Ask a Siren to describe their coach, and they break into purple prose.
"She's magic," [Merlin] Smith says with real passion. "I think if you give her a candle to hold, it would light up. She has that energy, that spark. High quality is fantastic but it is how you are here," he says, pointing to the heart.
- "The Storybrooke Sirens' Story", August Wayne Booth
"The management isn't up to the mark. A pity, really."
- Cora Mills, ghost, Storybrooke forest
Marian cancels on her at the last moment, citing an emergency meeting with Regina's sister who just happens to need to meet her on that very evening.
"Since when does she consult you about design?" Regina demands, irritated beyond belief. Trust Zelena to just show up and insist on being catered to, without considering the convenience of others. "Since when does Zelena consult anyone about design?" she says, because her sister is nothing is not zealously protective of her precious work.
"The Mulan mini figures sold out," Marian explains. "Zelena thinks we should do special editions."
"And she needs to discuss this over dinner with you?" Regina says, not caring if she sounds petulant.
There are perhaps times when she's resentful of how much time Marian spends with her sister, which is absolutely not fair to Marian or their friendship. Marian is allowed to have other friends, especially when the said friends are also Regina's sister.
Regina asks too much, takes too much. It's who she's always been.
"I'll tell her you said hi," Marian says, blowing a flippant kiss in Regina's direction.
Emma Swan is visibly nervous when she pulls up in front of Regina's house in her ridiculous little car.
The car is a hideous yellow thing, but Swan insists on driving it around town for reasons best known to herself. Storybrooke has accepted it as one of her many eccentricities — embraced it, even. Sidney devoted an entire two page spread to Coach Swan and her love for the no-maj world, featuring the awful car front and center, as well as the equally awful cell phone with its shattered screen that Emma refuses to let go of, despite the generally poor state of reception in Storybrooke thanks to magical interference. Regina is fairly certain she has seen an uptick in the number of cars in town after Emma Swan's arrival.
"Here," Emma says, thrusting a large basket into Regina's hands. "For your hospitality."
"Thank you," Regina says. "Come in, please."
Emma is stiff and formal, taking off her shoes and her jacket and complimenting Regina on her decor. It's a far cry from the woman who had the nerve to throw Regina out of practise, or barge into her office and demand she hire a no-name player of her choice, now.
But then, as Regina has found, Emma Swan is a curious mix of cocksure and tongue-tied, polite to a fault and outrageously rude.
She cannot help but admit that it adds to her charm. Not that Regina has found her charming under any circumstance. It's a figure of speech, nothing more. Theirs is a professional relationship.
Emma brightens when she spots Henry, who greets her like a long lost friend.
It hurts that Henry keeps choosing this stranger over her, as he's done with Marian and his aunt Zelena in the past. Regina's powerless to stop it, to stop her mind from going over the harsh words he hurled at her after their last blow-up.
But it's been one of their better days today, and Regina can't — won't — ruin that. She chose to let this go the day she sent Henry back to her, with a tupperware box full of leftovers as a peace offering of sorts.
Henry keeps up a steady stream of conversation, sparing Regina the trouble of having to make small talk with Emma Swan. He tells Emma about his day at school, about the lessons he's learned today and how he nearly beat Merlin arm-wrestling this time, I really did, Emma, stop that .
Regina will socialize with Emma Swan for this laughter alone.
Later that night, Henry lets her tuck him in with minimum fuss, although that might also have something to do with his being half-asleep, utterly worn out from the evening's excitement in the company of his idol. Regina supposes that's another thing she should be grateful to Emma Swan about.
"We're gonna win," he mumbles when she presses a kiss to his forehead. "I know we will."
"I hope we do, my little prince," Regina says.
Regina is far too old to have Henry's simple faith in the world, or in the extraordinary abilities of Emma Swan. Fairytales aren't real, and the underdogs usually remain in the bottom of the pile, despite their best efforts to emerge out of it. The last game was a reminder of that, if nothing else.
"You have to believe, Mom," Henry tells her, struggling to keep his eyes open.
"I'll try," she says. "Now sleep."
Henry believes with all his heart — believes that miracles can happen and that fairytales are real. Even the knowledge of his adoption — the source of so manyconflicts between them — has never quite managed to shake that unflinching faith of his.
