A/N: So. I was in the middle of writing the latest chapter for my other fanfic, Hermione Granger and the Flower of the Court (of which I am still actively working on). And I suddenly started writing in the incorrect tense. And I couldn't get my brain to stop doing it. So, I opened up a new word doc and that's how this nonsense was born. I'm well aware of how disenchanted almost the entire SwanQueen fandom became of OUAT the show. So, I don't know if there's anyone from the SwanQueen fandom that is still out there reading. But I do know that the best part of OUAT (for me personally) has been the fanfiction. And if you're one of my readers from a different fandom who hasn't ever read anything in this one, I would highly recommend you do. Please note that I didn't write this to follow the show exactly. Only to use it's characters and themes as I please. So if a character or event seems AU, I'm not at all sorry for writing it the way I did and I'm not going to listen to anyone that tells me to change it. This was written as a one-shot kind of thing. But I'm open to continuing if there is enough desire expressed for me to do so. I'll leave it up to you to tell me if it's worth our time to continue. As always, I don't own OUAT or any of its characters or themes. I'm doing this for free. Because I enjoy it. So don't kill me or sue me. This is where I would usually say "enjoy" but I really don't even know what the fuck this is and I'm worried that after you finish you will perceive that statement as sarcasm. So instead, I will say, "here's the thing. Please don't hate me."
CHAPTER 1
This is a story about a woman named Regina.
Regina used to work as the mayor of a town full of cursed fairytale characters. Her curse, of course – "her curse" meaning, the one she had cast on other people. For her, the curse ended up being more of a blessing. She still often reminisces about the moment after casting it. That was the first time in her entire life she had ever felt in control of something. For once, she controlled the one thing that had always gotten in the way of her happiness. Her past. Where in her cursed little town of Storybrooke, no one was allowed to hold it against her.
I mean, sure. That was due to the fact that – as a part of the curse – she had wiped everyone's memories and replaced them with completely different (and unrelated) ones. And, for extra added measure, she had cast herself in the role of mayor of this fictitious little nightmare – just to make sure everything stayed that way. But there had been good reasons for that. Reasons like maintaining control. And not getting beheaded by a mob of angry peasants who were upset about being cursed. And not being imprisoned for all the murder and killing she had done before casting the curse.
Ok, so most of the reasons revolved around not getting beheaded or imprisoned. But that being so doesn't make the reasons any less "good." And to be fair, it had never been Regina's intention for things to get so out of hand as quickly as they did. Like, there had never been a point as a child where Regina dreamed of one day growing up and cursing an entire realm to a life of unhappy endings to make up for hers being ruined first by everyone else.
All she'd ever really dreamed of was to live in a time and place where life – as she'd lived it – had turned out different. Where no one knew of her wrongdoings. A place where her past was filled with only the kind of crimes that are no different from that of the average everyday person. A little white lie here. A little sneaking out after dark when she wasn't supposed to there. A place where she could live out the rest of her life and be someone as innocuous as Mayor Mills. Not a wicked step-mother. Or a disappointment of a daughter. Or a letdown of a lover. Or a murderous evil witch queen. But somewhere she could be just…Regina.
Because before all of this curse business, she'd never really known who that was. And she longed for any opportunity – away from her controlling mother, and a covetous king, and his untrustworthy daughter, and the weight of an entire kingdom of people on her shoulders – to figure out what that meant. Who that person was. To her.
Now though? Post curse? Now she knew all kinds of things about herself. Like…
1) She loves being a mother. 2) She's a fantastic cook. 3) She's mildly allergic to peaches. 4) She doesn't particularly care for small talk (and not in the "I will murder you if you do it" kind of way, but in the "I'm not going to initiate it or participate in it if I don't absolutely have to" kind of way). And 5) she genuinely liked being the mayor of Storybrooke.
Being mayor was simple. Each and every day she would sit at her desk on the second floor of city hall. Read through a myriad of proposals. And then sign her name on the bottom line of those that she supported. And once she'd finished reading and signing all the proposals for one day, she would go home, go to bed, come back bright and early the next morning and a whole new stack would be waiting for her on her desk. As if by magic. Ready to be read. Ready to be signed. Ready for her to do it all over again and again, day after day.
This is what Regina Mills did every day of every month of every year for twenty-eight years. And while most people would find it unbearably boring. Regina had come to feel almost content with the work. As though this was exactly where she needed to be, doing exactly what she was made to do.
It should be noted, however, that this was by no means her happy ending. Admittedly, when she had first cast the curse, it was with the full intention of taking away everyone else's happy ending. And she'd truly believed that would be just the thing to bring about her own. Because so much of her own happiness had been sapped by others in order to achieve their own happiness. So why couldn't she do the same in return? Though it never did quite turn out that way.
It was a weird sort of thing. She wasn't happy. But she wasn't unhappy. She was living and existing in a way she never had before. She had a freedom that she'd never had before. And since, technically, her happy ending had already been taken away from her, this would have to be just as good as happily ever after. Because she had long since come to terms with the fact that she was never getting hers back.
How many people actually knew what true happiness was and how it felt anyways? Given the list of people who had seen their wishes come true and how small it was, she guessed not very many. And something as ill-defined as happiness is such an awfully subjective ideal. So, who could really say that this wasn't what happily ever after was. For her, at least.
On she went, living and existing in that way she never had before; as Mayor Mills. As just Regina. And she was not not living happily ever after. All up until that fateful day when the savior decided to roll into town and break her curse.
After that? Well…There was no more just Regina. Without her curse, she was once again the wicked step-mother. And the disappointment of a daughter. And the letdown of a lover. And the murderous evil witch queen. The one responsible for taking away everyone's happy endings. The one responsible for singlehandedly messing up everybody's lives. And all of her crimes before that? Immeasurable. Intolerable.
