Warnings: Violence and some language.
Notes: This is a major turning point - a thematical shifting between the ladies. It does feature a collision which is not...preferable, but is accurate to the nature of these women where they are. Understand that the point is very much that what happened here is wrong...and then we move forward from there.
It takes a still half-asleep Emma Swan more than a few minutes to figure out exactly where the hitting/weeping sound is coming from. At first, as she leans forward in her bed, pushed upwards on her forearms and blinking away the stray cobwebs in her head, she thinks that there must be an intruder in the kitchen, and her mind runs in circles trying to explain exactly why someone breaking into the house would be crying. It makes absolutely no sense to her.
Of course, then she thinks about Henry and Regina, and protecting them (yes, them, she realizes with a bit of a surprise and a soft chuckle) and suddenly it doesn't actually matter why the intruder is upset. It just matters that he or she is stopped before anyone whom Emma cares about is hurt.
She rises slowly from her bed, reaching for the hoodie that she'd tossed off before she'd climbed into bed. She pulls it over her head, and then for a long second, she just stands in the middle of her room trying to figure out what to do next. If there is an intruder, she needs to grab her gun, she thinks, and she needs to be ready to fire it as needed.
But then she hears the agonizing sound again – pained, awful and gut wrenching – and in a moment of crystal clear clarity, she knows for a fact that no one has broken into the house. That, and she realizes that the crying is coming not from inside, but rather from outside.
She looks over towards the open window next to her bed, and that's when she sees the bright light shining out from the garage. It's the one part of the house that runs adjacent to her room, and right about now she'd like to kick herself for not realizing what was going on much sooner.
That horrifyingly broken sound which she's hearing right at the moment? Well it's the noise of someone hitting the living shit of the heavy bag that's hanging from the ceiling in the garage. Which means that the person who is making that awful sound is actually Regina.
And if it is her – and Emma knows it is – that means that something very bad has happened.
The door is hanging open for Emma to rush frantically through, and as she does so, she finds that she's not one bit surprised to find the former queen slamming her body against the bag with the kind of force that would make a heavyweight boxer green with envy. She's not even all that shocked to see the blood running down the woman's hands and arms thanks to several gaping cuts torn into the flesh of Regina's typically delicate fingers. What does stun her is the way Regina is screaming as she punches (occasionally missing completely) out at the bag.
It's like she's completely lost her mind.
Which knowing Regina, she probably has.
Emma thinks to call out for the Queen, but past experience dealing with both Regina and other people who have been in the state that she's clearly in tells her that the brunette woman won't hear her, anyway; it'd be a waste of time and energy. So, instead, she stays quiet and simply moves forward, moving to stand behind Regina. She doesn't say a word until she has her arms around Regina's shuddering frame. "Stop," she insists, her tone firm. "You have to stop."
But, of course, Regina doesn't just give in; she doesn't actually know how to do so even if she had wanted to – even if doing so would spare her immeasurable pain. Instead, she pushes against Emma, struggling and fighting, and refusing to let down even when it's for the best.
Emma responds by wrapping her arms tighter around Regina, her hands joining in the middle of Regina's chest, an open palm resting atop a balled one and pressing downwards in order to a establish control over the disturbingly hyper-emotional woman, who continues to struggle.
She feels Regina shake violently against her, and she sees the way that Regina is looking upwards, her deeply troubled dark eyes staring straight ahead as if she's looking directly at something or someone.
As if she's lost within her own troubled mind.
After a brief moment of this, they fall backwards together, hitting the ground with a loud painful thump. Emma's backside protests the contact, but she pushes the momentary discomfort away, instead focusing completely on the distraught woman within her arms.
She feels rather than sees Regina drop her hands to her chest, settling them atop Emma's balled hands, and then there's a sudden intense pressure as Regina pushes downwards, towards her own heart, like she's trying to get to it. Like she's trying to feel the beating of it.
And then suddenly, Regina is surging forward once more, as if she's trying to get back to the bag so that she can start hitting it again. Emma holds her tight, though, using all of her strength to keep the frantic clearly distraught woman in place. "I've got you," she whispers gently.
Apparently, that bit of kindness is all it takes because just like that, Regina comes apart.
Teeth grit, her muscles in her neck straining as she leans forward, the Queen begins to sob. It's violent and horrible, and for a terribly long moment, Emma can do little but watch in open mouthed shock as the typically tough as nails woman in her arms cries nearly hysterically into the icy cold air of the garage, a thousand old and new hurts spilling out and exposing themselves like bloody war wounds which are now absent their once protective scabs.
"Regina," Emma finally whispers, her voice shaking beneath the strain of her anxious fears, the word just barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of Regina's choked out sobs.
She gets no reply beyond the continued crying, and it occurs to her that until whatever this emotional turmoil that is currently burying Regina alive is over, there's nothing that she can do to help Regina. So, instead of trying to stop it at all, Emma simply tightens her hold on Regina.
Then, absent anything else to do, but try to offer some degree of comfort to the shuddering woman who seems incapable of stopping the cries that are coming out of her mouth, Emma whispers softly into Regina's ear, saying over and over – assuring her - that it will all be okay.
Somewhere along the way, sometime during all the rocking and promising, sheer exhaustion overtakes them both and they both just drop backwards. Her arms stay tight and secure around Regina's torso, their hands still connected atop the Queen's frantically beating heart.
Even when everything seems to drift away from her, she doesn't let go of Regina.
She doesn't know exactly why she doesn't, but something tells her that it's never been more important to hold on to Regina and this new understanding of theirs than it is right now.
Emma has no idea how much time passes. Enough of it, she supposes.
When all is said and done, she doesn't actually fall asleep; she more dozes out and loses contact with reality for a time. Everything turns shades of black, white and gray, and for a while, Emma just stares blankly straight ahead, her arms still wrapped tight around Regina's trembling body.
It's the feeling of Regina finally separating herself with a kind of frantic anxiety that brings Emma fully back to her senses. Her head pounding from the rough contact with the cement surface, Emma watches from her semi-laid out position on the ground as Regina rolls herself away, and then quickly scurries – in a decidedly un-Queen like manner – across the garage.
"Regina," she sighs, as she places a hand on the ground to push herself up. "Are you –"
"Stay there," the former Queen interrupts, her words said sharply and harshly, a finger lifted up as if to keep Emma away from her. She's practically panting with badly disguised panic.
"Regina," Emma tries again, sitting up more fully now and popping the strain and soreness out of her back; her head is pounding, but that she can worry about much later. "It's okay –"
"It's not okay!" Regina replies immediately. "It's not. This isn't…this is your fault." She shakes her head and that's when Emma sees the glassy look in the Queen's red-rimmed dark eyes.
That's when she notices not only the fear, but the way that she's rapidly folding inwards.
Survival techniques, Emma thinks, and knows that she's about to get hit with all of them.
She should resist, not rise to the bait. See and understand what this is; easier said than done.
"My fault?" Emma repeats, clearly surprised. Then, with a bit of annoyance, "How's that?"
"You made me remember," Regina growls, her hand curling into a tight fist as she fights for control that seems to be flowing past her like water. "I told you that I didn't want to."
"Remember what?" Emma presses as she finally pushes herself up to her feet. Wincing slightly at the pain she feels, she takes a couple slow cautious steps towards Regina, and then stops.