Regina watches him sleep, peaceful and so, so young. She watches him and worries about what might happen when even that believing heart of his isn't enough.
There is more socialization in store for Regina, as it turns out.
The Sirens beat the Rochester Ravens in a decisive victory, even without Mulan in the first team after her injury last week. It's a much-needed relief after the devastation of the previous game.
"You and Henry are joining us for pizza at Granny's tomorrow night, right?" Emma says, walking up to her after the match, triumphant. "I promised the guys pizza if they won five matches."
"Granny's food is sub-standard," Regina tells her, even if she can't keep the smile off her face.
"You don't pay me enough to afford anything else," Emma says, rolling her eyes.
"I'm not making any promises," Regina says.
But Regina does show up, with Marian and a very excited Henry in tow, and manages to spend the entire evening eating far too many slices of Granny's (sub-standard) pizza. She can't recall the last time she spent an evening like this with the Sirens — the players, the staff, everyone — one filled with genuine celebration and buoyant hope that she cannot quite suppress, despite her best efforts to remain cautious.
Hope is a foul, deceitful thing, but Regina has always been susceptible to its charms, falling for it far too often.
Emma sidles up to her booth at one point, taking a seat opposite Regina and offering her another slice of pizza that Regina is forced to decline. "No pineapples," she tells Emma, who makes a face at her.
"Who doesn't like pineapples on their pizza?" Emma says in mock-outrage. She takes a massive bite out of the slice as if to prove her point.
It leaves a smudge of red on her chin, and Regina reaches out without thought, dabbing at it with a paper napkin as she would with Henry. She withdraws her hand hastily when she sees Emma's face, frozen in something like shock. Her eyes are very wide.
"You had something on your face," Regina says stiffly, feeling her face grow hot with embarrassment.
"Yeah," Emma says. "I'm kind of a messy eater. I mean, thanks."
They're both quiet for a moment. It's not an awkward moment, no, but a silence charged with something that Regina does not have the right words for.
"Thank you for coming tonight," Emma tells her. She sounds entirely sincere.
"Henry wanted it," Regina says with a shrug. It's only partly true.
"Well, we all appreciate that Henry came to spend the evening with us," Emma says, holding Regina's gaze.
Regina's whole world seems to shrink at that moment, the chaos and the noise of the diner fading away as she gazes into Emma's eyes. She thinks of an evening many, many years ago — an evening she knows Emma does not remember.
It's tempting to see where the evening might take them, to let herself go with the flow of this moment where it's just the two of them and this pull that somehow hasn't faded, even after all these years, even if one of them has no memory of it.
"We can't afford to be complacent," Regina blurts, desperate to break the tension and go back to lightness of before. Theirs is a professional relationship, after all.
"And we won't be," Emma tells her. "Your team was in the bottom of the pile for two years in a row. Give them something to celebrate. Just, trust me on this."
Regina does, the gods help her — despite her best efforts, Regina truly does.
It would seem that Henry's unflinching faith in his hero has started to have effect on Regina as well, reminding her of that girl — long gone, now — who once elbowed past an entire security team to ask the star Seeker for an autograph.
The Sirens begin to climb up the league table with a string of victories. The Mirror is in hysterics about it, Sidney's quill producing more purple prose than Regina thought was possible.
It's not just the Mirror that's in a state of nervous excitement — the town itself seems to have woken up by the touch of some miraculous wand. There's a sense of hope in every corner, in the eyes of every man and woman Regina encounters as she goes about her day.
Is this it, the town seems to be thinking. Will this finally be the end of decades of ignominy, of hoping and suffering and waiting, waiting?
Regina, who has never managed to build a single thing in her life, wishes she had something more to offer to them than her reassuring, managerial smile.
Then, of course, there's Henry, who swings between wild excitement over the Sirens' impending fairytale victory — he's already scripted a victory speech for Regina, and Regina hasn't had the heart to tell him that she might not have the opportunity to deliver it — and moody, sullen silence. It was foolish, foolish on her part to assume that a good day or even a good week might mean the end of this. How could it, when the problem itself is so terrifying, so far beyond the grasp of his young self? Or that of his mother, for that matter.
