Archive of Our Own ^beta

 Emma Swan has been in Storybrooke all of one day when the mayor finally gets under her skin enough to elicit a reaction. 

She’s not exactly proud of it, but she can’t say that she regrets it either. The way the chainsaw, obtained from an all-too-enthusiastic owner of the dinkiest hardware store Emma’s ever seen, bites into the wood of Regina’s beloved apple tree is just too satisfying. Splinters fly everywhere, and through the bleary thought that maybe she should’ve bought some protective glasses after all, she watches as the mayor appears in the bay window and storms off. 

That. That right there, Emma thinks, is what she wants. 

The branch is a thick one, a rather sturdy portion of the tree for Emma to just annihilate. Part of her feels bad for the plant – but hey. All’s fair in love and war. 

Regina storms across the lawn behind the town hall, fists coiled and jaw tight and every muscle screaming rage , and well – maybe it’s not healthy. But it’s been a hell of a long time since Emma’s felt a thrill like this, and she’s gonna fucking savor it. Bail bonds had had its fair share of excitement, the chase – but nothing like this , with this infuriated, seething woman striding towards her like she’s going to grind her into the dust with those perfect stiletto heels. Emma revs the chainsaw a few times for good measure as she approaches. 

“What the hell are you doing?” God, her eyes are wild . 

Emma puts on her best unaffected smirk as she tosses the saw to the ground behind her. “Picking apples.”

“You’re out of your mind .” 

“No, you are if you think a shoddy frame job is enough to scare me away.” Honestly, who the fuck does Regina think she is, playing with her like that? Who the fuck does she think Emma is that stealing some records would be enough to embarrass her out of a town full of people she doesn’t even know? Emma’s had worse in her life. And hell – that teacher had even been willing to bail her out on a feeling. 

No, this isn’t nearly enough. 

“You’re gonna have to do better than that.” Emma leans in close as Regina seems to settle into a quiet rage. “You come after me one more time and I’m coming back for the rest of this tree.” And then, just for good measure, because she can’t resist throwing Regina’s words back in her face: “Because sister, you have no idea –” she lets the words linger on her tongue – “what I am capable of.” 

That gets a reaction. Regina’s eyes flash, her painted lips twitching up into a sadistic kind of smile and fuck – she’s just as thrilled by this as Emma. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes flickering between Emma’s and her lips as she inhales. 

Emma doesn’t give her the satisfaction of whatever she’s about to say or do. She lets the taunting smile drop from her face, any hint of enjoyment, and turns her back to Regina without bothering to pick up the tool she’d dropped a hundred bucks on just for the occasion. 

“Your move,” She throws over her shoulder. 

She knows Regina’s gonna bite back, but she doesn’t expect to see it so quickly, or in the form of an elderly woman awkwardly telling her she can’t stay in the only damn inn in town because she’s a fucking felon. Or a fucking boot on her car. 

For someone who wants Emma to leave town so badly, she sure is doing her damn best to keep her here. 

“Miss Swan, I’d be happy to continue demonstrating my power, but am I right in guessing your resolve to stay is only growing?” 

“You have no idea.” 

“Well then. I think it’s time we made peace.” 

Like hell . 

Storybrooke is a tiny town, at least, and walking doesn’t take her long at all. She knows the way: Granny’s, the hardware store, and her car had all been on main street – just like the majority of things in this town – and the town hall is just up the road from this dinky little downtown. She makes her way there for the second time today, this time by invitation. 

The town hall is tiny, too. It’s two floors, with a community space and a small press room on the bottom floor. She takes the stairs two at a time rather than take the elevator with the stuffy old men she sees waiting there, and blows right past the other offices and Regina’s protesting secretary at her desk. 

Regina’s waiting at her desk when Emma blows in. She doesn’t seem particularly surprised at the lack of decorum, and she waves off the secretary, who’d followed Emma in with a string of apologies about her behavior. 

“Your receptionist is afraid of you,” Emma comments as Regina closes the door softly behind her. 

“Most people are afraid of me,” Regina replies, smoothing her hands over her skirt and then indicating one of the loveseats she’s got arranged around a coffee table. “I’m the mayor.” 

Emma thinks that’s bullshit, but she doesn’t comment on it. Instead she takes a seat, curling up with her knees tucked to her chest and her feet on the cushion in a way that she knows will infuriate Regina. This is supposed to be a peace talk, but she can’t resist working in little slights where she can. 

Regina presses her lips together in a terse line but she doesn’t say anything. All she does is pour them each a glass of cider, hand one to Emma, and then make her way to the loveseat across from where she’s sitting. She smooths her skirt as she settles in and says, “I want to start by apologizing.” 

That’s…unexpected. “Really?” Emma asks, bewildered, and Regina nods. 

“Yes,” She says earnestly. “I just have to accept the reality that you want to be here.” 

“That’s right, I do.” 

“And that you’re going to take my son from me.” 

Woah . 

Regina’s eyes are wide, earnest, and holy shit – dramatic much? “Oh-kay, let’s be clear,” Emma rushes out. “I have no intention of taking him from anyone.” 

“Well then what are you doing here?” 

“I know I’m not a mother, I think that’s pretty self evident. But I did have him, and I can’t help that he got in my head and I wanna make sure he’s okay. The more you try to push me out, the more I wanna be here, especially after seeing how troubled he is. I mean – he thinks everyone in this town is a fairytale character.” 

“And you don’t?” 

Emma waits for the joke, the insult, the implication that Regina thinks she’s feeding Henry’s fantasy because she’s just as insane – but none comes. Regina seems genuine, looking at her like it’s really something that she might believe, and – wow. Emma furrows her brow. “How can I?” Regina doesn’t give an answer to that, either, and so she continues, “The poor kid can’t tell the difference between fantasy and reality and it’s only getting worse.” She’s practically pleading with her now. Regina’s just watching her, that same calm expression, and god. Emma just wants her to realize . Just wants her to see that all she cares about is making sure this kid she’d popped out is okay, that he’s not being driven into delusion by some kind of trauma – the same kind of trauma that she herself had gone through as a child. But like hell is she gonna bring all that up with Regina, and so all she says is, “It’s crazy .” 

“You think I’m crazy?” 

Fuck.

The voice is tiny, wavering – a child’s voice. Her child’s voice. She doesn’t even have to turn around, doesn’t have to see his face to feel the hurt. It’s present in every word. Emma spins, feet hitting the floor as the realization washes over her. She calls to him, “Henry –”, but he turns on his heel and runs before she has the chance to say anything more. 

And so Emma stands there, defeated, while Regina watches. 

“You have no soul.” Emma rounds on her. Regina’s got her arms laid out on the rests of the loveseat, some kind of fucking power stance as her eyes burn. “How in the hell did you get like this?” 

She’s fucking angry after that. 

Hurt, too: for the kid but also for herself. Being burned, cut, that’s one thing. But Regina had used her, and she’d done it just to hurt Henry. So that the kid would hate her. Getting her kicked out of Granny’s, putting a boot on her car, running a smear campaign: whatever. Those things she can all deal with. She can understand them, even. They’re admirable moves in this little game they’re playing. 

But this ? 

It wreaths around, her sour and desolate, this realization: no matter what she does, if she stays, the kid gets hurt. 

She’s got no legal claim to him – not that she wants that. She’s never wanted to be a mother. But this is just fucking wrong , and her only good option is to leave the kid and hope that Regina’s kinder to him when she’s not around. 

And so that’s when she decides: she’s going to leave Storybrooke. It hurts almost as much to realize she’s giving Regina exactly what she wanted. That she’s letting her win. But Emma’s always excelled at cutting ties, and this will be no different, she reasons with herself. The kid had gotten under her skin for a few days. He’s got people who care about him – Mary Margaret, Archie – people who will hopefully protect him from his mother’s calculating bullshit. He doesn’t have to be her responsibility. As Regina’s been so happy to point out again and again, she signed that right away the moment she’d given birth. 

Her first stop after Regina’s office is an ATM. The first rule of skipping town: settle your debts before they come knocking. 

Besides that, Mary Margaret is a kind soul, and Emma doesn’t want to leave her in a bad spot. Teachers don’t make good money in the best of districts, and she’s one of the few people Emma might actually miss when she leaves this godforsaken town, so bail money it is. She’d given Emma her address when she’d paid her way out of the local jail, just in case Emma “needed anything” – yet another uncomfortably generous display of kindness, and yet another reason Emma needs to bail. She’s not used to this. It makes her feel itchy. 

She shows up at the loft with every intention of handing over the money and leaving. And yet, when Mary Margaret takes the envelope full of cash without even bothering to count it and asks if she needs to talk, she finds herself nodding, because yeah. Yeah, she does . 

Looking back, that’s probably the moment when she decided to stay, consciously or not. 

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re innocent.” Mary Margaret says, eyes sparkling over the rim of her mug as she takes a sip of her hot cocoa.

“Of breaking and entering, or in general?” Emma pulls a drink of her own – it’s got a dash of cinnamon on the top, just how she likes it. She hadn’t even had to ask, and it’s almost eerie the way this woman seems to know what she needs at every turn. 

Mary Margaret shrugs. “Whichever makes you feel better.” 

It makes Emma laugh. God knows she hasn’t done enough of that the past…well, a long time, actually. “Well, thanks. But it doesn’t really matter what the rest of this town thinks. I’m leaving.” It feels wrong to say it, and fuck. Emma’s been here before. She knows the symptoms, and it always starts like this: with an easy, comfortable person and some sort of challenge that rouses her interest. She’s starting to put down roots. 

The realization makes her want to run that much more. 

That is, until Mary Margaret tilts her head and says thoughtfully, “I think the very fact that you want to go is why you have to stay. If you don’t protect Henry, who will?” 

If she doesn’t protect Henry, who will?

Emma runs through the checklist in her mind all night. Over and over and over again: Mary Margaret. She’s his teacher. Archie. He’s the kid’s therapist. 

Except – both of them are powerless when it comes to Regina. She knows that. She’s seen it. And that’s why she blows into Archie’s office the moment she sees Regina’s benz peel out of the parking lot to tell the kid exactly what he wants to hear: that she believes him about the curse, no matter how fucking silly she feels doing it, and that she’d just wanted to trick Regina into thinking she’s a nonbeliever. She feels insane, but it works – it gets the kid back on her side again, and the hug he wraps her into warms her heart more than she’d like to admit. 

And so she stays. 

…In her car. 

It kills her back, but she figures the street is relatively safe in a town this deserted, provided the Calvin Klein model of a sheriff doesn’t decide to charge her for loitering or some other bullshit. Since Granny had kicked her out – at Regina’s behest – she’d scoured around for another place to stay. Any place to stay, but it turns out that Storybrooke doesn’t exactly get a lot of tourism. There’s literally nowhere else. Same goes for apartments, apparently: there’s not a single vacancy, not a single roommate wanted ad in the newspaper she’s got laid out in her lap. That’s how far she’d had to go: searching in the goddamned newspaper in the year 2012. Storybrooke isn’t exactly a tech-savvy town either, apparently, because there hadn’t been a thing on craigslist. 

“Are you okay?” 

She recognizes that lyrical voice before Mary Margaret’s head even pops into her window. “Oh – hey. Yeah. I’m good.” She looks skeptical, eyeing Emma’s leaned back seat and her shoes tossed into the passenger seat. 

“Are you sleeping here?” She asks, brow furrowed. 

Emma shrugs, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “In the world of tight spots I’ve been in, crashing in my car doesn’t even rank in the top ten.” She’s not sure whether or not that’s impressive. Probably not. In an attempt to cover her embarrassment she steps out, leaning against her door instead with her arms crossed. “What are you doing out this late?” 

