Six copies of Chapter 80 of the municipal code are spread out around the head of the conference table, and Kathryn sighs, leans back and rubs at her temples. "Honestly, I genuinely do not care enough about special improvement districts."

Regina smiles faintly, marks down another passage that needs clarification. "Just one, Madam Mayor, and it will have significant benefits for general engagement in the welfare of this town."

"Yes, and it also means that more people will whine and complain to me about irrelevant things." The door to the office opens and Kathryn's assistant comes in with a brown paper grocery bag, which he sets on the coffee table on the other side of the office. "Thank you, Joe."

"Sure thing, Mayor Ladd." And then Joe meets Regina's eyes and actually smiles. "Ms. Mills," he acknowledges, and bows slightly before leaving.

Regina looks over at the paper bag, then at Kathryn. "What did you do?"

Kathryn smiles brightly. "Well, since going out to lunch seemed to be non-negotiable, I thought I'd bring lunch to us."

"Kathryn."

"Surely you won't force me to eat alone in front of you?"

Regina bites the inside of her lip, hesitates. "A working lunch?"

"For appearances' sake. I have no intention of working during it, of course, but yes, on paper it will be labelled a working lunch." Kathryn stands up, gestures towards the sofa and armchairs—the same as during Regina's tenure, but somehow the change in drapes and artwork has brightened up the office, made it just warm enough. "Come on. Mozzarella sticks and girl talk."

"Kathryn," she says again, vaguely protesting. "I'm happy to be your consultant, but—friendship is inappropriate. Misguided, even."

"Why? Because you're the Evil Queen?" Kathryn almost seems gleeful to say it, like she saw this entire conversation coming. "We all know you haven't been her in quite some time."

"I had you assaulted and kidnapped."

"And I forgive you for it." Kathryn crouches next to Regina's chair, places a hand on her arm. "Look. I've been made aware of what's happening with Henry, and maybe you didn't need a friend before, but I'm sure you need one now, and I'm offering, Regina. Still."

She only really hears the first part, because now things make sense. "Made aware… so Emma put you up to this."

"Emma?" Kathryn frowns, shakes her head. "No, she didn't put me up to this. I talked to her about this, because I was getting frustrated with your ice bitch routine, but she's not behind this. I am, Regina. I'm behind this."

"So then who—Henry," she says helplessly, and the knowledge clicks into place. "Snow. Snow told you."

Kathryn nods silently.

She wants to strike out, because Snow will never keep her mouth shut, but Kathryn is so far from Cora—"I wasn't aware you two were close."

Darkness clouds Kathryn's eyes, but only for a moment. "We talk, sometimes. Usually about David." At Regina's startled expression, she continues. "He was my fiancé, and my fake husband, and my friend. Sometimes… sometimes she just needs someone to understand how hard it is to see this version of him." And then Kathryn smiles, bright and hopeful again. "And he and Fred are die-hard Pats fans, so there's that, too."

Regina smiles, inclines her head. "They're indoctrinating Henry, gradually. He's getting David a custom Patriots jersey for Christmas."

Kathryn laughs, clear and pure, and Regina lets herself be led over to the couch. "He's got to let Fred in on that one. He still wants to get David a sport chair and make him QB."

"He is aware of the incompatibility of mud and wheels, yes?"

"Mmm, something about getting the mayor to approve Astroturf for the field. He claims he has an 'in.'"

"You said—ohh—to talk—"

Emma's hands rake up underneath her blouse, fingers prodding at the bottom edge of her bra. "Mmmhmm," she murmurs, presses her body against Regina's even more and kisses her harder, just a little sloppier. "Yeah, in a minute," and then she's cupping a breast and of all the days to wear one of those useless, all-lace bras—Regina groans, drags her hand from the back of Emma's neck to cover the hand on her breast, tightens her grip to show Emma just how hard to squeeze, moves their hands together so that her peaking nipple is between two fingers, so that Emma can tug on it through the lace, just enough, with every movement of her hand.

