Notes: I don't know how many different ways to say that I'm immeasurably grateful for all the support I've received for this fic so far, so I'll just keep repeating myself in the hope that you will all get the message. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for all of your awesome reviews and messages (I've tried to reply to all, but if I've missed you, I'm sorry). Thank you for following, favoriting, etc. Thank you to all the people who have recommended and promoted it, and a super special thank you to whoever nominated it/me for a SQ fan award. Seriously, guys, I'm relatively new to this fandom, and you have all been so amazingly loving and supportive. I'm just so, so thankful for everything.
And I was so excited that I wrote this loooong chapter for you extra fast! Special thanks to bariz for answering some medical questions for me. It's ~99% Regina and 100% angst, but rest assured that in Chapter 13 there will be plenty of SQ moments and some care-giving fluff.
That was the happy message. Now here is a not so happy one:
IMPORTANT! READ THIS FIRST! Trigger/content warning for extreme violence (including murder and rape), death, blood, and PTSD in the first section of this chapter. It is mostly contained to the italicized portions, but if you are extra sensitive to any of those things, I would recommend reading ahead to the first break line. (In case you choose to do that, I will provide a brief synopsis of what you'd miss: While in the hospital waiting room, Regina has a flashback to White's attack. It's not pretty.)
I needed a hug after writing that, so I'll totally understand if you need to forego reading it for whatever reason. The rest of the chapter should be fairly safe, although obviously she's going to be dealing with the aftermath of the shooting and the flashback.
There's a gentle breeze coming in through the window, a welcome relief from the sweltering hot and stagnant summer air, when Regina begins to stir. She thinks that maybe she has to use the bathroom again, but she's so comfortable for once that she can barely contemplate moving. Daniel is pressed against her back, and she can hear his soft snores from just behind her ear as his hands unconsciously caress her belly, drawn to their baby even in sleep. It's a bit warm – they've kicked the sheets to the floor and there's a thin sheen of sweat covering both of their bodies – but it's cozy and safe and secure until Regina has a thought that immediately sets her on edge:
When they'd gotten into bed, the window had been closed.
Cracking one eye, she sees that it's not only open, it's broken, and someone has removed the screen. She urgently grabs her fiancé's arm and shakes it. "Daniel," she hisses. "Daniel, wake up!"
A grunt, and then a moan. "R'gina? Wha-"
"Hello, Regina," says a cold voice she hasn't heard in months. The sound alone is enough to make her feel like her veins have been injected with ice water, but looking up into his eyes, glinting dangerously in the moonlight, sends her entire body into a terrified spasm. "Didn't think you'd ever see me again, did you?"
"Regina!" Booth's voice is above her head, frantic. "Regina, what happened? Where's Emma? Are you okay?"
"Em...Emma...surgery," she chokes out, trying to look up at him, to call her mind back to the present before the true nightmare begins. But his face swims and blurs before her eyes and all she can see is red.
Red blood, dripping down her hands.
Emma's blood.
Daniel's blood.
"Don't you touch her," Daniel growls, fully alert in an instant. He throws himself on top of her and she feels like her spine is about to break from the impact. "You're not going to lay a finger on her ever again, White."
He laughs and she screams, because before Daniel even knows what's happening, White has drawn a sharp, curved knife and is holding it to his throat. "You thought you could protect her," White sneers. "You don't even know her. She's a liar and a whore and she doesn't deserve protecting."
"Regina," Daniel chokes, a small droplet of blood sliding down his neck as he struggles against the knife, "Regina, I love you."
"Love, how sweet," White mocks. "You think she loves you? Do you even know whose child she's carrying?"
"Mine," Daniel says confidently, and White slices the knife across his throat in one swift motion and his body goes limp on top of her.
"Daniel!" Regina cries. She scrambles to flip him over, pressing a pillow against his neck, but it won't stop the bleeding. There's blood everywhere, soaking the sheets, the pillowcase, her nightgown. "No! Daniel, please."
She thinks she hears White cackling wickedly at the foot of the bed, but she can't think about him, not now. Her fear of him is secondary now to her fear of losing Daniel. Their cell phones are in the kitchen – she wonders if she can make a break for it and call for an ambulance before he catches her. But she doesn't want to leave Daniel.
"Regina," he whispers, weakly lifting one hand up to stroke her cheek before letting it fall to rest on her belly, "tell Henry I love him."
"Daniel, no! Daniel, please don't leave me." She's sobbing hysterically and pressing herself on top of him, willing him to hold on just a little longer, until she can figure out how to get both of them to safety.
"I'm sorry," he says, and then his face slackens as the life departs from his eyes.
"No!" Regina screams. "Daniel! Daniel, come back to me!" Her tears mix with his blood as she weeps onto his bare chest, ears straining for the sound of a pulse that no longer exist. "No," she cries, "no!" and she holds him and sobs as the body that was so warm against hers just moments ago grows colder and colder until the entire room feels frozen.
"I don't know what's going on," Booth is saying. "She's not responding. She just keeps saying no, over and over."
"Maybe she's in shock, from the shooting?" someone suggests. It's Humbert – Humbert's voice. Booth is here, and Humbert, and they're in a hospital, not her bedroom. "She won't stop shaking."
"Here, let me." It's a female voice, rough and no-nonsense. It's a nurse. There's a nurse in front of her, leaning in close to her face. "Honey, are you injured?"
She thinks she opens her mouth, but she doesn't hear anything come out of it.
"Come on, let me help you get up," the nurse says, reaching out to grab hold of her arm.
"No!" Locksley's voice – from down the hall – his footsteps are approaching fast, but not fast enough. "Don't touch her wri-"
His hands roughly grab her shoulder, rolling her onto her back. She's still clutching Daniel's corpse, hoping in vain that this will all be a bad dream and in a moment he'll start kissing her forehead to wake her up and hold her close until her tears subside. But White pulls him out of her arms and, before she can fully comprehend what's happening, he's holding her wrists tightly above her head and climbing on top of her, knife perilously close to the curve of her abdomen, and he's seething with rage.
"You thought you could hide this from me," he growls. "You thought you could just disappear?"
She's struggling, straining her arms against his painfully tight grasp, but each time, the knife gets closer and closer until the can feel the blade against her through the thin fabric of her nightgown.
"Don't fight it, Regina, you never did before."
"I couldn't blow my cover before," she grits out, determined to be strong, to appear fearless to him despite the tears and snot running down her face that reveal the opposite. "Now I don't care if you know exactly what I think of you."
"You don't care?" he taunts.
Her response is to spit in his eye. His face turns purple, and in an instant his knife is against her throat and she almost sighs with relief because so many people have threatened her life before that it feels like nothing compared to a threat against Henry's. Unfortunately, he chooses that moment to be perceptive, and the blade is back on her stomach in an instant.
"You want me, you always did," he hisses.
"No."
"You say you want me, or my knife is inside you."
He's serious. "I want you," Regina says robotically.
Daniel, forgive me, she thinks.
He lowers the knife and starts hiking up her nightgown, and she resumes the futile struggle to free her wrists, letting out a scream that causes him to leap forward and smash his fist into her mouth. There's a sickening crack as her jaw breaks and the pain shoots through her whole face; her entire body trembles, fighting against the sobs threatening to burst out of her at any second, but she can't – she won't – let him win. "You don't scream or fight, or your baby dies."
If she didn't already believe he was serious about all of his threats, the sting of cool metal slicing ever so slightly through the fabric of her nightgown and nicking the top layer of her skin would have convinced her. She squeezes her eyes shut and lets him. It hurts – oh gods, it fucking hurts – but she allows only the smallest of whimpers to escape her throat. She hates herself for every second of it, but her pride is not worth her child's life. Saving Henry is all that matters; White can take away the last shred of her dignity, but he will not take her baby from her. She can be strong for Henry.
He finishes, and she cries with an excruciating mix of grief and shame and relief, and he laughs. He laughs and laughs and plunges the knife into her stomach anyway, and she screams and then he hollers and jumps backwards because he was apparently not expecting the amount of fluid that had gushed out, and Regina's vision is slowly going black, but she remembers just then that Daniel's gun is in the nightstand drawer.