Mary Margaret looks sheepish. “I’m a teacher, not a nun. I was on a date.” 

Emma’s brows shoot up. “Oh – by the looks of things it went great.” Mary Margaret scowls, confirming. “Tell me he at least paid?” She shakes her head and Emma scoffs. “Eugh. Sorry.” 

“If true love were easy, I guess we’d all have it.”

True love. Emma doesn’t believe in that. She’d had somebody once, someone that she’d truly loved, and he’d burned her. But still – she’s not gonna burst her only friend’s bubble, and so she says, “Guess so.” 

Mary Margaret gives an awkward shuffle, peering back at Emma’s car. “Well. If it gets a bit…cramped in there, I do have a spare room.” 

And that sets off the sirens loud and clear. “Oh, thank you, but –” Mary Margaret ducks her head immediately, hand up in an acknowledgement, and guilt flares in Emma’s chest. “I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s just not my thing, you know? I’m not really the roommate type.” Nevermind the fact that she’d just been searching the local newspaper for just that. An air mattress in some seedy dude’s basement seems far safer than staying with someone that might actually care about her. 

Staying in town and making a friend is about all she can handle right now. Baby steps. 

Mary Margaret takes it in stride, bidding her goodnight, and Emma spends the night with her feet kicked up over the steering wheel of her compact car. 

She wakes up at dawn, one of the worst parts of her current sleeping situation being the lack of curtains. After a half hour of tossing and turning, she makes for the very inn she’d been kicked out of to see about brushing her teeth in the diner bathroom. It’s the least Granny can allow after kicking her out with no warning. 

It’s more comfortable than her car, and Emma resumes her search for a place to crash at a cozy little nook at the front of the diner. True to small town stereotype business picks up quickly, and by the time Emma’s scarfed down her pancakes she’s ducking out. As she exits, she’s nearly run over by none other than her son, who’s clearly on his way to school. He barrels into her, bag nearly falling off the one shoulder he’s got it slung over, and he barely misses a beat before turning and calling in a stage whisper, “meet me at my castle! After school!” 

…As if Emma knows when school gets out in this town. “...Sure, kid,” She calls after him, resolving to just head there around three. 

Part of her almost hopes one of Regina’s lackeys had witnessed the conversation. Yes, she’s staying because she wants to keep the kid safe, but she’d be lying if she said spiting Regina wasn’t half the fun. Throw it in her bitch face. 

Which is maybe not healthy. …Probably not at all. But she’s still gonna do it. 

It’s another dreary day, and after much wandering around looking for a public computer and finding the library shut down indefinitely, Emma heads over to the abandoned playground. It’s weathered, the wood sun bleached and beaten down by the salt from the gulf. Seagulls cry overhead, the only noise besides the chatter from the nearby harbor. No other kids. Henry’s the only one who’s decided this place is any fun. She thinks that’s probably why he likes it. 

Swinging up into the main deck of the playground and leaning against one of the walls, she tries to put herself in his mindset. She stares out at the brown water and imagines: she’s got no friends. Her parents suck. Her only way of escaping is to dive into a book where everyone always gets their happy ending. 

Okay, maybe she doesn’t have to imagine that hard. It’s a little too familiar, though her “parents” were always of the foster variety and rarely in it for anything more than a paycheck. And the thing is – Regina doesn’t actually suck . Not to the kid, anyway: Emma’s seen her love for him on more than one occasion. She’s just strict. Regina’s a bitch and a half to everyone but him, an outright fucking asshole, but she loves him. He’s got a good home. A good life. Emma would’ve killed for even a fraction of what he has. 

And she’s seen how much it hurts Regina that he thinks so badly of her. 

She hates to admit it, that Regina might harbor any sense of human emotion beneath her cold exterior, but it’s true. The way her face had fallen on that first night, when she’d realized who Emma was? That had been real. Her pain when she’d asked if Emma thought she was evil was too. 

God. Evil. True love. Everyone in this damn town talks like they really are from a fucking disney movie. 

“Emma!” Henry’s call is accompanied by him clambering up into the tower and immediately pulling his trusty storybook out of his bag. Emma barely has time to say a “hey, kid,” and sit down next to him before he cracks the book open and says, “I found your father!” 

Emma’s brows go up. “Hey, kid – I don’t –” 

“Prince Charming! He’s in a coma. At the hospital,” He points to the page. It depicts a generic blonde man with a sword in his hand, looking up into the distance. “On my field trip today. See the scar? He’s got one too.” The man in the drawing sports a little slash on his chin. 

“So? Lots of people have scars.” 

“It’s in the same place!” Henry exclaims, exasperation clear. “Don’t you see? We have to tell Miss Blanchard. The curse is keeping them apart.” 

Emma shakes her head. The last thing Mary Margaret needs to hear after her shitty date is that her true love is sitting in a coma in Storybrooke General. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, kid. It’s one thing to be alone. Giving someone unrealistic hope is far worse.” Not that Mary Margaret would believe him anyway. At least, Emma hopes she’d be rational about this. 

“We have to at least try!” Henry pleads. “We have to get her to read their story to him. Maybe then he’ll wake up.” 

And – okay. Maybe it’s just as calculating and awful as Regina’s plot to get Emma to insult his fantasies right in front of him. And maybe it’s an awful thing to destroy his imagination. But she sees an opportunity here, and just letting him wallow in a literal fairy tale land isn’t exactly good for his mental health either.

“You know what? Okay.” 

Henry’s eyes light up immediately, and Emma almost feels guilty for it. “Really?” 

She shrugs. “Yeah. Why not? We’ll do it. But we’ll do it my way,” she amends before he can get too far ahead of himself. “Let me ask her.” Henry nods fervently, and she takes the book from him with a squeeze of his shoulder and a promise to take it to Mary Margaret right away. 

“...You want me to read to a coma patient?”

Mary Margaret looks at her about exactly how she’d expected when Emma makes the request. She gives her a wan smile. “Yeah. I told you it was gonna be a weird one. He’s convinced that if you read to him he’ll wake up.” 

“And why me, exactly?” Mary Margaret stands over her kitchen counter, watching Emma skeptically. 

Emma winces. This is the part she’d had a harder time working out the delivery on. “He thinks he’s Prince Charming.” 

Mary Margaret’s brows go up. “And with me being Snow White…ah.” 

“Yeah.” Emma pushes the book across the bar gently. “But if you read it to him and he doesn’t wake up…” 

“Maybe Henry will see that it’s not real.” Mary Margaret nods. “Wow. Harsh.” 

“Yep. But necessary. We pull him out of his beliefs without hurting him. I told him that I’d ask you to do it tonight and that we’ll all meet at Granny’s for a full report in the morning.” 

“Well,” Mary Margaret says. “I guess I’ll get ready for my date.” 

It’s late as hell, and so Emma thanks her, and then heads back to her makeshift camp in her car. She’s really gotta do something about that. 

She manages to sleep through the night, though, and in the morning she buys a membership at the local gym just so she has a place to shower and change that doesn’t involve wiping herself down with wet paper towels in the diner’s tiny bathroom. 

She still hasn’t made it back to Boston for her stuff yet, and given everything, she doesn’t know when that’s going to happen. Hell, she’s not sure if she trusts herself to come back if she does. 

It’s Saturday, and Granny’s is busy as hell when she enters. She snags a table with a flash of a smile at Ruby, and when the waitress comes by she preemptively orders cocoas for them all. It’s a damn good thing that her bail job had paid well – save for that last man – because she’s eating through her savings right now. This is the most financially stable she’s ever been and she’s using it all up on this kid she hadn’t even wanted in the first place. 

And the worst part? It’s all been worth it. 

Henry ducks in and immediately shoves something silky and gray into her arms. “You’re starting to smell.” 

Emma blinks, hands just barely curling around the fabric before she drops it. “Good morning to you too,” she says, holding the thing out in front of her. It’s a blouse. A very nice blouse. “And…thanks? I guess?” 

Henry just nods, plopping down in the booth and drumming his hands on the table. “Go change.” 

“Yes sir,” Emma humors him, shaking her head as she heads to the bathroom to do the very thing she’d been avoiding with that gym membership. Whatever. She does not smell, thank you very much. She’s been taking advantage of deodorant and the natural odor-destroying power of the sun. …Maybe a few things from the local department store couldn’t hurt, though. 

She closes the door behind her and locks it before she really takes a good look at the garment. It feels incredible in her hands – like water, like it’s barely there, and suddenly she understands why Regina wears shit like this. 

…Oh.

Duh. Where the hell else would Henry get a women’s blouse? 

She and Regina wear the same size – that’s something. And it definitely does not call to mind images of Regina in her skinny jeans, nor does Emma linger on the idea of how nicely they’d hug her ass. Her mind wanders to the idea of tucking a finger into the waistband, undoing the button – 

Aaaaand that’s enough , she scolds herself. Regina’s so far off limits it’s insane. She’s hot, but she’d also grind Emma into dust before she’d ever let her lay a hand on her, and that’s for the best. Instead she peels her grimy shirt and tank off and hangs them over the driest part of the sink while she undoes the buttons. The moment she slips it on she’s surrounded by the scent of of vanilla, deep and warm, and fuck – is this Regina’s perfume? Henry doesn’t smell like this, so it can’t be their detergent – and shit, had Henry brought her a shirt that she’d already worn? 

You don’t wash nice clothes with every wear , one of Emma’s more well-off foster moms had said once with a sniff. Of course, your clothes aren’t worth maintaining like that. Put them in the hamper . 

She shakes off the memory, hands trembling as she does up the buttons. Traitors. As she reaches the top buttons she’s suddenly overcome with the thought of running her hands over the fabric while it’s on Regina, warm and inviting over her skin. Fuck it, she thinks, and closes her eyes. She allows herself approximately thirty seconds of fantasizing: she imagines sliding her hands around Regina’s waist, up over her ribs, palms flat as she moves towards her breasts – imagines undoing these buttons one by one and finding sheer lingerie underneath – 

Enough , she thinks again. 

Save it for when she finally gets herself a mattress. This is hardly the place – or the time, she reminds herself, because the fucking kid she shares with Regina is sitting right outside waiting on her . 

Emma shakes herself out of the trance and tucks the shirt into her jeans. It looks a bit out of place with her jeans-and-boots combo, but it’s good enough. With one last deep breath and a once-over in the mirror, she dispels all thoughts of fucking Regina in her office and heads back out into the diner proper. 

“Hey kid, is this your mom’s?” She asks as she sits down. Henry pauses his sipping of his cocoa to shoot her a conspiratory smile, complete with whipped cream on his top lip. 

“Yup. Don’t worry, she’ll never even know. She’s got so many.” He takes a huge swig of his drink. “Where’s Miss Blanchard?” 

Emma pulls her phone from her pocket and checks the time. “I’m sure she’ll be here any minute.” She hesitates before meeting his eyes again. “Hey, Henry, I just want to make sure you’re prepared in case this doesn’t –” 

The diner door opens, the little bell up top rattling hard as Mary Margaret bursts inside as if on cue. She looks around fervently until she spots them, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed and oh, fuck. There’s no fucking way. 

“It worked,” She says, hurrying over to them. “Come on, get up! It worked!” She opens her purse and fishes out a ten that she leaves on the table, ignoring Emma’s protests. “Come on,” she urges one more time before she ducks right back out the door. 

Henry looks like he’s just been handed the world. His eyes are bright as he lunges out of his seat and then immediately doubles back to take one last gulp of his drink. And then he’s tugging at Emma’s sleeve, pulling her up out of her chair and tugging her towards the door. Emma barely has any time to flash Ruby an apologetic glance as she leaves her drink untouched. 

