A/N: This is a repost of an old fic. This is a divergence for season 3B.
WHAT YOU THINK YOU KNOW
She's aware of beeping first. Soft. Rhythmic. Her eyelids feel heavy and it's an effort to open them. The room is dark. Unfamiliar. She tries to sit up, but her limbs won't obey, not immediately. She panics, opens her mouth to call out for help. The only sound that leaves her dry throat is rasping groan.
A face is in front of her. Snow White? What—
"Regina!" the other woman exclaims. "She's awake!"
Regina reaches out for her, attempts again to speak, to ask where she is. But Snow shushes her, gently pressing her back into the bed.
"Don't move," Snow says. "Let the doctor look you over first."
Regina shakes her head. Why is Snow here? Where is—"Robin," she croaks, finishing her question out loud.
Snow's brows draw together in a deep furrow. "Robin?"
The room is spinning, tilting, dimming at the edges. "My husband," Regina manages in a whisper before losing consciousness.
There are voices when she wakes again, clashing in a hushed argument just beyond hearing. She blinks a few times before the room—brighter, now—comes into clear focus. The hospital. Why is she in the hospital? What's happened? She tries to remember, but nothing comes to her. Has there been an accident? Where is Robin?
The monitor beeps louder, faster, keeping time with the accelerating staccato of her heart. Her arms quake as she pushes herself up. She pulls at the oxygen tube in her nose, yanks the sensor clipped to her finger, and alarms suddenly shriek in the room. There's a flurry of movement as people rush in. Too many in the glass-enclosed space. All of them speaking at once. Yelling.
And none of them are Robin.
The commotion dwindles quickly, and the doctor—Doctor Whale is standing over her, pulling something from his pocket, telling her to lie back, to let him check her vitals. She winces as he flashes a light into each of her eyes, leaving dark spots in her vision. Then there is the cool press of the stethoscope against her chest, her back.
"Do you know your name?" he asks.
"Regina," she answers in a voice graveled with disuse. (How long has she been out?) When he asks if she knows where she is, she supplies, "Storybrooke."
He nods. "And do you remember what happened?"
She shakes her head, and he frowns, exchanging a look with Snow. Regina doesn't understand the reason for the other woman's presence.
"Where is Robin?" she asks.
Another troubled look passes between Whale and Snow, and cold fear twists in Regina's stomach. Is he hurt? Worse? And Roland? Her chest is tight; the air in the room is too thin. Oh, no. No. This can't be happening.
"He's okay," Snow assures her, stepping closer to the bed. "He's fine."
"Yes, of course. And we'll let your—" Whale glances at Snow, "—husband know you're awake. Relax and take deep breaths, all right?"
Regina lets out a shaky sigh. She's relieved that Robin isn't hurt, but there is something disconcerting in the silent conversation between the others as they exit. They aren't telling her the whole truth, and dread makes a sickly turn in her middle. Please let her little boy be all right, too.
She waits, ticking off the seconds with each quivering beat of her heart. A nurse takes her blood pressure. Another brings her water and a steaming cup of broth. She can't take more than a few sips before she's pushing the tray away and lying down again. She closes her eyes, tells herself that everything will be fine.
She sits up at the sound of approaching footsteps, steadies herself against the wave of dizziness that follows. "Robin," she begins, but the rest dies on her tongue when her gaze lands on Doctor Hopper.
"Regina," he says, pulling a chair up to the bed. "Doctor Whale is concerned that you may have some…memory loss. Would it be okay if I asked you a few questions?"
She nods for him to go on, glancing at the windows by the door, hoping that Robin will come soon.
"You know you're in Storybrooke," Doctor Hopper says. "Have you lived here all of your life?"
She looks back at him, raising a brow. "Of course not. None of us have."
He smiles. "Good." He makes a note on the legal pad on his lap. "Can you tell me a little more about that?"
These questions are ridiculous. "It was a curse that brought us here from the Enchanted Forest," she answers with a hint of exasperation. She wants to get out of here, get back to her family.
"And do you remember who enacted that curse?"
Regina's hands fist into the sheets. She doesn't like talking about this. "My mother."
Doctor Hopper stares at her, lips pinched together in a thin line. "I see," he says. "Do you remember why?"
"To destroy everyone's happy endings, especially mine," she returns, gaze darting toward the windows again.
"Why yours especially?"
