When Emma comes back into the room, badgeless, Henry is asleep, knocked out from exhaustion and an ample dose of painkillers. Regina worries about the dosage. Even with the little bit of muscle he'd put on lately, he's slightly underweight—he always has been—and he's got Emma's metabolism and it would only take a little bit to be too much—
"You okay?"
Even though Emma's voice is rough—scratchy, strained—Regina keeps her eyes on Henry, keeps her hands clasped around his. "No," she says quietly, and Emma's warm chapped lips brush the back of her neck.
"Talk to me?"
"No," she says again, but leans into her arms anyway.
David and Snow bundle into the room just after visiting hours begin with shopping bags everywhere—hanging from Snow's arms from shoulder to wrist, on the handles of David's chair, in his lap, everywhere. Groggy and dry-mouthed, Regina nudges Emma awake, gestures towards the bags.
As always, Emma gets straight to the point. "The fuck?"
"It's Christmas Eve!" Snow bursts out, and Regina pinches her eyes shut, feels Emma move a placating hand to her waist. "And hospital taupe is not a holiday color."
A glance towards Henry shows that he's still fast asleep. "Snow, what absolute idiocy—"
"We brought decorations," David interrupts, and smiles at them. "And all the presents."
"What do you mean, all?" Emma groans, and rubs at her eyes. "Half of them are at the house—"
Regina looks between Snow and David for a moment, fully aware of which one of them learned the basics of lockpicking and thievery. And then she looks closer, because there's a strange green tubing behind David's head—
"We brought a tree, too. Artificial, but it gets big," Snow offers, and there's familiar, childish glee to her smile. If she tries, Regina knows she'll find smugness somewhere in the expression—but she's just so tired, and her baby is in the hospital on Christmas Eve, and maybe—
"Idiots," Regina grumbles, and pokes Emma between the ribs. "You're responsible for them."
"Yeah, yeah," Emma agrees, and her smile—bright like her father's, slanted like their son's—is almost catching.
It's Snow who suggests it, first, and when Regina looks down to examine her clothing, she realizes that Emma's jeans are spattered with mud up to the knee, and there are tears at her knees and the sleeves of her sweater. "Yes. You should change."
"We should change," Emma counters, and gestures to Regina. "You're all dress-and-heels."
She's barely noticed, but now that it's in the forefront of her mind, she feels completely restricted in the dark blue dress, and the idea of putting her heels back on—
"Why don't you both take a break, go freshen up at home," Snow prompts, attempting to toss silver tinsel over the exit sign. "We'll be here decorating, after all."
They look at Henry, then at each other. "I could use a shower," Emma says softly, almost sheepishly, like she's ashamed to admit it. And Regina gets it—the need to be there—but if he wakes, he won't be alone, and if they're to be any good to him when things start to get difficult, they'll need to be good to themselves starting now.
"An hour, tops," Regina acquiesces, and reaches for her shoes.
She's entirely certain that Snow meant they should freshen up separately, but in the parking lot Emma had just looked at her and something about the way her mouth tightened and her sad, sea-storm eyes—
"Thinking too hard," Emma murmurs, mouth against her shoulder, and Regina sighs, shakes her head slightly but lets Emma keep working the conditioner out of her hair. "I won't—you know I'll listen, right?"
"Yes. I know."
"Your hair smells good."
She smiles, leans her head back to rest against Emma's shoulder and keeps her eyes closed. "Yours does, too."
"I won't let anyone hurt you." Her spine stiffens, and Emma's arm, loose across her hips, tightens, but she stays silent. "You don't believe me?"
The water sputters for a moment, and with an irritated huff Emma reaches around her, hits the shower wall just above the hot water knob. The spray evens out again, a little bit warmer than before. "I hate this apartment," Regina stalls, and closes her eyes, lowers her face into the spray.
"I know," Emma whispers, and kisses behind her ear.
"I want to be angry with you."
