Trigger Warning: Rape and mentions of child abuse/molestation in the flashback scene: not particularly graphic, but definitely there, so please avoid italicized portions if that's an issue. There are also a few vague mentions of past assault during the sexy times in the first section. They are meant to be healing in nature, but still, you might want to be aware if that's something you're particularly sensitive about. Also note that in the second to last and last sections, there will be discussion of hostage/captivity types of situations.
Emma stops them at the bedroom door, hands running lightly up and down Regina's bare sides, causing her skin to tingle even as it soothes her, and she melts into the gentle touch, her breath coming easy for once as Emma's love seems to seep in through her pores and fill her entire body with warmth.
"You're amazing," Emma murmurs. "Like, breathtakingly beautiful."
Regina can't stop the blush that creeps onto her cheeks. "And you're very kind."
"No," Emma corrects her with a kiss, "I'm honest."
"You're something."
The next kiss is more forceful, Emma pressing her against the doorframe as her tongue and hands explore greedily. Regina moans softly into Emma's mouth, and the blonde pulls their lips apart, shaking her head with an amused smirk.
"I want you," she says in a thick, husky whisper. "I...I want to just forget everything and like...ravish you right now."
"Ravish me?" Regina teases. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"
"God, you know what I mean," Emma groans. "And why is it that I get so turned on even when you mock me?"
"Perhaps you have a problem with your self-esteem?" Regina guesses, rising on her toes to place an apologetic kiss on Emma's hairline. "But to your point, if you want me, then...here I am."
Emma's eyes pop wide open in surprise, and her hold on Regina's hips tightens. "Wait, really? Right now? Are...are you sure it's okay?"
Is she sure? No, she's not sure about anything, ever, except she's somehow convinced that with Emma, it doesn't matter. Because Emma's arms are holding her, their touch signifying a love that she's certain means strength, and even though she's exhausted and stressed and utterly terrified, this is the strongest she's ever felt, and if she doesn't capitalize on it, perhaps she'll never feel the ecstasy that she so desperately craves.
Regina gulps, and then forces a shaky nod. "I'm not sure," she admits, "but I know it's what I want."
"Then who am I to deny you what you want, my queen?" Emma says with mock bravado, feigning a bow that has Regina holding back a giggle. It feels unfamiliar yet so very comfortable in her throat. The next thing she knows, Emma is kissing her again, deeply and hungrily, and she's hurrying to divest herself of her remaining clothes.
"No rush," the younger woman rasps in between kisses. "It's not like we're going to get any sleep, anyway, so we have all night to make this happen."
Emma's getting excited, and Regina suddenly feels a cold, sinking dread in the pit of her stomach as she realizes that, scar issues aside, she and Emma still have wildly different experiences when it comes to sex, and as much as she wants it (Oh, how she wants it with ever fiber of her being!), there's no universe where this is possibly going to be easy for her. "Emma, I should probably let you know that it's been...well, it's been over eleven years since I last...successfully, anyway..."
Her voice trails off, and she watches Emma worriedly, wondering like always if she's admitted too much, if this will be the turn-off that finally sends her young lover running.
Emma just shrugs. "All the more reason to make it count, then," she points out.
"And," she adds, the growing lump in her throat making every word a struggle, "the last...encounter...it wasn't exactly...well, it was..."
"Unpleasant?" Emma guesses, saving her from having to say it, voice full of sympathy but thankfully, not pity.
"Unpleasant would be an understatement."
Emma nods, face solemn. "Okay," she finally says.
"Okay?"
"I mean, it'll be an experiment. Maybe...maybe we'll have some issues to work out along the way, but I guess that makes it the same as everything else in our relationship, right?"
"Right," Regina agrees, letting out a breath she wasn't fully aware she was holding in.
Emma tenderly kisses her jaw line, right under her ear, and whispers, "Before we start our little experiment, is there anything else I should know? Like, what not to do?"
Regina thinks, wishing bitterly that this conversation wasn't a necessary precursor to what should be a blissful and spontaneous experience. There are hot tears burning behind her eyes at the injustice of it, and finally she manages to reply, "You probably shouldn't touch my wrists."
"Seems reasonable," Emma says.
"And, perhaps also try to refrain from stabbing me," she tries to joke, attempting to keep the mood light, but the sound that escapes her throat to accompany the words is about as far from laughter as a sound can get, and Emma's arms instantly tighten around her, a hand rising to protectively caress the back of her neck.
"I think I can manage that, too."
Regina buries her face in Emma's shirt, feeling exposed and vulnerable as she stands there in her underwear and the tears she can't quite prevent leak out of her eyes.
"You're scared, aren't you?" the younger woman asks softly.
There's no point in denying it. "Terrified."
Emma nods. "Me too," she admits.
"Emma..."
"I don't want to hurt you. I mean, this is, like, kind of a lot of pressure."
"We don't have to –"
"No, just let me finish. I can't – I can't promise not to hurt you. We both know that. But, like...I haven't dealt with what you have, but I do know what it's like to have sex that isn't exactly...pleasant. I mean, I pretended to be straight for a while, and then I had a hard time figuring out what I wanted, and so on."
"Emma –"
"So here's what we're going to promise: we need to talk – about everything. I'm always going to ask you and whatever you're feeling, you tell me, okay? If you like it, you hate it, whatever. And I can't promise not to make any mistakes, but I promise I'll always listen when you tell me what you need. Is that cool?"
Regina bites back a sob of gratitude and says. "Yes. That's – it's very cool."
Grinning, Emma kisses her, nibbling lightly at her bottom lip while her hands migrate downward, finding Regina's breasts and rubbing them in slow circles. "Still cool?" she confirms.
"Still cool."
What follows is something Regina isn't sure she'd be able to articulate even with every word of every language at her disposal. The excess of sensation, the electrifying feeling of every single nerve in her body activating, is outmatched only by the complete calm and safety brought on by the sheer reverence with which Emma's hands, lips, and tongue explore every inch of her, leaving her at once thoroughly exposed and thoroughly protected.
