Archive of Our Own ^beta

Virginia Woolf, letter to Vita Sackville-West

8 February 1927

Regina's first impression of Apt. 108 is of shuffling faintly audible from the narrow corridor, as if her arrival had plunged its inhabitants into immediate pandemonium; there’s the sharp bang, a pained intake of breath, and then her voice, muffled through the door but unmistakable: “Henry, could you get that? Kinda busy here.” 

Looking back, Regina will remember this as the moment it first feels real; she debates, not for the first time, simply turning to leave. She would come back, of course–tomorrow, when the leaden feeling in her stomach will hopefully have lessened. Before she can manage a firm decision, the door bursts open and Regina is no longer alone. 

It’s past noon, but Emma’s still in a t-shirt and sweats–the left pant leg bunched up around her knee to reveal a purple half-moon of a bruise. It’s such an Emma mistake Regina half-smiles at the sight; she coughs twice into her cupped hand to hide it. Emma gives her a cursory once-over, one hand still awkwardly cradling the freshly wounded knee, and summons a strained smile. “Can I help you?” 

Regina had rehearsed her story in the Starbucks two doors down. It should come easily — and might have, if not for the sudden lump in her throat. Emma eyes her with polite detachment; it’s somehow worse than the visceral hatred of their early relationship — a slate wiped clean of unwelcome stains. Regina’s stomach all but bottoms out at the sight.

A moment’s weakness — one she would do well to rein in, if she intends this weekend to be a productive one. 

There’s a prolonged beat of hesitation and then, briskly: “I’m from Trinity School. Catherine Fawcett.” An unassuming name for an unassuming woman–one of countless supporting characters in the lifetime of memories Regina had bestowed. 

“I’m here about your son.” 

Your son. Regina clasps her hands behind her back to keep from wringing them. 

The change in Emma is instantaneous; she straightens, obviously regretting her choice of clothing. It’s clear she’s in over her head with the prestigious private school Regina had chosen for Henry. “Right,” Emma groans, frazzled. “Right, of course. I got your message last night. Is everything okay?” 

“Perfectly fine.” Not bothering to wait for an invitation, Regina breezes past Emma and into the apartment. Every inch is familiar to her — the floor paneled in warm, honey-colored wood; the marble-faced kitchen island, the den with Henry’s video games strewn about on the floor. She’s struck by the absurd urge to chasten Henry for his messiness — followed by the reminder, heavy as a blow to the face, that she no longer can. 

Emma follows on her heels, leaving the door to hang open behind them. “Then…” 

“Henry’s Algebra regent was lower than expected.” Regina lays her briefcase on the dining room table, as if to say: You may as well close the door; I have no intention of leaving anytime soon. “Has he seemed out of sorts to you lately? Distracted, perhaps?” 

Hardly a shrewd observation on Regina’s part; Henry is always distracted. Under Regina’s watchful eye, he’d rarely allowed those distractions to interfere with his test scores. Emma, though, is far from the helicopter parent Regina had been. Regina doubts she would waste time committing every test score to memory. 

She’s rewarded with an affirming wince from Emma. 

“There’s no cause for concern, Ms. Swan. I’ll be overseeing tutoring sessions for several of our students. It’s common for grades to slip during the winter months; I’m only here to ensure it doesn’t become a pattern. If you’re not too busy this weekend,” and here she can’t help but glance at Emma’s mussed hair and sweatpants, smiling dryly, “we can even start tomorrow.”

Her next words hitch in her throat, as if not quite ready to emerge; she swallows, composing herself, and tries again. “Is Henry at home?” 

Despite her best attempts at a measured delivery, the words fall from her in a rush, the emotion in them laid briefly bare. Emma eyes her with a look that’s strangely knowing — one that belongs not to this Emma, but to a woman who no longer exists. It clears as quickly as it had come, and then Emma is striding from the room, poking her head around the hallway corner. “Henry, c’mere! There’s someone from Trinity here to see you.” 

No amount of rehearsal could have prepared Regina for the sight of him; he hovers indecisively in the foyer, dressed in clothes those gangling limbs have just begun to outgrow. She’s overwhelmed with the urge to touch him — perhaps to smooth the hair back from his ears, or run an idle knuckle along his arm, as she might have done when he was hers. There is too much space between them; Regina can’t breathe, suddenly, for the lack of him. 

He squints, nose scrunched with something halfway between bafflement and suspicion; the expression is so like Emma’s that Regina nearly chokes out a watery laugh. 

“You’re from my school?” he asks, blunt as ever. 

She’s grateful when Emma intercedes on her behalf. “Catherine is going to be tutoring you for a couple of days.” She gives his hair a fond ruffle, and the contact comes so easily Regina aches with it. “And you’re gonna pay super close attention to everything she has to say, right kid?” 

Henry gives a playful roll of the eyes. “Yeah, yeah.” He grins lopsidedly, so that Regina can just make out the gap where his last baby tooth had fallen out. 

She supposes she’d missed that, too. 

“I should be going,” she says, reaching hurriedly for her briefcase. “I…it...” A ragged breath, as Henry and Emma exchange twin looks of confusion. Regina struggles, furiously, to compose herself. “It was lovely meeting you both,” she says, and wishes in a moment of cowardice that she had refused to come, Snow White and her grand schemes be damned. 

“Same time tomorrow?” 

Regina pauses with her hand on the doorknob, heart beating savagely. She should have thought to remove it before she came; perhaps then, this might have been easier.  

“Yes,” Regina says anyway. “Yes, of course.”

* * *

Henry watches through narrowed eyes as Regina claims the seat across from him. He’d inherited his other mother’s healthy sense of skepticism; the phone call (magically rerouted to display the Trinity caller ID) had been enough to convince Emma of her good intent. Henry, it seemed, would not be so easily won over. Regina might have found his resistance exasperating, if she hadn’t been so proud instead; he is correct in his suspicions, after all. 

Still, Regina makes a show of thumbing through the pamphlets in her briefcase, eventually setting a beginner’s algebra worksheet on the table between them. Admittedly, she’s no expert on mathematics — but she’d helped Henry with his homework enough to pick out the right answers from the wrong. Besides, Emma would never buy that Henry had done poorly in English; they both knew his love of literature too well. 

“I thought we might start with some review,” she starts, hoping her smile doesn’t look half as tense as it feels. “And then work our way up to a practice test. How does that sound?” 

Henry hardly spares the worksheet a glance; instead, he turns to rifle through the backpack hanging from his chair, withdraws a manila folder and sets it gingerly on the table between them. “Actually,” he says, with an air of quiet triumph, “we got our regents back at school last week.” 