Before she could so much as blink her career, her son, her life were all ripped away from her. Until all she had left were only the things that mean absolutely nothing without anyone there to share them with. Which she had been learning over the length of the curse was the actual key to her own happiness.
But the story of this terrible stupid curse, the story of its domino effect of consequences, and the story of how those consequences are tied like a noose around one woman's neck begins as simply as being the mayor of Storybrooke.
It begins with a miserable fallen Queen. Sitting alone in a fictitious diner run by the grandmother of Little Red Riding Hood. In a quaint little town of her own making. Out in the middle of nowhere, Maine.
When the curse broke, they didn't return to the Enchanted Forest. Everyone still hated her. But out of some unspoken respect to this world's laws and societal expectations, they had not yet gotten around to beheading or imprisoning her.
Solitude was her punishment. Living with the weight of all she'd done while everyone shuns her was her prison. The effectiveness of which has her drinking in the back of Granny's diner more often than not. To what? To forget? To die? She doesn't know anymore.
Until, something very peculiar happens. Something that would irrevocably change Regina forever. Something she would never quite be able to forget no matter how much of her world famous cider she drank in an attempt to drown.
And it happens on a Wednesday. Today actually. She only knows it's Wednesday because today is also apple pie day. And Granny only ever serves apple pie on Wednesdays.
She'd been sitting alone at her usual spot in the farthest back corner of the diner for the better part of an hour now. Sipping on her third glass of homemade apple cider.
With Granny already having commented five separate times, "If you feel like having that homemade crap, that's fine by me. But go on and have it at home. This place is for paying customers only!"
Not that she was listening to the old woman. If it were any other day and any other time, she might've responded with a, "If you feel like minding your own business, I paid for the pie."
But feeling isn't really the dominion she wants to be in right now. Drinking is. Forgetting is. And so is eating more of granny's famous apple pie in a dogged attempt to fill her stomach with something pleasurable before the pain can find a place to settle. The cool liquid of the cider quickly filling any space left in her head with cloudiness and obfuscation. And as her fingers settle in the condensation collecting around an embossed image of a rather regal looking 'R', it's as if the glass is delivering a message of comfort through her fingertips.
This is what she did now. She drank homemade cider to forget and ate Granny's apple pie to repress. And if Granny or anybody else wanted to stop her, they would have to come pry the glass from her cold dead hands, she thought.
Coincidentally, as if her thoughts had been forged into the cold steel blade of spoken word, someone lifts the glass from her iron grip, slicing through what little comfort had remained in her routine session of self-loathing. Its owner plopping down unceremoniously into the open seat on the other side of the booth. Regina freezes. And, in a sudden flash, the world around her does to. The person on the other side of the booth being the only thing allowed to move. While she and everything else around her is stopped as if suspended in time.
What kind of spell is this?
No. Not a spell. Not a spell at all. It's a tactic. Maybe if she is silent and still enough, the person will leave, she thinks to herself. Yes, she could be as silent as a prowling panther. As still as the moon on a clear dark night. A black silhouette against a tessellated wall.
Regina didn't need to look to tell you who was sitting across from her. There's something about the other woman – something complicated and not readily apparent; an ever-present aura or a vibe – that makes people (namely Regina) feel somewhat unworthy of her presence. Perhaps it's the unwavering confidence she wears around like a badge of honor – in the way she'd never wear her sheriff's badge that's always hidden beneath a shirt or jacket on her hip instead. Or perhaps it's her title. "The Savior." That she was given but never asked for. That makes her visibly cringe every time a townsperson or her son, specifically, says it. That makes Regina cringe every time she's forced to hear it.
Whatever it might be, it's what makes her such a damned good cop. No one, not even Regina – who would never claim to be her biggest fan – could contest to that. She was the kind of cop that noticed things. Things nobody else noticed. Like the piece of garbage — or is it an old city proposal? No, it's a piece of garbage — sticking dramatically out of the side of Regina's Balenciaga hourglass. It's that kind of observational skill that broke her curse. It's having been under that kind of scrutiny before that makes the garbage in Regina's designer purse feel like a metaphor. For her. And the longer Emma stares at it, the more she feels like she's falling headfirst into a frozen lake, setting every last one of her nerve endings on fire.
Which, when she finally breaks the awkward silence, comes as a surprise to absolutely no one that she says, "Ms. Swan, please do me the courtesy of sparing me your latest hostility. As you can see, I'm quite out of spoils for you to plunder. Unless you also plan on stealing the only means of coping I have left?"
"Actually, your majesty. I saw you sitting here alone," Her manner is casual, but her speech is careful, measured. As if she can sense Regina's mistrust of her. As if she wants her to know that she has nothing to hide. But there's more to her distrust of Emma than being the savior. She feels threatened by something obscure in the other woman. What that is would remain the crux that it was. Because Regina's not saying anything. As she eyes her with the patience and intensity of a starving animal.
"And Ruby's kind of making me do this dumb girl's night out thing…"
For whatever reason she's holding on to some misguided hope that Regina might catch on to her implication without the need for it to be stated directly. Which Regina did. But the Evil Queen is not known for how accommodating she can be. Especially to those she feels have wronged her in some way. And – aside from Daniel's death – nothing in this realm or the last has cut as deeply as having her own son taken from her. Of which, Emma had unrightfully and unlawfully done. One might even argue that the savior herself was the biggest wrongdoer in Regina's life since Snow White. And we all know how that story went. No, Emma wouldn't get a damn thing more from her. Not if she could help it.
