I finally feel like I know where I'm going in the story again. I didn't realize how overwhelming taking on Emma's condition would be, but I've got it down now! Again, thank you all for the lovely comments and likes. Keep 'em coming, they keep me motivated! Enjoy!

Henry mostly stayed to himself during the little party, swimming in his own turmoil. Just when he had finally dealt with the truth about his mother and her feelings for Emma, now he had yet another impossible task thrust upon his shoulders.

Emma didn't remember what had happened to her. She didn't remember trying to run away. She didn't remember her argument with Henry. Worst of all, she didn't remember the nearly deadly turnover that Regina had prepared for her nemesis. Now, the boy was at a loss for what truth to give his birthmother.

There was no doubt that he would soon be questioned by Emma, having overheard Ms Blanchard telling her that he had indeed witnessed what happened to the blonde. But what could he say? If he told Emma that Regina tried to kill her, well... One of two things could happen: She could scoff and refuse to believe the boy, memory still unrepaired, or she could remember and hate Regina forever.

If the latter happened, Henry could lose his newfound hope for a family he had been deprived of since birth. And for a young boy who believed his father dead, the prospect of losing his chance at being a part of something whole made his chest clench oddly.

Henry recalled the day after Emma woke up, rushing over to the mayoral mansion, practically skipping with joy. He knew what had to have happened for the town's beloved sheriff to be free of her coma. He knew his mom had finally done what she was meant to, had finally done what she promised him. He had never felt prouder of her in his short life.

He burst in through the front door, not even bothering to shed his coat, scarf or sneakers. He started shouting excitedly for his mother, peeking in all the rooms, looking for the immaculate mayor, and his new personal hero. The brunette descended from the stairs, hair wet from a shower, and wearing nothing but satin pajamas and a warm robe.

Henry collided into her, giving the shocked woman a huge hug. "You did it! You woke her up! I didn't think you would!" He felt his mother stiffen under his hold.

"I didn't do anything." Her voice was terse, her eyes distant.

Henry pulled away, trying to find the game in her face, but she was impassive, putting up her thickest walls that even he had never managed to see around. "What do you mean? You kissed her, right? Emma's awake, so you must've kissed her. Like you promised."

"Just why would I do anything for that repulsive woman?" Her words cut deep, and she was trying not to pay attention to the hurt in her son's eyes.

"What are you doing? Why are you saying this?"

"I don't know what you mean, Henry. I've kissed nobody, least of all the sheriff."

Henry felt angry tears stinging his eyes. He couldn't seem to figure out what his mom was up to. She had resisted him before on this, but he knew the same thing she did: that only she could wake Emma, and only with a kiss. So why was she pretending? Why wouldn't she look at him?

"Mom...?" He saw her jaw flex at the word. "Why are you lying?" He put more venom into his words than he had intended, but that wasn't his primary concern at the moment.

"I am not lying, Henry." She still spoke in clipped tones, never fully making eye contact.

"Yes you are! Why!? You can tell me the truth!" He stamped his foot petulantly, now beyond frustrated. Regina remained silent, staring straight ahead, arms clasped tightly across her chest. He noticed her knuckles were white with how hard she was gripping her biceps. Something clicked in his brain.

"She doesn't remember," he said quietly. Her eyes flicked down to his briefly, looking for any trace of a lie. "She's got amnesia, and she doesn't remember that you tried to kill her." Henry said the last part evenly, but with a tinge of accusation to his voice, just enough to alert his mother to the truth of things.

"So, if that's why you're scared-"

"I am not scared. Nor will I ever be scared of anything involving that woman," she spat, and Henry felt like she was completely unaware that he was her son, and not some mindless lackey of hers.

"...Emma doesn't have to know," he said in a small voice, feeling guilty for even entertaining the idea. He noticed the slight tremble to her lips when he spoke those words.

"She will, Henry. Retrograde amnesia doesn't last forever." The waver in her voice was almost imperceptible. Almost. But Henry was very acute to those subtle shifts in body language, thanks to his years being raised by the woman standing before him.

"What if she forgives you?" Henry wonders if the hope he injected into his voice would do any good.

"She won't." The words were not only final, but he could also hear the defeat in her voice, a sound that was totally foreign to him in regards to the always confident and victorious mayor he called his mother. It deeply unsettled him.

"She's good. She has to forgive you! You're her True Love! And Love always finds a way!" His earnest words were met with nothing but a disbelieving scoff. He knew right then that there would be no dissuading the brunette from what she had convinced herself of. At least not right then.