Regina’s smile slackens as he works the metal groove on the folder, slides out a sheaf of papers and hands them to her. “I got an A, which is probably okay. Right?” And Oh, she’d missed that look, though she hadn’t known it until now — the mask of innocence hiding impish glee. 

“Henry…” 

“It’s okay!” he says, stumbling over the words in his rush to be rid of them. “I won’t tell Mom, because I recognized you.” He’s fumbling for something again, but Regina is too shell-shocked to notice — and Henry’s voice reaches her as if through a heavy fog. “I know who you are.” 

He thrusts his phone beneath her nose, and Regina looks down to find her own eyes peering back at her — hers, and Emma’s and Henry’s. The picture is recent enough (a dizzying realization, given the current circumstances), taken during a family dinner at Granny’s upon which Henry, of course, had insisted. There are more: snapshots of Main Street, of Snow White in her classroom, beaming in pastel pink; of Emma lounging by the window at the Charmings' house, haloed in afternoon sunlight. One picture shows Henry with his head cushioned against Regina’s shoulder, dozing as she looks on with soft eyes; the sight alone sends a hot bolt through her — so much longing, and all for a boy seated not ten feet away. 

Henry had grown impatient of waiting for a response. “That’s you,” he presses, “isn’t it?” 

“It is,” says Regina, heavily. What a stupid, careless oversight. She’d sacrificed so much to preserve their happiness — for him (for Emma too, just a little). And yet she doubts, with a foundation so weak, this curse could possibly have offered the fairytale-free lifetime she’d promised them. Long before her arrival, the cracks had begun to show. Perhaps this, too, was a mark of her selfishness — some subconscious attempt at sabotage. 

“They’ve been in my photo album this whole time, but I didn’t even think to look until a few days ago. It’s like…” He hesitates, frustrated. “It’s like there’s this big wall in my head and I know there’s all this important stuff on the other side but I can’t get to it. And you’re important, I can tell — because when you’re here, I can almost remember. But if you’re in all those pictures, you must know, so you can–”

“Henry,” Regina tries again, more sharply this time. “The situation is...complicated.”

Henry gives a pointed roll of the eyes, as if to say, Duh. “It’s magic, isn’t it? It has to be, because Mom doesn’t remember either.” He says this with such authority that Regina’s lips twitch. How did the saying go? You could take the boy out of Storybrooke…

“At least tell me something.”

Henry’s exasperation ebbs as his eyes fix, with sudden, sly eagerness, on the manila envelope. “Or...I could tell my mom you lied about my algebra score.” 

Regina does laugh then; she can’t help herself. “Are you blackmailing me?” 

Henry’s face turns stubborn, fixed with a look of determination Regina knows well. And so she leans forward, and with a quick flare of her hand, the envelope is gone in a puff of purple smoke. “I knew it!” Henry crows, so thrilled with this brief display of magic he hardly seems to care he’d lost the upper hand. “Are you a magician?” 

Regina smiles wryly. “Of a sort.” She bites her lip, considering. “I’ll tell you something anyway. But only if you promise not to repeat a word of this to your mother. Does that sound fair?” 

He snorts. “I wasn’t born yesterday, y’know.” 

The potion had been burning a hole in Regina’s coat pocket ever since she’d left the Enchanted Forest behind; she reaches for it now, quickly, before there’s any room for doubt. It seems so mundane, held in the palm of her hand — a little glass bottle, filled to the brim with clear, blue liquid.  

Almost instinctively, Henry moves to take it from her. He’s halfway across the table when Regina clenches it in her fist, hiding the vial behind white-knuckled fingers. “This is a memory potion. It’s the only one I have...and it’s meant for your mother.” 

“Oh.” Henry frowns, as if in deep concentration. “Can’t you just pour it in her drink or something? If you give it to me, I bet I can do it for you. She drinks coffee every morning before she walks me to class.” 

Regina is moved by the depth of his trust in her; perhaps, even without his memories, something in Henry finds itself drawn to something in her. It seems too much to hope for, an overly indulgent theory, but then — it isn’t like him, to place the safety of a loved one in the hands of a stranger. Or maybe it’s only that this Henry is the product of a simple, uncomplicated life; he has nothing to fear this time around — no fairytale spooks to threaten the safety of this perfect world. 

It hardly matters, one way or another; she has no intentions of spiking Emma’s morning coffee. “Thank you, Henry,” she says, as gently as possible. “But I couldn’t do that. These memories...they would change everything, for both of you. It has to be Emma’s choice.” 

If Henry notices Emma’s name on her lips — the familiarity of it, the almost-reverence — he chooses not to comment. 

“But...if I’m starting to remember, can’t she remember too? If we just go talk to her...” He stands, as if to do just that. Regina is beside him in a moment, hands braced against his shoulders in some desperate bid to hold him still. It’s the first time she’d touched him since they parted at the town line — and perhaps she is a stranger to him now, but Henry allows the contact despite that. Regina pulls away instead, urgently, as if she’d touched her hands to a burning stovetop. 

“Henry,” she pleads, needing him to understand. “She might not want to.” 

“But that isn’t fair!” 

“What’s not fair?” 

It’s Emma, lingering in the hallway. She’d actually bothered to dress today, though casually — in worn jeans and a t-shirt, those yellow princess curls gathered in a messy ponytail at the crown of her head. Beautiful, Regina thinks, almost scornfully, in that way that doesn't mean to be. She’s leaning in that all-too familiar way, loose and languid, one arm propped against the doorframe above her head — waiting expectantly as Regina debates the best available lie. 

“I was telling Ms. Fawcett about some stuff that happened at school,” Henry says, with such an easy way about him that Regina nearly believes it herself. “We finished studying for now. Are we still getting something to eat?” 

Emma sails past them both and into the kitchen, ruffling Henry’s hair as she goes. “Sure, kid. Restaurant’s my pick tonight, right?” 

“I know you know it’s mine,” Henry groans. 

“You’re welcome to join us, if you want,” says Emma. “Our treat. Can’t promise anything too fancy, though, Henry always picks McDonalds.” 

Regina tamps down a wave of indignation at the knowledge that her son has been eating McDonalds weekly. 

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly — ” She's interrupted by a meaningful look from Henry and remembers, with fond exasperation, his earlier attempt at blackmail. It's obvious he's hoping to extend their evening together, likely to probe her for more answers. And she's almost certain there's no further evidence against her...

Almost. But not entirely.  

Spending the remainder of her day with Emma and Henry, who see her — now — as a stranger, hardly seems ideal; truthfully, the past hour had been painful enough. But a brief call to Trinity would expose Regina instantly — and she doubts Emma would be too keen on believing the woman who'd lied her way into their home. 