"And I was thinking, since you don't appear to be doing anything important, that you might…like to..well…you know…tag along?" She tries to make it sound casual, but the muscles in her neck keep tightening and it increases the inflection in every word. Something is secretly eating away at that confidence from earlier. It wasn't Ruby, and it's not the lack of response. It's something else. Giving Regina even the slightest reason to continue this conversation if only to watch the savior fumble all over herself.
"Ms. Swan. What in the name of the gods both old and new, would ever give the impression that I would have even the faintest desire to go anywhere with you?"
Emma blinks back. Dumbly.
"Come on, Regina. What's your plan here? To drink yourself to death? Alone? In Granny's diner?"
Ah, yes. The cider. The reason we're all here now. Regina reaches out for the glass. And Emma raises it farther out of reach. It's annoying. It's frustrating. A kind of dance so familiar by this point that she wishes she was no longer forced to be a participant. It crawls under her skin in a way that is so uniquely Emma. She has to actively fight to keep the growl from her voice as she speaks.
"What do you care, savior? Surely you, of all people, would be well aware of how preferable that would be to the only other alternative being offered to me now."
Then there's silence. And the smallest of smiles.
"You know, madam mayor, you always talk a big game. But at the end of the day it's exactly like you said earlier. What have you got left to lose?" Emma recounts softly. And without anger. Which is unusual because Emma almost never hesitates to respond with the same hostility she receives. And Regina had been doling out animosity in her body language alone like candy on Halloween.
The fact that Emma didn't respond as expected pokes mercilessly at whatever part of Regina's brain is responsible for reading and interpreting human interactions and their trustworthiness. And after only a few seconds, it starts making her head hurt. Her eyes squint into thin slits as if that might ease the ache. As if that might provide a clearer picture of the other woman's intentions.
But Emma's better at keeping things hidden than most people give her credit for. Than Regina gives her credit for. And even in those rare moments when she's not, she deflects. Which is exactly what she's doing when she takes a long swig from the glass of cider, draining it of its contents. And then again when she sets it back in front of Regina without so much as a sound as it comes to rest gently on the table. And for the final time when she stands up and walks away without another word or even a glance back.
But Regina is better than that. Better than her. And she might not have figured out the intent behind everything the blonde woman just said in the brief timeframe she was given to fully analyze it. But some things are just glaringly obvious. Like how Emma twisted her own words from before and then threw them back as a means to goad her into doing something they both knew she had every intention of not doing. She knew the savior was an idiot. But surely she wasn't dumb enough to believe that something like that might work. Right?
Absolutely not. Because Regina is better than that. Regina knows better than that. And Emma knows that.
She's more than welcome to try any and every trick in the book. But at the end of the day, this is still a story about Regina. And Regina is going to sit in her booth at Granny's diner drinking away her problems alone like she did every Wednesday. Because that is what she did now. That is who she is now. And the only way Emma or anyone else could stop her, is to drag her out by her cold dead feet.
- SQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQ -
When Regina – wait. Wait, what?
What happened?
When we last saw Regina, I had deliberately left her at the diner. Drinking alone as she does every Wednesday. I mean, it's apple pie day, for goodness sakes. What apple-obsessed person could possibly walk out on apple pie day? Particularly when they also happen to be depressed and have an unhealthy habit of eating their feelings. I even wrote it that way as to provide her with one of the more compelling incentives to stay. Apple fucking pie.
Like, what changed?
Reader, did you change anything back at the diner? Perhaps you made a wish upon a star? Or rubbed a lamp and found a genie? Or literally anything as pretentious as hoping that Regina would follow the savior out of the diner and somehow find her own happy ending with the one person whose main super power so far has been taking away our main character's happiness in all its forms over and over again?
Ugh. I suppose you're right. No, no. You are right. Why am I asking you? I'm the one writing the story. I'm the one who determines what happens and where.
I guess I just don't understand how this happened.
All I can tell you is that this is not how it was originally written. In fact, I can assure you, the path we are now on is a very very very very very very bad idea –
No, wait. It's not just a very very very very very very bad idea. It's The Worst Idea™. Like, if you're one of those people who believes that "killing your father in order to curse an entire kingdom to unhappiness for eternity just because someone stole your happy ending" was a bad idea, then you have no idea just how tame that is in comparison to how much worse of an idea™ this (gestures manically to the many words below) would end up being.
But I suppose the decision's been made now, hm? Don't know who made it. Wasn't you. Wasn't me. But it's been made.
(sighs dramatically)
I guess I'll just have to figure something else out.
Alright. I suppose I'm ready. Let's go down this rabbit hole then shall we?
(clears incorporeal throat)
Regina comes to a stop outside of a large brick building. With a sign so big and bright, it could easily be read in the reflection of her irises. The pink and blue neon letters flash "The Rosewood." And in the dark of the night, it's like a beacon dancing alone. The image appearing effortlessly. As if she'd walked the same street herself a thousand times.
"Really, Ruby? A strip club?" The savior deadpans.
Regina opens her mouth to comment, but is surprised to find that she has nothing at all to say. If this had been any other day and had she had less than three full glasses of her homemade apple cider, there might've been an abundance.
But today is not that day. And she is not the one.
So then, why did this feel so…what's the word…familiar? She asks herself. Not that she ever expected the words "familiar" and "strip club" to ever be in a sentence describing her. Maybe the word she's looking for is significant? Or transcendental? Fucking weird? Though that last one was not "a word" and sounded more like something Emma would say than her – although also not entirely unwarranted.
She used to love to dance. Like actually, physically dance. Not whatever metaphorical nonsense she and Emma partook in on a regular basis. But actual arms and legs and feet and rhythm and beat. For all that was once upon a time. When there were people that actually wanted to dance with her. Maybe that's it?
