A/N: With every new chapter I post, I wonder how much more I even have left in me.
And then I start writing the next and it surprises me just how much I have left to give.
To all who have come back for more and commented, bless you. You deserve an unlimited number of your favorite flavored cookies.
The song in this is "Swan" by Willa. Because I'm all about some dramatic irony.
CHAPTER 4
Hey, you.
Yeah.
You.
The one with all that faith in me. The one trusting me with your beloved characters.
You shouldn't.
And yet you do. I mean, you're still here, aren't you? Reading. Absorbing my nonsense.
I've been told that sitting through one of my stories is like having your brains cracked free of your skull by a hundred green apple warhead candies glued all around a large iron mallet.
So why are you still here?
Are you a glutton for pain?
What is it you're looking for?
Do you enjoy suffering?
And most importantly, why do you think you'll find anything of substance here?
Do you want the truth?
Even if it's packaged in the form of pure nonsense?
What if I told you that every story ever told has some kind of truth to it.
Somewhere.
Or maybe even everywhere.
No matter how ridiculous it sounds.
There's this theory that the universe we live in is not the only universe. But one of an infinite number of universes. And it floats around in this never-ending sea of universes like a little bubble. Crashing and colliding with others in a big bang that creates entirely new ones. With entirely new realities. That range anywhere from "as similar" to "as different" as possible to our own. And the number of which is as infinite as the number of universes that exist.
If this is true. If there are an infinite number of universes that contain an infinite number of realities, then for every story ever told, there's a universe — a reality — where that story is true.
Which would make this more than just a fictional account of fairytales. It's like the creation of history – in a way.
A hard to believe truth.
And here you are. With all that faith in me.
No, not the word itself. But what's hiding inside the word. Like the tittle above the "i."
How easily it could be erased. No more 'i' in 'faith.'
And just imagine, if you will. A universe – a reality. Much like our own. Where the only difference is that they use the word "falth" instead of "faith."
What nonsense, right?
Wrong.
Because according to our understanding of physics, there is nothing that disproves its truth. With enough mathematical evidence, it could almost be considered nonsense not to believe its truth.
The very same nonsense that, in one sentence, has removed and replaced your 'faith.'
In me? In the story? In reality?
Who fucking knows anymore.
But one thing I am sure of…
You have severely overestimated me. Granting me the access to shape an entire universe, no less. You are absolutely right not to trust me.
So, take it with a grain of salt when I say…
Few of us can even begin to imagine the horror of Regina Mills – with all that destruction sketched into her temporal lobe. It must be like the highest level of hell. A funhouse of fire and twisted glass. A condemnation. That she walks through every single night in her sleep. And then when she wakes, carries it around her neck like a hangman's knot. Which is clearly for the benefit of those of us watching.
It's so much more humane, we think. "It'll provide a quick death," we say. Though it's never quick enough though, is it? Because life never quite got around to pushing her off the side of the gallows to hang. While we just stand there, eyes so open, greedily immersing ourselves in everything that is behind the mirrors.
I have a vast, voiceless empathy for you.
Yes.
You.
Here.
Take this. It might help.
(holds out an uncooked, unpeeled red potato in the palm of hand)
What is it?
Well, obviously it's a potato.
But not just any old ordinary potato.
This is an emotional support potato. You're emotional support potato.
Emotional support for what? You may ask.
Well I'm not going to just tell you that. It's not my style.
But in time, I'm sure its significance will reveal itself to you. Much in the same way you visualize a potato. That potato. Exactly as I've depicted it. Uncooked. Unpeeled.
Red.
Regina could smell it in the air – apples. A fresh barrage of red delicious apples. Ripe turning riper. Soon she will be spoiled.
Her fingers sweep against the lower part of her body. The touch is hesitant and barely there. But it's enough to feel the silken damp heat.
They come away red and positively drenched in blood.
The pain radiating from her lower stomach is so all-consuming, she's not even sure if she can remember what happened there anymore. Even her grasp on consciousness takes everything she has.
"No! Regina!" Emma screams, running disorderly treads in the dirt on the way over to her.