Emma's mouth leaves her neck to return to her lips, muffling all the little sighs she can't really suppress. Regina drops her hands to that denim-covered ass, squeezes and pulls so that Emma grinds harder against her raised thigh, is pleased when Emma breaks the kiss to moan, pressing her open mouth to Regina's chin. "We can't do this here," she manages to get out before taking Emma's mouth again, tugging on her lower lip with her teeth.

"But we can do this?" Emma asks, shifts her focus to the other breast and whimpers when Regina lifts her thigh a little more, following the erratic rocking of Emma's hips.

She moves to the soft underside of Emma's jaw, leaves a wet, wet kiss. "Not here," she says again, drags her open mouth halfway down Emma's neck.

Emma sighs, half-regretful and half-aroused, pulls away slightly. In the dim fluorescent lighting of the interrogation room, her tousled hair and clothing and her wide, wild-eyed look—Regina tugs her back, kisses her again, again, again. It's been so long since she's wanted like this, and to be wanted back—she pulls Emma's body closer and closer still. "Okay, but really," Emma mumbles, then just groans, buries both hands in Regina's hair and crushes their mouths together. And then it's all about the kiss, and the slide of tongue against tongue, the back and forth and the way she can feel Emma smile before she pulls back. "We—about Christmas—"

The word snaps Regina out of her haze, and with a firm push to the center of Emma's chest, she separates their bodies, sets about straightening her clothes and hair. "What about it?" she demands.

When she looks up, Emma's watching her with a wounded expression in her eyes. "My mom's inviting—"

"No."

Emma's posture droops. "Regina, please."

"No," she repeats, just as clipped and sharp as before.

"Kathryn and Fred will be there."

"Irrelevant."

"Come on, my dad—"

"Can come exchange gifts, but Henry will not be going over there."

Emma freezes. "Henry?" she repeats, slowly, like she isn't sure what she's hearing. "I was talking about you."

Her body tenses, a new wave of adrenaline flooding her system and saying get out, get out, get out. "Neither I nor my son will enter that house with the intention of breaking bread, Emma. Not after everything she's done—"

"You're gonna pull this my son shit now?" Emma snaps. "You're really gonna ruin his Christmas like this?"

"Ruin?" she hisses, and now the adrenaline's turned, is pushing her towards Emma with burning intent. "Ruin? She's standing idly by while he gets beaten up and then blames him for it and forces him to endure therapy he doesn't want and summer school he shouldn't need and I'm ruining things?"

"He's picking fights and she's just doing her job—"

"He's picking fights because you taught him to fight!"

"Because you said it was the only way!"

"God forbid you think for yourself about anything, least of all how to deal with my son!"

"Our son," Emma shouts, and then seems to process what Regina said, completely deflates. "You know what—just—forget it. Fine. I'll—I'll figure out a way to split between my parents and yours—"

"Don't bother," Regina sneers.

Emma snaps. "Fuck you, Regina. I'm spending Christmas with my parents and my son, and you know what, I was really fucking looking forward to spending it with you, too, but forget that. Apparently I don't think enough for your tastes, although, shit, with your history, that means you should be all over me, right?"

The room is silent, and Emma's shoulders are heaving with emotion, and Regina keeps her chin raised and her eyes hard while she stalks to the door, yanks it open and slams it shut behind her.

It only takes her an hour to realize that she's made a serious mistake, but by then it's past three and Emma's probably gone to bring Henry to the station and—and she doesn't want to let Henry see this, see how she's messed up and been small again.

They made a promise, two years ago. It didn't have words until they were back on the ship but they made it with their eyes as soon as they climbed the high ridge up to the Hangman's Tree, just the two of them, and had to pick their way around the small, still bodies of the Lost Boys, around Hook's twisted corpse and Rumpel's barely-breathing form. Never again. They don't get to be selfish, they don't get to be petty, they don't get to be at odds like they were. Henry first, Henry always.

But Henry only?

