On the morning of the sixth, Regina wakes up to low murmurs and intermittent shushing noises, a few snickers and the squeak of sneakers on tile. Ignoring it only works for a few minutes; without the soft furnace of Emma's body curled around her, it's impossible to stay contentedly drowsy on the cot.

She cracks one eye open and sees only Henry, sitting in the chair by the window, wrapped in the heavy woolen blanket and tapping away at his phone. "Sweetheart?"

He grins without looking up. "Morning, Mom. Hold on, I almost beat Joker."

She snorts slightly, pushes up onto her elbows and looks around the room. There's no one else there. "Were the nurses in?"

"For a bit."

"Just now?"

"Mmm."

All of his attention is on his phone, so there's no chance of actually getting answers from him. She rolls her neck, tries not to grimace as it cracks, and pushes away the blankets all at once, goes to put her feet into her flats and freezes with her feet hanging over the edge of the cot.

Both of her shoes are filled with shreds of green paper, and in her right shoe are the keys to the house. In her left, the keys to the Benz.

She looks up, not understanding, and Henry's grinning at her, wide and proud. "They have pretty strict rules about grass on the ward, so Izzy improvised."

The correction to Nurse Fisher dies in her throat, because then she remembers the date, and she looks at the keys again and oh. "You—you're cleared? We can bring you home?"

His smile turns shy, and brilliant. "Yeah. Doctor G was gonna tell you yesterday, after PT, but I asked him if I could."

The floor is cold and probably dirty and her feet are bare, but she goes to him to hug him and kiss him and shake him for making her wait a whole night, and it doesn't matter at all.

Emma meets them at the house—or, rather, in the driveway, bounding off the stoop and throwing open the passenger door before Regina's even put the car in park. "Aww, man, you're still braced," she whines, but takes his hand to steady him as he gets out of the car. "Can we get you a cane? With flames on it?"

"Ma, can I get in the door."

"Not if you won't get a flame cane. Oh! A swordstick! We could totally get you a swordstick."

They're both grinning the same way, conspiratorial and crooked, and it almost doesn't matter that Henry's arm is in an electric blue cast. "Mom, can I get a swordstick?"

"Can we get in the door?" she asks, but there's no bite to it, not when Emma's eyes are so soft and happy with Henry's good arm slung around her shoulders. "Go on in, let me grab our things." They both hesitate before doing as she says and she loves them for it, even if watching Henry hobble up the walk and rely entirely on Emma to get him up the two steps makes something sour twist up in her gut. They don't have a lot of stuff—one of Emma's gym bags and one of her own battered totes—so she's able to follow them in quickly, manages to catch the tail end of Henry's surprised yelp from the den and the coordinated laughter of Fred and David while she toes off her flats at the foot of the stairs.

A gentle hand at the base of her spine and the weight of the gym bag lifting from her shoulder makes her turn, right into Emma's one-armed embrace, and the kiss is automatic and comfortable and quick and home. "Hi," Emma murmurs, and kisses her again.

"Hi," she whispers back, and holds them there, one hand hooked over Emma's belt and the other laying flat on her collarbones, holds them there and breathes in. "How was your shift?"

"Fit a whole bear claw in my mouth."

"Tax dollars hard at work," she sighs, and smiles against Emma's mouth. "Any trouble setting up?"

"Nuh-uh. Moved the couch to the living room, against the back wall. Fred helped me bring the bed downstairs." And then, sheepishly, Emma adds, "Might need to touch up the finish on the bannister."

She can't even be mad. "Mmm. But no trouble."

"Nope. None at all."

"Idiot." One more kiss, and she starts to move away, stops when she realizes there's no weight on her shoulders at all. Emma's got the tote and the gym bag and is already crossing the foyer towards the back of the house. "Emma, linda—"

"Go on in, I'll take care of these. Laundry room, right?" She hasn't stopped moving, though, and only pauses long enough to check for Regina's confirming nod before winking and backing through the kitchen door. There's a burst of scent in the air—rich, herb-heavy, meaty—and she catches a glimpse of a stack of plates on the counter, flatware piled on top, before the door swings shut.

