II.
The road. Emma has to keep looking at the road, the road and nowhere else, even though it's a sleepy two-lane highway out in the boondocks where they haven't passed another car for miles, leading straight as an arrow through thick old-growth New England forest. She's driving, after all. It deserves her full attention, especially with Henry sacked out in the back, having played everything on his phone twice and finally falling asleep with another four hours to go. As much as the beeping and pinging and clicking annoyed her, she was grateful for it as well. As long as Henry was awake, she didn't have to say a word. As long as Henry was awake, she was safe.
It's been ten minutes of nothing but Henry's soft snoring and the hum of the tires on the pavement before she finally speaks. "So," she says. "You came back."
Killian nods, not quite looking at her. She doesn't appear to be the only one who's been dreading this moment. For all this is heartbreakingly familiar – how often have they driven like this in the Bug, awake while Henry slept, them against the world? – it's never been like this. He looks almost entirely different. Gone is the straight-laced, clean-shaven young man, and in his place remains… the only word she can think of, however strange, is pirate. A pierced ear and scruff and eyeliner and black leather jacket, elaborate rings, a heavy pewter skull around his neck on a chain. He's probably joined some heavy-metal or death-goth group, the last thing she'd imagine Killian – her Killian, at least, the one who winced whenever she said fuck – to be capable of. But that was then. She doesn't know this one at all. It's been over half a decade since they've seen each other. Maybe three emails the entire time. They haven't kept in touch. They've both been running.
"Aye," he agrees, both of them stating the obvious to get out of digging anything deeper. She can tell, however, he wants to talk. The road. She needs to keep her eyes on the road, and not him. Even if this new look twists her stomach into watery knots, makes her heart flutter and her knees weak, until she wants to pull the car over and attack him. "I've… I've missed you, Emma. I should never have stayed away from you and the boy so long."
Emma pretends to adjust the rearview mirror, which doesn't need it. She still doesn't know why she agreed to do this. Told Henry that this was Killian, just one of her clients, that they had a quick job up in a little town in Maine and then they'd be heading back to New York. He probably didn't need to pack more than a week's worth of clothes (though her son had wanted to know why, exactly, Killian was wearing that, to which he responded in a distinctly stung fashion that why was Henry wearing that?) Emma has to bite her lip at the memory, and then another: Killian sitting up in bed while two-year-old Henry played with his hook, the only time she'd seen him smile in months. No sense springing that on the kid now. Not when she can't be sure this is anything more than, indeed, a quick job. A mundane task. She'll do – whatever she's supposed to do – and then Killian will leave again. Or she will. She knows by now. It's inevitable.
"So," she says, choosing to ignore his last remark. "Do you know exactly what we're supposed to be doing in this – in this Storybrooke?" She says it casually, as if she's never heard the name before, as if there hasn't been a missing part of her soul shaped in the word for years. Two, in fact.
"Aye," Killian says again. "You're… you're not likely to believe me, though."
Emma snorts humorlessly. "Just try."
"Very well." He reaches down to the leather satchel at his feet, and pulls out a book, a handsomely coffee-table-sized volume bound in brown leather, creamy heavy pages edged in gold. In the brief glow of a passing streetlight, Emma can see that the gilt-embossed title is Once Upon a Time. "It's – rather literally – a long story."
Emma sweeps a hand at the empty, dark highway in front of them. "We've got all the time in the world."
The eastern horizon is starting to turn rose-pink by the time he's finished, as Emma is trying to take in everything he's telling her – a terrible curse, a town full of people who have forgotten who they are, that she is the daughter of (of all the ridiculous things) Snow White and Prince Charming, that the reason he never found anything about his family at the British Embassy is because he's from this other world too, this Enchanted Forest, fell down a portal when he was sixteen and was spat up on Earth with no memories – and make a decision as to whether this is actually what is going on, or if it's just some kind of delusional coping mechanism he's invented. Maybe this is how he can justify giving the twins away. It occurs to her for the first time that he thinks if he just hadn't gotten hit by that car, if he hadn't been so badly injured, if he hadn't lost his hand, they could have kept them. That he puts the guilt on himself for it, and what happened to them. That he doesn't think he – or she – could ever possibly forgive him.
