A/N: It's always hard to write two people in one :p I'd kind of been dreading this chapter as I knew it would be a hard one to navigate, so I hope I've done a decent job! (I'm excited for the next few, however).

Side note: I took a break while writing this to go cook/ eat, and You're Somebody Else by Flora Cash came on my playlist which felt very appropriate!

The tension in Regina's bedroom is almost unbearable and Emma pulls back and narrows her eyes in preparation for the fireworks and dazzling lights and auras she is sure will accompany the brunette's reclamation of her heart.

In the end, there is nothing.

No lights, no impromptu thunderstorm or deadly smoke.

No screaming of rage or of pain.

Nothing.

Regina simply presses her heart back into the cavity of her chest and stands for a moment looking shell-shocked. Silent. Ashen.

When she does move, it's a motion the blonde recognises immediately, and she grabs hold of the brunette's arms swiftly to catch her before she hits the floor.

"Woah!"

She admonishes as the Mayor hangs limp in her grip, and she lowers the darker woman down carefully and kneels over her uncertainly.

"Regina, hey, come on. Are you alright?"

She shakes the brunette gently, her previous fear of facing up to her actions replaced by a new sense of dread as she checks the darker woman's pulse worriedly.

She said this would work! Gold said it would work! It has to!... Right?

"Come on, please?"

She implores nervously, detecting a faint but steady beat beneath her fingers that does little to alleviate her anxiety as the Mayor remains deathly still, her complexion alarmingly pallid.

What the fuck do I do?!

The blonde frets, wishing she'd thought to ask Regina this very question in the event of things going awry, but she imagines that if the darker woman had foreseen there being a problem, she would have said.

Finally, the brunette takes in a laboured gulp of air, followed by several more with increasing ease until she breathes more or less normally.

"Shit, don't do that to me!"

Emma scolds angrily, resting back in her heels with her hand caught in her hair, keeping it off her face; her own pallor almost as chalky as the Mayor's.

Why aren't you waking up? Why are you just lying there?

She frets, although she supposes that she knows firsthand the toll magic can take.

"You're okay, though, right?"

She asks the brunette softly, knowing she's unlikely to get an answer as the Mayor's lashes flicker ever so slightly as though deep in REM sleep; completely oblivious beyond whatever is currently going on in her head.

"Yeah, you're okay."

Emma assures herself, wishing she could sound as comforting as her mother when uttering such platitudes, but her experience lies in providing back-up and a solution rather than in blind reassurance, and she doesn't like the uncertainty of the hopefulness in her voice.

"You'll be okay."

She forces herself to sound less unsure, taking hold of Regina's hands and pulling her up in an attempt to lie her down on the bed. While doing so, she supposes she's actually quite glad that the darker woman remains out for the count; her efforts in no way graceful, and unlikely to be met with approval in spite of her good-natured intent.

"Well, I did admit I wanted to get you into bed."

Emma reasons a little breathlessly as she arranges the pillows to provide optimal comfort. She accompanies crass words with a chuckle, but it comes out harsh and unhappy and she swiftly shuts up as her dread for what the Mayor might remember comes flooding back.

"I really wouldn't have done any of what I did if she wasn't only the Evil Queen at the time. If she wasn't asking for it."

She appeals to still features, although she knows the problem lies more in the fact that she'd done such things at all.

Just don't be too angry... Please...

She swallows, fully aware that she would take rather unkindly to such a plea if their roles were reversed.

Well, a day ago they were! That's the fucked up thing!

She sighs, glancing up to spy the ropes they'd use to bind the Queen- the ropes she'd freed herself from by kneeling before the wicked woman desperate for a taste- hanging limply around the posts of the headboard and she feels her cheeks flare with heat and accepts that it's not just Regina's wrath that she fears, but her revulsion.

That more than anything.

She has found herself irritated in the past when the brunette has commented so flippantly on her inner darkness; each time arguing that she's not so sweet and innocent as the Mayor likes to pretend.

