A/N: As always, thanks for putting up with the long wait times. I very much hope that it's worth the wait.
Warnings: A non graphic dub-con sexual situation between Trev and Elizabeth, very brief discussion of the equally dubious relationship between the Queen and Graham, the aftermath of abuse, mental instability and some rough language. There are some mentions of Hook as well (for well, obvious reasons).
Enjoy, and let me know your thoughts!
Before.
She steps inside their house, weary and sluggish; she thinks she must look practically run over, but then his arms are wrapped around her, his mouth pressing against her neck. "I missed you, baby."
Elizabeth Carson smiles weakly in response, and tries not to think about how him touching her in any way is just about the last thing she wants right now.
Instead of indulging in such destructive damning thoughts, she pleads, "Not tonight, Trev, okay?"
Because her head is pounding, and she's seeing halos in front of her eyes. It's been like this all day – getting increasingly worse instead of even mildly better - and all she wants to do is curl up under her blankets, and make all of the lights in the world go away. All she wants to do is somehow find some solace somewhere in deep sleep.
She thinks about the sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet, and knows she'll be taking a few tonight. More of them than she knows she should take. After all, with every refill, the doctor shakes his head and mutters at her in his best patronizing tone, "Not so many, Elizabeth," but then he hands her another script to fill.
Because he doesn't actually care.
None of them really do. Like pretty everyone else in her purposeless life, as long as she goes away, and never complains about how little he actually helps her, he'll continue to pretend that he has her best interests in mind.
"There's some residual from your accident, but mostly, Elizabeth, it's all just…phantom pains," he'd said the last time she'd gone in to get her headaches checked out. "Stress from…everything. Trev tells me you've been trying –"
She'd cut him off there, sharply and then softening when his eyes had widened. "No more trying," she'd replied.
Because how many times do you have to fail before you realize nature thinks you're not meant to be a mother.
"That's probably for the best," he'd replied in what was plainly meant to be an empathetic tone, and she'd known that he'd talked to Trev before he'd seen her. He's supposed to be her doctor, but very few things are only hers and not theirs. Trev hadn't wanted her to see an independent gynecologist, he'd wanted her to stay with his old family doctor instead ("someone we can trust, babe; he won't put you through it all"). She'd thought it ridiculous when he'd said that, and in one of the few times that she dared to defy him, she insisted on seeing one, and yeah, she had gone through the full spectrum.
Countless tests and injections and everything else that could be done to give her a chance at having a baby.
All for nothing; Trev had been right.
His doctor friend ("Our doctor, Lizzie," Trev corrects whenever she calls him 'Trev's friend') had been right.
And they'd all let her know as much in most infantilizing way humanly possible.
Trev had said, "I'm sorry, honey; I wish you hadn't put yourself through all that for nothing."
Like he'd always known how it would end.
Turns out he had known.
Turns out they'd all been right, and tonight, all she feels is an empty womb and a pounding head with a thousand ugly memories locked away somewhere down deep. Memories about the loss of family. About the absence of it.
Or at least that's what she assumes.
She remembers almost nothing about it beyond that she'd had a sister, and now she doesn't.
These are dark thoughts, ugly thoughts, and she pushes them away as her head pounds a little bit harder.
Trev clearly wants sex tonight, but she thinks that both of those things – especially with the migraine rapidly reaching a practically blinding intensity - should be more than enough to convince Trev to maybe back off tonight.
She thinks maybe she's actually going to catch a break when he drops down in front of her. "Not feeling well?"
"No," she admits with a tired sigh. Along with everything else, her feet are aching from being up on them all day, and her back is pulling, too; the downside of hours and hours walking across the hard floor, going back and forth.
She almost wants to laugh; you list all of those things out, and you start to sound like you're kind of a mess.
And not the beautiful kind.
Trev reaches out for her, and places his calloused hands on her cheeks, his thumbs on her cheek in a way which seems and is familiar (and yet somehow wrong when it's him, and that's a thought which has never made sense to her, but it's one she's had entirely too many times). She doesn't know why exactly, but she has an almost instinctual need to pull away from him, from the roughness she feels there. A shadow crosses her mind, and within it, the strangest of pictures (that woman again – the one who looks like her, but she is standing in a…castle?).
There's a handsome bearded man standing across from her, his head bent, a grimace on his face. He looks both angry and pained, as if he's being forced to stand there and submit to her, like he knows that he has no power.
Elizabeth thinks that she knows that feeling well.
Her Other-self tells him to kneel.
"Kneel before your Queen, Huntsman."
He does, falling to a knee, the rocks scraping at the rough fabric of his pants. He looks up at her, and then turns his hands towards her, his palms upwards, subservient and pliable. Rough hands, the skin broken and calloused.
"As you command," he says, sounding as though he hates her. It's chilling and frightening, and bizarrely intoxicating all at once.
"Lizzie?"
She blinks and looks into Trev's eyes, seeing worry mixed with annoyance there. His hand goes to her forehead.
"Baby, we need to get you into bed."
"Trev," she protests. She wonders if she's protesting his name for her or his supposed care-taking. Does it matter?