Mary Margaret piles them into her car and then hits the road, driving a whopping five miles over the speed limit, and Emma has the feeling this is fast for her. She drives an old, almost classic van, green with actual wood paneling . Emma doesn’t think she’s seen a car with wood paneling in years. She kills the engine and darts out just as quickly once they’re parked in the hospital’s lot, and she’s practically bouncing on her heels in the elevator. Emma’s only known her a few days, but this is the most excited she’s ever seen her – Henry too. He keeps shooting Emma glances that are halfway between I told you so and sheer elation and, well. This whole thing may have been to shoot him down, but Emma can’t help but feel this is better. Being mad that a coma patient’s woken up isn’t exactly the best look.

Mary Margaret rushes out the moment the elevator doors open, followed closely by Emma and Henry, but she stops in her tracks only halfway across the room. The doctor is standing outside the closed room that must’ve belonged to the John Doe, speaking in hushed tones with the sheriff. 

And standing in the glass room, looking immaculate with one hand perched on her hip, is none other than the fucking mayor. She catches Emma’s eye, disdain at her lips, and Emma rolls her eyes. She puts her whole damn face into it and hopes that Regina can see exactly how annoyed she is from across the room. 

It must work, because she comes stomping out, stilettos clacking on the linoleum as Mary Margaret asks the doctor, “Doctor Whale, what happened? Is it the John Doe? Is he okay?” 

The doctor – Whale, who Emma’s pretty sure is the one that took Mary Margaret out on her shitty date the night before – turns to her and shakes his head. “He’s gone.” 

Graham looks exasperated, hands on his hips. “We’re going to find him, don’t worry.” His words are diplomatic, but Emma narrows her eyes as she meets his gaze. She knows that tone well. It’s the one that comes out when you’re pretty sure the person is gone before you’ve even started looking. 

“Was he up and walking last night?” Emma asks Mary Margaret, who gives a fervent shake of her head. 

“No! He put his hand on mine, that’s all.” 

“He’s going to be okay, right?” Henry glances between the adults in the room, distinctly avoiding his approaching mother. 

“He’s been in a coma for nearly ten years,” the doctor bursts out. “He’s been on a feeding tube and IV fluids – if we don’t find him soon okay might be a pipe dream.” 

Nice. Real fucking nice. Before Emma can tell him off for giving that kind of bluntness to a kid Regina pushes her way into their little circle, cutting her off. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Her eyes drop to Henry, who steps closer to Emma. She fights both the urge to nudge him away to keep them out of trouble and to step out in front of him just to piss Regina off more. Regina’s voice is flat. “With my son.” 

Emma folds her arms. “Just visiting,” she says. Regina keeps a steady expression, but Emma can see the rage brewing beneath the surface. Good. “Interesting that the mayor is here though, isn’t it?” 

“I’m here because I’m his emergency contact,” Regina says like she’s won something, and maybe she has because Emma can’t help but flinch internally. “I found him years ago on the side of the road with no ID.” She shoots daggers in Emma’s direction. “Some of us don't insert ourselves into others’ business at all turns. It seems I can't keep you away from my son, so I’ll just have to keep my son away from you.” She turns to Henry, face grim. “Henry, go with the nurse. I’ll see to it that Vanessa picks you up and gets you home. Straight home.”

Emma watches the boy retreat with the nurse. He peers back at her with an expression that screams don't worry . As if Emma hasn't learned it would take a full on lockdown to keep that kid from anything he really wanted to do. She looks back up to find Regina staring daggers at her once more. “Look,” she says, fighting hard to keep the proverbial eye roll out of her voice. “I’m here now. So what are we doing to find this guy?” 

Graham clears his throat, breaking the palpable tension between herself and Regina. “I’m gonna take the cruiser out and look. Hit the pavement, see if anyone’s spotted him. He’s not exactly inconspicuous in a hospital gown.” 

Regina leans over until she’s in his line of sight, arms crossed. “Well then what are you waiting for? Let’s go.” 

“Hold up,” Emma says, holding a hand up and earning more of that fire from the mayor. She continues before Regina can cut her off, “Finding people is kind of my thing, remember?” She turns to Whale. “Doesn't this place have cameras?” 

Graham’s brows shoot up like he’s impressed with the idea and honestly – Emma has no idea how this place survived before her. “Alright. Good.” He inclines his head towards her. “Security office is downstairs. We’ll go take a look, then?” 

“Sheriff, you can't be serious. Her?” Regina exclaims. “She's a civilian – not even a Storybrooke resident –” Graham gives her a look . Emma’s got to give the guy credit. He returns Regina's sour steadily, like he's used to it – like he can handle her, and god, Emma hopes she can get to that point one day. Several moments pass in which Regina’s stony expression softens, until she huffs and concedes, “fine.” She turns to Emma, barely making eye contact like she's choking on it. “Congratulations, Miss Swan, you've successfully disrupted yet another day.” 

Emma does roll her eyes at that one. “Whatever,” she says, at the same time as Mary Margaret pipes up with, “She just wants to help.”

Regina turns on Mary Margaret and she cows immediately. “You two check the cameras then. I’ll search the town.” She strides forward without so much as a further acknowledgement until she’s right up on Emma. She leans in close, her eyes drifting down slowly and then back up to meet her own. “Enjoy my shirt,” she says lowly. It’s almost seductive, the way she pitches her voice – heavy and thick, dark chocolate and wine, dizzying – “because that’s all you’re getting.” Her eyes flash, lips curling in a tantalizing smirk as she registers the effect that it’s had on Emma – an effect that is no doubt written all over her face. 

With that she turns on her heel and heads for the elevator. 

Emma blinks, wide-eyed and flushed, and turns towards Mary Margaret and Graham with her mouth hanging slightly open. They're both watching her, Mary Margaret with bewildered, oblivious sympathy, Graham with his brows raised like he’s maybe caught on. “I – I’ll meet you guys down there,” Emma rushes out, and then makes for the elevator too. 

She dives in just as the doors are closing, ignoring Regina’s huff and hitting the close button herself. 

“What in the hell could you possibly want?” She spits out, reaching for the open button. Emma bats away her wrist, earning an indignant squeal, and hits the emergency stop instead just as the tracks start rolling. 

“I want to know what the fuck your problem is.” She turns, facing Regina head on. She’s got heels on as per usual, and even though they put them at about the same height, Emma’s broader, more solid, and she uses that to her advantage now. She puts everything into making her presence loom, and by the barely-perceptible twitch of Regina’s eyes downward, it’s working. 

Regina draws in a breath, sizing Emma up before she apparently decides she can take it. She closes the gap between them, painted lips curling into something predatory. “My problem , Miss Swan,” she says, sickly sweet, “is that you think you’ve got a place in this town. My town.” 

“Your town.” Emma snorts. “You really think highly of yourself, don’t you?” 

“I made this place,” Regina says plainly. Whatever the fuck that means. “Haven’t you realized there’s nothing for you in it? You’re not welcome here.” 

“Aren’t I?” It’s counterproductive, and it’s gonna get her in a hell of a lot more hot water than she’s already in, but – “Mary Margaret seems to want me here. Graham kinda likes me too, I think. Oh – and don’t forget,” she adds, sticky as cherry syrup, “Henry wants me here.” Emma waits until she sees Regina’s expression fucking drop. She holds eye contact for several heartbeats, savoring the way Regina’s eyes shine with sadistic indulgence, and then, satisfied, reaches for the button that will restart the elevator. 

Regina darts a hand out and catches Emma’s wrist. Her fingers dig hard into Emma’s skin, and Emma tenses. “You will not tell me what my son does and does not want. You’ll leave him alone, or you’ll regret it.” 

Emma narrows her eyes. Her pulse thrums hard in her wrist. It’s a character flaw, maybe, but she’s big enough to admit that she doesn’t deal well without control. “Don’t.” 

“Don’t what?” Regina hisses, twisting Emma’s elbow up as she strides forward, backing Emma towards the wall by her hand. Her hips and her legs bump into Emma as she moves, but she doesn’t seem to notice – or maybe she doesn’t care. “Tell me, Emma.” 

“Don’t touch me.” 

And then suddenly Regina’s fists are in her shirt, coiled in the straining fabric as she yanks Emma closer. There hadn’t been much distance between them in the first place, and when Emma stumbles with the unexpected force their foreheads nearly smack together. Emma’s mouth goes dry, a disturbing amount of that previous rage out the window with their newfound proximity, and god – she needs to get it together. 

She’s got eyes, though. She’s got eyes, and this fucking infuriating woman has perfectly arched lips painted with a deep petal pink that has to cost more than Emma’s entire makeup collection, and perfectly coiffed hair that she’d just love to fuck up – and she fucking hates her. Flashes, images of Regina on her knees, begging race through her mind. 

“Don’t forget,” Regina breathes, succeeding in nothing but lending to Emma’s entirely inappropriate train of thought, “I can ruin you.” 

“I’d like to see you try.” Emma doesn’t even know why she says it – why, when she hadn’t even been planning on sticking around that long, her blood is burning at the thought of leaving. At the thought leaving just because Regina wants her to. 

No, she does, actually. She wants to fucking win. 

Regina may have made the first move, but Emma’s got physical strength on her any day. 

She clasps her hands around Regina’s wrists, and in one fluid motion, she pushes the other woman off of her and spins them, all but slamming Regina against the wall and locking her there with her body. Regina clutches at her shirt – at the shirt that Emma’s stolen from her – the whole time, and Emma tears her hands away, pinning them hard against the wall instead. “And one more thing,” she bites out. Regina’s breathing heavy, her pupils blown, and Emma leans in for full effect when she says: “Don’t fucking threaten me.” 

She’s not sure who gives in first. Maybe it’s both of them. 

She can feel Regina’s chest heaving against her own, the fire in her eyes renewed tenfold – and then she’s on Emma. Fuck, they’re kissing . 

It’s angry. It’s a clash of teeth on lips and tongue, with Regina straining hard against Emma’s grip and Emma using her whole body to keep her locked in place. She lets one of Regina’s hands go on instinct, her fingers locking in her hair instead and twisting painfully. The motion earns her something, a low rumble in the back of Regina’s throat, and holy shit – that’s a moan. Regina hooks a hand in her shirt in response, this time dead center, and Emma feels the strain and then sudden slack as a button gives way. 

And then it’s broken. 

Emma’s stumbling back before she even begins to process. Regina’s slumped against the wall, hands tucked behind her back as if to keep them out of Emma’s reach. She’s practically panting, her lipstick smudged beyond repair, but there’s something wild in her eyes. 

Whatever had just happened, she’d liked it. 

And so had Emma. 

The spell is broken, though, and there’s no sinking back into that even if she wants to. Emma remembers all at once that they’re in the fucking elevator at the hospital – why they’re here – and god. Fuck. Regina scoops her long-abandoned purse off the floor and fishes something out of it – a makeup wipe, Emma realizes, as she drags it across her mouth with something like disdain. She gives herself one quick check in the reflection of the walls and then strides forward and slams her fist against the button for the ground floor. The jerk as the elevator starts moving nearly knocks Emma off her feet in her state. The hospital is tiny, though, and Emma doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse that it’s only a few seconds before it begins to settle on the ground floor. 

“Careful what you wish for, Miss Swan,” Regina says as the light above the door changes. She’s standing in front of them, back to Emma as she speaks with her purse clutched so tightly in her hands that her knuckles have gone white. As the doors start to roll open she throws over her shoulder, “Wipe your mouth.” 

Emma has a hell of a time trying to focus on anything after that. 