For all his faith, for all his unflinching belief in the possibility of a fairytale for the Storybrooke Sirens, the unfairness of his own fate is a knot too hard for him to untie. He's a curious boy, always has been, asking questions that go unanswered. Perhaps a better mother would have had the right answers in store for Henry.
A better mother would have equipped him to deal with everything the world will throw at him as he grows older.
One evening, after a long and exhausting conversation with Marian, Regina proposes the only thing she thinks might help. "Do you think you'd like to talk to Dr. Hopper, sweetheart?" she tells him, her heart filled with trepidation. "I could book an appointment tomorrow if you want."
She can't protect him from the world, can't protect him from the demons that he fights all on his own — the same demons that have him lashing out at her and then crying over his own harsh words. Perhaps Archie could —
He looks up at her, his eyes blank. "Will Dr. Hopper fix my magic?"
"I don't think he can do that, baby," Regina says, unable to hold back the tears that spill from her eyes. "And listen, Henry, no, look at me ," she tells him when he won't meet her gaze. "There's nothing wrong with you, do you understand that? You're absolutely fine the way you are. You're perfect."
"Then why do you want to send me to Dr. Hopper?" Henry asks, heartbreak written all over his face.
"To talk, sweetheart. Just to talk," Regina says.
"I don't wanna talk to Dr. Hopper," Henry says, stubborn, and Regina makes a silent vow to bring the topic up again on another day.
That night, after dinner, Regina goes upstairs to tuck him in, only to find his bed empty. The window is open, which could only mean —
Regina rushes to her bedroom next door and does the only thing she can think of. She picks up the seldom used telephone and dials a number she has never had reason to use.
And — thank god for small mercies — she manages to get through to Emma Swan, despite the notoriously terrible cellular reception all over Storybrooke.
"Is Henry with you?" Regina says without preamble, hoping, hoping —
"No?" Emma says. "I'm at Granny's, why — "
Regina drops the receiver and apparates in the middle of the diner, not caring how crazed she might appear to the few patrons who stare at her.
Eric, the night watchman, is mostly used to snoozing on the job. There are many complex charms and wards around the Sirens' facilities to ensure no one unsavory gets in — there isn't much for the watchman to watch. What he's not used to is the owner of the Storybrooke Sirens showing up in the middle of the night andshaking him awake, screaming, "Have you seen Henry? "
"Huh," Eric says, trying to rub sleep out of his eyes. "Ms. Mills, I —"
"The kid's smart, Regina," Emma says, saving poor Eric the trouble. "I don't think he waited for Eric to let him in."
Regina nods, grim, and reaches out to grab Emma's hand. "I think I know where he went," she says. It sounds ominous.
They apparate right in front of the Exhibits Gallery, the one with the trophies and broomsticks and —
"The flying carpet?" Emma says. Because yes, he would. "Damn it, kid!"
"Henry has always been a curious boy," Regina says, pushing the door open.
It doesn't take them long to spot the missing exhibit.
"Damn it ," Emma says again. He's a ten year old with zero magic at his disposal, and an ancient flying carpet with a mind of its own. It could have taken himanywhere. Dread pools in her gut, her mind flashing with a million possibilities, each one more dire than the next.
She follows Regina out of the gallery, gripped with an acute sense of impotence. There's a healthy dose of guilt involved, which is just as well. She introduced Henry to that damned carpet when she should have known better. She's spent most of her life being reckless and answering to no one, and that has never worked for her. She's supposed to have become better at this by now.
"In here late, aren't you?" says the portrait — Archibald Peabody, 1757-1809 — in front of them.
"Have you seen Henry, Archibald?" Regina says. There isn't a portrait in these parts that doesn't know Henry Mills.
"I saw him," says Archibald. "He had some sort of an Oriental carpet in his hands. Fascinating thing, didn't see many of those in my time."
"He's a very active one, that boy," chimes in another portrait (Edward McDougal, 1762-1812). "Reminds me of myself in my youth."
