Cold feet wake her up. Her feet, being very cold, and abruptly so. She whines a little, tries to find where the blanket went with just her toes, but when she gets nothing she reluctantly opens one eye to see Emma's free leg—the other one completely wrapped up in blankets—thrown over both of hers, with the flipped up blanket trapped between their shins.
Idiot.
She realizes that she's said it aloud when a snicker from her left catches her attention, and she looks up and back to see Henry, already awake and with the bed propped up as far as he's allowed. The window shades are up and even though there's no direct sunlight, the entire room is bright, and for a second Henry looks whole, and innocent, and something close to happy.
"Morning," he says, smirking, and she remembers why she's awake at all.
"Morning," she grumbles, and tries to gently shove Emma's leg off of her.
Henry watches—she can tell by the amused huffs when her attempts at gentleness only lead to Emma hitching her leg higher and the blanket edge getting further away—and after a moment she gives up, shoots Emma's slack-muscled face a glare before looking back at him and his wide, wide smirk—which softens the longer she looks at him. "I didn't think it would feel like Christmas," he says quietly, and his smile is brilliant. "But I'm still the first one up, and you still need coffee and your slippers."
It doesn't feel like Christmas; they are not at home, he is not in superhero pajamas and jumping on her bed to wake her up, everything smells like disinfectant and not nutmeg and cinnamon and fir and fire.
Then again, that hasn't been Christmas for years.
The important things: he is here, and he is smiling, and she is here, and no one is coming to take either of them away. He will be surrounded by people who love him, and he has presents, and somehow, someway, she's found people who love her, too.
"Move the leads, sweetheart," she says, and wiggles out from Emma's grasp. "Tradition is tradition."
When he beams at her, she feels it all the way to her very cold toes. "Comics and cuddles and cocoa?"
"Or coffee," she amends, and grins back at him before lowering the railing, climbing onto the bed and settling into the narrow space on his right. "But definitely cuddles."
His nose crinkles slightly—direct from Emma—and he leans into her, forehead knocking against her cheekbone. "I won't get too big for this, right?" he asks softly, and she has to remind her lungs to stay open, remind her heart to keep going.
Kissing his forehead, though, is reflexive, automatic. "Not a chance."
It doesn't feel like Christmas but they all try anyway. Some of them harder than others.
In other words, David shows up in a Santa Claus onesie with cardboard sleigh cutouts taped to his chair and Regina laughs so hard that Emma has to pick her up off the floor, but she's laughing just as hard so they're mostly just a laughing tangled mess on the tiles, and David looks so damn proud of himself that it's easy, easy, easy to welcome him and Snow—far more demure in a red sweater dress but maybe matching just enough, maybe trying a little more than she needs to—into the room.
So Regina tries. She doesn't overdo it—it's not like she hugs the woman—but she smiles, and takes her coat, and even looks her in the eye to say Merry Christmas while doing it. And of course there's a moment when it isn't enough—when Kathryn and Fred are both greeted with warm hugs and laughter and those particular half-air, half-cheek kisses reserved for family—and Snow's eyes are dark and hungry and mournful and for that one moment, the old, reflexive guilt rears up in her gut.
But then Emma pulls her into her lap and demands that Henry start dictating present dispersal with both arms low across her hips, and Regina closes her eyes, listens to Henry's stronger, semi-man voice and focuses on the scent of Emma's hair and the way warmth comes off her body in currents.
"Thank you," Emma murmurs against her neck, while Henry repeatedly describes the four presents with blue snowflake wrapping paper and Fred repeatedly pretends to not understand.
She's not above acknowledging her own efforts, but doesn't do more than hum softly, steal a kiss quickly. "Lavender oils to de-stress."
And Emma laughs, holds her closer, murmurs mockingly, "Yes, dear."
Regina smiles.
It's the smiles on Henry and Emma's faces that let her do it. That they can smile at all when they've just had their first Christmas together in a hospital room—it makes everything simple.
So she crumples up some of the ripped wrapping paper and stuffs it into the trash can just behind Kathryn, and lingers there for a moment, watching David reverently remove and refold his brand new jersey so that the "Charming" across the back faces up in the gift box, watches Henry and Fred high-five and Emma laugh and nudge Snow into actually smiling. "Kathryn," she says softly, and those calm, clear eyes meet hers with understanding. "I want their lives."
It feels like nothing. She should feel shame, hot in her skin and at her throat, or coldness, or fury, but it feels like nothing. Just four words: simple, direct.
Kathryn, good, good Kathryn, nods.
Nothing changes. The world doesn't crack open with rage or howling betrayal. Henry smiles at her every morning; Emma kisses her neck every night. She listens to the doctor's updates and waits to hear it, waits to hear how Henry will pay the price again but he doesn't. He doesn't. It's always, always, small steps towards healing.
