQ - SQ - SQ

"Do you have a crick in your neck?" Regina sighs as they walk farther along Mifflin Street.

Well... that wasn't random, at all.

"Excuse me?"

"Do you have a pain in your neck?"

"Literally or figuratively?"

Regina gives her a dry look.

"Literally, then. No... I don't," Emma shakes her head. "Why are you asking?"

"Because a neck spasm would explain your relentless need to keep turning your head in my direction, princess. And since that's not the case, do us both a favor, my dear, and just spit it out."

"Spit what out?"

"Whatever it is that you've clearly been itching to say since we left the house."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"It's, uh, nothing, really..." Emma rubs below her nose with a finger and looks down at her feet, feeling the start of a blush creeping on her cheeks. "I was just thinking that you look really nice tonight. I like your dress."

"..."

"Watch your step," she warns a second later, noticing the sidewalk becoming uneven just right ahead.

Not heeding her warning, or perhaps not hearing it because the woman's too busy gawping at her, Regina walks right into the protruding slab of concrete and trips.

The knightly thing to do would be to catch the queen before she fell; so, Emma, with her quick reflexes, goes ahead and does just that. The other chivalrous thing to do would be to show concern and ask if said queen is okay.

Simple enough, right?

Not quite.

Proving that she still has much to learn about knighthood––or, just empathy, in general––the famed White Knight throws her head back and laughs at Her Majesty's crimson face. And in her mirth, Emma forgets that her hands are still resting on either side of Regina's waist, and she doesn't even notice her skin starting to tingle until it's too late.

So, the small, shallow ditch that magically appears right in front of her? The one that she steps on and, consequently, trips over?

She should've seen it coming a mile away.

Though, Regina does return the favor and grabs hold of her waist, so it's not all that bad.

...even if her ears are still ringing from all the cackling.

SQ - SQ - SQ

"Tit-for-tat," Emma says.

Beside her, Regina looks at her questioningly as they round the corner and the hubbub at Main Street comes to view about a block away.

"Give and take," she continues in sing-song.

"What on earth are you getting at now?" the other woman sighs warily. Without question, Regina takes the hand that Emma gallantly offers when they reach the pedestrian lane at one of the few major intersections that are still open to traffic.

"I'm just wondering," Emma tells Regina, nodding her head in gratitude at the driver of the Mazda who stopped to let them cross. "I annoy you, you annoy me... you push, I pull... you trip, I trip. This whole tit-for-tat thing, is this how we're always going to be?"

"Perhaps," Regina shrugs nonchalantly. "We do have a knack for getting on each other's nerves. You, especially, have a unique talent for being both maddening and exhausting in equal measure."

"What, do I offend you just by breathing?"

"No, my dear, that would be your parents."

Emma, in spite of it all, chuckles softly in amusement. "Be nice," she says in mock reproach, giving the brunette's hand a light squeeze.

"I believe I just heard you laugh, princess."

"You did, but they're my parents; I'm allowed to laugh at them."

"And since they're not mine, I'm allowed to mock them as I very well please."

"But, see, here's the thing, they're family."

"They're your family."

"And you're my family," Emma intones. "Which kinda makes them your family, too."

"..."

"What?"

"You think I'm your family?"

"Yes. You and Henry." Emma nods. And then... "Am I your family?"

Regina hums noncommittally.

"Yes? No? Maybe?"

"No."

"No?"

"Oh, fine, I suppose you are." Regina sighs. "A pet is part of the family, most would say."

"..."

"Problem, Miss Swan?"

"You're impossible," Emma rolls her eyes.

"And you're humorless; clearly, that was an attempt at levity."

"Since when do you crack jokes?"

"I believe I just did a few seconds ago."

"Well, it wasn't very funny,"

"Like I said, my dear, humorless."

"See?"

"See what?"

"We're doing it again," Emma says. "Pushing each other's buttons."

"And? What of it?"

"You don't think it'll change? This always challenging each other business?"

"Why, would you have it any other way, Miss Swan?" Regina raises a brow.

She thinks about it for a moment.

"No, not really," Emma admits quietly, glancing down at their still clasped hands. "Would you?"

Regina looks straight ahead, taking in the colorful lights dotting the near distance. "No," she says simply.

"Maybe it's a good thing," Emma murmurs after a while, unconsciously swinging their hands back and forth like they were children and not grown women. And the funny thing about it? Regina, of all people, doesn't seem to mind –– even if they are garnering their fair share of stares and double-takes from fellow pedestrians. "Cause even if you drive me absolutely insane, I'm never bored when I'm with you."

Regina looks at her for a moment, brown eyes dark and expression unreadable. Then, of course, the woman returns to staring at the lanterns up ahead. And just when Emma thinks that silence is all that statement is going to get, a softly murmured: "Likewise, my dear," reaches her ears.

And that's enough to make her Mona Lisa-smile like an idiot.

SQ - SQ - SQ

And that's precisely how Paul O'Hara sees them five minutes later when they run into him near the cotton candy booth –– Emma grinning all goofy like a moron and Regina looking peaceful, yet thoughtfully constipated.

"Pleasant evening to you lovely ladies," Paul greets warmly, tipping his porkpie hat at the two of them.

"Hey Paul," Emma smiles, giving him a pat on the arm –– a friendlier salutation than the stiff nod of acknowledgment that Regina offers. "Didn't think we'd run into you here. I thought you said festivals aren't your thing?"

"They're not," he sighs, leaning against his cane. "I'm just here at the urging of our little friend. He, apparently, needed someone to 'smuggle' him in –– though I, myself, prefer the term chaperone."

Discreetly, Paul inclines his head at Apple Smith's stall across the street –– where the aforementioned lady, as well as her husband, is presently fawning over a cute, little duck, feeding it tiny morsels of the pastries they're supposed to be selling.

It's Pockets, of course. Or, Davy, as Paul insists on calling the boy-duck.

"They're pretending like they don't know it's their son so he won't run away. And he's pretending that the only thing he's missing are his mother's sweet rolls and carrot cakes," Paul supplies in a quiet tone. "It's a dismal affair, if you stop and think about it."

It truly is.

"Has he tried visiting Rufio?" Emma fishes just as silently.

"He has, yes," Paul nods. And Regina immediately shoots her a tired 'I-told-you-so' look, the woman never a fan of Emma letting the leader of the Lost Boys off the hook so easily. "But he was turned away at the door," Paul finishes. Now, it's Emma's turn to raise an eyebrow at Regina.

"By Jackson?" she guesses, looking back at Paul.

"Jet."

Oh.

That has got to be a blow to the gut. Out of all the Lost Boys, she gets the impression that Pockets is the one who worships Rufio the most. "How'd the kid take it?"

"Not too well, as can be expected," Paul shares. "Which may be a good thing, in some way. He's always at the park now, and I see him sneaking into his house almost everyday. I think, given time, he'll eventually decide to come home for good."

That's what she's been hoping to happen when she set Jet loose. And, unable to stop herself, Emma looks at Regina and gloats. "See? Told you so."

"Don't be so smug, my dear," Regina harrumphs, joining the conversation. "Whether that happens or not still remains to be seen. Nothing is set in stone."

"Oh, have some faith," Emma chides.

"And have some common sense," Regina returns.

"You're being too pessimistic."

"I'm realistic. Your parents are starting to rub off on you, princess. You're becoming too hopeful to the point of delusion."

"So, you think I'm deluded for believing that somebody can actually do the right thing and turn their life around? Isn't that a little hypocritical coming from you?"

That's all it takes. And for the next minute or so, they bicker and banter and try to out-talk each other. His presence all but forgotten, Paul looks back and forth between the two of them, just like an avid fan at a tennis match. Or... more like a fearful––yet greatly enthralled––spectator at a destruction derby.

And then, as it often does, their serious debate turns into a petty little tiff. About something, everything, hell, nothing at all.

"...yeah? Well, your hand's kinda clammy..."

Offended, Regina gives her the stink eye. "And yours could use a little moisturizer. If it gets any rougher, Miss Swan, I'd be holding hands with a loofah."

Web of lies. She's got baby smooth hands.

"Why are you still holding on to me if my hands are so rough?" a slighted Emma throws right back, lifting her chin in challenge.

"Because, in the first place, you never let go after we crossed the street."

"Well, I could say the same thing about you."

And then, of course, since they've now mentioned it, Paul's eyes flicker down to their hands and he notices for the first time how they're entwined, and unable to tamp his curiosity, the old man blurts out: "Are you ladies here on a date?"

That shushes them up.

"Umm..." Emma clears her throat.

Paul tilts his head in question.

"Yes," she confirms timidly.

"No," Regina says at the same time.

.

.

.

"No?" Green eyes widen.

"Yes?" Brown eyes do, too.

Stab.

"We're not?"

"We are?"

Another stab.

A slightly bemused Paul watches with rapt attention.

"You think we're on a date?"

"Look at me, I even ironed my clothes..." Not to mention that she's also wearing a shit-ton of Chapstick and double the amount of perfume that she usually puts on.

Regina's nose wrinkles in confusion. "And so what if you did?"

"I never do that!"

At this, Paul actually laughs.

Now, she feels just stupid.

And if the ground should decide to open up and swallow her whole at this very minute, Emma would welcome it gladly. "I mean... I just... I only do that for special occasions, like, you know, like––"

"Like a date," Regina finishes wearily. "And what on earth would give you the impression that we're on one right now?"

"Cause you asked––well, told––me to go here with you," Emma mutters weakly, unable to meet the brunette in the eyes. "And since this thing is a couples festival, Ruby and––"

"Couples festival?" Regina interrupts, looking genuinely baffled.

Emma stops. Wait... "This is a couples event, right?" she asks slowly, almost fearfully.

Paul shakes his head in the negative. And the pity shining in his eyes as he looks at her? It just twists the knife in deeper.

Oh... no.

Emma screws her eyes shut and pinches the bridge of her nose. Because at that exact moment, it finally dawns on her:

She's just been played. And good.

In a snap of a finger, she stands on her tiptoes and whips her head from side to side, searching the crowd for the culprits. She spots all three of them watching her make a fool of herself from Granny's booth. The bastards look away as soon as her blazing gaze zones in on them; the three deputies concealing their impish grins by pretending to drink from their plastic cups.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuckity fuck.

If those three wanted a slave-driver for a boss, they just got one.

Annoyed, but mostly just disheartened that the 'date' was all in her head, Emma exhales in defeat and loosens her grip on Regina.

Or, at least, she tries to.

Because as soon as Regina follows her line of sight, and figures out what just happened, the woman's brown eyes narrow down into slits, and almost defiantly, Regina ignores Emma's attempt to let go and holds on tighter.

It's like a fire has been ignited somewhere inside the woman. And before she can even say a proper goodbye to Paul, Emma finds herself being dragged away towards Granny's booth by a silently fuming, and absolutely determined Regina.

It's kinda hot in a scary way. A very scary way.

So, it's not in any way surprising that before they can even get to the booth, the three buffoons scurry on out of there and make themselves scarce.

SQ - SQ - SQ

Granny's still screaming after her fleeing granddaughter by the time they reach the stall.

"You'd think with her foot still giving her problems, she'd find no excuse to go running off and gallivanting to goodness knows where," Granny grumbles to herself, the annoyed flush on her cheeks more pronounced because of the red lanterns decorating her stand. Formidable as ever, the woman carries a keg by her lonesome and heaves it onto a makeshift table without breaking a sweat. "If she weren't my granddaughter, I'd have her spayed."

Hell, she's one of her best friends, but Emma's not opposed to neutering that werewolf, either.

"So, what now?" Emma turns to Regina, leaning against the wooden booth to catch her breath.

Regina's nostrils flare, her face hard as stone. "If your deputies think for one minute that they can get away with making a mockery of us, then they have another thi––"

"Emma, good, you're here," Granny cuts in, handing a customer his drink before moving towards them, wiping the counter with a rag along the way. "I've been asked to pass along a message if you ever head in my direction,"

"Yeah?"

"Your mother's been looking for you. I think she wants you to go and meet someone."

Oh, for fuck's sake––!

Emma groans. And she doesn't even have to look at Regina to know that her majesty is not happy about it, too –– the fact that the circulation on her left hand has just been cut off is a dead giveaway.

"Lemme guess, Mike Hastings?" she lets out a worn breath.