It shouldn't come out as easily as it does. She didn't want it to come out that easily. "Why?" Emma asks, softly, so softly, warm wet skin to warm wet skin and both arms around her waist.
"You made him this way. You and your whole damn clan and your hero complexes and your complete inability to strategize rationally and—you made him this way and then you showed up and stayed and you're the Savior and of course he'd do this, he wants to be just like you and—"
Emma holds her up, holds her close, and she doesn't get that, doesn't get how Emma is still here when this is her own fault and—
"You're an idiot," Emma whispers, and Regina has to turn to look at her, because her voice sounds—he wasn't supposed to be like us and a carbon copy and me? "You're the one who taught him how to love. He learned how to be a hero from you."
She shatters and Emma gathers her up, holds her together through every sob, curls around her body on the floor of the shower stall and she doesn't know how long they sit there, how long it takes her to realize that Emma is whispering just behind her ear. "Please," she keeps saying, "please, please, please, you taught him and he taught me so please, please—"
Oh.
She isn't even really sure what Emma's asking—Emma probably isn't sure what she's asking—but anything Emma would ask of her, anything she has the power to give—"Okay," she gets out, and presses her forehead to Emma's cheek, holds there. "Okay."
Outside of Henry's hospital room, Regina moves to let go of Emma's hand, but the attempt at discretion goes to hell because Emma slides her free hand across the small of Regina's back and pulls her in close. Both of their eyes are still red and Emma's nose is raw from wiping it with paper towels on the drive back, but when Regina looks at her, she smiles.
And then it's easy to walk back in and nod in greeting to David, who's halfway through assembling the tree, and to Snow, who stares at Emma's hand on her hip and just keeps hanging paper snowflakes from the ceiling. "He hasn't woken," Snow tells them, and Emma nods and touches Henry's uninjured arm, clutches it tightly for a beat before stepping back from the bed and going to help David with the tree.
Regina curls up in the chair closest to the bed, toeing off Emma's Converse and wrapping Henry's dark green hoodie around her whole body, and reaches forward to gently touch his chin, away from the stitches. There's a little crust at his eyelashes and she reaches for a tissue on the side table, brushes over his eyes until the dirt is knocked loose and she can wipe it away from his cheeks.
He's going to have trouble sleeping when he's discharged, she already knows it. He can't fall asleep unless he's on his stomach or completely worn out and between his arms and his ribs, he won't be either for a long time. She'll have to make a note to talk to Gulliver about daily exercise or blue and red lights or—or something. Something that isn't a sleeping pill. They learned that two years ago: Henry does not like sleeping pills.
A loud clang, followed by smaller jangling, makes Regina start and look over to the other side of the room, where David's covering his face with one hand and Emma's making that stupid, overexaggerated "Oops" expression with four of the tree tubes at her feet on the floor. "Sorry," she stage-whispers, and Regina rolls her eyes but can't help but smile, a little bit.
It's half an hour and four more tree-related catastrophes before Henry starts to stir, just a little. "Henry?" Regina murmurs, and when his mouth twitches upwards, she can't help but reach out again and wipe at the corner of his mouth.
"Mom," he mumbles, and his good hand lifts slightly.
She grasps his fingers tightly and smiles and smiles and smiles. "Right here, sweetheart."
His grip is strong and solid, like it used to be when they would walk from school to her office and he would share every thought he'd saved up for her. "Hungry," he gets out. "And thirsty."
A laugh—rough, short, but a laugh—bubbles out of her before she's realized. "Nice to see you, too," she says teasingly, and his tiny smile widens to a full grin, quick but bright. "There's water here, with a straw. Don't sit up, I'll bring it to you. Small sips, okay?"
"'Kay," he agrees, and just looks at her while she brings the cup and straw over to him, places the tip of the straw against his bottom lip. "Thanks," he says softly.
Across the room, Emma looks up from a fully assembled tree, just in time to meet Regina's eyes and her smile.