It's certainly wordier than any sex she's ever experienced, with each movement preceded by "Is this okay?" and followed up with "How does this feel?" But after the initial newness of it wears off (even Daniel, who'd always been so intent on pleasing her, was never particularly talkative about it), she finds that she likes it, the earnest expression on Emma's face each time she checks to ensure that her touches are pleasurable warms her heart even as it continues to build the heat and pressure within her core.
She's putty in Emma's hands, but she's also completely in control, sexy and powerful even while she gives over the ownership of her body to a woman she's now convinced truly does have magic in her fingers (and her mouth).
Somewhere along the way, she manages to wrangle the younger woman out of her clothes as well, and now she smiles up at her, lacing their fingers together as Emma straddles her, hips grinding, as they slowly and rhythmically rub against each other.
She gently takes Emma's hands and places them along the sides of her abdomen.
"Touch it again," she orders.
"Are you sure?"
"I want you to."
Emma's hands run up and down her belly once more before her thumbs begin to trace along the jagged lines of the scar. "Is this okay?" she asks dubiously.
"Yes," Regina rasps, unable to form words to describe the surge of ecstasy she feels within her at the ability to stay calm, to stay present, as Emma's soft, affirmative touch takes each of her weaknesses and slowly, lovingly, turns them to strength.
"You," Emma murmurs, leaning down to kiss Regina's neck, "are so fucking amazing." Another kiss. "You're so brave." Another. "And strong." One more, on her lips. "And gorgeous." A long, hard kiss on her collarbone that will probably leave a mark, but she doesn't care. "Every inch of you is beautiful," Emma declares, shifting downward to pepper Regina's breasts with dozens of feather-light kisses that create goose bumps on her skin. "And your heart...your soul..." The kisses make their way down her belly, stopping just above the scar. "You're the most amazing woman I've ever known, and don't you ever forget it."
She finishes the litany with a trail of tender kisses along the length of the scar, and Regina's breath hitches as she reaches up to massage Emma's shoulders, hoping her touch will communicate her love and gratitude in spite of the emotion overwhelming her vocal cords.
"So," Emma husks. "Is it cool with you if I move this down a little lower?"
Regina's heart begins to pound as the desire mounts between her legs. She nods, breathlessly.
"Nope." Emma shakes her head. "You gotta say it."
"Yes," Regina finally manages to choke. "Please?"
Emma grins and hoists Regina's legs over her shoulders. "This comfortable for you?"
"It's fine," Regina replies, looking skeptically at her partner even while she struggles to think straight. "But it can't be great for you."
"Don't worry about me," laughs Emma. "This is gonna be fucking amazing for me in a few minutes."
A shiver runs up Regina's spine as Emma grabs hold of her ass, fingers massaging firmly, and her mouth presses hard, greedy kisses on her inner thighs, sucking and gnawing at increasingly tender flesh as she gets closer and closer to the center.
"I'm gonna taste you now," Emma informs her, her breath hot and sticky against the pooling wetness as Regina's sex aches for release. "Is that okay?"
"Very," Regina somehow manages to sputter. A gasp of surprise escapes her list as Emma's tongue flicks quickly and lightly through her.
"Feel good?" she asks.
"Mmhmm" is all Regina can reply, her voice a high-pitched whimper, before Emma goes in again, this time licking long, slow circles around her clit, steadily increasing the pressure until Regina's entire body is trembling, her back arched high off the bed.
"More," she practically squeaks, and Emma lifts up her face for just a second, drawing in a big breath before starting a series of alternatingly hard and soft flicks that leave Regina grunting.
"That's hot," Emma mutters. "Loud is good. Let's wake my neighbors."
Regina feels herself shaking, hanging on the edge of release, unable (and now unwilling) to quiet the louder and louder moans that come out of her with every stroke of Emma's tongue. She feels the other woman start to pull back and, dismayed, she drives her hips forward, thighs squeezed around Emma's head, harder, demanding more pressure as she practically vibrates with desire, needing Emma's touch like oxygen.
"Is this –" Emma begins breathlessly, but Regina cuts her off.
"No, Detective Swan," she hisses. "No more 'Is this okay.' You do not speak again until you've finished what you started. Is that clear?"
Emma laughs. "Crystal," she confirms, before pushing Regina's thighs further apart and giving her clit a long, hard suck.
Regina feels her body lift on its own, as suffocating pressure finally gives way to soaring weightlessness, a deeply-anticipated release against the demons that have long held her down. Her body and soul rise as one, radiating freedom, and a garbled, unfamiliar noise forces its way out of her throat before she crashes back down, trembling and vulnerable.
And, embarrassingly, weeping.
"Oh shit," Emma breathes, immediately scrambling up the bed to lie beside her. "What did I do? Was that not okay?"
"No, it..." her tongue feels heavy in her mouth, her breath shallow as sobs she can't seem to control wrack her entire body. "It was perfect."
"Then why are you –"
"I don't know!" Regina exclaims angrily, hiding her face in her hands. What happened to controlling her body? What happened to feeling strong and confident? "I – I'm sorry."
Sobs turn to hiccups and embarrassment to shame as Emma, struggling to understand, tries to soothe her with gentle touches.
"It's okay," she murmurs. "Hey, look at me." Slowly, painfully, Regina looks. "Whatever you're feeling right now, it's okay."
Kneeling once again over Regina's body, she kisses a trail back up from her thighs to her belly to her breasts and neck and finally up to her lips. "I'm still here, and I still love you, and you're still beautiful and amazing."
Regina pulls Emma on top of her, fingers tangled tightly in disheveled blonde curls, and allows the warmth and pressure of Emma's skin against hers to help her heart rate gradually slow to a manageable level. Emma's hand lightly cups her cheek, her thumb brushing away a stray tear as she whispers, "You're my hero, always."
A strangled, quiet sob rises from her chest. "And you're mine," she replies, lips meeting Emma's in a kiss that she hopes says everything her words will never be able to. Then, with the sound of Emma's deep, steady breath in her ear, Regina allows her eyes to close as she drinks in the love and sweetness filling the air, and she eventually drifts off into a blissful and safe slumber.