"Oh, you know him already? Big honking piece of a man, ain't he? He's Archie's roommate, too –– and if I know that man, he wouldn't shack up with just about anyone, so you know that Mike fellow's a good egg. I think you and him would ma––"

The woman never gets to finish that statement.

To Emma's complete astonishment––and bewilderment––Regina chooses that exact moment to lift their joined hands and slam them onto the counter, laying them in full view of a now speechless Granny.

"Miss Swan, since we're here on a date," Regina turns to talk to her, though the mere volume of her voice tells Emma that the brunette's not just speaking to her alone. "I expect nothing less than to be treated like royalty. So, take out your wallet, my dear, and buy me a drink."

Emma's eyes bug out of their sockets. She's pretty sure Granny's eyes do, too.

Too busy gaping at a blank-faced Regina, she doesn't get a chance to look at the drinks menu. So, Emma, wide-eyed and blushing like a nun at a strip joint, just mimics the previous customer's order and mutters: "Whatever that guy had, please," and then lifts up two fingers.

"What are you doing?" she whispers at Regina when Granny goes and fills up their cups –– the gray-haired innkeeper blatantly gawping at them the whole time.

"Saving face," Regina just says. "And annoying your mother while I'm at it."

Saving face?

"How the hell is pretending to be on a date with me supposed to help you save face?"

"Those bumbling idiots under your employ probably think that playing us for fools would ruin my evening," Regina sticks her nose in the air, her voice as cold as ice. "I intend to prove them otherwise."

Emma blinks. "Oh."

"And, my dear?"

"What?"

"We're not 'pretending' anything."

Well... that's... that's... well... okay...

Emma goes ahead and bites the insides of her cheeks. Both of her hands are otherwise occupied; this is the only way of 'pinching' herself, so to speak.

This is real, it's really happening.

It's official.

.

.

.

Holy shit.

"My famous Swinging Swill," Granny places two red cups in front of them, both containing an ominous-looking concoction. "It's on the house," she waves off, stopping Emma before she can pull out some bills. "Jog my memory a bit. David likes Guinness and Snow loves a good Merlot?"

"I think so, why?"

Granny's looks pointedly at their joined hands, and then slowly raises an eyebrow at them. "Because I have a feeling those two would need a few bottles tonight."

A few?

More like a whole damn case.

SQ - SQ - SQ

"Are you sure about this?"

"I am."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"..."

"..."

"So... you're really sure, right?"

Regina takes another careful sip from her cup, pulls the same disgusted face that she's been making with every taste of Granny's special drink, and then promptly levels her with an exasperated glare. "For the hundredth time, Miss Swan: yes."

"Okay," Emma murmurs as they walk amongst the throngs of people enjoying the fest, the lights stringed above their heads giving the illusion of walking underneath a canopy of candy-colored stars. It's kinda whimsical; if not excessively tacky. "I just wanted to double-check."

"You've been 'double-checking' for the past half hour, princess. If you're wondering if you've passed my limit for your relentless pestering this evening, look behind you. Or, better yet, look at my face."

"C'mon, can you honestly blame me for badgering you about it?" Emma sighs, subtly steering Regina away from the juggling clown nearby. She hates clowns; well, more like she's scared of them, really. "I mean, the last time we felt uncomfortable about... stuff, we avoided each other for days. I'd like to prevent that from happening again as much as possible, thank you very much. So, if you're really not up for this date, I want to know."

Her concerns are valid; she's not acting all pesky and pushy just for the sake of getting on Regina's nerves.

"And, look, here's the thing, you basically just said that you're doing this to save face and to spite Ruby and the guys. That's okay... I can accept that, heck, I'm even all for it. But... are those your only reasons?"

Regina gets very quiet, which is no big surprise, all things considering. If Emma thinks herself guarded, well, Regina would be like a well-fortified castle surrounded by an impenetrable wall, complete with cannons and a moat teeming with alligators.

There are moments, rare and fleeting, wherein Emma is able to get a glimpse of the woman behind all those walls; though tonight, it feels like Regina might actually let her in through the gate.

"...no," is the almost inaudible reply Emma is able to coax out a full minute later.

"No?"

Regina's gaze lands on her, and then goes back to watching the lights up above. "No."

"Then what's your other reason? Or, reasons?" Emma presses.

"You ironed your clothes," Regina merely states.

"And, what, you thought that was, I dunno... sweet?"

"I thought it was sad."

"..."

"And perhaps I didn't want your efforts to go to waste."

Emma stifles a groan. That's just... awesome. "So, you're dating me tonight out of pride, spite and pity?"

"Amongst other things."

She almost bumps into a guy walking on stilts.

"What's it now?" Regina asks a moment later, when a purple-faced Emma still persists on staring blatantly at her.

"And those other things are?" she prods stubbornly, unwilling to let the matter rest.

"Wouldn't you like to know," is Regina's completely blasé response, cruelly coy as ever.

And Emma's just about ready to walk over to the Whack-A-Mole, steal the mallet from the kid playing the game, and bash her own head with it. And maybe Regina's, too. She was let in through the gate, all right, but then her royal pain in the ass just had to slam it shut just as she's about to step through.

"Jesus effin' Christ, lady, do you really want to kill me?"

The wicked smile that she gets is answer enough.

She does.

She truly does.

Damn this woman.

Maybe Mary Margaret's right when she told her that the Evil Queen would be the death of the Savior.

That's certainly shaping up to be the case, isn't it?

SQ - SQ - SQ

The ceremonial bonfire is at the beach. And since it's not scheduled to be lit for another couple of hours or so, the two of them just make their way to the pier, wandering aimlessly near the different fried food and confectionery booths scattered there.

It's hardly shocking that Emma ends up spending a little over thirty dollars on junk food for herself alone, while Regina, naturally, spends the next few minutes clicking her tongue and giving her grief.

"Even our son has more self-control than you," Regina tells her after she polishes off her ninth deep-fried Oreo.

"He also has a smaller stomach than me, so there's that," Emma says flippantly, licking her thumb and forefinger clean. Besides, she didn't eat a bite during lunch.

"You're incorrigible."

"I'm hungry."

"Gluttonous."

"Starving," she corrects, popping the last Oreo into her mouth. Looking inside the now empty bag, Emma lets out a rueful sigh. "I want some more..."

"You've had a funnel cake, Oreos, a corn dog, and popcorn. How can you still be famished after all that?"

Emma shrugs.

"And you wonder why you're always feeling indigested," Regina sniffs in disapproval. "Don't you dare complain to me when your stomach starts to cramp again."

Speaking of cramping...

"Do you have any Tums with you? You know, just in case."

"Do you see my purse anywhere, Miss Swan?"

Emma runs her tongue across her front teeth, trying to clean off the chocolate bits still stuck there. "No," she finally says.

"Then that's your answer."

"Can you magic me some, if ever?"

The look Regina gives her is so dry, it chafes. "Do you think me your drug dealer now?"

"What? It's just Tums!"

"And that's how it always begins, doesn't it?"

"With Tums?"

"With small things. What are you going to ask of me next, a bottle of Pepto Bismol?"

"..."

"What?"

"Really, Regina? If you're trying to take the fun out of eating fair food and make me lose my appetite, you need to try harder."

"My dear, I can't possibly ruin something that you've already ruined yourself."

True.

Mentally shrugging, Emma crumples the paper bag and slyly chucks it at the bottom compartment of a passing stroller. "I can't be the only one stuffing my face, let me get you something to eat..."

The way Regina's face contorts in disgust, one would think she'd just offered to feed the woman a snack dipped in salmonella and sprinkled with hepatitis.

"Regina, c'mon, this is a festival. Will it really kill you to be in a more festive mood? Loosen up a little. Look, there're caramel apples right there. I'll grab you some."

"I'd rather you not."

"Don't be a killjoy."

"And don't be an idiot."

"How is buying you food idiotic?"

"It is when you know very well that that sugar-laden thing will only go to waste."

"It won't, trust me. We can share if you don't think you can finish it alone. You love apples; I love caramel. It's totally a win-win situation."

Is it, really?

See, after much beleaguering, Regina eventually folds and gives in, eating half of the delectable fruit dipped in gooey caramel.

But ironically enough, it's that very same apple that finally does Emma in.

Gluttony really is her favorite sin.

SQ - SQ - SQ

Ten minutes later, she finds herself bending by the waist, practically lying down on an oak barrel by the spiced wine stand. "Ugh," Emma moans in misery, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth. If she looks like she's in pain, it's probably cause she is.

"You alright there, Sheriff?"

No.

There's a demon baby trying to claw its way out her tummy, for fuck's sake. "Yeah, thanks for asking," Emma reassures the concerned lady behind the counter, donning a weak grin. And before she can lie to the woman any further, she spies Regina stepping out of the pier's ladies room through her periphery, and like an electric jolt up the ass, Emma snaps up to attention and feigns wellness.

It doesn't matter, though. With just one look at her, her majesty knows.

"Stomach cramps, I presume?"

She doesn't answer; she doesn't need to. The pained wince on her face when the throbbing begins anew just gives her away. "Regina, did you do something to that apple?"

"Hm?"

"Did you do something to that apple?" she repeats.

"Of course, I did."

"What?"

"I ate it."

"..."

"Against my better judgment, I should also say."

As they resume their stroll through the festival, Emma appraises a stoic Regina through the corner of her eyes. And then she covers her lips with a fist, swallowing back a burp. "Tell me the truth, did you wonkify it?"

"Wonkify?"

"With your magic," Emma supplies. "Did you do something to it?"

"Excuse me?" Regina's spine straightens, looking gravely insulted. "I'll have you know that I resent that accusation."

"You resent a lot of things..."

"That I do," the former Mayor readily admits. "But why on earth would I hex my own food and compromise my own well-being?"

"To teach me a lesson? You did the same thing after that whole mess with Rainbow Sprinkles' eyeball –– that chocolate cake you baked gave me diarrhea, remember?"

Regina scoffs. "First of all, my dear, that was an accident. And secondly, if I wanted to teach you a lesson about watching what you eat, I would've put a spell on your Oreos, not on the apple."

Emma stops walking.

"You jinxed my Oreos, didn't you?" she alleges, her green eyes narrowing into thin lines.

"I did no such thing."

"Yes, you did!"

"We've had our truce, Miss Swan. Tempting as it is, I'm no longer in the business of bringing you harm."

"Prove it," Emma dares.

"How?"

"Heal me."

The eyebrow raise that command receives is slow and deliberate, and just dripping with attitude. "Falsely accusing me of something I did not do, just to get me to heal you? Tell me, my dear, who's being manipulative and underhanded now?"

Damn.

That was a long shot, but it was worth a try... right?

"Heal me?" she repeats, and this time, it's more of a request than a demand.

"No."

"Please?"

Regina walks ahead.

Tugged by an invisible leash, she follows after the woman like a lost little puppy. "C'mon, I said please,"

"And what of it? Despite the general consensus, my dear, 'please' is not a magical word, and it won't compel me to do something nice for you."

"Fine, how 'bout, sorry?"

"Mean it."

"I'm super sorry?"

"Try toning down the sarcasm, Miss Swan, and maybe then I'll think about it."

Emma sighs.

"I'm really sorry for accusing you of hexing me when I know you wouldn't do anything to hurt me; that was a jerk move on my part," she says in an earnest, quiet fashion. Abruptly, she stops walking; another cramp attacks her tummy... another wave of nausea hits... another burp comes out. And in a more desperate tone of voice, and clutching her abdomen for added effect, Emma practically begs: "Please heal me. Or, magic me some Tums. Pepto Bismol, whatever."

"Give me one good reason why I should, princess," an unmoved Regina continues to play hard to get, as the woman's prone to do.

"Cause it's our first date," Emma murmurs, catching up to her companion and reaching for Regina's hand. "And the last thing I want is to remember it as the night I got sick all over you."

And then, to prove a point, she dry heaves and retches and looks at the woman all pathetic-like.

That does the trick.

Or, at least, it softens Regina just enough that it doesn't take long for Emma to wear the woman down with her persistence.

Five minutes later, her arm's still tingling from the energy Regina pulls from her body –– but at least, the tightness in her stomach disappears, and the urge to vomit dissipates.

And so grateful is she, that when they pass a stall selling deep-fried butter balls, Emma ignores the sudden craving that spikes up in her gut and speed-walks on ahead –– much to Regina's approval, and silent amusement.