But, it's not that, is it?
No.
…It's the stale smell of alcohol, the loud booming sound of the bass vibrating through her chest, her bruised knee against a wooden floor, and a somnolent sigh next to her ear…then the feeling is gone.
"Okay, okay. You caught me," Ruby says, holding her hands up in surrender, "I may or may not have a friend working tonight. And it might so happen to be one of her slowest nights. And I might've maybe promised to bring in a few friends to help her out."
It doesn't take a detective to know what she actually means by that. The way she rubs at the back of her wrist. Her fingers twitching with the distinct goal of "helping her friend out."
"Jesus fucking Christ, Ruby!" Emma hisses, "I swear on everything I am if I'm here just so you can get laid–"
It's Ashley that interrupts her.
"Oh come on, Emma. Don't be such a prude."
"Yeah, Emma. Live a little," Aurora adds over her shoulder, following Ashley into the club.
Then Mary Margaret steps up beside her. And places a loving hand on Emma's cheek.
"You never know. You might actually have some fun for a change?"
Emma's jaw falls open so quick and hard it almost dislocates from her head.
"You have got to be kidding me! Mom!?"
Mary Margaret just smiles kindly, gives her a few pats on the cheek, and follows the others into the club. And as if watching your own mother walk into a strip club with a smile – the kind that should only ever be seen on children's faces on Christmas morning – wasn't enough. Ruby also pats her cheek. And it's like rubbing salt and vinegar in a fresh wound. Stinging with every touch.
"Yeah Emma," she sing songs, "don't be such a prude. Live a little. You might have some fun."
Then with nothing more than a wink and a smile, she's gone too.
Regina's eyes are so large that there's no way Emma's head is the only one screaming "What in God's name did I let Ruby get me into?" over and over in a continuous loop. Only it was Emma's fault that Regina had even come along to begin with. So maybe that wasn't true at all.
"Look, Regina – I didn't know – I had no idea this was where she was taking us. If I had known, I wouldn't have –"
Something about the savior talking at her snaps her out of the alcohol-induced fog that had successfully rendered her speechless up to this point. As if to say, "Ah, yes. She's asking for an opinion. You're an expert at those."
"Sheriff, if this is some big elaborate joke or some lame attempt to push my buttons further than you already have, please know that I am tired and wish to no longer be a part of it anymore."
"No, Regina, please – it's not like that – I swear I had no idea –"
"What am I even doing? I don't even know why I agreed to come with you in the first place. It was like one minute I was perfectly fine on my own at the diner like I am every single Wednesday and the next thing I know I'm standing in front of a strip club with the one person who keeps ruining my life being made the fool."
Her eyes light up like an oil fire on the ocean. And this time, it's her anger that kindles the flame. Why couldn't they just leave her alone? Why, every time anything happens around here, did they have to drag her along unwillingly just to rub in how miserable of a person she had become? Why couldn't they have just killed her? Or threw her in jail? Anything but allow her to continue to live with her mistakes every day and then publicly embarrass her for them when ever the need struck.
She couldn't be here anymore. She couldn't be in Emma's presence anymore. It was suffocating in a way that made her want to hyperventilate. Just to end it. And Emma had already taken so much from her. She wouldn't let her take her life too.
She turns to leave. But before she can, a hand wraps around her arm stopping her. And the grip is so unexpected; it's firm and reassuring. Like holding a chunk of knapped flint. Like a promise. One of those things she hasn't felt in such a long time. A promise like the look on Emma's face. Not a single muscle moves, but her eyes dash back and forth between Regina's, truthful and discerning.
"Have a drink with me!" She practically yells. And it startles them both. Though for very different reasons. Or maybe it was for the exact same reason just wrapped in different packaging, "Just one drink. We don't have to watch anything we don't want to. We can just sit in the back at the bar and have a drink. Just you and me. Forget them. They'll be off doing god knows what with god knows who anyways."
Her grip is so sure on her arm. And she's looking at her with such sincerity.
And Regina's just so tired. And she's had enough to drink so far that she could make a few bad decisions tonight. But she's also sober enough to remember that going anywhere with Emma Swan was a very bad decision.
"I don't know, Emma," Emma's invitational outburst had startled her. But the softness in her own voice as she casually says the other woman's first name almost has Regina unhinged, "This isn't me. This isn't us," she says pointing back and forth between them as if the gesture itself leant some translation that her words were incapable of conveying. It's manic. It's desperate. It's a build up of all those feelings she didn't want – that she had spent the entire night trying to suppress – erupting forth from her mouth. Flowing hotly down her body with nothing but the ashes in their wake.
But she was absolutely correct. This wasn't Regina Mills. This would never be Regina Mills. And they would never have whatever it was that was being alluded to because she could never be that Regina Mills.
Needless to say, Emma Swan had never been too good at that whole listening thing. Not with her ears. And certainly not with her eyes. And, without even the slightest awareness of the fact that the woman before her is imploding into a puddle of soup, she says, "Come on. What have you got to lose?"
Her eyes are suddenly brighter than the sign above her. A flash of teeth glows differential to the alternating pink and blue of the neon letters. Regina has seen that smile many times before. Though usually in very different circumstances. And with a very different meaning behind it. It might've even graced her own face a time or two. Here and now, it was the smile of a killer. A hunter who had finally found their target. And it's the last thing she sees still glittering before it fully fades into the darkness of the club.
"I don't know anymore," she mutters. To no one. Almost like a reflex. A half-remembered sentence as she turns in the direction of home.
And for the briefest of moments she feels. Something. A warmth. Not true warmth, but the remembrance of its existence. Like a phantom in the wind. And sounds too, booming and pulsating behind the brick that binds them, so very close to breaking free from their prison.