You say you understand that it's not so simple, but I'm not so sure that you do... I'm not sure you understand at all.

Emma bites down on the pad of her thumb as she studies the brunette solemnly, experiencing a brief flash of annoyance as she finds it rather inconvenient that Regina insists on seeing her both as one of the most despicable individuals she's ever had the displeasure to meet, yet at the same time infinitely kind in spite of any sensible suggestion otherwise. Still, she supposes she'd surprised even herself in the savageness of her response to the Queen's games, so she can hardly expect the Mayor to have anticipated her behaviour.

"I was tired of losing to her."

She reasons finally, searching the darker woman's face for signs of malice, of evil, but Regina gives nothing away as she slumbers.

At least, that's what the blonde hopes she's doing.

I'd know if something was wrong. I'd feel it.

She muses, aware that this is perhaps fanciful thinking, and yet certain that she's right. She and Regina have always been quick to pick up on if the other was in trouble, as demonstrated by the darker woman wasting very little time to cross realms in response to something so simple as damage to her basement door.

And the cuff, don't forget that...

"You said you felt a darkness..."

Emma murmurs, but she knows the brunette's concern will have been far removed from how things turned out.

"I-"

She trails off, startled, as the Mayor's cell rings loudly to break the tension, and she frowns as she looks for the source, before dipping her hand into the front pocket of the darker woman's dress pants with a light blush.

"Hello."

She answers the phone upon seeing that the call comes from her parents' house, catching David off guard.

"Emma? That's you, isn't it?"

"It's me."

She agrees, stifling a yawn.

"Why are you answering Regina's phone?"

"I saw it was you and she's busy."

She replies honestly enough, and David chuckles as he scolds amiably

"But you figured you'd ignore the ten or so calls your mother and I tried placing to your phone?"

"Ten calls?"

The blonde frowns, and David sighs as he explains for what feels like the hundredth time

"Emma, when ignore the first couple, your mother worries."

"I know, sorry. I left my cell at mine. What's up?"

"We're deciding what to do for dinner. Should we plan for you and Henry?"

"Not for me, thanks... Ask Henry what he'd like, though. Is it okay if he stays with you another night?"

"Of course... Is everything alright?"

David asks, and Emma can hear a frown in his voice as he mutters something, presumably to Mary Margaret, and she assures him hastily

"Everything's fine... Well, Regina's not feeling great, but she says she'll be alright."

"Oh no, sorry to hear that. Don't you and Henry want to watch the rest of that boxset you were on in that case? I'll-"

"-No!... No. I'm actually not feeling so hot myself."

Emma confides truthfully.

"Really? You're both not well?... Did you cook?"

David asks, and the blonde rolls her eyes as she's fairly sure that her father asks her a serious question. Recalling her ill-advised decision to dine on raw meat not too long ago, she decides to allow him his suspicions in hopes that her presumed incapabilities will deter further questioning.

"Mm... Maybe."

"Poor Regina."

Charming teases, and she goes through the motions of telling him where he can shove it, before bidding him goodbye with the promise that she'll rest and drink plenty of water.

That's probably not a terrible idea...

She sighs as she places Regina's cell on the bedside cabinet. Nibbling her lip as she looks down at the brunette uneasily, she strives to come to a decision over what the most appropriate course of action might be. Her gut is telling her to leave; to offer Regina some space when she comes to in case she's not ready to talk about the events that led them to this point.

Really? You think you're just going to talk about it!? Calm, civil conversation over coffee?

"No."

She mutters reluctantly, feeling really quite nauseous after all. Pushing herself up from the bed, she hesitates when the Mayor responds with a low sigh, but the darker woman shows no further signs of coming around, and Emma slips from the room supposing that at least she appears to be breathing normally and that the colour seems to have returned to her cheeks.

Padding into the kitchen, she fills a glass with water and takes it upstairs to leave beside the brunette's phone on the nightstand. She wonders if she should also leave a note, but decides her reason for leaving will likely be obvious once Regina- once the Queen- enters the land of the living in full possession of her memories.