Which is a surprise because the last person she expected to see in this moment – in this place – was Emma Swan. She wasn't supposed to be here. Wasn't supposed to even be able to be here. And still, not so surprisingly and in a way that is wholly Emma, she was anyways.
Regina isn't given the chance to question it further because that very conundrum is now grabbing at her. Asking what happened. If she is okay.
She is not okay.
She is very not okay.
And as she opens her mouth to say as much, something in her knees gives out and she slumps to the ground like a low-grade lump of damp clay. Emma drops with her, catching her weight.
A young girl – no older than three – is crying and screaming and clawing for any kind of grip she can get around Regina's neck. So young and so helpless to actually resolve this situation that is causing her so much distress.
"Who's the kid?" Emma asks.
No one answers.
There is a bear and a panther standing off to the side too. But no one seems to acknowledge that either.
Regina does make a valiant effort at opening her mouth to answer. To explain. But she can't. There isn't enough time. Her entire body is on fire. In a pain so great it rips away her ability to even scream. The kind of pain that is constantly pushing the air out of her lungs with each new breath she tries to take. As a ring of darkness begins to narrow her field of vision.
That same darkness sends another shot of urgency through Emma. If no one else would act, at least she would.
Right away she's tugging at the little girl in an attempt to pry her off the wounded woman. Feeling the bones in her arms like fragile little twigs that could snap at even the suggestion of undue pressure. But the girl's grip is tight and cold like steel. And so unusual for her size.
Emma stops and sighs. Already so tired of grappling with the small child. So tired of feeling as if everyone else is working against her instead of with her.
There is no time. For any of this.
"Can someone get her please?!" Emma orders. Quickly changing gears and pressing her hands tight to the openly bleeding wound instead.
A few others finally snap into gear and move in to try, but they're stopped by a lowly wheezed, "No."
And it's enough.
Enough to almost wear Regina out completely. Enough to stop anyone from coming closer. Enough to calm the girl. Enough for her to cocoon herself with a string of light sobs and whimpers into the curve of Regina's neck. Finding comfort in the contact.
A comfort that Emma wants too, but wouldn't dare seek out. Not with the way they left things between them. Not with the way Regina keeps fading faster and faster with each passing second.
She finds comfort in the only other way she knows.
"This is just like you, huh? Getting yourself pierced through the stomach in the middle of the fucking Enchanted Forest with no hope of experienced medical care anywhere in reach."
Humor.
It earns her a faint quirk of the lip. The most fragile smile she's ever seen. But a smile nonetheless. Which is its own kind of victory. Even though the air around them is stale and bleak.
She pulls Regina more into her lap so that she can put greater pressure on the gaping wound. It has to stop bleeding or the woman likely won't make it. But Emma's expertise in treating arrow wounds to the stomach is extremely limited.
"What do I do, Regina. Tell me what to do. How do I make this okay? Because I can't lose you–I can't–"
A pale hand covers the back of Emma's bloody one that is still pressing into the open wound on her stomach. The shimmer of the silver cuff around her wrist flashes in the sunlight. She smiles. The world's most defeated smile.
Then black.
Wow.
How did it come to this?
(*thinks back over the span of several days)
Let's see. Perhaps it would be best to rewind a bit. To the morning after The First Kiss™. I'm pretty sure that's where this particular plotline began. I say "pretty sure" only because I'm apparently not the one in control of the plot. "I" as in the metaphorical black sheep in this little story family of just me. But whatever.
Flash back to a few days earlier.
The blacks of her eyes swallowed the brown of her irises. It was too late. She was no longer a conquistadora. The Evil Queen had finally been vanquished. And it happened the very moment she set eyes on Henry Daniel Mills.
Whoa. We somehow went way too far back. Fast forward several days and years, please.
Regina was a failure.
There wasn't even one thing in her life that she could think of that she hadn't failed miserably at in some way.
Yes, this is much better.
Remember that time she'd tried to drown herself? In the waters as black as her heart? Her very last thought, in that moment, was that killing herself would be the most successful thing she'd ever do in her life. But then she reemerged. Alive again. And a failure at even dying.
Like. Who fails at dying after they were successful at doing it?