SQ - SQ - SQ

Through a flash of inspiration––or perhaps bad judgment––Emma leads them to the game booths lining the boardwalk. Most of the children are still at the school's own lantern-making event, which won't end until eight in the evening, so it's mostly just teenagers and those young at heart that are doing all the playing in the meanwhile.

"So... what do you want to try out?"

"Nothing in particular," Regina drawls in boredom, clearly in the mood for fun and games. "Why can't we just sit down on a bench and relax until the time I need to set that ludicrous bonfire to flame?"

"Jesus, you sound like an old woman. How old are you, seventy-five?"

"..."

Sore topic, obviously.

"Umm," she clears her throat. "How about this: I play, you cheer?" Emma suggests instead. She takes one good look at the unenthused expression on Regina's face, and then grudgingly changes her tune, "Fine, I play, you jeer."

And jeer, Regina does. And so damn well, at that.

"It amazes me how badly you're failing at this game, despite how disproportionately large that bucket is compared to the puny little balls you're trying to lobby in it," her majesty snarks after her fourth failed attempt at Bucket Ball. "Your hand-eye coordination is atrocious, princess. Is your arm's accuracy dependent on whether or not you're throwing a sword?"

"My arm's fine. This game's obviously rigged." Nevertheless, she slams another dollar bill on the table.

The balding game operator shoots her an uppity glare, but takes her money anyway and hands over three more purple balls.

The first one hits the rim and rebounds back towards her. The second goes over the bucket and smacks a teddy bear clean off the shelf. And the third one goes right in... and then bounces right out.

Regina cackles.

The attendant snorts.

And a bruised ego almost propels Emma to buy three more balls just to knock off the cigarette––and the grin––from the smug bastard's lips.

A minute later, after she's significantly calmed down, Regina gives her forearm a squeeze and motions towards the High Striker –– where a red-faced Happy isn't particularly living up to his name after failing to hit the lever hard enough to the ding the bell at the top of the tower. "If you still insist on making a fool of yourself, and throwing away your hard-earned money on silly games that are turning out to be more frustrating than fun, then I suggest you try that one."

"Why that?" Emma pulls an unsavory face, feeling her muscles ache just from watching Happy swing the heavy mallet. He fails a second time, and after seeing his reaction, Emma reckons it's time for a name change. Angry, would be a perfect fit.

"It's the only one that has a fairly decent Iron Man toy as a prize; win one for our son."

"Uh, I dunno, it'll take too much effort to win in that game,"

"Of course," her majesty sasses. "Because clearly, my dear, the last thing you need after binging on all that junk food is exercise."

"Right," she nods in agreement.

Regina rolls her eyes.

In the end though, they wind up going to the Basketball booth, which happens to be at the farthest part of the boardwalk. And it's not like they had much choice in the matter. See, there's a Weight Guessing game right beside the High Striker, and Doc's the one manning it. Not thinking clearly, Emma makes the fatal mistake of letting the bespectacled dwarf try to estimate their individual weights. Needless to say, Leroy's brother isn't so far behind Grumpy on Regina's shit-list this evening –– the fact that the woman was this close to burning Doc's booth to the ground is a testament to this.

"Who cares if his guess is over by what, fifteen pounds? You don't look that heavy, you know." Emma looks at Regina over her shoulder as she holds the ball at an angle, getting ready for her first shot.

The withering glare she receives would've cut anyone else in half; Emma's used to it though, so it barely scratches her skin.

"If anything, the coat you're wearing just gives the illusion that you put on a bit of extra weight because it's bulky in some places."

She shoots... and hits nothing but air.

Dammit.

"You know what's funny, though?" Emma catches the second ball the gangly attendant passes to her, and then dribbles it from one hand to another. "He thinks I'm a hundred-fifteen pounds and you're a solid one-twenty seven; that's a frickin' twelve-pound difference. So, when you think about it really, who has the crappy diet now? Still hating on my Oreos and Pop-Tarts, your highness?

And just to rub salt in the wound, Emma flashes Regina a nasty, shit-eating grin.

Provoke the tiger and get the claws. Frowning mightily, Regina momentarily forgets herself and flicks her wrist once. That's all it takes for the ball in Emma's hands to come flying out of her grasp and ricocheting every which way like a possessed pinball. Some people dive out of the way, while most others stand paralyzed in their places, watching with morbid fascination. Thank goodness that Emma's always had an aptitude for dodge ball, cause she has more than a few close shaves when the demon ball zooms past their heads.

When Regina's wonky spell finally runs out of juice, the ball hits the signage of the booth across the way and then rebounds back towards the basket, of all places. Sailing high over their heads, it hits the backboard... and then bounces on the ring once... twice... thrice... before eventually falling into the net with a soft swoosh.

Huh.

Emma tilts her head.

A couple of people break out into applause.

That was remarkable... and, also, kind of anticlimactic.

"We have a winner..." the attendant announces with as much enthusiasm as that of someone stoned out of their minds –– which, judging by his red, puffy eyes, might actually be the case. "Please pick a prize from the second tier..."

"The pack of ballpens," Regina says before Emma can even open her mouth or point at one of the stuffed turtles. "My magic," the brunette reminds her.

"My money," she counters. "And who the hell chooses pens instead of toys?"

"I do, obviously."

"Oh, you mean, boring people?"

"Practical people."

"Exactly!"

Regina harrumphs, and Emma makes a face at the gaudy pack of pens the stoner guy hands over to her dark-haired companion. They have glitters... and feathers... but worst of all... "They're electric pink..." she spits out like it's a curse, crinkling her nose in distaste.

"Yes, I can very well see that, my dear."

"But you don't even like pink..."

"I don't," Regina confirms. "Which is precisely why I won't be the one using these pens."

Sly as heck, the former Evil Queen tucks the bundle of three inside the pocket of Emma's bomber jacket.

"Hey!" Emma protests. Pulling the pack back out, she tries to hand it back. "Your magic."

"Your money," Regina returns with a deliciously evil smile, flicking her hand away.

"Seriously? I'm giving these to somebody else."

"Why?"

"You really have to ask? I'm not in junior high, Regina. What the heck makes you think I'll use these?"

"Because, my dear, it's our first date," Regina reminds, oh-so innocently throwing back her own words at her. "And the last thing I want is to remember it as the night you gave away the prize I won for you."

Emma snaps her mouth shut.

That's just plain evil.

Evil... evil... evil.

And it's just like Regina to play that card.

"You're the only one I know who gives 'gifts' to be mean..." Emma grumbles, putting the pens away inside her pocket in resignation.

"And what about Gold?"

"You and Gold are the only people I know who gives 'gifts' to make others miserable," she amends with a tired breath. Studying the time on her watch, she tugs at Regina's hand and leads them both to the beach.

It's almost time to light the bonfire.

"..."

"..."

"They're just garish pens, Miss Swan," Regina utters a while later, her expression closed off and drawn in. "Do they truly make you that miserable?"

Emma looks at Regina through the corner of her eyes, and then sighs. "No."

"No?"

"Not at all."

"..."

"..."

"That's a shame, then."

Emma rolls her eyes, shakes her head, and then allows her treacherous lips to form a fond smile. "You really are an asshole sometimes, you know that?"

An unapologetic Regina just lets out a quiet hum.

Of course she does.

SQ - SQ - SQ

"Check these out, man, they're fucking amazing,"

Leaning against the side of the Ring Toss, Jet slowly tears his gaze away from the race happening at the Water Canon game right across. Though, it's not the excitement in his brother's voice, or the fact that Jackson almost body-checks him off the barrel he's perched on, that grabs his attention. It's the sight and the aroma of the food that gets shoved under his nose that does the job.

"What are these?" he inquires, poking the golf ball-sized snacks with a cautious finger.

"Deep-fried butter balls," Jackson volunteers, popping a piping hot piece into his mouth with his good hand, and then hissing in pain when it, predictably, burns his tongue.

"Butter? I just woke up from a coma, you trying to send me back to the hospital with a heart attack?"

"I know, they're lethal, but believe me, they're frickin' awesome," his brother enthuses, his words garbled because of the artery-clogging treat in his mouth. "I had to wait in line for fuck knows how long just to get 'em, but they're damn worth it."

Curious, Jet picks one up and sniffs it.

"Anything interesting happen when I was gone?"

Nibbling a small bite of the decadent snack, he takes in the minor carnage in their surroundings––upturned floor-signs, knocked down stuffed toys, and many more––courtesy of a possessed basketball. "Nope," Jet finally says, his expression blank as a slate. "You didn't miss a thing."

"Fuck me, that's hot,"

"Maybe you should try blowing on them first before stuffing them in your damn mouth?" He rolls his eyes good-naturedly, chomping on the rest of his butter ball.

"No, that," Jackson clarifies, looking over his shoulder and ogling the pair who just walked past –– holding hands in the open with nary a care in the world. "So, the Sheriff's really banging the old Mayor, huh? I heard these girls in front of me talking 'bout it, but I didn't think it was true. Shit, definitely gonna have a date with the palm sisters tonight," he chuckles lowly, wagging his brows and making lewd, up and down hand gestures near his crotch.

"Stop that. It's not funny, man."

The deep frown that mars Jackson's face is one that's completely perplexed. "What's the deal with you?"

Shit.

Jet scratches the bottom of his nose, mentally kicking himself. He can't get into this right now, he just can't.

"So, palm sisters, huh?" he says instead, steering them back to safer waters. "Don't you mean, palm sister?"

"..."

"Too soon?"

"If I didn't have my hands full," Jackson's mouth twists sourly, "hand full, I'd be smacking you behind the head right now. Just so you know."

To be honest, months ago, he probably would've been as shameless as his brother. But that was in another life. Now, he can't even look at Emma Swan––let alone imagine his old crush doing anything––without his stomach churning. And, also, his heart feeling like it's being squeezed to the point of death.

Death... how ironic.

Jet sighs.

Out of habit, he runs his fingers through his hair... or he would've, if he still had some. And he'll be lying if he says he's not bitter about that anymore. But... he's still alive though, so he might as well start counting his blessings instead of focusing on what he's lost. Like his hair. Like his frie––

The Sheriff and the former Mayor finally disappear into the crowd.

He swallows thickly.

"You still okay there, little bro?"

No.

It feels like there's a band being tightened around his forehead, squeezing his brains like a vice. "Head's starting to hurt again..." he admits wearily.

"Wanna go home?"

"Yeah... please."

Shoving the last two butter balls in his mouth, Jackson holds him by the back of his neck and gives him a comforting squeeze.

Weaving in through the crowd, they start to leave. And too preoccupied with his own discomfort, Jet misses the pair of eyes watching them from the other side of the pier, tracking their every movement with a disappointed glare.

SQ - SQ - SQ

Twelve torches, signifying every month of the past year, are to be lit from the flames of the ceremonial bonfire. And those torches, in turn, are to be passed around to set fire to the candles meant for lighting the balloon lanterns––the embodiment of their hopes and wishes for the next coming year––that everyone's going to be launching into the heavens.

Of course, before those torches can light any lanterns, and those lanterns can be released into the starry skies, the bonfire should be lit first.

That's where Regina––and by extension, Emma––comes in.

"Aim lower," Emma chastises under her breath, noticing how Regina's eyeing her mother and not the impressive pyre by the new Mayor's feet. "We're lighting a bonfire, not burning Mary Margaret at the stake."

"That's a pity," Regina drawls.

Emma squeezes her hand.

And as Mary Margaret continues to address the crowd, and her eyes flit from one person to another, it's inevitable that her gaze would land on the two of them –– again. And just like the previous times it's happened, a wounded look flashes on the former teacher's face before Mary Margaret quickly tears her eyes away. It really doesn't help matters much that Emma and Regina are standing too close for comfort –– shoulder to shoulder, arms brushing intimately against the other, their hands entwined. And it really, really doesn't help matters much that an uber shameless Regina is throwing just about everyone––but most especially, Emma's parents and her deputies––a wickedly smug look, appearing very much like the cat who ate the canary.

Vengeful as ever, the woman's rubbing their date in everyone's faces, and Regina's not even pretending otherwise.

Emma doesn't care much about the uneasiness of her deputies––if they are feeling any sort of discomfort at all, that is––but she does care about the two people standing side-by-side on the makeshift platform... even if their relentless match-making has been grinding her nerves for the past few days.

