A/N: Welcome back! In this chapter, things finally start to get interesting... Enjoy!

CHAPTER 7 – Regina – Arrived

I woke up the following day feeling unusually cold.

It took me a second to fully register that I had just woken up. From being asleep.

It took even longer to remember why. I moved my gaze over to my right and there she was: Emma, her pink lips ever-so-slightly ajar, her blonde hair so tangled they resembled a bird's nest. She was wrapped like a burrito into my comforter, which thoroughly explained my uncommonly freezing state: she hadn't even left a corner for me to warm up.

With the covers tucked up tight under her chin, she looked young, innocent, unexpectedly vulnerable: the last one being an adjective that didn't match her personality at all – at least, not the slice of it that she had shared with me. She also seemed much more relaxed than usual, as if she was finally freed from the burden of a sorrow that inevitably took over her when she was awake.

Realizing I had been, eerily enough, staring at a sleeping person for several minutes, I moved my gaze onto the alarm clock on my left; slightly bemused by the fact that its digits were now displaying 8:16, I grabbed my phone and gasped.

13:48.

What.

I kept gawking at the screen in utter disbelief. The previous night had witnessed what had been, by far, the most restoring sleep of my life, and I was feeling more rested than ever before; despite that, never would I have conceived that I'd ever be able to sleep for over fourteen hours straight, and completely forget to show up at work.

I hopped off the bed as quickly as I could, careful not to disturb the sleeping form at my side, and I rushed to the kitchen: I needed to phone Mr. Dawson, and that was the furthest room from my bedroom, so there was no risk of waking Emma.

I dialed my boss's number and impatiently waited for him to pick up, my heart pounding tempestuously in my chest.

"Regina! I was just wondering where you'd been," he said with his usual cheerful voice. Well, at least he didn't sound angry…

"Mr. Dawson, I'm sorry I didn't show up at the agency: I completely forgot to set up an alarm and consequently slept in…" I stammered out, pacing the floor.

"Regina, it's alright." He interrupted my rambling. "I know you didn't mean to, and that's okay. This would be the first time ever that you showed up late, and surely I won't risk losing you for such a trivial reason! You're my best employee, there's no way I'll ever fire you." He chuckled a bit. So I wasn't in trouble? "Why don't you take a day off? Or maybe even a week! I can't recall the last time you've gone on leave, and surely a break won't hurt you."

"Sir, are you certain? I don't mind working, you know that…"

"I insist, Regina. Now, go have fun. I'll see you in a week." And with that, he hung up.

Speechless and dazed, I returned to the bedroom. I realized I had the option of going back to sleep, and that was such an unfamiliar, unknown possibility – one I had never had chance of having, before… I couldn't tell whether I liked it or not.

Then I saw Emma, still fast asleep, and I mentally corrected myself: going back to sleep wasn't an option. The woman stole my comforter. Oddly both annoyed and amused, I slipped out of my silk pajama and walked to my dresser in my underwear, indecisive about what to wear for my first day off ever. What did common people even do, when they went on leave?

I turned around as I heard rustling, and I saw a disheveled Emma look around the room with her eyes barely open.

"'Morning," she yawned when she saw me, her eyes lingering on my half-nude form for longer than what was expected. Was she… actually checking me out? Perhaps it was just my impression. Despite that, I would've sworn I could feel Emma's eager stare on my body even after I had turned my attention back to the dresser, and I couldn't help but be somewhat flattered by her attention. I was probably still half asleep, and couldn't think straight.

"Actually, it's two in the afternoon," I replied, finally opting for some slacks and a burgundy shirt.

"Did you manage to get some sleep?" she asked, thoughtful, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

I froze for a moment, when I noticed she wasn't wearing her pajama bottoms anymore.

"Yeah, I- I've actually just woken up. My boss practically forced me to get vacation leave, hence I didn't get in trouble at work…"

She seemed pleased with the information, proud to have succeeded in being a living sleeping pill, as she stood up.

"Woah, that's cool. Hey, why don't you stay in Storybrooke for a while? Get a bit of fresh air, work on my mom's apartment. You can stay at my place, if you'd like," she offered, and I couldn't help but look as she bended over to grab her pajama bottoms from the floor. I was taken aback when I realized I was finding boy shorts surprisingly sexy, especially when they hugged her cheeks so that only the bottom rim was shown...

"Why did you take them off?" I asked her, momentarily changing the subject in hope for a distraction: my thoughts were heading in a dangerous direction.

Emma looked at me, confused at first, but as I nodded towards her pants she understood.

"Oh, I was too hot," she explained, "so I took them off and they must have fallen from the bed during the night, 'cause I woke up at some point, feeling cold, and I couldn't find them…"

"…So you decided to wrap yourself up in the comforter," I finished her sentence accusingly, a little annoyed, "leaving me completely uncovered."

She gave me a guilty look; I decided the best thing to do was to just let it go, so, with a last glare, I walked to the bathroom and took a shower. The warm stream of water rinsed off any trace of sleepiness and calmed my nerves, and when I stepped out of the bathroom I was feeling more restored than ever, and in a particularly good mood that I wasn't accustomed to.

After getting dressed, I noticed Emma wasn't in the bedroom anymore; I found her in the kitchen, making breakfast (or lunch, rather), still in her underwear.