No wonder he's run to the solace of a fairytale. Things are supposed to work out there. The heroes are supposed to be beautiful, the villains hideous, the morals simple, and the endings happy. Yet looking at him in his black leather, the hook resting with studied casualness on his leg, the truth of what they always were to each other – lost boy, lost girl – Emma thinks that, were she to believe his tale about everyone being a storybook character who doesn't remember who they are, she knows who he is – or who he would have become, if he hadn't fallen down that portal and met her. If he was Peter Pan before, the boy, then beyond all doubt now he's become Captain Hook, the man. Has been in search of that land where time stops, where children don't grow up and leave you, some dark demented fantasia dream. Neverland. She wonders abruptly if it's real too.
She wants to tell him he's just making this up.
She wants to tell him that even if he isn't, she has no idea how to do this.
Instead she says, barely more than a whisper, "Oh, Killian." Reaches down, reaches over, and for a brief moment, takes his hook in her hand. Then just as quickly, lets go.
She wants to forgive him, or at least she thinks. She wants to let him in. But that is even more of a great and terrible mystery than cursebreaking, and far more dangerous to her, to her heart, to Henry. To everything she's tried so hard to keep together, in these long years without him. Without herself.
They pass a green-and-white road sign, Welcome to Storybrooke, five minutes later.
It's impossible to envision, at least on the surface, a more picture-perfect New England hamlet. Everything appears tidy and well-run and happy, everyone seems to know each other's names, disperse busily about their days – indeed, it's so appealing that Emma begins to suspect something Stepford Wife-like must be lurking under the surface, terrible evil curse or otherwise. She still doesn't know what to believe, if she wants it to be true or not. On the one hand, it's tempting to blame the darkness and struggle of her life on it, that it's always been out of her control and she can feel safely absolved from any of her own failures. The rest of her, however, resists it. Doesn't want to think that she's a helpless pawn on some vast cosmic chessboard, that she has no say in her own fate, that everything she's tried to be, that she's believed in, were merely prescribed for her at the outset. She wants to say that she's Emma Swan. That it matters. Not that there's, to quote another scoundrel, some all-powerful mystic energy field controlling her destiny. She might be supposed to play Luke Skywalker for this place, but there's too much Han Solo in her to give in without a fight.
She and Henry take one room at a place called Granny's Bed and Breakfast (and Diner). Killian takes another. She sleeps all day and the next night, and when she gets up, heads outside to discover that – of course, small-town police having nothing else to do besides being zealously conscientious in carrying out their tiniest and most annoying tasks to the letter – the sheriff is there writing a ticket for the Bug, which is apparently parked in the loading zone. She gives him a talking-to, tells him she's new in town, give her a damn second, she'll move it, and it doesn't look like anything is being loaded, anyway. When he finally retreats, she turns around to find Killian watching her with a funny look on his face. "What?"
"Nothing, love," he says. "Only that that's David Nolan – or should I say, Prince Charming. Or rather – "
"My father," Emma completes. Her stomach turns a sickening flip, and despite herself, the fact that she doesn't buy it, not entirely, she can't help but sneak another glance in the departing lawman's direction. He looks like the type, she has to admit. "If the book is anything besides… I don't know, something you decided to work on to get through… get through things?"
He doesn't look away, but she can tell that hurts. "I'm not making this up, Emma."
Emma is about to say something else, but at that moment, the schoolbus pulls up, the door of the diner swings open, and an immaculately attired, black-haired businesswoman, heels and red lipstick and tailored coat, strides out, holding the hands of two children about six or seven years old. The girl has long blonde curls and a Burberry plaid scarf, a stylish little backpack, and her lip is visibly quivering, whereas the boy – black-haired, blue-eyed, sporting a Star Wars lunch box and flashing lightsaber sneakers – is raring to go. He is clearly set to jump on board, and looks at his sister in exasperation when she continues to dawdle. "Come on, Ellie, let's go!"