Where is Robin? "She was punishing me for giving up the kingdom to run away with an outlaw." Why does any of this matter? Snow and David's daughter broke the curse—the first curse. There's the matter of twelve missing months and a new curse, but Regina doesn't care. It brought Robin and Roland back to her after so many agonizing years apart.
"And that outlaw was—"
"Robin of Locksley," she interjects curtly, tired of this pointless inquisition. "Robin Hood."
"Your husband." Doctor Hopper frowns. "Regina, what is the last thing you remember?"
She culls through her memories, pushes past the black span of missing time to breakfast at Granny's. She recalls Roland asking for more syrup on his pancakes as she and Robin discussed the possibility of settling in a house. He was hesitant to move into town, that far away from his motley crew of Merry Men, and she proposed the idea of building a cabin in the woods. He mentioned going to help the others later that day to hunt down the flying beasts attacking in the area recently.
And the rest…is gone.
But he is here, finally. Standing next to Emma Swan on the other side of the window, looking at her with brows drawn in consternation. Her heart swells. He is healthy, whole. "Robin!" She tries to climb out of bed, held back by the painful tug of the IV line against her hand. "Robin!" she calls again.
But he doesn't rush in to embrace her. Instead he shakes his head, says something to Emma before walking away.
"Robin!" she yells, and Doctor Hopper is grasping her arms. "Robin!"
"Regina, stop!" Doctor Hopper shouts over her. "Regina, I need you to listen to me!"
"Please!" She collapses against the doctor, her body unable to bear the physical strain any longer. "Please, let me see my husband."
Doctor Hopper helps her back into bed, sorrow etching deep lines in his features. "I know this is very difficult," he says, "but you were found three days ago—on the other side of the town line."
The weight of his words crushes her, steals the air from her lungs. She shakes her head in denial.
"You understand what happens when any of us crosses the town line."
"No," she chokes, tears stinging in her eyes. "No, you're lying." He's telling her that her life is a fabrication woven by magic. But her mother had allowed her to keep her memories during the first curse—so she would never forget what was taken from her. And the second curse—
"I'm so sorry, Regina." The sincere regret in Doctor Hopper's tone stabs at her. "Unless something happened during the missing year, as far as anyone can tell, you and Robin have never met before."
She feels as though he's ripped her heart from her chest and squeezed the glowing organ. "And my son? He doesn't exist?"
Doctor Hopper raises a brow. "You mean Henry?"
Henry? Emma's Henry? "Roland," she says, though she's terrified to hear the truth, that her dimpled little boy is nothing more than a vivid figment of her imagination.
"Ah." Doctor Hopper nods gravely. "Roland is... He's Robin's child with his late wife, Marian."
Regina's hand goes to her stomach, where she remembers carrying her son, where he kicked and stretched. And none of it was real? "No."
"Regina—"
"No!" she screams, and lights flicker, windows rattle in their frames. Alarms blare again in a discordant cacophony. The display frightens her. Was that her? Has she inherited her mother's dark gift after all? She doesn't want to know. She doesn't want to know the truth of her life—not if it doesn't include Robin and Roland.
"Regina," Doctor Hopper begins again.
"Please," she says, anguish thick in her voice. "Please, just go."
He gives her another apology, and she's alone. Alone. She sobs until exhaustion washes over her, pulls her under into bleak darkness.
Snow takes Regina home when she's released from the hospital. The woman tells her they have a long history together, though Regina only remembers the young girl she abandoned when she ran away with Robin. She remembers being so angry with Snow over Daniel's death, and how that anger began to blacken her heart. But finding Robin, finding True Love again, gave her the strength to forgive.
The mansion they enter is unfamiliar. The interior is stark, cold, unwelcoming. What kind of woman walked these halls? Not a happy one, she thinks.
Snow follows her up the stairs, and Regina pauses at a bedroom decorated for a boy. Hope surges briefly in her chest, until she recalls the little that Snow has told her about her life. This room is not Roland's, but Henry's. Henry, the son she apparently adopted and raised as a single mother for ten years. The son, who by virtue of the latest curse, doesn't remember her. She is pained by the thought, but more out of an obligation of emotion rather than true disappointment. She can imagine how devastating the experience would be for the woman she was before—because it shatters her now to know that Roland doesn't know her and never has.
She closes the door and makes her way to her room.
"Will you be okay?" Snow asks, hanging back.
No. Not ever again. "I'll be fine," Regina lies, anxious for her to leave.