She does wipe her mouth. The last thing she needs is to have to explain why she’s suddenly developed a fondness for more makeup than a thin bit of eyeliner and some mascara. …Or why she’d decided to apply it to her chin. The girl that comes into the bathroom while she’s busy scrubbing her face with harsh antibacterial handsoap gives her an odd look, but that’s all the trouble she encounters before she starts wandering down hallways to find the security office. 

Graham’s standing outside of it at least, so she doesn’t have to wander for long. He’s leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, eyeing Emma with a carefully closed off expression. He gives her a neutral nod as she approaches. “Get what you wanted out of her?” 

Emma’s heart skips. “What?” She’d gotten something , that’s for sure. Whether or not it was something she’d wanted – well. 

“From Regina.” He inclines his head back the way she came. “She’s not exactly an easy one to pry information out of. Or any real feeling, for that matter. She answer whatever question you were so desperate to ask?” 

“Oh.” Emma shakes her head, trying to hide her flustered state with a scowl. “No. Wanted to know what the fuck her problem is, got a bunch of empty threats instead.” Plus her tongue inside her mouth and the feeling of her tits pressed against her chest, but you know. She shoves her hands into her back pockets, shoulders raised. “Should’ve known. Where’s Mary Margaret?” 

“Outside asking around.” Graham gives her another look, but he doesn’t press it. “Ready?” Without waiting for her answer he pushes the lever handle and opens the door, sweeping his free arm in a you-first kind of motion that makes Emma roll her eyes mentally. 

It’s not worth arguing, though, and so she slips past him through the heavy gray door into the tiny gray room. It’s stacked with some of the oldest tv monitors Emma’s ever seen on one wall, with a small desk and not much else. The desk is occupied by two short men, one of whom is the sneering man she’d been cell neighbors with at Storybrooke’s tiny sheriff’s station. 

“Hey, sister,” he says, and Emma just stares. He meets her gaze with a sardonic smile and a tilt of his head. “You playin’ cop now?”

“Be nice, Leroy,” Graham says. He gestures to one of the monitors. “One of your long-term residents made a run for it earlier today. Did either of you see anything?” 

Leroy shrugs. “Wasn’t my shift.” 

Graham turns his gaze on the other man, who shifts uncomfortably and says, “I didn’t notice anything weird.” 

Emma folds her arms across her chest, joining Graham in his scrutiny of the man. “Seriously? A comatose man standing up and walking out the door didn’t seem out of the ordinary to you?” 

The man shrugs and Leroy pipes up, “He sleeps on the job.” His companion whirls on him, following with “At least I don’t drink –” 

“Hey, woah,” Emma holds up a hand. “I don’t give a shit about any of that. Just – figure out which of these cameras points at the back of the upstairs ward, okay?” 

“Don’t worry sister,” Leroy says, shooting her a wink that makes her skin crawl. “I know these cameras like the back of my hand.” 

Oh. Yikes. Emma sneers at him and waits until he’s focused on the dinosaur of a computer in front of him to do a quick scan of the monitors, and – yep. Sure enough, there’s the elevator. 

Well, that’s great. 

The other man, whose name she still hasn’t caught and she doesn’t really care to ask, blushes something fierce when she catches him staring. 

Whatever. It’s probably the most exciting thing they’ve seen in a long time. There are worse things than being accidental softcore for a couple of glorified mall cops. As much as Emma hates to admit it, the kiss had been worth it. 

It takes a few minutes but Leroy finally gives a victorious yes ! and sure enough, there’s their John Doe, pulling himself right out of bed, ripping the IVs out of his arm – that one makes Emma little woozy, not that she’d admit it – and stumbling straight for the stairs. He walks straight past three other patients on his way. 

“Idiots,” Graham breathes, shaking his head at the footage. “I interviewed everyone in that ward and they all said they didn’t notice him leave.” 

“Of course,” Emma says with a breathy, sarcastic laugh. Must be the curse. “Well, at least it looks like he didn’t get kidnapped, seeing as he left alone.” She turns back to Leroy, decidedly ignoring the leer he gives her. “You got cameras where that stairwell leads?” 

“Way ahead of you.” He rewinds another camera that focuses on a bland hallway, probably one of the ones that Emma’d stumbled through a few minutes earlier. A door opens and the man stumbles out, looking worse for wear. He looks around the hall and then heads directly for the door at the end of the hall – one that sunlight spills through when he opens it. 

Emma shares a look with Graham. “Where’s that door lead?” 

“The woods.”

Storybrooke proper is tiny, but as she learns then, the swath of forest on the outskirts is huge . Emma shoots Leroy and his bashful coworker a glare that she hopes is threatening the moment Graham turns towards the door. She hopes it’ll be enough to deter them from spreading the elevator footage around, but Leroy doesn’t seem too intimidated. Whatever. She can always sneak in and erase it later if she really wants to. 

Hell, maybe she should burn herself a copy. Just to have on hand. 

Blackmailing the mayor gets moved onto the back burner, though, because Mary Margaret looks frantic when they find her in the parking lot. There are tears brimming in her eyes as she says, “Nobody’s seen him. I don’t know what we’re going to do.” 

Emma reaches for her hand. “We saw him head to the woods on the cameras. Don’t worry, we’ll find him.” 

Mary Margaret’s face falls. “The woods are massive. There’s no way –” 

“We’ll find him,” Emma insists. “At least we know what direction he went in.” 

“We better start looking,” Graham says, words grim. “The longer we stand here the farther he gets. I’ll make a few calls, try and get a search party going.” He frowns. “You two want to go ahead?” 

Emma frowns. “As long as there’s a road I can stick to. I don’t exactly like the idea of getting lost out there myself.” 

“There’s a walking path behind the hospital. Hopefully he stuck to it. Might as well start there.” Graham nods towards the forest.

“I can guide you,” Mary Margaret says, squeezing Emma’s hand. Emma hadn’t realized she was still holding it. “I take walks out there a lot. Helps me clear my mind.” 

Emma meets her eyes, struck once again by the genuine spark in them. “Alright,” she says, and realizes again just how insane it is for her to trust a complete stranger like this. But something inside her tells her that this woman can be trusted, so. “Alright,” she repeats. “Let’s go, then. He’s right, we’re wasting time.” 

Mary Margaret nods, though her eyes are glazed. Graham squeezes her shoulder before he leaves, genuine sympathy in his eyes. She leads the way to the walking path, hand once again tucked into Emma’s, and it’s a testament to…well, something, that Emma allows it to happen. She’s never been the touchy-feely type, and yet. 

The path is beautiful, Emma thinks, for healing patients, but to her it’s just claustrophobic. Even at the edges the trees are dense, wild berry brambles growing thick around their roots. It almost looks untouched compared to the barely-maintained woods in the towns that Emma’s used to, besides the winding hospital path. That at least is clearly used, paved with inset bricks and dotted with periodic concrete benches. Neatly maintained flower beds separate them from the woods. It’s milling with patients, too. 

“Did you ask around over here before we came down?”

“Yes,” Mary Margaret says. “I looked, too. No sign of him.”
Emma frowns. “There’s no way he’s still here. Somebody would’ve seen him.” She peers at a section of those manicured flowers that sports a few bruised petals and some snapped stems. “He had to have gone deeper in.” 

“Unfortunately,” Mary Margaret replies, grim, “I think you’re right.” 

The moment they leave the path the underbrush gets thick. Thorns catch on her boots, scarring the leather, and Emma’s glad she’d tugged them on for her little road trip. An image of Regina pops into her mind, tottering through the thorns on her strappy black heels with thorns sticking out of her ankles, and Emma smiles to herself. 

“So what did you and Mayor Mills talk about in the elevator?” Mary Margaret asks conversationally, tearing Emma out of her thoughts and replacing that amusement with a wreath of entirely irrational guilt. 

She’s a god damned grown woman. If she wants to make out with someone who’s a total bitch that’s her right. 

And yet, her hands still go clammy as she forces out, “Oh, you know. Why she’s a nightmare of a person.” 

Mary Margaret gives a bewildered laugh, shock breaking through her worry. “You’re kidding. You said that to her face?” 

“I told her a little K-Y might help with pulling the stick out of her ass,” Emma lies, bold-faced.

“You’re kidding!” She grabs at Emma’s upper arm, mouth agape. “You didn’t! What did she do?” 

Emma shrugs, smiling despite herself. “What she always does. Called me few names and then stormed off as soon as we hit the ground floor.” 

“What’s K-Y?” 

The voice is distinct, and damn it – Emma turns, and sure enough. He’s half-hopping through the brush, the crunching of his rapid footsteps on dead leaves almost comical. Henry’s got his backpack now, bulging at the seams with something rectangular that Emma would bet her left tit is his storybook. 

“Nothing you need to know about for at least another five years,” Emma deadpans, wrinkling her nose. “I think. How’d you get here? I thought your mom was having Victoria pick you up. Or something.” 

“Vanessa,” Henry corrects her, finally catching up to them. “She’s my mom’s secretary. She’s not very smart.” 

“Henry Mills,” Mary Margaret scolds. “That’s not a nice thing to say.” 

Henry shrugs. “It’s true. I just told her I needed some alone time to think about what I’d done.” 

Emma snorts. Mary Margaret shoots her a reproachful glance, and she schools her face as close to neutral as she can. It’s clearly not convincing, and the schoolteacher shakes her head in disapproval, though Emma can see the glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Kid, she’s right. If your mom finds out you’re here she’ll kill me.” 

“She’ll kill you anyway,” Henry says matter-of-factly. “So you might as well let me stay.” 

Emma blinks, bewildered. She shares a glance with Mary Margaret, equally stunned, and then says, “Alright. I mean. You’re not wrong.” She shakes her head. “Fine. You can stay. But ,” she adds, a finger raised before he has time to get too enthusiastic, “You have to stay out of trouble.” 

The kid gives her a shit-eating grin. “No promises.” 

Emma rolls her eyes as Mary Margaret chuckles. He does end up keeping the promise, though, mainly trailing along behind them and shining his flashlight – not that it’s dark – off into the distance as they trudge through the forest. Every once in awhile they encounter someone else from the search party that Graham’s apparently successfully put together, and at one point she takes Mary Margaret’s phone and gets his number from it, just to text him a list of the places they’ve cleared. 

The sun is well past its high point in the sky by the time that Henry comes up with a theory, and Emma’s really starting to worry. 

Henry tugs at her arm as they clear yet another area. She stoops down low so that he can whisper in her ear while Mary Margaret dutifully pretends not to hear. “I figured it out. He’s going to the toll bridge,” Henry says, hushed. 

“Toll bridge?” 

Henry nods. He cracks his book, holding it by the spine, and points to a crude drawing. It depicts a man and woman on a bridge, huge creatures towering around them. “It’s where they met.” 

“Henry,” Emma says softly. Guilt clutches at her – she’s been encouraging him, albeit in an effort to show him it’s not true, but still. Things have gotten a lot more serious. “I know you believe that, but –” 

“I’m serious!” He looks desperate. Emma shoots a pained look at Mary Margaret. “Why else would he leave the hospital and go straight for the woods? Wouldn’t he just wander out the front door if he wasn’t looking for something?” 

Mary Margaret frowns as Emma meets her eyes and asks, “Have you heard of it?”

She nods. “Yeah, of course. It’s this old bridge on the outskirts of town. They closed it down years ago when it stopped being able to support cars.” She shifts, antsy, and then nods towards Emma’s phone. “Has anyone else checked there?” 

Emma swipes through the messages from the group Graham had stuck her in, sorting through messages from him along with random numbers. “Not that I can see.” 