No, she would need Henry on her side in this. Perhaps he'd learned from Regina a little too well.        

Henry gives a broad, gleeful grin. "We insist." 

“Uh.” Emma’s eyes dart to meet Henry’s, clearly — mercifully — not in on the joke. “We do?” 

Regina mirrors him with a stiff smile of her own. "Well, then. Lead the way." 

* * *

Henry hadn’t chosen McDonalds after all — probably, Emma had murmured confidentially in Regina’s ear, because he’d wanted to impress her (at this, Regina had looked down at the floor to hide her flush of pleasure). They’d opted instead for takeout from a trendy Cantonese place on the Lower East Side, and eaten on a bench at the park across the street. Henry had peppered her with leading questions ("So, where are you from?" and "What floor is your office on?" and then, knowingly, "Are you married, Miss Fawcett?" with a pointed look at her bare ring finger) that left Regina on edge. This last had proven too much for Emma, who reddened almost comically at the question. She'd slipped Henry a twenty after that, and shooed him off to bring back dessert, ignoring the ensuing stream of protests. 

"I'm sorry," Emma tells her now, still faintly pink in the cheeks. "I hope Henry didn't give you too much trouble today. He can be...kind of a handful, when he wants to be." 

“No,” Regina says, gently. “Not at all.”

It had been only minutes since Henry left, and already Regina feels his absence like a phantom itch. Of course, it's as painful to be near Henry as it is to be parted from him; there's something in the way he watches her now (so removed; devoid of all recognition) that slips beneath Regina's skin and settles there. Still: he isn't entirely lost. There were the pictures on his phone — and that hungry curiosity, his clear need to know her. Perhaps Henry would ease himself free of the spell even without Regina's help. 

Strange, then, that Emma shouldn't follow suit. If Henry had begun to seize hold of his missing memories, surely the Savior could do the same? Unless it's true, what she'd speculated to Henry in the kitchen that morning...that Emma wasn't ready to remember — didn't want to.

The notion stings, just the slightest bit, though Regina can't imagine why it should.  

“Everything okay?” 

Regina had stilled in thought, the takeout container on her lap left untouched. She musters a polite smile. “Lost in thought, I suppose.”

Like Henry, Emma had all but inhaled her food in record time. She'd pushed her near-empty carton aside and resolved to spend her time watching Regina instead. Regina pretends not to notice the weight of Emma's eyes on her, that unbearably earnest expression; it isn't like Emma, she thinks, to wear her thoughts so openly. She's forced to remind herself that this isn't Emma — or at least, not exactly; not completely. 

"I wanted to thank you," Emma says. "Henry seems to like you a lot." She shrugs, suddenly tentative. "It's nice to have a second opinion for once. I've been doing this on my own for so long, but sometimes it still feels like I'm just...winging it. You know?"

You haven't, Regina thinks, not without some small share of bitterness. After all, Emma's memories of raising Henry were little more than photocopies — pale imitations of reality. Even so, Regina had given them freely, with no provocation from Emma. They were real to Emma now, whatever that meant for the two of them. 

And grudgingly, Regina can't help but admit that she does understand; of course she does. Alone, she'd changed Henry's soiled diapers; soothed his fevers, bandaged his scraped knees, weathered the tantrums of his infancy. She remembers the first time Henry had said he hated her — how she'd closed herself in her office and cried until a headache bloomed. Regina had loved motherhood — had loved Henry in every way she knew how, and some she was only now beginning to understand. 

But the experience had left its scars; there was no denying that. 

"Of course," she murmurs, taking care to avoid Emma's eyes. "He's...extraordinary." The words are out of her mouth before it occurs to Regina to censor them. It’s far from the sort of thing a tutor might say of a boy she’d met only days ago. 

But Emma’s whole face softens. “Yeah. He’s an incredible kid.” 

The sight of Emma, like this (glowing, as though lit from within at the mere thought of Henry) is enough to make Regina regret her moment's resentment. Of course it should be Emma; she could think of no one better suited — no one more deserving.   

"Do you..." Emma hesitates, on the verge of uncharted territory. "Do you have kids?" 

And Regina is suffocating, suddenly — held kicking beneath water, hungry for air. She swallows, willing herself to resurface. To answer. "I did." 

She stands, abruptly, and finds that her knees are shaking. “Thank you for the food. I really should be getting home.” Though home, she thinks, no longer exists; the empty hotel room will have to suffice. 

Flustered, Emma stands, too — and finds herself wishing she hadn't. Her takeout container goes flying, splattering Regina's coat with the sticky remains; it leaves a muddy residue, seeping deeply into the wool, and for a moment Regina only blinks down at the damage in stunned silence. "Shit ," Emma hisses beneath her breath, excavating a wad of napkins from her pocket; she presses forward, blotting at a dark spot on Regina’s collar. 

Regina’s convinced the stain is only spreading beneath Emma’s ministrations. And besides, Emma’s far too close, her free hand idling along the raised ridge of Regina’s collar bone as the other works the stain. Emma’s touch (cold fingers on cold skin) trails goosebumps in its wake; Regina does her best to ignore this, and holds her chin high to keep from grazing Emma’s cheek, and this is — less than ideal, to say the least. 

"Forget it," Regina orders, as imperiously as she can manage with a migraine threatening and Emma Swan’s head bobbing beneath her nose; she can smell her shampoo , for God’s sake — sweet, faintly floral. "It's fine. I'll have it dry cleaned." She grabs at Emma’s wrist and pins it down, stilling the maddening flurry of movement. Emma’s mouth parts, as if to protest, though she says nothing; her eyes fall to Regina’s hand, still clutching her own in a vice-grip. And Regina can feel Emma’s pulse through the underside of her thumb, the way the easy rhythm stutters and resumes at newly breakneck speed.  

Startled, Regina shakes her hand loose and stumbles back, eager to put distance between them. "It's fine," she repeats, voice not quite as even as she might have hoped. “Good night, Ms. Swan." She turns to leave, cradling her hand to her chest as if Emma's touch had scalded. 

“Hey! Wait.” Emma is at her heels, matching Regina’s pace step for step. She’s flushed with the effort, curls slipping loose from their elastic — every inch the tousled princess, though newly incapable of remembering her crown. She smiles — a broad, toothy smile, more charming than Regina cares to admit. 

“Yes?” Regina asks, striving for patience. She’s sick of pretending; this night had gone on long enough. 

“I’m sorry if this is crazy. I get if you’re not...if you don’t...y’know.” Emma chuckles, the sound warm and rough. “But hey, you only live once right?” 