"Stop provoking my parents," she hushes at her dark-haired companion, speaking through the corner of her mouth. "C'mon, Regina, I'm already in enough trouble as it is, don't push it. Look at them, they both look close to tears."

David, in particular, looks practically catatonic.

And, naturally, Regina's grin only grows bigger and bolder.

Emma sighs.

It's gonna be a long night.

And if the look on her parents' faces is any indication, it's gonna be a pretty damn long week, too.

SQ - SQ - SQ

The bonfire-lighting ceremony goes off without a hitch.

Well... not unless you count Regina almost giving Emma––hell, everyone––a heart attack after the woman waves her hand with a flourish and hurls several fireballs in Mary Margaret and David's direction. They fly over her parents' heads, thankfully. And after giving everyone a light show and zooming all over the place like drunk firecrackers, the fireballs simultaneously drop down and strike the waiting pyre, igniting the humongous stack of driftwood with a resounding bang.

The once-horrified ahhhhhhhh's quickly turn into impressed ooooooohhh's, and to Emma's astonishment, the crowd actually breaks out into cheers.

Meanwhile, on the platform, an unimpressed Mary Margaret and David both look like they just sucked on a lemon.

"Showoff," Emma teases quietly, rolling her right shoulder to try and shake off the slight buzz she's still feeling after the energy transfer. "A fire show? Really?"

Acting like it's nothing, but preening herself nonetheless, Regina's face is the picture of faux indifference. "If they insist on burdening me with such an insipid task, I might as well do it with flair."

Emma snorts.

Spoken like a true queen.

"And give those two idiots a scare while I'm at it."

An evil one, at that.

SQ - SQ - SQ

They move away from the crowd.

Regina doesn't want to mingle with the peasants, obviously, but more than that, Emma isn't up for a confrontation with her parents just yet. That's something she'd rather have in a safer, cloistered environment –– far from burning objects and the like. So, when the audience starts to disperse in order to get their balloon lanterns ready, and she sees Mary Margaret trying to look over people's heads in search of them, Emma keeps her own head low, tugs Regina's hand, and quickly guides the woman away from her mother's line of sight.

They bump into Archie and his infamous roommate, Mike, when they go and grab one of the lanterns that Marco's handing out, and rather than give her the evil eye for trying to weasel away his man––even if Mary Margaret's the one doing it on her behalf––Archie gives her a warm smile, leans close to her ear, and murmurs: "They'll come around, give them time," and then he walks away with a blissful-looking Mike trailing closely behind. It's reminiscent of what Ruby's told her at the interrogation room, and for a moment, Emma wonders if the two've had a discussion about it, or is it just the general consensus among their circle of friends. Either way, she just slings the lantern over her shoulder and leads Regina away. She'll think about it another day.

"They're dating, aren't they?" a statement, not a real query.

Emma almost trips on her own feet.

Far from a position to confirm or deny anything regarding Archie's affairs, she just zips her lips and keeps mum. Not like Regina needs her to confirm it anyway, the woman's more than capable of forming her own conclusions.

"I didn't realize your mother's in the habit of setting you up with the most unavailable and unattainable men in town. Is she truly that desperate or is she utterly blind, too?"

Emma can't help but smirk.

A little desperate, yes, but mostly just in denial.

Granted, she's still in a bit of denial, herself. And Regina, also. So, really, who are they to speak?

"Hypothetically speaking, if Mike's gay––and I'm not saying he is––and Mary Margaret knows it, and she's still setting me up with him regardless, I think it's because she thinks he's exactly my type."

"What, a gay man?"

"No, a queen," she murmurs softly, giving Regina a lopsided grin.

"..."

"Bad joke?"

"If you have to ask, my dear, then you know it is."

Oh well... she was never the joking type.

SQ - SQ - SQ

Everyone's just waiting for the elementary kids to come parading in with their handcrafted lanterns. See, the second half of the ceremony, the important part where they actually launch the balloon lanterns into the night sky, can't begin without all the revelers present and accounted for. The children are running late, which would've been a problem had there not been any alcohol to taper off the impatience of some of the more restless folks. Turns out, if there's one thing Granny's Swinging Swill did right, it at least made a significant chunk of the crowd drunk enough not to care about being made to wait.

In an area far removed from the general populace and all their noisy merry-making, Emma carelessly plops down on one of the rustic benches that dot the beach––benches that Mary Margaret commissioned, and Marco fashioned out of salvaged timber from an abandoned saw mill. And while her majesty is busy brushing off particles of sand from the spot she intends to sit on, Emma leans against the varnished wood and holds up the lantern near her face, studying it with a critical set of eyes.

The craftsmanship's impeccable, she marvels with an impressed little hum, as can be expected from someone like August's father. Ever so gently, she sets it down on the empty space beside her, careful not to tear holes in the fragile paper.

"So... what's the deal with this festival, anyway?" Emma turns to her companion, who's only now just deemed the bench clean enough to sit down on. "Is it like Miner's Day?"

Regina looks at her blankly.

"I mean did it come packaged with the curse, like Miner's Day, just to make this place feel more authentic? Or, is it some kind of event you had back in the Enchanted Forest that you added in for sentimental reasons?"

For someone who brought over a whole frickin' vault full of their own junk into this world, it's kind of funny how Regina's lips curl into a sneer at the mere mention of the word 'sentimental'.

"My dear, for all intents and purposes, the Lantern Festival is just a silly affair started by my grandfather to distract the starving masses in his realm from revolting. If I truly wanted to bring over a fête for sentimentality's sake, I would've chosen the Centaur Stampede. That one, at least, is more thrilling than making frivolous wishes on flying lanterns."

Bloodier, too... Emma bets.

"If you didn't like it so much, why add it to the curse, then?"

"I never said I didn't like it, Miss Swan. I just don't care much for it."

"Then why add it to the curse?" she persists.

Regina sighs. "Because my father loved it," she shares silently, gazing out into the horizon. "And when I was a child, he planted this absurdly whimsical thought in my head that should I desire anything in my life, it shall and will be mine if I just wished hard enough."

"I thought you didn't bring this festival over for sentimental reasons?"

"I didn't, my dear. My father had always been excruciatingly naïve. Growing up, I remember making more than enough wishes to last a lifetime, and as you've guessed, none of them came true. My mother was still emotionally distant, my father still a henpecked husband, and Daniel still dead. The inevitable disillusionment that followed was a wake-up call. If one truly desires something, they have to get it themselves; this foolish festival serves as a reminder of precisely that. I made the curse happen. I made my own happy ending."

"Did you really?"

"I got Henry."

Emma stares at Regina. And when the other woman finally focuses her gaze away from the shore and notices the expectant look on her face, Emma points at herself and smiles softly.

"But I also got the misfortune of being saddled with you."

That wipes the smile right off.

"C'mon, we're family now, am I really that bad?"

"Half of the time," Regina says, unapologetic as sin.

"And the other half?"

"Barely bearable."

Emma rolls her eyes. "I could say the same thing about you."

"Of that, Miss Swan, I have no doubt."

An icy breeze blows from the sea, and almost instinctively, they huddle closer together for warmth.

"You know what's funny, though? 'Barely bearable' or not, you still chose to go on a date with me."

"Trust me, my dear, it's not nearly as amusing as the fact that you already believed we were on one from the very beginning." Regina smiles saccharinely cruel, just rubbing it in. "How gullible are you to fall for such an obvious scam? Didn't it ever occur to you to ask me––or anyone else for that matter––before making an utter fool of yourself?"

"It did, yeah," she admits softly, looking down at her feet.

"Why didn't you then?"

Emma smiles faintly, digging the tips of her boots into the sand. "I dunno, maybe cause deep down, I just didn't want to risk finding out that it wasn't true."

Regina falls silent after that. Actually, they both do.

They're stubborn women, both guarded, and both emotionally withdrawn.

But there's really something about this night that continues to chip away at the defenses they've spent most of their lives reinforcing.

Perhaps it's the lingering influence of Granny's swill.

Or, perhaps, it's something that's been a long time coming.

SQ - SQ - SQ

Interestingly enough, it's her royal pain in the ass who fills the pregnant pause in the conversation.

"Last week at the park," Regina begins in a voice so quiet that Emma has to strain her ears to hear. "When you mentioned that you––"

And that's it. The woman just stops there and leaves her hanging.

"That I...?" Emma goads.

"That you..."

"That I...?"

Her majesty lets out a harried breath, and then shoots her a disgruntled glance, as if it's her fault that Regina's having trouble finishing her own sentence.

"What, when I said that I like you?" Emma mercifully supplies, putting the poor woman out of her misery even though her own cheeks are warming up like an oven.

Regina's lips pucker in an almost tortured manner, until finally, she lets out a strangled: "...yes."

"What about it?"

"Did you mean it?"

"I told you the other day, I did," she murmurs, looking down at her lap and letting the pad of her thumb rub against the emerald ring on her finger. "And I still kinda do."

Kinda?

"I still do," Emma corrects. And then she lets out a low chuckle in spite of herself. "I even ironed my shirt today, remember?"

"So you did," Regina mocks, though the nearly imperceptible quirk at the side of her lips betrays her amusement anyway. Still, they both sober up quickly enough, and another round of quiet descends on them both.

"A piece of advice, Miss Swan," Regina speaks up after a while, sounding contemplative and, oddly, also a tad resentful. "You truly might want to reconsider your... affections... for me."

"Why?"

"Simply because misery and misfortune seem to befall the people who choose that path."

"So, being, um, attracted to you is deadly? Is that what you're saying?"

"You could decide to interpret it as such, if you so wish," Regina just says in a resigned tone of voice. "Fate has never been kind to an Evil Queen, my dear. And the same goes for the ones whom I hold dear."

That gives Emma pause. "Like... me?"

"You are family, aren't you not?" the woman finally acknowledges, even if it's accompanied by an eyeroll.

A chilly gust of air hits from the north; shuddering lightly, Emma sucks in a breath and zips her jacket all the way up to her neck. It almost goes unnoticed––the faint tingling that flows down her skin when Regina briefly touches her forearm––but the sudden warmth that spreads throughout her body clues her in on what the other woman just did.

"Thanks..." she smiles at her stoic companion, tugging the zipper back down. Burrowing deeper into the bench, Emma gazes up at the night sky and quickly finds Orion –– whose shape and group of bright stars have always seemed to dominate the winter sky. "You know, fate has never been kind to me, either," she murmurs softly, eyes still glued to her favorite constellation. "But... it has cut me a bit of slack since I made Storybrooke my home. I know life's a bitch, and it may have been unfair to an Evil Queen, but maybe, this time, in this place, it'll be kinder to Regina."

If rendering people speechless were an Olympic sport, she'd have gotten a gold medal just for her efforts this evening.

.

.

.

"I... like you," Emma re-declares a moment later, when the mood feels right and the timing seems best. Tentatively, almost unsurely, she focuses her gaze on a supremely silent Regina. "Am I wrong to assume that you, I dunno, maybe feel the same way, too?"

There it is; it's out. And she's feeling as vulnerable and bare as an exposed nerve. Emma waits patiently for a response––as patiently as an edgy person like her can possibly be––so, it's only too bad that after what seems like forever of watching the other woman inwardly debating with herself, a hesitant Regina just looks away and avoids answering altogether.

Ouch.

Regina might as well have laughed at her face.

Misery's looming in the horizon like an ill wind, threatening to ruin her evening; the light breeze that's tickling the side of her face, however, carries something to her ear that keeps the gloom at bay.

"Not entirely..." she thinks she hears Regina say.

And in the distance, strangely enough, the bonfire turns a bright purple.

Taking in the queer sight, Emma exhales a shaky breath. "Not entirely?" she confirms quietly.

"No."

Okay.

Talk about throwing a dog a bone. Granted, it's a laughably teeny tiny bone, but heck, at this point in time, she'll take it.

The attraction is mutual.

That's all she needs to know, and maybe that's enough for now.

"Do you––"

"Would you––"

They both turn towards each other at the same moment.

Regina starts. Emma does, too.

They catch each other off-guard, yes, but more than that, it's the proximity of each other's faces that bring things into a standstill.

They're so close. So damn close.

She can actually feel Regina's hot breath on her cheek... on her chin... on her parted mouth...

Emma shuts her jaws with a click, swallowing thickly.

Her heart's hammering inside her ribcage, threatening to beat right out of her chest.

Regina's lips are right there.