Regina.
That's who.
And it was in light of all these failures she knew she'd have to manage the resulting mental collapse in the way she had with most things. Alone. On her own. As she's had to every day. Which isn't to say that she couldn't. Afterall, this is a woman who had endured almost six decades between two different realms.
A cool morning breeze brushed past her through the propped open door of the diner. Somehow it softened the smell of grease and smoke. But through it she caught the trace of something odd. Something raw, nutty, and burnt. The bitter stench of failure.
No.
It was slightly burnt coffee. A smell she would know anywhere. As it steamed up heartily from a cup on the table in front of her.
"Alone," she whispered aloud to it with a reverence that was a million miles away.
The cup of coffee stared back, indifferent to her loneliness. It didn't care. The world didn't care.
"Come, now. It's not as bad as you're making it out to be," Az said from her shoulder. And she couldn't quite tell if that was in reference to her being alone or how she felt about [insert whatever it was that had happened last night] – which shall not be directly stated for the good of her own present level of sanity. Which was (and this is putting it very lightly) not the greatest.
A little finger slipped down and tugged at the top of her blouse. The chipped red polish covering the nail like an old rusted dagger as it revealed more of her (very on purpose) hidden flesh.
Very on purpose because of the dark marks that were scattered across the curve of her collarbone. Of which, as she had gotten dressed in a flurry, she had hoped to keep undisclosed by the fabric of the unusually high cut top. The little demon, however, had other ideas, having been deeply intrigued by the marks from the moment they first saw them.
They'd been left there by a hard to remember blur that had happened hours ago. With the vast quantities of alcohol she had consumed the evening prior having the strangest effect on the most consequential of details. But those marks? They were a message through the haze. Written in the language of mouth-kissed skin. Assuring that no one dare forgets among the bruises.
How could Az (or anyone else really) not read into them.
They were a note. A love note.
That spoke of the things that could not be said with words.
These temporary impressions that felt as if they had been branded into her skin permanently.
Each one a memory…
A chest rises beneath her hand like a wish. As warm breaths puff against the side of her mouth. A bright as light untarnished soul moving through her lungs and into Regina's. Where it is still held, hidden. Enshrined. Kept safe from the outside world in the way it deserved.
A pair of wind-chapped lips – that are somehow still unexpectedly smooth – against her neck. Those lips, with which Regina had become intimately familiar, are so unlike her own, that are smothered in waxy maroon lipstick and the scars of learning.
Her shirt sticking to her chest. The shoulders of that leather jacket looking so heavy. The way the cold finds its way to her skin. She shivers, and Regina shivers with her.
Her muscles having to adjust to the new weight. The way her nervous system so easily calibrates. Until two separate bodies fit together like a single merged entity.
Memories. In the shape of foggy and unclear pictures in her mind. But forever ingrained into each and every one of her physical senses. She could never forget.
Comfort and pleasure. The warmth of another human's touch. The biting taste of liquor on her full, sweet lips.
From what she remembered, it felt like poetry. It felt like…
No, no, no. Love is weakness, Regina.
The contempt creeping into her then. Fattening itself on her weakness. Whatever last night may or may not have felt like, it was eating that all away. At the back of her mind, she knew there was something else in there. Just beneath the echoes of her mother. Something inside her that she keeps so guarded and closed off. But it was like reaching her hand into the open mouth of a crocodile trying to reach it.
Her heart pulsed three times, like a fist against a solid metal door. The long unsatisfied need for serotonin making her teeth clench.
She needed a drink. Something strong. Something that could make her forget.
She had almost grabbed another bottle of whiskey from her study before she left the house in her rush to get away this morning. But something – a force inside her, outside of her – had stopped her.
It was me. I'm the force and I stopped her.
We're not doing that anymore. We're not drinking ourselves into oblivion to try to forget. Bad things have happened. Bad things will continue to happen. She needs to process them, not ache her heart over a memory. Things she couldn't change even if she wanted to.
Az's voice slithered into her head like a song carried on a cool fall breeze.
Wait. Don't listen to them, Regina. They will never have anything worth hearing in times like this. It's just not in their nature. And you're never going to like what they have to say.