Grudgingly, she slows her steps. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she answers at last, with a tone that suggests she has little interest in learning. It’s a brand of barely restrained annoyance normally reserved for an entirely different Emma Swan — though this version seems to possess that same regrettable talent for getting under her skin. It’s careless — a slip in formality sure to raise Emma’s red flags. But it’s difficult to care when she’s so damned tired. Her head and her heart are so full with thoughts of Henry she thinks she may burst with it, and the places Emma’s fingers had skittered across so nervously still prickle with the memory of that touch, and — and…

Everything is so strange now; everything is so different, she’d begun to worry that nothing would ever set things right again. 

But Emma (this Emma — not Storybrooke’s, not...hers) only grins, and asks: “Would you want to go out with me tomorrow night?”  

The question is a douse of cold water, and Regina is left spluttering and startled in its wake. “That would hardly be professional.” 

It’s the first response that comes to mind — measured, diplomatic, and far from what she would truly like to say. It isn’t Emma’s fault, of course; she has no way of knowing the offer is ludicrous. This is still Emma, after all — Emma, who had been the bane of Regina’s existence for years, if not from birth. Oh, the woman was attractive enough; that much was objective truth. She bristles to think of the songs the bards might have written had she lived among them in the Enchanted Forest. But that fact did nothing to make Emma more likable — more soft, more agreeable, less of a thorn in Regina’s side. 

And yet, that she would ask at all — even without her memories…

Emma shifts in place, anxious now with thoughts of rejection. “Like I said...no pressure, alright? You have my number. Are we still on for four tomorrow? For tutoring.” 

“Yes,” says Regina, distantly. “Four it is.” 

* * * 

It’s nearly midnight when Regina reaches for the phone. She’s splayed eagle in bed, freshly showered, watching the hotel flatscreen without quite seeing it. Even now, lying perfectly still, her heart beats a frantic refrain; each replay of the conversation sets it to skipping and stumbling. Humiliating, she thinks, bitterly. Like a moonsick child, contemplating her first crush.

And did Emma...had she...all this time? Or was it only that this Emma, with her treasure trove of false memories, saw the world differently now — saw Regina differently. 

Emma had always defended her. She'd pulled Regina back from the brink of death, even when they were at odds — but that was in her nature; she would do the same for any stranger off the street. And when they met all those years ago, Regina had imagined some small spark of attraction between them...but she'd disabused herself of the notion quickly enough.

Truthfully, Regina rarely gave Emma much thought at all. Oh, in relation to Henry, naturally; that went without saying. And, well — she supposed they spent their fair share of time together, or had before this latest curse...but their lives were so closely intertwined, it was difficult to avoid her. Every moment spent in the company of Emma Swan had been for Henry's sake — not...not hers. 

It's curiosity, then, that keeps this absurd possibility alive in her mind — curiosity, and nothing more. Of course, she resolves not to call; had it ever really been an option? And still, the thought eats at her; still, she lies awake, tracking each minute the clock ticks down.

In a moment of weakness, she feels for her phone beneath the covers; her fingers close around it, linger, withdraw. She can’t; she can’t, she can’t, she can’t. Not in the name of some misplaced curiosity, and certainly not for that strange sensation in her chest, one that feels like falling without a parachute. Their relationship had been a tenuous thing at best (one Regina had, perhaps, valued more than she likes to admit), and this?

This would unmake it entirely. 

It hardly matters; Regina's phone begins to buzz beneath her open hand, and an hour of agonizing mental debate is buried in a single stroke. The pulse in her wrist picks up again, a red flag; every logical thought points to a concise, diplomatic rejection. Pull the band-aid off; end this before it begins, before you say something you can’t take back. 

She should. 

But then, Regina always had been too stubborn for her own good.

* * * 

Regina had spent more than half of the money remaining to her — a once-thick wad of cash, exchanged upon arrival for all the gold she could carry from the Enchanted Forest. Snow and Charming had emptied their pockets, desperate to aid in Emma’s recovery; that money had ultimately funded a date with their daughter instead — namely, the little black dress and pumps from Neiman Marcus. 

It would all be hilarious, if it wasn’t downright terrifying. 

Still, it’s worth the expense for the way Emma gapes when Regina meets her at the door. “Wow,” she laughs, a little breathless. “For someone who didn’t want to come, you look…” 

Regina rolls her eyes, though a threatening smirk betrays her. “If you’re quite finished staring, I’d like to warm up. It’s freezing out here.” She’d begun to stamp her feet to ward off the chill, though Emma is unperturbed. She glances up from the bag she’d been rifling in, plainly amused. 

“Ha! There it is.” She flashes her ID, a New York issue with all the proper information present and accounted for. At least Regina had gotten that much right; magic was all in the details, after all, and there hadn’t been much time to do the whole thing properly. 

“Were you this crabby before?” Emma adds, as the bouncer nods them through. 

Regina snorts. “You must bring it out in me.” It’s far more true than Emma knows. 

And it isn’t meant to be a compliment (or at least, it certainly doesn’t sound like one) but Emma grins anyway. “I’m flattered.” 

Emma pulls out a stool for Regina when they reach the bar, like an over-eager high school boy courting his prom date. It shouldn’t be endearing; Regina resolves to pretend that it isn’t, and takes her seat with her face downcast to hide the flush in it.

Emma slides a gin and tonic across the counter, and Regina drinks generously from it, grateful for the distraction. She’s loose-limbed and flooded with warmth before her first drink is finished. Absently, her eyes skim the bar, passing over the tight crush of people crowding the dance floor and coming, finally, to rest on Emma. She is beautiful tonight; there’s no denying that much. The thought doesn’t smart as much as it should, either, though perhaps that’s only the gin talking.  

Regina’s forced to edge closer, raising her voice to be heard over the white noise of competing conversation. “Emma...Why did you ask me here tonight?” It’s a serious question, not at all suited for the setting — but the thought had itched at her one time too many. Regina deserves her answer in exchange for agreeing to come; it's the very least this night stands to offer her. 

“Why?” Emma echoes, bewildered. 

Regina expects a facetious response; this is still Emma , after all, though she’s changed from the Emma of her memories. Instead, Emma considers the question with surprising intensity. “I feel like I know you already," Emma says, finally. "Does that sound crazy? You can tell me if that sounds crazy.” 

“And, at the risk of letting this go to your head, you are, like...insanely hot. I’m sure you’ve been told.”

“At least daily,” Regina breathes, though it emerges sounding more flustered than sardonic. 

“And you’re good with Henry." Emma leans forward, elbows propped on the counter. "Should I list some more reasons, or have I stroked your ego enough?” 