Mary Margaret looks thoughtful. “You know what, Henry? I think it’s worth a shot.” 

Emma opens her mouth to protest, but she’s right – they still don’t have a clue where the guy is. They might as well check. 

“Alright, fine.” Emma stands up, popping her back. “Which way?” 

Everyone in this town seems to have an impeccable sense of direction, she’ll give them that. The woods all look the same to her, a winding mess of thicket and trees, but Mary Margaret glides through it as naturally as the rest of the townies they’ve bumped into. It takes a solid twenty minutes to walk to, but eventually the sound of rushing water accompanies the birdsong surrounding them, and the trees break suddenly around a ditch that leads down to a creek. The bridge isn’t huge, nothing special: it’s a corpse of rusted metal and cracked asphalt, the road winding up to it much better. 

But there, just underneath it, is a splash of bright blue among the gray and brown. 

“Oh!” Mary Margaret gasps, and before Emma can offer her any help she’s stumbling down the sheer ledge, skirt smearing with dirt and rucking up around her legs. She scurries over to the man – he’s laying face down by the water, and Emma grabs Henry by the shoulders and turns him around. Fuck, she shouldn’t have – 

“I shouldn’t have let you come, kid. Don’t look.” She winces as Mary Margaret calls out to the man and no response comes. 

“Is he okay?” Henry asks, but Emma ignores him in favor of pulling out her phone and dialing 911. 

“Yeah, hey, I need an ambulance at the old toll bridge. Yeah – thanks.” She relays the details, telling them they’ve found the coma patient and hoping the dispatcher is a local. After that she messages the search group. 

“Is he okay?” Henry repeats, this time to Mary Margaret. Emma turns him by his shoulders again, this time rough and insistent, and he cries out. 

“Sorry, Henry,” Emma says, voice cracking. She blocks his view with her body as she finally brings herself to look. Mary Margaret’s got the man flipped over now, hands folded over her chest as she gives compressions – and, fuck, it doesn’t look good. “He’ll be okay,” she lies. Lies, lies, white lies, right? It’ll be easier to explain later, after – fuck, Regina’s going to kill her. She’s really going to kill her, like, slit her throat in her sleep, cut her breaks kind of kill her because she’s just brought the woman’s son to a dead man – 

Crackly coughing sounds from the ditch, followed by an exclamation from Mary Margaret, and Emma’s jaw about drops. 

He’s alive . “He’s alive,” Emma says out loud, not even bothering to turn him this time when Henry pushes past her extended arm to get a look. “Holy shit.” She does , however, catch him by the sleeve when he attempts to lurch forward, dragging him back and stretching his sweater in the process. “No, no, give them space, kid.” Henry doesn’t say anything, just glances up at her with wide, bewildered eyes, and fuck. 

It’s hoarse, and barely audible over the noise of the creek, but the man speaks for what must be the first time in years. 

“I found you.” 

Fuck, this is a mess. 

Mary Margaret just laughs, gleeful and in shock and desperate, and says, “Don’t worry. We’re gonna get you some help.” 

Henry’s practically glowing. “It worked,” is all he says before the closest members of the search party start rolling in and chaos takes over. 

As it turns out, Storybrooke is too small to have an ambulance. Graham pulls up in the cruiser maybe two, three minutes after Emma calls, and she can’t help but wonder how hard he was gunning it for that to be possible. She never does find out if it was the 911 dispatcher that got him there or her text to the search chat, but either way, she’s grateful – between the three of them they manage to pick him up and lay him out in the back of the cruiser, the man’s head resting gently on Mary Margaret’s lap. His eyes are startlingly blue, and he stares at Mary Margaret like he’s just seen the sun for the first time. 

And Mary Margaret’s staring back just the same. 

She and Henry make the trudge back to the hospital along the side of the road, flanked by a few members of the search party who had come rushing to the toll bridge instead of heading home when she’d sent her message through. Most of them scatter when they hit town proper, though a few of them follow them up to the second floor of the hospital. 

“He’s stable,” Whale says the moment they rush in. He’s got his arms crossed and he’s looking at them – at Emma – with gratitude as he adds, “Thanks to you.” 

Emma glances down at Henry, who grins back at her. “It was the kid’s idea to look there.” She leans to peer around him into the room. Mary Margaret is sitting in the chair at his bedside, talking animatedly with his hand in hers. The man is hooked up to three different IVs, and there’s an oxygen tube at his nose, but he looks miles better than he had when they’d found him. There’s color in his cheeks now, and hell – something behind his eyes, a tiny smile at his lips as he watches Mary Margaret with a fondness that must just come with seeing the face of your savior. “Did we find out who he is?”
The doctor nods. “His name is David Nolan. He’s a long time resident of Storybrooke, and not just in this hospital: born and raised here. We can’t figure out why nobody’s claimed him.”
Henry shoots her a look, and god, that’s all Regina right there. Emma ignores it in favor of watching her newfound friend. “Weird,” she says, but then she nods towards the pair. “Well. Looks like he’s got a friend now, at least.” 

“He’s got more than that.” 

Fuck. She’s really got to get that woman a bell – or maybe just train herself to jump at the sound of ridiculously high stilettos on cheap linoleum. Emma turns with an unrestrained roll of her eyes, dropping her hands to her hips. “Regina, why the hell are you –”
“Emergency contact,” Regina cuts her off. “Your services are no longer required, Miss Swan. You can go home.” She brushes past Emma without so much as eye contact, taking no note of Emma’s scoff and instead striding directly up to Whale. “I’ve found his family.” 

“Family?” Emma raises her brow. “If he had any family don’t you think they would’ve claimed him already –” 

“Oh my god, David?” 

Emma turns just in time to see her, a blonde woman who pushes her way straight through their little group without even noticing, her eyes locked on the man in the room. He looks up as she rushes into the room, a blank, confused stare the only reaction as she throws herself into his arms. The whole time he just looks at Mary Margaret, who has drawn her hand back, tempered. 

“Thank you, Regina,” Whale says, and then makes his way off to the room. 

“And here I thought you and Mary Margaret would be pleased.” Regina turns to her with a prim, practiced smile at her lips. She looks pristine, like she’s gone home to fix herself up. Redone her hair and everything. She holds her purse in front of her, both hands clasped around the handle like a weapon as she says with a taunting edge, “I went looking for his family for you , Miss Swan. Aren’t you happy?” She doesn’t break eye contact as she holds one hand out, stiff, and snaps, “Henry. Let’s leave the happy couple to reunite. We’ll talk about your insubordination later.” 

Henry shoots Emma a sorrowful stare, but she has the feeling it’s faked for Regina’s benefit. He’s radiant underneath it. “What’s insubordination mean?”

“It means you’re grounded,” says his mother, and then she drags him to the elevator.

He turns just enough as he’s stumbling along behind her, flashing Emma a toothy grin before he mouths, don’t worry . 

Emma watches them leave with a lead weight in her heart that she hadn’t thought possible. 

“Hell of a day, huh?” 

She turns at the sound of her friend’s voice and finds the schoolteacher with her arms wrapped around her body. Not quite crossed – more protective than that. She’s trying hard to hold it together, that much is obvious, but so are the cracks in her being. 

“Yeah,” Emma murmurs, reaching out to squeeze her upper arm. Mary Margaret doesn’t respond, staring off into the distance, and so she lets her arm fall back to her side, heavy. “Hey. What do you say to a drink? This town’s gotta have a bar, yeah?” 

Mary Margaret snorts out a laugh, sudden and tense. “What the hell else do you do for fun in a small town?” 

And, well. That’s how she ends up slamming back shots with a woman who wears maxi skirts and keeps the top button done on all her shirts. 

“You know,” Mary Margaret slurs out, “I like you, Emma. I’m glad you came to our little town.” 

The laugh that bubbles out of Emma’s throat is genuine, even if it is accompanied by a beer-carbonation laden belch. “You know what? Me too. I didn’t think I’d like it.”

Mary Margaret clutches at her imaginary pearls, mock-indignation exaggerated by her inebriation. “You don’t say?” 

“Scandalous, I know. I like the big city.” She peers around at the tiny, warm streetlights, the only illumination besides the single traffic light on Main Street. It’s so different than what she’s used to. It’s…quiet. Emma’s always liked enough noise to drown out her own mind, but something about this place makes everything feel softer. “But this is really nice. I think I’ll stay.” 

Mary Margaret’s only reply is a hiccup, followed by a dizzy spell that has her clutching at Emma’s arm. But it ends with a wan smile and she doesn’t get sick in the bushes outside the pharmacy, and so Emma takes it as a win. 

They stumble back to the loft, and it’s not until Emma’s collapsed on the couch with a trash can and a giant glass of water beside her that she sits straight up and – immediately regretting the motion – asks, “Is it okay that I sleep here?” 

“Em.” Mary Margaret pulls back the curtain around her bed. She’d been about to climb in. “Duh.” 

Emma, who is wrapped up in a blanket with a pillow under her head, says, “Oh. Thanks.” Mary Margaret laughs, genuine, and then Emma’s laughing too. 

“Why don’t you just stay?” It tumbles out of Mary Margaret’s mouth, quick and maybe a little bit desperate. “I’d really like it if you stayed. I don’t like seeing you in your car.” 

“Oh.” Emma blinks. “Okay.” And then, the full weight of what she’s just been offered settling over her, “Are you sure?” 

“ Yes ,” Mary Margaret insists. She falls back onto her bed, gathering the sheets around herself without pulling the curtains back into place. “Goodnight, Emma.” 

“Goodnight.” 

It’s still a couch, but it’s miles better than her car, and for the first time in several nights Emma gets to sleep with her legs stretched out. 

Her first morning in the loft is spent chugging down an alka seltzer and trying to keep it from making a reappearance, but it’s still so nice to have someone that cares about her floating around. Mary Margaret feels equally as shitty – Emma wakes to her leaning over the sink, which is…unpleasant to say the least, but at least she doesn’t have enough hair for Emma to hold – as she does, but she still takes care of Emma. She pulls out the medicine from the cabinet for herself and makes a second glass without asking, and when their appetites make a reappearance she orders them greasy delivery from Granny’s. 

“So, about last night,” Emma begins around a mouthful of bacon and toast. She follows it back with a swig of orange juice, and Mary Margaret cuts in, “You make it sound like we slept together.” 

Emma chokes on her drink as her newfound friend dissolves into a fit of laughter. 

“Don’t worry, we definitely didn’t.” Mary Margaret takes another swig of her orange juice as Emma recovers. 

“Thank god,” Emma says, and then adds, “No offense, but you’re not my type.” 

It earns her another chuckle, and Mary Margaret replies, “Likewise. And anyway, according to Henry I’m your mother, so.” 

Emma snorts. “There is that, yeah.” She takes another bite of her food before she continues. “But no, what I wanted to ask – what you offered last night. For me to stay here.” 

Mary Margaret eyes her. “Don’t worry. It still stands. Just because it was a drunken offer doesn’t mean it wasn’t legitimate.” 

“You’re sure?” It’s a weight off of Emma’s chest, that’s for sure – she’d turned it down the first time. But that had been a few days ago, and a couple nights in her tiny bug had really done a number on her, and well – it’s nice to have somewhere more permanent. 

“Yes, I’m sure!” Mary Margaret shakes her head. “Now, where the hell is all your stuff, and do you need help moving?” 

Oh.

Emma winces. “Yeah…I’ve gotta figure that out.” 

Thank god for overnight shipping. 