A sense of time finally settles in when Nurse Fisher comes in and kicks them all out for thirty minutes, explaining to Henry that it's time to check his catheter and change the drain bag. For a second, Regina hesitates, and because she does, Emma hesitates, and Henry's face twists up with discomfort and embarrassment.
And then David says, "Listen, champ, I'll talk you through it, all you have to do is, when they pull—"
"Oh my god, please stop talking," Henry mumbles, cheeks turning bright red, and Emma laughs, takes Regina's hand and tugs her towards the door.
"Thirty minutes," Regina repeats, looking at Nurse Fisher, who nods at her reassuringly. Emma holds up her cell phone to show the time—a quarter past two—and finally, finally, Regina leaves the room.
Thirty minutes. What the hell is she going to do for thirty minutes when her baby—
"Hey, Regina," David says, and turns away from Snow to wheel closer to where she and Emma are lingering by the nurses' station. "Would you mind doing a coffee run? The elevators down to the cafeteria take forever to call and by the time one shows up, you're already so aggravated that the coffee just makes things worse and…"
He couldn't be more transparent if he tried, but Emma's smiling indulgently at him and that's enough. "Sure," Regina agrees, and takes a slow breath. "Anything special, or…?"
"No, just black, for both of us, they've got cream and sugar hoarded right behind those folders," and David points to a stack of purple-tabbed manila folders. The nurse at the desk glares at him, to which he only responds with a broad grin.
Behind him, Snow takes two steps closer, clutching the neck of her cardigan. "Thank you," she starts, and for a moment it looks as though she's going to try and be kind and try to touch Regina, to offer comfort—
And then Emma is there, one arm out toward her father and blocking Snow from stepping closer. "Pony up," she says, and Regina is grateful, grateful, so grateful.
David hands her a ten, grumbling about missed allowances, and Emma turns to start walking towards the stairs when Regina tugs on her hand, pulls her back. "You stay."
"What?" Emma demands, alarm spreading across her face.
But Regina squeezes her hand twice, waits for her to focus again. "You stay, and if—if there's anything, you call me." Emma gestures back towards her parents, but she already knows, it's there in the set of her mouth and the way her eyes go heavy and dark. "I'll be quick. And I'll bring you chocolate."
Her kiss is expected and not. Entirely necessary for Regina to be able to even think of turning away from their baby boy's room. It's soft and patient and home, and she lingers for a moment with her nose to Emma's cheek, just breathing. "Quick," Emma murmurs. "Okay?"
"Quick," she repeats, and lets go.
The cafeteria is practically empty. A few nurses are huddled together at a table in the sun, the steady murmur of their voices washing over Regina's exhausted mind, and when one of them—face vaguely familiar, but then they all have that general haggard caretaker look—nods at her, smiles gently, she's so tired that she smiles back. So tired that when the cashier tells her the total, she just blinks at him stupidly like the entire concept of money eludes her.
"On me," comes a voice behind her, gentle and deep, and she's startled by it, turns with a shudder. But it's just Fred. Just Fred, handing a twenty to the cashier and putting a hand on her shoulder, smiling at her. "Merry Christmas, Regina."
"Hi," she manages to say, and she sees the panic in his eyes before she feels the salt stinging at the bridge of her nose. "Oh—God, I'm sorry—"
He hugs her. Hugs her. In public and on Christmas Eve and she just—she can't. She can't. She can't be expected to, either, and somehow Fred understands that, releases her quickly and hands her his handkerchief with another smile. "S'okay. Been a rough couple of days, I know."
She wants to say it's been so much more than rough. That it's been a rough few months, a rough few years, but these two days—
Two trays of coffee are pushed across the counter, and Fred grabs both of them after adjusting the sport bag slung across his body. "Listen, why don't you go on ahead, I'll do the elevator thing and follow," he suggests.
That's when it clicks. Just Fred. Not Fred-and-Kathryn, just Fred. Four cups of coffee on one tray, three on the other, but just Fred.
Her lungs feel very, very small. "She's—she's upstairs?"
