4 May 2014

Things were going well with Roland, even better with Robin. Regina touched her swollen lips in remembrance of the afternoon as she stood on the porch, waving goodbye as her two men rode off in Friar Tuck's new Silverado. When the truck turned a corner and she lost sight of them, she walked back inside her house to clean up the remains of lunch, take-out from Mulan's new taqueria. She would have to take a bicarbonate of soda before bed tonight; Mexican food didn't sit well with her, but her boys loved it, so she ignored her stomach for their sake.

She touched her lips again. Things were going very well indeed.

Roland had sat in her lap this afternoon, the child telling her his favorite bedtime story, a rambling tale that had something to do with moon men waging war against dragons. As Roland shaped his hand into a dragon's mouth and roared, Regina caught herself remembering a certain patchwork dragon, and just for a second, she wondered if she'd made the right decision.

Now, as she tossed plates and silverware into the dishwasher, she found herself remembering Trajan's fascination with kitchen appliances, and again she wondered. Roland and Trajan had gotten along so well. . . .But Trajan was Zelena's child, and Zelena was this year's Public Enemy Number One in Storybrooke. They'd agreed—Emma, Belle and she—that the best place for Trajan was someplace else. They'd agreed.

She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and reached for her phone. "Dr. Hopper, it's Mayor—it's Regina Mills. Just curious: have you heard anything from the Hoffmans? . . . What about your contact at Protective Services?. . . Well, could you find out, please?. . . Now, please. Unless walking your dog is more important than the welfare of a child—yes. Call me back at this number. I. . .I'm no longer using the Mayor's office."

As she hung up, she dropped onto her couch to wait and think. What was she doing these days, now that she no longer had a town to run? She had money enough to be idle, but idleness was hardly in her nature. All her life, she'd worked towards something. She couldn't just sit around waiting for the next visit from her boys; she needed to be productive, needed to be out there, in the thick of things. With people.

Her phone rang and she snatched it up. "Hopper? . . .Oh. Hello, Chantelle. Yes, I'll be in tomorrow at ten for my fitting. . . .Yes. Thank you. Tomorrow." She hung up before her dressmaker could ramble on about what wonderful taste in clothes Madame Mills had, and what a perfect figure. Not that Regina didn't know all that already, and on any other day would enjoy the brown-nosing, but she had other matters on her mind right now.

Her phone rang again. "Hopper?"

"He's doing well, Regina. Adjusting nicely. His new brother has taught him to play football, and the Hoffmans bought him a bike. They've enrolled him in kindergarten. He's eating regular meals, he goes to bed at eight o'clock and sleeps through the night, he's even brushing his teeth without complaint. He's going to be fine."

"That's good news." Regina sucked in a breath. "All right, then. Keep me posted." She hung up, not certain if what she'd heard really felt like good news or not. She pattered upstairs in her stocking feet, wandered into the empty bedroom, fluffed a pillow or two, wandered into the bathroom and took an Alka-Seltzer. Wandered to her own room and lay back on her four-poster bed, and threw an arm across her eyes and wondered what the hell to do with her life.

Emma ran into her office and grabbed her ringing phone. "Sheriff Swan. . . Oh, hi, Archie. . . . Yeah, sure I'd like to know. He was a sweet kid. . . .Uh-huh. . . .That's good. . . Uh-huh. . . .Yeah. . . . A Red Sox game, huh? Cute. . . . Well, that's good news. Glad he's getting along. Especially glad he has a family to raise him. . . Me? Doing fine. I was just out having a late lunch with Killian. . . . Don't get nosey, Archie. I get enough of that from my parents. . . . Yeah, I'm sure Belle will be glad to hear about Trajan. I'll give her a call later today, share the good news. . . .Okay, Archie. Talk to you later."

Emma dropped into her leather swivel chair (an ergonomically correct chair, a birthday gift from her parents) and caught her breath. She was a little winded, truth be told, not from her run into the office to catch the phone, but from, well, some after-lunch snogging. She'd introduced Killian to the concept of breath mints, so of course he'd wanted to test them. . . She touched her swollen lips. Things were going pretty good with Killian. Not great yet—she found herself still remembering a certain jaunty grin that had always made her heart skip a beat, and as long as that memory could still produce that reaction, she knew wasn't completely ready to let go of Neal. Maybe she never would. But like Trajan, she couldn't let the death of a loved one hold her back from living. She had to move on.

She walked out of the office into the jail and crossed over to the windows to survey her town. She watched the school bus go by. Henry had been pestering her to let him register for school again, but she'd been holding back, holding on to New York and the happiness they'd found there. She wondered briefly, for the hundredth time, if going back to New York was the right thing. She planned to stay for her new brother's "coronation potluck," but then she and Henry would hit the road. Henry's best chance lay in New York, she was sure of it; Storybrooke was just too crazy. Still, if he'd had a say in the matter, Henry would probably choose to live here, with his other mom and his grandparents, even. . .

Even that one, walking down the street hand in hand with Belle. "Grandpa," Henry had called him, while David was "Gramps." Emma couldn't bring herself to use the man's real name; it was just too crazy. There he went, the most dangerous man in town, walking hand in hand with his librarian girlfriend. Walking into the ice cream parlor. That man was just another reason why Henry needed to grow up in New York.

Except. . . he didn't look so dangerous right now, holding hands like that. She'd seen that look before: on his son's face, when he'd promised to take her to Tallahassee. The look of a man in love.

That's when a man got really dangerous.