Snow gives her a sad smile. "If you need anything—"
"I'll call," Regina finishes. She won't. She doesn't know these people who claim to be her family. Her parents are gone. Daniel, too. And Robin… Robin never was. How? Was Tinkerbell unable to get the pixie dust? Or had she never visited Regina in the first place? Was it this Regina's fault? Had she been too afraid to meet him?
The thought angers her, makes her want to break everything that belongs to the other Regina—the one who stole her happy ending. (Because she can't bring herself to believe that part of her history—that Robin is her soulmate—is a lie, too.) She goes to the closet, glares at the neat rows of suits and blouses, the lines of heeled shoes. All organized by style and color. Perfect. Pristine. It would have made Cora proud, and it sickens Regina. She pulls a dress out and drops it to the floor. Then another. And another. Until everything lies in a crumpled heap.
She leans against the jamb, slides down to her knees as she stares blankly at the mess. There are no tears left in her.
Hours later, she's picking her way through the woods. She couldn't breathe in that house. It's the mausoleum, rife with the ghost of a woman who shares her face and nothing else. She found a pair of jeans and boots among her things—and a coat that isn't ostentatious. She set out for a walk in the russet gleam of dusk.
She happens on the encampment by accident, though it is precisely where her Robin would have staked their tent, and she starts to back away, heart pounding. As much as she misses him, aches to see him, it will fracture her to find no recognition in his pale eyes—to know with biting clarity that she is truly nothing to him. A familiar squeal of delight freezes her in place. She should go, before someone sees her—but just one look couldn't hurt more than she already does.
She steps around a tree, careful to remain in its shadow. Below, Robin stomps around the campfire, growling like an ogre. And Roland—oh, how beautiful and perfect he is—holds up his tiny bow and blunt-tipped arrow. His pink tongue presses against the corner of his mouth as he takes aim. The arrow hits Robin in the gut, and he acts out a prolonged, agonizing death while Roland giggles. Regina smiles, remembering a dozen other games like this, remembering how thrilled Robin was to become a father. She's glad that this Robin isn't any different, no matter how deeply it cuts her that she has no place in this happy moment.
He looks up abruptly as if her heartache has become audible, his gaze locking with hers. She swallows back a gasp and hides behind the tree. Fool. What was she thinking, peeping on them like a stalker? They aren't hers. None of this will ever be. She scrubs at the wetness in her cheeks as she makes a hasty retreat.
He's shouting at her, likely warning her to keep her distance. She ignores him, breaks into a run—as much as the undergrowth will let her. And then, she's jerked to a halt by his hand on her arm.
"Wait!" he yells when she wrenches away from him, ready to flee again. "Please, don't run away."
"I'm sorry," she says to stave off any accusation he might have. "I didn't mean—I know he's not my son. I just wanted to see him. I won't bother you again." She turns away, resumes her trek toward town.
"You don't have to avoid us." He trots to her side, keeps pace with her. "I can't imagine how horrible this must be for you."
No, he can't. "I'll live." Somehow.
"At least allow me to escort you home." He raises a brow, smiles at her, and her stomach flutters.
She's tempted to pretend for a moment that this is the man she created a life with, but reality will slam into her soon enough, leaving her hollow, empty. She can't bring herself to reject him outright, though. She's too weak. "Do I have a choice?"
He shrugs. "I would say yes, but I'm quite determined."
She wishes he were different from the Robin in her memories, that her heart wouldn't so easily confuse the two.
"May I ask," he says after a long silence, "how we met?"
She falters, but recovers quickly. "We're meeting right now."
He lets out a soft laugh. "No, I meant how we met in your version of events."
She closes her eyes and sighs. "That wasn't real." As much as she wishes otherwise.
He reaches for her, steps in front of her, and the sincere concern in his gaze hurts. "It was real to you."
She can't look at him, can't stand to see the contours of this stranger's face form expressions she's so intimately familiar with. She considers refusing to answer his question. She thinks about running again. But if he is anything like her Robin, he'll chase after her.
"Pixie dust," she says. "I was in a bad marriage, still grieving over my late fiancé, Daniel, when a fairy told me that I could love again. She used pixie dust to help me find my soulmate, and it lead me to a tavern." She inhales, unsure whether she should tell him everything. "It lead me to a man with a lion tattoo."