"My dreams," comes the still not quite connected to reality response. There's an odd lilt to Regina's voice, like she's still stuck in her own mind. "You had to keep pushing, didn't you?"
"I…I don't know what –"
Emma's barely gotten the stammered words out of her very dry mouth before Regina is back across the room and up in her face, her eyes snapping fire. It's weird, though, because while she's absolutely there physically, she still seems completely absent mentally. "You did this to me," Regina hisses. "I was fine until you forced me to remember. And now they won't stop."
"Who are they? Who won't stop?" Emma asks, holding her ground even though Regina is almost disturbingly close now. She can smell the Queen's scent – earthy and salty mixed with something that smells a whole lot like sweat and fear. It's intoxicating and unsettling and Emma finds herself wanting to run both towards Regina and away from her all at the same time.
"They want me to know who I am," Regina babbles out, shaking her head, her eyes somehow growing even wider and more panicked again. "Do they really think that I don't know who I am? Do they really think that I don't know what I've done? What I am? Do you think that? Do you?"
"No, " Emma says softly, reaching out to gently wrap a hand around Regina's wrist. She feels the warm wetness of blood there, and finds herself forcibly reminded of the ugly cuts that now mar Regina's knuckles and the rest of her damaged hands. "I think that you know entirely too well who you are, Regina. I think you have always known and have hated yourself for that."
"Then why did you make me remember?" There's something chillingly young and innocent lurking in her trembling voice. "I was doing fine. I was fine. I was…I was…" Her words are swallowed up by a harsh coughing sound, like her throat has suddenly closed up on her.
"But you weren't," Emma counters as she lets go of Regina's wrist and puts a few feet between them – just for the moment, anyway. "You weren't doing fine at all, Regina, and I think we both know it. Forcing yourself to forget what you've done won't help you to deal with what you -"
"You don't know! You…don't. It helped me!" Regina growls, and her suddenly red face shades with enough hurt and pain to let Emma know that wherever Regina's mind was previously, she's right here now, and emotionally, she's bleeding out all over the place. She steps even further away from Emma, and starts pacing, turning her back on the sheriff as she moves around. Her stride is long and agitated, and yet there's something quite predatory about it.
Emma wonders idly if this is what the Evil Queen had looked like when she'd been stalking around her palace, high as a kite on fury and dark magic. Had she seemed to those around her to be terrifying and yet fascinating then, too? Had she been as charismatic and as repulsing?
"Did it?" Emma replies, forcing a flat tone despite the fear that she feels. "You locked away everything you ever did, everything you ever felt. You even locked your conscience away."
Regina spins around on her, her dark eyes flashing malevolently. A sneer crosses her lips. When she finally speaks, her voice is suddenly low and almost silky in its purposeful cruelty. "What would you know about a conscience, Miss Swan? The hardest decision that you've ever had to make is whether or not to fuck another woman's husband. Hardly seems relevant here."
Swallowing back the instinctual urge to fire back, Emma instead nods her head. She knows what this is, knows exactly what Regina is trying to do, and she's determined that after all of this – after all they've been through both back in Storybrooke and here - she's not going to let it work.
She's resolute that she's going to be the bigger woman, and that she's going to stand tall and let these painful blows hit against her without fighting back. She's dead set that even if it hurts a little – or even a lot - she's going to be the punching bag that Regina so desperately needs right now because the real one, which is still swaying back and forth, isn't going to cut it tonight.
"I've done my fair share of shitty things," Emma answers after a few long intense seconds, her own blue-green eyes misting up as she punctuates her words with a small sad smile mean to admit her remorse. "I have a pretty damned good idea what it means to hear that little voice."
"This isn't a fairytale," Regina snorts derisively. "There's no little cricket sitting on my shoulder telling me how I can just make better choices. There's not one on your shoulder, either for that matter."
"No, there's not. Not out here in the real world, at least," Emma agrees, stepping forward again, and putting out a hand as if to reach for Regina; she stops short, but the offer remains there. "But that doesn't change the truth of what we've done. That doesn't change who we are."
"And who am I, Emma?" Regina asks, stepping close to her again. They're practically touching now, little more than half an inch separating them. "Who do you truly see me as, Savior?"
"I see you as Regina," Emma answers, again refusing to rise to the bait of the title.
"No," Regina breathes, her eyes wild. "I'm the Evil Queen, silly girl." She leans even further in, and Emma's struck by the bizarre thought that she's about to be kissed – claimed even. It takes everything she has not to swallow, to hold herself steady and not flinch beneath the intensity.
"Do you really believe that you're still her?" Emma challenges, eyes locked. "Because I don't think you are. I think this is all just a familiar mask that you slip on whenever you get scared."
Regina laughs, the sound entirely too forceful to be completely real. "How many masks are you aware of that have as much blood and death on them as mine does?" Another high cold laugh and then Regina adds on, "What makes you think this is a mask and not just the real me?"
"Because I know who you are, Regina."
"You think so, do you? Tell me you don't really believe that a bit of kickboxing can change me into something better? You think the ocean can make me anything more than what I am."
"I guess that all depends on what you actually are."
"A murderer."
"Okay, but I don't think you have to be that person anymore. And what's more? I don't think you want to be her, anymore. I think that all of this – this whole fit - is just you being afraid."
"Of you?" Regina asks, the derision clear. "Hardly."
"No, not of me, though maybe you are afraid of me, too. The truth can be pretty goddamned scary. But I think mostly you're afraid of finally facing the things you see in your nightmares. The things that you've done. That's why you've been blocking out your dreams for so long."
"You want to know what's in my dreams?" Regina asks, smiling coldly.
"Yes," Emma replies immediately, squaring her shoulders, and readying herself for an answer that she instinctively knows is going to hurt like a bitch. Because this is all about pushing back.
And pushing away.
"Graham," Regina hisses, leaning in again. "I dreamt about killing him." She bares her perfect white teeth as she speaks, her eyes narrowed and cruel. The vicious lie pours forward, "I dreamt about the power and the joy and the satisfaction I felt when I crushed his heart to –"
Emma never lets her finish; something angry snaps inside of her, and suddenly she has her hand around Regina's throat and is throwing them both backwards against the far wall of the garage.
"Stop," she demands, tightening her hand.
Regina laughs, the sound almost hysterical.
"Stop talking or I swear to God I will make you stop," Emma says once more and then slams Regina into the wall. She hears the pained grunt, but in front of her eyes, all she sees is red.
"Tell me," Regina taunts, her voice choked. "Did he look like he was in pain when he died?"
"Fucking stop it," Emma gasps out now, her throat closing around the words even as her hand jerks forward to slam Regina against the wall once more, her fingers crushing inwards.
"Good," the former queen whispers, blinking fiercely as she tries and fails to force a rush of hot tears back. When she speaks, there's no anger there, just resignation. "Then maybe it's time you make me pay for that. Maybe it's time, Savior, that you give me what I deserve."
"What you deserve?" Emma repeats in a barely audible voice, and just like that, the switch inside of her head and her heart gets thrown again, and she's staring at her hand which is wrapped around Regina's throat, her fingers pressed viciously into delicate skin. Regina's head is against the wall, and her eyes are squinted in pain. Emma sees the tears running down Regina's ashen cheeks, and she shakes her head in disbelief, realizing that she's been played.