Maybe it is Henry only. Maybe when Emma's sea-storm eyes meet her own while their son chatters at them, maybe she is saying look what we made but not the way Regina means it, not the way Regina wants her to mean it.

She doesn't want to keep Henry from his grandparents, not on Christmas. She doesn't want to keep him from Emma, ever. She wouldn't keep him from Emma—not anymore, not after Emma bit back the pain and lifted him from the Lagoon like she'd lifted him from the mine and straight into Regina's arms again. She doesn't get to be selfish, and Emma doesn't get to be petty, because Henry first. Henry has to decide whether he wants to see his grandparents on Christmas, and if he does—if he is still so full of love—then he'll go. He'll come home to her, but he'll go and she won't begrudge him that.

She pulls her peacoat tighter around herself, drops her chin into the softness of the scarf she still hasn't given back to Emma, and rings the doorbell for the house she's been lingering in front of for ten minutes. When Kathryn opens the door, hair loose from her professional up-do and a ladle in hand, Regina tries for a smile but ends up just wincing. "I—was wondering about the specifics. Of that offer."

Kathryn's eyes brighten, and she opens the door wider. "Why don't you come in? We can talk terms over a glass of wine."

Her cell phone goes off just after six, a mash-up of Junior's solos from "Colonel Hathi's March" blaring loudly in the Ladd's kitchen and a close-up of Henry's eye popping up on her screen. Ordinarily, she keeps it on vibrate just so the ringtones Henry troll-programmed in for her don't alarm the rest of society, but she might want to hear the opening snare of "Bare Necessities" more than any other song tonight.

From the stove, Fred chuckles knowingly, and Kathryn smiles at her before going over to her husband's side to give Regina some privacy. "Hello, sweetheart."

"Hi, Mom." Henry sounds anxious, nervous, and her stomach lurches at the thought that something else has happened, something new, and that she isn't there for him because her libido and her temper have messed things up again.

"How was school?"

"Good. I got a 98 on that quiz."

She smiles, wishes to be able to hug him and say I'm proud of you with her eyes so that he knows she means it. "That's very good, Henry. Did you tell Emma?"

"No."

He doesn't offer more, so she clears her throat to stall. "Did something happen?"

"She's really upset." He takes a deep breath, lets it out, then inhales again. "She's really upset and keeps texting and then throwing her phone, so I thought I should see if you're okay."

Oh. "Oh, Henry—"

"So… are you okay?"

Her sweet, sweet boy. Her sweet little miracle boy. "I am." And then—because she has to, has to, has to—she asks, "Are you?"

"How do you mean?"

She fumbles; how can she ask Henry about a thing that has no name? "Emma being that upset. I just… how do you feel?"

"I feel like if she keeps throwing the phone it'll break, and all the work I did setting up things to annoy her will go to waste." His voice is abruptly deeper, richer; it startles Regina, makes the joke unequivocally lighter since it can't be mistaken for a whine. "Is she going to be upset for long?"

She wishes she could look at him, see whether he's calm or frightened or smirking or disgusted. "That's not my intention, no."

"Okay." It's a single word, so simple, so trusting. "I love you, Mom."

Four words: so simple, so trusting. "I love you, too. Go rescue her phone."

It's past ten when she walks up Mifflin, opens her front gate and sees Emma huddled on the steps, hands shoved in her jacket pockets and knees shaking. Regina stops halfway up the walk and just stares at her, takes in the redness to her nose and at the corners of her eyes. "How long have you been out here?"

Emma shrugs, the movement jostling the hood of her jacket and forcing it to fall back. "A while." She moves her feet slightly apart, keeps her knees together. "I kinda felt nauseous all afternoon."

"What did you eat?" Regina asks automatically, and then realizes.

"Fighting with you is way worse, now," Emma says quietly, and Regina closes her eyes briefly. "I don't like feeling sick like this."

It takes a moment, but she forces her body to move again, to bring her to the stairs so she can sit next to Emma, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. "I'm sorry," she says, and clears her throat. "I'm sorry. For what I said about you, and for making a selfish decision about Henry."