"She was nearly naked when you woke up this morning. You were nearly naked. In the same bed. Touching. Try and deny it as you might, my little darkling. But you and I are both uncomfortably aware of just how much you liked it. You can't deny what your heart and body want."
She had wanted it. She'd wanted it more than she's wanted anything in more years than she was willing to count. In fact, the level at which she wanted it was the only reason she had fallen into [insert whatever it was that had happened last night] with such practiced ease.
But that was the very problem though, wasn't it.
That she wanted. With a past like hers, in a time and place that had proven time and time again that she wouldn't be allowed to get what she wanted. That made this constant show of reminding her that she didn't deserve to get what she wanted.
This was just another way to get hurt. One more black brandmark that would eventually scar over her heart along with all the others. The only thing Regina might have wanted more than [insert whatever it was that had happened last night] was to stop hurting. When she'd already had a lifetime of it. And hurting herself more on purpose was not the way to go about it.
"I've already told you, I am not talking about this!" She hissed at the demon, her bone-like fingers fiddling with a ring. Daniel's ring, "Certainly not with you! Why won't you just leave it alone?"
"As your D.I Specialist, it is my job to guide you in the direction that I feel is most beneficial to your wellbeing – "
"I thought demons were supposed to be evil. Sent here to sew discord among the mere mortals of the living realm. Not friendly little intermeddlers that push people to fall in love or whatever twisted game you're playing at now."
"Are those not but two sides of the same coin?" Az asked with genuine confusion, "Like. I'm the king of hell and a demon prince. But I'm also the one they call 'cupid.' And is it not cupid's entire mission in life but to join humans in love? I'm not entirely sure how to not interpret those two as the same thing."
"Gods, I hate myself," Regina all but cried out.
Hello?
(*taps on the microphone)
(*the loud chaotic screech of feedback ensues)
Is this thing on?
(*lips right on the mic)
Why doesn't she ever listen to me? I tried to warn her that she wouldn't like what the demon had to say.
"Nothing happened, by the way," Ruby interjected as she replaced the old cup of coffee with something fresh, "I mean, I can smell her on you, but I can't smell her on you, if you know what I mean."
Regina didn't know what she meant.
Well, not entirely. She could guess it had to do with the wolf's ability to smell certain things that evaded that of the typical human. But she was still very determined not to think about [insert whatever it was that had happened last night].
Which, of course, lead to her thinking only about [insert whatever it was that had happened last night].
She slammed her head onto the table and groaned loudly.
"Bah! Don't listen to her. I'm sure you did everything your depraved little heart desired and more. What does she know anyways? She's just a dumb dog," Az interjected.
Regina groaned. Again.
"Look. In case it wasn't clear…on the docks yesterday…"
Yes, a distraction. Something that's not at all related to [insert whatever it was that had happened last night]. Regina thought as Ruby fumbled.
"If you wanted to…you know…I don't know, talk about last night or something–"
Ugh, figures. She wanted to talk about [insert whatever it was that had happened last night] too. So much for distraction. If she did take the leap off that cliff into the deep end. If she had decided to talk it over with Ruby. It would end about as poorly as asking the Savior how to fix her "Savior problem" during the curse.
On the other hand, it has been a long time since she's had someone to really talk to. And the mutt's presence on the docks yesterday wasn't the worst company she'd ever kept. Perhaps it might actually behoove her to take Red up on her offer after all, Regina thought to herself in between the dull throbs of the so-very-hard-to-ignore hangover in her head.
Mm. Should we though? She seems…
…nice.
We don't like nice.
"Now that's something we can agree on," Az continued, "You definitely need to talk about this with someone. Trust me. I am one of the leading experts on human emotion, so –"
"ENOUGH!" Regina screamed.
And the entire diner fell silent.
"I'd rather have my insides ripped out of my body one by one until it kills me than discuss anything even remotely related to this situation with you!"
It was loud. It was harsh. Like the rest of her, it came from a bad place somewhere in the past.
She was talking to Az.
But the demon was suddenly nowhere to be seen. By Regina or anyone else in the waking world.