Realizing that she'd allowed her anger to be manipulated and controlled.
Which, of course, is exactly when Henry decides to show up.
The kid has slept through dozens of nights of bad dreams and frantic cries, but apparently a fight between his mothers is enough to pull him from his bed. He enters the garage, his eyes widening as he takes in the sight of Emma holding Regina against the wall by her throat.
"Emma!" he cries out. "Stop! What are you doing? Let her go!"
Her hand immediately falls away from Regina's now badly bruised throat. She imagines that within a few hours, the Queen is going to have some vivid color wrapped around her neck.
"You're supposed to be helping her," he insists.
"Henry," Emma starts to explain, and then she abruptly just stops because how can she even begin to explain what had just occurred between she and Regina? How can she even figure out where to start? She clenches her hand at her side in order to try to stop it from trembling.
She should have seen this coming; after all, Regina is a pro at self-destruction. She could teach a class in how to manipulate people in order to push them away before they can get too close.
"You promised you'd help her."
"I…"
"She tried," Regina says suddenly. Looking like she's about to collapse, she instead steps away from the wall and approaches him, wincing as she drops down to a knee in front of him, doing what she always does and insisting on being on his level to speak to him. "I did this, Henry" she tells him, her voice trembling. "I attacked Emma; she just defended herself. This is all my fault."
"Regina," Emma tries to cut in, reaching out a hand, but grasping only air.
"I'm sorry that I keep letting you down," Regina tells him, ignoring Emma completely.
"I thought you were getting better?" he asks, so young and confused.
Her eyes close for a moment, and more tears stream out, splashing down her cheeks and spilling onto her shirt. "I'm sorry," she says again because everything else sounds like a lie.
"I don't understand," he tells her. "I thought –"
"You thought right. It's just…things got out of control," Emma offers up, stepping towards them and reaching out for Henry. She puts a hand on his shoulder, and insists, "That's all."
"You were choking her," Henry reminds her, his eyes on his mother's bruised throat.
"She was defending herself against me; she had no choice," Regina tells him once more, and then refuses to look Emma's way when the blonde sheriff throws her an incredulous look.
"I guess not. I guess maybe coming here was a mistake," he states, shaking his head.
"Henry, no," Emma insists. "It's wasn't –"
"Maybe everyone else was always right and we were wrong. Maybe she can't be saved," he snaps, his face corkscrewing into one of betrayal. "Maybe we should just go home."
He doesn't allow either of them a chance to answer, just turns and storms away from them, rushing back towards the house, the door slamming behind him thanks to the force of his rage.
"Why?" Emma says softly, turning to face the Queen once the door has slammed shut with thud which makes Regina noticeably jump. "Why are you so damned determined to burn everything down around you? Why are you so insistent on finding a way to push everyone away?"
"Because he's right," Regina answers, her voice flat, but somehow still so very sad. "And it is time you realized it and let go of this ridiculous notion of yours, Sheriff; I can't be saved."
"Regina –"
"Enough. Enough of this madness."
"No! I saw – I heard you. I held you, Regina. I know what you're doing right now; I know what you were doing by talking about Graham. You think that I'm that easy to push away? You think Henry is?"
"Yes, I do. So please, don't let me down this time."
"Let you down? What –"
Regina lifts her chin up and gazes directly at Emma, their eyes meeting, watery broken brown on vivid determined green. "You lost your faith in me when I needed it the most; don't make a fool of yourself now, Swan, and keep that faith when I deserve it the very least."
"Life isn't always about what we deserve," Emma insists.
"No," Regina nods. She smiles sadly, then. "It's not."
And with that, she turns and walks away, following Henry out of the garage.
Leaving Emma alone to wonder what had just happened.
Morning rolls around a few hours later, and though she's exhausted out of her mind, Emma reluctantly pulls herself from her bed, and makes her way into the kitchen. She considers a beach run, but she's too weary and sore for that, and so instead she starts on breakfast.
Henry comes out of his bedroom at his normal time, and sits down at the table, his expression morose and sulky, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. She'd love to shrug all of this off to him just rapidly spinning towards his teenage years, but she knows that it's more than that.
"Hey," Emma says, her voice intentionally light, from her position behind the counter. She's making hefty overstuffed bacon and cheese omelets this morning because she knows how much he loves them, and right now he looks like he could use something to smile about.
"Hey," Henry grouses, leaning back in his chair. She wonders idly if he gets not only the clear petulance, but also the terrible posture from her. The temper and irrational behavior certainly have to have come from Regina, she thinks as she watches him crumble up a napkin in his fist.
"Did you happen to see your mom in the hallway?" she asks as she flips the omelet over and listens to the sound of it grilling against the pan. She tries to keep her tone neutral and even gentle, but he sees right through her, giving her a look of annoyance that's almost patronizing.
That expression comes from Regina, too, she's certain.
"No," he finally says as he drops the ruined napkin on to the table, and then almost compulsively goes about smoothing it out. Like that, too, is something deep in his head.
"Well, why don't you go get her? Breakfast is just about up."
He blinks, confusion shining in his eyes, like he can't figure out why she would want to pretend like everything is normal and okay after what he'd seen and heard in the garage. Why would she want to break bread with a woman who had attacked her as his dark-haired mother had?
Why would she want to have breakfast with a woman whom she'd almost choked to death?
"Please?" Emma presses.
"Fine," Henry grumbles, standing up and scuffing his feet against the tiled floor. He makes his way down the hallway and knocks on Regina's door. "Hey," he calls out. "Breakfast is ready."
The door opens a few moments later, and it's only because he's so young that he doesn't see and understand just how tired and worn down she is. Even so, even he can quite plainly see that something isn't quite right with his adoptive mother. She doesn't seem right to him, and it's enough to make the anger that he'd been holding onto bleed away. Because deep down under all of the emotions that he doesn't understand is one that he does: he loves this woman.
For all the ways that she has failed him, she is still his mother and he still does love her.
"Henry," she smiles, the expression both sad and oddly discomforting. She reaches out as if to touch his chin in a way that she has done a hundred times before, but pulls up short, balling her fingers into a fist instead. Then, as if realizing the defensive nature of the gesture, she forces her hand to loosen up, and instead settles it shakily against the dark cotton of her slacks.
"Breakfast is ready," he tells her, frowning as he looks down at his mom's hand which is now thumping against the leg of her slacks, her nervous behavior impossible to hide. His eyes widen slightly as he takes in the vivid red gashes there, cuts that circle around her palms and push deeply into her knuckles. They're all cleaned out now, but even that can't take away from how bright and angry they are. Shifting anxiously, Henry finds himself wondering where they'd come from considering that it'd been Emma whom he'd seen holding Regina in place earlier that morning. True, Regina had claimed to have attacked first, but he hadn't noticed marks on Emma.
"Thank you for coming to get me, sweetheart," she tells him, her tone oddly distant. Her voice draws his eyes back up towards her face, and that's when he notices the ring of bruises around her throat – perfect purplish fingerprints dug into the skin. "But I'm not hungry this morning."
"You should still…you should eat with us. It's what…it's what we do."
She swallows, and for a moment looks as though she might relent, but then says in a tightly controlled voice, "Normally, yes, but I'm not feeling very well; I would like to be alone."
