This is, for all intents and purposes, the final chapter of this story. 16 will be an 'epilogue' of sorts.

"No. Absolutely not."

"Regina, come on," Emma drawls, fighting to get her key out of the lock. "If David wants to give—"

"No. The arrangement was that the game system could stay until you went back to school." She points at Henry, who ducks his head a little, shoves his hands into the pockets of his chinos, avoids eye contact. "You are back in school. You will give that game system back."

"But, Mom, Gramps already bought another one, what's—"

Henry shuts up when she glares at him. "Answer me truthfully, yes or no, Henry. Did you in any way coerce David into giving you the PS4?"

"No, Mom. I had nothing to do with this!"

His eyes are wide, gaze steady and earnest. "He's not lying," Emma contributes unhelpfully, and finally closes the front door.

"He might not be, but you are," Regina snips. Emma has the gall to whistle innocently while hanging Henry's coat up, and Henry's smirking before he can help it. "You, upstairs," she commands, pointing to Emma, then turns to Henry. "You—God. I can't even send you to your room, the damn Playstation is in there."

And then Henry smiles, his careful shy sweet boy smile, and takes a step towards the stairs. "I could go to my actual room?"

What was she thinking, being a politician for fourteen years in front of the most precocious child she's ever met. "Don't use your healing against me, Henry, it's bad form," she sighs, and when he laughs and wraps his arms around her—top of his head brushing against her nose—she accepts defeat. "No. The den for a few more nights. But please, please, sweetheart, anything but the Playstation. Read a book, or—no, wait, don't do that either."

Emma, hanging the last coat up, snickers loudly, and Regina glares at her over the top of Henry's head. Hands up in surrender, Emma toes off her heels and picks them up, one in each hand, leans over to kiss Henry's temple and murmur "Night, kid," and then soundlessly heads up the stairs, black leather dress catching the light as she turns.

"Ew. Mom. Can you not creep on Ma right in front of me?"

She does not blush. Absolutely not. There's a tiny run in the back of Emma's tights, that's all. Not that she needs to explain anything to Henry. "Can you not give me more reasons to want to ground you until you're fifty?"

His precious, changing face scrunches up. "Mom, I really didn't ask for the Playstation."

Sighing, she cradles his face in her hands, kisses his forehead. "I know. I'm not angry with you."

"But you're angry."

His eyes are calm and clear and bright, and she thinks of the first time she held him, of his small yawning mouth and how he'd looked at her like she was the only light. "A little. You know—you know how we have to be careful." He nods, and she focuses on the cedar scent of his hair, the new breadth of his shoulders. "Let me think this over, all right?"

"Okay." He says it so easily, so freely. He trusts so much. "I'm gonna get ready for bed. And not read any books, ever again."

She pinches his nose between her knuckles and can't help but laugh when he squeals.

Upstairs, Emma is rolling off her tights, heels dropped haphazardly by the foot of the bed, and Regina takes a moment to lean back against the closed door and just watch her. "I put a run in them," Emma mumbles, hair falling over her face. "I barely moved all night and I put a run in them. How do you even wear these all the time?"

"Habituation," she answers, and her breath catches when Emma looks up, wry smile on her sweet frowning mouth. "So. About this Playstation."

Groaning, Emma flops back on the bed, throws an arm dramatically over her eyes. "I didn't tell him to give Henry the damn thing. I just… didn't tell him not to, either."

"You know how important it is to not spoil him now."

"I know, but look, David feels like the kid's been through shit for no reason and he kinda has, right?"

Regina toes off her heels next to Emma's, climbs onto the bed to sit with her hip cradled in the dip of Emma's waist. "Emma. There is nothing I want more than to give Henry everything in the world. Every game system, every fancy phone, every stupid flavor of ice cream. But he needs to work for rewards like that."

"Wait, so you don't think he's earned this?" Emma starts to sit up, indignant. "A broken arm and fractured ribs and a fucking walking boot and he hasn't earned this?"

