Chapter Twenty Four

That night, when Emma was pressed up against the bars of a cold jail cell with Moe's sweaty hand wrapped around her throat, she forced herself to watch as Regina entered the room. Her face was flat, expressionless. Her eyes weren't their usual caramel brown, but a black that was so dark that even the strange silver-blue light of the sheriff station seemed to be sucked into them. They weren't blinking. They watched blankly as Emma thrashed against Moe's unyielding grip, trying to cry out and failing as those thick fingers tightened around her neck.

But then, for the first time, Regina reached out a hand.

She was too far away from the cell wall for her fingers to make it through the bars, but if Emma stretched her arm through them then she might just about be able to latch onto her. She wasn't sure what that would achieve, but she knew that just the mere feeling of holding Regina beneath her fingers might be enough to stop her from screaming when the cold gun disappeared from its position at the base of her skull and inevitably went off in her ear.

Gritting her teeth together, Emma forced her arm through the bars that seemed so much narrower than usual and clawed at the air that separated her from Regina's unmoving, unsympathetic frame. The tips of her fingers grazed against Regina's for a split second. In that moment, something changed.

The body pressed up against her was suddenly cold. The hand around her throat was smaller, cooler, and sharp nails were piercing against the thin skin over her jugular. Emma tried to ignore the transformation, just like she was trying ignore the spicy scent that had slowly begun to fill the cell. It was the smell of perfume and pancake syrup and wicked smiles, and it reminded her far too much of the very person that she was reaching out for.

Tears were streaming down her burning cheeks, but even through them she could see that the Regina who was stood in front of her wasn't the same Regina that she was inhaling.

The feeling of the body that was pressed up against her back was too familiar – even beneath the tightly laced corset and the thick skirts that seemed to be sitting between them, Emma could feel every curve of her body. She had them memorized.

She could hear her throaty chuckle in her ear as those nails pressed harder against her throat.

When she reached out once more, still desperately trying to get the black-eyed Regina to take her hand, something stopped her arm from working. Something that felt like gravity – like a magnetic force that made her skin glow blue and her fingers tingle – froze her arm in mid air. It somehow felt worse than the gun that was still resting against the back of her neck.

She snapped her head around to try and look at the person who had taken Moe's place. The sudden crack of a metal object against the side of her skull blinded her, and the inevitable bang of gunfire jolted her awake.

Emma's t-shirt was sticking to her body and her hair was plastered across her face, but she hadn't sprung upright like she normally did. She rubbed a hand over her eyes, the thundering sound of her own pulse throbbing painfully against her temples. She couldn't catch her breath fast enough.

When she opened her eyes again, she remembered where she was. She realised why she was quite so warm.

Regina was curled up against her back, her right arm flung over Emma's waist and her warm mouth pressed up against the base of her neck. Emma swallowed. Normally, that was the single best feeling in the world. But tonight… something else had been pressed against that same spot only seconds earlier, and she could already feel her toes curling with the desperate need to get away from it.

Lifting the arm away from her hip, she peeled her burning hot body away from Regina's and slipped out of the bed. She walked over to the window, throwing the curtains open so that she could hang her head outside and wait for the freezing cold Maine air to sober her up again. It made her eyes sting and dragged the damp hairs on the back of her neck up until they stood on end, but her head remained as cloudy as ever.

She let out a shuddering breath, resting her elbows on the windowsill. Storybrooke was silent outside of the window, which only made the drumming sound inside her head echo even louder.

After a few moments she began to pace around Regina's bedroom, her hands reaching up to peel her hair away from her neck so that she could begin to wrestle it into a damp braid that fell across one shoulder. Her fingers shook as she did so and half of her hair escaped almost at once, but she kept on braiding until she had run out of curls. Her breath was still coming out in short, sharp bursts that seemed to rattle from her chest, and where she had previously been burning hot she suddenly felt bitterly, freezing cold.

She stopped pacing for a moment, her eyes drifting back across to the bed where Regina still lay asleep.

The sharp scent of her still hung about her from her dream. The feeling of someone that felt so much like her, and yet so inconceivably, impossibly different, pressing up against her back with all the venom in the world holding her prisoner against those bars was still pinching at her shoulder blades. And yet all she wanted to do was crawl back between those sheets, shake Regina awake, and simply ask her to hold her. She wanted her to tell her that it was only a dream. To effortlessly remind her that she would never do anything to hurt her like Moe had done – ever.