“More than enough, thank you.” Regina finishes her second drink, and swipes the liquor from her mouth with a balled fist. It doesn’t escape her notice that Emma’s eyes settle there and linger with something very like hunger. And she shouldn’t, she knows she shouldn’t–but she can’t quite seem to help herself. “Were you planning to ask me to dance?”

Emma snorts. “Um, definitely not. I don’t dance.” 

“You do now.” 

Emma protests, even as Regina catches her wrist in her hand and all but tugs her from the barstool — but she follows anyway, weaving through the crowd in reluctant pursuit. Regina slows as they reach center stage, where the press of people is thickest. She’s feverish with the heat almost instantly; this is hardly the grand ballrooms of the Enchanted Forest, or the mellow, neighborly Storybrooke events from which Regina had almost always been excluded. 

This is rich and pulsing and strange; Regina is lost to it entirely. 

By all accounts, it should be unbearably awkward. Emma hadn't lied; she's far from a natural dancer. Two drinks hadn't taken the edge off entirely, and Emma's body is stiff with lack of confidence. Regina resolves to keep things uncomplicated, if only to ease her in — just swaying hips and grazing touches until Emma loosens, grasping the rhythm at last. She's got her head turned to the side, bowed so that Regina is met with her profile — the pale lashes fanned against a downturned cheek; the hollow of her throat, beading sweat. Maybe Regina's been watching a beat too long, because Emma looks up — startled at first, until their eyes meet, and the corner of her mouth pulls at a radiant grin. 

At that moment, Regina makes an alarmingly straightforward realization: She wants this; God, she actually wants this.    

Regina reaches for Emma before inhibition has the chance to set in — and Emma is wide-eyed as Regina threads their hands together, guides them to rest against the contours of her waist. Emma accommodates the sudden shift, bridging the strip of space between them in a single step; her hands hold steady against Regina, thumb rubbing languid circles through the fabric of her dress. They move together — Regina with natural ease, Emma less stiffly by the second, and the world is sweat and noise and Emma’s hands, until Regina is faint with it.

She’s grateful when Emma leans in, close enough that Regina can just make out the words: “Let’s get some air,” she says, and her cheeks are two pinpricks of red. 

They leave through a back entrance opening out onto an empty side-street; it’s like being dunked into a sensory deprivation chamber, the sudden dark and quiet of it all. It’s grown cold enough, now, that their breath mists in the air before them. Regina inhales deeply, allowing that cold to settle in her bones, chasing off the heat of exertion. 

She leans back against the brick wall, feeling it thrum against her back — born of the flurried motion behind it, she thinks idly, or perhaps it’s only the restless buzzing of her own body. 

“Well,” she laughs. 

Emma is picking fitfully at a loose thread in her dress, as if not entirely sure what to do with her hands now that Regina no longer occupies them. It’s a giddy feeling, to be wanted like this: so readily, so transparently — and by Emma. By Emma . 

Emboldened, she inches just the slightest bit forward, winding her hands through the lapels of Emma’s jacket to draw her nearer. She’s close enough now that Regina can pick out each individual freckle, faint against skin still flushed with dancing — close enough to reach out and tangle her fingers in that fall of golden hair. She doesn’t, though — too overwhelmed to do anything but wait with bated breath and pounding heart . 

Impatient, Emma closes the distance between them and Oh, she’d never imagined anything would make her feel this way again. She tips her head back against the wall, baring her jaw, the column of her throat; Emma obliges with the warm friction of her mouth against Regina’s skin, lips and teeth and tongue. 

She tries Emma’s name, but Emma teeth catch against her neck and the word stutters and dies on a breath. “Emma,” she manages, at last, and hooks a thumb beneath Emma’s chin, guiding gently, inexorably upwards. The sight of her is worth the sudden loss of contact– Emma, red-cheeked and kiss-swollen beneath that deluge of bright curls. 

Emma smiles uncertainly, as if to say: Is this still okay? and Regina realizes she’d fallen still and silent, caught up in watching her. And she wants — so much, and so hard her hands shake with it. It’s like a dam bursting, this feeling — this need, the inevitable culmination of three years of self-denial. 

Emma doesn’t understand, of course, couldn’t possibly now; Regina hardly does herself. But when she does — when she remembers ...

“Emma,” she says, hating the raggedness of the sound. “I’m sorry. We can’t...I can’t–”

And there, that look again; she remembers that look, and with it the sense Emma could see right through her. They should be strangers to each other, and still, somehow, that look. 

“Hey. Regina.” Emma’s voice is rough and low. “It’s okay. If this is too much…” Her thumb rubs circles against Regina’s cheek, the touch so light it barely registers; it’s a gesture intended to calm, but it’s maddening instead, a bitter reminder of every poor decision that had brought her to this point. “We can take things slow, go back inside...” 

Regina wants to say: This was a mistake. She wants to say: I should never have come. She nearly does, and then she hears — really hears — and realization knocks the breath from her.

Regina. She had said ‘Regina,’ hadn’t she? 

She sucks in a sharp breath. “I’m sorry,” she repeats, frantic, now, in her desire to be anywhere but here. “I...I need to go.” 

Regina moves briskly, ducking beneath Emma’s outstretched hands and gunning for the sidewalk. Emma scrambles to keep pace, huffing with the effort. “I don’t get it. That — that was something back there, wasn’t it? I mean, you were literally shaking in my arms.”

She can’t help but whirl around at that, scowling. “It’s below freezing, Emma.”

It’s a familiar rhythm, this fighting — like riding a bike; it comes easily, despite time lost between them. Perhaps it’s like muscle memory; that pull remains, even without context to anchor it. Was that the reason Regina’s name had resurfaced? Not a sign of memory returning, but the faint, residual echo of past habits? 

It’s the only reasonable explanation; Emma couldn’t possibly want this — not knowingly. And why? Why had she come? What had she expected? 

In the quiet, Regina huffs an impatient sigh — deeply, out through her nose. She brings a hand up to cradle her forehead. “Just...go home, Emma. Go home to Henry. Please.”

Emma must; at any rate, no footsteps follow along side-streets, down subway steps. And she’s lost the moment the stairs bottom out, scrambling through prompts for the MetroCard machine with still-numb fingers. Her temples throb as she scans the subway map, mind spread too thin to focus properly, and she feels Emma even now — Emma’s mouth on her neck, Emma’s hands pulling through her hair in a touch as alien as it is like coming home. 

Regina exhales, shakily — left alone with her thoughts, and liking them less by the moment. 

In more ways than one, it's a long way home. 