Both Emma and Killian turn to stone on the spot.
"Liam!" their mother calls. "Behave yourself! And look after her!"
The boy rolls his eyes and promises he will, then crashes aboard the bus as if it might leave without him, while the little girl is still sniffing. Her mother kneels to give her a kiss, promises that it won't be long at all and she can't wait to hear about the day, then escorts her to the bus, sees her aboard, and waves as it pulls off down the street. It's only then that she turns around, sees Emma and Killian still looking as if they've been broad-axed, and smiles – politely, but with an edge. "I'm sorry. Do I know you?"
"I… " Emma struggles to regain control of herself, when she can still hear those names in the air – Ellie and Liam, just as she's thought of them all this time. "I don't think so. We… just got here."
The woman continues to regard her coolly. "We don't get visitors very often in Storybrooke. Where are you from? How long are you planning to stay?"
"We're… . just passing through." Emma makes herself smile in return. "Only a few days."
She thinks the other woman relaxes fractionally, but doesn't drop her guard entirely. "How do you do, then," she says, stepping forward. "I'm Regina Mills. The mayor."
Emma has known that, has known it from the moment she saw her with the kids, and knows as well who, according to the book, her children's adoptive mother is supposed to be. The woman in front of her doesn't look like a monster. Neat, well-groomed, made up, put together, clearly a competent parent, not an Evil Queen. She doesn't want Regina to think she's here to take the twins away; she can't, she made that choice, even if it's stabbing in her gut harder than she ever imagined. Doesn't know if Regina knows their birth parents, if she'd consider them a threat if she did, but she's still standing with her hand out, and a reciprocal introduction cannot be gotten away from. "I'm… Emma. Emma Swan."
Something may flicker in the mayor's dark eyes at that, but it's hard to tell. She's all graciousness as she shakes Emma's hand and welcomes her to town, though her gaze lingers censoriously on Killian, decked out in his leather and eyeliner and clearly embodying the very idea of Bad Influence on Youth. She says she needs to get to work, ducks back inside Granny's for her coffee, and clicks off in her heels.
"Bloody hell," Killian says, half to himself, after a moment. He clearly was no more prepared for that than Emma was, and for that instant, she can feel that flicker of their old solidarity, back in the days when all they had was each other. He doesn't look at her as he says this; clearly, he's not necessarily expecting that she wants to share the burden, that the best thing for either of them is to let their guard down and commiserate, when they've never once talked about Ellie and Liam before. She looks like me. He looks like him. Emma is still rattled herself, and needs some coffee as well, extra-strong. Without an answer, she goes up the steps and heads inside.
Emma does her best to find out what she can about the twins without being an outright creeper. She isn't sure what she's expecting. It's clear that Regina rests unquestioningly atop the social hierarchy here, and it would be easy for her kids to be a spoiled little prince and princess, coddled brats who are used to getting their way no matter what, but while opinions may be mixed on the mayor herself, nobody has a bad word to say of William and Elizabeth Mills. Everyone is in apparently universal agreement that they're sweet, well-behaved, polite, respectful – and, so far as anyone can tell, happy. They say please and thank you and always look as if they stepped out of the pages of a Benetton ad. Whatever her other flaws, Regina must be doing a good job as a mother.
Emma quietly digs up the Mills family's home address and drives out when she's sure Regina will be at work and the twins at school. She parks at the curb and looks up at it, this handsome white-painted colonial mansion with columns and black shutters, well-kept lawn and big trees. She wonders which of the windows belong to their bedrooms. There's a boy's bike on the porch, a box of toys. It's clear that Regina has never had to decide between feeding herself or the kids, never had to come up with lies to tell them about why they don't have what other kids have. Has probably bought them plenty of Christmas and birthday presents, given them a comfortable upper-middle-class childhood in which they've wanted for nothing. Certainly far better than they would have had in that small, crammed, grimy one-bedroom apartment in Boston. Just as she wanted for them: their best chance. She's looking at it now. It worked out. It should be all right. Should be all she needs to know.