Ruby thought she had been talking to her. And, in that weird understanding she had with the other woman, jumped at the chance to make her feel less cornered.
"Look. I get it. But I also get what it feels like to have no one in your corner. And no one should have to face shit like that alone. So…if not me, maybe you could try talking to Archie? I talked to him a couple times. Back when I was going through something similar. And, I didn't know it then, but now I realize…it's like he had this secret…and after we talked...well…I felt...fixed…"
Regina was tired. And felt sick. And was tired of feeling sick. And was also sick of feeling tired. She looked down at the cup of coffee before her on the table. It made her more nauseous. Maybe it was the hangover. Though she remembers the nausea from long before she started drinking. Maybe it was guilt. She had plenty of that to go around. But not enough to apologize.
Never enough to apologize.
For several minutes, she was stuck there. In that half-world. Between so many different resolutions and revelations and solutions and not actually landing on a single one of them.
And when she finally manages to get unstuck, she sees the small sliver of relativity in what the wolf had said.
Was this what it was like to not be alone?
Ruby cleared her throat and looked down at her boots. Whether she thought Regina had crossed some metaphysical boundary or not, she wouldn't say. It was unclear (to both of them) what this meant for their tentative…friendship? She was well aware of the danger levels with this woman. And just how hard they were to read. One moment she was an oil fire on the ocean, the next, she was the wave that rolls over it, putting out the blaze.
And Regina could try looking at Ruby. I mean, really looking at her. As a person who actually wants to be her friend. As a person who is trying to.
But why would she start doing that? Human beings have always betrayed her. They always will betray her. How many promises has she broken in her lifetime? How many lies has she told just to get ahead in this great big see-through world? She'd be naïve to think that there was anybody out there who didn't have a space filled with secrets running in-between their ears, just like her.
It was then, she realized, she didn't know the first thing about friendships.
"Thank you, Ms. Lucas. I will consider your advice."
It wasn't a dismissal – not really. But a white flag. An admission, in its own special way, that she had done something wrong and she was, at the very least, in the beginning stages of acknowledging that fact. Which was about as good as anyone would ever get from Regina Mills.
As she caught the young wolf's gaze, whatever turmoil raged in her a moment ago was quelled for the time being. The way the last rays of the evening sun would gently kiss the day goodbye before it gave way to the infinite darkness. It was willed back into the darkest unexplored depths of her mind – never meant for sharing, or to be seen, or confronted.
Regina always did have a command over her emotions that was unparalleled – even to the greatest of tacticians. She could tamp them down or summon them up like an angry dragon when and where the purpose served. Like a poker player and a hand of cards.
She was an avid wheeler and dealer of those cards. So much of her life spent hopelessly alone behind those walls she'd wasted a lifetime erecting. No one would ever know her.
But for the first time in her life, she actually wanted someone to blow it all down.
The diner door slammed shut. A small bell-like sound filled the room. Like a knife tapping on the side of a wine glass. Pulling all eyes to the entrance with magnetic curiosity.
And there she stood. Swaying on her feet, assaulted by the promises of bacon and coffee. Her eyes were drawn to Regina. However quick and fleeting and uncharacteristically shy. The one corner of her mouth flicking up almost imperceptibly being the boldest thing about her then.
It all seemed so familiar somehow. As if they had been there in that same moment a thousand times before. Which, maybe they had. Afterall, it wasn't unusual for Emma Swan to walk into a room in a way that is as loud and obnoxious as humanly possible.
"Did you miss me?" Az asked, appearing on her shoulder again with an electric zap.
Then everything was irritatingly familiar. With a demon on her shoulder. Who did everything in its power to push her past her limit. Appearing the moment she was forced into close quarters with the one woman she'd been trying so hard not to think about. This was bordering on [insert whatever it was that had happened last night] territory. If that's where they were headed, she wouldn't be going without one hell of a fight.
All at once, something broke in her – a thought, her brain, her patience. It was in the snap of Az's fingers ringing in her left ear.