Home. Good.

Emma snores when she sleeps on her stomach—almost like purring, and if Regina wasn't sure it would lead to the dumbest fight ever, she would tell her so—but softly, so it's hardly disruptive tonight. No, what's disruptive is the absence of beeping monitors and footsteps in the hallway and clicking pens and charts and low murmurs from night shift nurses. What's disruptive is a real mattress and enough space between her body and Emma's to make it feel like—

Regina breathes out slowly, reaches out to check the temperature of the heating pad on Emma's back—because of course the idiot would cop to property damage but not to pain, no, why would she ever do that—and lets her hand ghost upwards to the dip between Emma's shoulder blades, lets her fingers comb through the ends of that thick, thick hair. The purr-snoring hitches, just slightly, before settling again, and Regina lets her whole mind close in on the tempo of her fingers, lets the fear and the stress and the tension start to flow out of her body.

Because it's okay. It's okay. Henry is home, and Emma stayed, and it's okay. Henry is home and Emma took care of everything and it's okay. More than okay.

Her phone chirps from the nightstand, and she rolls back to reach for it, freezes when Emma whines softly before snuffling and burying her face further into the pillow. She's smiling when she picks up her phone, almost stays smiling as she reads a text from Henry that just says Mom?

Be right down, she types out in a rush, and she's pushing the blankets away from her immediately, almost has her legs free when Emma takes a deep breath, moves slightly. "R'g'na?"

"Shh," she murmurs, and touches Emma's check lightly. "I'm just gonna go check on him." Emma starts to push up, to turn over, mumbles something like come with before Regina can press down on her shoulder to keep her where she is. "No, linda. You rest. Keep the heat on."

"Mmka," Emma gets out, and hums a little when Regina brings the blankets back up to her neck.

Grabbing Emma's Saints hoodie from the foot of the bed, Regina slides into her slippers and carefully nudges the door open wider, just wide enough for her to slip into the hallway. She manages the stairs in two ingrained bursts of movement and crosses straight over to the den. The bed from the guest room is there, positioned in a direct line with the tv, and the coffee table with the remote caddy is now lengthwise against the far side of the bed, within easy reach for Henry. It's not what she wanted—he is supposed to move around, just not too much—but his laughter when Fred explained how they'd made him a "broke-down man cave" to recover in, his laughter, his laughter made her ease up, even on the name, even on the PS4 that most certainly does not belong to him hooked up to the tv.

She hovers in the doorway, trying to assess before she actually comes in, but Henry's just propped up on pillows and gazing back at her. "Cocoa?" she asks, and he smiles, nods shyly.

She hurries through the preparation—as much as she can, because proper cocoa is proper cocoa—but Henry joins in her in the kitchen after two minutes, anyway, burrowing into his old robe as he limps in. The robe is absurdly small on him now, sleeves ending just below his elbows, and she has to look away, stare into the pot of boiling milk and not look at his sleeves. He has a newer robe—bought in that six month gap when he didn't live with her and she had to do things like buy him new clothes and new shoes and keep his favorite snacks stocked in order to keep believing—but he wears this one. She doesn't know why. He might not, either.

Henry's prepped mugs for them both with cinnamon in the bottom of his and a peppermint in the bottom of hers, and when she's poured and stirred both mugs, he leads the way back to the den, climbs back onto the bed and settles in before taking one mug from her so she can settle in next to him. And then they're quiet, sipping intermittently and letting the steam curl up into their eyes and noses.

Her cocoa is long gone when he finally speaks. "Are you happy?"

Nothing about his face tells her anything about where the question is coming from or why now or why here or why like this; his eyes are soft and bright and his mouth is calm and even his mouth, his mouth which has always given him away, his mouth whose shape used to tell her why he was crying, even his mouth is calm.