Emma leans back in the driver's seat, tears brimming in her eyes. It makes no sense to torment herself like this, she knows. But she's heard nothing about Regina having a husband or partner, so she must have done all this herself. Handled the midnight feedings and the diaper changes and grocery-store tantrums and the general localized chaos of two babies, and if she managed it alone, there's a sly, insidious voice asking Emma why she couldn't do the same, even knowing that their circumstances are nothing alike. It would be different if she had been planning to give up the twins from the start, if she hadn't wanted them, if it had only been a logical choice to place them for adoption. But until the accident, until Killian lost his hand, they were still thinking, praying, that there might be a way to keep them. Maybe there was. Maybe they weren't brave enough. Maybe they missed it.
She's crying harder now, wiping her cheeks furiously on her sleeve and hoping she remembered to wear waterproof mascara, as she once more reminds herself that it's irrelevant. They were faced with a circumstance, they made a choice. The kids are clearly happy and doing well, and wishing or wondering if that could have happened with her and Killian, if their family would have stayed together, is beside the point. Selfish. But Emma Swan longs beyond words for the chance to be selfish, just for once.
She shakes silently for a minute, maybe two. Then she sniffs hard, and straightens her spine. Puts the Bug into gear and rolls away from the curb. Drives back into town, and doesn't let herself look back.
It's a week and a half since they arrived in Storybrooke and Emma is getting antsy about making Henry miss any more school back in New York, when Granny (the matriarch of the diner and B&B has become an unexpected confidante, and knows instinctively how Emma likes her hot chocolate and coffee) suggests that he attend classes here, as if that's something that just happens. Emma is taken aback, babbling excuses about getting records transferred and they don't even live in the district (what district is this?) and surely there'd be assessment exams and everything else – and Granny just looks at her as if she has two heads. She says it's obvious they're going to be here for a while, and while she's happy to put them up for as long as they want, they should think about leasing an apartment. Plenty of vacant properties. Rent's reasonable. Nice place to raise kids. Emma and her husband should consider it.
"He's not my husband," Emma blurts out, too fast. "He's – we were together, once, long ago. Now, I… I don't know what exactly we are."
Granny gives her a long look. "He's Henry's father, isn't he?"
"Yes." Emma bites her lip, takes her hot cocoa with cinnamon, and turns to go, hoping this will discourage any more personal enquiry. "But Henry doesn't… doesn't know that right now. Killian and I separated when he was very young. I'd appreciate you not mentioning it to him."
Granny gives her another look, as if she has certain opinions on the wisdom of this, but is too tactful to voice them at the present moment. She holds the gaze, then turns away to the cash register.
"Like I said." She shrugs. "You should think about it."
Henry proves surprisingly receptive to the idea of going to school here, or staying a while, or doing something besides aimlessly playing on his phone; he's bored stiff. He says he misses New York, but he's a resilient and curious kid, and he still thinks this is a lark, an adventure, something that will be handled and then which will go by, so he's willing to play along. He gets dressed that morning (they're still staying at Granny's, despite her advice for them to find an apartment) shrugs on his backpack, and heads out.
Emma is in the diner that afternoon, paging through Once Upon a Time, when the bus pulls up and the kids spill out – clearly, this is a small enough school district that they don't need more than one route. Her breath catches in her throat as she sees that Henry is followed off by none other than Liam Mills, the two boys clearly having hit it off like gangbusters already, Henry even pulling a binder out to show Liam his prized Pokémon collection. It's also obvious, as they sit on the bench together, that they have a more than passing physical resemblance; except for the fact that Liam is almost three years younger than Henry, they could very well be the twins instead. Emma tries to look away, only to see Granny glancing over as well – her gaze flicking between Henry, Liam, and then Emma herself. And in that moment, without a word spoken, Emma is entirely sure that the older woman knows exactly who they are.