"He could be anywhere," Regina says, wrapping her arms around herself. She sounds more helpless than Emma could ever imagine. It's takes real effort to keep her hands to herself, to not reach out and squeeze her shoulder. "The flying carpet harnesses ancient magic, far beyond the reach of average magic users let alone a ten year old boy." She nearly chokes on the last word, and looks away from Emma as though to mask her tears.
"This is why GPS comes in handy," Emma mutters. A fat lot of good it would do in these parts.
Regina looks at her in seeming incomprehension, but then she's shaking her head and casting a neat little vestigium charm that has the entire corridor light up in little Henry-shaped footprints. "I should have thought of that earlier," she says and reaches out for Emma's hand again.
She's done a lot of that tonight — not that Emma's keeping count, except she kind of is — but now is not the time on focus on anything other than finding Henry.
The footprints lead them to a wide balcony that overlooks the grounds.
"He must have taken off from here," Emma says, feeling Regina shudder.
They're still holding hands, sort of, and Emma turns her hand so that they're palm to palm and she can take hold of Regina's hand in what she hopes is a comforting grip. Her eyes are dark, terrified , and it's hard not to pull her close and hold her until she stops trembling.
This time, Regina's vestigium charm yields a little ball of light that pauses mid-air, as though waiting for them to follow.
"I'll get us brooms," Emma says.
It's a beautiful night for flying, the air cool and crisp and the stars shining down upon them. If she weren't so worried about the kid's whereabouts, she might have even enjoyed this
The little ball of light leads them out of town bounds, towards a vast area of darkness that Emma has little idea about. Emma Swan is a city girl, through and through. The forests on the edge of Storybrooke have held little appeal for her.
Beside her, Regina freezes. "It's leading us to the forest," she says, making no attempt to mask the fear in her voice.
"What's in the forest?" Emma blurts, before recognizing the foolishness in asking such a question. It's a vast forest on the edges of a wizarding town, and Henry is a ten year old with no access to magic. "Wait, don't answer that."
She can feel the slight chill in the air. Strange sounds pierce the cover of darkness, only to fade into an ominous silence. The forest is very much alive, and not necessarily populated by benevolent wood sprites.
As they move deeper into the forest, the foliage grows more and more dense, making it difficult to navigate with their brooms. It's a good thing Emma has some practice dodging Bludgers, even after all these years.
The little ball of light hovers over a particularly creepy-looking tree, and disappears with a loud pop .
"We're close," Regina says.
They descend swiftly to the ground, lighting up the tips of their wands for better visibility. "Henry?" Emma calls out. "Henry!"
Her voice echoes in the near-darkness, until it feels as though the trees are calling out Henry's name, the leaves rustling and whispering, Henry, Henry, Henry.
Emma finds herself reaching for Regina's hand, giving it a tight squeeze. "He's okay," she tells Regina. "We'll find him."
They walk together in silence until Emma loses all sense of time or place.
Emma should be the person holding it together here. Regina's out here looking for her son — her son who's only ten and on his own in this vast, dark forest, lost and possibly terrified . Her son, who's too curious for his own good. Who believes in Emma is some sort of a savior for the Storybrooke Sirens, and her first real friend in Storybrooke.
Emma wants to throw up, or maybe just sit down in the middle of the forest and cry.
But Regina, god, Regina's a steady presence next to her, stern and unyielding and trudging right along. Emma cannot imagine the strength that's keeping her upright at the moment. Her face is resolute in the half-light from their wands.
She nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears the silken voice in her ear, somewhat amused and distinctly masculine.
"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," it says, and Emma's very close to casting an Unforgivable Curse when she spots the owner of the voice. It's — he is distinctly masculine, yes, and sporting a roguish smile on his smile. He's wearing a long trench coat and has a hook where a hand should be. He's also translucent, that is to say, very, very dead.
It figures she'd run into one of Henry's ghosts while out on a midnight trip through the forest to find him.
"What do you want, Hook?" Regina sounds sour. She's clearly familiar with their ghostly companion.
"You wound me, my lady," the ghost says, placing a translucent hand on his non-existent heart. "I'm here to help . You're looking for the lad, aren't you?"
"If anything's happened to my son — "
"You'll what, kill me?" The ghost laughs, cutting Regina off mid-snarl. He sounds positively delighted with himself. "Can't kill a dead man, love."