It ends far too soon, but when they awaken in each other's arms, sticky with sweat and still exhausted but somehow glowing with contentment, Regina thinks that maybe it's enough.
The squad room is full, even at barely seven in the morning. Everyone's eyelids are half-shut, heavy with exhaustion, but the room is abuzz with nervous energy as Regina and Emma walk in. Their arms are laden with coffee and donuts, and Regina is almost shocked when they're greeted with grateful smiles instead of the indifference and suspicion she'd become used to.
"You good?" Locksley asks quietly, humming with contentment as he takes a long swig of coffee. "You look a little better. Did you get some sleep?"
"Yeah, I got some...sleep," Regina mutters, avoiding both his eyes and Emma's. She wonders if it's possible to tell just by looking that she got more than just sleep. Does she look different? She feels different.
Locksley clearly has more important things than her sex life on his mind, though. "Good," he says, and his hand presses softly against her shoulder for just a second before he clears his throat and barks, "Booth, Humbert, you're next. Get out of here and don't let me see you for six hours."
"You and Jones really lucked out, huh?" Regina asks a bleary-eyed Nolan, setting an extra-large coffee down on his desk. Beside him, Jones is slumped over on his chair, looking every bit asleep except for the anxious tap of his pencil against the edge of the computer monitor.
"Locksley's apparently under the impression that if he lets us go in the middle of the day, we won't end up at a bar."
"I think he underestimates the amount of alcohol Jones has in his fridge," Emma jokes before announcing that she's going downstairs to check on Whale's progress with the pre-autopsy exams.
Regina's about to ask Jones and Nolan if she missed anything important when ADA Blanchard rushes in, looking about as haggard and upset as the detectives have ever seen her. "Regina, can we talk?" she asks breathlessly. Regina rises to her feet, as do the others, and the young woman's face falls, overwhelmed by the attention.
"Of course," Regina immediately replies, exchanging an apprehensive glace with Locksley. "In the hall, maybe?"
Everyone's eyes follow them out the door as Regina steers Mary Margaret into a quiet spot. She'd wondered how much her coworkers had heard of their rather explosive conversation the night before. Clearly, it was at least enough to be intriguing.
"So, I...um...I visited Walpole earlier this morning," Mary Margaret begins shakily.
"You what?"
Ignoring the detective's horrified exclamation – and, in fact, avoiding her eyes entirely – she continues, "They let me see him because he's...well, he's in the infirmary with pneumonia, and he wasn't, like, very responsive, but I asked about Malinda Black and –"
"Mary Margaret!" Regina exclaims, "You shouldn't have done that! The investigation –"
"I know," Mary Margaret interrupts. "Trust me, I know. It wasn't – I wasn't thinking, okay? I just...I had to know, if he could be responsible for that. And I thought if it could help us find that little girl, then..."
Her voice trails off, and Regina's mind races, torn between conflicting desires to offer the young woman comfort and to smack her in the face. You already know the kinds of things he's responsible for! she wants to shout. Why is this any different?
But she doesn't say that. She doesn't because they've gone through different versions of this conversation enough times that Mary Margaret already knows she's thinking it, and she already knows that the response will be far from positive.
"And?" she demands. "Did you learn anything?"
"He didn't show any recognition when I mentioned her name," Mary Margaret explains, still avoiding Regina's eyes. "And the guards say he hasn't had any contact since the last time I visited. They had him in solitary for a while, and – look, I know you're angry!" she suddenly bursts out, "I know you think I'm an idiot! But he's my father, Regina. I can't...I can't change that, and I can't help wanting to find anything good about him to hold onto, even if you think that means wearing rose-colored glasses or whatever. I had to know if he was responsible."
It's far too early in the morning for this conversation.
"So, what do you think?" Regina asks, voice slightly softened. "Did he have something to do with it?"
Mary Margaret finally looks her in the eyes. "I don't think he did."
Regina nods. "Okay, then."
"You believe me?" Mary Margaret asks with a surprised squeak.
Regina shakes her head. "I don't believe what you're telling me," she replies. "I'm sorry, I just...can't. But," she adds, forcing herself to breathe deeply, to ignore the panic that quickly rises up if she allows her thoughts to wander anywhere but the forlorn face of the woman standing directly in front of her, "I do believe you."
It's the best she can do, and she hopes it's enough. Mary Margaret nods. "Thank you," she mutters. "Now, I'll – um...I'll let you get back to investigating."
"Do you want any coffee or donuts?" Regina offers. "I think Emma and I got a bit overexcited; there's enough to feed a small army in there."
Mary Margaret takes one quick, apprehensive look toward the squad room, where all eyes (that are still open, that is) are probably watching the door, waiting with bated breath for their return, and says, "No, thanks. I should...I have stuff to do."
Then she runs off.
Regina returns to her desk with a sigh, and sure enough, three eager heads snap up to stare questioningly at her.
"What did she do?" Locksley asks, running a hand through his hair.
"Nothing," Regina replies shortly. "It's fine. Catch me up on the case?"
"CSU didn't find any new forensics at either crime scene," Nolan grumbles. "But they're still working on the house."
"Alright." Locksley checks his watch and lets out a tired huff. "Malinda Black's sister should be here in about five minutes. Are you ready for her?"
Regina nods along with Nolan and Jones just as Emma reenters the room, looking deeply confused. "This might be awkward, then," she says with a quiet, obviously forced, laugh. "Malinda Black's...not dead."
"What are you talking about?" Jones demands. "Is this The Walking Dead? Is the zombie apocalypse real?"
"No, genius, the woman on the autopsy table didn't just rise from the dead. But," she explains, pausing dramatically and glancing around the room to make sure everyone is listening, "she's not Malinda Black."
"What are you talking about?" Locksley groans.
"Malinda Black's one of those militant environmental activists, you know? She's been arrested a few times – protests, stuff like that – so her fingerprints are obviously on file. Whale checked them to match with the victim's, and it's not her."