Breaking her lease is harder – she’s got a fee and it’s not effective immediately, so technically she’s still on the hook for her place back in Boston for another week and a half. But Mary Margaret insists that she rents from the local pawn shop owner who apparently owns most of the properties in town, and that she doesn’t need to add her to the lease officially unless he asks. It’s only been a day, though, and she’d come back from the store to find the boxes piled out in the hall. 

“This is really everything?” 

Mary Margaret is standing off to the side, staring at the pitiful four boxes that have just arrived with her hand clutched to her necklace. Her brow is wrinkled, the corners of her mouth drawn down, and oh – Emma knows that look. That’s pity, through and through. 

“I’m not the sentimental type,” she says, hoping that she can just play it off. The last thing she needs is another conversation about how she’s a lost little orphan girl. “Makes moving easy.” 

It had been the final step in deciding she’s going to stay in Storybrooke: breaking her lease and bribing the only one of her neighbors she’d ever taken the time to talk to into packing her things and shipping them up. She’d thought about driving down for them herself, but something sour in the back of her mind tells her that if she were to leave she might never come back. 

Or that she might take out another sign on her way out of town. 

She’d managed to bribe her neighbor, though, a woman a few years younger than her who’d nearly had an aneurism the day Emma had brought home a mottled pink plant from a nursery a few blocks up. She’d bought it on a whim, seen it from the street in passing, and paid way more money than she’d ever imagined she would on a plant – especially given her propensity for killing them. But it had been pretty, and so she’d snagged it, and the girl had lost her mind asking if Emma knew what she had.

The fact was she didn’t – still doesn’t – and the neighbor had asked about it every time they’d passed in the hall. Emma figures it’s a fair trade for sweeping through her apartment and chucking her stuff into boxes. 

Emma had never caught her name. She’d just saved her in her phone under plant neighbor . But she’d done a good job, as far as Emma can tell: she hasn’t found anything missing yet. She’d even packed up her magic wand, rolling it neatly in a shirt, a bundle that Emma had promptly tucked right back away out of sight of her new roommate. 

“I guess so.” Mary Margaret skirts around the loft’s table. “Can I help you unpack?” 

Emma frowns, staring at the corrugate in front of her. She’s never liked anyone rooting through her things, but most of them are only full of clothes. “Yeah, sure. Thank you.” 

All except the one that Mary Margaret picks, of course. She takes the scissors from where Emma’s discarded them on the floor and cuts through the tape, pulling back the flap to reveal none other than Emma’s only sentimental possession. “Oh.” Mary Margaret takes it gently in her hands, somehow seeming to realize the significance of it. “This is beautiful.” 

Something tightens around Emma’s heart. “Oh – yeah. That. It’s, uh, my baby blanket.” 

Mary Margaret’s eyes snap up. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –” 

“No, no, it’s okay,” Emma says, reaching for it. She takes the soft yarn from her friend, passing her thumb over it subconsciously. It’s basic, white and purple and with her name embroidered at the edge, and she’s never been able to part with it. “It’s the only thing my parents left me. They found me in this.” 

Mary Margaret is staring at it with something soft in her gaze. “I’m so sorry, Emma.” 

Emma shrugs. “It’s okay.” She folds it up and tucks it away before Mary Margaret has the chance to say something that will only make this worse, like her parents probably had good reason to do what they did or something like that. It’s a nice sentiment – but. “Anyway,” she says. “Wanna help me carry these upstairs?” 

Even with a place to call – sort of – her own, Emma finds herself at the diner more often than not. She still hasn’t gotten around to proper grocery shopping, and though Mary Margaret has been insistent on a “what’s mine is yours” policy, the idea of pulling out dishes that aren’t her own to cook with ingredients that aren’t hers either just doesn’t sit right. 

Anyways, Granny’s is good. It’s disturbingly cheap, to the point where Emma has no idea how they stay open, and it tastes good, so she’s content to sit in her retro little booth with some pancakes, and not ponder on the fact that she’d made out with the mayor a few days prior. She’s definitely not noticing the way Leroy keeps throwing her looks from his seat at the bar, or the way he’d just leaned over the counter and whispered something in the waitress’s ear. 

She’s also not looking at said waitress’s ass in her tiny red shorts – and, well. Maybe it’s okay to let that one surface. 

It’s safer than thinking about Regina’s tongue down her throat. 

The waitress – Ruby is her name, Emma’s heard – saunters over, hot cocoa with whipped cream and cinnamon sloshing in its cup as she deposits it neatly on the table with a flash of a smile. 

“Thanks,” Emma says, setting down the newspaper that she had absolutely been reading, thank you very much, to reach for it. 

But the woman doesn’t leave. Instead, she plops down in the chair across from Emma, and leans forward with her hands folded on the tabletop and a wolfish grin at her lips. “So,” she says, chipper. “I’m Ruby.” 

Emma gives her a half-smile and an unenthusiastic nod, halfway through swallowing her first sip. “Hi, Ruby.” 

“And you’re Emma,” she adds, apparently unaffected by Emma’s lack of interest. “You’re new in town.” 

“Are you going to read off my date of birth and license plate number next?” 

Ruby laughs, genuine and emphatic. “I like you,” she says. “You’re funny.” 

“Thanks.” Emma nods slowly, lips a flat line. “I think.” 

“Mm-hm,” Ruby chirps. “So, I heard you’re living with Mary Margaret Blanchard. She’s pretty sweet.”

“Yeah, she’s great,” Emma deadpans. She flashes the edge of the newspaper at the other woman with her fingers. “Look, not to be rude, but I kind of just want to read –” 

“I also heard you and the mayor are kind of a thing.” 

Emma chokes on that one. She coughs a couple times, takes a sip of her drink, and says flatly: “no.” 

Ruby offers her a barely concealed smile. “Sure.” She draws her fingers across her mouth, zipper-style, and then twists them in a locking motion and throws away the key for good measure. “I get that.” 

And…hell. “You know what? Maybe you should be careful who you listen to.” She eyes Leroy over Ruby’s shoulder. She’s gotta lean a little to peer around the woman’s extravagantly teased hair, but it has the intended effect. “Whatever he saw wasn’t exactly…friendly.” 

Ruby wags her brows. “That’s the best kind, babe. Anyways, I’m not here to judge. Or to gossip, really. I just wanted to meet you. Anyone who’s brave enough to stand up to Regina is a friend of mine. A friend,” she adds with a little flourish in the direction of Emma’s drink, “who gets hot chocolates on the house.” She shoots Emma a wink just as the little bell over the door chimes. “Speak of the devil,” Ruby says, strained, and gives Emma an exaggerated grimace as she stands, dodging out of the way just in time for Regina to barrel through. “Can I get you something, Mayor Mills?” 

“No.” Regina replies without looking and with a dismissive wave of her hand. Her eyes remain locked on Emma as she sits where Ruby had been before. Ruby turns on her heel with an “oh-kay,” and heads back behind the bar. 

“That was rude,” Emma says flatly, as if she hadn’t just been rude to the girl herself. 

Regina just looks at her as she folds her hands neatly on the table. She’s sitting sideways in the chair, legs crossed, like she’s not planning on staying. And fuck, she looks just as perfect as the last time Emma had seen her: hair perfectly coiffed, makeup sharp, nails done. Her painted lips are curled in a haughty smile. “I’m here to tell you that your presence no longer worries me.” 

Emma snorts. Like hell. “And why is that?” 

“I’ve looked into you, Miss Swan. And throughout your entire history, one thing has remained constant: you never stay in one place for long. Soon enough you’ll get bored. You’ll realize that Storybrooke has nothing to offer you, and you’ll move on. And then I won’t have to worry about you taking Henry away from me every again.” 

“Wow.” Emma takes a slow sip of her cocoa, once again genuinely fucking stunned at how delusional this woman is. She sets the cup down in front of her, lining it up dead center with both of her hands as she formulates her response. “How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not trying to take the kid away from you? I’m here because I want to know he’s okay. And, you know what?” She gestures generally to everything around them. “I’ve decided this is a pretty nice town you’ve got here. You’re right,” She adds, clipping off whatever Regina had been about to interrupt her with. “I’ve done a lot of moving in my day.” She narrows her eyes, leaning forward. “I think it’s time I settle down for awhile, don’t you?” 

Regina’s still got that smug little smile, but Emma can see the flash in her eyes, the way her gaze hardens and her lip twitches. “Well,” she snaps, swallowing. She gathers that shell back around herself and says, “I’m sure you feel that way now, just like you did with Tallahassee.” Emma feels that one like a knife, a twist of thorns around her neck, but she schools her expression and does her best not to let it show. “But you left there eventually too, didn’t you? Storybrooke will be no different. You’ll be out of my hair before I even know it.”

“People change,” Emma says, giving her best nonchalant shrug. “I mean, just look at us. Here I am, wanting the simple life. Here you are, feeling up random women in elevators. Word around town is that’s not your usual M.O.” 

Regina’s carefully schooled expression falters. “Please,” she says, but her voice is strained. “Nobody would believe you even if you told them.” 

“Maybe,” Emma taunts, deciding to keep the existence of the footage tucked close to her belt until she can get a copy herself. Hell, maybe Leroy will do her a favor if she agrees not to rat them out to the hospital for being shit at their jobs. If not, a USB and a few minutes alone will do the trick. “Maybe not.” She pokes her tongue against the inside of her lip and then adds for good measure, “I think you’re afraid that if I stick around it’ll happen again.” 

“Not a chance in hell.” Regina grits the words out, her former composure all but crumbled. 

“Are you sure? I kind of liked it.” Just for good measure, Emma lifts her foot and runs the toe of her boot along Regina’s calf. She jerks back, the chair scraping loudly against the tile, earning them the attention of everyone within a ten foot radius. Regina’s cheeks are red, rage and embarrassment both, probably, and Emma grins as she shoots up from her seat. 

She stews for a second, searching for the last word. It’s like a broken mirror, watching her: cold and fractured, all ice and sharp edges as she informs her, “You’ll regret that,” and then makes for the door. 

“See you next tuesday,” Emma calls after her, bright and friendly. “I’m looking forward to spending time with you – again,” she finishes quietly, laughing as the door slams and the bell on the frame nearly rattles off its mounting. 

Ruby appears with her stack of pancakes. Emma wonders how long they’ve been ready, and if she’s just been standing off to the side waiting for their encounter to finish. “Oh, you are so dead, but that was amazing.” 

“Thanks,” Emma says. Ruby starts to walk off, and so she calls, “Hey. Do me a favor?” 

Ruby turns, looking primly over her shoulder. 

“Don’t listen to a damn thing Leroy tells you. I just like to rile her up.” 

“Sure thing, Ems.” Ruby flashes her another grin, teeth made pearly white by the contrast with her lipstick, and struts off, leaving Emma to her ancient format of entertainment. 

Storybrooke doesn’t live up to its reputation as a sleepy small town. Emma’s learning this quickly: between the bitch of a mayor, reanimated coma patients, baby sales, and now a fucking explosion , there’s always something going on. It’s more than enough to keep her entertained, and definitely more than she’d ever encountered in any of the big cities she’d lived in. Then again, maybe she’s only hearing about them by virtue of the town being so tiny. 

Word travels fast around here. She’s learned that the hard way, too: Storybrook’s locals turn and whisper as she follows Graham up the dusty hill to the mineshaft. Part of her hopes it’s because they’ve heard that he’s offered her a job – apparently rolling into town and immediately solving the disappearance of a kid and then a wandering coma patient warrants that, and she’d accepted because income is nice and her savings are drying up – but Regina’s eyes lock on her, and the whispering only grows. 

She wonders briefly if it’s because she’d very publicly destroyed the mayor’s tree, or if Leroy’s finally put out her tape with the mayor for public consumption. 