But she saw the dark shadows that, even then, were pooling under Regina's eyes from weeks of little or no sleep, and she swallowed down the desire to drag her away from her own dreams. Clenching her fists by her sides, Emma released another rattling breath. Then she slowly let her feet lead her over to the other side of the room, where Regina's vanity table was.

The light that was streaming in from the moon was a watery shade of silver, and Emma's heartbeat tripped over itself when she noticed how similar it was to that same light that washed over her in her dreams. Pulling out the stool that lived beneath the table, she sat herself down, cross-legged, and rested her arms on her knees. She kept her eyes down for a few moments, listening to the jagged sounds of her own breathing and trying to distinguish it from the gentle inhales that were coming from the bed behind her. The rush of blood in her ears seemed to drown everything else out, but Regina sleeping was the one thing that she could still somehow hear. It was the only thing that made her fingernails stop digging into the palms of her hands.

When she looked up, she flinched at the sight of her reflection in the mirror. The blue-silver light that was snaking in through the open window was casting odd shadows across her face, and with her plaited hair hanging down across one of her hunched shoulders, she almost looked like a child.

Almost.

The angle of the moonlight meant that every line – every crease and wrinkle and furrow – looked like they had been drawn onto her skin with a pen. Her lips were fiercely downturned, her eyebrows were knitted together, and the lines that ran across her forehead suddenly looked like trenches.

But worse than that was the scar. The goddamn scar that she couldn't take her eyes off of.

Most days, she managed to avoid looking at the thick silver line that Moe had left embedded in her temple. Over the last few months she had learned how to tilt her head to one side when she walked past mirrors; how to smooth her make up over it perfectly flat without looking up. But now, the moonlight seemed to be swallowed by it. Just like Regina's dark, soulless eyes in her dream, the deep scar that was carved into the side of her head dragged the light cleanly out of the air and left her with a heavyset trench that made her face looked unbalanced, and ugly, and undeniably broken.

She could hide everything that Moe had done to her. Everything, except that scar.

She felt her heartbeat growing curiously slower as her eyes glued themselves to it. As it did so, an empty, tinny feeling seemed to wrap its fingers around her chest. It felt like there was suddenly nothing inside of it anymore: the thudding of her pulse disintegrated into absolutely nothing, and gradually all that she was left with was the cold empty feeling between her ribs that told her, after months of desperately trying to convince herself otherwise, that she was just as damaged and alone and unlovable as she'd always suspected.

She sat and she stared at herself for longer than she could count. It was only when the moon was finally trying to disappear behind the window frame that Regina finally stirred.

It was the cold that woke her: not the bitter iciness of the Maine winter that was sweeping in through the open window, but the chill that came from Emma no longer being by her side.

Rubbing a hand over her eyes, Regina propped herself up on one arm and looked blearily around the room. She was mostly expecting to see a faint light coming from under the bathroom door, telling her that Emma would be back in bed with her in less than a minute – but the door was wide open, and the room was dark. The only light that filled the room came from the parted curtains, where the weak, silvery moon was still leaking in from behind the glass.

Regina rubbed her eyes more vigorously, sitting herself upright in her half-empty bed. It was odd how Emma, whose body was so thin that it often hurt Regina to wrap her arms around it and whose natural temperature was somewhere dangerously close to freezing, could make her bed feel so warm that when she was absent from it, Regina could no longer sleep. Her arms felt empty. When she had woken up her hands had been clawing at the sheets, reaching for something that suddenly wasn't there anymore.

And then she saw the movement in the corner of the room. She saw Emma hunched over on the stool, cross-legged, peering at her own reflection with unblinking eyes.

Regina almost called out to her. Leaning back on her arm once more, she lazily smiled and watched the way that Emma's half-formed braid was dangling so childishly down the side of her body. She waited for Emma to feel her gaze on her.

But she didn't, and Regina slowly realised why:

Emma was crying.

Her left hand had reached up to her face and, after outstretching her index finger, she was dragging it down the trench that had been left there. At first it was a curious, almost tentative gesture – but then Regina watched as she repeated it, again and again, digging her fingernail into her own skin until even in that pale light Regina could see that it was turning pink.

It was when she noticed the smear of red at the end of Emma's finger that Regina finally jolted out of her haze. Emma was looking at herself with eyes that were sad and cold, and Regina knew without question that if she left her to look at herself like that for a moment longer, she would tear the rest of her skin off just to stop herself from having anything left to hate.

Regina flung her legs over the side of the bed and made her way across to that half-lit corner of the room.

Emma only seemed to notice her presence when she was crouched directly beside her, looking up at her tear-streaked face like she was looking up at Henry. Emma's hand paused in its movements, trembling against the bleeding skin.