Chewing his lip, Fred nods once. "Her and Sam," he says slowly. "But they won't start without you, Regina. You know she wouldn't."
She knows. She knows she can trust Kathryn, but nothing she knows means anything anymore.
Somehow, Fred gets that, too, and nods her towards the stairs.
The moment she flings open the stairway door, there's a rush of movement in the hallway, and the only person who meets her gaze is Kathryn: calm, clear eyed and giving her that particularly kind smile. "Merry Christmas, Regina," she says.
She wants to ask what the hell happened. She wants to know why Emma's hiding her face behind her hair and why David is plainly fleeing towards the men's room and why the DA is just standing there looking completely uncomfortable and not because of his hideous sweater.
Instead, she smiles back and lets Kathryn take her hand, squeezes back. "Merry Christmas. Fred's bringing the coffee."
Kathryn smiles, and Sameer whispers something that sounds like Thank God. "Do you want to wait for—"
"No," she cuts her off, and then glances over at Emma, still turned away. "I mean—I don't, but Emma…"
Finally, finally, Emma turns to look at her, and as soon as their eyes meet—equally bloodshot, equally red-rimmed, but Emma, Emma, sweet sweet Emma has tear tracks shimmering on the right side of her face. "Now," she agrees hoarsely, and looks away again.
She keeps her distance while Sameer leads them into an empty seminar room just outside the unit, and Regina wants to reach for her but holds back, resists until they're seated next to each other and she can just reach over to the arm of Emma's chair and touch her fingertips to a delicate wrist. And then Emma shifts her hand until they're palm to palm and they can both breathe again, even if Emma still won't look up, even if her grip is tight, tight, tight.
Regina wants to tell her I'm here, but Sameer clears his throat and shoves his hands back in his pockets and she knows, right then. "The council's decided that this has to be handled by Storybrooke only," he says, and the apology in his voice makes Emma look up. "Unanimously."
"No."
"They want to brainstorm… other options," Kathryn starts, and looks away when Emma starts shaking her head, "but after the holiday."
"There was some… discontent with keeping the boys in custody over the holiday," Sameer tells them, and Emma's grip tightens viciously on her hand. "But they were pointedly reminded that Henry will be one of three total inpatients for the next week or so, so…"
"They can't do that," Emma says. "That's not—they—those fuckers—Sam, no."
It would be better, maybe, if Regina could feel Emma's indignation, this clear sense of betrayal, but there's nothing left in her. Certainly no positive expectations of anyone outside of this hospital. "So no charges filed, then. No record of what they've done."
The room is silent for a moment; Sameer is the one who steps up. "For now… no record of it. Yes."
She feels the outburst coming and moves away from Emma just when the anger explodes out of her. The table gets shoved away from both of them, and Emma's chair flies back and tips, clatters to the floor. "My son," she hisses, and the pain in her voice hurts right between Regina's lungs, "is—they broke him, Sam, with fucking lacrosse sticks. They beat him down and they threatened to rape my—" and she stops, looks at Regina helplessly. "They came for my family," she finally whispers, and Regina reaches out to her, brushes their fingers together. "And you're telling me that they get to just walk away?"
"No," Kathryn answers, and steps away from the wall with such earnestness in her eyes that Regina almost, almost hopes. "No. They don't get to walk away from this, Emma. I promise you."
"Then tell me what the fuck I have to do to make them pay."
"That's what we're here to ask you, actually." Sameer rolls up the sleeves of his sweater, finally sits down across from Regina. "We can't go this-world on this, and no one on the council thinks going old-world on this is an option, either."
"What's old-world."
"Execution," Regina says quietly, looking down at her lap.
Emma silently puts her hand to the back of Regina's neck, lets her thumb stroke strongly along her hairline.
"So—so they want to take time to think about it. And we thought we'd ask you what—what justice would look like for you. For Henry."
There's a half-syllable from Emma, and then silence, and Regina can't look up to see why she's stopped. Can't look up, at all, because—what justice would look like.
What justice would look like. As if she's ever even known.