"Shh," he responds, hands tightening in a kind of unspoken warning. Perhaps he doesn't mean it, or perhaps he does, but when his fingers press into her wrist, his meaning seems clear to her. He knows best, he's telling her.
Yes, his not-so-subtle reminder that he knows best, that nothing good ever happens when she doesn't listen to him. Doesn't she remember all the times when she hadn't? When they'd argued because she hadn't listened?
Her head drops against his shoulder, and she feels more than sees him release his breath in relief of her surrender.
He lifts her up into his arms (ignoring her weak protests), and she knows where and how this will go.
Where and how this always goes.
Murmuring words which are supposed to sound like loving reassurances, he puts her on the mattress, and he peels her clothes off and then his own. She feels his body against hers, softer than it had been when they'd first gotten together. As his arms envelop her, she smells the tobacco on his breath. It makes her almost laugh because of how much he hates it when she smokes (she finds her mind drifting to the pack hidden in her coat, the smallest form of self-ownership and even defiance that she has to left to her, and isn't it funny, she thinks, that she needs to have any kind of that?). It makes her almost laugh because in moments like this one, she gets a strange type of clarity.
Oh, it's fleeting (or perhaps it's not, and it's just that holding onto the strange clarity she has is pointless and even dangerous), but it's still a strong sense of reality for a second or so – this understanding that nothing she says or does or feels will ever actually change the course of things for her.
She's Elizabeth Carson, and she has a singular purpose in life: to be a wife.
Not a mother as she'd always wanted to be, but a wife, and she supposes that that has to be enough. Because it's still something, and what was she before she was this?
He kisses her neck, and down her chest. "It's okay," he tells her. "I've got you. It's going to be okay. You're okay."
Yes, this is how it always goes. Slowly, he will turn her and slowly, he will move over her, and it's all just one more capitulation to that singular purpose. To that singular unspectacular and diminishing reason for existence.
Twenty-four hours from now, a boy and his daughter will enter her life and change everything, but that's for later.
For tonight, there's just this.
Fingers gripping hard enough to bruise her olive skin, he whispers he loves her into her ear, and she repeats it back to him. Like it means something to her. Like love really exists and can make everything whole and right again.
But it can't, and there are cigarettes in her coat, and she wonders idly how hot the tip of one would feel against skin. It's a startling thought, or at least it should be, but her head is pounding, and this is all so meaningless.
When he's done with her, she'll stumble up, and get the sleeping pills, and then the world will go away.
Won't that be nice.
Now.
He's conducted this particular inventory at least five dozen times by now, he thinks as he walks down the aisles of his store, checking his stock. As is the new normal now, there's always something missing – some drug or medicine that disappeared right after everyone has returned from nothingness. Most likely, it the looters who always seem to strike during the time when they're all too confused and disoriented to stop or to even notice them. The ones who seem to come to their senses the quickest and use that time to make sure that at least they have something.
Everyone else is scrambling for grounding, and well…these little bastards seem to get it in taking from others.
Doc takes a deep breath, steadies his hand against the wall for a moment, reminds himself that such thoughts have no value. No one has come out of this tragedy unscathed – not even the thieves who keep stealing from him.
David and Snow insist that this will be the last time, but it's hard to believe in them and their faith, anymore.
It's hard to believe in tomorrow when it seems like it keeps disappearing into a cloud of dust and ash.
A bell rings near the front of the shop, and Doc turns to see who's made their way in today. This – much like the constant thefts - is usual, too – a kind of stuttering stammering sense of decent normalcy which tries to assert itself one more time. It's gotten harder over the years, more forced. After all, there doesn't seem like much of a need for items such birth control when it takes ten years to pass by for them to experience six months of living.
But the person who has just entered isn't one of his normal customers.
Or, at least she hasn't been in almost a decade.
"Your Majesty," Doc says, rushing around the counter towards her, his eyes wide, his voice stuttering.
Regina looks up at him, eyes narrowed almost quizzically for a moment.
"Your Majesty," she repeats quietly.
"Sorry; Madam Mayor."
He's struggling, trying to find the right way to address her. They've never been friends on any level. He's never been of the opinion that Regina ever had much use for any of the dwarves, and certainly his association with Snow had been something that had placed them on opposite sides. But, even with that long in the past, and their relationship having grown to being professionally respectful; clearly, that's not what she's responding to now.
"Regina," he quickly corrects. "How…" he stops and smiles. "What can I do for you?"
His eyes sweep over her, taking in the strange way that she's moving. He can tell that there's some broken bones – most likely her ribs, he assesses - and thinks that she probably shouldn't be up and about. Not that something like human frailty has ever stopped the Queen; he has known her a very long time (perhaps not as long as Snow White has, but he's been adjacent for much of their history together, and has seen much) and in all the years he's known her, living with terrible injuries have been a common theme. Equally common is her inability to ever slow down.
To ever allow herself to just heal.