A black, older-model Mercedes Benz pulls up a few minutes later. Regina leans out the driver's side window, beckoning angrily at her son, clearly worried and wondering why he didn't ride the bus home as he was supposed to – only to see him next to Henry and the pieces just as clearly click over in her head. She looks up, and her eyes meet Emma's through the diner's Venetian blinds, hard and narrow.
Liam, apologizing but also clearly loathe to be parted from his new friend, drags his heels into the car. The door shuts, and Regina pulls away from the curb with a squeal of tires.
Emma sits at the counter feeling leaden, wondering if she should duck out of this confrontation as well, but knowing that postponing it will only make her feel worse, until as she knew she would, Regina drives up again about twenty minutes later. She parks in the loading zone (will Sheriff Nolan ticket her, one wonders?) gets out, and strides brusquely up the steps, coat snapping in the autumn wind. Pushes into the diner with a clank of bells. "Miss Swan, we need to talk."
Emma pauses, then gets up and inclines her head, with a graciousness she doesn't quite feel. Follows Regina into the corridor behind the jukebox where they can have some modicum of privacy, though she's already fairly sure that Granny overhears everything that goes on here. "Yes, Mayor Mills?"
Regina looks up at the ceiling, at the floor, back and forth, before her gaze finally lands on Emma. Her face is white, her mouth grim. "It's you, isn't it?" she says. "You're their birth mother. And Captain Guyliner with his leather and attitude, he's their father."
Emma sees no point in denying the obvious. "Yes."
Regina inhales sharply, seems about to say something, doesn't, whirls around again, and takes a moment to collect herself. Too evenly, she says, "Why are you really here?"
Emma doesn't know how to answer that. She can't think that Regina, if she's the one who cast this curse, will be thrilled to hear that she's supposed to be here to break it. She didn't come to take the twins away, as much as the ghosts of what could have been are haunting her. Finally she says, as it is after all the truth, "Killian brought me here."
"You can't have them back." Regina's lips are thin; this answer clearly confirms her worst suspicions about their presence. "You made the choice. You gave them up."
"I didn't come here to do that."
"You brought your son, though. Henry. People have eyes in their heads. Kids talk. If William and Elizabeth learn about this, it will be very upsetting for them. I'm sure neither of us want that."
"No," Emma agrees. "Neither of us do."
Regina looks unsure what to make of her compliance thus far, searching for some kind of trick, some ulterior motive. This is clearly a woman who trusts nobody and likes even fewer, and for the first time, despite the fact that Regina has given the twins a comfortable material upbringing, taught them manners and dresses them well and clearly does love them, Emma wonders just how insular their world is. Not that it is any more of her concern than it was a moment ago, but it awakens something stubborn in her. A kind of awkward sympathy, as well. She thinks she has more patience with the other woman, an understanding, due to her own struggle to raise Henry, than she would if she'd come up here completely alone, a scarred, walls-up free agent who was determined to bond with nothing and no one. She doesn't want to be enemies with Ellie and Liam's mother, doesn't want this to be the only taste she leaves in their mouths. She's still planning on going, after all. New York. That's what she wants. Safe.
"Henry and Liam are friends," she says after a moment. "They're boys. They're not going to notice anything. I assure you, Ms. Mills, I'm not staying forever. This is just a temporary arrangement."
"Temporary for what?" Regina doesn't give up easily. "You and the handless wonder are just… coming here for a vacation? Couples therapy? Dr. Hopper's office is down the street. I'm sure he'd be happy to deal with you two and your issues. But again, Miss Swan. Why here?"
Emma shrugs. "Maybe it's fate."
"I don't believe in fate."
"Well then." Emma lifts her chin. "Maybe I chose to."