"That smells edible," I commented, surprisingly enjoying how comfortable she was in my kitchen.

"Hope you like pancakes," she replied, seemingly relieved that I wasn't angry at her anymore, "because that's literally as far as my cooking skills go."

"I do," I replied with a chuckle, grabbing the syrup from the fridge and sitting at my island. "I thought about what you offered earlier. Staying in Storybrooke? I think it may be salubrious, for me. Salutary."

"If I may say so myself, I'm full of good ideas," she teased, placing two plates full of food on the countertop. "Oh, by the way – I booked us a flight, it leaves in a few hours. I'll help you pack, if you want."

"Thank you, dear."

Before I could help myself to any of the delicious-smelling food in front of me, I stood up and approached the refrigerator to collect some juice, when the doorbell rang.

"I got it," Emma said, heading to the entrance.

"You're half naked," I pointed out in reply, but she shrugged, with a look that clearly stated, 'I couldn't care less'.

I took the juice box and placed it on the isle, before idly following her.

The postman was holding a rectangular package, waiting for Emma to take it, as he shamelessly checked her out. She, however, was staring at the information displayed right on top of it in complete perturbation: her jaw was clenched tight, her lips pursed.

I raised an eyebrow at the delivery man, granting him my best baleful look, and he proceeded to move his gaze anywhere but on Emma. Good boy.

I shot a glance at the package and immediately understood what the problem was; I signed for the delivery and grabbed it, pulling a still upset Emma inside.

Regina Mills and Emma Swan,

35/B Columbus Ave,

Manhattan, NYC

I read the words over and over again, trying to figure out how could anyone possibly know Emma was there with me; every explanation I managed to come up with made no sense whatsoever.

Emma was sitting on the couch right next to me, hands in her hair, elbows resting on her knees. Her uneasiness was obvious, almost tangible; but I suspected it was melting into more of a thorough upset, as the minutes ticked by.

"Are you okay?" I asked. It was the first time any of us broke the silence since the doorbell had rang.

She shook her head, predictably.

"Don't open it," she ordered with a flat voice, and retired to the kitchen.

I did as she said, because it seemed as if she knew something about that package that I ignored, and I was growing quite concerned.

We finished our breakfasts in silence, both lost in our own thoughts; I absentmindedly set the dishes into the dishwasher as Emma got dressed, and then started packing, making sure that still wrapped parcel was in my suitcase as well.

"Hey, do you mind if I wear these?" she asked me. I looked up at her: she was dressed in the only pair of casual denims I owned and a red shirt, a much brighter shade than her usual jacket. "I came here in my pajama last night, and I didn't think of bringing any clothes with me."

"Red suits you," I commented after I had taken a good look at her, without thinking. "It brings out your eyes."

"Is that a yes?" She smirked, flattered, and started folding the clothes I had laid out on the bed and tidily placing them in my valise.

"Well, you're already wearing them, aren't you? If I said no, you'll just keep them on anyway," I grumbled.

A taxi-stuck-in-traffic ride later, after having stopped at the apartment she was supposed to stay in to collect her baggage, we were taking our seats on the plane that would've brought us back to Portland; Emma's parents were going to pick us up there. I didn't know why we couldn't have just taken a cab, but she insisted on going with Mr. Nolan and Miss Blanchard. Their last names confused me almost as much as their age did. Weren't they married? If so, why did my client still go by "Miss"? I assumed it was none of my concern, anyway.

Although I had done as Emma had asked, not opening the parcel, and none of us had mentioned it since that brief conversation on the sofa, the question of who could have possibly sent it was still lingering in my mind, and I was more than certain that she was thinking about it as well. I didn't want to bring the matter up first, but my curiosity prevailed on my good sense.

"You know who posted us that package, don't you?" I questioned.

Emma diverted her gaze from the window and looked at me instead. She appeared worried and determined, as if she was used to facing that sort of situations. She seemed to be internally debating on whether to tell me the truth or not.

"I might have an idea," she finally answered, "but you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me," I ordered, wayward.

She quickly hinted at the people sitting closest to us, hence within earshot, and I understood her silent message. I started feeling nervous, only now struck with the realization of just how grave this problem most likely was.

She went back to looking outside the window, her gaze lost over the horizon. A small furrow formed right between her eyebrows, for a short moment, but she wiped it away as soon as a flight attendant asked us if we would like something to eat.

I knew Emma had a lot on her mind, so I decided to stay silent for the rest of the trip, not wanting to bother her any further, and after a few hours we were once again crossing the Storybrooke town line.

"Come with me," Emma told me, imperative, as soon as we got out of her father's truck. With a resolute expression on her face, she then addressed her parents. "I'm gonna tell her everything."

What?

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Miss Blanchard asked, and I was really confused. My heart started racing, and I readied myself to something big. I didn't suspect I was in any danger, though; not with Emma.

She nodded, her wan eyes hinting just how little of a choice she actually had.

I hesitantly followed her as she crossed roads and turned corners, both dragging our suitcases behind us, before stopping in front of a big, white mansion, surrounded by a well-kept garden and meticulously trimmed hedges.

"Whose house is this?" I asked, unsure.

She turned to face me, her features devoid of any emotion.

"Yours."