She's going to kill White; he will pay for all he's taken from her if it takes her last breath. With the tiny amount of strength remaining in her body, she reaches for it, arms trembling so violently that she can barely keep her finger on the trigger, and then –
"Regina, put the gun down," Locksley says. Someone is pressing something cold and wet against her skin and Locksley is in front of her, gently coaxing her hands down, and she realizes that her service revolver is pointed directly at his face. "Come on, Regina, drop the gun," he repeats slowly, voice soft and soothing despite the fact that she's probably scaring him shitless. "You're safe, okay, you're safe. No one's going to hurt you."
Her hands are shaking and her chest is heaving and tears are streaming down her face, but she must be lowering the gun because Robin is smiling encouragingly at her and saying "good job" and she hears people sigh with relief. He tugs her weapon out of her hand and passes it over to Jones. She looks up and sees him whisper something to Nolan. Booth and Humbert are on Locksley's other side, and the five of them are forming a semicircle around her to shield her from passerby (or, more likely, to shield the passerby from her).
"Regina," Locksley says softly. Her heart feels like it's about to explode out of her chest and she can't breathe and she can't stop shaking. The room feels like it's spinning all around her and she's afraid she's going to be sick.
Twenty seconds later, she vomits all over Locksley's shoes.
Some well-meaning nurses keep trying to lift her up by the arms, but he turns them away. "Don't fucking touch her," he growls. Then, in a much gentler tone, "Regina, do you know where you are?"
"Hospital," she croaks.
"Good. What day is it today?"
She doesn't even remember after being awake for so long. "Friday...no, Saturday. June seventh?" she guesses.
"That's right. Can you tell me five things you see?"
Regina nods, slowly and painfully, "You, Nolan, Jones, Booth, Humbert." Perhaps she should be upset that they just witnessed all of that, but she can't quite bring herself to care.
"Yeah, okay, we're people, not things, but that works, too. You're safe here. You just had a flashback; it wasn't real."
"Flashback, not real," she repeats.
"White's in jail; he can't hurt you anymore. It's 2014."
She nods again and looks around confused, forgetting for a second why the hell she's in a hospital (sitting on the floor in the hallway, of all places). Then she looks down at her hands and sees the blood and it comes back to her in a sickening crash.
"Emma," she gasps as a sharp pain shoots through her abdomen and she doubles over, curling into the fetal position on the floor. "Where is Emma?"
She thinks that Locksley might be explaining where Emma is, but she doesn't hear anything past the ringing in her ears and everything is getting fuzzy again. She thinks she feels someone's arms lifting her up, and then she's on some sort of soft surface and someone is forcing her to swallow a pill.
"It will help you calm down," she thinks she hears someone explain, and she hopes they're right because her breaths are shallow and furious and she's afraid she might pass out if she can't get some oxygen soon. Slowly, it does, and as her heart starts to beat at a more manageable rate and her chest can expand, she's starts to become aware of her surroundings instead of her frantic need for air.
She's on a bed, in a treatment room, and her crowd of onlookers has disappeared, although Locksley is by the door, arguing with a doctor.
"Trust me, she's been dealing with this for over ten years," he's saying. "The hospital is part of the problem, not the solution."
"And what exactly are you suggesting?" the doctor demands, and Regina stops listening.
She's been awake for over twenty-four hours; she'd spent the night cramped in a stuffy car with a woman she can't seem to sort out her feelings for; then, she had watched that woman get shot, had her first flashback to the White incident in over five years and a complete breakdown in front of all of her coworkers, and now she's probably about to be admitted. This day could not possibly get any worse.
Well, maybe if her mother showed up.
She tries to hold back the hot, frustrated tears that are springing to her eyes because they don't need any more reasons to make her stay here. But it may be too late to avoid it.
She's surprised when, a few minutes later, Locksley comes over and asks, "How are you feeling? Do you think you're okay to walk?"
"Why?"
"I'm taking you home."
"How did you..."
"Confidential. Is that okay with you?"
He looks worried, for a second, like she's going to say no. Does he think she wants to stay here? "It's okay," she confirms, though her voice cracks and it's clear that absolutely nothing is okay, but he thankfully pretends not to hear it.
"Excellent. Do you need any help standing up?"
"No."
She pushes herself out of the bed quickly – too quickly, perhaps, because every inch of her body is still trembling with pain and fear and her legs feel like jelly, and she almost sinks to the floor before she can take a single step forward. Robin holds out his arm for her to lean on as they make their way slowly out of to the parking lot. He doesn't speak, which is the only thing that makes any of this acceptable.
He opens the passenger-side door of his car and motions for her to get in. "I'll give you a few minutes alone to get it all out," he says. "Just...try not to break my windshield, yeah?"
As soon as the door slams shut, Regina opens her mouth and all the wails she'd been trying to hold back come bursting forth, and she punches the dashboard until her knuckles bleed and screams and screams and screams until she can't scream anymore.
Regina stands, wringing her hands in Robin's living room, staring dumbly after him as he bustles around so quickly it confuses her. "Sit," he says, and she sinks onto the sofa as he disappears into the kitchen. He's back a minute later with a bag of frozen peas.
"Ice," he directs her. She just looks at it with wide, blank eyes until he explains, "It's for your hands," and she finally looks down and sees the mess she's made of them. She flinches as the cold burns her swelling knuckles, but the sensation gradually dissipates and her hands grow comfortably numb.
He's rifling through a cardboard box of Marian's old stuff that he "hasn't gotten around to throwing away yet," eventually pulling out a faded pair of flannel pants and a UMass t-shirt.
"Pajamas?" she asks.
"That pill the doctors gave you to calm you down? Lorazepam – it's apparently a sedative. It might make you start feeling sleepy soon, if being awake for twenty-four hours straight didn't already do the trick. And, well...that suit might not be comfortable, and I'd prefer not to have blood all over my furniture."
She looks down at the red and brown stains covering her shirt and thinks she might be sick again.
"Marian was thinner than me," she mumbles, just for the sake of arguing. "They won't fit."
Robin rolls his eyes and looks like he's trying very hard to keep his tone calm and pleasant. "They're pajamas; they're designed to be loose-fitting. Would you rather wear my clothes?" She scowls. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Anyway, you need a shower before you change? Wash off all the blood?"
Yes, she does, for more reasons than just the blood. She knows he knows that, but he pretends he doesn't, and it may just be a little thing, but she's grateful anyway.
He offers her a hand, but she ignores it and pushes off the sofa herself, keeping her head down as she trudges to the bathroom.
She hurriedly strips off her suit and turns on the shower, but as she reaches for the shampoo bottle next to the sink, she happens to catch sight of her reflection in the mirror. There's blood – a bit of her own but mostly Emma's – and there's her scar, still thick and white and jagged and still there. His mark, his brand. Irrefutable proof of her weakness and his ownership over her, and the next thing she knows, she's grabbing the bottle and hurling it at the mirror, and there's a satisfying crash as it breaks into a million tiny pieces all over the linoleum floor.
"Regina!" she hears Locksley's voice, loud and concerned, and his footsteps quickly approach the bathroom. "Regina, is everything alright in there?"
She doesn't respond, and she hears a tired sigh from just outside the door. "Stupid question," he says under his breath. Then, loudly again, "Regina, I'm coming in to clean that up. Close the shower curtain if you don't want me to see you."
Almost robotically, she follows his orders, sinking to her knees on the floor of the tub as her legs give out from underneath her. She can hear the sound of a broom sweeping the glass shards and Robin muttering something to himself. Then he calls, "Washcloth, incoming!" and two seconds later a red washcloth comes flying over the top of the curtain and lands on her head. "Don't use the dark green one in there," he warns. "It's exfoliating, and...well, that's gross."
