Because I'm a dolt: endless thanks to Lani for her help with Chapter 11. Thanks to Hope for the read through on this one. And Lynn for beta reading on every chapter, always.

Not ten minutes after she's gotten back from dropping Henry off at the animal shelter, her home office line rings, bold and unfamiliar after so many months of disuse. Grumbling slightly, Regina weaves her way around the kitchen island and bumps the door to the study with her shoulder, manages to grab the phone just before the call drops. "Hello?" she gets out, and rubs at her sore shoulder.

"Regina. I'm glad I caught you." Archie's voice, tremulous as ever, is still a welcome sound. "Do you have a minute to talk?"

Some nervous tension eases out of her neck; some more tension settles between her shoulders. "Hello, Archie. Yes, I'm free. Is—is something wrong?"

He chuckles softly, and she thinks she can hear Pongo snuffling in the background. "No, not at all. I wanted—well, first, I wanted to see how you're doing. We've all been focusing so much on Henry—but this all has been challenging for you, too, hasn't it?"

It's still there, the instinct to snap at him and remind him that Henry should be his only focus, but now… Even if she didn't trust Archie to genuinely care about her, she does trust him to care about how her mental state affects Henry's. "Yes, it's been… difficult."

"So how are you?"

And sometimes, sometimes she does trust him with herself. Sometimes, usually in the moments when she can look him in the eye and see true compassion. "Tired, mostly. Confused. Frightened out of my mind."

"Understandably, on all counts." He hesitates, and she lets herself sink into her desk chair, waits. "Angry?"

She could almost smile. "Always."

If she didn't know better, she'd think Archie whispered Good. "You know if you want to come in, my door is always open to you."

"I know. I've—the thought has crossed my mind," she admits.

"But that would mean leaving Henry's side."

"Yes."

Another hesitation from his side. "Unless it didn't?" When she's silent, he continues, voice steady and smooth, confident. "The second reason I called, Regina, is to ask you whether you would be open to a joint session with Henry."

There's not enough air in the room and she clutches the edge of the desk to try and stop everything from spinning. "I—has he—are we—"

"No, no no no," Archie says quickly. "No, I'm sorry, I don't—no, not like that. Not like that." It sounds like he's taken his glasses off; there's some rustling through the phone. "Regina? Are you all right? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you like that."

"I'm—I'm okay," she whispers, and leans back in her chair, closes her eyes and tries to slow down her heartbeat. "If not—then why?"

"Are you sure you're—"

"Doctor Hopper," she manages to snap out, crisp like the old days. "Explain."

She can hear him smile. "Well, he's in a very… the things he's dealing with right now, his own actions—I can, to a point, help him navigate a reconciliation with himself, but—well, I'll be frank. There's no one better suited to help him with this than you."

She's misheard. She's sure she's misheard. "You want me to—you're out of your mind."

"What Henry needs is honesty, Regina, from someone who's done violent, violent things out of love, and anger, and fear, and for survival."

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are," he interrupts, in the firmest tone she's ever heard from him. And then, gentler, "I'm just—this is just a suggestion. And if it's something you're willing to do, I'd ask that you come in alone first, so that we can prepare you, set up ground rules and such."

"Charlatan," she mumbles harmlessly, and he laughs. "Henry—he asked for this?"

Archie has a particular silence when he's choosing his words carefully. "We've discussed the idea a few times, now. He doesn't know I'm asking you, so if you decide not to, he won't know."

"But I will. You were a gifted child swindler, weren't you?"

"The very best."

She smiles, shakes her head. "I—I have to think about this, Archie."

"I understand."

"Do you?" Her voice sharpens, breaks. "You're telling me that the very thing that broke us apart and brought all of this down on him in the first place is—do you understand what you're asking of me? What I'd risk?"

Very, very softly, Archie breathes out, "Yes. I do."

She deflates, feels the phone slipping from her fingers. "I have to think," she whispers, and hangs up the phone.

They are more than halfway through dinner before she realizes she hasn't spoken once and Henry is staring at her openly. "What was that, sweetheart?"

He just frowns, puts down his fork. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Mom," he says, twisting his mouth like he wants to say Bullshit instead, and gently puts his hand on her arm. "I just said that Ringo chewed up all of Gram's money to make a nest and you didn't even smile."

"As if she'd carry cash. It would clash with her peasant-chic lifestyle."

"She had fifties."

It's impossible not to smile at that, but Henry's still watching her. "Remind me to sponsor hamster treats. For all two of them."

"Sure. As soon as you tell me what's wrong."

"Henry," she says, as if he'd be anything other than headstrong with his particular combination of mothers, "I appreciate the concern but—"

"Please don't say nothing's wrong, because something is," he says quietly. "And—if you don't want to tell me, I get it. But—please don't say it's nothing when it's not."