Nolan rubs his eyes and looks like he wishes he could just crawl into a hole and escape this nonsense, and Regina doesn't blame him. "So...what's going on, then?" he questions. "Someone who is not Malinda Black but apparently looks just like her was killed, in Malinda Black's living room, and...what the hell?!"
"So, where is the real Malinda Black?" Regina adds. "And what did she do to the Arendts?"
Emma buries her face in her hands and groans loudly, drawing a sympathetic chuckle from Locksley at the other end of the room as he straightens his tie and prepares for yet another press conference. So far, though, nothing much seems to be coming out of them. They still haven't found the Arendts.
Now, of course, they also need to find Malinda Black.
God, they're less than an hour into this day and it's already a fucking disaster.
Meriwether Black had confirmed it: the dead woman in the morgue is not Malinda, but in fact, her other sister, Fauna. Now she's sobbing in the interview room with Mills and Nolan about her fucked up family and who-knows-what else, and they have another victim's life to dig into, but no one can get a hold of Blanchard.
"Try a different ADA?" Locksley suggests.
Emma sighs and shakes her head. She'll have to. "What the hell did Regina even say to her?" she wonders aloud.
"Could have been anything."
There's a tentative knock at the squad room door, and Officer Fa walks in, brow furrowed in concern. Locksley immediately rises, and Emma offers the younger woman a friendly smile, an apology for yesterday's hostility.
"Lieutenant, may I speak with you?" she asks, back ramrod straight as if standing at attention.
"Briefly," Locksley replies after a quick glance at his watch. He sits atop Emma's desk – which she finds mildly irritating – and gives the officer his full attention.
"I was back at the victim's – err, supposed victim's – house with the crime scene techs, and I found something that might be interesting. I don't really know what to think about it."
"Tell us," Locksley urges.
Fa wrings her hands, nervously chewing at her lower lip. "It's about that picture – the newspaper clipping Detective Mills saw on the wall. It...it was put there recently."
"How can you tell?" Emma asks curiously.
"Tape looks different when it's been on the wall for a while, and Malinda Black was – is? – a smoker, so you'd expect it to start looking a little yellow, eventually. But it looks like it was just taped there earlier that day. The paper itself is old, but the tape was new."
"It could have fallen down, and she re-taped it," Locksley suggests. "That's not unheard of."
Fa shakes her head. "You'd see signs of that, though, in the paper, and there was nothing. And it's odd, I think, that she had this one little picture taped to the wall when everything else was a framed painting. That room was really well arranged, like she had an interior designer in there, and then...this."
Locksley slowly nods. "You have a point. Tape on a newspaper clipping does seem a little 'college dormitory' for a well-to-do woman in her fifties."
"You got a theory?" demands Emma, even as she has a feeling she's really not going to like this theory.
"Maybe." Fa looks troubled. "I mean, you weren't there, but Mills was really, really shaken by that picture, and it just seemed...not random, you know? I think it was placed there for a reason."
"Are you joining the 'Leopold White did it' camp, too?" Locksley asks. "Because while I do appreciate that he's done unspeakably awful things in the past, he's currently a quadriplegic in a super-max prison facility whose correspondence is monitored twenty-four hours a day."
"I obviously don't think he was directly involved, but I think whoever did it must have hung the picture there knowing that Mills would see it and would jump to that conclusion, so the perp might be someone who knows about her connection to him. Maybe they meant to throw us – her – off the case. CSU's checking for latent prints now, but it's an old newspaper, so it might be tricky."
Emma sighs and nods her head, thinking that she'd been right: she hates this theory. "You have a point," she admits, "but that includes basically everyone in the city that was old enough to read a newspaper at the time of the case, so I don't know if it helps us."
Locksley's nodding along with her, but suddenly his eyes widen, and he says, "No, that's not it."
"No?" Both women ask at once.
"That would be true if, say, they'd put a picture of Leopold White on the wall, but it wasn't him. It was Eva Blanchard. So, if we're going with the theory that someone put the picture there to spook Regina, then it would have had to be someone who knew that Blanchard had been associated with him."
"That was definitely not in the news," Emma agrees. "So we need to find out how many people knew about their relationship?"
Locksley purses his lips and shakes his head, eyes dark. "No, I think we need to find out how many people knew Regina knew about their relationship."
Shit, Emma thinks, slumping lower at her desk. It's eight-fifteen, and she's not sure how else this day could get worse.
Mills and Nolan return, dejected, from the interview room. "She knows nothing," Regina grumbles. "Of course. Doesn't seem particularly bright, either." After a few seconds spent angrily shuffling the pile of manila folders on her desk, she finally looks up and notices that both Emma and Robin are staring at her, faces pale and apprehensive.
"Is there a problem?" she asks.
Emma shrugs uncomfortably and Locksley mutters, "Maybe."
Guiltily, Emma watches as Regina sits stiffly at her chair, staring at both of them with so much fear in her eyes that she wants to leap across the space between them and wrap her in the tightest hug she can muster, but Nolan and Jones are there, and while Locksley probably wouldn't mind, given the circumstances, she doubts it falls under his definition of professionalism.
"What?" she demands.
Emma gives the lieutenant a meaningful glance, and he rolls his eyes at her like she's somehow the one who's supposed to make this announcement even though he's the commanding officer in charge of this case, not to mention he's known Regina for longer and worked on the White case and probably knows how to phrase things much better.
"Right." Locksley clears his throat. "Okay, so we're not – we don't think Leopold White was involved with the murders or the kidnapping."
"Of course you don't."
"But – hear us out – it might be possible that someone tried to use your history with him to attempt to throw us off the case."
Emma can almost see the moment that the proverbial twenty-foot-thick-hundred-foot-high walls go up around Regina, and her heart aches. "How so?" the senior detective demands.
"Officer Fa and the crime scene techs think the photo with Eva may have been – obviously was – hung on the wall recently, and that, like...it wasn't just a random decorating choice," Emma explains in a rush.
Regina looks skeptical. And possibly on the verge of a breakdown.