"I'm really disappointed in you, Mom." He chose those words precisely, knowing that they would do the most damage before turning his back on her. He never saw the tears rolling down the pale cheeks of the rigid woman as he walked out of the door.

Henry was really only pretending to read the comic in his hands while he wrestled with himself. A few people tried to talk to him during the party, but he made it politely clear that he wasn't too interesting in socializing. He just wanted to be alone with his thoughts for the time being.

What if Emma did hate Regina for what she did? Not that anyone could really blame her; after all, Regina did try to murder her with a turnover. Even so, Henry couldn't fight the knots twisting in his stomach. It had been bad enough that his moms were constantly at each other's throats since the moment Emma decided to stay in Storybrooke, but Henry wasn't sure if he could handle a full-blown war. He's not sure that either woman would survive either.

He knew that there had been nothing but contempt between them during their rivalry and private battle for Henry, but there were still times when they managed to stand together, or share conversations that bordered on civility.

If Emma were to discover the truth, there might never be a moment of peace between his mothers again. Even worse, what if Emma wanted to take revenge on Regina? What if she wanted to repay her in kind for what Regina tried to do to her? He shuddered at the thought. Henry tried to convince himself that, though the Evil Queen may stoop to murder, the Savior was better than that. She had to be. But a nagging little voice reminded him that his birthmother had led a far from saintly life before coming to their little hamlet. He fought down another shudder.

Does this mean he should lie? Henry tried to bite back the fear that had risen in his chest at the idea of his mothers' potentially impending war. Maybe, he could pretend to be a little too traumatized at what he had witnessed to avoid telling Emma about everything that had happened on the night she tried to run. If he was lucky, he could delay until her memories returned on their own.

But that still left her in the situation of knowing what happened. It still left her knowing that Regina tried to murder her. And then the battle would begin. Maybe... He faltered, questioning his next idea. Maybe if Emma heard the truth from his mom, heard the sorrow and regret he hoped that she would express, maybe an all out war could be avoided.

If she heard it from Regina, the confession from the perpetrator, he doesn't know how, but he imagined that perhaps the blow would be softened. Even that sounded crazy to him, and he lived in a town comprised of cursed fairy tale characters.

Another problem surfaced, and he scrunched his face in frustration. Despite his mom's denials, Henry knew she kissed Emma. He knew with all of his heart that she woke her rival with True Love's Kiss. Did she linger long enough to see Emma's eyes open? Or did she run the moment her lips connected with the Savior's? Gross.

Did Emma see Regina? Did she feel the kiss? He thought that somehow Emma wasn't aware of how she was roused, considering that she hadn't mentioned it in any way. If there was one thing he knew about the blonde, it was that she wouldn't be able to keep her mouth shut about something involving Regina in any way - physical or otherwise. Considering that she hadn't mentioned his mother in her waking moment, Henry figured that Regina somehow managed to vanish before Emma became completely conscious.

He felt kind of sad at that. Maybe things would be different if Emma had known what and who had broken her from her dreadful coma. Maybe if she had seen Regina over her, felt her lips - gross! - then maybe Emma would finally believe in her destiny, in the power of Love and the Curse. His chest clenched again, knowing that the Savior was still a long way off from seeing the truth...about everything.

The party had dissipated after a few hours of pleasant, albeit sometimes uncomfortable chatting with her friends. Emma felt exhausted physically and mentally after all of the questions lobbed her way.

There was no denying that Storybrooke loved gossip, and its inhabitants liked to pry. They knew well enough not to ask if she remembered anything about the night she fell ill, but that didn't stop other queries from popping up. Archie was particularly interested to know if she had had any dreams or moments of lucidity during her month of unconsciousness.

The answer to her question was a resounding yes, but she lied and said she couldn't recall having any dreams. Emma suppressed a shudder from wracking her body, both from the memories of those dreams and from the chill that still clung to her right down to her bones.

She had endured the most dismaying nightmares she had ever had in her entire life. It felt like she was being forced to relive every horror, every regret and every pain Emma had ever experienced in her twenty-eight years of life. Nightmares were nothing foreign to the blonde, but they were always somehow a little bit vague, fudging the details, curbing the pain a bit. What she had suffered during her coma had been vivid, exact, and brutal in its truth and cruelty.

And yet, there were moments of reprieve. They were brief, inexplicable, and undeniably relieving in their presence. They all involved a figure she couldn't identify, but it was someone she was sure she knew, or at least desperately wanted to know. This person was warm, gentle and almost a little hesitant with all of their endeavors.