"You exfoliate?" she tries to mock him, but her voice is hoarse and her mouth won't form words the way she wants it to, so she just nods even though he can't see her and starts scrubbing every inch of her crawling skin until it's red and raw and excruciating but still somehow not quite clean. Ten minutes later, she's still at it and the bar of soap is gone. She'll have run up quite the bill by the time her stay at Hotel Locksley is over, she thinks darkly: new shoes, new mirror, new soap...who knows what else?
Sighing heavily, she lowers herself back down to the floor and hugs her knees to her chest, unwilling to move until the water turns to ice or Locksley decides he's too worried to respect her privacy, whichever comes first. She sits and she cries and she thinks about White, but mostly she thinks about Emma and how she's failed her. She swore she wasn't broken, swore this wouldn't affect her work, and yet here they are. Because of her weakness, Emma is lying unconscious in a hospital bed.
Because of her weakness, Henry could have lost his mother if the angle of the bullet had been slightly different.
I told him I would take care of her, she thinks as a fresh wave of tears springs to her eyes.
She's not sure exactly how long she stays there, but eventually Locksley's hand reaches in to turn off the water, and there's a towel thrown on top of her, and she slowly lifts her shivering and aching body from the tub and slips into Marian's pajamas. They're soft and warm and smell like wildflowers, and they slide over her hips without a single tug of resistance, and she wonders briefly if perhaps she's lost weight and that's something she should be worried about.
She returns to the living room to see that Locksley has piled probably every blanket in the entire apartment on the couch.
"I want to go see Emma," she croaks.
"Emma will be fine. She's under the care of expert trauma surgeons who can help her a lot better than you can right now. You can see her later, when both of you are stable. For now, why don't you get some rest?"
She wants to argue, wants to desperately to fight against him and force him to drive her to the hospital immediately so she can hold Emma and tell her how sorry she is, but she's practically asleep on her feet, and anyway, he's probably right, so instead she just dissolves into silent tears and crawls under the twenty-or-so blankets she's been provided so that only her nose and eyes are exposed.
"You want Roland's stuffed monkey?" Robin offers.
Regina shakes her head and wraps her arms around herself. "Okay," Robin says softly, and he perches on the armrest by her feet, loading his gun and placing it in front of him on the coffee table, where he can reach it but she definitely can't. "I'll keep watch," he promises.
She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to keep her sobs relatively quiet while Robin starts humming some old James Taylor song to himself to pretend that he can't hear her. The sedative properties of Lorazepam must be stronger than she'd thought, or maybe she's just that exhausted, because the next thing she knows everything is warm and dark and she's not dreaming of anything at all.
Regina wakes to the sound of soft voices talking above her and a finger running lightly up and down her cheek. Blearily, she blinks and stares at the blue and green floral print of the fabric beneath her. This is not her couch.
"We'll just have to play it by ear," the voice is saying. Locksley's voice. Locksley's couch. She feels slightly nauseous as the morning's events come back to her all in a rush, considers rushing to the bathroom, but everything hurts too much to move. How much would it cost to re-upholster Locksley's couch after she vomits on it? Would he be angry or grateful?
Also, why the hell is he touching her face like that? They've had their boundary issues in the past, different understandings of personal space, especially after White had caused Regina's bubble to expand by about a three-foot radius, but he knows now. He wouldn't, not after today. But the only person who ever touches her like that wouldn't be here right now.
"I keep saying that if things that happen on the job are going to trigger her, she should get a different job! How on earth is this supposed to help her healing?"
Or, apparently, she would be here. Why? Regina thinks desperately. If there is a higher power, she's fairly certain they hate her. She takes in a huge gulp of air as the nausea intensifies, willing herself not to throw up all over her mother, who is sitting beside her on the carpet, cross-legged in one of her weekend pants suits.
"Healing from trauma works differently for everyone," Robin is saying diplomatically, "and Regina and her doctors believed that returning to work would help her face her fears and regain control. Which, it did, to a point."
"To a point. She was making progress; it was slow, but it was real. And now, almost eleven years later, something like today happens, and she's back to square one. How long is this supposed to go on?"
"Square one is...well, we don't know that. This is the first time this has happened in – I don't even know, maybe five years?"
Regina lets out the breath she's been holding in and decides to let them know she's conscious before they start rehashing her entire medical history. "Mama?" she whimpers. Not quite as dignified as she would have liked, but she doesn't seem to have much control over her voice.
"Hello, darling," says Cora, pushing a lock of hair behind Regina's ear.
"Mama, why are you here?"
"My shareholders' meeting last night ran late, so I decided to stay in Boston and drive back to Storybrooke this morning," Cora explains simply.
"But why are you here?" Her mother hates driving at night, that's nothing new, but it doesn't explain why she's in her stocking feet on Locksley's living room floor.
"Go back to sleep, sweetheart. Robin says you were on a stakeout all night and then had a bit of a rough morning. You need to rest."
Regina blinks and waits for the judgmental remark she's sure will follow, but there's nothing. She turns to Robin and rasps, "Emma?"
"Out of surgery," he reports quickly. "Bullet's been removed, and she's conscious. She's not entirely out of the woods yet with her head injury, but it's not life-threatening. She's stable. I'm about to go see her, actually. Would you like me to pass along a message?"
"I..."
I love you.
I hate you.
How could you do this to me?
I'm sorry I couldn't protect you.
You can't leave me.
"I don't know."
"You can see her later," Cora suggests, "maybe when you're feeling a bit better."
Regina wants to laugh at the idea of feeling better, but it comes out as a barely choked-back sob. "I'm trying, Mama."
Cora clears her throat and sighs. "I know," she says softly.
Regina closes her eyes. She's so confused and she wants to scream and she wants to ask who this imposter is and what the hell she's done with her harsh and critical mother, but in the end her exhaustion wins out. She keeps her eyes shut and sinks into the sofa and lets the obviously-fake Cora smooth her blankets and whisper things that she doesn't quite catch as she drifts off again into her dark and dreamless oblivion.
She wakes up again a few hours later – or she assumes several hours must have passed because the light has changed and she can hear Roland's voice coming from his room in an exaggerated whisper, like he's been admonished to play quietly. There's a baseball game on TV, closed-captioning flashing across the bottom of the screen to avoid waking her with the volume, and Robin is watching intently from the floor, leaning against the other side of the couch near her feet.
"I can move," she volunteers, her voice husky and strained from sleep and a morning full of screaming, "so you can sit on the couch."
"Hey, look who's awake," he says warmly. "Welcome back."
Regina grunts and slowly pushes herself to a half-sitting position, drawing her feet toward her just enough to leave room for him. He gives her a grateful smile and slides into the open space.
"So, Emma says hi," he continues, looking a little cautious. "She's got a broken collarbone and a pretty decent concussion, but besides a bit of pain and dizziness, she seems to be doing well, all things considered. They're going to keep her overnight for observation, and she's looking at six to twelve weeks of recovery time, but the doctors are very optimistic."
She'd like to say something but there's a lump in her throat the size of a small boulder and her tongue feels swollen and everything is a little sluggish, so she just nods.
There's a pleasant smell wafting in from the kitchen, and her mother – how had she forgotten her mother was here? – comes in a moment later wearing oven mitts and holding two bowls of soup. She passes one to Robin and then squeezes herself onto the couch, on Regina's other side, and says, "I thought you might be hungry, darling. I made broccoli cheddar."
"I'm not," Regina mumbles. Then, belatedly, she remembers her manners and says, "Thank you, though."
"I'd like you to try at least a few bites," Cora says in the same strict, no-nonsense tone she'd used when Regina was a picky toddler before her voice softens a little, and she adds, "If the soup is too much for you, I've got a baguette I can slice."
Regina shrugs, which Cora seems to interpret as assent. The older woman immediately rises and returns to the kitchen, leaving her daughter on the couch with confusion that's grown a lot more intense now that her mind has rested enough to begin to process what's happening.
"I'm sorry," Robin whispers when Cora's out of the room. "She pretty much forced herself in here, and I don't know how to make her leave. She's a decent cook, though." He takes a bite of his soup and gives a contented hum.
"It's okay," Regina says reflexively.
"Is it?"
"I don't know," she admits.