If she just leans in a bit more... if she can just sum up enough courage to give in to her desires... if she just stops thinking for one damn second... if she just... just...

From under dark lashes, she sees Regina's dilated pupils dart to her lips and then back up to her eyes, and then back down again.

And something inside Emma snaps.

To hell with it.

Green eyes clouding, she crosses the point of no return, and just... surrenders.

Her own frantic heartbeat thundering in her ears, Emma closes the gap between them and captures Regina's lips into her own.

SQ - SQ - SQ

Thank God for Tic-Tacs.

Absurdly enough, that's the first thought that enters her head. Largely because Regina's lips are soft and warm, and they taste like apple cinnamon with the barest hint of caramel. And that, in turn, makes Emma grin into the kiss like a moron. It seems like sometime, somewhere, during the night, the lip-gloss she'd given had been put to good use.

And, really, she would've given herself a pat on the back if her hands weren't so preoccupied with traveling the length of Regina's slender neck and tangling themselves on silky soft strands of dark brown hair.

But enough about that, right now, all she can think about is the feel of velvety lips brushing against her own... of a wet tongue sliding against hers... of a hand gently gliding to her nape and pulling her in closer, deeper into the kiss.

Emma's pouring everything she's got into it, and Regina kissing her back with equal fervor –– and the nibbling she's doing on Emma's bottom lip feels pretty damn nice, too. Wait... not nibbling. Biting... hard.

"Ouch," she complains, tasting blood in her mouth. And even with her eyelids drifting low, in her mind's eye, she can picture the devious little smile that accompanies the low grumble coming from inside Regina's throat.

And as the rusty taste disappears, and Regina soothes away the sting with her tongue, the––

"Ouch!"

Jesus effin' Christ, woman!

"What the hell, Reg-mmph,"

Pain and pleasure; dominance and surrender.

The complexities of their strange relationship, summed up in an imperfect and aggressive, but holy-frickin'-hell, toe-curling kind of a kiss.

SQ - SQ - SQ

"Did you see the classified ads today?"

Right in the thick of all the merriment and drunken revelry, a lonesome Ruby lifts her head and looks up at the man hovering behind her. "Hm?"

"Singlebrooke has an opening for a 'date coordinator,'"

"Do they now?" Ruby smirks. Scooting to the side to give August room to sit on the log she's perched on, she gamely accepts the cup of alcohol that her friend, and co-deputy, hands over.

"Just saying," August playfully bumps his shoulder against hers, and then takes a long, healthy sip of his poison of choice. "If you're getting tired of police work, you might want to consider a career change."

"Yeah?"

"You'd be pretty good at it, this sneaky match-making thing."

Ruby hums indulgently, swirling her drink. "You think so?"

"Rubes," August grins, gazing out into the darkness and squinting his eyes at the blurry silhouette of the two women that they've been spying on for the majority of the event. "I can see so."

SQ - SQ - SQ

The frenzied kissing mellows down into slow, lazy kisses. Eventually, Emma finds herself breathless and disoriented when it comes to a reluctant stop. Her eyelids are still heavy, and her hands are still cupping the side of Regina's face. And although her lips are feeling a little sore and swollen, that doesn't stop her from inching forward and lightly grazing Regina's parted lips with her own.

It's crazy, the way desire continues to swirl in her belly. Scary, the way her heart is tub-thumping so frickin' hard, it feels as if it would explode in her chest.

And then, Emma feels the smallest of sighs hit her face, and it's enough to obliterate all the worrisome thoughts in her head and make her lean in for a quick kiss. And then, one more. Hell, just for the heck of it, she presses yet another one at the corner of Regina's mouth.

Regina doesn't complain. Much. Always one to provoke and test her limits, her majesty proceeds to tug hard at the tuft of blonde curls still wrapped around her fingers. Emma hisses in pain, smirks, and then promptly quiets the other woman down with yet another kiss. This time, she lets it linger for a deliciously long moment before she finally pulls away, catching Regina's bottom lip between her teeth prior to letting it go.

Like most of their interactions, it seems like kissing is an act of one-upmanship.

Push and pull. Tit-for-tat.

Always, huh?

Emma catches herself smiling like a goof when she finally opens her eyes. And as her unfocused gaze zeroes in on those dark pools of chocolate lying right before her, Emma lets out a shuddery breath and blinks in wonderment at the lights she sees dancing in Regina's eyes. It's––

Wait.

Lights?

Brows furrowing deep, she slowly glances up at the night sky. Frowning in confusion, Regina follows her lead.

The sky is on fire.

Well... not really.

"Oh," Emma breathes out when her brain finally registers what she's seeing.

Lanterns of all shapes and sizes are peppering the heavens like fiery stars.

And for a moment, with their faces only mere millimeters apart, they just look up and absorb the spectacular sight.

"Pretty..." Emma murmurs in awe, even though she's feeling a little silly for being mesmerized by flying lanterns at her age. "Should we launch ours as w––" she starts to say, her gaze flickering down to Regina's face. But then...

Her eyes drink in her majesty's appearance, and though she knows it's unwise, she can't help the loud snort that comes out of her nose. "Holy hell... your hair's a disaster," she muses with a lopsided grin.

"So is yours," an ever-vain Regina scoffs, squirming away from her touch and rearranging her disheveled mane with a slight frown. And then, just to balance the scale, the woman returns the favor with a snooty: "Your face is all flushed, my dear. If it gets any redder, it might just burst into flames."

"Says the woman who's currently doing the best impression of a ripe tomato."

Regina harrumphs.

"Wipe your mouth, Miss Swan. You have your saliva all over it."

Emma hastily wipes away the sticky remnants of Regina's apple-cinnamon lip-gloss––not drool, thank you very much––around her lips. And while doing so, she accidentally hits the tiny cut on her bottom lip, and immediately, she clenches her teeth and sucks in a breath. Ouch. "Jesus Christ, Regina, on top of everything, I can't believe you're a biter, too."

"And I can't believe you're still a sloppy kisser."

"You're one to talk! That kiss was wet."

Regina bristles in affront.

"It wouldn't be wet if you hadn't slobbered all over me like a dog, princess. Don't point fingers when it's your sub-par abilities that need work."

Sub-par? Salt, meet wound. "Don't lay it all on me, you need practice, too," Emma grumbles, running a hand through her hair.

And just like that, they begin to stare each other down. And it would've been like any other of their many fights, but then, a minute later, Emma breaks first and cracks the smallest of wry smiles. "So... practice, huh?"

Regina rolls her eyes and looks away. No matter, Emma's still able to discern the faint smile that pulls at the woman's lips.

Exhaling a quiet breath, she looks at the sea of lanterns up above, and only then does she remember the unlit one sitting neglected beside her.

"Hey, I think we should probably..." she trails off, carefully picking up their paper lantern. Regina gets the hint, and even when the woman gives the object an unenthusiastic—and almost disdainful—look, she still grabs hold of Emma's knee, siphons magical energy, waves a hand, and sets the combustible material inside the lantern aflame.

Working like a hot-air balloon, it slips out of her grasp and starts to take flight. And as it slowly makes its journey up into the heavens, Emma closes her eyes, and, with all her heart, she does something absolutely laughable.

She makes a wish. Several, in fact.

And it's funny because she's always been a staunch cynic. Years of experiencing countless forms of disappointment and heartache made sure of that. Maybe she's no different from Regina, really. But still, even with all her misgivings, Emma doesn't stop herself from buying into the optimism and hopefulness that the whole festival's been shilling.

She makes wishes for her loved ones.

Safety for her deputies. Acceptance and understanding for Mary Margaret and David. Good health for Henry. And happiness for Regina.

She's not asking for much. And she's not even asking anything for herself. If selflessness will gain her favors with fate, then perhaps that's enough reason for life to start dealing her a fair hand, and in turn, make her wishes come true.

She hopes so. She truly does.

SQ - SQ - SQ

There's a superstition that if you tell others what you've wished for, it won't come true. Never the superstitious type, and basically too curious to care, Emma pries about the nature of Regina's wish shortly after she opens her eyes.

"Nothing," is Regina's short and simple reply.

Which is, frankly, disappointing.

"Nothing? You didn't wish a thing? Seriously?"

The brunette sighs, staring—no, glaring—at their floating lantern; it's not yet a speck in the sky like all the others, but it's getting there, inch by slow inch. "I told you, my dear, pinning my 'hopes' and 'dreams'," Regina's lips curl in disgust, "on silly lanterns has never done me any good in the past. Whatever it is I may want, I'd rather keep it close to my chest."

Okay... a killjoy response, but one she can respect, nonetheless.

Letting a moment of silence pass, Emma leans forward and rests her elbows on her knees, fixating on the sea of lights up above. "If you did make a wish though, what would you have wished for?" she queries softly, still intrigued.

She doesn't hear a reply. Well, she doesn't really need to. Through a stroke of luck, and also good timing, she turns her head in time to catch the fleeting look that passes Regina's face after the dark-haired woman shifts her gaze from her own emerald ring to the sky.

The answer's unspoken, but it doesn't matter.

If her intuition is correct, she'd just wished the same thing for Regina that the woman's also secretly yearning for. And even if she doesn't believe in silly superstitions, Emma clamps her mouth shut and elects not to share this tiny tidbit with her companion.

It's better not to tempt fate, you see.

.

.

.

"Regina?" Emma says after a while, in the softest of tones, keeping her gaze locked onto their lantern. "So, what's going to happen to us now?"

"I've no clue, Miss Swan," Regina admits, equally as silent, her posture rigid as she sits with her hands folded on her lap.

Emma sighs. That makes the two of them.

"...but I suppose we can take it one day at a time."

A lump lodges itself in her throat. "...yeah?"

"Yes."

One day at a time. She can handle that.

Blowing out a puff of air from her lips, Emma places a slightly quivering hand over Regina's own and holds on tight.

"Sounds like a plan."

SQ - SQ - SQ

OCTOBER 6, 2012.

"You stole the Sheriff's clothes. So, what? You think that's 'nuff for me to actually trust you and let you stay with us?"

"Of course not," the Masked One intones, stuffing Emma Swan's panties back inside his jacket. "Listen, I'm not gonna be a mooch. I'll carry my own weight; chores, protection, whatever. Trust me, you need me."

"And why the hell do we need you?"

"Cause you guys are sitting ducks," Mysterio says simply. "You really think that pranking people left and right won't catch up to bite you in the ass? The Sheriff and her dogs will go after you and your friends soon. When that happens, you'll need my help."

Rufio snorts. Who is this windbag kidding? "You're a wanted guy yourself, ya idiot. What kind of help can a thieving fucker like you even give us?"

"This safehouse of yours," Hockey-Mask says in lieu of answering, rocking back on the heels of his boots. "Just how safe is it? Does it have wards? Cloaking magic?"

"N––"

"Yeah, didn't think so," the guy says quickly, not allowing him to get a word in edgewise. "Cause those things require money, and you kids are pretty flat broke, aren't you?"

"Look, jackass, we don't need––"

He never gets to say anything past that.

Because a remarkable wad of cash appears in the stranger's hands then, and, almost immediately, Rufio loses his train of thought.

"I can upgrade your place's security and make it virtually impossible for the cops––hell, anyone––to find," the man entices, waving the rolled up bills––around one or two grand, Rufio guesses––before putting it back inside the pocket of his trousers. "And if wards won't cut it, I also have this," Hockey-Mask pulls out the sword sticking out of his back. It's quite a badass one, too, with its twin serpents and golden hilt. Walking over to the edge of the ladder, the man proceeds to hold the blade over his head, and then effortlessly swings it down. It slices through a red box monogrammed with a cobra––Jafar's ward-off, obviously––like a hot knife through butter. And just like that, the magic surrounding the scaffold fizzles out into the atmosphere with a sad, sad whimper.

Rufio blinks.

Ward-offs––and some of Baba Yaga's more expensive ward-locks––are practically indestructible and can only be deactivated by its owner or Jafar, himself. At least, that's what they were told.

"So," Creep-o with a sword turns to him, putting the weapon back in its sheath. "Think you can make room in your safehouse for me now?"

SQ - SQ - SQ

PRESENT.

Air.

That's what he needs.

Throwing off the covers from his sweat-riddled body, Jet lets out a tortured groan and forces himself to roll out of bed. It's a double whammy, you see; he chose to wear sweatpants and a hoodie to bed, and Jackson probably forgot to turn down the heat. So, now, at one in the morning, his room is like a rotisserie and it's roasting him alive.