"And, I mean, why would she have just hung it on the wall after – what? – fifteen years? Eva's long dead, right? Malinda Black didn't suddenly become a scrap-booker. It was probably put there for someone –"
"You," Jones supplies unnecessarily, earning a glare from all four of the other occupants of the room.
"To find it."
Regina rubs her temples, wincing. "And who would do that?" she asks exhaustedly. "Why would they do that?"
Emma desperately wishes she didn't have to say the words that are coming out of her mouth. "We were kind of hoping you might have some ideas. Since, you know, you're the one who knew White."
Regina shoots her an icy glare, which Emma supposes is better than no response at all.
"What we'd like to figure out," Locksley says gently, "is who knew about the connection between Leopold White and Eva Blanchard. And, perhaps more importantly, who knew that you knew about it?"
After blinking several times and rubbing her eyes, Regina finally mutters, "Nobody." Her voice is raspy and hollow. "He didn't tell anyone – he didn't trust anyone except for me, that was the whole point. And it wasn't...I didn't tell anyone. I didn't want -"
Her eyes flicker briefly to Nolan before turning downward.
"But?" Emma prompts, knowing there must be a "but" in there somewhere.
"Except –" Regina's faces goes through several shades of red and purple and her lips twitch painfully before she answers "- I was wearing a wire through most of our interactions. I assume Midas and Spencer were listening."
Locksley's eyes narrow.
Emma has heard of Lieutenant Midas, of course, but the other name is new to her. "Who's Spencer?" she inquires.
"Someone you're incredibly lucky to have never worked with."
Nolan shudders. "He might be the person I like least in the entire world."
"That's a glowing recommendation," Emma comments drily, but her coworkers aren't listening.
"Did you two just agree on something?" Jones's eyes widen in disbelief. "That's shocking."
"It appears that we did," says Nolan. He offers Regina an approving handshake, which she accepts.
"Wow, okay, you hate the same person. That's cute." Emma rolls her eyes and taps a pencil impatiently on her desk. "Now can someone please tell me who he is so we can get back to what's really important here? Should I start investigating this guy, or what?"
"He's a retired detective – sergeant, actually, by the time he retired," Nolan explains. "He was my partner when I first started working this unit, and I think he played the same role for Mills?"
Regina nods. "People call Regina the Evil Queen," Locksley informs Emma, "but Albert Spencer didn't have any nicknames because people would shudder at the very mention of him."
"Okay, enough," Regina snaps, fingers clutching the table tightly as she rises on unsteady legs. "We don't need story time, we need to catch a killer before it's too late."
"So, this Spencer," Emma asks, laying a hand lightly on Regina's arm, "why are we talking about him? What's the connection here?"
"There is none," Regina says quickly. "Yes, he knew everything that I knew about the case, but that's...that's it. I doubt he has any connection to these killings."
"He's the scum of the earth," Locksley adds with a hand on Regina's other shoulder, "and I would be unsurprised, to say the least, if he was dirty in some way, but you're right. And anyway, we'd need solid evidence, or any evidence, before we started leveling accusations at a high-ranking former cop."
"And Midas?" Emma asks, just for the sake of checking.
"Retired in Florida," Nolan reports. "If his Christmas cards are any indication, he's having a great time and not thinking about Boston or criminals at all."
"Sounds nice," Locksley comments under his breath. "What about – I know this is a long-shot, but since ADA Blanchard obviously knew-"
"No," Regina says flatly.
"But if she'd told a friend, perhaps-"
"She didn't really have any, and then...just – just drop it, Robin."
Jones sighs. "So, that leaves us with...who?"
"Malinda Black?" Emma suggests. "I mean, no offense, guys, but it seems like we're living in the past a little here and forgetting that, up to the point we thought she was dead, Malinda Black was our main suspect in the case we're actually trying to solve, which is the Arendts' disappearance."
Regina looks at her sheepishly and forces a chuckle. "It seems that whoever was trying to throw us off the case was successful. I'm sorry."
"I mean, I'm not saying these connections aren't worth exploring, since you know, obviously, this person did know that information and all of that," Emma sputters out, trying hurriedly to reassure her. Her hand rubs up and down lightly as she explains, "I just think we should maybe start with what's right in front of us."
"From the mouths of rookies!" Locksley declares. "Let's get back to it."
Emma stays in place for a moment while the other detectives return to their desks and Locksley jogs out to speak to the news crews, pulling Regina in for a brief embrace once she's sure no one's watching. "You okay?" she whispers.
"What the hell kind of question is that?"
"Just checking. Anything I can do?"
Regina sighs heavily, sagging against Emma for just a second before pulling herself back up. "Let's just find Elsa Arendt. If she's safe, then...then I suppose that's what matters."
"You think she's still alive after being missing so long?"
"I don't know." Regina's face is pained, her voice straining in her throat and obviously thick with the frightened tears she's just barely holding back. "But she needs to be."
She starts to notice the bruises a few weeks after meeting Mary Margaret, but she doesn't actually put the pieces together until one day when she's helping the young girl prepare for her school dance, and she notices the unmistakable black and blue imprint of a large hand on her ribcage. Sick to her stomach, she instantly forgets everything about her undercover persona and shifts into cop-mode.
"Mary Margaret," she demands in a horrified whisper, "what happened?"
"It's nothing," Mary Margaret replies immediately, tugging her shirt down in shame. "It's just...nothing."
"Mary Margaret, who hurt you?" Regina asks softly as she takes the girl's hand in her own. "Please, tell me what happened. I can help you."
"How?" she demands, face guarded, and Regina thinks she's about to lose her lunch because Mary Margaret is right – there is absolutely no way Gina Miliota could possibly help her (nor would she probably care to), and Regina Mills isn't allowed to surface. At the moment, though, that matters very little to her.
She reaches into her wallet, remembers at the last second that she can't hand over her business card – buried in there beneath her fake license and fake credit cards – without ruining absolutely everything, and gives the girl Daniel's instead.
"Call him," she urges. "Tell him I sent you. He'll make sure you get all the help you need, I promise."
Mary Margaret scowls. "I don't need any help," she insists, but she pockets the business card and Regina slowly exhales as she leaves the room, hoping against hope that it's not what she thinks and everything will somehow be fine.