"For what it's worth, she seems genuinely-"
She doesn't get to find out what Cora seems, because Robin immediately stops talking as soon as the subject of his remarks returns to the room, carrying a plate full of bread.
"At least one slice," she orders her daughter, who groans as she tries to grab a piece and pain shoots through her swollen, purple fingers. The bread tastes like sand in her mouth, and it's all she can do to swallow without gagging.
Once she's successfully gotten it down, she turns to Cora and asks, "What are you doing here?"
"My shareholder's meeting ran-"
"You said that already," Regina interrupts. She's not sure what exactly has come over her; she rarely interrupts her mother and never uses such a rude tone with her. Perhaps it's the knowledge that whatever Cora's response is, it can't make her feel any worse. Regina waits for the lecture that doesn't come and feels vaguely disappointed. She's not sure what's come over Cora, either.
"I'm going to check on Roland," Robin announces abruptly, picking up his soup to take with him like he thinks it might take a long time.
When the door closes, Cora explains, "I was on my way back to Maine when I stopped at a convenience store to use the restroom. There was a TV, and a local news channel was showing footage from the shooting."
Her mother's words sink slowly into Regina's befuddled mind, and she blinks as she begins to make sense of them. "How was there footage?" she asks, probably the least pressing of all of her questions, but also the least painful.
"How should I know? It looked grainy, like someone took it with a cell phone camera, but I recognized you."
"Oh." Regina rubs her eyes and braces herself for what is sure to be a much more upsetting conversation: "How much did you see?"
"I..." Cora inhales sharply, and for a second a look of sheer terror crosses her face, and Regina is confused. "The angle was...I saw you go down," she finally says. "It looked like you had been shot."
"Oh."
"Yes: oh." After a moment of silence, Cora continues. "I spent an hour or so calling every hospital in the Greater Boston area to see if you were being treated there before finally thinking to contact Robin, and...well, here you are."
"Here I am," Regina agrees in a monotone, staring down at her hands. "I'm sorry I ruined your morning, Mother."
Cora smiles wryly and says, "I'm guessing yours was worse."
Who are you, and where is my mother?
"You know, your father and I met with our attorney yesterday to update our will," Cora says, and Regina wonders where she's going with this. "I never thought about it. I never...when the whole White thing happened, I didn't find out about it until it was already confirmed that you would fully recover." Regina nods slowly, remembering that her mother had been at a conference in London at the time. The fact that she didn't have to deal with Cora's judgment had been her single source of solace during those first few days in the hospital. "And then, I knew, of course that you had been seriously injured, that you could have died, but I didn't...I didn't truly think about it. I didn't allow my mind to go there, because the idea was just...it was unthinkable."
"But then, today...today when I saw the news, I just..." She trails off and looks down.
Regina's eyes widen, and she wonders if Cora Mills is about to cry.
"For almost an hour, I didn't know what had happened to you; I was worried sick; I couldn't call your father because I knew he wouldn't have been able to handle it. I was-"
Yes, those are tears. They're not falling, but they're definitely there.
Cora swallows, takes a long, slow breath, and continues, "For the first time, the thought occurred to me that I might not be able to leave you the house, or the stock portfolio, or anything – that I might have to bury my child instead of the other way around, and, Regina...I realized that was something that I would never, ever be able to get over."
Regina feels her lips and chin trembling. She thinks this may be the first time she's ever seen her mother get emotional. Perhaps at any other point in her life, she would have been gratified that it was about her, and that it sounded almost like an apology of sorts, but today it's just terrifying and overwhelming and she doesn't have the energy to handle it.
"Mama," she whispers, tentatively reaching out a hand toward Cora. Whether she's offering comfort or seeking it, she's not entirely sure. With a small smile, Cora takes it and gently draws it to her lips, kissing each of Regina's bruised and scraped knuckles with as much love and tenderness as she's ever shown in her life. It doesn't have the healing effect on her hands that mothers' kisses are supposed to have, but Regina thinks that her heart might feel a little better.
Then Cora looks her daughter up and down and grimaces. "We're going to have to find a comb around here somewhere," she says, "and see if there's anything more presentable for you to wear. You can't visit Emma in the hospital dressed like that."
Regina sinks back with a sigh of relief as the tiniest of smiles tugs at her lips.
Robin pokes his head out of Roland's room and asks, "Is everyone okay out here?"
With a quick glance to confirm that the version of Cora Mills she's known for forty-three years is still beside her (her mother is now running her finger along the coffee table to check for dust and shaking her head at Robin's lack of cleaning skills), Regina nods. "We're good," she confirms.
"How are you feeling about physical contact?" he asks. "Because you've got a godson in here who really wants to give you a hug." When she hesitates, Robin quickly starts to backtrack, "I'll tell him no. It's okay. You don't have-"
"Don't be ridiculous, Robin," she snaps. "I'm not made of glass. I'll be fine with hugging Roland."
He knows better than to voice his doubt, but it's written so clearly across his face that he doesn't have to. She turns her head and pretends not to hear him coaching Roland to be extra calm and gentle. Roland comes out of his room, as slowly as she's ever seen him move, and approaches her with a serious expression.
"Auntie Gina, can I sit with you?" he asks, and for a second he seems so much older than his four years. Rendered speechless, Regina just nods, and Cora quickly vacates her spot on the couch for the little boy. His dark eyes, wide and solemn, never leave her face as he sits down. "Daddy said you might get scared if I touch you because someone hurt you a long time ago, like Bobo."
Regina's throat and chest are tight as she asks, "Bobo is your dog friend, right?"
"Yeah. He used to be scared, but he's not anymore 'cause he knows I won't hurt him. And I won't hurt you, either. I know how to be gentle."
"Oh, Roland, come here," Regina murmurs, pulling him onto her lap and caressing his round cheeks, still dimpled even when he's not smiling. "I love you so, so much."
"I love you, too. 'Specially," he adds in a tiny whisper, leaning secretively into her ear, "because you teached me not to be an idiot like Daddy."
She wants to burst out laughing.
Instead, she bursts out crying.
Robin is hovering, ready to pounce and pull the boy away and wrap her up in blankets again, and Roland looks confused. "Auntie Gina, are you sad?"
"I was sad," she chokes out through her tears, "but now you're here, so I'm happy."
He seems to accept that response, snuggling into her chest and reaching his little arms up around her neck. His fingers get tangled up in her hair as she holds him close and cries and cries. Robin slowly backs away and lets them be. There's part of Regina that thinks he might be taking note of this scene to use as evidence when he later asks her to pay Roland's therapy bills, but at the moment, she doesn't particularly care.
"So," Robin says a few minutes later when Regina's tears have mostly quieted, "about visiting Emma in the hospital..."
"I want to," Regina replies. Truthfully, the very idea of going back there causes her stomach to flip-flop and her heart to race, but Roland is still squished against her and her face is buried in his thick hair as she kisses his forehead again and again, and he makes her feel braver.
"Right, of course. I was just wondering if you wanted me to take you this afternoon, or would you feel better if you waited until tomorrow? I think visiting hours start at nine."
"Today," she says immediately. She has to get this over with, has to face her fears, and sooner is always better than later. Not to mention, she's aching to see Emma with her own eyes, to ensure that she's alive and well and everyone hasn't been lying to her all day, but Robin isn't allowed to know that, so she just says, "We'll probably be busy at the station tomorrow."
Robin bites his lip and his entire body goes rigid. "Regina, tomorrow's Sunday," he says slowly, as though he's searching for a way to say this that won't absolutely shatter her. "And even if it wasn't..."
"You're not going to the station," Cora says, coming out of the kitchen with a plate and dishtowel in her hands. "Not tomorrow, not the day after that, not for a while."
"But I-"
Robin shoots Cora an irritated glare and reaches out to rub Regina's shoulder before apparently thinking better of it and patting Roland on the head instead.
"What your mother is trying to say," he explains, "is that typically after events like this, as you know well, it's suggested that all the parties involved take some time off, and that policy will not be waived in this case."
"Robin, I don't need time off," she pleads desperately. "I'm fine, I promise. I can handle this. Please don't make me go on leave."