The lone window in his bedroom is stuck, as usual, and it takes several heaves for it to finally budge and rise a measly four inches. The wind that enters his bedroom feels a little too balmy for winter standards, but it still elicits goosebumps from his heated skin.

Sighing in relief, and still pretty much half-asleep, he paddles back to his bed and plops facedown on the mattress. The old springs groan under his weight, and his duvet falls to the wayside, but he's out as soon as his hairless head hits the pillow.

He wakes up again fifteen minutes later.

This time around, it's not the room's temperature that pulls him out of slumber, it's actually someone climbing up his bed and kicking him right on the ass that does.

"Ow!" he yelps in both pain and surprise. And if he hadn't shouted into his pillow, he's damn sure that a half-naked Jackson would've been bursting into his room just about now.

A spiteful snort reaches his ears, and as soon as he whirls on his back and flicks on his reading lamp, his eyes fall on a pudgy kid in ratty clothes, sitting at the foot of his bed.

"The hell?!" Jet snarls, propping himself up with his elbows. "Who the fuck are you?!"

"A friend, which is more than I can say 'bout you."

"What the fuck are you doing in my room?!"

"Visiting."

"How the fuck did you get in here?!"

"Window."

"And how the fuck did you fit in there?!"

The boy rolls his eyes. "The living room window," he clarifies impatiently, jaws setting. "We need to talk."

"We don't need to do anything. I don't know who the heck you think you are, but get the hell out of my house before I bash your head in with a baseball bat."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, cut that shit out, Rufio!"

"Rufio?"

"You, you fucking asshat," the kid sneers, looking just about ready to pounce and sock him on the face. "I know you've been faking it all along; you remember exactly who you are."

"The heck y––"

"You do," his visitor insists, cutting him right off. "I was following you tonight; I saw you watching the Sheriff playing at the basketball booth."

"So?" says a defensive Jet.

"So?" the boy mimics, raising his voice. "You didn't freak out or even bat a fucking eyelash when the Queen put a berserk spell on the ball, that's what! If you've really gone back to being just Jet, you would've lost your shit at seeing magic up-close. So, drop the act, man. You're not Jethro Peters, you're fuckin' Rufio, and you're a dick."

.

.

.

"Keep your voice down," Rufio hisses at Thud Butt, throwing a wary glance at his bedroom door. It's shut, but Jackson's a light sleeper and his room is just across the hall. "Be quiet or I'll punch your teeth in, Norberto."

"Yeah? Go right ahead," Thud Butt dares, raising his chin defiantly. "Not like you didn't punch us all in the face when you left the group cause you were missing your precious Hooky too much."

"You don't know shit, so shut the hell up,"

"You've gone soft, Rufio."

He lets out a scornful breath.

"No, you've gone soft," Thud Butt maintains. "This world changed you."

"That's a load of bull," Rufio scoffs, but even if he thinks the mere thought absurd, he still finds it increasingly difficult to continue looking Thud Butt in the eyes.

"It's not, and you know it. Why else would you leave us for Cap'n Hook?"

"I didn't leave you guys," he whispers sharply, forcing his body to sit upright. "I didn't have a choice. I got hurt, you dickwad."

"You got better."

"Look at me," Rufio motions at the bandage on his head and the assortment of pain meds on his nightstand. He doesn't even have to look at a mirror to know his face is all pasty; he always turns pale when his head's starting to throb. "Do I look any better to you?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck off."

The amount of tension in the room goes up a notch.

Thud Butt's practically gnashing his teeth. His lieutenant has only been this pissed at him once in the past, and that was eons ago, when he assumed leadership of the Lost Boys when Peter Pan left Neverland. Thud Butt had seniority over him and was next in line to succeed Pan, but Rufio had more muscle, more guts, and more charisma. And in the end, in a group composed of easily impressed kids who decided on matters by majority rule, those attractive traits made all the difference.

"So, that's it, huh? That's your reason for pretending not to remember jack? For leaving us high and dry? Cause your head still hurts?"

"No, and it's not that simple," Rufio asserts in a controlled tone, choosing to ignore the maliciousness in his friend's voice despite feeling his own anger flaring in his chest. "I woke up from a frickin' coma to find the cops right there, breathing down my neck. We got lucky; accident or not, if I didn't think fast on my feet, I'd be rotting in jail, you guys would be sent back home to your fake families, and we'd all kiss Neverland goodbye. If I didn't lie, we'd all be screwed."

Looking away, Thud Butt lets out a bitter snort and then starts working his jaw.

Pulling at his hoodie since it's getting a little tight around the neck, Rufio just sighs. "Look, TB, you wanna know the reason why I had to fake it? It's right there." He points at the corner of the room, specifically, at the object lying atop his study table.

The Mad Hatter's hat, the portal jumper's heirloom, is there on full display.

And the sight of it gives Thud Butt pause.

"Listen, man, telling the truth would've cost us our ride back to Neverland. I'm sorry if I had to lie to you guys as well, but I couldn't risk getting my cover blown and letting the cops take that thing away from me. From us."

The resentment in Thud Butt's expression falters.

"It was there when I woke up at the hospital; I saw it and I knew right away that we finally got our ticket out of this hell hole. So, when I spotted an opening, I took it."

"At the hospital? How the hell did it get in there?"

Jackson unintentionally accepted a bribe from the devil, that's how.

"It's not important," Rufio says with an exhausted breath, reaching for a pill bottle and popping a tablet into his mouth. He makes a face when it hits his tongue, even though it's not nearly as bitter as the taste that's already in his mouth at the mere thought of Gold. "What's important is that we have it, and come Christmas Eve, we'll be out of here."

"Christmas Eve? Why not tomorrow?"

Cause I'm not ready to leave just yet.

"They're keeping me on a tight leash, dude. Jackson and the police won't let me out of their sight, but I'm sure, they'll let their guard down 'round the holidays. I'll be able to slip out then."

That's not a lie, not really.

It's just not the entire truth.

"Besides, we still have to make some prep, and I don't think I'm strong enough to survive a portal jump at this point in time," he adds in for good measure, keeping his gaze locked onto Thud Butt's face and not the corkboard on the wall behind his friend. Despite his best efforts, however, his eyes stray briefly to the newspaper clipping pinned there –– that of a cut-out photo of him and his brother hamming it up for the Mirror's photographer during this year's Miner's Day.

A painful pang hits his chest.

Time.

Rufio just wants more of it.

More than saving his own ass from being incarcerated... more than protecting the hat from being confiscated by the authorities... more than worrying about his own weakened and fragile state... more than anything else... he just wants more time with the stupid prick that's been his one and only family for more than two decades.

It's pathetic, really, but that's all he wants.

And that's the real reason why he still can't leave, the biggest reason why he decided to fake memory loss and revert back to Jet.

If there's one positive thing his accident near Toll Bridge managed to bring about, it's that it forced him to stop lying to himself. Even if he is, technically, still lying to everybody else.

"So... Christmas Eve, then?" a relatively calmer Thud Butt speaks up a few moments later, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"...yeah," he clears his throat, scratching at his neck. "Send word to Tink, will you? Tell the other boys for me, too."

He then spends the next few minutes giving out hushed instructions to his lieutenant, laying out every inch of his master plan. And when it's finally time for Thud Butt to take his leave, it's already a little past two in the morning.

Before departing, however, the frumpy boy stops by the door and turns his head in Rufio's direction. The disappointment in Thud Butt's eyes is unmistakable, even in the semi-darkness. "Just so you know, you're still a dick. What you did to Pockets was low, man."

"I know," Rufio agrees with a sigh. "How's the kid?"

"Hurt."

"Tell him I'm sorry,"

"Tell him yourself."

He nods once, feeling the familiar twinge of guilt from his conscience.

"Rufio? A Lost Boy never abandons his own," Thud Butt reminds him quietly, casting a poignant glance at the newspaper clipping on the corkboard. "Especially not for a grown-up. And a shitty pirate, at that."

And then, he disappears into the hallway and stalks out of the house as quietly as he came in, incredibly light-footed for someone with such a hefty built.

Lying back down on his pillow, Rufio stares at the ceiling and pulls the covers up to his mouth. And as he extends a hand and flicks the reading lamp off, he closes his eyes and, for some strange reason, he thinks he hears Pan's lilting voice in his mind, reciting the tenets that he's come to know by heart:

A Lost Boy never trusts a grown-up.

That's the first one that Peter had drilled into his head after his initiation into the brotherhood.

A Lost Boy never abandons his own.

That one, he's always kept near his chest.

And last, but not the least, the one that's hitting a little close to home:

"A Lost Boy never forgets to put family and brotherhood above all else," Rufio whispers into his covers, and then sighs.

Family and brotherhood.

How... ironic.

SQ - SQ - SQ

It always starts the same way: with a fight.

Not the type of fight that involves claws breaking out and things getting thrown around––at least, not yet––but it's the kind where one does something, says something, that ticks the other off, and before they know it, words are flying all over the place and they're bickering. It's no different from all the other times they've fought, really. But unlike in the past––where fatigue, or silence, or Henry's meddling, played a hand in ending their tiffs––nowadays, their preferred route to shut each other up is to mash their lips together and make out. And in the most unusual places, too. Like the garage, the garden shed, the laundry room, the powder room, the kitchen, and, well, even the walk-in coat closet.

This afternoon––just three days before Christmas––it's the pantry.

And like most of their fights, it starts with something petty –– case in point, Pop-Tarts. See, the squabbling begins when Emma brings home a ginormous box of it from the adjacent town's newly opened Costco, and it ends shortly after Regina follows her inside the pantry and proceeds to lecture her ear off. There's only so many times a person can be reminded of how imprudent it is to binge on unhealthy snacks, and, feeling mildly exasperated, Emma sets the box down on the shelf as calmly as she possibly can, turns around, and lays a big one on Regina. It shushes up the nagging woman immediately, and for a moment, it gets Emma thinking that if she had known from the very beginning that the most effective method to wipe away the superciliousness off of Regina's face is to kiss it right off, maybe things would've been a whole lot different between them. Well... different in a sense that she'd probably be laying in a pool of her own blood, but different all the same.

"You know, we've been fighting more and more recently," Emma hums in between languid kisses, and then grins into Regina's lips. "If you want to kiss me, you don't have to pick a fight, you just have to say so. Or, better yet, just do it."

Regina, of course, responds the best way she knows how...

"...ouch."

This woman.

Emma rolls her eyes inwardly.

And, minutes later, when they finally break away, a pair of half-lidded eyes searches her own, and, like a perfect bookend to how all the kissing began, Regina slowly arches an eyebrow and murmurs, "Still sloppy."

"Still wet," Emma mumbles back, her fingers lightly grazing Regina's scalp. And just when she's in the middle of leaning in once more...

"Mom? Emma?"

Emma's back connects with the shelf so damn hard and fast that it feels like her brain actually rattles inside her skull.

"Jesus Christ, Regina," she hisses, rubbing the spot on her backside that took the brunt of the damage. "What the hell was––"

The door swings wide open.

"What are you guys doing in here?" a very curious-looking Henry inquires, and for a second, Emma feels like she's just been transported back to that moment in junior high when she was caught making out with Timmy Thomas inside the Janitor's closet. This time, however, it's more sheepishness than mortifying shame that floods over her body.

"I was trying to... plug a leak..." Emma says lamely, scratching the side of her neck. Regina directs a raised eyebrow her way, and she just replies with the smallest of shrugs. "Your mom's here to, uh, supervise and make sure I don't do a crappy job."

"A sloppy one," Regina concurs almost snidely, subtly tugging at the bunched up ends of her blouse.

Henry's gaze darts up to the ceiling. "Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"The leak."

"Uh, fixed."

"Already?"

"I sure hope so."

An obviously unamused Regina shoots her a withering glare.

And it's largely unsurprising that the appraising look both of them receive from their child is just jammed packed with suspicion. Though, it's nothing compared to the squirm-inducing stare that Emma gets when Henry's gaze start to focus on her guilty-looking face.

"Why do you look like a clown?"

"Huh?"

Henry's brown eyes narrow down into slits. "Your lipstick's all messy and smudged."

"I'm not wearing any li––"

Regina steps on her foot.

"––thanks, kid," Emma changes her tune, hastily rubbing her mouth with the back of her hand.