A few of Henry's friends trickle in for visits in between Christmas and New Year's Eve. Ava comes every day and barely looks up from the floor, but her intermittent mutters make Henry laugh. Even though every bone in Regina's body is stiff with restraint, she holds her tongue—too afraid, perhaps, to judge anyone else's penance. Maybe too jaded.
Restraint doesn't hide anything from Emma, though, and when they steal an hour in the loft on New Year's Eve, she doesn't say a word about the way Regina touches her, crystalline and heavy. She just lets her in and in and in until everything is safe and light again, until everything is as simple and clear as her hands in Regina's hair and her soft breathy moans between kisses. Until they are just looking at each other and Emma is tracing xs and os over the dip of her waist and Regina can believe—must believe.
"Half dollar for your thoughts," Emma murmurs, and, when Regina frowns, shrugs one shoulder. "They look pretty big."
She curls in close, closer, kisses the softest skin on the underside of Emma's jaw. "I talked to Kathryn."
"Ah."
"That's it?"
Emma's nails rake lightly over the dimples at the base of her spine. "That's it."
She's silent, because faith like this—but Emma's eyes are bright, bright, bright. "I keep waiting to pay the price."
Emma's lips, whisper-soft over her eyebrows, graze her cheekbone on the way to her earlobe. "Not this time."
"How do you know—"
Emma kisses her, gently. "Not this time," she says again, and Regina believes.
Emma insists on watching the Rockin' New Year's Eve special, "even though Carson Daly's a tool," and sits with her toe-socked feet propped up on the foot of Henry's bed, a bowl of popcorn in her lap—separate from Regina and Henry's supply, lesson learned after their first movie night—and eyes glued to the TV. Which is why, when Henry—increasingly introspective as the day's gone on—says "Moms?" in a small, small voice, Regina is surprised at how quickly Emma flicks the remote to turn the TV off, at how fast her feet hit the floor, at how ready she is.
Henry's not. Ready, that is. He opens his mouth and closes it again so many times that fear wells up just behind her sternum, rushes through her ears with words like can he breathe is he breathing please please baby don't stop breathing.
"Did you guys have a New Year's thing?" Emma asks, and sets her popcorn aside, leans forward to rest her elbows on the edge of the hospital bed. "Before everything. Just the two of you."
Before everything. Her lungs are so full up with love that it rushes out of her in a laugh, pours out of her eyes and she wouldn't hold it back even if she could. Not when all of it can shine onto Henry and Emma and the way their smiles lean identically, just for her.
"Yeah," Henry answers, and threads his fingers with Regina's, looks at her with fondness, no fear. "Mom would send me to bed at like, eight—"
"Regina, what the hell."
She laughs, and Henry laughs, and he's smiling just for her, just at her. "Wait, wait, just listen. So I'd sleep until like, 11:30, when she'd come wake me up and we'd go downstairs and we'd pick out twelve grapes each, and then I'd get to dance around and sing along to whatever music I wanted, and make a ton of noise—we even had little noisemakers, every year—until the countdown started, and then—" and he stops, cocks his head slightly in confusion.
So Regina smiles at him, and just keeps looking at him and hoping that he sees, that he knows, that he understands. "And then as soon as there were twelve seconds left," she continues, "I'd feed him a grape on every second—except for when you were very, very little. I'd mash the grapes up and give you a tiny spoonful every second. And that last year. You were 'too big' to be fed then."
He looks absolutely stricken, and she wants to take it back, or change it so he knows.
"And then as soon as it hit midnight, we'd cheer and have an apple juice toast, and Henry got to stay up and celebrate any way he wanted. But the deal was, as soon as he yawned, it was off to bed."
Emma laughs, and leans in a little closer. "How long did you last, kid?"
Henry doesn't respond, still staring at Regina with something like dismay. "If you fed me, you couldn't eat yours," he whispers. "You never ate yours, Mom."
All she can do is smile at him, but her eyes are wet and her smile is tremulous and she doesn't know who's holding whose hand tighter. "I did. After."
"But—but it's only lucky if they're done by midnight."
"It's just a superstition, sweetheart," she tries to say, but he shakes his head so furiously that she's afraid he'll hurt himself.
"Nothing is just superstition, Mom," he whispers, and as soon as the first tears appear in his eyes, she wraps him up in her arms, holds him close and doesn't know what to say, how to say it. "You never even tried, just so I could have mine."
Emma's hand, warm and rough, settles on her bare ankle, and she closes her eyes, hugs Henry harder, not too hard. "How could I ask for more luck when I had you?" she murmurs into his hair, and knows he hears her when his first sob breaks through. "Healthy, happy Henry. How could I ask for more?"
The hand on her ankle trembles, and Henry shivers, and it takes him a long, long time to take a full breath again. They wait for him; Emma's free hand comes up to cover their intertwined ones and they wait and love him and wait.
And then he breathes again, one long deep breath to come back to himself, and she thinks it's going to be okay. And then he speaks again, and—no. It's not okay.
"I killed everyone, Mom. Everyone on Neverland. I killed them."