Calm, she tells herself, and patience. "Every breath he takes earns him the whole world. In my mind, at least."

Emma's posture softens, and she drops back onto her elbows, studies Regina's face with a frown. "Then… what's the problem?"

"He needs to feel like he's earned it," she says, and waits for Emma to get it.

It doesn't take long; there's the signature lifting of her thin, thin brows, slackening of her jaw. "This is… part of… therapy?" Emma asks hesitantly, carefully.

Sometimes it's so hard to not touch her, with her warm smooth skin and her crisp cut arms, and sometimes it's just easier all around if Regina doesn't try to resist. She lets her thumb and index finger run along the rise and dip of her biceps, lets her eyes follow because that's easier, too. "In a way. For both of us."

Emma's watching the touch, too, frowning a little less. "So… if we set up a plan? Like, a grades plan? Would that be earning it?"

"It depends. What are you thinking?"

All of Emma's weight shifts to her right elbow when she brings her left arm across to skim over Regina's bare knees. "Weekly grades. Every week he keeps an A average, he earns a week of access. If his average for the week takes a dip, the Playstation takes a walk."

"Sounds intense," Regina murmurs, shifting her legs apart just as Emma's fingers wander to the inside of her knee, up a little higher.

"Good intense or bad intense?"

"Not sure yet," she admits, brushes her thumb over Emma's mouth. "Both, maybe."

"We can work it out."

"Okay," she agrees easily, hums low in her throat when Emma's hand returns to the outside of her thigh, starts to push her skirt up.

"And what about me?" Emma leans forward slightly, kisses her ribs through the silk dress. "What do I have to do to earn it?"

Finally. Regina smiles, gently pushes Emma flat on her back and moves to straddle her, dips her body forward until her lips can brush over smooth soft skin without much effort. Two kisses to the very corner of Emma's mouth and there are already hands bunching her dress up, scrabbling along the side seam for her zipper. "Such a pretty girl, all dressed up tonight," she murmurs, licks lightly at Emma's lips. "Maybe I'll spoil you."

Emma's hands freeze at that, and Regina smiles, kisses her lightly twice, three times, four times until she slowly, slowly, warms up again, opening up to the kiss and lifting her back off the bed just enough for Regina to get her hands on the zipper pull, not enough to pull the zipper down in any useful way. "On your stomach, linda," she instructs, pressing kisses to the curve of Emma's neck. "Damn zipper."

Emma's smiling but just a little too still, movements a little too jerky as she turns onto her stomach, and Regina slows down even more, drags the zipper slowly, follows it with her mouth, kissing every freckle dotted along the ridges of Emma's spine. "So pretty," she whispers, flicks her tongue into the dimple to the left of Emma's vertebrae.

"Regina?" Emma voice trembles, and Regina's back at eye level in an instant, rolling off but staying tight to her side. She waits, stroking Emma's hair back, not saying a word, until Emma takes a deep breath, nods a little. "I just—I needed a minute."

"Of course." She waits more, until Emma's touching her freely again, until Emma moves to take a kiss. "If you need more time—"

"No," Emma breathes out, and her fingers dig into Regina's hip, pull them closer together. "No. Just… say it again?"

"So pretty?" she asks, and searches Emma's eyes.

"No. The—the other."

"Maybe I'll spoil you?" Emma nods, tightly, and Regina smiles for her, kisses her softly. "Why wouldn't I? Look how beautiful you are. Look how kind." Slowly, slowly, she eases Emma onto her back again, leaves wet, wet kisses along the length of her arm. "Look how strong you are. How sexy. Why wouldn't I spoil you, mi linda?"

She can feel Emma's body relaxing beneath her, tensing in new, good ways, and moves up to kiss her collarbones, gently tug the dress from her arms and expose her torso slowly, an inch at a time. "You're so good, Emma. Look how generous you are," she sighs out between her breasts, beneath them. "So smart, so funny. And oh, look how well you love, Emma, look how well you love."