"Fuck."

She sermonises, recalling the soft brush of the Mayor's lips in Daniel's cottage; the brunette's offer of a chance when she hadn't known any better.

"Fuck."

She repeats miserably, closing the door quietly behind her as she takes her leave.

Coming to with a gasp, Regina sits bolt upright and takes in her surroundings through shuddered breaths. She feels a little as though she's spent a week or two underwater; disorientated and a stranger in her own skin.

No, not a stranger. Just reacclimatizing.

She shivers, her throat parched and her stomach knotting painfully with hunger. The latter she decides to sate as soon as she's relieved her urgent need to pee, but her thirst is at least slaked as she reaches clumsily for the glass of water beside her bed, her hand trembling. She doesn't remember leaving it there, but as she chokes on the first half of the glass and slows down carefully to tentative sipping, she starts to recall how she'd ended up here in the first place and glances down at the singed mark beside her with her brow creased as she tries to protect her eyes from the yellow glow of the overhead light.

She doesn't remember leaving that on either, generally preferring the glow of her bedside lamp, and she supposes Emma must have turned it on at some point.

Emma...

Her brow furrows deeper as she looks around, spying no sign of the blonde and suffering a piercing pain in her skull as her mind strives to weave a coherent web out of fractured thoughts and memories.

"What did you do?"

She croaks, uncertain whether she speaks to the Saviour or to herself, and she narrows her eyes as her attention falls upon the silk ropes tied to her bedposts, experiencing an eclectic haze of fury, relief and arousal.

"What the hell?"

She groans, cupping her face in her palms for a moment as though trying to keep her brain in place, before pushing her hair back and taking in a few calming breaths as she tries to gather her thoughts.

Looking over at the window, she spies the narrow slice of the moon through the partially opened curtains with some surprise, realising how long she must have been out. Reaching for her phone to check the time, she closes one eye to try and bring the screen into focus- her vision swimming a little- and sees that it's a little after nine in the evening.

Oh god, Henry!

This thought feels sharper than the others and she blinks as she begins to pull out of her daze, suffering a dizzying kaleidoscope of emotions she has yet to assign to any one thought. Spying an icon in the corner of the screen to alert her to the fact that she's received a message, she opens it.

Snow. 5.16 PM:

Hope you're feeling better. Henry wants to know if he's allowed to watch one of the horror movies Emma left here. It looks ok but said I would ask x

Massaging her temples as she supposes that the message at least answers her question of whether the boy is okay, she sends Mary Margaret a reply, typing a great deal slower than usual.

Sorry, I was asleep. I will have missed you by now. I hope you found something and had a nice evening x

She presses send, frowning as she suffers a strong sense of distaste signing off with a kiss as she usually does to mimic Snow's manner of texting.

I wanted to see you rot, and now I'm wishing you pleasantries? I know things have changed, but that's pushing it, dear...

She sneers as she places her phone back on the nightstand before pushing herself shakily off the bed; her legs a little unsteady, but the sensation soon alleviates as she makes her way down the hall. Stopping off in the bathroom, she empties her bladder before frowning at her reflection as she washes her hands. Her hair is a mess and her makeup has long-since worn off, and she considers the rather drab cut of her jacket distastefully. Deciding to do something about her appearance after she's sated her stomach, she switches off the bathroom light and makes her way downstairs.

"Miss Swan?"

She calls, wondering if she will find the blonde waiting for her, but she is met with only silence; a fact that angers her, pleases her, confuses her and surprises her.

Not that surprising. Not at all. Since when it is surprising that the little bitch chooses to run?

She blinks, trying to make sense of venom she recognises from before, from years ago, from yesterday.

God, my head.

She winces, but rather than cradling her temples, her hands go instead to her chest.

Stalking into the kitchen, she considers the bottles of wine left on the counter with bemusement, with disdain, with concern, and as she reaches out to place them on the windowsill ready to be recycled, she recoils with an audible gasp as though the air has been forced from her lungs.