That snap signaled the start of music. That blared throughout the diner. From where? No one knew. Music never played in the diner. From what she could tell, there'd never even been a music playing device anywhere in the remote vicinity of the diner. So for it to be doing so then, and in a way that everyone was able to hear, should have been impossible.
It was magic.
Az had magic.
The booming drum beat throbbed and swelled. Then, increasing in volume all around her, hammered into her aching brain.
I don't like picnics
But I like a little mischief
I like the kids who give
A little bit of lip to the mistress
A blanket of scurrying patrons settled over the diner. Everyone looking about in confusion, trying to find the source of the overbearing music.
But Regina knew exactly where it was coming from.
"What are you doing?!" She half whispered, half yelled at the creature on her shoulder.
"What? It's like in Charlie's Angels when they flashback to introduce Drew Barrymore's character and Joan Jett is playing in the background," The demon replied, "It's there to establish a character's personality and motivations. Like character development, but in the fun way."
The song was honed in and centered around Emma. Following the loudest wherever she happened to be standing.
I'm not the girl you want
I'm not a debutante
I'm not a swan, I'm not a swan
Pretty in a pond
Record scratch.
Actually it was more like a shot gun blast to the ceiling.
Not 'like.' It was a literal shot gun blast to the ceiling.
The music stopped instantly.
"No loud music in the diner!" Granny shouted from behind the front counter, "This is a restaurant, not a goddamn burlesque show!"
"I thought it rather suited her," Az mumbled dejectedly.
"Yes, well, perhaps if you had spent less time trying to suit the humans and more time trying to suit the situation, you would be better at actually helping them like you claim to want to do," Regina scolded the demon.
Az stuck out a forked tongue at her.
And because she was tired and felt as if she'd been hit by a ten ton Mack truck, she allowed herself a brief moment of childishness, and stuck her tongue out right back.
Though, she sucked it back in the moment she felt Emma's eyes on her instead.
It felt a lot like a day ago when she drowned. The way the breath left her lungs. The fear in her chest as she realized that this was it. She wouldn't be taking another. She wanted to look away. She really did. That pure raw instinct inside her demanded it. Begged her to fight it. But she couldn't. As if there were tiny little demon claws digging into her head, holding it in place. Like holding her head beneath the water as she fought not to drown.
Emma was fast approaching. Like a wave. Getting closer. Not once breaking eye contact. And there was something there. Something in an amber speck – an imperfection – in the green outer rim of her right iris. Even from across the room it sparkled.
It was a mystery. A mystery sprinkled with hesitation and some other unidentified emotion. For some reason that Regina couldn't explain, looking into those eyes made her feel like she was ready to drown.
"Hi," Emma said, hovering in the space above her. Impossibly tall, square-faced, and graceless as ever.
The former evil queen couldn't think of a single word to say sitting under her long slender form like that, so dwarfed.
And that silly little dimple on the other woman's chin. That stupid dimple brought nothing but torment (in more than one way). It was a flower that only attracted anguish, weakness, and heartbreak. It called to her. To touch. With her fingers. With her mouth. A call without an answer – aside from the wild palpitations in her heart.
Was she having a heart attack?
Maybe.
That stupid dimple will be the end of me, she thinks. The corner of her mouth turning down into a frown.
Gods and that stupid leather jacket. And the muscles on long white bones that lined her limbs, just below.
Sheriff Emma Swan.
Regina's fingers twitched. She wanted to slip her hands beneath the lapels. To slide them along the rippled ridges of her stomach beneath that white shirt. To flatten her palms on the woman's back and feel the way it arches.
Don't worry, Regina. The collective 'we' (including the readers and myself) are here. To protect you from her beauty. To advise you through the bars and tactility of her personality. We can see through every lie and trick. You, Regina, have absolutely nothing to fear. You're no longer in danger. You are protected. And Emma Swan, the Savior, will never be the end of you.
It was then that Emma's shoulders tensed. Her arm swinging subtly. Sharp as it collided with the person who had gone unnoticed behind her.
It was her son.
Or…it wasn't her son.
It was the body of a small person – the outline of a little human – enmeshed in a deep, dark fog that extended all the way to the door where they had entered. Like a larger more all-consuming version of the faded halo around Ruby's head back at the docks.