"I need something," Regina replies, looking around as if she's confused and a bit disoriented. When she looks back at him, he has the strange feeling that she's looking right through him. Not in the way that the Evil Queen once had, when she'd walked over everyone and everything in her path in her single-minded quest for vengeance, but rather as though she's struggling to focus on him. Rather like her mind is struggling to stay in one place for long.
"Something like…aspirin?" he gentle prompts after a few moments of hanging silence.
"No." She shakes her head almost frantically. "Something…stronger. I need painkillers."
Doc tilts his head, his eyes quickly sweeping over her again. Quickly, because he quite correctly observes a discomfort about her; he sees the way she's practically curled around herself. "Have you seen Dr. Whale yet?"
"I don't need him." She forces something that looks more like a grimace than a smile. "But if I did need one, well that is your name, isn't it?" She rolls it across her tongue, almost as if she's reminding herself of it. "Doc. Right?"
"Yes, of…of course. But, with all due respect –"
"You have none for me," she cuts in, her voice flat and empty.
"On the contrary, I…I have a tremendous amount of respect for you."
"No, you're afraid…either of or for me. Because you look at me and see a broken pathetic weak woman." Her words finish into something of a snarl, and he finds himself looking into the eyes of the Evil Queen again. But just a fleeting moment, and then there's someone else there – someone who is sunken back and dull. Almost lifeless.
His mouth opens and then shuts. "I –"
"Why didn't I just leave him? Why did I have to be convinced to? No one understands. I don't understand."
She moves anxiously away from Doc, a hand lifting and her fingers sliding through her hair; she flinches away immediately as she feels the length of it, and then she's wrapping her arms around herself as she moves.
He thinks he should follow her, to try to calm and comfort her, but the unsettled shock he's feeling is significant.
Instead, he watches as she meanders down several rows, picking up and putting down supplies. He sees her stop in the aisle with the alcohol, picking up a bottle of whiskey and looking at it, her head slightly tilted in thought.
She puts it down after a moment, and turning, walks back to him.
"Do you recall the first time you met me?"
"I recall the first time I saw you," he answers. "After…after the King's death."
"The King," Regina repeats. She frowns and then says in a strangely flat voice, "My first husband." She laughs, then, and the sound is so bitter and venomous that it almost makes him retreat. "He was kind of a mean prick."
He blinks at that, not because he necessarily disagrees (he hadn't known the King – only knows of him through Snow) but because while Regina has certainly never been shy about profanity, somehow this feels crass in a way which is weird and unexpected. "I didn't…I didn't know him. Would you like me to call Snow…or Sheriff Swan?"
"Sheriff Swan. Like she's any better off than I am. Or maybe she is. She is a survivor." Regina shakes her head.
"I should call Snow."
"Don't bother," Regina tells him, and then steps out of the aisle, as if she intends to leave.
"What about the aspirin," he asks, placing himself in front of her. When she stares at him in wide-eyed surprise, he shifts nervously, but doesn't move out of the way. Not yet, anyway "It will help." His voice is gentle, kind, worried.
He wonders if she's about to rip out his heart for his insolence.
Something in the way she's holding herself, the way she looks so lost, tells him no.
Tells him that at least in this moment, the only one at risk is her.
"Okay," she finally replies, and then she's following him over to the counter, a hand settled gingerly on her ribs.
He wonders who would have the audacity to dare to hurt her in this way, and then with a quiet wide-eyed shock, he realizes that her injuries and trauma likely came about thanks to the same one who had hurt them all.
The same one who has him wondering if in fifteen minutes or a month from now, any of this will still exist.
He thinks it unlikely that the Black Fairy had wounded Regina directly, but the haunted look in her eyes…well, he's seen shades of it in Snow and Zelena's eyes over the years. Not to this degree, but damaged is still damaged.
"Take two of these," Doc tells her, handing her a bottle of ibuprofen.
"Two," she chuckles, wryly, almost sounding like herself. "And call you in the morning."
"If you would like to."
"Don't worry, I won't be a burden." Her voice shudders when she speaks, dipping into something tiny and soft. Something unlike the woman he has watched grow from an Evil Queen to a mother and a community leader.
"You're not," he assures her.
She smiles sadly at him as she says, "One…one more thing. But I need you not to say anything. To anyone."
"Of course."
She points behind him. "I'd like a pack of…those."
He turns, eyes widening as he sees what she was pointing at. "The…the cigarettes?"
There's a long few seconds where she doesn't respond, as if she's afraid to, but then slowly, Regina nods.
Before.
She's almost twenty-seven years old and standing naked in a hotel room somewhere in downtown Boston.
Off the top of her head, she's not entirely sure how she'd ended up here, but she can't say she's as surprised as she should be. Closing her eyes, Emma tries to think back to the night before, and tries to remember it all.
There had been a bar – there's always a bar these days, it seems. Well, people in trouble like to drink. Turns out that the people who tend to chase after those troublemakers have a few demons they like to booze away as well.
She remembers stepping inside, the pounding music immediately assaulting her ears. She remembers looking around, and then seeing her mark – a beautiful brunette named Justine Harrison. Wanted for about twenty cons.