Emma stays silent.

"You—you do think. You think about things I never would, and you work so, so hard to be a good parent to him, and I was wrong."

"I shouldn't have said that—that last thing," Emma finally mumbles. "About your history. Because this—whatever happened before, it doesn't—that's not us."

"What is?" Regina whispers, and Emma turns her head to look at her. "What is us? Because—because if it's just about having something, I can do that, I think, but I need to know that's what it is. I can't be here thinking that it's about you and me if it's just about having something for you."

Emma is quiet, and just looks at her for a long, long time. "It's about you and me, Regina. I—I'm sorry if I ever gave you a reason to think differently. But—it's you. You and me."

Regina nods, and closes her eyes again, because she won't cry, and if she does it will only be because it's cold. "Henry's at the apartment?"

"My mom's with him."

"He's okay with that?"

"He doesn't hold grudges like us." Regina smiles, concedes the point. "I should be angry with her. She's… doing it this way is only penalizing him, and she knows him. She should know him. I just… I don't know how to be angry with her. How to stay angry with her."

She isn't sure who reaches for whose hand first, but their fingers lace together, gloved and bare, and everything feels a bit lighter. "You don't have to feel anything you don't want to feel."

"I want to be angry with her."

"It's complicated with you two."

"I want to be angry with her."

"You don't owe me that, Emma."

"Do I owe Henry?"

Regina runs her thumb up and down the side of Emma's index finger, traces the black and silver ring she wears. "I don't know," she admits, squeezes Emma's hand. "I don't know." She rests her head on Emma's shoulder, smiles a little when she feels Emma turn into the contact. "He asked me about heaven the other day."

Emma stays silent, and for a moment Regina wonders if she hadn't heard. Then Emma inhales sharply, trembles on the exhale. "That—that's a good thing, right? Him asking?"

"It could be."

"What'd you say? What did he ask?" The questions come out on top of each other, urgent.

Regina gets it. "He asked whether heaven and hell are real places, like Neverland, and what decides whether you go to one or the other. And then he asked how someone who wasn't in control of their actions would be judged."

"But, like, in kid-speak, right?"

Regina flicks her thumb against Emma's bare palm without saying a word, can't help but smile when she feels Emma suppress a laugh. "I told him that whatever follows this life, the Lost Boys would have been judged as they were before they were Lost."

"But he didn't ask about the Lost Boys."

"Well, not explicitly, but—"

"Regina. He could have been asking about himself."

She lifts her head, stares at Emma open-mouthed. Because—if you weren't in control of your body, he'd said. If your body did bad things.

"You think?" she whispers, and it's been so long since since she even thought to hope for Henry to believe in absolution but—oh, God, what if?

Emma smiles, the same slanted-mouth smile she gave to their son. "Maybe. Maybe."

It's easy, then, to make one more concession, to take on one more little burden. "If he's okay with going, we'll go for Christmas. To your parents'."

"You don't have—"

Regina cuts her off with a kiss. Just a gentle one, just a soft welcome home. "I want to celebrate with my family, Emma. I'll do what it takes."

Emma raises her right hand to Regina's face, traces the rise of her cheekbone with one cold, cold finger. "You and me," she starts, and hesitates. "Me?" she asks, and for a moment Regina doesn't understand, but when she does—

When she does, she kisses Emma again, and again, and again. Always soft, always sweet. Always yes. "How could I not?" she murmurs, and feels something between her ribs break open when Emma smiles, dazzlingly bright.

Emma deepens the kisses first, increasing pressure, parting her lips a little more each time they come together. It's staggering, how she can pull so much feeling out of Regina all at once. How there is want and then all of this… this home.

It's want and it's home that makes her pull back, just barely, when the tip of Emma's tongue traces the edge of her upper lip. "Come upstairs," she whispers, and squeezes Emma's hand. "Come upstairs."

Emma smiles, pushes a few strands of her dark hair behind her ear. One more kiss, gentle and calm, and she nods, still smiling.