She pushed me up against the palace doors. The tables turned.

She shakes her head, her mind racing with fractured memories of rain running down pale flesh and the forked tongue of a viper.

Pulling leftover pasta out of the fridge, she takes the large mixing bowl over to the cutlery drawer and snarls with bright anger as she pulls a knife out of the middle section meant for forks.

"How many times must I tell him!?"

She snaps, before stilling in the act of replacing the blade, dark eyes glittering as she recalls threatening to cut baby Neal's throat in front of his parents.

"No..."

She shudders, memories of her despicable intent bleeding into a rosier hue as she recalls finding the baby's mittens on her kitchen table and slipping them into the pockets of Mary Margaret's forgotten coat for safekeeping; walking past a vase in the hallway filled with the fresh-cut winter flowers Snow had brought over for her.

That traitorous wretch.

No.

What?

Swallowing uneasily, she pulls a fork from the draw and helps herself to several large mouthfuls of pasta salad straight from the bowl in a way she absolutely refuses Henry to eat.

I'm so hungry, though.

The thought is urgent and demanding, and as she eats ravenously, she begins to feel her mind slow down and the drunk-like, vague patchwork of her thoughts begins to cease.

They begin to fall into place.

Into order.

She is Regina.

She is the Mayor.

She is the Queen.

She is all.

She is one.

She had found the mittens two days ago and had shared amicable conversation and croissants with Snow.

She had threatened Neal and the blonde's entire family while attempting to strangle the bitch on her basement floor.

Emma had thrown her against the palace doors after she'd attempted to flush the younger woman out of hiding in the overgrown topiary garden; the blonde bound in leather, her skin wet with rain as their anger matched the storm.

The viper had been the Saviour's cruel trick, as had the silver croquet arches hammered into the grass to keep her captive. The snake had been poisonous, and if it had bitten her, she'd have perished. They'd both known it. She'd been close to pleading with the idiotic blonde, meanwhile, Emma had simply watched the viper track her scent in the grass.

Struggling, now, to swallow her mouthful as she no longer chews, she turns to the bin and spits it out, waiting for a moment as she's uncertain whether or not she means to vomit.

Stepping away when she trusts that it's safe, she simply stands in the middle of the kitchen staring at the wine on the counter, her hands once more shaking, and her heart- so recently melded- hammering so fast that it aches.

She closes her eyes as she is accosted with a new affront of images, no longer suffering the disorientated confusion from before, but this fact offers little solace.

The diary; Emma violating her teenaged confessions to aid her in being unusually cruel. To aid her fucking. Bare flesh pressed against much the same. No holding back, no decency, nothing to suggest any shred of care.

Congealed cream; her attempt at making a complicated cocktail using her various liquors and single cream as Emma had instructed her, reading the instructions from her phone. The cream had been meant for a pasta dish, but, as often happens when the blonde suggests something, she'd given in and agreed to give it a go. It had failed horribly- revoltingly!- but they had laughed so hard she'd had to insist they go outside to avoid waking Henry. The flowers in the pot the younger woman had poured the potent mess into had promptly died, but it had been well worth the amusement.

The stables; cold and dark. The pollen used to render her helpless stinging her throat as the Saviour raised the whip and welcomed blood and pain with hatred evident in her eyes. The surprise at the younger woman's cunning trick nothing compared to the shock of her ferocity. At her complete lack of empathy or concern.

Dust and salt; the dry scent of the geriatric space heater humming in the centre of the main room of the Station. She, sat on the chair behind the desk, hot coffee warming her hands through the new, red styrofoam cups used by Granny. Emma sat opposite her on the cot bed of the open cell, repeating for a countless time that she was fine in juxtaposition to the tears tracking her cheeks. Some fall-out over the house. Over the reasonable number of evenings in a week a couple should spend together. Some recent spat of sharp comments. The blonde had been more frustrated than she had been upset; snarling irritably down at her own coffee that she just couldn't figure out what in the hell was wrong with her head sometimes. She'd nodded, saying nothing. Her answer not in keeping with what they dare say to one another.