The thought makes her grimace, and Regina seems to take it as being for her – which is, honestly, fine too. 

“Sheriff,” Regina chimes by way of greeting to Graham, but her eyes are locked on Emma. “And Miss Swan. Why do you keep showing up?” 

“Just wanted to see your bright smiling face,” Emma deadpans. It earns her a scowl from Graham. 

“I’ve hired a deputy.” Graham cuts her off before she can tank Regina’s mood even further. “Meet the station’s newest.” 

Regina stares at her. Just…stares. “You can’t be serious,” she says eventually. “Her?”

“Standing right here,” Emma cuts in. 

“And you should be cordoning off the crowds.” Regina gestures to the group of people inching dangerously close to the opening of the mineshaft. “See? She’s already slacking on her duties.” 

“For fuck’s sake,” Emma mutters under her breath, but she stalks off to do just that. “Alright people, back it up. This is dangerous.” A few people give her some looks, but when she flashes her badge – which feels pretty cool, she has to admit – they back off. 

They’re about an hour in when Henry shows up with Archie. Regina catches them before Henry makes it over to Emma and honestly, that’s just as well: she’s got her hands full with the locals who can’t seem to keep away from the rubble. So she gives Henry a quick wave while Regina hisses something to Archie, face as stony as ever, and they both disappear. Graham leaves and returns with some caution tape and it seems to help, so Emma’s wrapped up in tying it around the sparse trees that circle the area when she hears screaming. 

Regina’s frantic, flitting around the entrance to the mines and shouting something at Archie. Emma pushes through the crowds and makes her way over to Graham. “What the hell is happening?”
Graham winces. “Henry went down into the mines.”
Fear clutches at Emma’s chest. “What?” 

“He said it would prove the curse was real,” Archie says, appearing with Regina trailing after him. “I told him not to do it, I –” 

“Why the hell –” Emma leans around him, peering at the entrance. “Alright. I’ll go get him.” 

“Emma, you can’t go in there,” Graham says immediately, frowning. “Let me do it.”
“What? Why? I’m the kid’s – something,” she amends, keenly aware of Regina’s gaze on her. “I should go.” 

Arguing in circles. That’s what Emma’s good at, apparently. Graham too – he tells her that he’s her senior, being that he’s the sheriff – until Regina cuts them off and says, “While you two were busy chasing your own tails, Archie went in.” 

“Great,” Emma mutters. “The shrink with absolutely no training on dangerous situations. What a wonderful plan, Madame Mayor.” 

Regina raises a brow, her need to belittle Emma cutting through her panic. “And you learned how to handle yourself in a crumbling mineshaft from what, bail bondsman school? Archie will get him out. He knows how to handle my son.” With that she pushes past, stalking over to the entrance of the mine. 

As Emma’s staring after her the earth rattles once more. Regina actually meets her eyes when she turns, genuine panic stricken on her face, and – fuck. 

Boulders rain down, blocking the entrance in a cloud of dust and rock. 

“Shit,” Emma says. 

It takes over an hour for the construction crews to arrive with the dynamite. Regina has a lot to say about that – you’re going to blow him up – but in the end Graham manages to talk her down, insisting that blowing the rocks in the entrance will be faster than trying to unbury them by hand. They don’t know what’s down there – getting the kid back as fast as possible has to be their priority. 

And Emma feels fucking useless, sitting on her hands. 

The explosion does make things worse, though, Regina screaming and pacing back and forth as it triggers yet another earthquake, and so Emma sets about her own idea. 

“Mineshafts have air vents, yeah?” 

Graham blinks, impressed. “I believe they do.” 

“So if we poke around up there…” Emma tilts her head to the top of the hill. 

“We should find one.” Graham grins, clapping her on the back as he heads for the mound of dirt. “That. That right there is why I hired you.” 

Even Regina gets on board with that one. They find nearly a dozen of the things, buried and invisible under years of clay, and after several minutes of shouting Archie calls back. 

“We’re okay,” he says, voice shaking. “But we’d really like to get out of here.” 

Emma laughs outright at that. “Don’t worry. Henry?” 

“Hi,” the kid calls back, weak. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Emma says for now, even though she would really fucking like the kid to worry about it. “They’re bringing a harness and a pulley from Moe’s. I’m coming for you.” 

“Let me do it.” 

Emma turns at the sound of Regina’s voice. She’s got her arms crossed over her chest, her voice stern – but her lip is wobbling. Her eyes give her away: they’re glittering, pained, and Emma puts her hands on her hips. 

“I’m his mother, I’m should be the one to get him.” Regina clips out the words like she’s trying to convince herself. 

And for once in her goddamned life, watching her break down and crumble, Emma actually has pity for this absolute bitch of a woman. “Regina,” she starts, and Regina’s lip wobbles like she’s going to cry. This isn’t the same woman that she’d thrown around in the hospital elevator. This woman is fragile, and suddenly Emma can see how much she cares . “Please let me do this. I know you love him,” she cuts her off before she can interrupt, “but you’ve been sitting behind a desk for ten years. I can do this.” Regina looks away, glances over to where Archie and Graham are undoubtedly watching them. “Please let me do this.” 

She holds out for a few moments with her arms tucked tight over herself. But then she steps forwards, eyes locked with Emma’s in a tentative hold, and god – she’s so close. Emma can smell her perfume. Her mascara has run just a little, pooling beneath her lower lashes. When she finally speaks, it’s soft. “Just bring him to me.” 

The harness is embarrassingly easy to put on. Emma pretends that she needs the help of the man handing it to her – though not so much that he actually has to touch her – and doesn’t meet Regina’s eye when she quickly adjusts it with more finesse than someone unfamiliar should possess. Being lowered down is weird, but the rope they’ve got isn’t a rope at all but a coil of metal, and soon she’s beaming at a cowering Archie and an entirely-too-brave Henry. 

“Hey guys. Need a lift?” 

The kid clings to her on the way back up, his arms wrapped tight around her shoulder. No less than five people are there to pull him up when they reach the surface, among them Regina, whose eyes don’t so much as land on her but whose fingers brushing against her shoulder send a jolt through her spine. 

She’s just glad she doesn’t have to pull Archie up the same way. She’s drawn back up through the air vent and she unbuckles the harness before they lower it empty, appearing back over the surface a few minutes later around Archie. 

Breathless, Emma stumbles over to where Regina is fussing over Henry, cupping her hands around his round cheeks and brushing clay dust from his hair. “Hey, kid,” She says. Henry beams at her, opens his mouth to say something – and then. 

“You can start clearing up now, deputy.” Regina blocks her with an arm held out, and Emma’s heart sinks. 

Whatever wavering little connection they’d shared earlier has dissipated. 

“Yeah,” Emma says flatly, dejected. “Fine.” 

And yet, it’s just that that gives her the courage to show up on the mayor’s doorstep that night. There had been something there – something that Regina hasn’t let her see yet – and she’s going to hold on tight to it no matter how badly Regina wants her to forget, because that’s the only thing she’s seen from the other woman that’s been human . 

She had almost seemed…approachable, if only for a moment. 

The door swings open to reveal Regina, dressed in a set of silky pajamas that probably costs more than Emma’s entire paycheck. 

“Hi,” she chimes, reminiscent of the first time she’d been here. 

Regina pinches the bridge of her nose as if Emma’s very presence is enough to give her a migraine. “Miss Swan, it is nine o’clock at night. Why are you here?” 

Emma brushes off the rude greeting. “Look. I know you don’t want me here. To be honest, I don’t really want to be here. I just want – that is,” she amends, “I was hoping that you’d let me see Henry.” Regina opens her mouth to protest and Emma cuts her off. “Just for a minute. I know he’s probably getting ready for bed or whatever. I just want to make sure he’s okay.” 

Regina closes her mouth, twisting it into something halfway between a grimace and consideration. 

“I did kind of save his life earlier,” Emma points out. It’s low, but it’ll work and she knows it. “think that’s worth five minutes.” 

“Fine,” Regina says. She stands back, holding an arm out by way of invitation. Emma steps inside and peers around the foyer. 

“Nice house you got here,” she says conversationally, and Regina regards her like she’s dumb. Right. “Um. Is he upstairs, or should I wait…?” 

Regina shakes her head and sighs. “He’s in the shower. You’ll have to a wait a few minutes. Don’t touch anything,” she adds sternly, as if Emma’s a small child – and, also, as if she’s not standing empty handed with nothing within five feet of herself.

Emma holds her hands up, palms open. “No touching. Got it.” And – god, it’s such a bad idea, but – “Does that include you, too?” 

“Ugh.” Regina sniffs. “I regret that.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Sure you do.” It only earns her an eye roll – but still, there’s something there. Regina stands stiffly, eyes on the stairwell as she listens to the sound of still-running water. It takes a few minutes but eventually it does stop, and Regina disappears up the stairwell. After a few minutes she leans over the railing and waves Emma up.

She feels weird about not having an escort, but Regina’s waiting in a doorway that Emma assumes is Henry’s when she gets up there. She gestures inside and says, “Five minutes.” 

Her visit is short – five minutes on the dot, she expects. Henry’s fine, thankfully, almost excited about what had happened. Which, really, is not the lesson to take from this. 

Still. Emma’s just glad the kid’s okay. 

When her time is up Regina escorts her back down the stairs, but she doesn’t shoo Emma out the door like she’d been expecting. Instead she stands in the entryway with her arms crossed. Eventually she says, strained like it hurts her: “Thank you. For caring.” 

“Yeah,” Emma says, tentative. It feels like eggshells, like glass; one wrong move and it’s all gonna shatter. Regina nods, and then just stands there, looking like she wants to say something more. She doesn’t though, and so Emma does . 

“You know,” She says awkwardly, a little desperate to get the thought out because maybe it’ll keep it from running through her mind on repeat, “I almost thought you were going to kiss me earlier. At the mines.” 

“Why in the hell would you think that?” It’s rough – rude and abrasive, but there’s an undertone there, a waver, that makes Emma’s little lie detector ping. She’s covering for something.
And so she just studies the other woman for a moment. “No reason.” 

Regina stares at her, lip twitching just as it had earlier. “Well.” 

“You like me,” Emma says. “Just a little. Admit it.” 

“I’ll do no such thing,” Regina spits back immediately. There’s so much venom to the words that Emma almost believes her when she follows it up with, “I hate you.”

“Yeah, well.” Emma’s lie detector pings again. It goes wild in Regina’s presence, a satisfying little nudge in the back of her mind that only serves to bolster her confidence. “I did save the kid’s life. Can we at least agree we have some common ground there? We both care about him.” 

Regina’s lips flatten into a hard line – dark pink, her makeup still on from the day – and for several seconds, Emma thinks that she’s going to bite back with some line about how she’d been his mother for years again, changed every diaper, et cetera. It’s not like Emma disagrees with any of it. It’s just – well. The kid had kinda barrelled into her life head first, and there’s no getting rid of him – or the effect he’s had on her – now. He’s…hers. Maybe not as much as he is Regina’s, maybe not even nearly, but…he’s her’s, too. Just a little. 

That’s all Emma wants. Just a tiny little concession. Like…five percent. Just the same amount you give over to an aunt, a teacher, a friend – she cares. That’s all. 

God.

Control is a thing for Regina, though, and so she’s not holding her breath. 

“Yes.” 

And – oh. That’s unexpected. Emma blinks. “Yeah?” She fights back the urge to tack on a really?  or any other qualifier, any other prodding inquiry that might make Regina reconsider. Regina just nods, tight and uncomfortable, and fuck, Emma’s gotta take it while she can. “Okay,” she breathes, the relief in her voice quite frankly embarrassing. “Alright then. Thanks.” 