There's a crisp finality to her words that makes him nod his head, mutely acquiescing to her demands despite the fact that they both know that it's a bad idea to do so. But it's hard not to surrender to her will right now; to him, she sounds a whole lot like the woman he'd lived with during the months after Emma had come to town – the ones just before the curse had broken. That woman had been cold and distant even as she'd tried so desperately to hold onto him.
He watches the door close in his face, and then turns and walks back down the hall, dropping himself into the chair at the table, looking even more miserable than he had before.
"Is she coming?" Emma asks, glancing up from the stove-top, her brow furrowed with worry.
"No. She said she wanted to be alone. I think…I don't think she's feeling very well." He muses about the bruises he'd seen on his mom's neck, and instinctively, his left hand comes up and he touches at his own throat, feeling the unblemished skin there. He frowns. "She's hurt, Emma."
"Maybe she's having one of her headaches," Emma offers him, adding on a tight smile.
"Yeah," Henry agrees as he watches her place the plate in front of him. The massive omelet there smells fantastic, and his stomach growls appreciatively. Still, he simply stares at it.
"Henry –"
"Can I have some orange juice, please?" he asks suddenly, looking up at her. She gets the feeling that he's taking another page out of Regina's book; this one is all about pushing her away from him, refusing to let her in to help him when he needs her the most.
And the worst part is, she doesn't have a clue what to do about it. "Sure, Kid," she says with what she hopes is a comforting smile. "Of course."
"Thanks." And then he drops his head, and focuses on his omelet.
She sighs, glances down the hallway towards Regina's room, and then makes her way to the refrigerator to collect the orange juice for him.
It's going to be a long day, she thinks.
"Hey, sorry for calling so early. Am I bugging you?" she asks, holding her cell to her cheek. She's standing outside on the deck, a hot mug of coffee nestled in one hand. It's a cool morning, and there's a light mist hanging down in the air. As she talks, she faces the water, eyes on the surf.
"Pun intended?" he asks, and she hears him chuckle.
She winces. "God, no. Sorry, that's just me being well, me." She lifts the mug up to her lips, and takes a long drink from it, closing her eyes as the smooth taste of Regina's vanilla bean coffee rushes over her tongue. "I've been doing that a lot over the last couple of days."
"There's absolutely nothing wrong with that," Archie assures her, and she can just about see him smile. When he speaks again, his voice is typically warm. "What can I do for you, Emma?"
"You're not going to ask how things are going with me and Regina?"
"Well, honestly, I'm assuming that if you're calling to check in with me for the first time in almost a month that the answer to that questions is probably 'not good', right?"
"Yeah. I need some advice. And it kind of has to do with the whole me being me thing," she replies with a tired sigh. She watches as a high wave crashes the beach, depositing several long branches. She thinks about going down after the call is over and collecting them for the fort.
And then wonders if Regina would see that as another form of attack against her.
"Do I get to know details this time?"
"What do you think?"
"Right. Good. She needs that from you. Trust."
"Yeah, that's kind of the problem. Without telling you too much, we kind of got into a bit of a fight this morning. A really bad one, actually. More to the point, she kind of…well, I think the best way to say it without saying too much here is that she manipulated me into reaction."
"I'm guessing it wasn't a good one."
"No. It was…exactly what she wanted."
"Ah. And right now your relationship is?"
"Feels like we've gone all the way back to square one."
"Which you think was her intention when she started the fight?"
"I think a lot of things happened this morning, but by the time the fight started, her intention was to piss me off and hurt me enough to make me grab Henry and walk away from her."
"I see," Archie says. In the background, Emma hears Pongo barking away.
She chuckles. "Well, I'm glad you do. Can you help me see?"
She hears Archie shush Pongo, and then, returning to the phone he says, his voice remaining so very patient and kind, "Tell me something, Emma; what made you fall into her manipulation?"
"She pushed my buttons. One specifically."
"One that she knew would get the reaction she wanted?"
"Yes."
"Did you know what she was doing while she was doing it?"
"Yes."
"So why did you fall into it?"
Emma considers her answer for a moment, sighing before she says, "Regina has a way of pushing past my defenses and making me lose my head, and I guess…I don't know."
"Your instincts told you what she was doing, right?"
"Yeah."
"But you stopped trusting them?"
"Same answer as before."
"So maybe that's the answer here, too, then; you have to trust yourself, Emma. You talked at the beginning of this call about this being a matter of you being you, but I would argue that it's the opposite. The problems aren't arising because it's you being you, but because every time you deal with Regina, every time you get close, something happens and you stop relying on your instincts. You let emotion take over and she pushes you away or you break trust with her."
"This time she forced that."
"Because last time when you thought she killed me, you did so willingly."
"Yeah, she mentioned that," Emma says with a wince. She winds her fingers through the curls if her hair, clenching for a moment before dropping her hand down again, gazing at her fist.
"Whatever caused Regina to push back on you was something that scared her enough to give up on what's actually been working for the two of you for the last several weeks. That alone should tell you that you're making massive progress. Now is when you have to trust yourself more than ever, Emma. Now is when you have to trust your instincts about Regina."
"So you're saying I have to keep pushing."
"That's exactly what I'm saying. Regina is used to everyone giving up on her or walking away from her or choosing someone or something else. She probably expects that after whatever happened between the two of you today that you'll give up as well. If you're serious about helping her – and yourself – then you have to be strong enough to let her know you're not going anywhere no matter what she throws at you. She wants to open up to you, Emma. She wants someone to trust. She just needs to believe that that person won't betray her."
"Got it. Thanks, Archie."
"Of course."
"Hey, how's Mary Margaret doing?"
"She's fighting," he says with a sigh. "She's tough; she'll get there."
"You sound like -"
"Snow sees things...differently. There's a lot to unpack there as well," Archie tells her.
"Yeah, I know. Thanks again. For everything."
"Always. If you need me –"
"I know where you are. Bye."
"Ice cream?" Henry asks, an eyebrow lifting up. It's a fairly cool day, even at twenty minutes past two in the afternoon, but he's still a kid, and there's absolutely no way that he'll say no to ice cream. Even if he's suspicious as to what her purpose for bringing him here might be.
"So suspicious," she mutters, picking up on it. "And here I just thought we could share a sundae," Emma shrugs as she places the bowl full of different flavored scoops and syrups in front of them. They're sitting across from each other at a table inside the local ice cream store.
They'd gone into town together to do grocery shopping for the week, and this had seemed as good a place as any for the conversation that she wants to have with Henry about his mom.
And hey, a chance to share ice cream is always a plus.
"Sure," he agrees as he places his spoon into the bowl. After a few bites from each of the strawberry, vanilla and chocolate scoops, and several moments of awkward silence from Emma, he looks up at his blonde mother and says, "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
"Am I that obvious?"
"Captain Obvious," he tells her.
"Awesome. Can we pretend I'm not?"
"No. What's up, Emma?"
"Even more awesome. Fine, I was hoping we could talk about your mom."
"Are you going to tell me the truth about what happened last night?"
She chuckles.
"What?"
"You're the second person today who has asked me that. Kind of."
"Archie?"
"You heard me speaking to him on the phone. Kid, you really have got to stop eavesdropping on everything and everyone. Despite what I do, it's not cool." she scolds. Or tries to anyway.