The kitchen lights are so much brighter than every other room and washes him out, draws her eyes to the thin sharp line on his jaw. The skin around it is oddly red; he's probably been scratching at it again. "You did the same thing when you were small," she murmurs, and reaches towards his face, brushes her thumb over the scar and gives him a reprimanding look. "Do you remember?"

He shakes his head, uncertainty in his eyes. "Try to get you to talk?"

His voice—she'd swear it deepens daily. "Not quite. When I'd had a bad day, or a long day, you'd sit me down before I started on dinner and make the most serious face you could—" He scowls now, and even though his features are bigger and his face is thinner, there's no difference. Not really. "Yes, just like that," she teases, and pinches his nose lightly. "And you'd say, 'We don't hafta talk 'bout it but we hafta hug 'bout it.'"

Groaning, Henry claps a hand over his eyes, drags it down his face. "How many of these stories are you saving for when I bring someone home?"

"Thousands."

He groans again, but he's smiling, just a little bit. "That's not even fair. It's not like I told Ma anything—"

It's probably a sign of progress that he catches it first. That it takes her a moment to understand why he just stops in the middle of his sentence like that. That she doesn't recoil from him but wills herself to stay exactly as she is, backs of her fingers resting against the uneven hair at the nape of his neck.

When he looks at her again after over a minute of staring at his plate, it's with a brave smile that doesn't even reach his eyes. "Wanna hug about it?" he asks, and his voice wavers.

He'll never be six again, but it's hard to remember that when he launches himself into her arms with that same fervent and reassured love.

The doorbell rings insistently, and she practically sprints to get it, to cut off the bell before it wakes Emma. When she throws open the door, Kathryn immediately drops her hand, smiles sheepishly. "Hi," she says, eyes so sharp and bright that Regina takes a step back, further away from the mid-morning light.

"Kathryn? What—is everything all right?"

So bright, so bright, and Kathryn practically bounces on her toes. "Can I come in?"

She steps back and gestures her in, can't help but smile when Kathryn waits for her at the top of the steps. "Business or friendship?" she asks, closing the door, and Kathryn hesitates.

Kathryn hesitates and her bright bright eyes narrow just a little. It suddenly matters that she's in her suit with her hair up; it matters that she's got her briefcase and her no-nonsense heels. "Both," Kathryn says, finally, and smiles kindly. "How about the study?"

Regina follows, sits next to Kathryn at her urging, can't make eye contact and can't look away. "Kathryn—if something's happened—"

"They made a decision, Regina. The school board."

All the heaviness she'd tried so hard to leave behind—in the bed, in the bath, anywhere it was quiet—curls around her shoulders like it never left. "Oh," she says, and lapses into silence.

Kathryn's pulling papers from her briefcase, and Regina vaguely recognizes the Board of Ed stationery but gets distracted by the softbound behemoth that thuds onto the coffee table. There are green flags dotting a few pages about a third of the way through, and before Kathryn flips open the packet from the BOE, Regina catches a glimpse of the state seal on the front cover of the book.

There's bold text and a list of names and she just—she needs this to be simple. "I—Kathryn, I can't—please—"

Those sharp, bright eyes study her face, and then there's a hand on hers and a smile, a smile—what does a smile even mean, why a smile—and the packet in her lap. Next to every name is the word expelled in heavy capitals. "All of them. Every single one."

She doesn't know why Kathryn keeps looking at her like this means justice. "All right," she says, and her eyes flicker over For the administration: Principal M. Blanchard. "That's… something."

Kathryn laughs, quietly, still kindly. "You were gifted with ordinances and budgets but you didn't give a damn about current events, did you?"

Regina stares.

The book, the book with the state seal on the front cover, the book is a volume. Volume three. The book is volume three of the 125th session of the Maine legislature and something nags at the back of her mind. Something she'd meant to read, while the whole world fell to pieces.

Regina stares, and Kathryn flips open the book to those green flags, pulls it to the edge of the coffee table and starts to talk, softly, about state-wide expulsion and reentry requirements and it all sounds trite and useless and like so much bureaucratic red tape, until she flips to two isolated green flags and waits while Regina reads the words the employment of minors and sits back, uncomprehending.

Kathryn squeezes her hand, still gentle, always gentle, and breathes out slowly. "They can't legally work unless they're enrolled in school, Regina. They're all minors."

She says "I don't understand," but she does, she does, and oh, God, what has she—

"They can't enroll in any other public school district in the state. And they can't work. Not until they meet the terms for re-admittance."

Her hands are shaking and she pulls them back against her body, flips the pages of the BOE packet until she gets to the page titled Re-entry Plan and almost laughs. Almost laughs, almost cries, almost screams.

Readmittance to Maine Public Schools for all named students is conditional upon approval of the principal, currently M. Blanchard, and the board-appointed assessor, Dr. A. Hopper. Should the student relocate to another district, admittance to the new district would be conditional on approval of the new district representative in consultation with Principal Blanchard and Dr. Hopper.