No. What she needs is the kind of warmth that comes from a bottle. Perhaps some more apple cider would do the trick. Or if it wouldn't, then surely some whiskey would.
Oh. And she had left her empty glass at Granny's! She'd need to pick up that up on her way home. And then she would be on her way home.
- SQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQ -
The moment Regina stepped – oh, no.
Not again.
How could this happen a second time? I mean, honestly.
Here it is, right here in my notes (holds up a piece of paper with sloppy green crayon writing on it that only reads: "Go home. Get drunk. Sleep."). She was supposed to go home and drink herself to sleep just like she does every single Wednesday evening. That's what I have written in my notes. And that's how it was written in my first draft. So tell me why instead, my dear readers, she is here. In the middle of the night. At a strip club. Sipping on her fourth glass of whiskey with Emma fucking Swan?
Is this a prank? Have I been hacked by M. Night Shyamalan or something?
Like, I thought we established that not only was this a very very very very very very bad idea. It was The Worst Idea™. And that's not just me being paranoid or whatever. That's me "the Author" who wrote this story telling you "the Reader" that if it continues down this way, I genuinely fear not only for Regina, but for the lives of every person in the entire town of Storybrooke. And no, I don't mean in the "oh, no she's cursed us all to a life of unhappy endings" kind of way. Because The Worst Idea™, by it's very name, implies something much worse than anything that's happened before.
Okay. Deep breaths. Just breathe. It's fine. Everything's fine.
We can still fix this. I will fix this.
(cracks knuckles and wiggles fingers readily over the keyboard keys)
Emma slams her fifth glass of whiskey on the bar top. It's presently empty, and she won't have to utter a single word before it's refilled again.
"I like you when you're like this," she says, a lazy smile eating almost the entirety of her face.
"What? Drunk?" Regina replies. And then a great bellowing laugh – the real kind that builds from the bottom of the chest and drowns out the sounds of some raunchy song about fucking playing in the background — escapes the hot cavern of her mouth. And like a contagious cough, the laughter spreads out and catches deep into Emma's own chest, making her cheeks ache from the intensity of her beaming smile.
"No," she chuckles, "Light. Free."
And Regina has no idea how to respond to that. So she doesn't. Just takes another sip of her whiskey and looks past Emma to the stripper dancing on the stage.
"I don't know how many strip clubs you've been to, but this one here can't hold a candle to some of the ones back in Boston," Emma says. Attempting to change the topic of conversation in that tongue-in-cheek with some type of truth mixed in there being cryptic for the sake of being cryptic kind of way she does. It's flint against steel. And she's just lying in wait for one single spark so she can set a fire that will burn the whole damn forest to the ground.
And while Regina in no way means to, she gives the woman exactly what she wants. One spark. It's in a single knowing look. You know the one. Where her irises are light brown and shimmering like the Dead River in the morning sun the day after a particularly heavy rain. A look that's filled to the brim with intrigue and practically overflowing with expectation. That same look she gave Emma the very first time she opened the door and saw her standing there with her missing son. Because how on Earth could someone both start and end a story like that when it's so obvious there's more to it.
Emma is laughing again, her fingers trying to rub away the exhaustion from her face. Ready as ever for a forest fire. "Not that I've frequented many strip clubs before today. But once, there was a bounty out for this guy. And the only way I could get him was to go undercover at The Glass Slipper – I know, ironic how this fairytale shit has always kind of just followed me around everywhere I've ever been and I never really even noticed it. But the girls there," she pauses, thinking of the right words to say, "It wasn't just taking off your clothes to some trashy tune hoping you could scrounge up enough cash to get by. They didn't even need to take of their clothes, really. It was art."
She seems almost sad finishing the story. A few dust beams float around idly in the bright lights of the club. And her eyes follow them idly. Like little sparkling embers floating down to the stage.
Regina didn't understand why exactly, but suddenly the air in the room felt much heavier again. In a way that made the weight of her own past life. The one she'd been carrying on her shoulders all this time. The one she'd been running from. More palpable. More uncomfortable.
They'd already had enough sadness and anger for the night. She decides. She wants to go back to laughing and smiling. And not thinking about all those things that make it feel like her heart was going to abandon her and just spontaneously jump out of her chest. So she releases the tightness she was holding in her shoulders and says, "And what. Just because you've seen better you think you could do better?"
One half of her expects Emma to laugh. The other half expects Emma to shrug it off and deflect again.
But what she doesn't expect is for Emma to lean in real close. Her lips moving the stray hairs that fall in wisps around Regina's ears, "I don't think I can do better. I know I can do better. Because I have done better."
That makes Regina laugh harder. Another one of those sincere contagious bellowing laughs that pulls out the biggest smile on Emma's face.
"What? You don't believe me?"
"Oh Gods no. Just the mental image of you, gangly and uncoordinated, walking down that stage with an intent to seduce, I can't – I can't –" She can't finish the rest of her sentence. She can't breathe. Her unrestrained laughter is taking up all the space in her lungs.
"No, really. I have," Emma reassures. And it doesn't even matter that she's being laughed at, she's positively beaming.
Regina laughs even harder. So much so that she falls forward and her laughing becomes muffled by the collar bone of Emma's chest. Her stomach starts cramping with the exertion. And she doesn't even care that it's the savior on the other end. Because it feels so good to laugh. After so many days (including her time spent during the curse) not really feeling anything at all – aside from fear and anger. Laughter was the medicine she didn't even know she needed.
"Okay. Well you don't have to believe me," Emma says playfully as she stands up from the bar stool, "Because I can show you. And I can do it without ever having to take off any clothing."
