Possible trigger warning: bullying aftereffects.
Henry closes the front door quietly on Tuesday, although he locked his bike up in full view of the windows so Regina knows he isn't trying to hide. He knocks on the study door three times and she bites her lip so she won't cry. "Come in," she calls, and sets aside the revisions she's marking on the township code.
His eye is bruised and darkening, cheekbone swelling, and there's a red slash cutting across his left eyebrow. It's sick: her first conscious thought is that he'll match Emma. There are smaller scrapes on his forearms, smears of dirt on his pants and the shoulders of his shirt, a thin trail of dried blood directly below the eyebrow cut.
He lowers himself to the couch stiffly, and she has to hide her hands in her lap because they're shaking. "I fell again," he rasps.
She chokes on a sob, then shakes her head, tries to pull herself together. "I'm going to call Emma," she tells him, standing up, "and get the first aid kit."
He shakes his head, winces. "I texted her already."
"She's sleeping, she won't see it."
"Don't wake her up, Mom."
"Henry."
"Don't wake her up, she—"
"Henry," she says again, and he looks at her shaking, clenched fists, then looks away, tries to clear his throat. He won't ask for anything and it's going to break him. "I'll get you some water, too," she whispers, and lets her fingertips brush the back of his neck on her way out the door.
Emma answers on the third ring with a gruff, "R'g'a" that she supposes is meant to be her name. "Hen?"
"He has a black eye. He's moving stiffly." She fills a glass with cold water from the fridge and pulls out one of the small ice packs she used to put in his lunchbox. "He's cut on his eyebrow. Just like you."
She can hear exactly how Emma jolts to alertness, pushes up off the bed and sits up. The tell-tale jingle of her service belt—cuffs, keys, that ridiculous buckle—signals her pulling on her pants. "Check his ribs for bruising. Did he black out?"
"I don't know."
"Ask him. Don't worry about patching him up too good, we're taking him straight to the hospital. Is there a lot of blood? How deep is the cut?"
"No. I don't know."
She hears Emma pause in the clothing shuffle. "Regina. Keep it together, okay? Just for an hour. Just until he gets checked out by the doc. Just keep it together for an hour for me, okay?"
"I'm okay," she lies, and picks up the kitchen kit from the shelf above the sink. "Just… get here."
"On my way."
In the study, Henry's got his head back and eyes closed and he looks so much like Emma but so much like her baby boy—he is her baby boy and people are hurting him and wasn't this the point of magic? So no one could ever hurt hers again?
She puts the glass in his hand and curls his fingers around it, squeezes tightly before letting go to sit on the coffee table in front of him. "We're going to take you to the ER," she says—calmly, far calmer than she feels. "Did you lose consciousness?"
"No," he says, takes a sip of water.
"Emma wants me to check your ribs."
"Just a few punches." And then he looks stricken, covers his mouth with his free hand. "I mean—"
She just looks at him, touches his cheek. "Baby, it's okay." Just talk to me, she wants to beg, wants to cry.
He covers her hand with his, closes his eyes again. "I mean," he starts again, "I didn't fall hard."
Her throat closes up, but she just nods, takes her hand back. "Can I check them anyway?" Without answering, he lifts the hem of his t-shirt up to his sternum. There's three small reddening marks to the right of his navel, but nothing else that she can see. The few scraggly hairs he'd been mortified by a year ago have settled into a small but consistent patch of down in the center of his chest. She remembers when his stomach used to curve out from the rest of his body, when a precious layer of fat covered every bone. "All right. Let's clean that cut, yes?"
It isn't deep, just ugly and wide, so she takes her time with it, pauses to hold the ice pack to his cheekbone in one minute intervals. By the time she's done—three antiseptic wipes later—Emma's turning her key in the front door and stomping into the room. She's silent and scowling while she takes Henry's chin in her hand, turns his face from side to side. "How're the ribs?" is her first question.
"Three marks," Regina tells her.
"Consciousness?"
"I didn't black out," Henry mumbles. His voice is so small.
"Good to walk to the car or do you want my help?"
"I can walk," he says, and no one is surprised.
"Come on, then," Emma says, but helps him stand up anyway.
They want to do a CT scan at the hospital so while Henry changes into a gown, Emma steps away to call Mulan and get some answers. He opens the curtain and the nurse beats Regina into the bay, hustling him into a wheelchair and heading for the open corridor immediately. His face is pinched and pale and Regina reaches out, blocks the nurse's path and squats in front of the chair, holds and squeezes Henry's hands. "It'll be fine, sweetheart. Just a quick pass, and it's a lot more open than the MRI machine."