She recalls thinking to herself that this wouldn't be easy – con artists always suspect everyone else is. But then, they also always assume that they're the smartest one in every room. Sometimes, that can flip the advantage.
Emma had shrugged her shoulders and made her way to the counter, saddling up next to Justine. "Hi."
Justine had turned and looked at her, dark eyes wary and razor sharp. "Hi," she echoed, eyebrow lifted.
Too smart for the usual games.
Emma remembers thinking that maybe one of these days, she'll learn to stay away from the fire that women like this represent. But, well, as it turns out, she also always thinks that she's the smartest con-woman in any room.
"Buy you a drink?" Emma had asked with a smile meant to be disarming.
"Just enough to get me drunk enough to cuff me?" Justine had asked, grinning broadly.
Emma had tilted her head in acknowledgement. "I guess that depends on who drinks whom under the table."
"Fair enough. But when you lose…well, I'm not gentle. And you know what, honey? I like playing with cuffs, too" She had wriggled her eyebrows suggestively. Leaving little doubt as to her intentions for the night. For them.
Well, Emma had thought at the time, Justine definitely was her type.
Brunette, beautiful, and a pain in the ass.
That had started things going, and from there, they'd somehow ended up back here. In this room, clothes flying, their bodies pressed together. She remembers the feel of teeth against her skin, fingers pressing into her back.
She remembers a few feverish kisses, but neither one of them had had much interest in the trappings of romance.
Justine had held up the cuffs, and Emma had managed just enough coherency to take them and toss them away.
Ensuring that at least she wouldn't end up locked to the bed by her own cuffs.
From there, it'd all gone spinning upside down, Justine crawling atop her and shoving her into the mattress.
Justine is far from the first beautiful (or complicated) woman she's slept with over the last decade, but usually…she doesn't quite lose herself in the sensation of it all. Usually, she stays in control and in command – even dominant.
It's protectionism, for sure, but over the years, it's kept what's left of her broken heart from shattering even more.
She thinks back to yesterday, thinks back to the minutes before she walked into the bar.
Thinks of how she had realized that her birthday – her 27th – was just a few days away, and that she'd be spending it alone. Not a big deal, she'd told herself, and besides, she'd likely have her work to keep her occupied as always.
But sometimes…sometimes you want more than that.
Sometimes, you want to actually connect to someone.
Mean something to someone, even if it is only for a few minutes.
Even if it's just the wrong person in the wrong place at the right time.
Emma sighs and sits down on the bed, wrapping the blankets around herself.
Justine is long gone, of course, and she feels rather like an idiot for having lost her mark, but she'll get her back.
Maybe not today or tomorrow, but eventually.
After all, what else is there to do?
She's almost twenty-seven years old, and the only thing she has to show for herself is a list of former lovers and enough regrets to make the former list look laughable. Things like the baby boy she'd given up while in prison.
She wonders what he's doing these days, wonders what he's like.
Is he happy with his new family?
Does he miss her?
No, of course he doesn't.
She figures that he probably doesn't even know who she is. After all, it's selfish to hope that he does.
Still, she does, because God, yes, it would be nice to mean something to someone for even a few minutes.
Maybe even something real.
Now.
A little over a decade and a half later, it occurs to her that she's still selfish.
Gazing up at the ceiling, Emma thinks that there's really no other way to look at this. . There are a thousand things that need to be done, a thousand people who need to be helped – one in particular – and right now she's here.
In this almost-too-comfortable bed, thinking of doing nothing besides letting her parents coddle her.
Selfish.
She's gone through so much, but so have they. And deep in her heart, she knows that she's the reason for all the pain they went through – all the pain which all of them have gone through over the last decade. Her weakness and her falling into something she'd wanted instead of something she'd had, that's the why. She thinks that this understanding should drive her towards some higher purpose, and eventually it even will, but…but, maybe not yet.
Eventually, she'll do the right thing.
Eventually, she'll be a good friend, a good mother, and a good daughter.
Eventually, she'll be the goddamn Savior everyone needs her to be.
The one they're owed.
"Emma?"
She doesn't look up, just smiles softly. "Mom."
She hears the footsteps as Snow enters the room, then feels the weight that dips the mattress. "Are you hungry?"
"Not really."
"You should eat," Snow says, placing a hand on her forehead.
"I'm not starving," Emma chuckles.
"I know, but…come down and have breakfast with us. We have so much to talk about."
"I'm not…I'm not ready to," Emma replies, dread seeping through her at all the stories they need to hear.
"You don't have to," Snow corrects quickly. "What's happening in Storybrooke is…it's enough."
It's not, and Emma knows it. Because what had happened outside of Storybrooke is even more catastrophic.
And likely more altering for all of them.
Neither she nor Regina are remotely the same women they'd been before the curse had swept them away. Henry isn't the same young man he'd been before so much loss turned him into someone so much older than his years.
So much more damaged.
All of them, so much more damaged.
She tries not to think about Regina, but in doing so, only feels the guilt of her retreat from the other woman. From the friend that she'd fought for in order to bring back to true herself.
Even if that had meant shattering Elizabeth to get Regina back.