Sighing, Robin cups his hands over Roland's ears and says, "Regina, you're not fine. You pointed a gun at my face today." She opens her mouth to protest, but he shakes his head. "I know that it wasn't you; I know it was the PTSD, and you know that I will never, ever think any less of you for it, but this isn't something we can just ignore. Even if I wanted to, Internal Affairs would be all over us in a heartbeat."
"But-"
"You are the best detective in our unit and possibly in the whole department. Of course I want you back as soon as possible – hell, we need you back as soon as possible. But we need you, if you know what I mean."
Regina shakes her head with a dark, humorless laugh. "I don't even know who that is anymore."
"Well, let me tell you a little bit about Regina Mills," Robin says, smiling. "She's pretty smart, and maybe a little too snarky, but surprisingly sweet when she wants to be. She loves deeply and loyally, and she protects the people she cares about like a mama lion, so much so that she's almost kind of scary sometimes. Oh, and did I mention brave? She's the bravest, strongest person I've ever seen – always has been, but some days the point gets driven home more than others – and I can't think of a single human being I admire more."
Regina sniffs as fresh tears drip down her cheeks. "I concur," Cora voices from the kitchen, and that's a whole other set of emotions she's not prepared to deal with.
"Robin..."
"Even when she teaches my son to call me an idiot."
"Robin, I can't be who I am if I can't work. The job is my life; you know that."
"I know. That's why the plan is to get you back as quickly as possible. I took the liberty of making you an appointment with Dr. Hopper for Monday morning, and I've already told IAB you have my full support to return as soon as he clears you. You're going to get through this Regina, you will, and no matter how long it takes, I'll be here for you."
"I-"
"And so will Emma."
"You can't speak for her," Regina argues.
"She took a bullet for you. I think that speaks for itself."
"She's my partner! That's her duty, and it's...it's just who she is, and I wish she hadn't."
Robin looks troubled. "We can discuss that later, but you should know that she has no regret for her actions."
"She has a head injury. She'll think differently when her brain is fully functional."
"You just told me I can't speak for her," Robin points out. "Well, the same goes for you. But as a person with eyes, I can tell you one thing: that woman adores you."
"I can't imagine why," Regina mutters, given that she spent the entire week prior to the shooting unfairly snapping at Emma in a poor effort to conceal her rapidly overpowering feelings. Robin quickly glances down at his buzzing phone before shaking his head disapprovingly at her.
"I can, but we can continue this conversation later, when your self-loathing has died down a little. On a somewhat related topic, do you feel ready to head to the hospital? Apparently, you're being asked after."
"By whom?" Regina wonders.
Robin either doesn't hear the question or chooses not to acknowledge it. "Roland, do you think you can-"
"I'll watch Roland," Cora volunteers.
Robin and Regina regard her with identical expressions of shock. "I...that's fine," Robin says, forcing himself to recover. "That's...as long as you don't mind."
"It would be my pleasure."
Regina doesn't find her voice until they're out the door. "I preemptively apologize if your son ends up scarred for life from this afternoon," she tells Robin.
He shrugs. "It's a couple of hours, at most. I've left him at John's house overnight, and he survived."
"John is a little...quirky, but he's a generally kind and nurturing person," Regina argues. "My mother is not."
"So, he'll play on his own and she'll just make sure he's safe and well-fed. It's probably less scarring than hanging out with us at the hospital. Besides, she seems a little different today, don't you think?"
"If by different, you mean unstable, then I agree," Regina mutters darkly.
"She thought she had lost her daughter this morning. That's enough to send most people for a loop, but she still seems functional enough to call 911 if Roland falls down the stairs or something."
"Why the hell do you always defend her?"
"Because, for everything she's guilty of, when I look at her, I see the person who made my greatest friend in the world, and that makes me forgiving."
"Well, stop. Forgiveness is overrated."
"She's always afraid of showing her emotions," Robin continues. "It makes her...well, let's just say she's not the greatest at expressing her love for people. Much like someone else I know."
"I hate you," Regina grumbles, gingerly lowering herself into the passenger seat.
"Exhibit A."
Robin starts the car, and Regina swallows as pressure starts to build behind her eyes. "I was so awful to her this week, Robin. I wasn't trying to be, it just...it just comes out."
He looks confused. "To your mother?"
"No, to Emma."
"Thankfully, she seems to espouse my view of forgiveness instead of yours."
She sighs. "I'm sorry I pointed a gun at your face."
"I already told you I forgive you. It wasn't you."
"It was me," Regina disagrees. "It just...it wasn't you."
"I know."
"And I'm sorry I ruined your shoes and broke your mirror."
"Those can both be replaced."
"I will replace them. I promise."
Robin shrugs. "The shoes were worn-out and needed resoling anyway, and I was never a fan of that mirror," he says with a slight chuckle. "It had a tendency to make me look older than I'd like."
"Robin Locksley, stop coddling me," Regina huffs angrily. "I'm not broken."
"This isn't coddling," he disagrees, "this is friendship, and I know you're not broken."
"Good."
"But even if you were," the idiot continues, "that's what friends are for: to help put you back together. Needing a little extra support from time to time doesn't make you weak, it makes you human, and having the courage to ask for it makes you stronger."
"Shut up," she orders. "Just...stop talking."
For once, he actually listens.
The drive is long and silent, and Regina realizes as they arrive at the hospital that she never actually took her mother's advice, and she's still in Marian's pajamas, her hair uncombed, and she's not even wearing a bra. Well, she supposes that after what happened earlier today, there's not much left to embarrass her.
Her heart beats more quickly the closer they get to the room. She can hear the beeping of monitors through the other patients' doors, and the thought of seeing Emma hooked up to all of those machines makes her feel like her knees are about to give out again. She's about to start her breathing exercises when she's suddenly almost tackled to the ground by a powerful hug.
"Regina, you're okay!" the person says, squeezing her tightly as her spine stiffens and her breathing becomes more and more shallow. It's a small person, brown hair -
"Henry?" she gasps. Who else could it be?
"You weren't here, and no one would tell me where you were!" he exclaims. "I thought you were shot, too."
"Oh, Henry," Regina breathes, slowly relaxing into his embrace, "I'm right here. How's your mom?"
"You must be Regina," a man who vaguely resembles Henry says as he exits Emma's room. He must be Neal. "Em's doing alright – a little out of it from the concussion, but they were able to remove the bullet from her shoulder, and doctors said it missed all the important nerve endings."
Regina lets out the breath she didn't know she was holding in. "That's very good," she says, relieved.
"Yeah, she'll be fine. She just likes to scare people," Henry says bravely (from the look in his eyes, though, it's clear he'd been pretty scared). "Do you want to see her?"
"I..."
That's why she's here, isn't it?
So why is she suddenly overcome with dread?
"She's been asking about you," Neal says. "I think she'd be really excited to see you, if you're up for it."
"Yes, of course," Regina murmurs, clearing her throat and straightening her shoulders.
Locksley looks worried. "Are you sure?" he asks.
"Yes, Robin, I am sure!" Regina says angrily before striding into the room.
Emma, thankfully, isn't hooked up to any machines. There's a sling on one arm and an IV line in the other, but aside from looking exhausted, she seems to be all in one piece.
"Hey, partner," she says, smiling brightly when she sees Regina.
"Emma," Regina says with a stiff nod. "How are you feeling?"
Emma considers for a moment before replying, "Not bad. I feel like everything's a few beats slower than normal, but overall, I'm okay. Whoever invented morphine is a god. I hope they got a medal."
She should be happy.
The fact that Emma is in good spirits and on the road to recovery should make her ecstatic.
Instead, it infuriates her.
"Detective Swan, you can never do that again," she snaps.
"Can't do what?" Emma asks, furrowing her brow in confusion.
"You can't...you can't take a bullet for me!" Regina cries. "You can't just risk your life like that! There are people...people who need you! Henry! He could have lost his mother today! He...Emma, what the hell were you thinking?"