This wasn't the same boy that used to beg her for one more story before bed. This wasn't the same boy that would run to her for comfort after every scrape and bruise. This wasn't her son. Only a faint outline of him – a mere silhouette almost completely lost to the shadows.
"Hi," He kept the language unemotional but it was in there — the disapproval.
And she couldn't see him – through the thickness of the fog. But the muscles in her face softened at the sound of his voice. It had been so long since she'd last heard that voice. Too long.
Her jaw clenched. She swallowed to relax her throat.
"Hello, Henry."
He didn't respond. But he could see the way her throat moved.
It was taking all her strength not to cave in and sob. Once. Just one time.
"Mind if we sit with you?" Emma asked.
This was a bad idea. Verging quickly on The Worst Idea™ domain. But her head tilted once toward the opposite side of the booth anyways. Az having been the force that moved it on her behalf. And, seeing that as the invitation it was, the two people most capable of destroying her settled in to the open seats before her.
All she could do was stare. With eyes like pilot lights, just watching their shapes disappear and reappear in the long black shadows pouring out of Henry.
Then, a funeral of silence. That mourned the amount of time passing between them with so much left unsaid.
And much like a curse, it was Emma who finally broke it.
"So…uh. The kid and I think it would be nice if he stayed with you a few nights during the week."
Oh.
"Oh?"
This was a pleasant a surprise that none of us saw coming.
The lines of Henry's head could be seen dropping in the shadows. And even if she could hardly make him out in the darkness, he still looked like a child who wasn't given a say in the matter. A child who was still angry. With Regina. With Emma. At being treated like the child he is rather than the more adult version of himself that he felt he was. Because grown ups got to make their own decisions in life.
And was the worst part of it all? That he was still just a kid. And there he was, wasting his entire childhood, trying to be "grown up." When one day, he would be grown. And, if he was still clever, he'd find out that there's no such thing as a "grown up."
"Yeah. Like. Maybe he could stay with me Wednesday through Saturday morning and then he could stay with you Saturday night through Wednesday morning? Or something like that."
And for the moment, Emma Swan – who was all mouth and brass tacks – was being civil. Offering up a deal that Regina had no right to take. A deal she in no way deserved.
There had to be a catch. Something for the other woman to gain. Nobody walks around handing out free gifts like that. Especially not to those unworthy of them to begin with.
But Regina just said, "That would be amenable," and then hung her head in disappointment.
Because she doesn't know why.
She could tell herself that it was because she was getting her son back. And that she'd do it at whatever cost. Because it was something she never thought would happen again. And that was…Well that was…
"Good," Emma said.
"Good," Regina echoed.
A terrible cold washing over her the minute she said it. The word sounded so alien to her. As if it had been said by someone else. Someone outside her. Around her. But not actually her.
She was incredibly controlled all of a sudden. In a way she hadn't been since being in their presence. Fists clenched at her sides as she looked the other woman straight in the eye. She was keeping herself together with all her might. But she was wearing away on the inside.
This was what breaking was like. She could feel the fragmentation running across her. Out of the cracks came pure anguish, and then nothing at all. No queen, no mayor, not even a woman. The cracks were all she ever was. An arabesque of broken glass that was painful to look at.
It was then Regina knew she needed help. And, not for the first time in her life, the tiniest ray of light shined through.
That Regina had a whole lot of past, but very little present. And not even a hope for the future.
This Regina, who is sitting in the waiting room fifteen minutes early for her sixth one hour appointment with Dr. Hopper. With a heavily used composition journal clutched in her lap being the only thing wearing away anymore. This Regina was the opposite of disaster. This was someone who was slowly learning how to take her grief and weave it into the fabric of her. One day, she would walk out of its ruins. Leave them all behind her, smoldering. And the ashes will keep rising just as they always have. But this time, she won't look back.
This Regina had gone to Dr. Hopper the day after her breakfast with Emma and Henry. No appointment or forewarning. She just burst through the door to his office and said, "I'm having a lot of…trouble with…certain…feelings."
"Madam Mayor. What a surprise."
"And I've been told that you know the secret to…fix it?"