No, no. She thinks that it's more complicated than that. Even if there'd been no chance of recovering Regina, she knows that she still would have done the same thing – believes that she still would have fought to save Elizabeth - because Regina or not, Elizabeth had deserved better than to be married to that horrible creep.
Which…makes her think about her own failed marriage.
One that had not been given the opportunity to end in divorce, instead, it ended in blood running through an alley.
And that brings her back to the alley they'd all been in just a few days ago, and a second terrible gunshot.
Her eyes slip closed, and she tries not to think about Regina there, but she can see her so clearly now lying there bloodies up, her face swollen already, dark bruises ringing her throat. Call her Regina or Elizabeth, she'd hurt so badly on her watch. Not protected like she should have been. Like Emma had promised her that she would be.
"Emma," Snow says again, fingers in hers, gripping. "Come have breakfast with us."
She's about to say yes, about to allow herself this fragile fleeting moment of selfish indulgence before she tries to put her thoughts together and figure out what to do about…anything; but then her cell phone is ringing loudly.
She knows it's Henry again. Without even looking at it. Just as it had been a few hours ago when he'd been pleading with her about Regina. She has a pretty good idea that he's calling to have another go at that.
She sits up slowly, wincing in pain as her back pulls. She forces a smile in reaction to Snow's obvious worry, and then plucks up her phone, "Kid," she says tiredly. "Everything okay?"
"Yes, no? I dunno. Mom…took off a few hours ago, I guess. She was gone when I woke up. She with you?"
"You know she's not. She's probably just stretching her legs. She hasn't had a lot of freedom…for a while."
"I know, but Emma, Zelena may have helped her, but she still has broken bones. A lot of them," Henry protests, sounding so much like a frightened child. One who has no idea how to help the people he loves the most.
She kind of knows the feeling (even as she simultaneously knows she should be doing a whole lot more).
"Henry." She pushes herself to her feet, hand settling on the wall. She feels Snow's hand on her elbow, and throws her mother a look of gratitude. For the assistance given freely and for the love she sees radiating from her.
Love that she soaks up, and then thinks again about just how selfish she is.
"Emma, this morning, when I saw her, she was already drinking, and she seemed…so incredibly off. Zelena told me when they talked last night, when she tried to help her, Mom was really weird with her, too." Henry insists.
"She's been through a nightmare, Henry. What are you expecting from her?" Emma replies, emotion flushing her words. She immediately regrets the strength of reply, seeing Snow shift anxiously, her grip tightening slightly.
Likely wondering about Emma's own nightmare. Most certainly wondering how she can help, and if Emma will allow her to.
"Us to help each other," Henry replies quietly.
Cutting right through to the heart of it, then. The things they should be doing.
Emma sighs. "I know. Just…let her have today, all right?"
"She's hurt."
"She's not going to accept medical care. She's still your mother," Emma answers wryly. "You know how she is."
"I know how you both are; my mothers are stubborn," he teases.
She smiles a bit, thankful for the moment that moved him away from his intense worry.
"Yeah, we are." Choosing to change the subject, maybe redirect his thoughts, Emma asks, "How's Lucy holding up so far? I bet this is all pretty wild for her. She's…been through a lot in the last couple of days as well."
"She's the one telling me we're home, which to her means everything is going to be all right."
"Well, you have told her all the stories."
"All of our stories," he responds.
"Point is, those stories are why she believes," Emma tells him kindly. "They're good stories." She leaves unsaid the rest of the sentence, that they're just stories. Even if she knows that it's not exactly true – she had lived each and every one of those stories, but they feel so distant now. So far away from the woman standing in this bedroom.
Savior, Evil Queen, Captain Hook?
How about three broken souls tossed into a blender on high and then spat right back out again.
Or not, in the case of Hook.
She places a hand over her aching heart; she's a long way from the grief of his death, but perhaps not the guilt.
"I know you don't believe," Henry says. "I know she doesn't. Not anymore. Sometimes, I'm not sure that I do."
"You do," Emma insists. "It's what you do."
"I guess it is; guess I do," he allows. "And whatever it takes, I'll find a way to help you two believe again, too."
"Just be a good dad, Henry. Put Lucy first."
"Mom –"
"Kid, your grandma is trying to tell me the pancakes are burning. Can we talk later."
"Of course. You're –"
"The same okay that I was a few days ago. Better. We're home, right?"
There's a long pause before he replies, a kind of awareness that leaks back over the phone line.
She's certain that his own genetically passed down lie detector just pinged like crazy. Certain that he's seeing her failings like they're written in flashing neon letters.
But if he is, he isn't admitting to it. Instead, he says softly, "Okay."
She exhales, and pleads, "Be patient."
She means with both she and Regina.
With everyone and everything.
He says, "Okay," one last time, and thankfully, the call ended.
She turns to Snow, shakes her head to stop her mother from trying to once again make all of this better with a hug.
Last night, it had kind of worked, but the real world tends to be darker in the harsh light of day.
Snow seems to understand for once, instead saying, "If the pancakes burned, we can make new ones."
Emma knows it's a metaphor for something…perhaps, something strong and supportive.