Some sound escapes her, a weak and trembling gasp, and she has to cover her mouth. "Snow and Archie. They can't—until Snow and Archie."

And Kathryn is there again, holding her hand again, eyes sharp and bright. "Yes," she says, and now it means something, now it means everything.

"How," Regina gets out, and can't look up from the papers. "How—if they knew any of this, they would never have—"

She stops, and looks at Kathryn's smile.

"Snow argued a strong case," Kathryn says, and for her to try modesty, of all things—

Regina starts to laugh but it dies in her throat. "Because you coached her."

The smallest head tilt, and Kathryn's eyes still so bright, clear and crisp. "You didn't think I'd leave something like this up to fate, did you?"

No, not with that particularly winning smile, not with those sharp eyes gleaming. She knows if she asks, if she pushes, Kathryn will give her the whole truth. Kathryn, who does the right thing. Kathryn, who swore they wouldn't get to just walk away. Kathryn, who listened to I want their lives and made it so.

"No," she says, and squeezes her hand. "Not you."

Emma wakes slowly, sighing and pulling Regina closer to her before making some low noise in her throat. A hum, maybe. "Time 'sit?"

"Two."

"Early."

"I know. I'm sorry. Go back to sleep."

Emma hums again and it feels good, the warm dull vibrations under Regina's ear and the almost febrile heat of her body. "No, hol' on. 'M 'wake."

"Go to sleep, linda."

Two lazy, barely qualifying kisses to her forehead. "Screw sleep," Emma murmurs, and for a second it seems as though she's going for a grope, but instead she just shifts them slightly so the peak of Regina's hipbone presses into her thigh instead of her own hips. "S'rry. Flex'r actin' up. Gimme min."

Regina gives her ten. Ten minutes in which she just listens to each breath as it fills Emma's lungs, in which she traces the rough lettering on Emma's beloved T-Rex tee with her ring finger. In which Emma's hands stay still and steady on her back and her rough thumbs move in arhythmic arcs. In which their breathing mingles and settles into one easy pattern.

"Hi," Emma whispers, and presses a sweet kiss to the top of her head.

"I missed you."

"I'm here."

"Archie wants me to do joint sessions with Henry."

"Oh," Emma says, and holds her breath. "But for—for now, right? Not like before?"

"For now."

"Oh."

It's when Emma draws her chin up to kiss her—lightly, lightly—that she feels tears coming. "The board issued the decision."

She can feel the tension take control of Emma's body and hates that she brought it with her. "Regina?"

"I think your mother finally did something right," she whispers, and feels Emma's breathing stutter.

Nicholas hunches his shoulders and scuffs his feet, barely lifts his chin off his chest to speak. She remembers a boy with neat hair and decent posture and no grease on his clothes. Further back is the memory of a timid child with wide eyes, hiding behind his bigger, brasher sister, clinging to his peasant rags.

Regina watches from her parked car as Michael points to various parts of an old Toyota's engine with a wrench, watches as he gets steadily more exasperated while Nicholas sinks further into his own body. It doesn't take long before Nicholas's only reactions are shrugs, silent and barely noticeable, and when Michael starts to shout, and chucks the wrench into the shadows of the garage, she doesn't flinch.

Neither does Nicholas.

With one hand over his eyes, Michael points to the inside of the garage and when Nicholas has shuffled away, he sags against the bumper of the car, brings his other hand in to completely cover his face.

If she doesn't get out of the car now, she's going to be late. She's seen—she's seen what there is to see. It's time to go.

It takes two repetitions of it's time to go for her to reach for her purse in the passenger seat, and when she glances back up, Michael is staring straight at her, fingers half-dragged down his face. Just staring; there's no readable emotion in his eyes or posture and she can't even see his mouth.

It doesn't last long; he shivers, moves a hand as if to—what, to wave? She doesn't know, looks away to open her door and walk up to Archie's office door, and when she glances back while closing the door behind her, Michael's sunken into himself again, crumbling against the old Toyota.

She takes a minute at the top of the stairs. Just a minute, to cleanly cut the indentations of Michael's fingers in his own cheeks from her mind. To think of her family, her family, her real and true family, sprawled at the foot of the bed in the den with their mixing bowls of cereal and matching rapt expressions, watching Saturday morning cartoons. Of Emma and her soft, soft smile. Of Henry and his steady, steady heart.

A minute, and then she pushes the slightly-ajar office door open fully, gives Archie a tight smile in greeting and closes the door, takes her old seat on the far end of the couch. He's ready for her: two glasses of water on the end table, fire going strong, notepad pressed against his knee. He's ready for her and he's silent, letting her get settled in the space.

There's only one thing she knows to say. "Under no circumstances will I discuss the King with my son."

Archie meets her eyes with calm, clear compassion. His pen doesn't move. "Good. Let's go from there."