"Oh Gods, Ms. Swan, no. Please. Sit back down," Regina begs in between bouts of laughter. Tugging at the sleave of Emma's leather jacket. A rather weak attempt to get her to do so. Because a secret part of her actually wanted to see the catastrophe that is Emma Swan stripping.
"Oh, no. It's too late for that. I worked too damn hard learning how to do all of this shit just for someone to laugh at me about it," she responds, trading her jacket in Regina's grasp with her hand. And before Regina knows what's happening, she's being pulled up from her own seat, "Come on."
Despite how she should feel about a situation like this – laughing and cavorting around with the savior in a strip club – Regina wasn't trying all that "hard" to resist. Emma's hand felt nice. This camaraderie between them felt nice. The alcohol filling her belly and clouding her head felt nice. So when she finally found herself being seated in a chair at the end of the stage, she was feeling uncharacteristically…nice. And suddenly she finds that it isn't very hard at all to do as she was told.
(Gives pointed look)
The intro to Straight Shooter by Skylar Grey starts up over the club's speakers. The frantic drum beat starts tapping out; echoing all around the club. Regina had never heard the song before. But Emma walks towards her down the stage now as if this were her very own personal theme song. A swagger to her that isn't at all feminine. But that also lacks in masculinity. Something that is, much like most things attributed to her, simply and uniquely Emma. The kind of walk she'd have if she had suddenly solved a crime and was on her way to interrogate the suspect.
It's cocky. It's ostentatious. It's not…wholly unpleasant to watch. And while it was still true that the woman was her own brand of intimidating. There always had been something intriguing about watching her when she was in her element that never failed to send an electric jolt underneath Regina's skin.
As Emma reaches a certain point on the stage, she turns sharply. Away from Regina. Her jacket at the start of a slow crawl down the length of her back like a familiar lover climbing up the length of a bed. One shoulder at a time bearing inch by inch beneath the safety of the leather as the rest of her body continues to move to the beat. When it's off, she holds it out with one hand and drops it into the audience. And it falls light like snow to Regina's lap in a liquescent leather puddle. Emma's warmth still lingering on the taffeta lining against her knees.
As the pre chorus starts to flow in the air around Regina's already swimming head. She shivers.
Then Emma's body is falling chest first – far to quickly – to the stage. Where she catches herself and starts to writhe and undulate to the rhythm of the music from where she lands.
Take what I want, take what I need, and do it all with dignity
Say what I want, say what I need
And I don't need you to agree
The beat changes quickly into the chorus. Emma bouncing up at the exact same speed from the floor of the stage.
Then her hands are in her pockets and she's pushing down on her jeans. Though without any indication of whether or not she's going to completely remove them. It's just a tease. A taste of what's to come. So all that shows is the spot of skin where the abs of her lower stomach meets the top of her pubic area.
I don't spit before I fuck it got a
Hand on my pistol in my pocket, I don't
Play nice, I'm not a shit talker, I'm a
She pulls her hands out of her pockets and holds them up in front of her. The top of her jeans jumping back into place. And with a sharp wink, she points her fingers in the shape of guns at Regina. Who finds that, on anyone else, would've been the stupidest thing she'd ever seen. On Emma, it was also stupid. Stupidly provocative in a way it had no right being.
Straight shooter now just give me the money honey
She continues rotating her hips to the beat. And Regina doesn't know if it's the alcohol or the music or what. But she can feel herself leaning forward progressively. Her body unconsciously gravitating towards Emma on the stage.
This continues for the length of the song.
Emma's body tells a story Regina had never had the pleasure of hearing before. It's in the muscles of her arms in the times they're supporting her entire weight. In the dimple of her hip bones each time they peek out from the bottom of her top. In the curve of her back as she bends and rolls in time with the music. As if she can feel it moving inside around her bones like strings with the song as her puppet master. And Regina is eager to know how the story ends.
Because Emma Swan was a lot of things. She was brash. She was irritating. Classless. Boorish. A major thorn in Regina's side. And a complete and total idiot (just to name a few). But in this one moment, as she danced, Emma Swan was art.
She inches closer to the edge of the stage as the song plays out it's final round of choruses. Until even the slightest step forward would send her plummeting over the side of the stage. And so does Regina.
Snow and Aurora are off to the side shouting and whistling in approval. While Ruby and Ashley shove dollar bills into the waistband of Emma's jeans. But her eyes – her entire body – is moving to and for Regina. Because – not that anybody else there had noticed it at all but – this is for Regina.
Something that had, in the beginning, started out as nothing more than playful provocation has suddenly shifted into something else entirely. Something murky. Something hot. Something greedy. That if they weren't careful, would as quick as it could consume them entirely. With repercussions so great. So not thought out in this moment. That it very well might crush them with the weight of its meaning.
But even if they had been given time to think it over, Emma wouldn't have. She's the kind of girl that goes with her gut. Which, in her distorted view, has never been wrong before. She truly believes that it wouldn't be now. So she's not thinking at all as she leans over the stage and mouths "you know you want to." She's feeling. With that one gesture she's asking Regina to feel something too.
Ruby hadn't missed that one. Not this time. With as much speed as she can muster, she shoves the remaining dollar bills in Regina's hand. Nodding towards Emma with a megawatt smile.
And Emma's just there. Not even an arm's reach away. Waiting for her. A thought that has Regina's hands trembling lightly as she lifts them. Like one of the apples from her tree, her awareness dangles from it. Ready to fall. So that the rooted and branching weald of truth and undignified suffering is rising up again. It wants her to reach out and tuck the money in that spot where Emma's bra is exposed by the open cleavage of her tank top. It wants her to fall. Hurting. Longing. Lost and alone.