Right now, though, it's also a balm for her wounded broken spirit, and so she grabs at it greedily.
Selfishly.
Before.
"Bet this night wasn't anything like you thought it would be," Emma sing-songs as they make their way down the street; Boston is an older town, oddly quaint for its size, but also full of broken sidewalks to stumble over.
Especially when you're plastered drunk.
"Well, I didn't take you for much of a dancer, Miss Swan," Regina replies saucily, a loopy smile spreading across her beautiful face. They're stumbling along together, side-by-side, probably looking a whole lot like they're either two old grannies or two teenagers.
Or maybe some twisted hybrid of both.
Which, considering just how long Regina has been alive, probably isn't terribly far off. Actually, considering just how stunning Regina looks tonight, Emma's not sure she's comfortable with such a thought. But then, thinking about how attractive Regina is tonight is its own dangerous thought considering…she's married.
To Killian.
Who is back in Storybrooke, supposedly out on a boat with her father.
Not - apparently - enjoying his time away from her as much as she is enjoying her time away from him. Instead, up until about an hour or so ago, he'd been texting her every fifteen minutes to ask how her night has been going.
Which is more than just boredom, she knows. Jealous, too. Which…is probably half the problem.
But no, there's no problem, she quickly tells herself. Just some general separation anxiety. Which is why she'd finally texted him back telling him to chill out and that she'd call him in the morning and please have a good night.
She thinks she probably should feel bad about that – about the obvious brush-off of it - but…but she doesn't.
Randomly, Emma tries to remember just how many drinks the two of them had downed, but it's all kind of a wash.
What she remembers is the two of them and Henry, and the music, and this wonderful perfect night where it had been just the three of them on a dance floor celebrating their weird little family and the unexpected evolution.
The many ways in which this little family that they have built has become more important to them than any of them would have ever expected it to.
True, come morning, she and Regina will be heading back to Storybrooke, and Henry will be starting the next part of his life as a college freshman, and God, there are so many wonderful and terrifying thoughts connected to that.
Like what happens between her and Regina once he's no longer standing between them to pull them together.
Thoughts they've both had hundreds of times…even tonight.
Maybe especially tonight because tomorrow … everything changes.
"Emma, stop thinking stupid thoughts," Regina sighs. "They're…very…stupid."
"Eloquent."
Regina stops suddenly, the movement jerky thanks to the abruptness of the motion. If there'd been any doubt about just how hammered the two of them are right now, Regina's uncoordinated movements silence them. On the other hand, her dark eyes look back at Emma with an awareness and intensity that seems impossible and…
Yet.
"Oh, don't get smart with me. We both know that you're having the same thoughts I am," Regina tells her, her eyes piercing. She sways a bit, but holds herself up. "And they're stupid thoughts. Ugly stupid ugly thoughts."
"Ugly thoughts. Got it." She grins. Then whispers conspiratorially, "What ugly thoughts are you having?"
"I'm thinking I shouldn't have let you place the last drink wager," Regina says as she squints in that way that people who are drunk sometimes do when they're trying to figure out why everything in front of them keeps going goofy.
"Regretting it, are we, Your Majesty?" Emma teases.
"At the moment? Not particularly. Come morning, I'm sure the hangover will say otherwise." Regina then tries to straighten up, but she's in heels, and she more wobbles than rights, one hand going out to steady herself.
"I do enjoy how coherent you are even when you're drunk," Emma chuckles, as she's reaches out, sliding an arm around Regina's waist, pulling her perhaps a lot closer than she should, but enjoying the feel of it all the same.
In the back of her mind, where there's still sense and reason, she knows this sudden closeness between the two of them is dangerous. Knows that their relationship has reached a dangerous place where a decision is coming.
Their relationship is complicated and messy, and not at all simple, when the relationship is just co-mothers. Add being partners and real friends to the mix, and the complications in their relationship become even messier.
And being more than that, well they become almost…but, no…no, they're not more…they're –
"Emma, you're thinking again. You're going to trip me."
It's a weird statement to make. It's utterly incoherent.
But Regina takes a step forward, and they're both stumbling; and it's only their arms around each other that stabilizes them and keeps both of them from crashing to the ground. And God if that doesn't feel on the nose.
Regina looks at her, and she looks at Regina, and they're both just staring at each other.
Losing themselves in each other, as they have always tended to do. Perhaps never before like this but…
"We shouldn't –" Regina starts, but then her hands are on Emma's face, and her fingers are rubbing across smooth skin, each motion like a river of fire being scored, and Emma laughs, it feels like she's in a goddamn romance novel.
Emma's own hands lift, thumbs tracing over Regina's cheeks; Regina inhales sharply, eyelashes fluttering.
"What do you want, Emma?" Regina asks her.
"Shouldn't I be asking you that question."
"You know what I want. Everyone knows what I want," Regina tells her, looking right at her, staggeringly sober.
Aware of the importance of this moment. Of this choice.
"I think…I know…I want to kiss you," Emma tells her, and then nods to confirm her own words.