She can practically see the cogs turning in his head, and he's so damn smart that she won't be surprised if he's already connected the dots. However, Henry's conclusions would still need confirmation, and before he can go into his own version of the Spanish inquisition, Emma decides to turn the tables on their son. "Why do you have a dust bunny on your shoulder?"

"Cause you should really clean under your bed," he says without thinking, flicking the clump of dust away.

"And what the heck were you doing under my bed?"

A busted Henry stills, his eyes widening like a deer caught in headlights.

The police officer in Emma decides to make its presence felt then. "You were trying look for the present I got you, weren't you?" she deduces, towering over the kid.

"It's not under the tree..." Henry practically whines.

"Well, it's not under my bed, either."

"Something else was under your bed, though."

The corners of Regina's mouth set. And Emma probably would've looked as worried if she didn't know that her toys are hidden in a shoebox inside her closet.

"Can I have this?" Henry asks in a very hopeful manner, pulling out a mask that, until that very moment, he'd kept hidden behind his back.

"I thought I told you to throw that vile thing away?" Regina gives her a huffy look, pushing out of the pantry and gently taking the white Jason-mask out of Henry's grasp. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, I believe your other mother is in the process of disposing this, aren't you, Miss Swan?"

"Actually... no," Emma accepts the object from Regina and follows her family into the kitchen. "I've been meaning to put this thing in the evidence locker for weeks, I just keep on forgetting to get it from under the bed and bring it to the station."

The simultaneous eyerolls she receives from the two Mills is both uncanny and remarkably endearing.

"That Argos guy sent you that, right?"

"Yeah," Emma confirms with a tired sigh, throwing the mask on the counter with her car keys and the rest of her stuff. "And I got electrocuted trying to bring it inside the house," she mumbles somewhat bitterly, walking to the fridge and pouring herself a glass of water.

"I really thought you were just breakdancing..."

"I know you did, kid."

"It was awesome."

"I bet it was," Emma mutters into her glass.

"Did it hurt?"

"It did."

"Are you okay now?"

"Of course I am."

"Does your ring still zap you?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Your mom disenchanted it."

"Why?"

"Cause I don't need to stay in the house anymore."

"Why are you still wearing it, then?"

"Cause I like it."

"You do?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I just do."

"Like my mom?"

"Yes."

"You like my mom?"

"Ye––" Emma stops.

Regina freezes by the sink.

Henry, the little devil, just smiles from ear to ear. "So... what were you guys really doing inside the pantry?" he fishes like a pro, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

SQ - SQ - SQ

And that's how their son outed them before Christmas.

The kid played her like a fiddle and she fell right into his trap.

Maybe in a few years, Emma would look back on this moment and laugh. But as of right now, while her entire face's matching the smidgen of Regina's blood-red lipstick still at the corner of her mouth, Emma's finding it difficult to see anything past her own discomfort.

And, judging from how the normally outspoken woman seems to have lost the ability to speak, it looks like Regina is faring no better.

Fuck.

Two pairs of brown eyes snap towards her.

Oh, did she say that out loud?

"Yep," Henry nods.

Regina sighs.

And Emma just wants to turtle-up and hide inside her proverbial shell.

This is awkward. And torturous. But mostly, just awkward.

Though, no matter how discomfited she's feeling, Emma does still manage to see the silver lining in the entire thing:

Henry doesn't stomp off to his bedroom in a petulant fit. He doesn't call his mom evil; he doesn't label Emma a traitor. The kid doesn't express any sort of violent reactions to the thought of his mothers being more than just housemates and co-parents.

The boy is actually grinning.

And as Emma catches Regina's gaze from across the island counter, she lets out a breath that she didn't even know she was holding in, and then flashes Regina a small, eased smile. The tight expression on the other woman's face relaxes a fraction, and something resembling relief washes over Regina's face.

Their kid looks happy. At peace, even.

And that's enough to lift the invisible and unspoken weight that's been bogging them down since the festival. Because despite Mary Margaret and David's––and possibly half of the town's––condemnation of their still very much undefined relationship, at the end of the day, it's their son's approval that truly matters.

SQ - SQ - SQ

The twenty-fourth of December comes in a blur of glossy wrapping paper, badly tied bows, paper cuts and a slew of extremely imaginative curse words.

Unlike Regina––whose perfectly put-together presents had been wrapped and sent out to a very select few as early as the first week of the month––Emma decided to wait until the very last minute to get her act together and wrap her gifts. This is especially problematic now that she's practically giving a quarter of the town a little something for the holidays––well, as much as her sparse budget would allow her to, that is––and now since she's gotten so used to barely giving any out, she never set aside time for gift wrapping, let alone delivering said presents to those people before the holiday itself.

"Okay... done," Emma says as she loads the last of the presents into the Bug and slams the passenger's side door shut. She finishes wrapping things in the nick of time. Barely, but she does. Now, gingerly making her way to the other side of the vehicle, she stops right in front of Regina and gives the frowning woman her best attempt at an apologetically endearing smile. Though... she probably only ends up making herself look pathetically constipated, judging from the unmoved expression on Regina's face.

"Look, I'll be back before midnight, trust me."

"Trust you? Need I remind you, my dear, that you also said the same thing when you promised to have those presents of yours sorted out a week ago?"

"C'mon, I was busy..."

Regina scoffs. "Busy? And what on earth with?"

"Well, work, for one, and, you know, things."

"Things?" Regina frowns deeply, as if the thought of her actually doing stuff is somehow difficult to imagine.

A couple of months ago she might've been offended, but now, Emma just leans in, and almost shyly, kisses the corner of Regina's mouth. "Things," she whispers into the brunette's ear, the tiniest of smiles playing on her lips.

They haven't done anything past kissing, really; nevertheless, a good chunk of her time seems to have been allocated to spontaneous, fight-induced make-out sessions recently. And it's, well, new. And to be honest, it's quite nice, too.

Regina probably shares the sentiment, going by how the woman's eyes immediately cloud over when Emma pulls back, and something that looks remarkably like arousal flashes in those dark brown pools. Though before Emma can say anything, or do anything, she finds herself being spun around in place and nudged towards her car.

"Wha––?"

"I believe you have gifts to deliver, don't you, Miss Swan?"

If the driveway weren't so slippery from the thin sheen of ice that she still needs to salt, Emma's damn certain that the brunette would've manhandled her into the driver's seat. As it goes, Regina just ushers her in and closes the door.

"Be home by ten."

"But that's like, what, an hour from now? I thought Henry doesn't get to open a couple of his presents until midnight?"

"Ten," Regina barks in an impatient manner, and then turns around and starts to make her way back inside the house.

"Two hours!"

Hands tucked inside the coat she had hastily thrown on to follow Emma out of the house, Regina stops mid-stride at the freshly shoveled walkway and raises a questioning eyebrow.

"If I get home by ten, we'd have two hours to kill before midnight," Emma points out, sticking her head out the window. "Know anything we can do to pass the time?"

The look she gets in reply is practically predatory.

"I suppose I can think of certain... things," Regina drawls.

And even when her lips curve upward into an amused grin, Emma's still finds her mouth going bone dry. It's pretty darn amazing how one person can be that coy, say something so damn alluring, and still manage to keep a straight face. It must be a talent, there's no other explanation for it.

"I'll see you at ten sharp," Emma promises, inserting her key in the ignition and starting her car.

Regina, for her part, just saunters back into the house.

It takes some time for the Bug's ancient engine to heat up, and when it finally does, Emma takes in a deep breath and centers herself before backing out of the driveway. A little under fifty-seven minutes; that's how much time she has left to go all over town and give people their presents. But perhaps 'give' is a little too much of a wishful thought. With the rate her heart's pumping in her chest, and the way excitement is swirling in her belly and shooting down between her legs, she'll probably end up throwing the presents against doors like a frickin' newspaper boy. And, you know what, she doesn't even care; because on the night that should be all about giving, she finds that the very last thing she can give right now is a shit.

SQ - SQ - SQ

It really feels like your stereotypical night before Christmas.

They've got a pleasantly warm fire going in the living room, candy canes and eggnog to enjoy, the smell of pine lingering in the air, and Nat King Cole's soft baritone in the background...

"Christmas roasting on an open fire..."

Rufio almost chokes on the candy cane he's nibbling on. He pauses and stares at the singing goofball on the armchair beside his, and then softly snorts. "I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be 'chestnuts' roasting, dude."

"Close 'nuff," a slurring Jackson grins, his head lolling uselessly like a bobblehead doll.

The bastard's more than a little past tipsy, and it's funny, seeing how the pitcher of eggnog lying between them on the coffee table is still halfway full. That, and Rufio hasn't even had a drop of the spiked drink.

"Shit, how many glasses have you had?"

"Three," Jackson lifts up two fingers.

Wrong question, obviously; perhaps the more prudent one is: "How much frickin' rum did you put in that thing?"

Drunk as a skunk, a squinty-eyed Jackson just smirks.

"You're gonna burn a hole in your liver, you moron."

"Burn," his half-brother mimics with a gleeful snort, too out of it to notice the disapproval on his face. "Heeeey... remember the time when dad worked as a Santa and he accidentally set his fucking beard on fire when he snuck out for a smoke?"

"He got fired," Rufio looks down at his lap, idly dragging his hands across the rough material of his jeans.

"Your mom got so pissed, I thought she was gonna kick him out of the house. You were, what, eight then?"

"Seven."

A smiling Jackson stares unseeingly into the fireplace, drumming his fingers on the armrest. "Classic dad moment, huh?"

Rufio lets out a noncommittal hum.

It was a classic Jimmy Peters moment. Too bad it wasn't real. And too fucking bad that that particular memory––as well as many others including their own "parents"––were just phony memories implanted into their heads by an extremely potent curse. For twenty-eight years, he mourned the loss of his father and mother, and you know what, he still does, perhaps even more than before, simply because he knows now that they never truly existed in the first place. It's one thing to miss dead people; it's another to miss figments of his imagination. And it's rankling Rufio's ass to no end; cause even if the memories are false, the emotions they invoke are real.

Jackson conks out fifteen minutes later.

And as Rufio towers over the snoring guy––a thick coat on his frame and a backpack slung over his shoulders––he drapes the rank-smelling blanket from the couch on his brother, takes a step back, and just observes. The fact that Jackson doesn't even stir just goes to show how far gone the drunk-ass is, and Rufio lets out a relieved sigh.

He leaves his present on the coffee table; the gleaming hook that he had asked Thud Butt to steal from Smee the other day. And as he tightens the ratty, red bow on the gift, Rufio prays that it will be enough. Enough to trigger a memory, enough to help Jackson remember who he is. The pirate won't miss Jet the way Jackson will, and it'll make his deception, and subsequent abandonment, easier to swallow.

At least, he hopes it does.

As quiet as a thief, he slips out of the house. The music from the radio is muffled by the door, but as Rufio makes his way down the unshoveled path, the haunting melody of Silent Night reaches his ears, and then an overwhelming kind of sadness descends and blurs his vision.

He digs his nails into the palm of his hands and blinks the tears away.

This isn't where you belong, he tells himself with every heavy step he takes, even though he knows it's not the thick snow that's making every trudge feel so damn difficult.

He's going home, he thinks to himself, but why does it feel like he's actually leaving it?

SQ - SQ - SQ

"Shit... shit... shit..."

She's running late.

It's three minutes past ten and she's still got a few gifts lying beside her on the passenger seat. This isn't good; Regina's probably going to be pissed, and if Emma knows her royal pain in the ass, Regina is just wicked enough to make her grovel for whatever things the woman has planned, just to teach her a lesson about tardiness.

If she hurries it up though, she can probably be home in about––

"Ah... fuck it."

That's it. After this last delivery, she's going home. She's getting a little too antsy behind the wheel, which is just perfect when one's driving through icy roads like she is. So, the way Emma sees it, three of the dwarves, Ashley and Sean, Councilor Worthington, Blue and Nova, and Archie, can all wait another day or two. It's not like they won't survive the night without receiving her hastily wrapped, cheap-ass presents anyway.

The Sherwood Park neighborhood is more dead than usual when she pulls up at Paul's street. The area is quite close to the convent, so she's not surprised if most of the homeowners are still hearing Christmas Eve mass at the nuns' chapel. Come to think of it, her chess buddy's probably there, too.

"Sheriff Swan! Emma!"