"That's the really big one, right?"
"Right. Big and claustrophobic. This one's a lot better." Henry nods, expression relaxing just slightly, and the nurse clears her throat.
Regina stands and lets them head toward the imaging lab, glances back towards Emma who is still speaking in a low and furious tone into her phone. It's impossible to make out what Emma says; part of her doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to know if they got him in the school yard or on one of the back streets or if Mulan missed it entirely or was a minute too late or left too early—
Fingertips against the small of her back make her jump and turn to see Emma and her indelible frown. "He got on his bike and made it to Carnavorn Street in one piece. No one followed him. That's all she knows."
"What does that mean?" she whispers.
Emma's hand slides towards her hip and then leaves her body entirely. She feels dizzy without it. "If they didn't follow, they were waiting up ahead. Ambush." She closes her eyes and feels the hand on her back, again, pushing lightly. "Come sit. They'll bring him back here when it's done."
The chairs outside of the ER bay are turmeric colored and cheap plastic with sharp corners and thin, uneven metal legs. She sits because Emma tells her to, doesn't comment on the chairs even though Emma winces when she sits, shifts her back away from the straight sharp edge of the chair back. "How's your back?" Regina asks, hears her voice hollow and coarse and tries to clear her throat.
"Irrelevant," Emma answers, but shoots a small smile of acknowledgment. "Not bad. Had heat therapy this morning."
"That's good."
She's entirely content to sit in silence until Henry returns, but Emma—as usual—only lasts about three minutes. "You know, one of my favorite memories of Henry," Emma starts, and Regina bites her tongue in preparation, "is watching you carry him up to bed that first night back."
Completely thrown, Regina stares at Emma. She remembers that first night—neither of them will ever forget—remembers struggling up the stairs with a then-twelve Henry, how tight his arms were around her neck and how his legs dangled from where she had him braced on her hip. Entirely too big to be carried but she wouldn't wake him up and couldn't let him go. "He was fast asleep, Emma. Practically unconscious and exhausted."
Emma nods, stretches her legs out in front of her. "Yeah."
It doesn't make sense. "How could that be your favorite memory? Out of everything—"
That peculiar, particularly enigmatic Emma Swan smile curls across those pink, pink lips; Regina tries to look away but can't. "Because everything about his whole body said he knew he was safe. You were holding him and he knew he was safe, even asleep."
Emma would. Emma would. She shakes her head, turns away. "Don't."
"This isn't your fault, Regina," Emma murmurs, taking Regina's hand
"You know why this is happening to him."
"No, we don't know," she retorts, bringing her crossed ankles underneath her chair and frowning hard.
"Emma."
"Maybe some baby delinquent is trying to get back at me."
"Emma."
"Maybe Henry stole somebody's girl."
"Emma."
"Maybe somebody's a homophobic little shit."
"What?" Regina stutters, and pulls her hand back. "Henry said he's gay?"
Emma snorts. "I don't fucking know. Not the fucking point. He has two moms, Regina. Kids get beat up for less."
"But—we're not—everyone knows—"
"Nobody knows anything," Emma counters. "All it takes is one misunderstanding."
"Everyone knows who his mothers are, Emma. What's more likely, going after him because he has two mothers who are polar opposites and not in a relationship or because one of his mothers ruined everyone else's life?"
Emma scowls, clenches her fist. "And the other one fixed everyone's fucking life so really, slate's clear."
Regina laughs, hollow and cold. "The slate is never clear," she sighs. "You know that better than anyone."
Emma slumps in her chair, looks up at the ceiling. "We need to get a name out of him."
"You know he won't."
"I need you to back me up. Like, code blue backup."
Regina wants to roll her eyes, because she's pretty sure even Emma doesn't know what that dumb phrase actually means, but they keep using it anyway. "I will—you know I will, I always do—but it won't get us anywhere except further away from him."
"Doing it his way got him bruised up and sliced." The tension in Emma's jaw finishes the sentence: that's not happening again. Except they keep saying that. Keep swearing he'll never get hurt again.
Regina slowly reaches for Emma's clenched fist, puts her fingertips on the strong, pale knuckle points. "We could give him another way."
Emma looks at their hands, then at Regina's face. "My way or your way?"
"Yours," Regina whispers.
"Fuck," Emma says, and closes her eyes.
Even though Emma's off for the next two days, they all agree that Henry will stay at the house; no one pretends that his room in Emma's apartment is nearly as plush as his room at the house. Emma comes over at the very last hour of her shift on Wednesday and drives him to school, comes back and grabs the toolkit from the garage. She does a round of quick fixes for the outside of the house and then the basement and laundry room, taking a break when Regina sets a plate of silver dollar pancakes and scrambled eggs next to a mug of milky coffee at the island seat that is maybe, kind of, labelled "Emma."