She'd never been taught how to address her feelings. She didn't know how to broach this subject. And even worse was addressing it with a licensed medical professional who was there to treat such vulnerabilities in such a clinical manner.
Luckily Archie had been alone in his office, about to go on lunch break, "What feelings are giving you trouble?"
And gods forbid, Regina Mills actually slouched as she says it.
"Anger. Sadness," she listed off, and then very softly almost imperceptible to the human ear, "love."
It makes her feel smaller, admitting that she has feelings.
And something in the arch of Dr. Hopper's eyebrow let her know he'd heard.
"So, let me see if I'm following here. You came here today to get the secret to fixing your feelings of anger, sadness, and love?"
Was that…
A joke?
Was he mocking her?
With great effort, she straightened herself up where she stood. Just staring at him. Silently. With a mixture of expectation and impatience, well bottled.
It hadn't been a joke.
He had been mirroring. An active listening technique that's supposed to make another person feel heard. But Regina was not the kind of person that had ever really been heard. He could see it in the tension in her shoulders.
They would have to start from scratch. Go back to the very basics. If he took this on, it would be the longest and hardest test to his career to date.
He had to be careful how he approached the next few moments. It would have to be like nothing he'd ever experienced before. So, he tried again. With a little more directness this time.
"Okay, I'll tell you what. I might have something available tomorrow. Go out front and set up a time with my secretary. And then we can start talking through some of those feelings."
Her only response was a single nod before she turned to leave.
"Regina!" He called out to her before she could, feeling it was important she know, "Your heart can belong to you or it can belong to the anger and darkness. As long as it's torn between them it's broken and impossible to heal. I'm not the kind of doctor that is in the business of 'fixing' things necessarily. The mind and emotions are a lot more complex than that. But what I can do is talk through all the hard stuff with you. And help come up with healthier ways of dealing with it. What I can offer is an opportunity and a space to heal. My door is always open. Should you decide who you want your heart to belong to."
And that – those words. It was all she needed really. That last little push that forever cemented this decision as "the right one." She set herself up for three one hour sessions per week indefinitely. Or…At least until she felt like she could stand on her own.
He was right. This place – this heart – might be rotten. But it belonged to her.
Not long after her first session, the drinking had stopped. Her dependence on it shallow and easy to break. It was a crutch. One she only used because there was no other way to get around. But with the way it grated at her arms and her pride…The moment she was healed enough to move without it, it was downright easy to throw the blasted thing to the curb.
It's all written there in her journal.
Made of cardboard and 100% recycled paper, with that classic black and white marbled cover and rounded edges. It's so little sitting in her lap – no bigger than a small handbag – but it feels thick in her hands. Heavy with the permanence of dark blue ink. Dense with hand-written secrets.
This is her twelfth day sober.
It feels like her third. Hard. Distracting.
Archie told her it might take awhile for all that stuff to get out of her system, and for reality to come back into focus. But even on day twelve, she's beginning to see the world for what it is. And herself, too – what she made herself into. What the world made her into.
She missed clarity.
The totality of which is still many months away for her. Many difficult, confusing, very emotional months. But she's determined to keep going. She's done with her old life. If she can just keep moving one foot after the other, she'll keep going. Like she always has...and together – she and Archie and her past and everyone in it – will walk the wastelands of reality. Because even if she hasn't had her last drink or her last taste of malevolence, she will never really, truly enjoy either ever again.
But Dr. Hopper never does get to see her.
Because as she's waiting, a clamp of metal is cuffed around her wrists. Then there's a precision hit to the back of her head that sends her reeling. Gasping for air, as time seems to stand still all around her. In the distance the sounds of the harbor fall silent. Whoever did this would do well to remember this particular silence. This woman is dangerous. People suffer around her.
But even under the increased force to her skull Regina felt no pain. Only the sound of her own blood gushing around, filling her mind with oxygen.
The cold seeps into her quickly. The air awash with lemon scented aerosol spray and lawlessness. And before she can even blink, she's no longer conscious of herself sitting there. As she falls into the waiting arms of the very person who knocked her out.
And that's the story of how I lost my medical license.