Robin raises a brow and glances at his arm. After a beat, he shoves the sleeve of his coat up, displaying the coat of arms inked just above his wrist. "This tattoo?"
She nods. How many times has she run her fingers over the mark that brought her so much peace and joy? No, none of that happened.
"We're soulmates, then?" His tone is lighthearted, though there is an undercurrent of something else— something deeper than passing curiosity.
She wants to say yes. She wants to tell him that as fervently as she loved Daniel once, it was a mere candlelight compared to the bonfire of passion she feels—felt—for Robin. "I don't know how much of what I remember is true. It's just a story."
"It's a lovely story," he says and his smile is almost wistful. "Perhaps sometime you'll tell me the rest of it."
"Perhaps." She won't, though. She can't. With each minute she spends in his company, the air turns bitter, thick, poisoning her with what should have been. "I can find my way from here, thank you."
His brows draw together at her dismissal. "Until next time, milady." He ducks his head in a bow before disappearing among the trees.
There won't be a next time. She has to stay away from him if she has any hope of untangling reality from fiction.
She discovers the book two days later when she's coerced into accepting a dinner invitation at the Charming's. The thick, worn tome sits on the edge of the kitchen counter, "Once Upon a Time" scrawled over the cover in gilded filigree. Is her history contained within its sepia pages? Is Robin's?
She suffers through questions about her health, her adjustment back into society, speculation over how she might have ended up across the town line. Something to do with whoever is behind the winged creatures. David thinks it wasn't an accident that Regina was attacked—if she was attacked—but he doesn't elaborate further when Snow glares at him.
Regina slips out with the book tucked under her arm while the pair clear the table.
She doesn't open it until the next morning.
She takes it to the forest to read. She needs the disassociation between who she is and the woman she's supposed to have been, and she's suffocating on the gossamer shadows of old Regina between the walls of the mansion. Careful to give a wide berth to Robin's camp, she finds a fallen log to settle on. She sucks in a deep breath, and with a quaking hand, opens the cover.
She loses track of time as she reads about her apprenticeship with Rumpelstiltkin, her slow descent into darkness, her relentless vendetta against Snow White—inaugurated with the death of King Leopold. Each page is an indictment against her, the murders she committed, the lives she destroyed, the terror she brought down like hellfire on the Enchanted Forest because of her fathomless hatred.
She killed her father. Her father.
Her greatest fear had been that she would become like her mother. What she became was far worse.
She was a monster.
"Regina?"
Startled, she almost drops the book. Her heart sinks when she finds Robin standing before her. Any secret hope she might have harbored that they would still find a way to come together is obliterated in this moment. How could anyone love her?
"What's wrong?" he asks, sitting next to her. "What's happened?"
She can't find her voice at first. She wants to tell him to run as far away from her as possible. She's lethal, wickedness personified, and she's afraid of tainting him.
Worry makes a crease between his brows. He gathers her hands into his. "What is it?"
She pulls away from him. "Do you know what I was—what I am?" The question is cracked with horror and despair.
He looks down with a heavy sigh. "I know you were once called the Evil Queen." He brings his eyes back to hers, his expression earnest. "But you're not that woman anymore."
She shakes her head, blinking back tears. "You don't know that," she says. "You don't know me."
"You don't know who you are, either," he counters. "Everyone gets a second chance, Regina. Perhaps this is yours."
She wants to believe him, but the woman in this book doesn't deserve a do-over. She deserves to be trussed up and burned in the town square—exactly the demise she apparently planned to give Snow. Snow. How can the woman invite her over for dinner after all she's done?
"Villains don't get happy endings," she murmurs.
"You're not a villain." Robin's expression is anguished, and a forgotten image surfaces of him comforting her just before Roland was born. You're not like her, he said. You'll be a better mother than she was.
But that never happened. Maybe this is her purgatory. To have her conscience restored to her so she can fully experience the consequences of her crimes. To carry the memories of the life she rejected with the knowledge of life she chose so that she's damned by what should have been. Being forced across the town line wasn't a malicious attack, it was judgment long overdue.
"What does it matter to you?" she says. "You're not my husband." This truth is part of her everlasting hell.
"You're right. I'm not." He gives her a plaintive smile. "But I would like to be your friend, if you'll let me."
She can't do this. Not with him. Not when a love so acute and unrequited courses through her veins. Her punishment is severe enough without having to be subjected to his constant proximity. "I don't have friends," she says, hoping her biting tone will put him off. She gathers the book and slides off the log.