* * * 

The next morning finds Regina hovering, yet again, at  the door to Emma’s apartment — as ever, seriously contemplating turning on her heel and bolting for the elevator. She’d staggered into her hotel room late last night, and hadn’t slept much after. Memories of the encounter (of her own idiocy in allowing it; in her name, impossibly, on Emma’s lips) had kept her tossing and turning past sunrise. 

Standing with one hand grasping the knocker, Regina feels — naked, somehow, stripped of her armor. She knocks now, as she had before, for a thousand reasons — nearly all of them Henry. 

Nearly. 

It would be foolish to pretend she hadn’t thought of this — of them. But these were silly, childish flights of fancy; she’d done her best to shove them beneath the rug, and leave them to gather dust there. Regina would apologize, of course. And if Emma did remember, surely she would consent to put all of this behind them? 

It would save them both a world of embarrassment, after all. 

Emma answers, looking harried. Regina hadn’t seen her so anxious since — well, since Storybrooke, and the sight reads like an omen (the perfect fairytale life fraying, finally, at the edges), though Regina tries not to think so. She’s fidgeting restlessly, fingers working beneath the pockets of her jeans, but she smiles as she meets Regina’s eyes. 

“Hey, Henry’s actually running late. But maybe we could...talk, for a second?” 

Regina feels ridiculous, suddenly, clutching her briefcase with its practice tests and student worksheets — as if that flimsy ruse still mattered now. No doubt Emma had sent Henry away on purpose, hoping to work through last night’s mess in private. 

She doesn’t answer, but Emma seems to take her silence for agreement. “Sorry,” she says, sweeping Henry’s games off the couch to clear a place for Regina. “It’s kind of a mess right now. Mondays...y’know.” 

Regina takes her seat gingerly, avoiding eye contact. She’d meant to reply (something inane, an assurance that the mess was of no concern) but Emma hurries on, tripping headlong over the words as she goes. “I’m surprised you even came. I mean, after last night, I didn’t think you wanted anything to do with me.” 

Emma doesn’t deserve to be shut out; Regina knows that. But she can’t — can’t rise to meet Emma’s emotion with her own. The conversation is too delicate, too...personal for Regina to relinquish control of it. And so she schools her expression into something suitably impassive. “Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?” 

Her smile slips. “No...Yeah.” She kneads at her forehead, leaving behind angry red imprints. “Sort of.” Regina represses the absurd urge to comfort her, waiting expectantly, instead. “Henry’s been saying...all this crazy stuff. His teachers said it might be caused by a stressful home environment, but I don’t see how that can be it because he’s — he’s fine. But you mentioned he’s been distracted at school. Has he said anything to you about…?” 

Regina thumb hooks against the vial in her pocket. “Fairytales?”

“Yeah,” Emma says, far too heavily. “I thought he was joking at first, but lately it’s all he’ll talk about.” Since you arrived, she doesn’t say — not that she needs to. “And I can’t help thinking…” Emma laughs–a brittle, self-deprecating sound Regina recognizes better than most. “Is it me? Am I doing something wrong?” 

It shouldn’t affect Regina the way it does — sharply, instantaneously, like a bolt to the chest. But Emma’s face is open, as it had rarely been in Storybrooke, the hurt in it as plain to read as the pages of Henry’s book. Regina feels almost like an intruder, granted access to some private part of Emma Swan she hadn’t earned the right to explore. “Emma,” she says, practically indignant. “Of course not. You’re a good mother.” 

And her hand rises — impetuously, stupidly; it stills halfway to Emma’s cheek, fingers meeting empty space with a kind of coiled desperation. “I apologize, that was...inappropriate.” She smiles, ruefully. “...as was last night.” She moves to withdraw her hand, but Emma catches it before she can, suddenly fierce. 

“Then why even come? Why bother?” 

Emma’s skin is warm, her touch an unwelcome reminder of the night before; it’s tempting to hold that contact. Regina wrenches back instead, as though to spite herself, hissing her displeasure as she does. “A mistake, for which, I believe, I’ve already apologized.” 

“Then why do I feel like we’ve done this before?”. 

Startled as she should be, Regina can’t help but bark a laugh at the implication. “I assure you, Ms. Swan, we’ve done nothing of the sort.” This may be a concession to the history shared between them; Regina isn’t sure, at this point, what constitutes toeing the line versus crossing it. The lines between the cursed Emma and her true self had blurred so much, Regina's no longer entirely certain who she's speaking with; the answer seems to differ from one moment to the next. It’s all too dizzying to consider properly — now (her blood buzzing, heart thumping out a frantic refrain) more so than ever. 

In the ebbing daylight, the planes of Emma’s face are cast in shadow; she’s golden, a fairytale heroine come alive, and Regina marvels that she’d found it so easy to slip between the cracks of New York City. It seems so transparently obvious, that Emma is made for something more. 

Regina reaches for the vial. She had cast it aside one time too many — watching, instead, as Emma fought to poke holes in the skin of Regina’s spell, working in vain to let the light in. 

The time had more than come. 

But Emma had drawn closer, so that her knees knock against Regina’s, and she’s driven to distraction by the touch.

“But we wanted to,” Emma says, the sound so low Regina strains to hear it. “Didn’t we?” 

“I...” The words stick in Regina’s throat, and she’s silent for a moment, struggling to distill the haze of her thoughts into something of sense. 

It’s no use. “I don’t know,” she says, quietly. 

It’s nearly dark now, and Emma reaches across Regina’s shoulder to switch on the lamp. The room is flooded, suddenly, with stark yellow light; Regina blinks away stars as Emma leans back, watching her intently. “Henry was right, wasn’t he?” She laughs, then — that sound Regina might one day learn to love, had she been the sentimental sort (she isn’t, of course; she won’t). “About everything. I think I’ve known for a while, but I didn’t want to. And then you came here and started fucking everything up.” 

Regina laughs, too, but it’s dazed, breathless. “I’ve been told I have a knack for that.” 

In hindsight, their night together makes perfect sense. Regina’s arrival had jogged Emma’s memory, and Emma, hungry to regain what she’d lost, had given chase. There had been no attraction, no true interest — only that sense, subconsciously felt, of dawning recognition. 

A welcome realization, of course — a relief. At last, she would lay this silly fantasy to rest. 

“So...” Emma exhales, somewhat shakily. “What happens now?” 

In answer, Regina withdraws the little vial and lays it in Emma’s palm, face-up. “This will restore your memories.” 

Emma brings the bottle to eye-level, closely examining its contents. “You don’t have to,” Regina adds hurriedly. “It’s your choice. I — always meant it to be.” 