"That's enough," Emma says. "If you know where Henry is, tell us. We don't have all night."
"Ooh, you're a tough lass," he says, no, leers . It's outright disturbing. "I do like that in a woman."
"Do you know where Henry is?" Emma repeats, firm.
"Aye," the ghost says. "Follow me."
He leads them up to a clearing in the forest. Emma spots a fire, and wait — that is Henry, definitely Henry, legs drawn up in front of him as he stares at the fire. His face is very pale. The flying carpet is neatly folded up next to him.
"Henry," Regina cries out. "Henry!"
He's wrapped up in his mother's arms in an instant, Regina peppering kisses on his face and smoothing back his hair while he clings to her just as tight. Emma's not much for sentimentality, but she's blinking back tears as she watches the mother-son duo reunite, with so much love between them that it's near impossible to imagine them at odds with each other at any point. Families are like that, Emma supposes.
Not that she knows anything about families.
Hook choses to ruin the moment by saying, "I think we make quite the team, love." Right in her ear. Again.
"I don't," Emma tells him. "Also, you're dead."
The fact that a ghost is hitting on her sort of sums up this entire night. The kid's lucky she's so fond of him.
"What's a little death between kindred spirits, my dear?" He says, flashing her another one of his translucent smiles. "You and I, we understand each other."
"Pretty sure we don't," Emma says.
She doesn't want to interrupt her living companions and disrupt their beautiful mother and son moment, but perhaps it's time they left this awful forest. The company is less than inviting.
"Say what you will, lass, but I can see the look in your eyes," Hook tells her. "It's the look that you get when you've been left alone."
"I would prefer if you left me alone, thanks."
Emma's almost relieved when they're interrupted by yet another voice, this one distinctly feminine. She doesn't exactly enjoy being psychoanalyzed by a lecherous ghost. "So you finally decided to show up," the voice says, sharp. "I was beginning to think you had abandoned the boy, Regina."
The owner of the voice, it becomes evident, is also a ghost — just as translucent as Hook, but with the bearing of a queen, even in death.
Regina looks at her as though stung. She puts a protective arm around Henry.
"Thank you for looking after him, Mother," Regina says stiffly.
Oh .
Well. Emma can say she's glad Cora Mills hasn't chosen to haunt her.
"It's the least I can do for the Mills legacy," Cora says. "Considering that you've banished me to the forest."
"We'll be going home now," Regina says, paying no heed to the ghost's complaint. And well, if Regina did banish the terrifying ghost of her mother to the forest, Emma doesn't think she's to be blamed. At all. "Thank you again, Mother," she says stiffly.
Emma is no one to comment on mothers or daughters, but it doesn't look like the easiest relationship.
She grabs the flying carpet and rolls it under her arm, ready to poof out of the accursed forest as soon as Regina is.
"Have you taken care of the boy's little problem yet?" Cora Mills says, sickly-sweet and poisonous.
Emma can feel herself bristle at her tone, even if she has no idea what Cora might be insinuating. Henry is right here . Whatever the kid might be, whatever issues might have prompted him to run away with a flying carpet and give his mother a heart attack, he's not a problem that has to be resolved.
Emma has had a lifetime of dealing with people who like to think of kids as problems, and frankly, she's had enough. She's getting ready to fight the ghost when Regina says, "It isn't any of your business, Mother. Good night."
And again, she reaches for Emma's arm without a word, and they apparate straight into the Mills living room.
Afterwards, Henry is the picture of penitence.
"I just wanted to see what I could do," he says, eyes fixed on the ground while Regina fusses over the scrapes on his arms and knees, and heals them one by one. "I didn't expect the carpet to be so… powerful. It's like it had a mind of it's own!"
"The flying carpet was a gift from Agrabah to your grandfather, Henry, you know that," Regina says gently. "Why did you think it would be anything but powerful?"
"I'm sorry," Henry says, genuinely penitent. Perhaps a wild magic carpet ride into the depths of the forest and a few hours in his ghostly grandmother's company was a sobering experience. "I just wanted to see what it's like to fly on my own," he says.