Swallowing against her dry mouth, Regina slowly reaching out her own to take hold of Emma's blood-stained fingers. After resisting for a moment, Emma eventually let Regina pull it back down to her side.

She still didn't look down at the woman who was kneeling by her side. Keeping her eyes firmly fixed on her dazed reflection, she swallowed and let another wave of tears roll down her cheeks.

Regina reached up and tentatively touched the side of her face. As she let her thumb slowly trace down the now slightly deepened groove there, Emma shivered.

Her green eyes fell closed.

'Are you okay?' Regina murmured, continuing to stroke the side of her face as gently as she could. She could feel the hot, sticky blood clinging onto her fingers and it made her stomach clench, but she still didn't stop.

Emma swallowed, her eyes still closed. After a moment she shrugged.

'Sometimes.'

Slowly standing up, Regina moved behind Emma and slid her arms around her neck. She felt the immediate weight of Emma's chin resting on them, quickly accompanied by the slight stickiness of the tears that were still falling.

'But not tonight,' Regina whispered. It wasn't a question.

Emma shook her head anyway, sucking in a breath that rattled around inside her cold chest.

'No,' she said flatly. 'Not tonight.'

Regina paused. She watched Emma in the mirror for a moment, looking at the sharp dents beneath her collar bone and the white streak that ran down her face from where she had carved her own skin away. She felt the jut of her spine pressing against her stomach in a way that she somehow never seemed to when she was moving against her between her sheets.

She removed her arms from around her neck and leaned across Emma's shoulder. Dragging her damp, uncurling braid away from the side of her face, Regina leant forwards and pressed her lips against her temple. She tasted the metallic tang of blood and the sharp, saltiness of tears. It broke her heart.

But when she stood upright and held out her hand, Emma took it. She let Regina lead her back over to the bed and clambered back between the sheets without a word.

Regina didn't think about how she was going to get blood on her Egyptian cotton. When she curled up against Emma's back and wound her arms tightly around her waist, she somehow didn't even notice that her shirt was still clinging to her with sweat. Instead she nuzzled her face against Emma's sharp shoulder blade, breathing in the sleepy, cloudy scent of her. When she paused she realised that she could hear Emma doing the same thing.

'I'd recognise that smell anywhere,' Emma muttered sleepily.

Regina frowned against her back. 'What?'

Emma sniffled, pressing her throbbing temple more firmly against the cool pillow.

'I think it was the Evil Queen,' she said, her exhausted sentence blending together into one long word.

Regina flinched.

'…what was the Evil Queen?' she asked. Her voice was strained.

'She was in my dream.'

'She… she was?'

'Mm,' Emma murmured, reaching up for a moment to wipe her face with the back of her fist. 'Yeah.'

Regina swallowed, tightening her grip around Emma's waist. 'What was she doing?'

There was a pause, and for a moment Regina thought that Emma had fallen asleep. But then she wriggled closer, lacing their legs together.

'She was Moe.'

Regina froze, something cold dropping inside of her stomach. She opened her mouth to say something, but somehow words eluded her.

'But it's okay,' Emma continued on the wave of another yawn. She had felt Regina's body stiffening, but she couldn't see the way that her dark eyes had turned glassy. 'Because it wasn't you.'

'...it wasn't?'

'No. It was Henry's character.' Emma sniffled again, burying her face into the pillow. 'You wouldn't hurt me. You're not her. And you're definitely not him.'

She fell quiet then, her breathing becoming heavier. Regina was left to stare at the grey fabric of her shirt with something sharp scratching at the back of her throat.

She tightened her arms around Emma's waist, resting her cheek against her shoulder. She was so thin, but so warm.

She was so broken.

So unaware of who the hell she had just said those words to.

'Doesn't Miss Blanchard mind that you're never at home anymore?' Henry suddenly asked. Emma looked up from her mostly-full plate, raising her eyebrows.

Henry hadn't asked about the enormous band aid on the side of her face. He had somehow known not to.

'She's okay with it,' Emma replied after a moment, dragging her fork through a mound of mashed potato. She chose not to mention the fact that Mary Margaret hardly knew about her absence, because she herself was out of the apartment with David at least five nights a week. 'She knows that I'm spending time with you.'

'She doesn't miss you?'

'Nope,' Emma shrugged. Her posture was more slumped than usual. 'Guess I'm not very missable, kid.'

Unsure as to whether she was joking or not, Henry awkwardly laughed. Emma had been impossibly subdued all night, and it hadn't escaped him that Regina had been doing her absolute utmost to try and cheer her up.