"You stubborn woman," he says with a half-laugh, half-groan. "You already have friends. Mary Margaret and David. Emma, too, I'd wager. And now me."
Her vision blurs, but she walks away without a word. If she opens her mouth, she'll tell him how much she needs him, how desperately she craves his acceptance, especially now in the wake of these crippling revelations.
"I'm not giving up on you!" he calls after her, but thankfully, he doesn't follow.
Snow is waiting on her doorstep when Regina arrives home. The other woman glances at the volume in her arms and whispers, "Oh, Regina."
Regina shoves the book into Snow's hands. "It was very informative." She steps inside and slams the door.
She grits her teeth against the scream clawing up her throat. The mirror in the foyer shatters in response, and she sags against the door, unable to stay the tide of grief crashing through her.
The creature attacks become more frequent, and after Robin nearly loses one of his men, he moves the entire crew into town, booking all of the rooms at Granny's Bed and Breakfast. It becomes impossible for Regina to evade him when he is practically underfoot at every turn. He is at the diner when she stops by for coffee. He is coming out of the Sheriff's office when she's on her way to temporarily confer the title of Mayor on Snow. (Regina doesn't remember running a kingdom; she doesn't know how to run a town.) He's seated with the others when she's invited to join the council of heroes protecting Storybrooke.
Each time, he greets her without hesitation as if keeping his promise to be her friend whether she likes it or not. She does and she doesn't. She can't help wanting his attention. There are shades of the husband she remembers in his easy smiles—when she was the center of his world. She can't help dreading his attention. Every wink, every brow raise is a reminder of what never was.
She pretends to be unaffected by his overtures, pretends she doesn't hear the whispers about the amnesiac queen who believes she's in love with a thief out of legend. She pretends that each morning isn't like waking up to a nightmare.
There's a knock at her door one quiet afternoon and she considers not answering. The old Regina probably wouldn't have. She's tired of being entreated by Snow to find her place in their small community. She doesn't have one.
It's not Snow waiting outside, though, but Robin with a crossbow strapped over his shoulder. She takes an unconscious step back. Of all the inconvenient places he's turned up, this is the first time he's come to her home.
"Regina," he says, the corner of his mouth curving up. "I'm going to search the farmhouse for clues that might lead us to our foe, and I could use a partner who has some experience with magic.
She stares at him for a heartbeat. "I can't help you." He knows this. They all do. To her memory, she had only just begun her tutelage under Rumple when Tinkerbell intervened. It's David's theory that this is the reason Regina was found across the town line—that the faceless witch was paralyzing her greatest adversary by erasing Regina's ability to wield magic. But that leaves another question unanswered: why not just kill her?
Robin nods thoughtfully. "You were reared by a mother who had magic, were you not? That familiarity could prove useful." He shrugs. "There's no harm in trying."
She purses her lips, gives him a slight shake of her head. She can't find a logical argument against his proposal, though she would very much like to. "I suppose not."
As they walk, he asks her how she's getting on, and the question she's fielded a dozen times from others is different coming from him. Harder. How are you surviving without me as your beloved? She's not.
She deflects by asking him if the men are getting spoiled by all the amenities at Granny's. He laughs and admits that indoor plumbing is a thing of wonder. He continues with an anecdote about Little John's first experience with the alarm clock. More tales follow of the Merry Men's adjustment to modern civilization, though he avoids any having to do with Roland. She wonders if he's attempting to protect her feelings, or if he's keeping a careful separation between her and his son.
She's glad when the farmhouse comes into view.
The search is fruitless. Any halfway decent witch would cover her tracks, and if Regina had her true memories—if she was the Evil Queen (reformed, she's been told)—maybe, maybe she could make a difference. But she's a disappointment. To Robin. To the others who look to her to conjure some kind of spell to discover the sorceress behind the attacks, until they remember that she isn't the woman they need her to be.
"You know," Robin says behind her as she rummages through the cupboards in the kitchen, "you never did tell me the rest of that story."
"What story?" She's too focused on finding something, anything to make conversation.
"Our story."
Her heart clenches painfully in her chest. She straightens, turns around, fingers curling around the shelf behind her. "It's not our story. It's mine."
He frowns. "Right," he says, closing the distance between them in slow, liquid footfalls. "I can't help but wonder, though, if I crossed the town line, would I have the same memories of our life together?"