Her partner is irate.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Spencer demands. "Are you trying to risk months – years for some of us – of hard work? Just so you can protect a stupid little girl?"
"Protect and serve, that's what we do," Regina replies with a hollow laugh. "Right?"
"Fucking affirmative action hires," he seethes. "You don't belong on the force, and I did nothing to deserve the indignity of working with you. So you know what, Mills? When you eventually blow your cover and throw out our entire investigation – and I guarantee that you will do both of those things - I won't be here. It'll only be your career getting destroyed, and I'll just laugh when you're up the river without a paddle. Understood?"
"Yeah, sure," she mutters, but she doesn't understand what exactly he means by "up the river without a paddle" until about two weeks later when she's shoved against a wall, White's forearm pressed across her throat as his face inches closer to hers and she can smell the gin on his breath. Her first thought is of the microphone taped on the inside of her bra. Straining and choking, she hisses, "Apple." It's their safe word, supposed to immediately draw back-up when spoken, but she waits and waits and nothing happens.
It's then that she realizes she's in this investigation alone, that no one's coming to help her – no one is ever coming – so she does the only thing she can do to come out of it alive: she closes her eyes and lets it happen, praying to a god she's sure isn't listening to please, please let him be too drunk to notice the wire.
In that, at least, she gets lucky.
Mary Margaret's back, bringing with her subpoenas for every bit of Malinda Black's personal information so that all six detectives can pore over it in detail while stuffing their faces with Hawaiian pizza. Jones and Nolan – in spite of their exhaustion and irritability from lack of sleep – had refused to leave even after Booth and Humbert returned, and Locksley hadn't said anything further about it. No one can sleep, anyway. At this point, they're all running purely on caffeine and adrenaline.
"Well, she's quite obviously not dead," Jones remarks. "Or at least whoever is using her credit card is alive and well."
"Cell phone, too."
"So, you're thinking someone faked her death and stole her identity?" the ADA asks, confused. She's made no effort to conceal the fact that he thinks their theory on the case is convoluted at best, but she's fighting for them with Judge Gold – and winning – so no one can really complain about her excessive questions.
"Maybe," Emma replies, mouth full of pizza, "or maybe she faked her own death to throw us off the case. Give her more time to hide the bodies."
"Although, if you were going to fake your own death, you'd probably want to stop using your credit card, if you know what I mean," Booth muses, shaking his head. "Kind of a giveaway."
"Perhaps," Regina says darkly.
The senior detective has been mostly silent since the ADA's arrival, and Mary Margaret has spoken to everyone except her. (And Nolan, who's slumped at his desk like a pouting child for some reason.) It makes things awkward. Emma doesn't like it.
Although, now that she knows Mary Margaret is Leopold White's daughter...
Actually, no, it doesn't change anything. It just means everything about her mercurial relationship with Regina makes a lot more sense.
"Whoa!" Humbert suddenly exclaims. "She just made a charge ten minutes ago."
"Where?" Locksley demands, sprinting out of his office as all of the detectives gather around behind Graham's desk, shoving each other to gain a better view of his computer screen.
"Convenience store in South Boston," he reports. "Near the waterfront."
"Print that address," Locksley orders. "Nolan, Mills, you're up. Show her picture to everyone in the area. Bring Elsa's too. Humbert, Booth – trail them as back-up. Swan, Jones – you're on call here until further notice."
"Is it just me, or does he not trust me?" Jones mutters as he slides into the chair beside Emma's.
She ignores him, walking up quickly behind Regina and giving her hand a squeeze as she approaches the door, firm and resolute. "Please be careful," she says softly.
"We'll do whatever it takes," Regina replies.
It's not a particularly satisfying answer, Emma thinks with a sigh as she sits back down and shoves another slice of pizza in her mouth. This is going to be a long evening.
"You're absolutely certain you've never seen her?" Regina asks the third business owner in the neighborhood of the convenience store at which the charge had been made. So far, no one has recognized the picture.
"Never," he replies. "Only folks that come around these parts are the guys that work in the warehouses 'cross the street."
Warehouses, she thinks, exchanging a quick glance with Nolan.
"So, all the buildings on that side of the street are active shipping warehouses?" she asks urgently.
"Don't know about active, ma'am," he replies. "Two over there are shipping operations – they get good business – but the canneries have been down on their luck with the economy, and the meat-packing one down at the end is all but abandoned."
"Abandoned," she hisses to Nolan.
He smiles warmly at the shopkeeper and thanks him for his time before she drags him out the door and grabs their vests from the trunk of the car.
"We're going in, then?" he questions.
"If that building is abandoned, tell me why there's a van next to it."
"Free parking?" he guesses, but he dutifully radios Booth and Humbert and tells them to watch the exits.
Regina smiles tightly, thinking for a second about how much she enjoys being in charge, before grabbing them two flashlights from the trunk of the car and walking quickly toward the building, forcing Nolan to jog to catch up.
The warehouse is dark and silent, but there's a smell pervading the air that says in no uncertain terms that they'll find the bodies they're looking for. Regina shines her flashlight around a corner and whispers, "All clear on the left," to Nolan, who nods (she's not quite sure how she can hear him nod, but she does), and shines his around the other side.
He suppresses a gag at what he sees. "I think these are the Arendts," he mumbles, and Regina has to agree after she turns to look. "I guess we can confirm they're dead."
"Radio it in. Now we need to find Malinda Black, and the child," she says, trying to hide her desperation. Flashlight in one hand and gun in the other, she sidesteps around the corner to get a better look as her partner mutters into his walkie-talkie.
"Nothing here," she reports. "I'm going in a bit deeper." She thinks she might see a lump on the floor behind some shelving.
"Got your back," Nolan promises, and she feels strangely safe when she hears his soft footfalls following her through the darkened building. Perhaps the idiot is growing on her.
That is, until she nearly trips over what feels like an arm and bites down hard on her tongue to keep from crying out.
Nolan shines his light down at the floor and asks, surprised, "Is that Malinda Black?"