Perhaps, though, Regina hadn’t fully prepared herself for the possibility that Emma might refuse — not when she and Henry had come so far already. And so she’s utterly silent as Emma sets the vial gently on the coffee table, mind working feverishly to process the sight. 

This meant, she supposed, that Emma and Henry would remain in New York; Emma would seek to forget again, and hope their son might do the same. Perhaps she would find a husband, offer Henry a more traditional family. Regina had made her peace with these visions of the future at the town line — or thought she had. But her chest had begun to tighten, and there’s a pounding in her ears and she thinks that, maybe, she hadn’t moved on half so well after all. 

Regina holds herself stiffly, not quite daring to breathe. “You’ve made your decision, then.” 

“Yeah. I think so.” 

“I assume there’s nothing I can say to change your mind. Not that I mean to try, of course.” She tucks a trembling hand behind her. “I’m not certain how much you remember now, but our lives in Storybrooke weren’t always easy. I can’t fault you for wanting to find happiness elsewhere.” 

“Regina.” 

“That was my intent from the start, of course. But circumstances have changed, and we thought — I thought, you might consider…” She’s interrupted by the faintest of touches — a hand at her cheek, smoothing the stray lock of hair back from her brow, tucking it delicately behind her ear. Regina freezes, breathless, bewildered. 

“Regina.” Her name, again — and said so warmly, with a kind of fond exasperation that makes Regina’s heart turn painfully in her chest. “I want to do this my way.” 

Do what? she nearly asks, though she thinks she’s beginning to know. And then Emma is tipping her chin upwards, the pad of a thumb (calloused rough from an adolescence Emma no longer remembers fully) warm against Regina’s jaw. They hadn’t kissed before (not properly, not really) though Regina hadn’t realized until now, and there’s a sense of the surreal as Emma’s mouth moves to meet hers. 

It’s tentative, at first — not the brimming-tension-turned-to-fire of the alleyway, but something far more delicate. Emma had risen up on her knees, leaning over so that both of them are curtained by the gold of her hair. Her free hand comes to rest at the nape of Regina’s neck, skimming the fine, dark hair gathered there; that touch (tender, grazing) stirs something in Regina’s chest, a kind of pleasant burning. 

Emma parts Regina’s lips with her own, surging forward at first, with the enthusiasm of something new — and then easing back, falling into steady rhythm; she takes Regina’s lower lip in her mouth, sucking, pulling against teeth, and Regina gives with something half a groan, half a sigh. 

The pressure of Emma’s mouth lessens, then vanishes entirely as Emma pulls back on her knees — flushed, wavering, no longer certain she’d read the cues correctly. Regina follows her forward — heart thudding, aching. She finds her hands cupping Emma’s cheeks without quite remembering how they’d gotten there. 

Emma smiles — a sweet, watery smile — and Regina kisses her; she doesn’t know how not to. 

It’s easy this time, not so suffused with doubt and insecurity. Emma’s mouth is warm and pliant, and she’s got one knee pressing just so between Regina’s legs; Emma kisses back, still smiling, and there’s the taste of damp and salt that must be her damned eyes watering. 

Regina thinks she feels it then, though she can’t be certain later, looking back. She sees nothing, though in fairness her eyes are half-closed. But there’s... something — a tugging in her chest, a lightness, a cool prickling like goosebumps on the skin. And it couldn’t possibly be what it seems...that would be absurd. 

And still. Still. 

Emma draws away, and Regina struggles to reconcile herself with the sudden loss. She’s quiet, watchful — no longer smiling. And Regina ventures, her voice sounding strange to her own ears, “Emma?” 

“Henry’s never gonna let us live this down.” 

Regina exhales sharply, the feeling like a dam bursting — fear and relief pouring forth in equal measure. She raises a brow. “Well, I’m in no hurry to tell him.” She hopes she sounds nonchalant; she certainly doesn’t feel it. 

“Suit yourself,” Emma says, almost breezily. She seems...happy. Peaceful. 

“And you...remember — ” 

“Everything.” 

Regina swallows. “Ah.” 

Languidly, Emma closes the space between them; she slips a hand beneath the dark mass of Regina’s hair, fingers pulling along the side of her neck in a way that draws shivers. She laughs, then, a short, sharp bark of a sound. “Shit. I forgot...I did all that, huh?” 

The skin is especially tender beneath Emma’s touch and she’s reminded, reluctantly, of the night before. Her cheeks color. Stupid. She should have worn a turtleneck. 

“I’m sorry,” Emma says, catching Regina’s scowl from the corner of her eye. 

That still-lingering undercurrent of amusement isn’t lost on Regina; still, she softens her derision by degrees. Delicately, she relents, “Perhaps we both enjoyed ourselves...a shade too much.” 

Emma looks doubtful. Voice a rough, anxious murmur, she says, “I don’t think so.” 

“You don’t…” 

“No.” Emma hesitates. And then, haltingly: “Do you?”  

It’s oddly dream-like: Emma on her knees beside her, worrying her lower lip against her teeth — waiting, as if for a judge’s verdict. Regina hadn’t thought this far ahead; she hadn’t dared imagine. 

That morning at the town line had seemed almost inevitable. Of course she had loved Henry only to lose him; of course. And fitting, too, that he should be Emma’s instead — Emma, who she’d hated; Emma, who she trusted most. And oh, naturally, watching them drive away had hurt her; there was no pain comparable. Like losing a limb. Like free-fall. 

But secretly, she knows — it had been easy, too. Regina had been built for loss, after all. 

To allow herself this is something else entirely. 

Emma holds herself utterly still as Regina takes her hand, and brings it closer; she presses her mouth against the knuckle, feeling foolish — feeling bold. And then Emma is leaning sharply into her, kissing her, retracing the faded pink marks of the night before with her mouth, laughing into Regina’s skin and it’s — strange. And good. And strange that it’s good. 

Emma’s got one fist curled in the sleek satin of Regina’s button-up when she bursts into sudden laughter. “Where did you even get this? Does the Enchanted Forest have an upscale shopping mall I don’t know about?” 

Regina can’t help but roll her eyes. “I went shopping uptown, Emma. The night I arrived.”

“In what ? Your hoopskirt?” 

Regina’s lips twitch at a smirk. “The cashier at Saks asked if I was coming from a costume party.” 

Emma whistles low beneath her breath. “Wish I could’ve been there to see that.” 

“I’m sure,” Regina says, dryly.

“Were there feathers on it?” 

“Emma.” 

Biting down hard to repress a burgeoning grin, Emma throws up her hands. “Alright, alright! Sorry I asked.” A beat of welcome quiet, and then, with a sly sideways glance: “I’ll take that as a yes, though.” 