Or, probably, not.

She's barely come to a full stop in front of Paul's bungalow when the old man's cane connects with the Bug's roof.

"Jesus!" Emma almost jumps out of her skin in fright.

Though, it's not like Paul smacks her car with it on purpose; it's more like he trips on the sidewalk in his rush to talk to her, and the only thing that saves his flailing self from hitting her vehicle is the cane that somehow hits it first and keeps him upright.

"Are you alr––"

"I was just about to call you," a breathless Paul peers into the passenger's side window, clutching a piece of paper in his hand so tight that his knuckles turn white. "It's Davy. The lad, he's leaving."

Leaving?

"Where's he going?"

"Home," Paul supplies, showing her the crumpled goodbye letter that was obviously written by his young, duck friend. "Neverland."

Before she can even ask him how on earth that's possible, a bright pink light erupts from the park across the street. It's not just some fancy light show, however; it actually looks and sounds like a proper candy-colored windstorm.

Emma instantly pales.

She's only seen something like that once in the past, and she vividly remembers it sucking her and Mary Margaret in and transporting them to the Enchanted Forest.

A portal, that's what it is.

"Oh, dear..." a wide-eyed Paul breathes.

"Oh, crap," Emma agrees.

SQ - SQ - SQ

"Remember, the hat takes you where you wanna go! Think Neverland, y'hear?!"

Rufio can barely hear himself over the roaring wind whipping around their bodies, so it's a surprise that Thud Butt and the other boys even nod their heads and give him a thumbs up. They're standing at the edge of the frozen pond, Jefferson's hat spinning madly a couple of feet away on the ice. The portal's right there, all they have to do is jump in.

"I don't know how long it'll stay open, so if you brats wanna go, go now!" Tinker Bell shouts over the cacophony, holding a stolen wand and an almost empty pouch of fairy dust that Argos had procured with Rufio's help.

"Me, first!" Ace declares at the top of his lungs, holding on to his pants before leaping right into the vortex. Like a turd spiralling down the toilet, Ace spins around the portal until he finally disappears into the black hole at the very bottom. It's quite a visual, and if he isn't presently being bogged down by anxiety and all sorts of annoying feelings, Rufio's sure he would've laughed.

"We goin' alphabetically?" Johnny chimes in. "Bacons, next!"

The triplets hold hands––their backpacks bursting at the seams with all the chocolate and junk food they hoarded––and with a last look at Rufio, they hop into the hole in perfect synchrony.

"Pockets? You ready?" Rufio gently taps the kid huddled by his legs.

"..."

"Pockets?"

The little one reluctantly tears his gaze away from the two-storey house in the distance and Rufio finally gets his reply. Pockets looks close to tears, and for some reason, the sight of the kid's face brings a lump in Rufio's throat. It's like he's peering in a mirror and seeing himself; a ball of nerves and mixed emotions just ready to implode.

"You jumping in or what?" an impatient Thud Butt asks, looking just about ready to grab Pockets by the waist and hurl him in. "We don't got all day!"

"Then you go ahead!" Rufio snaps at his lieutenant, placing a protective hand on the boy's shoulder. "We'll follow after you!"

"Suit yourself," Thud Butt shrugs, taking as many steps backwards as the snow at their feet would allow. "See ya at the other side, suckers!" he shouts, and rather ungainly, he darts forward and cannonballs into the portal.

"Pockets?" Rufio bends down at the waist, locking into the boy's teary gaze. "You okay, buddy?"

Lips quivering, the youngest member of the brotherhood just pulls his oversized cap down and hides his eyes.

"Are you scared? You don't have to be. I'm right here. We'll jump in together, okay?"

The wind quiets down just the tiniest bit, and despite the madness going on around them, Rufio's ears still picks up on the subtle change.

"It's gonna close soon," Tinker Bell voices out what he already knows.

"Then keep it open as long as you frickin' can!" Rufio barks at the woman; the eyeroll he receives in reply is one he chooses to ignore. Going down to his knees, he forces eye-contact with the boy, and in a less tightly-wound voice, he says, "P, we really need to go..."

Panic sets in Pockets' eyes then, and instead of taking his proffered hand, the kid takes a step backwards. "I... I don't wanna go back anymore..."

Rufio doesn't even attempt to ask why. It's futile to inquire when Pockets keeps on glancing backwards, looking at the house beside Paul's.

"You wanna stay with them? With your fake family?"

"Don't cha?"

Rufio doesn't answer.

"I wanted to get 'em a bye-bye gift, but mommy said that the best gift I could give her this Christmas is to go home..."

"Then let's go home, P. Let's go back to Neverland."

"T-that place don't feel like home anymore, Rufio," Pockets admits, and a tear finally slips and cascades down his face. "Mommy and daddy ain't there."

"But the boys and I will be there. We're your family, remember?"

"But they're my family, too."

"Kid..."

"Just like Jackson is your family, right?"

"..."

"Any second now, ya twerps!" Tink reminds them, watching the portal getting smaller and smaller.

"Go, Rufio!" Pocket gives his shoulder a nudge. "Tell the others I'm sorry..."

"But––" Rufio stays in place.

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Tink interrupts again. "Can I go back to my place now and call it a frickin' day? It's obvious you don't think ya wanna go, either."

"Oh, shut up the hell up, Tink!" Rufio snaps at the woman. "You dunno shit!"

"I don't? You're still here, ya prick. If you really wanna go to Neverland, jump already."

He doesn't jump.

"See?" Tinker Bell says smugly.

Rufio doesn't get the chance to wipe the condescension on her face––not that he lacks the compulsion or the motivation––because just as he's about to dish out a retort, someone, or something, else beats him to the punch.

A horrifying shriek sounds over all the racket.

The coldest chill runs down Rufio's spine.

That noise, he knows it.

A wraith.

"Shit."

SQ - SQ - SQ

Magic is different in this world.

The fairies now have to use double the amount of dust they'd normally need for simple spells; the Evil Queen's magic is unpredictable and erratic without the Savior's stabilizing influence; long-time practitioners of arcane arts like Baba Yaga and Jafar find their abilities stilted and largely unreliable.

And, perhaps, the biggest change of all: even the most insignificant amounts of magic can open up one-way portals that serve as gateways into this town for creatures and monsters from the old world. Fissures, as the inhabitants of Storybrooke have come to call them.

Opening a portal into another world like Neverland? That's no small matter.

Hence, the fissure that breaks out in the ice. And, also, the creature from the Enchanted Forest that comes flying out of it like a bat from hell.

SQ - SQ - SQ

For some reason, well, it's probably Tinker Bell's ear-splitting scream, the wraith swoops downwards and tries to claw the woman's face off.

She ducks in the nick of time.

But Pockets, brave little Pockets, does the unimaginable and heaves his Avengers rucksack at the undead creature. He misses by a mile, of course, but he does manage to succeed in drawing the wraith's attention... and ire.

"Run!" Rufio yells at the top of his lungs, hauling Pockets over his shoulder and running as fast as the ankle-deep snow would permit.

Naturally, he trips on one of the willow's hidden roots, and the two come tumbling down like a sack of potatoes. Tinker Bell, agile and light on her feet, just runs past them and guns straight for the rusty behemoth that she calls a car.

Shit.

Rufio rolls on his back and stares up at the creature hovering over them.

They're dead.

So fucking dead.

The wraith lets out another shriek and lunges in.

SQ - SQ - SQ

Salvation comes in the oddest places.

Or, people.

Tonight, it comes in the form of an old geezer in a porkpie hat and a bright red parka, armed with nothing but a gun-wielding Sheriff and a golden pocket watch.

As Emma Swan struggles to aim at the moving creature, Paul O'Hara, the dotty old fart, just clicks the topmost button on his watch a couple of times and waves a hand. And to Rufio's astonishment, golden dust shoots out of the ticker and hits the wraith just as it's about to claw at him and Pockets.

Engulfed by the yellow glitter, the wraith vanishes as quickly as it had appeared.

And just to cap his evening, the pinkish light at the pond fades away and the portal to Neverland closes shut.

Shaken up, Pockets bursts into tears.

And Rufio almost passes out.

SQ - SQ - SQ

"What the hell?!"

Naturally, is the first thing out of Emma's lips. Possibly because it's the only thing that's running through her mind as her brain's still struggling to make sense of what she'd just seen.

"Don't... fret... it's... gone," a wheezing Paul tells her, sweating bullets despite the cold. "We're... safe."

"What the heck did you do? What was that... that... golden shower thing?" she sputters, her shaking hands still holding up her service weapon and pointing it at the spot where the wraith disappeared. Not like a gun can save them if, or when, it decides to return, really.

"I sent... it... back..." Paul struggles to say, still trying to catch his breath.

"To the Enchanted Forest?"

He shakes his head. "Time..."

What?

"Back in time? As in, the past?"

Paul nods bleakly.

She would've sighed in relief, but then a thought strikes and Emma finds herself paralyzed by dread."Just how far back in the past?" she asks quietly, fearfully.

With trembling fingers, Paul lifts up his watch to his face and squints at the time. "How many... did I...?" he begins to mutter to himself. "Three? Four? No, two. Two clicks... yes... two..." And then finally, he turns towards her. "About nine weeks ago, Sheriff."

Emma does the math in her head.

Her arms begin to slack to her sides, and when her brain registers the fact that approximately nine weeks ago was the third week of October, her pistol slips away from her grasp and sinks deep into the snow.

It's the same week in October when a wraith appeared at the stables and tried to kill Regina. That was the week she almost lost the mother of her son. And if it weren't for the Sword of Ashe, the soul-sucker would have succeeded in its mission. If it weren't for Argos, Regina would be dea––

Wait.

Argos...

SQ - SQ - SQ

OCTOBER 6, 2012.

"So... we have an agreement? I can rent out a space in your safehouse for seven weeks?"

"Yeah, fine, whatever," Rufio shakes the gloved hand the Masked One offers. "Just remember, I'm in charge. Whenever the boys and I need help with a prank, you help, no questions asked. Deal?"

"Deal."

"And you'll upgrade the wards around the cabin?"

"Yeah."

"When are you planning to do that?"

"Now," Mysterio declares, letting go of his hand. "Wanna come with?"

"Jafar's shop is at the other side of town. I ain't gonna walk it with you."

"Who says anything 'bout walking?" the guy says, nodding towards the dilapidated structure a few meters away and then walking towards it.

And it's then that Rufio finally notices the front of a familiar-looking motorcycle peeking out behind some oil drums.

"That's my brot–uh, Jac–Hook's bike," Rufio frowns, stumbling on his words as he follows after the man. "The heck are you doing with it? You stole that, as well?"

"Nah, I bought it."

"You're shitting me, he sold it?"

"Yeah, dirt-cheap, too. I guess he's kinda desperate for cash."

No kidding. Jackson loved that bike about as much as he loved a good lay, and that's saying something.

"You hopping on or what?"

"Hold on a sec, I just remembered something," Rufio stands at the side of the motorbike. "I don't know who the fuck you are."

That admission earns him an amused chuckle.

"The heck's your name?"

"So... it's only occurred to you to ask that now? After you've agreed to let me stay at your place?"

"Shut the fuck up and just answer the question," Rufio rolls his eyes. "What's your name?"

"Argos."

"What kind of a lame-ass name is that?"

"What kind of a name is Rufio?" Argos returns.

"An awesome one."

The older guy snorts.

"So... Argos, huh?"

"Yeah."

"That your real name?"

The man just hums in reply.

And Rufio imagines a cryptic little smile that's probably behind that hockey mask.

SQ - SQ - SQ

PRESENT.

"Rufio..." Emma murmurs, her voice deathly quiet.

Standing to his feet, and helping a sniffling Pockets up, the guilty-looking boy proceeds to look at her.

"Argos. Tell me," Emma implores, her green eyes boring intensely into brown ones. "I need to know, who the hell was behind that stupid mask?"

The haunted look on Rufio's face twists Emma's stomach into knots, but the whispered words that leave his lips shakes her to the very core.

"You."

---

A/N: First of all, I'm sorry it took 3 (!) months to get this chapter out. It's been a struggle to finish. I really, really appreciate your patience. I'll probably ask for your patience again as I write the last chapter, though. :s Super thank you to my awesome, awesome betas: J, feather-of-maat, and ExactChange! This chapter (actually, the whole story) is for my Stinky. Blah, blah, blah, bb! 3