White ropes; used to bind her when she was two, and used to bind the Saviour in a bid to torture out the truth. Ropes that had permitted freedom to covet, to obey, to taste.

Black; black leather, black lace. The black hood used down in the dungeons. Black intent, black magic, black heart. Black silk; the Saviour pulling her from slumber, both aiding and hindering her as always. Black dress; lust and deceit. Guilt and gullibility. Black scorch marks in the stone, and her curiosity and glee at presuming the younger woman's mind broken.

Apples; poisoned pie, the whir of a chainsaw, the blonde grinning at her and insisting she could juggle the fallen fruit out in the garden. She could not.

Lies; her false guise in the graveyard, Emma offering her gum. The blonde scarlet-slick and gloating over destruction that never was before pulling her through the glass. A trap.

Truths; too many to count. Endless conversations and confessions. Confiding and accepting. A hard conversation had in a hard place for her to be. Daniel's cottage. A needed conversation nonetheless. A kiss. A smile. No mention of cruel tricks and failed attempts at fatality.

"That's not entirely true..."

She breathes, steadying herself with her hand on the counter as she's not sure whether to cry or scream.

Emma's told you time and time again that she's not as sweet as you think. She's told both parts of you. Warned one, and snarled at the other while demonstrating the truth to her insistence... Just as you warned her at the beginning of all of this and she called you Regina with a grin. Just as you've warned her a thousand times when she forgets herself and mocks your reign.

She sighs, feeling a little as though she's received a hard punch to the gut.

Something else Miss Swan has warned you she'd like to do on several occasions.

Only, the blonde never has. Never has followed through on the majority of her hissed threats, just as she wouldn't dream of seriously hurting the younger woman as she will frequently imply.

Not before I wrenched myself apart, and not now that I am whole.

Still, it's a lot. A lot to be laboured with recent memories of destruction, blood and hate, when she suffers emotionally with them now, not just physically.

That goes both ways...

It does. She's shocked- utterly horrified- at the darkness that lives within the blonde- a darkness she has teased her for up until now- but she's also mortified at her own behaviour.

You're lucky she didn't kill you...

She shivers at the reality of this concern, although again, it's a fortune that works both ways.

You were enjoying yourself too deliciously to destroy the girl irreparably before taking your fill.

She shudders, while at the same time questioning Emma's intent and reason for holding back.

"What do you think of Regina?"

"She's... She's my best friend."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. So? What of it?... It's not all that weird. We've been through a lot together."

"I suppose you have."

"Why are you asking me all this?"

"I wanted to know... What else do you think about Regina? What do you think about her that you don't want others- the pirate- to know?"

"...I think things that I shouldn't. I think about what I might like to do to her, not all the time, but sometimes. Sometimes I think about it too much."

"And what is it, dear? What is it you'd like to do to her?"

"Fuck her."

"...She was enjoying herself, too."

She murmurs, feeling slightly dazed.

Amongst other things!

True. She feels confused, she feels angry, she feels nervous, she feels exhilarated, she feels uncomfortable, she feels upset.

But most of all, she feels like herself.

She can trace each conflicting emotion down to its cause, and feel appropriately, even if it's threatening to send her mad feeling so much at once.

Looking up at the clock above the kitchen doorway, she makes it a few minutes past ten, and she takes in a deep breath as she makes a decision before heading back upstairs.

She showers under scalding hot water until it begins to run cold, washing herself free of dirt, blood and guilt.

She dries her hair and styles it, sat at her vanity table naked but for the soft scent of her perfume.

She applies red lipstick in a shade she has stopped using recently but was once her favourite.

She dresses in exquisite tailoring and black heels, applying a regal touch through the velvet collar of her jacket.

She looks like herself for the first time in months; no gaudy extravagance, no demure repentance.

Making her way downstairs, she opens the front door to greet the growing storm and heads out into the night.