He simply shrugs his shoulders, and blows off the honestly fairly weak attempt at scolding him, saying instead, "Yeah. I heard you say my mom manipulated you into what happened."
"She did," Emma nods. "She intentionally pushed my buttons until I lost control of myself and attacked her. That's what you walked in on. She didn't actually physically attack me first."
He blinks, clearly surprised to be hearing the truth from her. "Why?"
"Why did I attack her or why did she push my buttons?"
"Both. And why did she lie to me about it? Why did she make herself…the bad guy?"
"Well, let's break that down, okay? I did what I did because she pissed me off. She did it because she's scared of a whole lot right now, Henry. She's starting to remember and really think about all the bad things that she's done and that's terrifying for her. Your mom's usual way of handling all the fear and bad emotions that she has is to try to run away from them. Or in my case, since she knows I'm not going to let her do that, she chose to try to push me away."
"Did it work?"
"Yeah, it did. You remember what I told you the first night we got here?"
He shakes his head, and then reminds her, "That was four weeks ago."
"Yeah. I told you that your mom knows how to push my buttons better than just about anyone alive does. And in turn, I know how to push hers, too. But what happened this morning, that was all about her trying to get me to run away from her because…that's what I've always done."
"But not anymore," he insists.
"But it wasn't all that long ago, either," she reminds him. "Remember, the day you ate the apple turnover? I was trying to leave town. I was trying to run away because it was too much; it was too hard and I was scared. It's what I've always done, Henry. It's how I've protected myself, and you know what, Kid, I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but I think maybe it's time you hear some honesty in this whole mess. Maybe it's time you finally realize that I'm no saint."
"I know that," he says, and she knows immediately that he doesn't actually.
"Mm," she nods, reaching forward and taking a spoonful of strawberry ice cream that is heavily drizzled with chocolate syrup. After a moment, she says softly, "What happened this morning, Henry, it's as much my fault as it is hers. She pushed my buttons, but I knew exactly what she was doing, and I let her do it. I let her push me away. That's on me as much as it's on her."
"Why?"
"Because I stopped trusting myself." She shakes her head. "We brought your mom here because she needed a safe place to be where she could heal. She needed somewhere where she could face her past and grieve for her mother. We brought her here so she could have a place where she could be honest and truthful about all of the really ugly stuff inside of her. We brought her here and promised to support her, and then this morning, I failed her in that."
Their eyes meet.
"I failed her, too," he says, holding a spoonful of ice cream in mid air.
"Hey, no, you didn't; you're just a kid, Henry, and it is okay to get angry at your mom when she does some of the things she does. It's okay to feel what you do. That's not the problem."
"So what is the problem? What did she do?"
"The problem is forgetting how complicated she is and how much she has lived before either of us became part of it. As for what she did? She reminded me of who she used to be in a way that I wasn't prepared for," Emma says, refusing to say more than that. She already thinks she's telling him too much, but this entire conversation feels way overdue and completely necessary.
It feels like something that should have happened a very long time ago.
"Then I don't understand –"
"What I'm saying is, it's okay to get angry at her and wish she wouldn't do the crazy things that she tends to do when she gets scared and hurt, but it's not okay for us to lose faith in her ability to be better, because that's what she believes already and she needs more from us than that."
He nods his head slowly. "I get it."
"Do you? Do you understand why I'm telling you all of this?"
He shakes his head. "Not really," he admits.
"What do you see your mother as?"
"She's mom," he offers up with a shrug.
"And?"
"She's the Evil Queen."
"And that's part of the problem. She was the Evil Queen, Henry. Thirty years and a different world ago. That's not to say that she hasn't done some truly terrible things since then, but she's not the woman from your book, and to be honest, Kid, I'm not sure that she ever really was."
"But –"
"What did that book tell you about how she grew up?"
He frowns as he thinks about this. "Not much. Her mom was…kind of mean."
"That's…an understatement. But what about her marriage to your grandfather?"
"She wanted to marry Daniel but after he died, she married the King instead."
"What has it ever told you about how she feels about things?"
"Not much. It doesn't really focus on the bad guys."
"Exactly. Your book for all the times that it's right about things is also very black and white in how it tells its stories. It's about love and winning and defeating the bad guys, but it never tells you about loss or pain or why the bad guys became who they were. It never tells you about the desperation that causes someone to turn their back on the best of themselves." She smiles sadly, reaching out to put her hand over his smaller one. "The reason I told you that I'm no saint, Henry, is because I'm not. My life before you wasn't easy, and I did some bad things, too."
"Not like her."
"No, not like her, but this world isn't like that one, and you know what, Kid? Who's to say what could have happened – what I might have been willing to do - if I'd been in her shoes over there. Everyone thinks it would have been all tiaras and balls, but you just never know."
He thinks over her words, and then says softly, "She seemed so sad this morning."
"I'd guess she probably was sad. Your mom believes that the one thing she really is good at is pushing people away, and I'd bet that's what she thinks she did this morning. Which means it's up to us to prove her wrong." She leans towards him, lowering her voice and making it almost conspiratorial in nature, "You think we can do that? Prove to her that we do believe in her?"
He nods his head in the affirmative. "Yeah, we can do that. Do we need an operation?"
"Nah, no operations for this. Just you and me," she says with a relieved smile. Then, using her spoon to slap at his, "Now get your spoon out of my strawberry. You can have the vanilla."
"I don't want the vanilla," he protests with an adorable wrinkle of his nose. "How about I get the strawberry and you get the chocolate, and we both agree that that's how it should be."
"No. I'm the adult. I get the one I want."
"And I'm your son whom you love more than anything in the world and would do anything for."
"Which means what exactly?"
"Which means I get the strawberry, and you get the chocolate."
"You are your mothers' son," she grouses.
"Is that a good thing?" he asks, growing suddenly very serious again.
She nods her head sharply, resolutely. "Yeah, definitely. Because under all of the anger and hurt is a brave woman with a strong and loving heart. We just need to help her show it better."
"We can do that," he says.
"Yes, we can," she agrees. And then she reaches over and stabs her spoon into the chocolate ice cream, the motion deliberate and petulant. "But don't think I won't remember this."
He grins, and she thinks that maybe it's the most beautiful thing that she's ever seen. "Bring it," he says before jamming strawberry ice cream into his mouth. "Mm, delicious," he manages.
"You suck."
"Eat your ice cream, Emma," he says with a triumphant smirk.
"Yeah, definitely your mothers' son," she grumbles.
He grins again, and she laughs and wonders how she ever got so lucky.
It's then – as she lifting an admittedly delicious spoonful of chocolate ice cream to her lips – that she makes the vow to herself that no matter what it takes, she will find a way to make Regina feel the exact same wonderfully warm and perfect thing that she is right now.
Regina is sitting on the couch reading an old Crichton paperback when they come in, their arms overloaded with huge bags of groceries. They stop when they see her there, mother and son both regarding her with badly veiled curiosity and interest. They seem oddly pleased to see her, and she's not terribly sure as to why considering her last interactions with the two of them.