"Henry?"

"With things. With… with how we are, now. With how things are. Are you happy?"

She looks at him again, and for longer, and all she can see is the way his eyes were always bright for her, even when he was so small he could barely see her. "If I say unbearably so, will you know what I mean?"

Her boy, her boy, her beautiful baby boy, her boy smiles at her, and leans into her arms, sighs quietly. "So this is—this is for real?"

And then she understands, and holds him closer for just a moment, just a heartbeat or two. "Oh, sweetheart—"

"I want you to be happy, Mom," he whispers, and his good hand tightens its grip on her sweatshirt. "I want you to be happy—"

He cries, harsh and heavy into her shoulder. She struggles, with his still-healing ribs, with his injured arm, with his weak ankle, to soothe him the way she always has: with strong and solid contact, with gentle touches and unwavering affirmations of love. They make do with his arm cradled in his own lap and Regina dotting kisses to the very top of his head (because he's small enough, small enough, still small enough for that). "Healthy, happy Henry," she murmurs, and feels her breath give out with every word. "And look what joy you've brought with you."

Her little boy clings to her harder, for just a little bit longer.

Ava is in with Henry when Archie comes to the house for the first appointment of the week, and there's a moment of fraught silence as she tries to figure out how to maneuver Archie in and Ava out and keep Henry's privacy and protect his friendships.

It's a moot point in an instant as Henry, in the new walking boot, hobbles out of the den and into the foyer with Ava right behind him. "Hey, Archie," he says, and his voice is so casual, so low. "Can we do the living room? Feels stale in the den."

Ava's eyes are downcast but her jaw is set and if there's anything Regina knows better than that expression—

No. No.

Archie opens the door to the living room and smiles, waves Henry in ahead of him. "Don't trouble yourself, Regina," he says quietly, with a grin that's just shy of knowing, a grin of blatant fondness. "I've got water, and he's—"

"I'm fine, Mom!" Henry calls out before easing himself onto the couch..

She remembers the first time he'd been sitting on the other side of a door from her and Archie, remembers his anger and the darkness in his eyes and the way his crooked mouth turned down with betrayal. Remembers weeks of silences and months of lies and—

A hand on her arm, just briefly, and she nods, tries to smile back at Archie. "If you change your mind, I'll be…"

She gestures vaguely towards the kitchen, and Archie's kind, kind eyes shine at her again before he steps into the room. "Of course. Miss Tillman," he says to Ava, politely, and then closes the door.

And then it's just her and Ava in the afternoon light flooding through the windows, and Ava won't look up and Regina can't look over. "Are you hungry?" she asks, keeping her voice gentle.

"No, but thank you."

The answer is polite and steadily paced and such a blatant lie that she can almost, almost, roll her eyes at the audacity of it. She would, if she thought for a moment she could follow up with genuine kindness. "All right. You're welcome to wait in the den for your ride. I'm sure you're familiar with the Playstation."

Hiding in a kitchen from a fourteen year old girl is hardly unfamiliar, although the luxury of having it be her own kitchen, things arranged as she likes and stocked to her preferences, feels almost absurd. Absurd and comforting, to be able to putter around and settle in, to put a girl with no grudges out of her mind in favor of grocery lists and recipes for later in the week and restocking the cereal that Emma's decimated with her ridiculous mixing bowl servings.

It lasts fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes, and then she sees Ava's bright blue top and straggly braids hovering in the doorway and she wants to push her out of the kitchen and out of the house and lock the door and keep her out. It isn't fair and she knows it and it doesn't matter at all.

Sighing heavily, she leans her elbows on the island and closes her eyes. "Come on in, Ava," she calls, and only opens her eyes when the shuffling footsteps stop across from her. "Did you change your mind about food?"

"No, Miss Mills," Ava replies, and manages to look up for a moment. "I—um. I didn't realize Henry had a session today. I forgot, Tuesdays and Thursdays. I wouldn't have come over if I'd remembered."