But her hand is stopped the moment her fingers make contact. And she can feel Emma's bare breast through the material of the dollar bills. So inviting. So warm. So much of what she finds herself wanting in this moment that it scares her just how intensely she wants it. It stuns her. Stopping her from being able to move again. Like back at the diner. The only thing she can do is feel. And the vice-like grip on her wrist is like a glass of cold water being poured over her head. So firm it makes her feel like maybe she'd done something wrong.
But then Emma's moving both of their hands down together to the waistband of her jeans. And Regina worries that if she keeps her eyes open any longer she might black out. But she let's her. Even with her eyes closed, she can still feel her fingers being tucked beneath the waistband. She can still feel the softness and warmth of Emma's skin against her own. And she has no idea just how far down she's supposed to put the dollars. But Emma keeps pushing her hand further until she feels the start of wiry hair against her knuckles.
She sucks in a deep lungful of air. Her eyes pop open, blown wide as if by a lit stick of dynamite as she realizes where she is and what she's doing. The music had already stopped. The only sounds now are that of the women they came here with hooting and hollering all around her. Regina's hand is barely past the cusp of being down Emma's pants. And Emma's just standing there staring at her. Eyes equally blown. Breathing heavy from the exertion of the dance. Or maybe something else.
It's too much. This whole thing is far too much.
Regina jerks her hand away – leaving the money behind.
What in Gods name was she thinking?
She stands abruptly. The chair screeches against the linoleum floors, decimating the vibe that had been set by the song.
This was just – this was too much. She couldn't be here. Shouldn't be here. Why was she here again? What happened? This was not right. This was not her.
And as panicked as she feels on the inside, she doesn't show it. Her face remains a neutral pillar of stone and ice. Ever the royal her mother had raised her to be. The only sign of any urgency at all is in her brisk walk to where she left her purse near the bar. And even that is sparing. But the very moment it's in her hands, she's gone. Almost as fast as if she'd poofed away by magic. But she hadn't used magic. She'd used the anxiety inside her. Like fuel to speed her feet.
All she can hear is her heartbeat ringing in her ears, as it pounds in her chest at 135 beats per minute. Each beat feels like her blood readying for heartache. Each beat has her head spinning. Her vision palpitating into narrowing tunnels. It intensifies with every step she takes towards home. And by the time she opens her front door and steps inside, her entire body is practically vibrating with it.
Her purse is thrown across the foyer. It's unclear whether that was due to her own physical force or to magic. But it hurtles – as her luck would have it – into a picture of her and Henry, knocking it to the floor.
I don't need this! I don't need anyone! She screams.
The picture frame agrees. It's cracked and crumbling smile cold and sparkly. And it seems that Henry doesn't. His smile in the picture distorted so much by the shattered glass that it looks as if instead he has a haunted frown upon his face. How very much like Henry, she thinks.
The anger gives way to a low simmer. Her vision blurs. She wipes her face with her hand. But the tears have already stung at her eyes, making her blink.
What was she thinking? Why had she gone there tonight? Why had she let Emma pull her over to the stage? And why did she remain there the entire time?
There were very clear lines between her and other people. Some of them she had drawn. Some were drawn by others. And while we may not fully understand why they are there. They obviously existed for one important reason or another. Or they would have never been drawn to begin with. They are there and they are clear. But we don't ever acknowledge them or their existence. And we certainly do not cross them.
And oh, Gods! She couldn't draw you a picture or explain in full complete sentences how, but she is uncomfortably aware of what she did tonight. And how they hadn't only crossed those lines. They had gone barreling right over them at a rapidly growing speed.
When she thinks about it. How it made her feel. Her stomach flips about 5 different ways. And she can feel the alcohol burning its way back up her throat.
So she doesn't think about it.
But not thinking about it doesn't stop the feelings from biting through her chest. The pain of which is so agonizing she's tempted to rip out her own heart right then and there. But she won't. Because she promised herself she would never be like her. Like Cora. Who took out her own heart in light of her life's mantra. "Love is weakness."
That may be true. Love might be Regina's one true weakness. But even if the pain kills her, she'd rather die first than be anything like her mother.
And suddenly, it comes to her like a vision…
Uh oh.
A backup plan. A failsafe. One she had made for herself a lifetime ago. Back when she was about to be shipped off to the White kingdom to marry its king and her mother had ripped Daniel's heart out right before her very eyes. Squeezing his life away in her hands. Killing him.
Oh, this is not good.
She rushes to her study and scrambles around searching for her one saving grace.
There it is. The valiant little soldier at the bottom of her desk drawer. A proud leader of the Knock You Out Forever Platoon. The single most fearless soul standing in salute. Ready to be thrown out on the front lines of battle. Ready to step in front of a bullet for her. It's a vial. And inside is the same sleeping curse she'd used on Snow White.
You see, what most people don't know – because she's not in the habit of telling anyone – is that this hadn't been originally made for Snow White. It was made by Regina. For Regina. To put herself in a death-like sleep until she either died or someone came along with true love's kiss to wake her up. And she knew she'd never wake up. Her true love had already been killed. And with the pain of that mixed with everything that had happened to her. She didn't want to live out the rest of her life feeling it anymore. She wanted to die. But she had no idea how to pull the trigger, so to speak. This was a solution to all her problems at the time. This was as good a dying.
She remembers the days she spent debating herself over whether or not she should use it. And then she arrived at the White kingdom. And perfect little Snow White was running around the castle happy as can be, with not a care in the world. As if she weren't the one responsible for Daniel's death when she told Regina's secret. As if she didn't have the weight of another person's death on her shoulders. That's when Regina's pain had turned to anger.