For some reason they both still seemed to think that his being ten meant that he was also blind: that evening he had caught every single worried glance that Regina had thrown across the table towards her, and it was making his head hurt. He was being kept out of something again. Something more than just the fact that Emma was in a bad mood.

His eyes fell back onto that band aid and he frowned.

'Henry, sweetheart,' Regina suddenly said, making him jump. 'I think we've probably all finished our dinner – would you like to go and get dessert for me?'

Henry blinked.

'We haven't cleared the table yet,' he said slowly.

She just smiled.

'I know that,' she said, nodding towards the kitchen. 'It's okay. There's rocky road in the freezer.'

He glanced back across at Emma, who had since dropped her fork onto her plate but was still staring down into the pile of uneaten potato. After a moment he climbed down from his chair, shuffling across the dining room and into the hallway. Knowing that Regina wouldn't say a word until the kitchen door was closed, he slammed it shut behind him.

'Emma,' he heard her whispering as soon as he pressed his ear up against it, the ice cream clutched between his hands. 'Please. You have to stop this.'

'Stop what?' Emma mumbled. 'I'm not doing anything.'

'You're worrying me,' Regina said. 'And you're worrying Henry too. Can't you see that?'

'Of course I can see that, Regina,' Emma snapped. 'You don't think I hate myself enough today? I don't need to be made to feel guilty about this as well.'

Regina sighed. 'I'm not trying to make you feel guilty, Emma. I'm just concerned. Really concerned. I just want you to tell me what—'

'I'm fine.'

'Oh, for god's sake. Please don't start playing that old record again. I'm not an idiot.'

'And I'm not talking about this now.'

'You're not talking about this ever, it would seem.'

'Jesus Christ. Regina—'

'Emma, please.' Henry frowned. He had never heard his mother sound quite that… desperate before. 'Just look at me. Okay? Look at me. I'm just trying to help. You know that, don't you? I'm not trying to make things difficult, or make you feel uncomfortable, or any of those things that you probably still have every right to feel suspicious about. I'm just trying to help you. I swear.'

There was a pause, and then Henry heard Emma sigh.

'I know,' she said quietly. 'I'm sorry – of course I know. I just… it's hard.'

'I know.'

'I'm not trying to push you out.'

'I know that too.'

'Just… I freaked out. That's all. I'm still freaking out. But… I'll be okay.'

Another pause. '…are you sure about that?'

'No,' Emma said. Henry sighed when he heard the smile come back into her voice. 'But I'll become better at hiding it when I'm not.'

Regina snorted with laughter. 'There's the mentally unstable sheriff that I know so well.'

Emma chuckled in response. Then she said quietly, 'Yeah… here I am.'

When they both fell silent, Henry took it as his cue to walk back into the room. Holding the melting ice cream against his chest, he nudged the door open with his knee and stepped out into the hallway.

He nearly dropped it when he saw his mothers through the doorway.

Regina's hand was resting on the table. Underneath it, with its fingers inexplicably laced through Regina's, was Emma's.

His mouth went very, very dry. He found himself stumbling back into the kitchen before either of them could spot him.

He dropped the ice cream on the counter and ran his icy fingers through his hair.

That wasn't… I must have seen it wrong. They couldn't be. They weren't…

Although he knew exactly what he had seen. He was a boy who was hidden from most things, and so had learned to see them all. He had seen Regina gently stroking Emma's palm with the pad of her thumb, and he had seen the way that Emma's cheeks had flushed a deep, contented pink.

He shook his head. How…?

He couldn't seem to finish the question. He wasn't sure whether he was more confused by how this had happened, or how he hadn't let himself truly believe it before now.

He was pacing around the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest, when he heard his name.

'Henry?' Regina called from the other side of the door. 'Are you alright?'

Within a second Henry had grabbed hold of the melting ice cream, skidded back across the kitchen to the freezer and thrown it towards the back.

'I'm fine,' he replied, hearing footsteps reaching the door. 'I just can't find the ice cream.'

Regina was at his side a moment later, bending down to the same level as him. As she peered into the freezer, he turned his gaze to rest on her face.

She's happy, he realised. She's so, so happy.

'Here it is,' she said, smiling at him as she reached to the very back of the freezer to pull it out. 'Do you want to get the bowls?'

'Sure,' he said, dragging his eyes away from her.

As he stumbled across the room to collect the dishes, Regina looked down at the tub of ice cream in her hand.

She frowned.

It's warm, she thought, squeezing her fingers against the sides of the tub. They bended.

…how is it warm?