"Good," Regina replies, and then she's the one leaning in and kissing Emma, and yeah, they're just…complicated.
Now.
It's practically afternoon before Emma finally breaks away from her parents. Before she finally forces herself to leave their house. Their food and their laughter and their arms, which never stop being offered to her freely.
It's stupid, and she's not a child.
She's a twice-over convict and a murderer. She doesn't need nor does she deserve parental coddling. But, they'd given it her without hesitation, and she'd craved it, and she thinks she's never tasted pancakes quite so good.
Yeah, stupid. Story of her fucking life.
Right up there with selfishly bad choices
But for the moment, there's another story which has her attention, and it's the agonizing pain in her back. Which is what has driven her into the pharmacy, looking for anything that can make the nerves scream a little bit less.
"Sheriff," Doc says when he sees her come in, stepping around the counter to her, his usual, almost shy smile on his lips. Of all of the dwarves, of all the strange little men so loyal to her parents, he's the one she's always appreciated the most. He is the one who has always seemed the most aware that the world they'd come from – the one which she'd never taken a single step in - had been a bit like a bed of roses. Beauty mixed with pain.
Now, though, she considers correcting him; she considers reminding him that there really isn't an authority structure in this very broken town of theirs. There's no law and order here, but if there were, she certainly wouldn't be at the top of it with a badge. But his eyes are serious, and he looks concerned, and perhaps her heroic do-something instincts die harder than she thought.
"What's up?" Emma queries, her hands around the aspirin she'd picked up. She'd considered getting Whale to prescribe her something stronger, but all the attempts at normalcy through the usual procedures just seem strange to her. It would mean trying to find an ordinary through bureaucracy and red tape, and right now everything just hurts too much for that.
Maybe her heart most of all, and there's no prescription for that.
"I thought…I wanted to talk to you about the Queen." He shakes his head to correct himself. "Regina."
Emma sighs. "Look, I'm sure some people are pissed and blaming -"
"No, no!" He takes a breath. "No, no one is…I mean I'm sure that someone is because someone always does, but we know who was responsible for the last…however long this has been going on. It's not…it's not Regina. No."
"Okay, then?"
"She was by earlier. Like you. She came by for some painkillers and some – well, that doesn't matter." He shakes his head. "She wasn't exactly acting like the Mayor Mills I remember. Or the Queen. To be blunt, Sheriff, she didn't look very well, and when I tried to talk to her, she looked at me like she didn't always know who I was."
"Oh," Emma says. "I...I don't know if you heard…everything that the Black Fairy did to us." She frowns when she says this, wondering if it sounds incredibly self-centered to say it, especially after all the town has been through.
Thankfully, Doc doesn't appear to think so nor holds her words against her. "I heard the three of you were cursed with new identities." He dips his head in a show of consolation to her. "I'm very sorry about your husband."
"Me, too," Emma replies. She lets his words wash over her for a moment, the realization that this is something she is likely to hear for a long time to come hitting her hard. Especially since none of them actually know the truth. "As for Regina, she was that person for the last decade. I think…well, no, I know…she's struggling with it. You know how that is."
"A bit," Doc answers with a wry chuckle. "Though, we didn't really remember much day to day. The curse we were under, it seemed like we just lived the same… story over and over, and well, it wasn't so bad. And, I think my cursed personality wasn't…as dissimilar as some of the others were. I get the feeling that hers…was more so?"
"You could say that," Emma acknowledges grudgingly, finding herself unwilling to discuss with Doc just how very dissimilar Regina and Elizabeth truly are. Instead, she smiles tightly, "Don't worry, we're watching out for her."
"Good," he says. "I'm…I don't blame her for what happened to this town, but…I went through the years when she wasn't particularly stable, and things weren't good for anyone. A lot of people were hurt. Including, I think, her."
"Yes," Emma agrees.
"And…if the Black Fairy were to return –"
"The town will need us. I know." She sighs, then says again, "Don't worry, we're – I'm watching out for her."
He nods, then hands her a bottle of aspirin. "One of you two really should go see Dr. Whale. She has broken ribs and…you're clearly in pain as well, Sheriff; he can do an exam and then prescribe something that can help you."
Emma wants to argue with him about what can and cannot help her and Regina (very little that any of them would understand, she thinks grimly) and about Doc's absurd insistence on following policy and procedure right now.
She stops herself from either argument; first, realizing that talking about what they're going through is something she has no desire to do (even while silently acknowledging that before this is all over, both of them will need to open up to someone) and second, that following procedure is what is creating the much-needed normalcy.
Perhaps within that frantic attempt at normalcy, she thinks they will find the hope they all so desperately need.
Perhaps even her and Regina.
Maybe her and Regina most of all.
So, she offers one more smile and a note of gratitude, and then steps outside and pulls out her phone. She quickly dials Henry's number, waits for him to pick up and then says, "Hey, Kid; any luck at finding your mom?"
Before.
She's gone.
"We're so sorry, Mr. Mills, but she's gone."
"We did everything that we could, and we're so sorry, Mr. Mills, but she's gone.
"Can we call someone for you, Mr. Mills? Family?"