Regina looks at him for a moment — a silent conversation between mother and son that Emma doesn't quite grasp — and then presses a swift kiss on his forehead. "I understand that, I do, Henry," she says, sounding anguished. "But you have to stop being so reckless."
"I didn't mean to scare you," he says, eyes fixed on his feet. "I thought I'd be back before you found out."
Regina hugs him tight, pressing more kisses on his face that he allows without squirming away. Emma feels as though she's witnessing something intensely private, something she shouldn't be witnessing at all. But she's powerless, as always, to look away from this particular mother and son duo.
"We'll talk about your punishment in the morning, young man," Regina says when she draws back. There are tears in her eyes, but she's also smiling. "Don't think you aren't grounded for the rest of eternity."
"Ugh," Henry says.
"It's time for bed," Regina tells him. "But before that, you should apologize to Emma for disrupting her evening."
"No," Emma says, alarmed at the reference to her name. "I mean, it's not a big deal. I didn't have plans or anything." She realizes it makes her sound like a tremendous loser with no social life of her own to speak of, but then, Emma is exactly that — she really did not have any other plans than a leisurely dinner at Granny's and going to sleep in her office couch after watching a few more videos of the team's practice sessions. "You don't have to apologize!"
Henry gets up from the couch and enfolds her in a warm hug that she wasn't expecting.
Emma's never sure what to do in times like this, so she hesitantly wraps her arms around him.
"I'm sorry, Emma," he tells her, earnest. "I'm glad you came to find me."
"No problem, kiddo," she says, a little overwhelmed by this show of affection. "Just don't run away again."
Emma should leave, she really should, but she also cannot bring herself to move from her comfortable perch on Regina's couch.
It's only a little past eleven — they spent two hours or so in that accursed forest. She's a lot more tired than she imagined she would be. But then, she supposes, trudging through a dark forest and being accosted by ghosts will do that to you.
They're lucky it was just ghosts and not some other monsters in that forest. Regina's mother seemed pretty terrifying on her own, of course, and Emma's fairly certain her comments were meant to hurt Regina.
She doesn't know much about families or good mothers, but Emma can recognize a bad parent when she sees one — seven foster homes in eleven years offered her plenty of experience in that particular area. There's no way Cora Mills was a nice mom in any shape or form, and so of course she's chosen to stick around, just to harass her daughter even after death and lecture her about her grandson's problems.
She cannot imagine how exhausted Regina must be feeling at the moment. All the more reason for Emma to move and leave, let Regina be.
Regina looks wan when she comes downstairs, presumably after having put Henry to bed.
Emma is lost in thought when Regina comes downstairs, looking wan. None of her resolute energy remains, and what she's left with is very simply an exhausted set of her shoulders, a certain tightness in the corner of her eyes.
"I don't know how to begin to thank you," Regina begins, wringing her hands together. She's so human in this moment, so small that all Emma wants to do is just make her stop doing this, this hand-wringing and thanking Emma, like she's some sort of a hero.
"Anytime," Emma says with a smile. "You don't have to thank me or anything."
It's embarrassing, but at least she hasn't called him the savior like her son likes to do.
"I know that this is not something I should have asked you to do," Regina persists. "It's not your job —"
"Hey!" Emma protests. "It's not about my job, okay? I really do care about the kid."
"I know," Regina says with a small, grateful smile. "Still, thank you."
Their eyes meet, and Emma finds herself unable to look away.
"I know it's late and you probably need to rest," Regina says, suddenly hesitant, "but would you like a drink before you leave?"
"I could use a drink," Emma agrees.
They settle in Regina's study, glass of cider in hand.
The couch is even nicer here, so soft that Emma wants to lie down and never get up again. The truth is, she doesn't want to leave Regina alone after a harrowing evening like this, not right now, not so soon. She doesn't want to be alone after an evening like this.
Regina stares into the distance, her cider forgotten. The silence isn't awkward, exactly. It's... pensive.
"I should apologize too," Emma tells her eventually, needing to speak out loud the thought that's been on her mind all evening. This is her fault, to a certain extent. She needs to say that. "I shouldn't have introduced him to the joys of that carpet in the first place."
"You've already apologized for that," Regina says, still thoughtful."It was a matter of time, anyway. Henry has known about that carpet all his life. I'm just surprised that he didn't make away with it sooner."