Emma whimpers, lifts her hips to help Regina slide the dress down her legs and off, sits up to reach for her, pull her back on top. "Love you," she whispers, fierce and fervent against her mouth.

Saying it back—after everything, saying it back is like breathing. "I love you." Regina eases her back, drops feather-light kisses everywhere she can. "Let me spoil you, Emma."

Wide-eyed and warm and finally, finally soft, Emma nods.

Emma is quiet on the drive over to Main Street, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly and jaw locked up, set with sharp corners. It's not surprising and Regina doesn't push her, just reaches out across the front seat to rest her fingers on the back of Emma's neck, stroke along the side with her thumb.

It takes until they make the left off of Castleton for Emma to glance over at her with a begrudging smile. "That's cheating," she says.

Regina smiles, lifts her hand just enough to wave her fingers with a flourish. "Evil?"

At that, Emma snorts derisively, and when she brings her hand back to her neck, Regina can feel the muscles stiffening again. "For the record, I think this is a truly stupid idea."

Emma's made that abundantly clear over the last hour, but she's still here. Still here, and that means more than agreement would. Regina pushes gently with her fingertips, kneads lightly and smiles again. "I know."

"You're sure?"

"Very."

The defeated slump of Emma's shoulders is hard to bear, but when one chapped hand reaches over to grab her free hand, brings it up to press a kiss to her knuckles—it gets easier. "I'm tired of all this," Emma whispers, mouth against the backs of her fingers. "Aren't you tired of this? Everyone paying, over and over again. Can't we just—I just want us to be, you know? I just want to be with my family."

Sweet, sweet Emma, who of course understands more than anyone else could. Regina leaves Emma's tense, tense neck to touch her cheek, her jaw, the softness of her mouth, and just smiles at her, for her, and waits.

It takes less than a minute for it to click, comprehension easing the tension in Emma's body, and her heavy sigh sounds almost like an exhausted laugh. "That's the point, isn't it? Being with family, even if they're total shitheels."

"Shitheels," Regina repeats, and feels her face twisting up with distaste. "If you're going to turn our son in to a pottymouth, can you at least use decent curses?"

This time it is a laugh—exhausted, yes, but mirthful, pleased. "Shitheel is an excellent curse."

"You're joking, right?"

Emma grins, the first truly bright smile from her in over an hour, and reaches for the lapels of Regina's coat, tugs her in by a pinch of heavy wool and dark silk. "And what the hell would you know about cursing," she murmurs, kisses her softly. "Last time you did it was in the fucking Middle Ages."

"Idiot," Regina mumbles, but accepts a second kiss, steals a third. "You should go. You know how it gets around dismissal time—if you want to get him here on time—"

"Yeah, yeah," Emma grumbles, but doesn't move back, doesn't loosen her grip. "You're really sure?"

"Yes," she affirms, and Emma nods, releases her and settles back into her seat. "Today might be a—a rough one. If we start where I think we will."

Sweet, sweet Emma, who understands. "I'll pick up a pizza," she offers, and kisses Regina's fingers one more time. "Half Hawaiian."

"Emma."

The Tercel is still up on the lift, but this time Ava is crouched beneath the car, an ancient SLR camera in hand. For a moment Regina feels a twist in the pit of her stomach that she hasn't felt since—since Henry started crossing streets by himself. Since she first learned to fear the combination of cars and children.

"Hi, Miss Mills," Ava says quietly, then holds her breath and presses down on the shutter button. The flash is quick and fierce and leaves Regina momentarily blinded in the mostly dark garage. "Sorry—I should've warned you about the flash."

Blinking rapidly to try and clear the spots from her eyes, she tries for a smile. "That's all right." She pauses, uncertain and suddenly shy. "I—haven't seen someone using a camera like that in a long time."

The grin that spreads over Ava's face is stunning in its artlessness. "Yeah, it's a relic. Iansito—sorry, Mister Iansito let me borrow it for—um. For this project." Her enthusiasm drops abruptly before she mentions the project.

"It's for school?" Regina asks, and watches carefully.