She knows that's not going to be enough to get Regina off her tail, and it isn't. But while they're having their own issues, Henry and Liam continue to be the very best of friends, and there's only so many times they can grudgingly agree to meet to let their sons play together, sitting in stiff silence while the boys run and shout, before it gets tiring to keep up the low-grade animosity. Emma senses at times that Regina almost wants to talk to her, to ask if Liam shares anything with his brother, even as she's fighting the overwhelming impulse to do the same. Wants to know absolutely everything about this kid and his sister, from their favorite foods to their nightmares to how much trouble they cause at bathtime, but she knows that will violate the agreement that they, word unspoken, seem to have arrived at. As long as she doesn't mention anything about the twins, about a curse or any possible reason for her presence other than a brief visit, Regina warily tolerates her and doesn't make any move to obstruct or thwart her. She can see Liam this way – and Ellie, who is often brought along and plays happily by herself while the boys get into trouble. But if Emma ever breaks the conversational boundaries, Regina will withdraw, take the twins home and forbid any further play dates for at least a week. It's a capricious and delicate arrangement, and it doesn't feel fair, but Emma knows she can't push too hard.
It's been over a month since they've arrived in Storybrooke, and after stubbornly staying at Granny's until it became impractical, she's finally broken down and rented an apartment. It's next door to one Mary Margaret Blanchard, who also happens to be Henry's teacher at school, and this time Emma doesn't even need Killian to tell her who she's supposed to be. She's read the book too, several times by now, and her heart skips a beat. Snow White. Not quite what she expected. Then again, nothing is.
She's tried to use this time to think what she wants to do about Killian, if she wants to invite him to move in again, but considering Henry is still in the dark about his parentage, that feels like too far, too fast. They've been circling in and out of each other's orbits for a while now, and while Killian is still polite about her constant deflections, it's clearly getting on his nerves. He's ditched the pirate garb for something a bit more sedate, leather jackets with zippers and skinny jeans, is doing his best to fit in, although Emma has noticed that someone – Mr. Gold, the mysterious recluse who runs the pawnshop and seems to have his fingers in most of Storybrooke's pies – doesn't like him at all. Killian professes himself baffled by this; says he's never laid eyes on the man in his life. She doesn't think he's lying, but there's something here which still disturbs her.
Finally, because Emma isn't one to sit around impotently, she goes to ask Gold to his face. Why he doesn't like Killian. What on earth everyone seems to be hiding.
"Why, dearie." Gold placidly polishes a bronze sextant. "Because there are many ways something as vast as the curse could have turned out, all the possible paths that could have been, and . ." He raises one shoulder in a shrug that couldn't give less of a fuck. "In one not so very far from here, your – I believe the term is baby daddy – actually became Captain Hook, not just this pathetic brooding cut-rate version of him, and was my most dread enemy. A dangerous, evil, and ruthless maniac who left countless lives in ruins, and cared not in the least for anyone except himself and his revenge. Not the sort of person I, or indeed any sensible individual, wants lurking around this town. He bears close watching, in short." His eyes glitter. "Is it true you procreated twice with him? Or does that count as three times?"
"Shut up." Emma's rocked, both by the fact that Gold is the only person she has heard, apart from Killian, say that there is in fact a curse, and the fact that Gold clearly also knows who Ellie and Liam's real parents are. "You're saying you hate him not even for anything he's actually done, but for something that another version of him could have done? You know that makes no sense."
"As a matter of fact, Miss Swan." Gold puts the sextant aside and leans casually on the counter. "I thought that if anyone, you would be the most likely to understand. Seeing as you also appear to hate him for everything he could do to you."
Emma opens and shuts her mouth, feeling punched. "I don't hate him."
"Call it what you will, but if you are justified in treating him as you do for realizing the danger he poses, then so am I. Rather in a different fashion, of course." Gold turns his back on her; clearly the conversation is over. "Good day, dearie."
Emma is pensive and troubled on the walk back to their apartment, wanting to find a way to refute Gold's accusations but uncomfortably unable to find one. She's still distracted as she climbs upstairs, pushes through into the dining room – then stops.
Henry's bent over Once Upon a Time, reading intently with a frown on his face. He doesn't hear her entrance for a moment, then does. Looks up at her as if he hasn't quite seen her before, can't quite think how to address this stranger. Then he says, "Is this what you were talking about? The job we're here for? This… this curse?"