"He's a curious kid," Emma says, unable to help the fond smile on her face.
"It's… more than that," Regina says, hesitant. She looks down, her face obscured by a mass of brown hair.
Emma waits for Regina to say more. It sounds like something she wants to discuss.
"It's… There's a reason why I asked you to never discuss flying or playing Quidditch with Henry," Regina says, sudden anguish in her voice. "I realise it's a lost cause, considering what I do for a living. It's his whole life. And our legacy." Her lips stretch out in a bitter smile.
Emma wants to reach out and hold her hand again. She could do that, if she just placed this glass down and —
"I adopted him from a no-maj adoption agency when he was three weeks old," Regina tells her. "I tried for years, but no one in the wizarding community would allow the Evil Queen to adopt a child. I was Leopold White's widow and I wasn't rich or white enough." There's enough hurt in her voice that Emma's heart aches in response. "There was always some excuse or the other, always something and I just, I just wanted a child, Emma. I wanted a child and I was so, so selfish. I wasn't thinking what it might mean to bring a child from a no-maj background into the magical world."
It strikes her, then. The shadows that sometimes descend on Henry's face. Cora's snide remarks on his problem.
"He doesn't have magic," Emma says. It's not a question.
"I don't know," Regina says. "He hasn't shown any sign so far. He understands more magical theory than most ten year olds, and he commands magical objects to the best of his ability, but he doesn't seem to have any innate command over magic. He might never develop the ability."
Emma's heart hurts.
She can't imagine what being called a Squib must have done to a boy as sensitive as Henry. The word might be deemed a slur now, but there's no way he hasn't heard kids say it. She can't imagine what the knowledge that he may never get a letter, never go off to magic school like most of his friends will must feel like for him.
She wonders if he's been bullied at school, if that's why he spends more time running around with the Sirens than with kids his own age.
"I'm not ashamed of it," Regina says, suddenly fierce. "I'm not ashamed of him. My son is a bright, curious boy and I'm proud of him."
"Hey," Emma says. This time she does reach out, and rest her hand gently on top of Regina's. "Henry is a wonderful kid. Anyone who thinks there's something to be ashamed of him should be ashamed of themselves," she says, with every ounce of conviction that she feels inside.
She has memories of her own childhood — of being the weird kid who doesn't fit in — resurfacing. The orphan, with no family and nowhere to go. What did that horrible ghost say? She has the look of someone who has been left behind.
"I grew up in the no-maj foster system," she says, earning a surprised glance from Regina. "I bounced around from house to house. I was always that weird kid who had strange things happen around her."
"You had magic," Regina says, nothing but compassion in her gaze. She laces her fingers through Emma's and holds her hand, firm.
"I did," Emma says. This isn't about her. Of course not. Emma is a grown woman, not a child. She just wants to get across to Regina that she understands. That Regina shouldn't beat herself up over something beyond her control, especially when she's given Henry the most precious gift of them all — she's given him a home and loved him. "I was terrified all the time," she tells Regina. "I was convinced no one wanted me because there was something wrong with me. I was ashamed of who I was. Regina, I would have killed to have a mother who loved me and accepted me as I was, even if I was this weird freak who made things explode and talked to snakes."
She remembers telling Regina, in a fit of anger, haven't you noticed how unhappy he is?
Emma Swan is an idiot.
But Regina is listening to her in rapt attention, soaking Emma's words in. "You adopted him and loved him," Emma tells her. "That's more than a lot of parents manage."
"Sometimes I think it isn't enough," Regina says, shaking her head. "I have done my best to equip him for the world he will face. But it isn't fair on him. It's… cruel . He found out last year about the adoption, and he's been resentful ever since."
Emma squeezes her hand, and lets Regina talk.
"He has always wanted to fly," Regina says. It's like a dam has burst within her, and she has to get all the words out. "He kept trying again and again. When kids his age were beginning to play around with brooms, he couldn't even get his broomstick to get off the ground. Once, he jumped off a tree on his broomstick and broke his leg in three places."
Emma can understand that. Flying is the only time she feels completely at ease with herself. It's something she's wanted to long before she knew the truth about her magic.