Regina thinks carefully, sifting through her word choices. "If he's told you the schedule, then… He didn't seem bothered by the transition. I think… no harm, no foul."

Ava ducks her head again, and Regina watches the way her shoulders rise up and hunch forward, watches it and wants to close her eyes forever. "He, um, he said that he's usually tired, afterwards."

No, not tired. Drained, exhausted, overwhelmed, devastated. Not tired. "Did he."

"I know I am, after mine."

Ava still won't look up but Regina can't look away. "I see," she manages to say, and there is something so familiar behind Ava's stoic mask.

"I don't want to stay and make things… difficult. More difficult."

"That's considerate of you."

Ava's hands are twisting around each other, and Regina imagines closing the front door, turning the lock and setting the bolt. "My dad can't come get me until the garage closes at seven."

Oh.

The microwave clock reads 3:15 and if Ava is here in this house when it turns to 4:00 and Henry weeps into her skirt like he's her baby boy all over again—if anyone takes that from him—

But there are things she can't do, either. "I don't think it would be appropriate for me to drive you home, Ava."

The fact that there's no disappointment in those hard eyes, that there's just calm resignation and acceptance—Regina wants to bolt the door and set the chain. "Of course. I understand, Miss Mills."

It clears, then, the stoic mask, just for a moment, and Ava is transparent: young and sorry and resentful and alone and lost.

"Let me call Emma," Regina says quietly. "At the least, she'll send a deputy over."

Twenty minutes pass between the Bug pulling into the driveway and Emma knocking softly on her bedroom door. "Before you ask, yes, I put my shoes away," she says immediately, and Regina lets a smile tug at her mouth.

"I thought you were going to stay at your place tonight."

"I was." And then Emma's steps falter, and her smile fades a little. "I still can, if you—"

"Oh, shut up," she sighs, and pulls her knees in towards her chest to make space at the foot of the chaise. Emma's smile brightens again, and she drops onto the seat, leans forward until her torso is cradled by Regina's legs, and it takes only the slightest bit of movement to drop a welcoming kiss onto that sweet, frowning mouth. "How was dinner?"

Emma scoffs, and simultaneously wiggles around until her back presses against Regina's breasts; she looks ridiculous and adorable. "I mean, there was food, so it was actually a dinner."

"Oh, well, food, that's just unprecedented."

"Smart ass," Emma murmurs, but tugs gently at the tips of her hair until she can steal another kiss. "They started arguing before she even brought out the salad. Which, yes, I was going to eat."

Regina lets it slide. "Arguing about?"

"When we're sending Henry back to school. David thinks it should be Henry's call, Snow thinks we should send him by the end of the month, I didn't even get to start to say anything."

Her whole body tenses and she knows Emma can feel it but she can't help it. She can't help it, not when Snow White is taking a stand on her son—

"Good thing they don't actually get a say, huh?"

She looks down into those sea-sweet eyes, bright and happy, and lets the weight of Emma's body and smile and hand tracing circles on the tops of her knees push all the tension out of her. "Good thing," she murmurs, and closes her eyes, drags her fingertips from Emma's forearms to her wrists to her knuckles, weaves their fingers together.

"Wasn't so bad. Kathryn called maybe twenty minutes in, wanted to go over some more stuff for the expulsion hearing, so Snow bailed. David sent cake. It's in the fridge."

"Sent?"

And Emma's voice gets careful, gentle. "I mentioned sending Mulan over."

"Oh." They sit in silence for a while; Regina absently starts to comb her fingers through Emma's hair, scratching gently at her scalp. "I don't think Ava hates me."

Emma, almost boneless against her, opens her eyes, stares up at Regina for a long moment. "No, I don't think she does," she finally says, still careful, still gentle.

"I don't—I don't understand," Regina whispers, and Emma sits up and pulls her into her arms before her voice even cracks.