It certainly looks like her, Regina thinks, hoping her nod confirms his query without her having to speak, because she doesn't think she can. Bending down over the bound and gagged body – it feels warm – she presses her fingers against the woman's throat. She's still alive, but badly injured and unconscious.
"Pulse?" he whispers.
She nods again.
"Should we start CPR?"
There's no chance to answer, because in an instant, both detectives are on guard, guns pointed, as heavy footsteps echo throughout the huge building. "Who's there?" she hollers, finally finding her voice.
"This is the Boston Police!" Nolan calls, shining his flashlight in the space in front of him. "Step into the light with your hands where I can see them."
Suddenly, they're stunned by the sound of a shot reverberating off of every surface, and another, and another, and the stench of death in the air is replaced by faint residue of gunpowder. In the darkness, Regina can't tell where any of it came from, but beside her, Nolan doubles over, clutching his leg, and the beam of her flashlight reveals that his hand is stained with blood.
"David!" she exclaims. "Are you –"
"Just nicked me," he grits out, gesturing wildly to his left. "Came from over there. Get the shooter."
Blindly, she races through the pitch black warehouse, flashlight shaking wildly in her hand as its faint beam does little to reveal what's in front of her. She trips once or twice, but quickly regains her footing, driven forward by the sound of the shooter's steps growing closer and closer.
He's slow. She's gaining ground. She nearly falls on her face as he drops his gun to the floor and it ends up under her feet, but she keeps running – she can see him now.
Until she passes what looks like an industrial freezer and thinks she hears a faint noise – a whimper, perhaps – coming from the inside.
"Regina, what the hell are you doing?" Nolan exclaims angrily. His words imply the same thought that's pounding in her head: Get the shooter!, but her heart is telling her to rescue the victim, and for better or worse, her body is listening to her heart.
Prying open the freezer door, she shines her flashlight inside, and her heart nearly stops as her eyes fall on a tiny child in the corner, nearly unconscious but still crying softly. She leans over the edge, straining to reach down to grab the girl.
"Are you Elsa?" she asks.
The reply sounds like it's meant to be a scream, but it only comes out as a tiny, hoarse mew, like a dying cat. She's badly dehydrated, Regina realizes.
"Hey Elsa," she says softly. "My name is Regina. I'm a police officer. I'm going to help you, alright?"
Another cry, this one a little less frightened but still horribly painful.
"You're safe now, baby. I won't let anyone hurt you. We're going to take you to the hospital first, and then you can see your sister."
Elsa's ears perk up at that, and Regina has to choke back tears. "Anna's fine. She's in a safe place with people who are taking really good care of her, and once you're healthy, we'll take you there, too, so you can be together. Would you like that?"
Shaking, the little girl gives the smallest, weakest of nods, and Regina breathes a sigh of relief. "Okay, baby, I'm going to pick you up now. Is that alright?"
As much as she can – which isn't much, considering what her tiny body must have been through over the last few days – Elsa inches closer to Regina, and the detective scoops her against her chest, rocking back and forth on her feet and rubbing her back in small circles. The freezer hadn't been plugged in, but she's still so cold. Regina nudges the tiny, frigid hands under her armpits and shrugs her shoulders up and down to create some friction and warm them up. "You're safe, sweetheart. I'm going to keep you safe, I promise," she soothes, feeling each of her muscles slowly unclench as the sound of sirens finally begins to fill the air.
Nolan, breathing heavily and unevenly, limps over to them, his shirt ripped off and tied around his leg wound. "Regina!" he snaps."What were you – oh."
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "He got away, but I had to –"
Nolan looks long and hard at the trembling toddler slowly relaxing into Regina's arms and nods, swallowing hard. "We'll get him later," he mutters. "Whoever he is, he can't run forever."
Hours later, Regina quietly sings every lullaby she can think of as she rocks Elsa back and forth until, finally, the distraught toddler drifts off to sleep. Sighing, she glances around the Urgent Care room that's lit dimly only by the red exit sign at the end of the hall. It's three in the morning, she needs to use the bathroom, and her arms are numb from holding the little girl, who consistently starts screaming the instant Regina's hold on her lessens even slightly.
Drained and exhausted as she is, though, she can't help but smile as a sleeping Elsa curls against her chest, lightly sucking her thumb and finally looking like she's at peace.
"I've got you, baby," she whispers, leaning back into the uncomfortable hospital bed and curling her legs up under her to help support the weight in her arms. "You're safe. I won't let them hurt you, ever again."
She has to stay alert. She's the only one here to protect Elsa from harm – not that, realistically speaking, there'd be someone coming after her, but Regina is too sleep-deprived at the moment to even consider thinking realistically.
She gently runs her fingers through the soft blonde curls and kisses the top of Elsa's head, clutching the sleeping girl closer as her own anxiety bubbles up inside her at the prospect of spending the night in a hospital room. "I will protect you, no matter what; I promise," she tells her, willing her heart to stop pounding – at this rate, it's going to wake her patient.
In. Out.
"It's okay," she thinks aloud. "Everything is fine. It's just one night."
They'd had to run a number of tests on Elsa and treat her for dehydration and hypothermia, all of which had taken far longer than it should have due to her emotional duress and the fact that she refused to allow anyone to touch her except for Regina, and now they're keeping her overnight for observation before an appointment with the child psychiatrist in the morning and, if all goes well, they'll then move her to the same foster home as her sister.
Regina had volunteered to stay with her – well, not that she'd had much of a choice, since the screams that came at the prospect that she was going to leave had practically destroyed everyone's hearing – thinking it would be fine. She'd assumed that the disappearance of all the nurses except one making emergency night rounds would make the hospital less overwhelming, but now it's dark and eerie and she's alone.
Except for this tiny child she's vowed to protect.
"I won't fail you," she whispers to Elsa. "I will keep you safe."
"Need any help with that?" asks a voice from the doorway, and Regina nearly jumps out of her skin in shock, reaching for her gun. Elsa whimpers softly in her arms before quickly falling back to sleep, too exhausted to be afraid anymore. Regina wishes she could say the same for herself.