"Do you need help?" Regina asks softly. Her eyes meet with Emma's for half a second, and then slide away, towards Henry. She offers him a small smile, but it doesn't quite ever look real. She looks so damned tired and worn out, and Emma can see the telltale frown lines on Regina's forehead, the ones that indicate that the former queen has likely been battling a rather severe migraine for most – if not all - of the day. That's not terribly surprising considering how the somewhat debilitating headaches seem to be brought on by very high stress and emotion.
"No, I got it," Emma assures her with a far more generous and engaging smile. "There are only a couple more bags. Besides, I think that cartoon that you like is on right now, isn't it, Kid?"
"Oh right," Regina nods, standing up. "I'll –"
"No, stay and watch with me," Henry insists, reaching out and grabbing her hand to keep her from getting too far away from him. He tightens his hold on her, squeezing their fingers slightly. Her eyes track down to their adjoined hands, and she finds herself staring stupidly at them.
"You hate when I watch cartoons with you," she reminds him, her voice soft and slightly shaky, her head slightly tilting like she can't quite figure out what's happening here.
Is this a game? A set-up? Some way to try to provoke her into another reaction?
But then Henry is grinning at her again, and it's so very hard to think any kind of bad of her little prince and his intentions. "That's because you always tell me how preposterous they are."
"Seriously? You do?" Emma asks, smirking a bit. "Why am I not surprised?"
Regina knows this is strange, all of them acting like nothing is wrong even before they've had a chance to clear the air about what had happened this morning, but that's for later, she thinks. Right now, even if it's just pretending for a few minutes, it's nice to have some calm again.
"Cartoons are actually preposterous for the most part, Miss Swan," Regina offers up as she tries to regain some control. "I mean that one with the roadrunner and the coyote is just absurd."
"It's also a classic," Emma chuckles.
"It's preposterous."
"Says the woman who can create cupcakes out of thin air."
"Well, yes," Regina agrees with a shrug. "I suppose you have a point there."
"Oh! The Queen allowed me a win! Score one for me!" Emma grins, and this whole moment is so utterly silly in both presentation and execution that Regina can't help herself from chuckling.
Which is when she feels Henry tug her hand again. "Watch with me."
"Are you sure, Henry? I can –"
"Please?" He gives her a look that is both pleading and unsure and she's overcome by the need to give him whatever he wants. And what he wants right now, apparently, is to be with her.
"Of course." She allows herself to be pulled back down onto the sofa, and then has to clench her jaw to keep herself from gasping when he just about presses himself against her side. Her arm goes around his back, and she scratches at his shoulder. He smiles up at her, and she responds in kind. "So," she says, her voice breaking slightly. "What is this one about?"
"Batman," he says as he flicks on the LCD TV. The screen blinks to life, and after he changes the channel, darkly animated visuals showing off the Gotham based crime-fighter spring forward.
"The lunatic who dresses like a rat?" she asks with a lifted up eyebrow. She vaguely remembers him from the comic books of Henry's that she's audited over the years. Behind them, in the kitchen, she hears Emma snort; a glance that way shows her the blonde shaking her head.
"A bat, Mom," Henry corrects with the kind of sigh that only a boy can muster. "And trust me, you'll agree that he's the coolest in a minute; he's like you and Emma if you were one person."
"That's actually kind of terrifying," Regina drawls.
"Have to agree with her, Kid," Emma says as she exits the kitchen, and heads towards the front door to go for another armload of groceries. "Can't we be two separate superheroes?"
"No," he says, then turns his attention back to the television.
He doesn't see the look his mothers exchange – one that says that there's a very deep and in-depth discussion that still needs to be had between them; there's still so many things to be worked out, but that they both agree that this moment right here is something worth having.
Something worth holding on to.
They tuck him into bed together as they've done almost every night they've been here, but it's Regina who stays a few minutes longer, sitting on the edge of his bed, and listening to him as he talks about the ice cream sundae that he and Emma had shared earlier. She strokes his hair away from his forehead as he speaks, allowing her fingers to weave through the silky tresses.
Finally, reluctantly, she says, "All right, sweetheart, I think it's time for you to close your eyes, and try to get some sleep; it's been a very long day." She pulls the blankets up to his chin, and then, wondering if he feels like he's being smothered by her, loosens them back up again.
"Okay," he grumbles, reaching down to yank the blankets up over him once again.
Her eyes watering as she watches him, impulsively, she leans down and presses her lips against his forehead, leaving them for a moment longer than is probably necessary. When she lifts back up again, she stays hovered over him for just a moment. "You know I love you don't you?"
He smiles. "You know I love you, don't you?"
It's an odd thing for him to say, and if she tried to describe the warmth that spreads through her chest and the way her heart nearly explodes, she honestly couldn't even begin to.
"Oh, Henry," she says instead, and then wipes at her eyes, not even bothering to hide the motion or the way that she flicks tears away. "Have some good dreams for me, okay?"
He nods his head. "Goodnight, Mom."
"Goodnight, my perfect little prince."
It's cold and late, and on any other night, she'd be sitting on the deck in a chair with a glass of wine. Tonight, though, she's in the sand down by the water, the surf lapping at her bare feet.
She's been out here for almost an hour now, just staring ahead and thinking. Trying to figure out how to deal with all of the thoughts and voices that are suddenly swirling in her head.
Trying to figure out what's going on with Henry, and whether it's a lie.
And wondering if she cares if it is.
At first, she doesn't recognize the sound of footsteps for what they are. She hears the noise behind her, but she thinks it's the swirling wind or the oncoming waves until the steps come closer, and then she realizes with a spot of panic that someone is approaching her from behind.
She thinks that maybe she should be wary and on edge (and truly, she is), but the bone-deep exhaustion that weighs on her so heavily keeps her from doing much more than turning her head to see who it is coming towards her.
Emma Swan.
Of course.
"Swan," she greets, her voice throaty and thick from the crisp damp air.
"Hey," Emma replies, and Regina notices that the Sheriff is carrying four things with her – a large scratchy looking blanket, two glass tumblers and a full bottle of Jack Daniels. "You look like you're freezing," Emma notes, gesturing towards the way Regina is shivering. And yes, she is quite cold and has been for the last hour. She's wearing a light hoodie, but the temperatures have dropped far below where even that is enough to keep her warm and comfortable.
"It's not too terribly bad," Regina lies, and sometimes even she's surprised with just how easy it is to say something that is so very clearly a complete fallacy. "I'm all right."
"Sure you are," Emma chuckles, then steps forward and drapes the heavy blanket around Regina's shoulders. It's brown and ugly and yes, quite scratchy, but it's also damned warm.
Regina considers protesting, but realizing that doing so would be petty and for no real reason at all beyond just to do it, she instead smiles out her thanks, and then, turning back towards the dark water that continues to run over her feet, says softly, "Why are you out here, Emma?"
"I thought maybe we should talk."
"That hasn't really been going well for us."
"Actually, it has been," Emma corrects as she seats herself next to Regina. "It's the rest of the stuff that has been blowing up in our faces. You know, the part where you stop trusting me, and went back to trying to push me away from you; that's the part that hasn't been working."
"Well, you don't make it difficult to push you away," Regina tells her. The tone she's using is curiously devoid of accusation, like she's just presenting a very obvious statement of fact.
And perhaps, Emma muses, she is.
"Is that your way of telling me that you find it really easy to manipulate me?" Emma queries as she places the glasses on the sand. She opens up the bottle of Jack and fills both glasses to the top with the dark liquid. She swirls them around and then offers Regina one of the glasses.