"Okay," Emma says slowly, "first of all, I did not take a bullet for you. I...I mean, my memory of the shooting is a little shaky, but I think I remember pushing you out of the way of one bullet, and then a different one hit me."
"Not the point."
"No, it's not. Even if I had 'taken a bullet for you' – which, by the way, I would absolutely do – I just got hit in the shoulder. It's not life-threatening or anything. That gun was aimed at your head."
"You fucking idiot, of course it's life-threatening!" Regina is practically screaming now. "Do you have any idea how much blood you lost? If the angle had been a little different, if the ambulance hadn't come so quickly..."
She has to stop – she's starting to feel faint. In. Out. She draws in thick, ragged breaths one by one and tries to calm down because this rage is not helping anything.
"Well, none of that stuff happened, and I'm fine," Emma says dismissively, "so let's just stop talking about this."
"We can't! We can't stop talking about this because...you can't do that! You can't put yourself at risk like that. I'm not worth it!"
"What?" Emma looks thoroughly bewildered. "Of course you are."
Regina shakes her head vehemently. "No. Henry needs you. I...I need you, too," she adds quietly as a solitary tear leaks out of her eye. Not again, she thinks. As if there hasn't been enough crying for one day. "I'm supposed to protect you."
"Yeah, we're partners. I'm supposed to protect you, too. So I did."
"Emma, no."
"Yes. I need you, too – ever think of that? Like, maybe I would be slightly upset if you died? I can't do this homicide thing without you. I need you to stick around for a while."
"No, you don't!" Regina insists, wondering why the hell the younger woman doesn't seem to understand her. "You need to stay alive."
Emma leans back against her pillow and sighs. "You're giving me a fucking headache," she mutters.
Belatedly, Regina remembers the concussion and feels horrible. "Emma, I'm sorry. I have to stop snapping at you, I...you scared me." I'm still terrified, she adds internally. You have no idea how much.
"Yeah, I was pretty damn scared too, when I saw that gun aimed for your head. I'd rather not dwell on it, though."
"Henry can't lose you," Regina says seriously. I can't lose you.
"He won't," Emma insists. "I'm going to be fine, as long as you stop screaming in my face. I'm supposed to rest my brain."
"I'm sorry," Regina whispers, and she flees the room. As soon as she's somewhere neither Emma nor Henry can see her, she bursts into tears.
Robin offers, once, on Saturday night, to drive Regina back to her own apartment, but the very thought of it almost brings on another panic attack, so he quickly withdraws the question. Her mother tries to insist on taking her back to Storybrooke, but Regina flatly refuses. She's not sure how she feels about this newly emotional version of her mother, and her father's hovering is even worse than Robin's. Here, at least there are plenty of places to escape to and a cute child to entertain her.
Robin informs Roland that the weekend is Auntie Regina's extended play date with him, and the little boy makes it his duty to show her a good time so she "won't cry again." They read about seven books together, visit the playground and the dog park, make a movie with his stuffed animals, and eat ice cream for every meal. By Sunday night, she thinks she feels almost human again, and Marian's pajama bottoms are starting to squeeze a little around the waist.
"I'm going to have to go back to my own apartment tomorrow," she says sadly. "And probably start a diet."
"I will have you know that we don't normally eat like this here," Robin grumbles with his mouth full of Heath Bar Crunch. They're sitting together on the sofa, two cartons of ice cream between them with a baseball game on TV (though it isn't the Red Sox, so no one is watching too intently). "I feed my boy a balanced diet."
"Thanks for letting me stay," Regina tells him. "And...thanks for everything. I probably don't say it enough."
Robin stares awkwardly into his bowl and says, "It's nothing. I mean, you'd do the same for me, right? In fact, I'm fairly certain you have."
"There was that one time," she agrees. One time immediately after Marian's death when she'd found him at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey with a gun to his own head. Until this weekend, it was probably the second scariest moment of her life. They never speak of it anymore. "But you're better now, and...well, I'm not."
"Comparisons are odious. That's what I learned in grief counseling. We all heal in our own way, on our own timeline."
"You should become a guru," she jokes.
"Nah, I don't know anything. It's all just driving forward in a snowstorm, only seeing a couple of feet ahead of you, but they say you can make it up the whole mountain that way. Hey, did you get a chance to talk to Emma today?" he asks, rapidly changing the subject.
"You and your metaphors. Yes, actually I did. She seems...in good spirits." She had spoken to her partner on the phone for about ten minutes before the other woman's attention had been occupied by her son and a few other visitors. She'd apologized for her outburst; Emma had jokingly apologized for saving her life.
"Next time I'll let you do the honors," she'd said. "We can take turns playing the hero."
"How are your shoulder and head?"
"Maybe it's all this morphine, but I'm feeling great! Let's run a whole marathon together tomorrow."
"Very funny."
"No, seriously, even with all the painkillers, my head feels a lot less foggy. I think I'm gonna heal really quickly from this," Emma had assured her. Regina had successfully forced a chuckle and pretended she wasn't still scared shitless.
"I'm glad," says Robin. "She's been a good addition to the unit. I want both of you back as soon as possible." He moves the empty ice cream containers off the couch, and Regina leans over to rest her head on his shoulder. He hesitates for a moment before lightly rubbing her upper back.
"You are the most resilient person I know, Regina Mills," he murmurs. "You're going to get through this, I promise."
On Monday morning, Robin drives Regina to the station for her appointment.
"I don't want to talk to Dr. Hopper," she says petulantly.
Robin rolls his eyes. "Do you want to go back to work soon, or not?"
Actually, she's not entirely sure about that, but since she's already stated that she does, she can't very well change her opinion now. "Yes," she grumbles. "Fine, I'll go."
"I'm proud of you," Robin says, and she groans internally and ignores him, walking quickly into the station with her head down so she doesn't have to meet the eyes of anyone who might have heard about Saturday's incident.
She knocks tentatively on Dr. Hopper's door, feeling like an idiot. "Hello?" she calls. There's no immediate response. Maybe she can leave and just-
"Regina, come in," the department shrink says warmly. He opens the door wide open and reaches out to shake her hand while his Dalmatian, Pongo, barks excitedly behind him. "He's missed you," Dr. Hopper chuckles as she bends down to scratch the dog behind the ears. "It's been a while."
"It has," Regina agrees. In her ideal world, it would have been never again, but things have a tendency not to work out the way she'd like.
"I heard about the shooting on Saturday. How is Detective Swan doing?"
"She's...she'll be fine," Regina says quietly. "She'll have a long recovery process, obviously, but the bullet missed everything major, and she says her head is already starting to feel better. I think she's lying, but..at least she's thinking clearly enough to lie, right?"
"That's great news," Archie says with a smile. "Please, have a seat. I imagine the shooting has something to do with why you're here?"
"It's related, yes."
He looks at her expectantly, and she stares down at her hands, which can't seem to stop fidgeting with the buttons of her blazer. She'd gone home briefly to change clothes, unwilling to be seen at work without the protective armor of a freshly-pressed suit, but now she wishes she was still dressed in pajamas. She wishes she was anywhere but this room; it brings back a lot of old emotions she'd rather not deal with again. Dr. Hopper wordlessly hands her a stress ball.
"I had a flashback," she admits, squeezing it tightly.
"To...White?" he asks.
Regina closes her eyes so she doesn't have to see the pity etched across his face and nods reluctantly.
"It's been a long time, hasn't it?"
He means since her last flashback, which was five years ago (the last daytime one, anyway, which is all she really counts, because nightmares aren't going to force her off the job), but Regina clutches the ball harder and hisses, "It's been nearly eleven years! Why is this still happening?"
"These things take-"
Regina explodes as days, weeks (or, more truthfully, years) of pain and frustration come pouring out of her. "Don't tell me these things take time!" she screams at him. "Don't! Because next month is the eleventh anniversary and it still fucking feels like yesterday! I can't do this anymore; I can't live like this. I feel like I'm just waiting around for the next breakdown, and I just...I'm tired!" She draws a ragged breath and finishes by breaking into harsh, convulsing sobs. "Archie, I'm just so tired."