But then she looks up, heart racing wildly in her chest, and sees that it's Emma. It's just Emma.
She looks extremely contrite and says, "Sorry, I'm wearing my slippers. You must not have heard me coming."
"I didn't," Regina confirms breathlessly. "Obviously."
"Sorry about that," Emma says again. "I brought you a sandwich. I figured you'd be awake and maybe hungry."
"You figured right."
Emma hums and sits down on the bed beside Regina, head rested on her shoulder and one hand rubbing her back in slow, calming circles. "She's so little," she remarks. "I forget sometimes, you know. It's been a while since Henry was that size."
"Indeed."
"How's she doing?"
"She's...she watched her parents get murdered and was trapped alone in an industrial freezer for days. It was unplugged and there were a couple of air holes, thankfully, but...she's doing about as well as you'd expect."
Emma nods solemnly. "She's lucky in one respect, though," she points out. "She's got you."
As if on cue, Elsa nestles her face deeper into Regina's chest, and both women laugh quietly.
And then Regina's stomach growls.
"I can hold her while you eat," Emma offers. "I mean, if you don't think it will wake her up."
Regina nods. Elsa's sleeping pretty soundly now – the doctors may have slipped her some sedatives to help with that; Regina's not really sure. "If you don't mind, I might run to the bathroom first."
Slowly, carefully, they transfer the toddler into Emma's arms. She barely stirs. Regina jogs off to use the restroom as fast as possible, and when she comes back, she sees Emma singing to the little girl and tenderly kissing her forehead.
"W'gina?" Elsa murmurs sleepily.
"Right here," she says quickly, sitting on the bed beside Emma and putting her arms around both of them. "This is my friend, Emma. She's here to protect you, too."
Elsa nods. "'Kay," she mumbles with a longing gaze toward Regina, and the detective feels an ache rise in her chest, her arms craving the weight of a child again.
Emma seems to understand. "I won't keep you two apart any longer," she says with a grin, ruffling Elsa's hair as she passes her off to her partner.
"My W'gina," Elsa says before sticking her thumb back in her mouth and closing her eyes.
"You've got pretty good taste, kid," Emma chuckles. "She's my favorite, too."
Elsa's already half asleep again, and Regina lies back in the bed, much calmer now that Emma is with them, and hugs the girl snugly against her chest. She catches Emma staring, a strange expression in her eyes. "What?" she demands softly.
"You're...never mind, it's nothing."
"Tell me."
"It's just...Nolan said you seemed 'smitten,' and I wasn't exactly sure what he meant by it, but...yeah, you do seem very smitten."
"What's not to be smitten about?" she asks, feeling her heart melt as she stares down at the brave little girl who looks at her like she's her own personal guardian angel – yes, there's no point in denying it: she's crazy about her.
"Not saying there's anything wrong with that," Emma says quickly. "It's great. You look beautiful – you're basically glowing right now."
"But?"
"No buts. Just...pointing it out. Paying a compliment, maybe."
"Right."
"And," she observes, "I'd say she's pretty much in love with you, too."
"She's a traumatized child, seeking comfort," Regina argues.
"From you, because you know how to give it. You're the only one who understands. Not to mention the fact that you're the one who saved her."
"I was merely in the right place at the right time. If I'd been shot and Nolan was pursuing the shooter, he would have heard –"
"Stop, you're gonna wake up the kid if you keep fighting with me. You, Regina Mills, are a hero," Emma says, punctuating the declaration with a kiss on the tip of Regina's nose. "And I'm sure Elsa would agree with me if she were awake right now."
Regina hopes the dim light of the darkened hospital room hides the blush that rushes up her cheeks. She's spent the last eleven years of her life being called a hero, for reasons she's mostly failed to understand. Yes, her actions had led to the arrest of a vicious serial killer, but not until after he'd managed to destroy everyone who mattered to her, in various horrifying ways. Shooting him after the fact wasn't heroism, it was self-defense.
And today, she'd let someone go free – they're still not quite sure who, since Booth and Humbert had somehow missed an exit – who'd killed at least three people, injured another, kept a child imprisoned in an abandoned meat-packing plant, and shot her partner. Nolan, saint that he is, had told her it was okay, that she'd done the right thing, but still. She can't stop kicking herself that she could have, should have, done better, and Emma knows it.
"We've got footprints in the mud outside the warehouse and fingerprints on the gun, not to mention a BOLO out on the car. We'll find him, Regina. If you'd taken too long to nab him – if there'd been a struggle – who knows how much longer Elsa could have held on in there. A life was at stake and you saved it."
It's true, she thinks, softly kissing the little girl's head. She'd made a judgment call, and she's holding the result of it in her arms, and she can't say she has any regrets.
"I made the right choice," she says softly.
"You wouldn't be a hero if you didn't occasionally doubt yourself."
"Can you please stop using that word?" Regina demands.
"It fits," Emma says, sticking her tongue out. "Whether you like it or not, you're my hero, and I love the crap out of you. So does this kid, even if she's not awake to say it."
The blush is back, warming her cheeks all the way down to the depths of her soul that she thinks might just be on fire, with Emma's arms around her and a child against her chest – finally, a child she's successfully protected.
"And, you know," Emma adds, a playful smile turning up the corners of her lips, "there's something special that always happens to heroes at the end of those fairytales Henry's always reading."
"Oh? What's that."
"True love's kiss, of course."
Regina's grinning so hard her cheeks hurt as Emma leans in, careful not to wake Elsa – who's now lightly snoring – and gently runs her fingers along her jaw before kissing her in a manner befitting the hero of the tale. It's chaste (there's a sleeping toddler between them), but there's something deeply meaningful embedded in it, too, a promise of tomorrow, perhaps many tomorrows, of dragons slain and maidens rescued and the two of them hand in hand, come what may.
Theirs is not exactly a fairytale romance; it's raw and hard and occasionally painful, with no fairy godmothers to grant them their happily ever after. But it's real, and now more than ever, she realizes that's what makes it worth fighting for.
And she knows that she has what it takes to keep fighting.