"I was so scared. And he's so stubborn, so reckless, sometimes," Regina says with a shudder. Emma holds her hand a little tighter.
To look on, always from the outside — that's never easy. Even more so when you're just a kid, asking questions that can have no answers, trying to figure out your place in the world.
"I'm sorry, I — I didn't meant to unload everything on you." Regina says. "It was —" She wipes at her face with her other hand, the one that isn't holding Emma's. Her eyes are red and swollen from tears.
"No," Emma cuts her short, before she can apologize again. "I'm glad you talked to me. I'm, well. I'm here if you ever need to, again."
Emma's no good with words but she can be here, at least. Be present, and listen, should Regina ever need her to.
"It's very late. I can prepare the guest room for you tonight," Regina says, suddenly hostess-like, even if she makes no move to pull her hand away from Emma's.
"You don't have to," Emma says, awkward. "I can just head home."
"I'm well aware that you have been spending most nights in your office, Coach Swan," Regina tells her. "While I'm all for a coach who works hard for my team, I'm going to have to insist that you get a good night's sleep."
"All right," Emma says. There's no arguing with Regina when she speaks in that tone.
Henry wakes her up in the morning, poking at Emma with a finger until she's forced to open her eyes and say, "What time is it?"
Regina's guest bed is nice and comfortable, much like the rest of the furniture in her house. It's a house meant to be lived in, with little touches of the people who inhabit the house here and there. There's a few books in the bookshelf, their pages yellowed and well-worn. There's a photograph of Henry and Regina on the wall. Henry is practically a baby in the photo, his cheeks plump and red and his smile missing a few teeth. Regina in the photo keeps pressing kisses on his forehead, looking happier than Emma has ever seen her.
"It's past eight," Henry tells her. "Mom says I should wake you up for breakfast."
" Past eight? " Emma throws off the covers, nearly falling over in her hurry to get out of bed.
"Relax," Henry says, grinning. "Mom already told Lancelot that you'll miss practise today, it's fine ."
Emma breathes a sigh of relief at that. She has done her best to set a good precedent about being present and punctual. It would not do to fall back into old habits.
He's waiting for her when she emerges out of the shower, comfortably settled on the unmade bed and flipping through the pages of a copy of Hippogryffs and Centaurs: A Journey Across Central America . He puts the book aside and looks at her, thoughtful. He looks like a mini-Regina with that expression, Emma thinks, helplessly charmed, yet again, by this little family of theirs.
"Mom said she told you about —"
"Your adoption?" Emma says, cutting him short. "Yeah, she did."
"Do you think there's something wrong with me?" Henry blurts. His eyes are wide and fearful, as though he expects Emma to dismiss him, now and forever, now that she knows that he may never have magic.
Emma's heart aches. She moves towards the bed and kneels, in one fluid motion, so that they're eye-to-eye. "Kid, there's nothing wrong with you, okay?"
"But— "
"No buts," Emma says. "You know I grew up in the no-maj world, right? Most people out there don't have magic, and they're doing just fine ."
Henry nods, still hesitant. "I'm sorry about last night," he says. "I just wanted to see if I could fly on my own."
"You've already said that," she tells him. Emma reaches out and squeezes his shoulder, and then musses his hair until he protests. But he's smiling now, seemingly reassured. "You're still a freak, though," Emma says, pursing her lips in mock-seriousness. "I mean, what sort of a nerd likes homework?"
"It's important to know things, Emma," he tells her with the same mock-seriousness, but his eyes are very bright, smiling.
Regina has made them breakfast: a simple eggs on toast and bacon breakfast that is, without question, the best breakfast Emma has had in a while.
Emma all but inhales the food, conscious of the way Regina is looking at her, her expression unreadable. Perhaps she's just thinking about how rude Emma is, gobbling her breakfast up like a pig. But it's hard to stop when the food is this good, and Regina doesn't seem to mind her taking another helping of eggs.
She reaches for her hand again, right before Emma takes her leave. "Thank you, for everything," she tells Emma, a small, genuine smile on her face.
Emma isn't sure what she says in response, because she doesn't think she's capable of coherent thought or speech when Regina keeps holding her hand like that.