Daniel's death deserved to be remembered. By more than just her. The person responsible for it, deserved to be held responsible. There wasn't much she could do about her mother. Given that she was bigger and stronger and more powerful than Regina in so many different ways. But Snow White? The little girl who betrayed her trust? Who cost an innocent man his life? She could pay. And she would pay.
And that's when she'd made the decision to use it on that pesky no good traitor instead.
Still, she had always kept an extra vial tucked away for emergencies. The first, of which, was when she thought she might take it after dosing Snow White. To escape the consequences of having done so. And then, when she was able to very easily kill King Leopold and take the throne for herself. Well, the only person who could really enforce those consequences was no longer around to do so. So the next was for after she'd cast the curse. As a failsafe in case things didn't quite pan out the way she'd intended. Which, I guess they hadn't, because the curse was now broken and everyone hated her for it. For everything. That certainly hadn't been part of the plan. But even then, for whatever reason, the vial had gone forgotten at the bottom of her drawer.
Now, suddenly, its purpose is entirely too clear. She stares solemnly into the purple liquid. Through the thickness she can't see the bottom. But there's mercy there if she needs it. That much she's sure of.
She pops off the cork lid. It smells like resolution, finality, and all the other side effects of a well-crafted potion. Yes. She remembers exactly why she made this. To kill the pain. To forget.
Ok, wait. This is–
This is depressing. Right?
Like we can all agree that this is just….beyond sad.
And you know, I told you guys this is exactly where this was going. I told you it wouldn't end well.
I thought maybe I could fix it before it did, but clearly I couldn't. And it just…
It really sucks that I'm about to have to end my story because the main character has decided – as if by her own will – to essentially off herself in the first chapter.
Like. I had so many plans for her. So many outlines and storylines and subplots written. If she could have just held out a little longer – if she could have trusted that someone out there has her best interest at heart, maybe she would have had a happy ending. You don't know. And she certainly doesn't know. But as the author of this story, I do.
You know what? No!
I'm not going to accept this! This isn't what I originally wrote. And it's gotten well out of my control. But I still have to have some sway here somewhere. And I'm not going to just sit around and let Regina do this. I refuse. Even if this is the end of the story, someone has to help her. I can at least try to help her.
(adjusts glasses and turns hat backwards)
The instant the rim of the vial touches Regina's lips, the doorbell rings.
Something cold awakens in the pit of her stomach. She's still alive.
She tries to ignore it. Thinking that it really makes no difference who's there because she won't be conscious long enough for it to matter anyways. So she tips the vial back ready for that first taste of magical potion to reach her tongue.
But a loud knocking interrupts her again. And then a muffled yell on the other side of the door.
"Regina! I know you're in there!"
Regina rolls her eyes because of course it's Ms. Swan. Gods, that woman truly had a gift for foiling her plans. I mean, honestly. It really is unnatural how good she is at showing up at the exact moment she's not wanted, Regina thinks to herself. The knocking continues in the background. And it's so loud and so grating on her already frayed nerves. She can't think. She can't do anything.
She has no idea what compels her to do so. But she sets the vial down on the kitchen counter and walks towards the front door.
(blinks both eyes to an obnoxiously excessive degree in a poor and rather unsuccessful attempt at a wink)
"Regina! Come on! Open up!" Emma calls out again with a few more hard knocks.
"Go away, Ms. Swan!"
There's a sinister tone in her voice. As if, even though she's armed with magic and loaded with whiskey, she's still afraid of this woman.
"I don't care if I have to talk to you through this door! I have something I need to say and I'm gonna say it however I can and you're gonna hear it!"
But Regina doesn't respond. Just stands with her forehead pressed against a panel on the door. Wishing the stubborn woman would just go away already.
"Look, Regina. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or whatever. It's just – We were having a really good time. And I've never seen you laugh like that. So freely. And I don't know why, but something inside me just never wanted you to stop. And I'm sorry if I pushed too far. I just –"
She stops for a moment. And Regina's hand is sliding up the door. Feeling only the grain of the wood. A replacement for the sudden need she has to touch the other woman. To feel that she is real and there and saying these things. To lend any credence to the fact that this is really happening and not just some drunken illusion or mental breakdown inside her own head. Then Emma continues speaking.
"I know everyone thinks you're evil and incapable of change. But I don't. I don't think that at all. And I never have. Because that woman back there who was laughing and smiling and cutting up. She was a pretty amazing person. Like, someone that I really want to know. You know? And there's just no way in hell that woman is evil. Maybe she's capable of doing bad things. Capable of hurting others. But she's also someone who's capable of hurting as well. And I never for one second believed she was the villain. Misunderstood, definitely. But not evil. Never evil."
Regina's hand curls around the handle of the door. Without warning, the battle of "should I, shouldn't I" is quickly shifting to whether or not she should open the door. And even though she knows that it isn't – not by a long shot – right now it feels like the hardest decision she's ever had to make.
Emma's silent for a moment more. As if she's having to dig down to some part deep inside herself for one last scrap of boldness. Then, in a breathless way, she says, "I just…I just want the chance to understand her. Because that woman back at the bar? God, she's kind of all I can think about right now."
Emma hears a click from the other side of the door. The sound of a deadbolt being turned.
The door opens. Her eyes finally meet Regina's and in them she sees a mixture of exhaustion and self-loathing. Decades of guilt and disdain. That after such a grand speech with so many words of reassurance and admiration. The only thing she can think to say is, "Hi."
It is said that the most foundational building block of our universe isn't matter or energy or light. It's consciousness. Everything we do, everything we care about, everything we ascribe value to – the only reason all of it even exists is because of our mind's ability to perceive it. The world is but a product of our minds. An adaptable fiction. A fairy tale. And I'm but its humble little storyteller. Hoping for the best.