Regina starts to wonder if maybe the homophobic little shit idea is so impossible.
She has to pick Henry up from school because Emma falls asleep on the study couch around two and refuses to budge when Regina tries to nudge her awake. "Two legs and car keys, you go," she grumbles, and pulls a pillow over her face. Technically, it's the middle of her night, but she's transitioning to the day schedule and Regina knows how rough that can get for her, how letting her sleep through the afternoon is the kindest thing Regina could do.
The thing is, if the homophobic little shit idea is wrong, Regina should never go near Henry's school again.
But she parks across the street from the high school and sends him a text so he'll look for the Benz, watches the finally-aging teenagers swarm out of the building when the doors open at 2:45. Henry isn't the first or the last but solidly in the middle, chatting to two shorter classmates that Regina only vaguely recognizes. Emma probably knows their names; Henry only has friends over when he's at the apartment.
If they're friends. Friends wouldn't let him get hurt, would they? They're smaller kids, though, and the boy is particularly thin. The girl has strong shoulders and the way she walks reminds Regina of Emma, a little; half-posturing, half-defense.
Ava. That's the girl's name. Ava, and her brother Nicholas. Sometime-friends, then.
Henry pauses outside the schoolyard gate, scans the street twice before he sees the car, and his face brightens just enough to make the ugly, nauseating burning between Regina's lungs ease, just slightly. After a half-beat hesitation—probably to say goodbye—he jogs across the street, thumbs hooked into his backpack straps. "Hey, Mom," he says as soon as he plops into the passenger seat, leaning over to kiss her cheek.
"You didn't look before crossing the street."
"Mom," Henry groans, and she smiles, holds her hand against his cheek for just a second. The bandage over his eyebrow looks fresh; he'd gone to the nurse, then. "I could see."
"Still." And then she relents, starts the car again. "How was your day?"
Henry laughs, and hope bubbles up underneath that burning. "Grandma tried to ask me if you'd hit me, but I stopped her by telling her all about how we all went to fight a dragon last night and I totally got this from dodging its tail and colliding with Ma's elbow instead."
She bites her tongue, reminds herself that Snow White is Henry's beloved grandmother and Emma has been nothing but deferential to her own wishes for the past two years. It's too long to be silent, though; Henry puts his hand over hers on the gear shift, stops her from shifting into drive. "As in, I know she's ridiculous, and Ma knows she's ridiculous, so screw it."
"Language." But she smiles for him, because this—this moment of you're my mom—is a precious, precious gift. He doesn't quite smile back, distracted by something out the window, and Regina turns to follow his gaze. All she sees is Nicholas, talking to two older-looking boys with lacrosse sticks . "Did Nicholas join lacrosse?"
He shakes his head. "No. Guess they're just friends." Something about his tone—hollow, shaky—makes her want to push, but he interrupts before she can get a word out. "Did Ma come back to the house after she dropped me off?"
She nods, shifts into drive and steers out of the parking spot carefully. "Yes. And she's asleep on the couch, by the way, so quiet when we go in."
After dinner, they push the couches to the periphery of the living room and set up a few piles of cushions and throw pillows. Henry helps without asking questions after just one sideways look at Emma and the too-tight, too-tense set to her jaw.
Barefoot and in the cut-off sweats she keeps stashed in the guest bedroom, Emma bounces on the balls of her feet, shakes out her shoulders and cracks her neck. Henry takes two quick steps back, towards the door, and Regina hurts, but Emma smiles widely. "Good, we can skip lesson one, then."
"You will skip nothing," Regina cuts in, and Emma just sticks out her tongue.
"Lesson one: you see a fight coming, get the hell out of there."
Henry looks between the two of them slowly, lingering on Regina for a beat longer before returning to Emma. "You're teaching me to fight," he stutters out, and looks to Regina once more.
Emma stays silent, and Regina is grateful for the chance to smile at their slowly-breaking boy, smile and nod. "We flipped for it," she says calmly, "and then your mother reminded me of the time she had me pinned in under a minute."
Henry gapes, and looks back to Emma. "You guys fought?"
"Chainsaw days," Emma shrugs, and Regina scowls. "Long gone. Now, come on, lesson two. If you have to fight, find a good place to stand. What makes a good place?"
Henry's just beginning to light up with energy, and he looks around the room carefully. "Exit access?"
Emma smiles, quick and bright, and when Henry smiles back with the same sideways tilt to his mouth, Regina feels her heart open and open and open.