She remembered a tender holding of hands mostly. The stranger's skin was hot, a sensation Emma tried to recapture constantly considering how perpetually frozen she seemed to be. This faceless figure would hold her hand, gently, as though Emma was made of glass. They would murmur things to her, though she never could make out the words, or even the gender of the voice. Just deep, rich rumblings.

Sometimes they sounded scared, and it made Emma's heart lurch. Other times those indistinct utterances felt soft but with a layer of insecurity and trepidation, as if they were unsure as to whether or not they should be saying what they were. All the while, her faceless companion held her hand.

Then, there were the moments when the figure would bring their blissfully hot fingers to her own face, and Emma desperately wanted to cover that hand with her own. She needed to keep that contact that made her heart soar in a way she'd never felt before, knowing that the moment they separated, her mystery friend would melt into frigid darkness, and the memories would return. No matter how hard she tried, she could not move, and she felt as though she was screaming in desperation to do so.

Emma attributed the still-vivid memories of those horrid visions to be another part of the reason she couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes to try and drift off, all of those images, all of the pain, all of those old scars cascaded back through every corner of her mind. She found herself wishing for the faceless friend to come to her rescue and banish those horrors from her head so she could get a few hours of decent rest.

Emma plopped down next to Henry on the sofa, handing him a cup of hot chocolate that Mary Margaret had made them all before bed. She could tell he was pretending to be engrossed in his comic book, and she knew he had been acting kind of strange all night. Ever since she woke up, he had been nothing but smiles and energy, but tonight he was distant, avoiding her in a most uncharacteristic way. Perhaps his distance would make it easier to do what she knew she had to the moment she came back to the apartment.

"Hey. Did you have fun tonight?" she asked lightly, giving him a playful nudge with her elbow.

"It was alright." He continued to stare at his comic, his eyes unmoving.

"You okay, Kid? You seem kinda...off." She tried fixing him with a gentle but imploring look. He seemed determined not to make eye contact in anyway, but she noticed his hazel eyes flicker over to the kitchen, a roil of emotions seething beneath them. She understood, turning to look at the kitchen as well, that this is the first time they've been together here since her incident.

"Wanna talk about it?" They both knew what she was referring to.

Henry looked up at her, his face full of doubt, hurt, and confusion. "I... I'm not sure..." His face contorted with the struggle of his emotions. Emma wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

"It's okay, Kid. I can't imagine what you went through when...whatever it is that happened to me happened. It's okay to be shaken up, and I can't tell you how sorry I am that I somehow put you through that. You don't have to talk about it now if you're not ready, 'kay?"

Henry's lips twitched in a grateful smile. "I'm sorry, Emma. I promise I'll tell you soon." He gave a big yawn, bringing the sheriff back to the original reason she came to talk to Henry.

"So, listen, Kid. Mary Margaret says you've been living here?" Henry gave her a sheepish smile. "I'm not gonna ask. Not right now anyway, I'm too tired. But this place is pretty small, and you've been crashing in my bed. The bed that I now need to collapse into. I think it's time you went back to Regina's, don't you think?"

"What? No, why can't I stay here?"

"Kid, there's no room! Besides, Regina has very legal custody of you. The last thing I need right now is her taking legal action against me. I wish you could stay, but I can't risk that. But don't look too sad, Operation Cobra is still on, right?" She gave him another playful nudge.

"Yeah, of course it is!"

"Mary Margaret is gonna call your mom, and I'm gonna help you pack up, 'kay?"

Henry gave a heart-wrenching sigh. "Fineeee. Lemme get my clothes, and you can start taking my stuff out of the bathroom. Don't forget my toothbrush!"

They set about gathering his belongings in amiable silence, stopping for one quick tickle fight initiated by Emma. She lost rather quickly due to her impaired physical state. She was blushing furiously with her defeat while her son wore a smug expression, throwing his clothes pell-mell into a duffel bag. They both heard a sharp rap on the door downstairs. Henry said he'd finish packing so Emma could answer the door.

Mary Margaret was in the shower, so the blonde called down the stairs, saying she'd be along in a moment. She scooped up her cane, making a face at having to gimp around on a stick. As it turned out, going down the stairs was more difficult than going up. At least she could control the speed of her ascent, but her feet slammed onto each step going down, making her legs wobble dangerously.

She hobbled over to the front door, undoing the medieval-like dead bolt that August had installed for them a few months back. She swung to door open to reveal Regina, standing before her for the first time since Emma woke up. What she saw in the brunette startled her to no end.

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