Dressed in a handsome suit, blood on the collar of it, Henry stares straight ahead, eyes on the far wall.
A hand touches his elbow.
"Sir."
He shakes his head and says softly, "No."
"There's no one to call?"
"She's not gone. She's…no, she's…you don't understand. It was…we were on a date night. It was…we haven't had one in so long, and I wanted us to go out. She wanted us to stay in, but I convinced her…we should go dancing…"
"I'm so sorry –"
He turns and looks at the doctor for the first time since she'd started speaking. "You don't understand."
"I do," the doctor tells him, and then she's leading him over to the chairs and guiding him into one of them.
"We have a daughter. I don't –" he looks up at the doctor, eyes wide with desperation. "How am I going to tell her this?" He droops back, then, as reality starts to crash down on him. A sound breaks forward, a kind of pained mewl; immediately he clamps his hand over his mouth. Like he can't quite believe the anguish he hears there. Hot tears spill down his cheeks as he keeps shaking his head in disbelief. "It should have been me," he says in a breath.
The doctor turns, speaks to one of the nurses, and then kneels down beside him. "Is there someone we can call?"
"No. My mothers are gone. My whole family is gone." He laughs, the sound loud and heartbreakingly shrill.
"Okay," the doctor says, reaching out to take his hands.
Henry says again, softer, "She's gone. They're all gone."
His head falls, and he's shaking.
He whispers something again about his mothers.
About how they could make this better; it's all incoherent, and he's plainly in shock.
He starts sobbing, then, his body practically seizing as several nurses move to aide him.
Holding him as he breaks apart with every shudder of his body.
Now.
Henry knows that she's reluctant still. He knows that she's still reluctant to press on Regina before it may be time to do so. But when is the right time? When is trauma and hurt reduced enough to create an opening?
He thinks there's never a right time, though, and he tells Emma so.
She doesn't reply, and he has to remind her that he's not a kid anymore.
He reminds her that he's been through hell, too.
She says, "Yes," but he also hears the unsaid, "But not our hell."
Still, she agrees to look for Regina. Because if Regina's having trouble figuring out who she is, that's a problem.
"No, that's a pretty bullshit reason to go looking for her," Henry tells her. "She's your friend. Not some…problem."
"I know. I didn't…she's my friend, Henry. More than that. She means…more than I know how to put into words."
"Because you love her."
"Henry –"
"Just two days ago, you risked going back to prison for her. You shot a man for her."
"I remember." She said, tightly, tensely.
"You went to the fucking wall for Elizabeth."
"I remember."
"You telling me you wouldn't do more for Regina."
"Henry, it's not about what I would do for her," Emma insists angrily. "Goddammit, you know that. You know there's…there's pretty much nothing that I wouldn't do for her, okay? It's just…I don't know how to help her."
He thinks that she sounds strained, even scared; that there's something not being said, something that tastes a whole lot like guilt and fear to him. He knows those emotions entirely too well, remembers scrubbing at the blood on the collar of his suit three weeks after they buried Alicia, tears streaming down his cheeks as he'd torn at the expensive fabric, feeling his knees collapsing from under him as the memories of her loss had suffocated him.
It had been Lucy's arms around him that brought him back.
Lucy telling him stories when all he'd wanted to do was curl up and hide from the world.
He'd realized that it was a kind of full circle; just as he'd once kept his mother emotionally grounded during some of her darkest days of her turbulent journey towards redemption, his daughter had been doing the same for him.
Maybe, he can ground his mother again. Ground them both, and give them both hope.
His life has been a rollercoaster when it came to his own journey – from the one with the most, to the one with the least. From a heroic prince of two houses to a broken father indulging in drugs and alcohol to make him forget.
Lucy had helped him to remember who he'd wanted to be, who he could be if he could allow himself to think and see straight. Maybe he can do that for his mothers. Maybe he can help them do that for each other. They're going to need that; not only for themselves, but for this town. The Black Fairy is still out there somewhere, and everyone knows (believes) that she will be back eventually. To try again. To try to destroy them all over again.
He knows the stories from before, knows why she had been able to defeat them before.
They have to be strong and united enough to stop her this time.
"We let her know we're here for her."
"It's not that easy. What she's gone through…what she's going through…"
"We have to try."
Emma sighs, and says, "You're right. I'll…I'll check her vault. And I'll see if Zelena or my mom have heard anything."
"Good; I'll check her office."
There's a pause and then, warily, "Kid, just…be cautious, okay? Your mom can be unpredictable on the best of days, and these are certainly not those. She's struggling right now, and…just…remember who she is."
"Who is she?" Henry challenges. "The Evil Queen?"
"No," Emma replies solemnly. "She's Regina Mills, and right now, that's just as bad."
"Have some faith, Emma. We didn't come this far to not bring our family back together when it matters most."
"Yeah," she answers, and doesn't believe him.
The call ends, and he thinks about how sometimes you can't bring your family back together.
Sometimes, there's only, "We did everything we could, Mr. Mills; we're so sorry."
But not today.
Not ever again if he has anything to say about it.
TBC…