AN: These chapters are short, and I apologize for that, but I'm too impatient to combine more snippets together to make them longer.
"I just don't want him driving." Regina said to Emma while they both stood on her front porch, and her eyes kept glancing at the sulking boy that was waiting for the blonde in her car. Because he was sixteen now, and had been for weeks, and all he wanted was his license, and he knew Regina was the reason he wasn't getting it.
"You don't want him to pick out his own cloths for school." Emma laughed, and Regina glared, but the blonde continued. "He's grown, not growing—just grown. I mean, you can't tell me you don't notice it."
Of course she noticed it, his deepened voice that no longer cracked from puberty, his height that was even surpassing Emma, and he most definitely towered over her. God, he was even shaving now, and wearing cologne and spiking his hair before going to school. It was too fast, and too much, and she didn't like the way it made her feel.
"Driving is a gateway." Regina tried to reason with the blonde, but it just made the other woman look flabbergasted.
"To what? Adulthood? Be honest with me, you're thinking about putting an age reversal spell on him, aren't you?" She finished with a smirk, making the Mayor sigh slightly.
"Of course not. But he gets a car, he starts making friends—"
"Gasp! No!" She didn't appreciate the sarcasm or the fact that she was taking Henry's growth so lightly.
"Friends of bad influence, which leads to drinking and driving, and necking in the backseat with girls of loose morals." Regina tried to explain her concerns as innocently as possible, never really knowing what was appropriate and what was proper, because sometimes Emma looked at her like she was now, just another mother, and too strict on their son so the other woman joked and teased. But sometimes Regina would say something, with some kind of tone, that would make Emma get really quiet and watch her for a moment. But she never told Regina what it was that she said, why it was wrong, or inappropriate, Emma just always shrugged and said; nothing.
And Regina was starting to annoy Emma with her talking innocently and concerned, and that annoyed Regina in turn.
"…I keep forgetting that you're a hundred years old." She mumbled while pressing into her temple, mocking a headache at the older woman's words.
"Drugs and fucking. Is that better?" Regina raised an eyebrow, and Emma rolled her eyes.
"A car won't do that."
"Him growing up will." She answered quietly, her arms crossing defensively, as she looked over at Henry again and her eyes narrowed at the sight of him distracted with his phone.
"We didn't suck that much raising him, did we?" Emma asked sympathetically, causing Regina's gaze to go on her once more. "I mean, you know he's the last person to do any kind of drugs, and so what if he gets a girlfriend?"
"So what?" She questioned incredulously and angry, because teen pregnancy, STD's, and just the thought of her son on top of some random girl—and the things they would do…It was a frightening and horrible thing to think.
And then Emma got quiet again, and watched her for a moment, before responding seriously.
"He should have a girlfriend, Regina. It's a little odd that he doesn't."
They were watching a movie on the couch together, which didn't happen very often anymore, so she decided to enjoy it while she could. It was late in the night, both of them already dressed for bed, and the film was probably too young for him, but she always had a hard time judging these sorts of things, and Henry didn't complain. As the time went on, they tried to adjust themselves, and get comfortable, and he tried to cuddle up to her as he always did, but his size and shape was so different, that it made it awkward.
"You're too tall." She said with a smile, as he shifted uncomfortably while his head was on her shoulder.
"Then we'll switch." He decided, with a bass in his voice that she chalked up to the lateness of the night. He sat up again and put his arm around her shoulders, which made her tense for a moment, but then he was nudging her towards him, and she finally relented, leaning into him, with her head on his chest. This was better, she decided, soaking in the warm feeling of his arm around her, there was nothing wrong with this. She listened to his heartbeat through his worn and faded tee shirt, and his fingers started to trace wide and lazy circles on her arm, causing goose bumps to raise under the thin silk material of her pajama top. It caused her to just melt against him, not even thinking of him, but more of the intimacy of it, something she had been without for so long.
There was nothing wrong with it.
Nothing wrong with just closing her eyes and imagining he was anyone else with a steady heartbeat and broad shoulders and warm skin. Anyone else that started to move his fingers to play with her hair and placed a gentle and soft kiss on the top of her head.
But it wasn't anyone else. It was Henry, and the kiss caused her to tense against him. He felt it too, asking her what was wrong. She wasn't sure, but she knew something was wrong with this. So she sat up quickly, trying to shake away some of the lightheadedness that he caused her. And his hands went to his lap a little too quickly, trying to hide the growing bulge underneath flannel pajama pants. And that was happening more and more lately, but Regina did what she always did and looked anywhere else, pretending not to notice. Because she didn't want to embarrass him, didn't want to give him any more cause to spend any more time in his room, playing music, and sulking, and doing God knows what.
She almost asked Emma once, if she had noticed it—if it happened when he was with his other mother, but just thinking about asking her such a ridiculous and obviously inappropriate question made her blush instead. She had read books, they said there wasn't anything wrong with it. Sometimes it's spontaneous for boys his age.
But Regina didn't think it was spontaneous, because it was always happening when he was around her—because of her. When she would touch him a certain way, or wear certain outfits. But she always had a hard time judging these sorts of things, so perhaps she was exaggerating her effect on him. She probably was. Of course she was.
It was frightening and horrible at how awkward and tense the mood became as they sat on the couch in silence, so he made some mumbled excuse of being tired and going to bed, and she looked down to her hands as he walked past her to go back up to his room, to do God knows what.