Ava watches her right back. "Kind of," she says slowly. "He—he gave us an assignment in the fall. Liked mine a lot, so… he wants me to put together a portfolio. Or something. Something about a contest. I dunno, he's pushy."

"Sounds like he thinks you have some talent," Regina says mildly, and has to smile when Ava shrugs it off. "You don't think so?"

It's strange, to see the struggle between guilelessness and defensiveness painted so explicitly on anyone's face. "I don't even know what I'm doing, really." And then, reluctantly, Ava adds, "Although I guess that's the point. To learn." Regina says nothing, just watches the emotions flickering over Ava's face, the sudden tension in her grip on the camera. "My dad's in his office, if you wanted to talk to him. I'll make sure Nick doesn't interrupt or anything."

It's tempting, to just tell her, here and now and only, but she thinks back to when Henry was ten and eleven and how they'd all suffered every time a decision had landed in his hands alone. "Thank you," Regina says, and means it.

Michael is positioned almost exactly like he'd been the week before, but this time the phone is cradled to his ear and he's rubbing at his hands with a rag. It's hard to tell if the pained expression on his face is from what he's hearing or the roughness of his movements. When he sees her, he freezes, just like last week, but recovers much faster. "Look, Tom, that's the estimate, I'm already cutting you as many deals on this as I can. I gotta go, the Mayor just walked in, all right? Think it over, let me know."

When he hangs up, Regina clears her throat. "I'm not the Mayor anymore."

Michael shrugs, tosses the rag into a bucket of them in the back corner of the office. "And Tom Clark's got a loose tongue." After a moment's hesitation, he points to the chair in front of his desk. "But you're not here for small town chit chat."

This time she sits, closer to the edge of the chair than the back, and takes a breath to center herself, still her hands. One breath, and then another. "I—" The sentence sticks in her throat, and she can feel a grimace flicker across her face. One more breath; she covers a fourth by opening her purse and pulling out a business card, placing it on the edge of the desk and pushing it towards him with just her fingertips. "This is the contact information for a banker in Stamford."

Michael stops with his hand just stretching forward.

"I've made… arrangements. Call her and identify yourself as Michael Tillman from Maine. She will ask you for a code word which is woodcutter. She will then ask you if the terms of the trust are agreeable—"

"Wait—"

"—and, if they are, she will process all of the necessary paperwork—"

"Stop—"

"—and be in touch with you to confirm arrangements and expenses—"

"Stop," he says again, voice shaking with desperation. "What—what are you doing. What have you done."

She should have practiced this. She should have planned this better. She should have known that this would be—excruciating, maybe, is the word. "Made arrangements. For your daughter. If—if you agree, and she agrees, there will be a fund, a trust, set up. For her. For any living and educational expenses, from now until she turns eighteen. Any money remaining then becomes hers to do with as she pleases."

"What are you doing?" he says again, whispers. "Why—I don't understand. Why would you do this?"

Regina sighs, and closes her eyes, tries to steady her voice but knows she's failing. There's no room in her to be anything but honest and she doesn't want to be. Doesn't want to open herself like that ever again. "I wish you would leave town. I wish I would never have to look at your son's face or hear his name ever again. I wish you would stay so I can watch your son grow into nothingness. I wish he were locked up in a small, dark cell where all he could see would be my son, walking and talking and laughing in the freedom that your son would never have again."

It's too much. It's too much and she can feel it, tight in her throat and curling her lip, hot in her cheeks and fingertips. "But I am so, so tired of little girls paying for sins they had no part in." She opens her eyes and stares at him, waits for him to finally meet her eyes again, watches him shudder, watches his eyes which are burning with shame. "Can you understand that, Michael?"

"I just—I can't figure it out. I don't—sometimes I just want to be an ordinary kid, I feel like laughing and joking around and just—and then I remember and I know I shouldn't, I can't, I—" Fumblingly, Henry grabs the water from the end table, drinks as if he's parched. "I don't know how to balance it, Mom. Knowing what I've done and wanting to forget it. Wanting—wanting my life and feeling like I—like I don't deserve it."