Instinctively, Emma wants to deny it. Protect him. Especially after Gold all but confirmed it earlier, and she holds out her hands. "Henry, there – there isn't actually a curse, that's not – you can't believe – "
"Really?" Henry slams the book shut and gets to his feet angrily. "What else can't I believe? When were you going to tell me that? When were you going to tell me that Killian – that Mr. Jones – he's my dad. Isn't he. Isn't he?"
Emma's breath shrivels in her throat. "Did he – who told – "
"I'm not stupid." Henry faces her defiantly, hands planted on his hips. "I figured it out. It's in the book as well, you know. Your story. All of it. The fact that Liam and Ellie, that they're my…" He is wrestling with the words, struggling with the realization that a ten-year-old's world is falling apart around him, and everyone he trusted has lied to him. "That you gave them up!"
"Henry!" It comes out as half a sob, a gasp, as Emma reels back as if he's hit her. The tears bubble up, starting to spill down her cheeks, as she gets to her knees and reaches for him, but he rips away. "Henry, please, listen to me. Please – when that happened, when Killian and I – "
"I bet you have another story all ready to go for this one too." Henry's mouth has screwed up as if he's trying desperately not to lose his composure, chin wobbling, and for a heart-stopping moment she sees the pirate in him, the dangerous man Gold was describing, the one who would happily burn down everything and everyone in his way. "Well, you know what? I don't care! I don't care!"
With that, he snatches the book and runs past her, grabbing his coat and backpack, and pelting down the stairs beyond. She remains frozen for a moment more, then turns and runs after him, but even as she's emerging into the early evening, he's out of sight. She hurries back upstairs to get her car keys, thinking she'll have to track him down in the Bug, but as she's stepping into the apartment, a sudden and impossible wall of grief overtakes her, crashes into her like a tidal wave and brings her to her knees, until she's on all fours and sobbing so hard she's almost retching, until she can do nothing but curl into a ball of agony. She rocks back and forth, wanting to make it stop somehow, make it stop, but she doesn't know how and she doesn't know how and she doesn't know, she doesn't know. She can just cry until she feels utterly spent, used up and wrung out, hiccupping miserably and rubbing at her eyes.
It's getting dark. Henry should be getting home soon; even as mad as he must be, he has to cool down eventually. And even in a town as safe as this one appears to be, quite a change from New York, she doesn't like the idea of him out by himself. She has to get the keys, do what she was supposed to. Dully, she levers herself to her feet. She feels a thousand years old.
Just then, her phone rings.
Emma looks at it in dread; she doesn't want to talk to anyone right now. But the name on the caller ID is MILLS R, and she didn't even know that Regina had her number, which is unsettling enough to make her frown. She gulps hard and answers, trying not to sound how she feels. "H-hello?"
"Miss Swan?" Regina's voice is sharper than usual, but with something different than its usual asperity. She sounds almost… afraid. "Are Liam and Ellie over there?"
"What? No." Emma's knees feel suddenly weak. "Why – would they be here? I was – in fact I was just about to go out and look for Henry, he… he's angry with me and I don't think it…"
"You didn't do something… foolish?" Regina sounds as if she thinks this is exactly what happened.
"No." The last thing she wants right now is Regina, who seems to be practically perfect in every way – at least when it comes to being a mother, her and her big house and her money and everything that Emma and Killian could never have given the twins, a reminder of it every day – having a go at her. "I don't know where they are."
Even as she says it, a certain cold foreboding is creeping down her spine. She hangs up abruptly, not bothering to apologize, and trots down the stairs into the deepening night. Gets in the Bug, drives up and down the street, pausing to stick her head out and yell, but there's no answer. Even as she sees headlights coming down in the other direction, recognizes Regina's Mercedes, knows then that she's doing the same thing, and cold certainty crashes into her stomach like a cannonball.
Henry, Ellie, and Liam are gone.