Author's Note: I am so high on writing this and I'm having so much fun with it. (The World Dreams With You, I wish you were this awesome to write. But worry not, I'll get back to you. You're still my baby. Though mommy and mommy are a little mad at one another right now, it doesn't mean we've stopped loving each other.) Thank you so very much for all the reviews! Much appreciated. As you can see, they make me work a lot faster. -hint hint- ;)

Oh, one more thing; for some reason, I've decided it's Fall in the fic. It took me this long to realize it's probably not that cold in Storybrooke, but what the hell, this is fanfiction. Fall is good for angst.

YAY FOR LESBIAN ANGST! Who's with me?

Chapter 5

Why can't she be like everyone else in Storybrooke? Why is she the only one who won't obey me? There is no compliance, and she's bound to fall if she doesn't learn her place.

"How can you live with yourself," she whispers and I can barely hear her. My blood runs cold. I don't know the answer to any of her questions, much less this one, and I'm losing my ground.

She walks down the stairs and I follow. "Emma!" I yell louder than necessary, but she can't leave now. It is most peculiar. Everyone else drinks in my every word, even if their hearts ache, even if I hurt their very soul, and I know I'm capable of doing that. I can tell Mary Margaret the fairytales she's using to mess with my son's mind are pathetic and that she's useless as a teacher. I have. I can threaten Archie Hopper and tell him I will make sure he never has a job again if Henry doesn't come back to me as the loving boy he once was. I have done that, too. It gets me where I want to be. With Emma, it doesn't… click. I don't… I don't think I want to hurt her, do I? Would that be a good thing?

"You'll be back," I try to reassure myself. She can't leave.

"No, I won't," she replies and slams the door shut behind her.

Henry doesn't need to know anything. When he woke up and we had breakfast, I asked him where his castle was. His jaw dropped and he looked at me like I was the Loch Ness monster, but I'm not completely ignorant. I've seen the drawings in his room. Most recently the one of the same structure with a little boy and a blonde woman sitting on its wooden base. He is a clever boy, though; he tried to pretend he didn't know what I was talking about. I told him it was about Emma and that I needed to know. He immediately confessed and showed me the way. I think me referring to her by her first name (or any name, for that matter) got through to him. Maybe, just maybe, I'm not as much of an evil witch now, or maybe I, too, have become a victim of wishful thinking after all. God, that phrase has been getting on my nerves ever since she said it that night. Wishful thinking. Oh please.

My assumption was correct; I find her asleep in the tower, leaning her head on the fence and hugging her knees. She must have been here all night; her face is as pale as snow and dark circles under her eyes make her look older and worn somehow, like she's Sleeping Beauty and has been sitting here for a hundred years, forgotten. Why, all this talk about fairytales is getting to me.

I figured she would be the type; the one who storms off vowing revenge and ends up counting grains of sand on the beach until she loses track of time and doesn't even notice that she went from sand to sheep and then to each flag of each tower of each medieval fortress in dream land, which then blurs and becomes a sandcastle in the sand, only to begin the whole cycle all over again. I wonder how many sandcastles there have been today. Of course she would never cry, not even in her dreams, because big girls don't cry.

I kneel next to her and notice one end of the bandage sticking out from under her jeans. She must have kept herself busy playing with it. "Miss Swan," I whisper quietly so as to not wake her up too abruptly. I shouldn't call her Emma. I probably shouldn't call her Miss Swan either, but I have to choose one, don't I?

She flinches and gives me the death glare – which frankly doesn't look as threatening as it would if she wasn't concentrating so much on keeping her eyes open – as soon as she realizes it's me who woke her up. "Go away," she spits and tries to mask the fact that she's shivering from the cold.

"You should get that checked out," I note, nodding towards her leg. I doubt she's listening to a word I say. It frustrates me how someone with so much potential just doesn't listen.

"Look, I know what you're going to say; that I'm not responsible or mentally stable enough to be a parent, that I'm setting a bad example for Henry, that I'd use him to cure my complexes and whatnot. I probably need to hear all that, but right now, just go away," she says and averts her gaze from me.

"It's not about Henry," is the only thing I manage to utter. I want to tell her that's not what I think at all. I want to tell her I'm sorry, I truly do. But I can't. No matter how hard I try, my mouth is half open, but the words just don't come out. It's the simplest of all things, simpler than a 'good morning', but I cannot say it. I hate it when this happens.

"Oh really? What is it about then, Madam Mayor?"

I can't help but feel like she's mocking me. I'm still trying to say it. Come on, Regina, it's not that hard. Well, it's not like I've done it before, but everyone else has. I'm sorry. It's no use. I can't. I just can't. I can deal with anything, but a simple collocation has me here on my knees. If that's not pitiful, I don't know what is. "I can make you go see the doctor if you keep behaving worse than our prepubescent offspring," I hiss after I've given up. Wait, what did I say? Did I say 'our'? I might have said 'our'. I can't remember. No, no, I'm sure I said 'my'; I'm not the sharing type. I shake off the thought.

"Try me."

Argh – did she just – God darn it, how obnoxious she is! I'm sorry, listen to me, just get up and stop your desperate pilgrimage to the faraway kingdom of Pneumonia, for Pete's sake. That's what I would say if I could, but I can't. I can't just leave her here, though. Henry would never look me in the eye again. For Henry, I have to do this for Henry. Just for Henry. Even though he doesn't need her when he has me. He'll understand sooner or later. Why am I doing this again?

Come to think of it, he is so much easier to deal with. With an internal sigh, I take off my fur coat and wrap it around her shoulders. She'd better stop glaring at me now; that was expensive.

Rest assured, she does. Now she's frowning and it looks like that moment when you are a child and your mother tells you not to accept candy from strangers for the first time. Why would you return candy? Nonsense. Candy's great! "Why?" she asks and it's obvious what she means. And does that include lollipops? What if they're nice to me? But it's just a chocolate bar, mom!

"Because I mean it," I say because I know that will do the trick. Even though she despises me, she wouldn't let her comfort come at my expense. I'm right. Feelings and compassion make her weak, make her subject and do my bidding. It is the last resort that counts for them all, but it's always the key.

I'm sorry.

I can't.