Archie's pen hasn't moved since Henry started talking and she wishes for just the softest scratching to cover for her. Her whole body is stiff and tense, has been since she sat down, has been since she left the garage. It was stupid, going there before this. Stupid, because now—

Henry sets the glass back down, massages his own throat briefly and lets his free hand come to rest against hers. Another shift and he's got his ring finger and pinky wrapped around hers, eyes still closed like it's all unconscious movement, pure instinct.

"Having darkness, knowing your darkness—" and her voice cracks. She clears her throat, tries again. "Knowing that part of you—no one becomes unworthy of love from knowing their own darkness. Because it's everywhere. You know that, now. That there's a place like that in everyone. Everyone you love, everyone who loves you."

Sometimes she can't stand to be looked at by him. Not like this, not the way he's looking at her now—like he did when he finally woke up, on the ship and in the hospital and on his fifth day of being Henry Mills. She can't stand it and those years when she thought he might never look at her like that again—

"It's—it's when you deny it, deny that it's darkness, deny its existence—that's when it changes. That's when you change, when you succumb. But honesty? Knowing what you've done and that you never want to do it again? That could never make you unworthy of love, Henry."

It takes effort to remind herself that she can be brave. That for once, there is no cost to it. "I used to wonder, when I was—the first few times. The first few years. If—if maybe I needed love, a good life, a safe place, maybe I needed those things more. If maybe I was most worthy because I was on that edge, and if I could get just a little bit, if someone could just reach for me a little bit further—"

Her vision blurs and her eyes burn and Henry's next to her, hugging her tightly, and there's a jerkiness to his breathing that tells her he's crying, too. "Do you still think that?" he whispers.

A sob rises up and she covers her mouth quickly, tries to push it down and away and back. Focus, she tells herself, and strength. "Sometimes. Sometimes I don't even know where the edge really was. Sometimes I think it would have been cruel, to ask someone to come down into my darkness with me."

The office is quiet for a long moment. Archie doesn't move, and through damp lashes she can see that his face is red and his eyes watery. When Henry slowly shifts to rest his head in her lap, intermittent sobs shaking his shoulders, Archie finally leans forward, shaking his head, and starts to speak. "Henry, you know—"

"Please," Regina whispers, and Archie stops, stares at her. "Please—just for now. Please."

Rubbing at his eyes, Archie sits back with one quick nod and an echoed, "Just for now."

She isn't sure how long it's been when Henry speaks again, just a hoarse whisper. "What do I do, Mom? How do I—how do I live with this? How do I—what do I do?"

Gently, she brushes his hair back from his forehead, keeps a steady pace until the lines in his forehead ease away. "You live a good life. And you atone. Every day, every moment. Choose to live a good life, and choose to atone." She thinks of his first split lip, and touches the scar at his eyebrow, and feels her heart tightening. "I know you tried. I know you thought that's what you were doing. But that—atonement isn't suffering, baby. I need you to understand this, Henry. Your suffering benefits no one. Atonement is about reparation and making amends; taking abuse and pain heals nothing and no one."

He stares up at her and for a moment he is three, he is seven, he is twelve and he is hers. "Then—how?"

She remembers the weight of him after nightmares—his own, hers. The weight of him and how he'd fit with his forehead against her neck, so ready to be loved to safety. "You give. You give all the good things of yourself. You give enough to offset what you took."

His eyes are closed again, tears leaking from them anyway. "But—what if—what if there's nothing good left. What if—and how do you know when it's enough—and—what good do I give, Mom?"

The sob finally rises from her throat, cracks in the air. "My sweet, sweet boy," she murmurs, and gently thumbs some of the tears from his cheeks. "Love, baby. You and I, we give love."

"Love?" he repeats, and when his eyes open she can see it, see it taking root and lifting him, rising in him.

"Love," she affirms. "Love is the only magic we have left to us, Henry. And we must give it endlessly."