Regina scoffs. “Well, you’re clearly yourself again.” 

They lapse into easy silence, Emma with her hand beneath Regina’s pencil skirt, running an idle knuckle up her thigh; she seems hardly aware she’s doing it, though Regina is hyper attuned to the touch. They must make for a mundane snapshot, wedged against each other on the couch in the little New York den drenched in moonlight. And Regina finds herself wishing they had more time — the three of them, Emma and Henry and her. To be together. To unpack this thing between them — whatever it might be. 

A more selfish woman might have written herself into the fantasy — abandoned Snow White and insipid Prince Charming, and the people of Storybrooke (who had hated her for so long, and with such conviction) to their fate. Let them shovel hay and piss in chamber pots, and long for cable, Wi-Fi, indoor plumbing. 

Emma would never allow it, of course. And Regina — well, she supposes she wouldn’t either. 

( Still...she’s not above thinking it. )

Gently, Regina dislodges Emma’s hand from her thigh and stands. She swipes the vial from its place on the coffee table. “I suppose we’d better give this to Henry.” 

But Emma snakes a hand around Regina’s wrist, tugging her back. She makes the mistake of glancing behind her — to Emma, who sits with her legs tucked beneath her, looking up at Regina with still-flushed cheeks. “Hey. Maybe we give the kid one more night.” She tips her head to the side. “Give us one more night, before...” 

She gestures helplessly, at a loss for words — but Regina understands. 

“One night,” Regina warns, playing at reluctance as she folds into Emma’s arms. 

“You drive a hard bargain, your majesty.” Emma smooths Regina’s collar back, baring the expanse of skin beneath. She presses her mouth to the juncture between neck and shoulder, worrying the spot until it reddens. 

“One night,” she agrees, the words muffled against Regina’s body. Her mouth dips lower, and Regina sighs — wanting to be irritated, and finding herself contented instead. 

“Maybe two,” she allows, and Emma only grins. 

* * * 

Regina’s last impression of Apt. 108 is as a sea of cardboard boxes. Henry does his best to wade through them, pausing to jam something inside the nearest one. 

“Henry,” she sighs, watching with barely disguised amusement as the flaps spring open again; he reaches for the duct tape on the counter, face screwed up with determination. “It’s not going to close.” 

Emma squeezes past, huffing with exertion, a load of boxes stacked up to her chin. “If you would just let me help — ” Regina starts, with the long-suffering air of an offer repeated at least six times. 

Granted, she had struggled to heft that last box off the ground — but it’s hardly her fault she’d chosen the heaviest in the room for her first attempt. Emma had snorted, made some stray remark about how she doubted Regina had much experience with heavy lifting. Which wasn’t...wrong, strictly speaking. 

Still. 

“Stubborn,” Regina adds pointedly. 

Emma’s voice reaches her distantly through the other side of the door, wryly amused. “Yeah, I’m the stubborn one.”  

Henry busies himself with last-minute packing, wearing an expression of innocence not nearly as convincing as he thinks it is; even with his head down, Regina can see the way one corner of his mouth pulls at a grin. Impossible — and of course, there’s no doubt where he gets it from. 

She picks her way past the remaining boxes to kneel beside Henry — cards her fingers through his hair, working through the knots he’d neglected to brush. He barely registers her touch, too intent on rearranging the contents of the box to make the flaps lie flat. 

Gently, she reaches across his shoulder — turns the stack of games on their side, tucks the remote controls against a distant corner. 

“There.” She folds the flaps shut with a look of satisfaction. 

Henry groans. “How ?” 

“Mother’s intuition,” she says, wryly — and then, when Henry eyes her with obvious skepticism: “Patience, Henry. Now take that box down to your mother, before she comes back and grabs it herself.” Henry cracks a smile at that, and then the door is swinging shut behind him. 

Hopefully, he would find it easier to wedge his box into the trunk of Emma’s bug; as it is, there’s luggage spilling out the open windows — though perhaps it serves Emma right for choosing such a hideous car in the first place. 

The apartment is practically empty now, and Emma’s footsteps echo harshly on the wood floor. Regina doesn’t turn to meet her, too wrapped up in mapping the place with her eyes — the alcove where Henry had liked to curl up and read; the den, where Emma and Henry would build blanket forts, and the kitchen island they both stubbed their toes on near-daily. 

Not true memories, of course, but Regina had lived through enough lifetimes to recognize that reality was circumstantial. They had certainly felt real enough during those weeks in the Enchanted Forest — and better to ruminate on memories she’d gifted than those she’d lost.

“Are you sure you want to sell it?” she asks, though there’s little use in asking; what’s done is done. 

Emma blinks, as though she hadn’t considered the alternative. “It’s already sold. Besides, this? Isn’t exactly in a county sheriff’s pay range.” She gestures, grinning — and Regina sees her point. The floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the city streets below; the marble countertops, hardwood floors, stainless steel appliances. 

Hardly subtle, she’ll grant — and far from Emma’s usual style. Perhaps, though, she’d thought Emma deserved a shot at luxury...if only for a moment. 

“Technically, you are on my payroll. A few tweaks here and there, and–” 

“Regina.” 

Regina hugs her arms against her chest, frowning. "It was only an idea." 

But Emma is already idling by the doorway, one foot in the hall.

"I'm ready." 

Except it doesn't end quite so neatly; more than an hour's passed by the time they're ready to leave. Henry had forgotten his comic books, and Emma ran back not long after to hunt down a missing earring (discovered thirty minutes later, beneath a loose floorboard in her bedroom). They'd found another box during the search, and spent the next half hour emptying and repacking the car to clear space for it.

Everyone is exhausted by the time they crowd into Emma's bug, sitting with their legs held at odd angles to avoid crushing the boxes beneath their feet. Regina leans back in her seat, heavy with the past few days (which had felt, to her, more like years), and looks to Emma. She's got one hand shading her eyes from the sun, the other reaching for the ignition — and the little yellow bug comes to life with a roar. The white noise of its engine mingles with music from the game Henry's tapping away at in the back seat, and Regina feels — settled, suddenly. Easy.

"Still ready?" 

Once, the answer might have caught in her throat — held at bay by those parts of Regina innately opposed to her own happiness. The impulse remains, of course; these things take time. 

Emma's hand falls against the side of her seat, and Regina — emboldened — moves to meet it; she's got one thumb skimming the underside of Emma's wrist, delighting in the way her pulse quickens naturally at Regina's touch. And Regina thinks, without qualification, that this is good; this is right. 

"More than ready," she says, meaning it. "Let's go home."