She gapes at him, throat becoming tight and dry. He's never been this close to her before—not this Robin. He smells like the great outdoors and something distinctly masculine, just like she remembers. And oh how easy it would be to tip her head up and lean into him, to taste him again.
"There's nothing here." She steps around him, and he catches her arm before she can leave the room.
"Why are you always running from me?" The playfulness is gone from his voice, replaced by that ever present underlying concern.
She lets out a bitter laugh. "Isn't it obvious?" she says. "You have no idea what it's like to have memories of how much you loved me, of the family we created, and being near you and having none of that is torture."
She pulls out of his grasp, rubbing her arm as if his touch stings. "I can't live like this anymore. You have to stay away from me. Let me find a way to move on."
He looks hurt, and she has the abrupt urge to lash out at him. How dare he care just enough to be offended by her plea but not enough to love her—even if the Evil Queen is unworthy of it. This is what's killing her in increments. His interest, his compassion—without his affection.
He doesn't chase after her as she leaves, and she should be relieved. She's not.
Regina attends the wake, though she's never known Rumple's estranged son—that she remembers. Half the town is crammed into Granny's Diner. Robin is there, and she can feel the weight of his gaze on her, but he keeps his distance. She sees Tinkerbell as well. Not her Tinkerbell. Not the fairy who earned recognition among her kind for daring to help someone who had been touched by darkness and succeeding. No, this Tinkerbell lost everything in the gambit according to the book, and Regina avoids her. Though she objectively understands that she was the one who ruined lives, she feels more like she's apologizing for a sibling's bad behavior.
Zelena, recently outed as the wicked witch, barges into the diner, wielding the Dark One's dagger. She taunts the mourners, delighting in their impotence—though both Emma and Robin are on the brink of doing something foolish anyway.
"Don't worry," she says when David warns her away from Snow, hand protectively covering his wife's swollen belly. "I'm not here for your baby. Not today, anyway."
She turns in a slow circle searching through the crowd until her eyes land on Regina. "No, I've come to pay a visit to my little sister," she says, mouth stretching in a terrible smile as she crosses the room to her. "Tell me, dear, how have you enjoyed my gift?"
Regina glances at Snow, but the other woman is just as baffled as she is. Sister? Just how much of her past has been altered? "Me?" she asks. "I was an only child."
Zelena huffs a laugh. "Cora lied to you, Regina. I'm your sister—half if you want to get technical," she replies. "I would tell you to dig into our past and learn the truth, but you're already having trouble with your memories, poor darling. How has that been for you—to know your happy ending is just out of reach? It's a special brand of torment, isn't it?" Her tone is laced with bitterness, with contempt—with vengeance.
Her hand shoots forward, digs into Regina's chest, and the pain is excruciating as she rips out her heart. Regina barely hears the cries of the others as she makes a futile attempt to fill her lungs with air. And then nothing. No, not quite nothing. The physical pain has passed, but her emotions have become muted—as though they are on the periphery, a hairsbreadth beyond her grasp.
Zelena examines the glowing organ. "Yes, this will do rather nicely." She looks up at Regina. "Neat little trick, isn't it? Don't you wish you could remember how to do it? I hear you were quite the collector in your day. Now you're so…pathetic."
As she turns to walk away, Robin calls out after her. "Mark my words, Witch," he threatens, brows creased with fury. "I will get that heart back from you by any means necessary."
Zelena smiles at him and glances back at Regina. "Aren't you lucky to have a thief playing the hero for you, little sister?" she says. "I guess it's true what they say: pixie dust never lies. It's a pity you won't get a chance to find out if the two of you are meant to be in this lifetime."
And then she's gone. Everyone comes at Regina at once, with questions, with words of comfort, with assurances that Zelena will be defeated. She pushes through the crowd with an odd sort of disconnect. Is that because of her missing heart? Twice now, Zelena has attacked Regina and left her alive. Why isn't she dead?
Robin yells her name, but she doesn't look back.
She finds herself at the crypt Emma mentioned in one of their meetings. This is the place where the Evil Queen keeps all her secrets. Regina isn't sure why she's here, what she hopes to accomplished sifting through things that belong to a different woman. She idly wonders what horrors she'll find there as she steps inside.
She runs her hand over the granite coffin in the center of the cramped space. Her father, if the book is correct. A few hours ago, she might have wept over his senseless death—at her hands. But now the pangs of regret and grief are gauzy, too thin.