"It's my way of saying I knew exactly where to push," Regina says simply, eyes on the glass.
"Yeah," Emma agrees, and then reaches forward once more, urging Regina to take it from her.
"Where did this bottle come from?" Regina queries as she finally accepts the drink, and brings it up towards her face, sniffing at the alcohol. "I don't recall seeing it in the cupboards before."
"It wasn't there. I picked it up when I was out shopping today. This felt like a whiskey kind of discussion," Emma says, lifting the glass to her lips, and taking a large indelicate gulp.
"Yes, probably," Regina agrees, taking a sip herself. If anyone were to watch the differences in the way the women drink, they'd simply nod their heads; Regina – who will most certainly drink her fair share of the JD – drinks somewhat delicately where as Emma practically inhales it.
It's all so completely them even when it's just liquor involved.
"Why Graham?" Emma asks after a few moments, and a few more gulps.
"Why Graham what?"
"Why was he what you threw in my face?"
Regina takes another sip – this one larger - and then replies, "Because I'm pretty sure it's the one thing you haven't forgiven me for." She turns her head to look at Emma, her eyes heavy. "For reasons I don't understand, you don't seem to blame me for the curse itself or how you grew up or even for separating you from your parents for twenty-eight years, but for him –"
"Yeah. What hurts the most can be kind of weird," Emma allows.
"Indeed. And I knew it was still an open wound for you."
"And for you?"
"I'm not sure I follow."
Emma tilts her head, examines Regina's face and smiles slightly, humorlessly.
"Yes, you do. Is Graham's death still an open wound for you?"
Another sip, this one even larger, almost approaching a gulp. A swallow and a deep breath as the alcohol burns its way down her throat and then in a low voice, Regina admits, "Yes."
"Did you actually dream about him last night?"
Regina looks over at Emma again, and their eyes meet for a moment. Emma gets the feeling like she's been scanned and gauged and perhaps even vetted for the honesty of her approach, and it takes everything she has not to shift beneath the intensity of the gaze that lingers on her.
She wonders if this is what the soldiers and knights who served under Regina felt like when they were called in for review? Did they always wonder if the Queen was seeing all of them?
Finally, Regina replies, "No, I didn't dream about him. I thought about him, but…no."
"So you bringing him up, it was all just about pushing me away."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I didn't want those dreams, Emma. I don't want them. I don't…I don't know what to do with them. I don't know how to handle them. I don't know how to survive being what I was. I don't know if I want to." There's so much honesty in her words, and it's almost overwhelming for both of them because for a moment, it looks to Emma like Regina is about to break again.
But then the Queen – the woman who wants to be Regina Mills – forcibly pulls herself back together, her shoulders tightening as she straightens, her back sliding into perfect alignment.
"I'm sorry," Emma says softly. "I never meant for you to be hurt by that. I didn't. I just…I want you to actually be who you can be, Regina. Who I'm pretty damned sure you want to be."
"How do you know who I want to be?"
Emma shrugs her shoulders. "I saw you with Henry this afternoon. And I've seen you with him a thousand other times. You want to be that person that you are when you're with him, the one who was watching Batman with him today and cheering on the Joker getting taken down."
Regina smiles softly at the memory. Then, growing serious again, "I'm not sure – as much as you or I might want me to be something better - that I can ever really be that person again. I'm not sure I even have the right to be her." She shakes her head, swallowing roughly. "If I were any other person, I would be thrown away in a dark cell and left to rot. And perhaps that's what I deserve."
"That's not really for me to decide. This world isn't your world, and here, you get a second chance at being someone other than who you were. Here, you're –"
"Regina Mills. I know that's who I want to be, but it's not that easy. Because all the lovely words aside, I am the Evil Queen, Emma, and gods, the things that I've done." She taps the side of her head. "I've always remembered everything, but I've done a damned good job of not thinking about them. They were what I had to do to survive. I was able to tell myself that and believe it."
"So what changed? Just the dreams?"
"Henry. And Graham. And you."
"Did you dream about me last night?" Emma asks, refilling both of their glasses. She shivers a bit as she does so, wishing she'd grabbed her own jacket on the way down to the beach.
Regina laughs, the sound oddly but wonderfully warm. "No, Emma. Not about you."
Emma smiles in response, and lets the moment hang for a few seconds – Regina's reaction feels curiously charged in a way which Emma doesn't quite know what to make of so it's best left well alone for now, she thinks - before she pushes again. "So, what did you dream about?"
"Why is it so important to know?"
After a slight bit of hesitation, Emma reaches out and takes Regina's hand, lifting it up and showing it to Regina. "Because this morning, you definitely broke rules one and two." She runs her finger lightly across one of the cuts on Regina's knuckle. "You freaked out pretty bad."
"So I did," Regina murmurs, lifting the glass up again, her eyes on their joined hands.
"So?"
Regina sighs and pulls her hand back. "I dreamt about my magic lessons."
"And those made you lose it on the bag bad enough to do this to yourself?"
Regina licks her lips, and it's clear to Emma that this story is one that she finds uncomfortable, and more than a little painful. She'd love to tell the Queen that it's okay, and that they don't need to speak of this, but she knows that they do; it's never been more important to open up the lines of trust and communication between the two of them. This right here? It matters. So she waits and allows Regina the time she needs.
Finally, softly, "You know that Rumple was my teacher, yes?"
"I gathered as much."
"He taught me a lot of things. Most important amongst them was how to take hearts." Her hands now free of Emma's curiously careful inspection of them, Regina flexes them, wincing a bit at the sharp bolts of searing pain which course through her wounded palms and knuckles.
"And those are the ones in your vault?"
"Some are, but what I dreamt about wasn't him showing me how to take them; he'd already taught me how, and I'd already done it. Last night was about when he showed me what to do with them." Another sip for the courage to say the words, and then, "Control. Power. Death."
Emma tilts her head. "I don't –"
"When you take a heart, you can control the original owner of it," Regina tells her, and her voice has suddenly gotten very dull, like she's repeating information, like it hurts terribly to even say it. "You can make them do anything that you want them to. If I had your heart in my hand, and I told you to kill your mother, there would be nothing that you could do to stop it."
"I'm pretty strong."
"Not that strong," Regina tells her, and there's no joy or even gloating in the way she says these words to Emma. In fact, she seems more than a little sickened by her own statement
"Okay, we know your mother did that to Aurora."
Regina nods her head. "Lesson two is power. You can hurt someone terribly when you have their heart in your possession. You can squeeze it and cause them unfathomable pain. You can bring them to their knees." She looks forward again, and Emma's struck suddenly by the understanding that this has clearly happened to Regina before; she's been felled by such pain.
"You?"
"It was part of the lesson," Regina answers dully, her hands continuing to flex.
"And it hurt?"
"More than you can imagine. And just as controlling a heart can make you do things, power over it can force you to surrender yourself," Regina tells her, closing her eyes for a moment as cold memories once again wash over and through her. "It can make you say and do things – it can make you give up ownership of yourself – in ways that you'd never have thought possible."
Emma lets this hang for a moment, and then, wanting to ease the terrible pain and heartache that has clearly settled over Regina again, she softly pushes on, "So control, power and –"
"Death," Regina breathes, trembling a bit despite the blanket over her. She clutches it tighter around herself, but in that moment, they both know that her shiver isn't from the elements.