"You were doing much better, though, for a while. Weren't you?" he asks, reaching out hesitantly to take her hand. She lets him. "At least, you haven't come to see me for a couple of years, now."
She cries for a few more minutes before she's able to answer. "I was handling it." She swallows she lump in her throat and corrects, "I thought I was handling it."
"Can you tell me about your flashback?" he asks. "Was it after the shooting?"
"At the hospital. I'm pretty sure they wanted to admit me to a psych ward, but Locksley talked them out of it. Said I had to see you, instead."
"How did that make you feel?"
"Which part of it?"
"Any of them. All of them. Whatever you want to talk about."
Regina sighs. "It was embarrassing. I broke down in front of my entire squad – well, besides Emma, I suppose. I almost shot Locksley."
"But you didn't shoot him. You were able to come out of it before that happened."
"Not on my own."
"You don't always have to do everything on your own," Archie counters. "There are people willing to support you; you should let them."
"Sometimes I wish they would just let me give up," Regina whispers.
Archie squeezes her hand and shakes his head. "You're not giving up," he tells her. "You've fought too long and too hard to let that happen, and you're still fighting now. You're here: you're trying to get better."
"I don't know if that's possible," she says dully.
"Regina..."
"I've done everything!" she cries. "Every single thing you and everyone else told me to do. Facing my attacker in court – I did that. I went to that stupid grief support group. New furniture, new locks, trying to resume old hobbies, hours and hours of therapy...I've done all of it and I'm still not better if one little thing can bring me back to square one!"
"You're not back to square one," Dr. Hopper argues. "I know that's how you feel after Saturday, with the flashback making everything fresh in your mind again, but you're absolutely not back to square one. Do you remember how you were eleven years ago?"
"I try not to," she sniffles.
"Square one Regina would never have been able to verbalize her emotions the way that you just did. Square one Regina wouldn't even have been able to get dressed and put on makeup and walk into my office on her own. She wouldn't be allowing me to hold her hand right now. We wouldn't be talking realistically about how soon she can return to work; we would be talking about how to help her get out of bed in the morning. No matter how awful you feel right now, Regina, you can't ignore all the progress you've made. It's been eleven years of effort, and you've earned every bit of it."
"Why isn't it enough?" Regina mumbles through her tears, holding tightly to his hand like a lifeline. "Why is it never enough?"
With his free hand, he passes her a box of tissues, and he waits for her to blow her nose before saying sadly, "Because you went through something that no human being should ever have to face, and it's unrealistic to believe that experience wouldn't change you. That doesn't mean that you can't still have a happy and fulfilling life, but you're sometimes going to have bad moments. Everyone does. Yours might be worse than others', but they don't have to define you. You just have to accept them, and accept yourself for having them, and then focus on the good ones."
"Lately, everything feels like a bad moment."
He runs his thumb along her knuckles in a way that reminds her of Daniel in the nicest way and asks softly, "Do you want to tell me about the flashback?"
Regina sighs and shakes her head. "It was the same as all the others. White...White did his thing, and I let him."
"You didn't let him," Archie disagrees. Regina shrugs. They've had this same argument dozens of times over the past decade; his opinion has never changed, and neither has hers. "Regina, you have to stop blaming yourself for what White did. If there's one thing I can identify that's getting in the way of your healing, it's that. There is only one person guilty for what happened that night, and it's Leopold White. There was nothing you could have done that would have made the outcome any different."
"But he wouldn't have tried to come after us if it wasn't for my job!"
"Maybe not," Archie concedes, "but he would have gone after other women, other families. He did go after other women; that's why you were investigating him in the first place. And in the end, you stopped him. He's locked away now. Thanks to you, he hasn't killed anyone else since that night, and that's something you should be very proud of."
"I wish I had killed him," she mutters under her breath. Not that, in the end, killing him would have made her feel any better. Neither does taking out all of her anger on his daughter. Nothing does, and part of her wishes that he had killed her, instead.
"You did give him a spine injury that's probably more painful than instantaneous death," the therapist reminds her.
Regina gapes at him. "Are you supposed to be encouraging my vengeful thoughts?"
"Well, it made you stop crying," he says lightly. "While I don't think revenge is particularly healthy, I think it's a step in the right direction for you to wish pain on him, rather than yourself."
"I don't want to talk about White anymore," Regina whispers. "I can't."
"Okay." Archie squeezes her hand and gives her a small smile. "What about the shooting? It seems like that was the event that triggered your flashback? Or am I completely off-base?"
"I don't see why," she says bitterly. "I'm a homicide detective. I've seen plenty of...violence since then and it...I mean, it's affected me, obviously. It affects everyone but...it wasn't like this."
"So, what do you think was different this time?"
Regina feels her chest start to constrict, and her hands tremble uncontrollably in her lap as she starts to remember the shooting. "Breathing through the diaphragm," he reminds her, gently coaxing her palm to rest at the top of her abdomen. "Push out against your hand...that's it. Good."
Regina squeezes her eyes shut and tries to breathe. "Emma," she finally chokes out. "Emma was different."
"Your partner was badly injured."
Lips pressed tightly together, Regina nods.
"Do you want to tell me more?"
"There was blood – there was so much blood. It...I tried to stop the bleeding, but it just kept coming out and...and I thought she wasn't going to make it."
"I see. What happened? I mean, I heard a little on the news, and from Locksley, but in your words..."
"We were approaching a suspect, and he started firing at us. There was a bullet...it was aimed at my head. She pushed me out of the way, and then...I didn't see exactly what happened. There was more shooting, and then she went down."
Archie nods.
"I don't...I know that it wasn't my fault," Regina says softly. "I know that the bullet aimed at me wasn't the same one that hit her...she told me that. I just...it was like when..."
"When Daniel died?" Archie supplies when she's been silent for almost a minute.
Regina nods as her eyes fill with tears once again. "I don't want anyone else I love to die protecting me!" she cries out. "I would rather die than lose someone else!" Then she realizes what she's just said and claps a hand over her mouth in surprise.
"Anyone else you love? Do you...do you want to talk more about that?"
Regina wonders if it's possible to just poof out of a room. There are ways to get herself allowed back on the job sooner, but admitting her deeply concealed feelings for her partner was not one of them.
"I don't know."
"Do you love Emma?"
"I don't know."
"She's your partner," he says diplomatically. "Obviously, a strong bond is going to develop; that's kind of the point. And she's the only other woman in the unit, it makes sense that the two of you would become close-"
"No," Regina interrupts.
"No?"
If she's going to open up, she might as well open all the way. "Yes, she's my partner, but it's more than that. I...I care very deeply about her."
"You mean romantically?"
"Maybe."
Dr. Hopper just nods.
"You have nothing to say about that?" Regina challenges. "That's a first."
"What would you like me to say?"
"You're supposed to tell me that it's unprofessional and I can't feel that way about her, and then you're supposed to help me get over it before it leads to disaster...if it hasn't already."
"I'm a therapist, Regina; I don't work for Internal Affairs. It's not my place to tell you whether your feelings are professional or not."
"Well, they aren't. I already know that."
"It is my job," he continues, pretending he hadn't heard her last remark, "to tell you whether your feelings are helping or hurting your healing process."
"Okay, so tell me," she demands. "And then help me get rid of them, because I can't...I can't feel this way about her."
"Why not?"
"Have you not been listening to me? Because it's inappropriate! I need to get over it and get back to my life."
"Right, because that life was working really well for you," he says with a tired sigh (When has he ever been this sarcastic before?), and she glares. "Feelings don't work that way, Regina. They don't just go away. You can bury them deep inside you, but they're just going to pop back up when it's least convenient. I think, by now, you should know that better than anyone."
"Then what do you suggest I do?"
"You...you should let yourself feel whatever it is that Emma makes you feel. Especially if she makes you happy."
"She does," Regina admits. "When she's not getting shot, she makes me very happy."
"Tell me about that," Archie encourages. He laces his fingers together with hers and gives her a soft smile. "Tell me about how she makes you happy."