It takes her a few minutes more to find the tracks etched into the ground, and she pushes the heavy casket out of the way to reveal a narrow staircase. She descends slowly, cautiously, hoping that there isn't a protection spell she's supposed to know how to counteract. She's greeted by nothing but darkness at the bottom and pulls out her phone to search for a light switch. There isn't one, only dozens of unlit candles scattered over the flat surfaces of the vault. Her lips twitch in a rueful smile. Of course. A powerful sorceress wouldn't need electricity.
She shivers at the thought of attempting to tap into the repressed well of magic within her. Rumple said once that the darkness tasted her and liked it. That was before she chose Robin instead of her anger. She's afraid if she touches that force now, it will rouse that inert connection, and she thinks she would rather die than become her again.
"Regina."
Her phone tumbles to the floor, the clatter echoing in the dim room. She picks it up and turns around. Robin stands at the foot of the stairs, almost a silhouette, flashlight in one hand and the other turned palm-out as if in silent apology for the intrusion.
He clicks the flashlight on and points it toward the ceiling. "These flameless torches are remarkable."
She stares at him as if he's imbued with his own radiance. What she feels for him burns like a beacon in the sea of her silenced emotions. Her longing should have been suppressed—erased—but as he gives her a tentative smile, the empty space behind her sternum lurches as if she still has a beating heart. She can never truly escape him.
"Robin—"
"I know," he says, smile dropping. "I know I'm supposed to stay away, but I wanted… I needed to see if you're all right." He takes a step toward her. "Are you?"
"I'm fine," she lies. She hasn't been all right since she woke with her new memories; today is no exception. "You can go."
He nods, biting his bottom lip. "Before I do," he says, easing another inch closer, "will you tell me something?"
Her breaths come in shallow puffs—as if his simple request has put them on the edge of something terrifying. "What is it?"
"How long?" Another step. Then another.
She frowns. "I don't under—"
"How long after we met," he clarifies, "did I fall in love with you?"
The answer slides to the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it back. He doesn't understand how casually he prods her hopes with his curiosity, only to let them fall dormant again.
"I shouldn't have walked away from that hospital room," he continues, close enough now that she has to crane her neck to look at him. "I regret it, but at the time, the urge to comfort you seemed utterly irrational. I thought that perhaps it was a vestige from the year none of us can seem to recall, and it might be that as well. But when you told me about a fairy and pixie dust and soulmates, I began to believe that I wasn't going mad after all."
He draws a line across her forehead, smoothing her hair from her eyes, and chills pebble across her skin. "Regina," he murmurs, "will you let me try to be the man you remember?"
Tears make wet tracks down her cheeks as she nods. Unlike the other Regina, she's not afraid to choose happiness.
He cups her jaw, leans forward, and his lips are on hers. The first brush is soft, experimental. The second is heated, almost desperate as if she is the feast for a man long starved. She returns the kiss—both familiar and new—with the same fervor, lets him wrap his arms around her waist and crush her against him as if he can make them one being. This is how it's always been in her memory, from the moment she walked into the tavern that night. This inexplicable, compelling link between them. This building inferno. Tinder and flame, though she's never figured out who is which.
As he deepens the kiss, presses her up against a wall, something blossoms in the pit of her stomach. It crashes through her like a bolt of lightning, and for a breath, she feels as though she will explode from the crackling pressure. And then she does. Her memories fracture, splinter as the truth erupts in a manic sequence of images—of her years as the villainess full of hatred, of the curse, of her rivalry with Emma, of Henry—Henry. Of her burgeoning desire to change for his sake, for hers—even after she let him go to save him.
Robin pulls back when she gasps. Beyond, every candle burns bright and high. He takes in the manifestation of her awakened power before turning back to her with a smile. "You're cured, then?" he asks.
She raises a brow. "Having second thoughts now that I'm me again?" She keeps her tone light, but she fears his rejection. (After all, who could ever love the Evil Queen.)
He cocks his head, looks her over. "As long as you remember the last few weeks," he says, smiling wider, "then I have no complaints. Now, where were we?"
He cuts off her relieved laughter with another kiss, hungrier than the last. He was right; this is her second chance.
She still remembers what it was like to love him, to be his as he was hers. She remembers the force they are together, and when she—no, they get her heart back—
Well, watch out, Zelena.
~FIN~
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! If you want to share your thoughts, i'd love to hear them!