"How did he show you that one?"
Regina glances down at her wounded hand, which has suddenly clenched into a fist, a tiny stream of blood seeping out of the edge of one of the now broken open cuts. "He squeezed my heart until I thought it was going to explode. And then he had me do the same so that I knew what it felt like both to have it done to myself and to do it to someone. In this case, once again, myself."
"Jesus."
"It felt…horrible. And wonderful."
Emma's head snaps backwards. "Wonderful?"
"It's hard to explain, but it was power and control and death all wrapped into one surreal experience. It felt like I was a god even as it felt like I was being suffocated." She reaches forward and swallows down the rest of the glass of whiskey. For a moment, she looks terrified and panicked, but the alcohol seems to calm her enough to take in a few ragged breaths.
"More?" Emma prompts, holding up the bottle.
"Please."
Emma refills the glass and hands it back to her.
"So you dreamt of that last night?"
Regina nods. She gazes down at the amber liquid as she speaks, her voice very soft and slow. "I did terrible things before and after that lesson, but that was the turning point for me in what I realized that I could do with my magic and my hands. It was when I realized that I could make others feel what I was, and I wanted that. I didn't want to be the one being hurt anymore. It felt good to make others hurt worse." She looks up, and there are tears in her eyes. "I made others hurt like I was because I could. Emma, I did all of those things to Graham. Every one of them."
Emma licks her lips. When she speaks, her words are careful, "I know. I also know that you're not the Queen anymore. You're not even the woman you were when you did that to Graham."
"You keep saying that, but what proof do you have? Four weeks ago, I would have gladly done all of those things to your mother. Perhaps even more if there had been a fourth lesson."
"There's not though, right? Just three, yeah?"
Regina smiles a bit at this, oddly appreciative of Emma's incredibly awkward and perhaps ill-timed attempt to lighten up this desperately dark conversation. "There's only three, yes."
"That's good. Look, my mom hurt you. She took something from you she can't give back. That doesn't make going EQ on her okay, but it's not the same as just randomly hurting anyone."
"That's a very thin line of distinction, Emma; even I know that."
"Maybe it is, but I do know that it's a line that does actually mean something. Thirty years ago, it didn't matter who you destroyed. Now, at least it's just about the ones who hurt you first."
"You almost sound like you're encouraging me to go after your mother," Regina says with a lazy smirk and another drag from the glass of whiskey. "In which case, I believe that this therapy of yours has failed rather spectacularly, Sheriff as it appears that I have corrupted you."
This time, it's Emma who laughs. "No, I'm just saying progress is progress."
"Mm. I suppose."
They sit side by side for a few moments, drinking down the rest of the bottle together and listening to the waves crash the beach, and then Emma says, "There will be other dreams."
"Yes, there most certainly will be," Regina agrees, tiredly. "And other nightmares. And I will probably break rules one and two several more times." She holds up her hand, showing off the cuts and gouges. She shrugs at Emma's scowl at the new tendril of blood that they both see.
"Fine," Emma nods, reaching for Regina's hand again and turning it over to ensure that the wound isn't serious (it's not – just a cracked open cut that needs to be dressed anew). "But how about next time I find you freaking out, maybe you don't try to push me away. Maybe you actually believe for once that I'm with you here because I want to be. Because I choose to be."
"I don't trust easily."
"Neither do I. But I also don't come to choices easily. That I'm here, Regina –"
"I will test you a thousand times over," Regina cuts in.
"Okay. As long as the tests are fair."
"I can't make that promise."
Emma shrugs her shoulders, shivering again as she does so. "All right, well, then, at least let me have a makeup test if I fail the original one. I mean; if you're going to cheat like hell and start throwing out crazy-ass obstacles at me, I should get the chance to cheat my way through, too."
"What the hell kind of logic is that, Swan?" Regina challenges, unable to hide the smile that spreads across her lips and the eyebrow that leaps upwards. "I really hope that's not the kind of questionable philosophy you're teaching our son as he heads towards his harder school years."
Emma grins, "As you said, I can't make that promise."
"You are infuriating, Sheriff."
"And you're a pain in the ass, Your Majesty."
"Yes, well, you're shivering."
"What?"
"I might be evil, but I'm not inhospitable," Regina mutters, and then, stretching her arm out, she extends the wool blanket to settle over Emma's shuddering shoulders. They're sitting close to each other, but still a few inches apart, and it stretches the blanket a bit more than it should be in order to be truly useful, but not enough to remove warmth from either of them.
"Thanks," Emma says, pulling the blanket around her, and scooting slight closer to Regina.
"Mm. So tell me, Emma, now what?"
"Well, first things first, I need you to understand what I meant about choice."
"I do," Regina says quietly. Making it clear this isn't something she's ready to discuss in any further depth just yet. Because choice has never been something she's had much of, and someone choosing not to leave her or see the worst of her by choice is…frightening.
As frightening as it is hopeful.
She's not ready to open herself up to the idea of hope.
Not yet.
But maybe…maybe…
Thankfully, Emma gets it; she understands and takes the words as enough. "Good; then for now, we finish this bottle up, and we go to bed, and tomorrow we figure out what comes next."
"You make it sound so easy."
"Easy? You and me, Regina? That's hilarious. No, I'm pretty sure we're both going to fuck this whole thing up about fifty more times, but hey, where would the fun be in not doing that."
"You have a strange idea of fun, Swan."
"Pretty sure that was you I heard cackling with our son earlier today about Batman holding someone over a ledge by their ankles," Emma reminds her, a smile gracing her lips as she thinks about just the quiet moments of watching her son and his other mother laughing together.
"Well, that did look like fun," Regina mumbles, her face shading just a bit.
In a good way, though. In a lovely way.
"Exactly my point." Using the hand that's not clutching the blanket to her shoulder, she reaches for the bottle of whiskey and brings it to her lips, taking a long swig of it right from the neck.
"Drinking straight form the bottle now are we?" Regina asks, eyebrow up.
Emma shrugs, and then offers her it.
Regina takes it and holds it in her hand. "I'm not sure I deserve this."
"Whiskey? I'm pretty sure everyone deserves some whiskey from time to time," Emma insists with a dopey grin which suggests that the liquor is finally starting to catch up to her.
Again, she offers a soft smile at Emma's attempt at humor (she finds herself wondering how she'd never noticed how much Emma extends herself out there like this – always looking for ways to use herself to put others at ease). "This," Regina corrects. "I feel things that I've never wanted to feel, and I'm not sure have the right...I'm not sure I deserve another second chance."
"Maybe not but you've got one anyway. So maybe you make the best of it."
"Maybe."
Regina lifts the bottle to her lips and takes a deep drag from it, enjoying the taste of the liquor which long ago stopped burning its way down her throat. She glances once more over at Emma, who is now staring out at the surf. Her dark eyes curious and fascinated, Regina studies the sheriff's seemingly serene profile. She looks her over, and then shakes her head in disbelief.
There's no logic in this woman having the faith that she does.
There's no reason for it and yet it's there just the same.
It's there, and Regina finds herself reaching for it.
Finding just a tiny bit of hope existing in spite of everything.
So yeah, maybe.