"I...I don't know. She just does," Regina fumbles. "She's very...she's kind. To everyone. And she's...well, she's not really that funny, but she thinks she is, and that's...it's kind of adorable. She's not afraid to laugh at herself. And she's just so genuine; everything about her is real and sincere. I think that's - above all, that's what I love about her."
"You're smiling," Archie observes, "when you talk about her."
Regina reaches up to feel her face and realizes that she is, in fact, smiling broadly. "She makes me smile...very often. Her son does, too. He's so sweet and creative, and just...enthusiastic about everything. Having both of them in my life, even for such a short time, has been such a blessing."
"Regina, do you want to know the last time I saw you smile like this?" Archie asks. "Because the answer is never."
"I think they actually have helped me heal somewhat," she admits. "I...I told Emma about White. Just a little bit, not everything, but...she was very supportive, and that same day, I rode a horse with her son. It was the first time, and I felt truly happy with him. I haven't felt that way in so long."
"Regina, that's wonderful."
"It is," she agrees, "but-"
"No, there is no 'but.' That's wonderful!"
"But I can't feel this way about her. She's my partner! We work together nearly every minute of the day. I can't go through the day harboring these feelings!"
"Maybe you don't have to hide it," Hopper suggests. "You could always tell her how you feel."
"That would only make it worse," Regina mumbles.
"Why?"
"I already told you!" she exclaims impatiently.
"Because you're partners? But what if you weren't?"
"What do you mean?" she asks frantically, starting to panic. "What are you talking about?"
"Breathe, Regina. It's just a hypothetical situation. If you weren't partners, would you tell her how you feel?"
"No."
"You seem very certain of that answer."
"I don't want to ruin what we have. Our friendship. I – if she doesn't feel the same way..."
"But what if she did?"
"Whose side are you on?" Regina demands.
"Yours, although I wasn't aware there were sides to be chosen."
"Then why are you encouraging me to do something that could cause me to lose my career?"
"Your career that, in your own words, is the reason you lost everything?" Regina scowls. "I just want you to answer one question, Regina. You say that you want to get better, to be happy again. Isn't that right?"
"I do," she insists tearfully. "I want that more than anything."
"And here is an opportunity for you find that happiness, to help heal your heart, and your response is to run in the opposite direction. Why is that?"
"You're the therapist. You tell me."
"Regina..."
"I don't need to pursue a romantic relationship with Emma to be happy. Our friendship already makes me happy. We just established that."
"Maybe," he allows, "but it also seems like hiding your feelings for her is causing you a lot of stress."
"I can handle my stress." What she can't handle is the possibility of losing Emma just like the last person she cared for this way.
He's decent enough not to contradict her. "Okay, then," he sighs, checking his watch. "I think we made a lot of progress today."
"So when can I go back to work?"
"That remains to be seen. Let's set up another appointment a week from now and see how you're doing."
"A week?" Regina demands. Her voice squeaks and for a second she's afraid she's going to cry again, but she keeps it in.
"This is a process, Regina. You know that. Obviously, if there's an emergency, or you want to talk before then, you can call whenever you want. But I think that resuming our weekly sessions for a while will be good for you, even after you're back at work."
"Fine. Do I have homework?" she growls, feeling for a moment like a frustrated high school student instead of an adult.
"I'd like you to start journaling again-"
"Archie, I don't-"
"You didn't let me finish. Not about the flashbacks, unless you want to, because we're both hoping you don't have another one for a while, and we agreed that didn't help, anyway. No, I want you to write about your good moments. Every time you smile: when, and why."
"Fine," she huffs, "anything else?"
"Just...take care of yourself. Spend time with people who make you feel safe. The usual."
Regina nods slowly. She supposes she can try to do that. She thinks about Emma and how spending time with her could certainly be a good moment if she can just manage to control her emotions for once. She stands and she's about to walk out of the room when she suddenly turns and says, "Archie, do you think...if I told her how I feel, and she doesn't feel the same way, do you think she'd forgive me?"
"I can't speak for Detective Swan – I've never even met her – but I don't think that love is anything that requires forgiveness. Anyway," he jokes, "you mentioned she had a head injury? She might not even remember it five minutes later, anyway."
Regina almost laughs. "Thanks, Archie."
Regina pokes her head into Emma's hospital room. She's unsure if she wants to confess her feelings to her partner or not, but at the very least, she wants to apologize for the rudeness of her attempts to conceal them. And, truthfully, what would it harm if Emma knew? The younger woman must have had at least one unrequited crush in her life; she'd probably understand.
But she realizes as soon as the enters that she had conveniently forgotten one important fact: Henry and Neal are still here; they're not returning to New York until tonight. And they're currently arguing loudly over Emma's very confused head.
"Henry, you have to go to school," Neal says exasperatedly.
"It's the last week," Henry protests. "We're just going to have a party and clean out all our old projects. I won't learn anything, and they'll let me pass fourth grade no matter what!"
"We still have to go back to New York. I can't take any more time off this month."
"Then let me stay by myself and take care of Mom!"
"Henry," Neal says with a heavy sigh, "you're ten. You're awesome, but you're not old enough to take care of Mom all by yourself, and she can't take care of you right now. She needs time to heal. I promise I'll bring you back to see her next weekend."
Henry looks like he's about to cry, and Regina clears her throat to alert them to her presence. "Hello, everyone. What seems to be the problem?" she asks.
"Regina!" Henry exclaims, immediately enveloping her in a desperate hug. "Tell my dad that I have to stay in Boston and take care of my mom. She needs me. I don't need school."
"Henry, I...I can't make that decision," Regina says helplessly. He'd seemed in such high spirits the last time she'd spoken to him, but the trauma of almost losing his mother is clearly catching up to him, and her heart aches. "That's...it's your parents' choice."
"Kid," Emma pipes up, "I'm gonna be fine. You go to New York and enjoy your class party, and...I'm gonna be fine." She seems on the verge of tears, like she doesn't want him to leave at all, and the trauma of the last few days is making it much harder for her to be strong.
"So, what is our main problem?" Regina asks. "Are you worried about Henry missing school, or...what?"
"The problem is that Henry is only ten years old, and, responsible as he is for his age, he's not responsible enough to be a caregiver for his mother," Neal explains slowly. "And, in her current condition, she might not be able to care for him, either. She needs to focus on taking care of herself."
Emma and Henry are both crying at this point, and Neal himself doesn't look particularly happy about the decision he's had to make. Regina can't take it, and the most and least brilliant idea she's ever had suddenly pops into her head.
"What if," she suggests tentatively, "there was someone there to take care of both of them, so they could be together."
Henry stops crying, and Neal and Emma both stare at her in disbelief, though probably for different reasons. "Are you volunteering?" Neal asks skeptically.
"I...yes," Regina answers. "I'm on leave for the next couple of weeks; I have plenty of time on my hands. And, well, you saved my life; it's the least I can do."
"Are...are you sure that's okay?" asks Emma.
"Yes," Regina states with much more confidence than she feels.
Henry is jumping up and down and hugging her tightly and she feels slightly faint, and Neal raises his eyebrows and says, "Alright, then."
As Regina leaves the hospital to grab some clothes from her apartment – she's made plans with Neal to pick Emma and Henry up from the hospital in a few hours after Emma is discharged and stay with them at Emma's place for the next week or so – she calls Locksley at the station to tell him her plan.
"You'll be pleased to know that I've found a way to keep myself busy while you prevent me from doing my job."
"Are you out of your mind?" he asks after she explains it.
"Do you need to redo your sensitivity training?" she demands.
Robin groans. "Regina, have you never heard the expression 'put on your own oxygen mask first'?"
"I'm perfectly oxygenated."
She hangs up the phone and briefly considers that he may be right, but she dismisses that thought almost as soon as it enters her mind. Because, as much as Emma Swan takes her breath away, she's also the one who ends up helping her breathe again, and she's never going to take that gift for granted again. Emma is the tree that provides her oxygen, the lone surviving sapling in a completely leveled forest, and she needs to be protected and nurtured at all costs.