“...Thank you.” Regina echoes. It’s soft – she’s softer, Emma realizes with a start. Her grip on the banister has eased up, the skin of her knuckles no longer stretched thin and white and shiny, and the fire behind her dark eyes has diminished. “For saving him. I’m…grateful.” 

It might sound like she’s in physical pain, thanking Emma for anything, but hell. “Yeah,” Emma repeats. “I mean. Thank you. For letting me be the one to go down, you know?” She shrugs as she says it, folding her arms across her chest and shifting awkwardly on her feet. 

Regina only nods again. Her eyes remain low, locked on the wall behind Emma. Staring at the doorknob, maybe, Emma thinks – and, well, maybe she should go. 

She’s about to say so when Regina steps forward. It’s like she reanimates, her gaze flickering back up to meet Emma’s and hold there steady as her jaw sets and she glides, closing the distance between them in one smooth motion. Emma’s heart roars in her ears. 

Regina kisses her without laying a hand on her. It’s almost the polar opposite to their kiss in the elevator: this is gentle, almost tentative. It’s not clinical, not cold, but – Regina doesn’t touch her. It’s just her lips, pressed almost tenderly to her own with their bodies still separated by a full hand’s breadth. 

Emma has to put up a conscious fight not to melt into it. It’s shameful, really, how much she wants this. Her mind races. She imagines tangling her fingers in that hair again, remembers knotting it around her knuckles, soft like silk. What really gets her is the thought of looping her fingers through Regina’s belt. She wants nothing more than to drag her forward until she’s got every inch of her body flush against her own, because what the fuck is this whole no touching thing? Does Regina think it makes it any less intimate, when she’s a breath away from slipping her tongue into Emma’s mouth? 

Emma rests her hand on Regina’s waist instead. It’s the one concession she makes, the only thing she allows herself: a simple touch, gentle, just above the swell of her hips. Not too romantic. Not too sexual, either – just. 

Just what? Friendly? 

There’s nothing friendly about this. 

Regina steps back the moment Emma’s fingers curl against her skin as if to confirm her thoughts. It’s abrupt, and she draws in a heavy breath as she moves, straightening her spine and folding her hands in front of her as if they’d just shaken hands over a business deal.  Her only tell, besides her ruddy cheeks and smudged lipstick, is the way her eyes linger on Emma’s lips instead of meeting her own. 

“See yourself out, Miss Swan,” she instructs, and turns on her heel to retreat into the mansion.

Regina’s got a habit of walking away from her problems, Emma observes. Three times, now. Twice now they’d kissed, and both times had resulted in Regina turning heel and fleeing with some kind of demand spat over her shoulder. Hell, in the diner Emma had only had to imply that Regina wanted her, and it’d had the same effect. 

She probably should be insulted by that, she thinks, but somehow it only provokes her to know that any attempt at contact, any sly comment will only result in riling Regina up so much that her best defense is to run away . Not even to insult her, to threaten again to run her out of town, put a fucking boot on her car again – which, really, how the fuck was Emma supposed to leave with her car out of commission? Yeah, no. Regina wants her around. Whether she wants to admit it or not – and clearly she doesn’t. 

Because she hasn’t so much as looked in Emma’s direction since she’d walked in. She’s in and out of the kitchen, helping Kathryn with plates of hors d'oeuvres and plastic cups and pitchers of what Emma assumes is punch. Twice she lingers a couple feet away, like she’s contemplating some sort of connection, but she never gives in. 

Emma doesn’t know why she’s craving Regina’s attention so much. 

And, okay. That’s a lie. A blatant one at that, and she should be ashamed of herself. She does know – she’s spent more than a few nights ruminating on that very fact, with the sheets thrown back and her hand between her thighs. 

Not exactly something she should be thinking about right now, surrounded by strangers. And her kid. She shouldn’t think about any of it: she’s definitely not thinking about how the last kiss had almost been romantic, either. Because that road doesn’t lead anywhere good. That road leads to feelings, confusing ones, ones that clash with the hatred that boils within her any time Regina so much as turns her catlike gaze in Emma’s direction. 

Except today, because Regina won’t fucking look at her.

She shoves it all aside and packs it up in a tiny little box in the back of her mind. And then she puts it inside of another box. And then she mails that box to herself, and then when it arrives back on her mental doorstep, she smashes it with a hammer. 

Effective. 

Emma’s not used to the small town life, so maybe she’s overestimating, but she’s pretty sure the entire population of Storybrooke is milling about Kathryn’s tiny ranch home right now. 

It’s not saying much: it’s maybe sixty people, but as Emma weaves through the crowd in the narrow walkways of the older house it feels like a lot. And, okay, Storybrooke probably has a population of a couple hundred. Maybe. 

She could ask Regina. 

The thought makes her snort, and Henry looks up at her questioningly. “Nothing, kid,” she answers over the din. “Is your mom gonna come out and mingle, you think?” 

Henry raises a brow. “I doubt it. Don’t worry, she’s probably busy helping Kathryn. She won’t see us talking.” 

That’s not exactly what Emma had been worried about, but she decides to let the kid think it. Operation Cobra eats up his every thought, she’s come to realize, and while she doesn’t think feeding into the fantasy is necessarily a good idea, it’s definitely become a good crutch to lean on when she doesn’t want to have a conversation. So instead, she just asks: “Your mom is good friends with Kathryn, huh?” 

Henry nods. “I guess.” 

“Hey, Hen!” Ruby appears from the crowd, throwing an arm around the kid like they’re old friends. Which, Emma supposes, they probably are, as much as an adult and a young child can be: this town is tiny. Regina seems like a health food nut, but Emma knows from experience that Henry’s a frequent flier at Granny’s. “Come settle an argument for us. Ashley thinks that vampires are the best supernatural creature, but I know it’s werewolves.” She turns him and leads him off, shooting Emma a wink over her shoulder. 

Emma watches, stunned, but in the end she does give her a thankful nod. 

Regina’s not in the kitchen anymore. Emma doesn’t even know what she’s going to say to her – it’s not like she’d planned anything in advance, and hi, thanks for kissing me, let’s do it again isn’t exactly the smooth opener she’s aiming for. 

She doesn’t have to look hard, though, because when she wanders down the quiet back hallway a door opens and she’s tugged right into a closet. 

“Make a sound,” Regina growls low in her ear before she can so much as yelp, “let anyone know we’re in here – and I’ll kill you.” Her breath is warm over Emma’s skin, her palm pressed so hard against her mouth the inside of her lips cut against her teeth, and fuck. Something about the harsh edge to the words makes Emma think she’s being serious. 

She just nods, and Regina pulls her hand away slowly. “There’s a closet joke in here somewhere,” she says in an effort to ease some of the tension. This is ridiculous. It’s like – it’s like they’re teenagers. But the thrill that shoots through her at Regina’s proximity is electric, and she can’t ignore it – not that she’s really trying. 

Regina narrows her eyes. “I might kill you regardless.” Before Emma can put her foot in her mouth further Regina’s got her hands on her, backing her up against the built-in shelving of the Nolan’s linen closet. It digs into her spine at awkward places but Regina doesn’t relent, kissing her hard . It’s the exact opposite of their last kiss, Emma can’t help but note: Regina’s flush against her, every inch of her body pressed to Emma’s like she can’t get close enough.

“Not that I’m not into this –” Emma murmurs when she gets the chance to pull back just enough – “but what are you doing?” 

Regina gives an exasperated sigh, pushing back at Emma’s chest to meet her eyes, bewildered. “What are you, a virgin?” 

Emma blinks, laughs abrupt and quiet, because – “No, I just –” She waves between them. “We hate each other.” 

“Yes,” Regina agrees, slowly like she thinks Emma’s stupid as she pushes Emma’s jacket from her shoulders. Emma lets it happen, the cool air through her thin tee making her feel as exposed as Regina had stripped her completely. “So shut the hell up. This isn’t happening.” 

“You’re insane, you know that?” 

Regina just grunts her acknowledgment and slips her fingers through Emma’s belt loops, tugging her close again by the hips as she kisses her once more.

And fuck. This is insane. This is – fuck . 

But Emma’s got her hands on her now, palms flat beneath Regina’s blazer over the small of her back and if she dipped them lower, she could probably get away with feeling up her ass. But she doesn’t want to push it, doesn’t want this to end, and so she skims them up Regina’s back instead and around her ribs. She can feel Regina’s bra through her thin dress, and god, fuck her for ditching her usual button ups for something Emma can’t get her hands under near as easily. 

She’s hot. Emma’s not insane for realizing that this woman is hot , even if Regina is fucking crazy and mean and undoubtedly an awful person. Right?

Her lips are soft beneath Emma’s, her tongue sweeping over Emma’s intermittently until Emma finally gives in and parts them. Regina hums out a moan, deep and low, and god . It’s dizzying, the wave of lust that noise brings out in her, and she finally lets her hands fall until they’re wrapped around Regina’s hips, fingers digging in to her ass as Regina gives a hushed, taunting laugh like she’s won. 

And, you know what? Fuck that. 

They’re about the same height, but Regina’s tottering around on those ridiculous fucking heels that make her legs look incredible while Emma’s in one of her more solid pairs of boots, and she’s got physical strength on Regina any day anyway. She uses that advantage now, spinning them so that it’s Regina with her back against that awful shelving – her head cracks against one of them and Emma almost feels guilty, but Regina’s got her nails in her waist now, so – and she pushes Regina’s thighs apart with her knee. Regina gasps, whether from pain or shock or lust Emma’s not sure, but then she’s tilting her hips forward, grinding against Emma’s jeans even if it’s slow and controlled, and god. Emma draws her lower lip between her teeth and bites, hands clutched around Regina’s hips and encouraging her to roll them. Regina clutches at her shoulder and Emma half thinks she’s going to push her away, that this has gone too far, but then Regina’s other hand flies up and cups her breast through her shirt without any warning. Regina wastes no time, no pretense of any propriety or hell, respect. Her palm slides over Emma’s chest, groping without shame as she bears down against Emma’s leg and fucking whimpers . 

And now who’s fucking winning. 

Emma catches the hem of Regina’s dress and hikes it up over her hips. Regina doesn’t protest, not even when Emma snaps the band of her panties – thin as hell, must be a thong or even a g-string, not that she’s got even the light to look – and takes a handful of her bare ass, fingertips bumping the edge of lace as she encourages Regina to rock against her. Regina picks up her pace, moving a little more desperately as she breathes heavy against Emma’s lips, and god – 

Her whole body shivers. She lets out a choked moan as she breaks away from their kiss, eyes screwed shut and her nails digging harder into Emma’s skin as she bears down. Emma leans more weight against her, earning a gasp. 

And then it’s over. She’s breathing hard, her forehead against Emma’s and slick with sweat. Emma’s heart is racing, her whole body electric as she realizes what’s just happened. She draws in a shaky breath, wonders what would happen if she dropped to her knees right now and pulled those panties off with her teeth – 

“That’s enough,” Regina says, and it’s like a cold bucket of water dumped right over Emma’s head. 

“What?” 

Regina pushes at her chest, the hand that had been fondling her not thirty seconds prior now centered over her breastbone and shoving like she’s suffocating. “I said that’s enough. This didn’t happen.” 

Emma blinks. She stumbles back as far as the enclosed space allows, pushing a hand through her hair and staring at the shadowy form of the woman who’d dragged her in here in the first place, thank you very fucking much . “You’ve got to be kidding me. You can’t just –” 

But Regina’s already got her skirt back into place, her hair fixed. She snags Emma’s jacket off the floor in one quick motion and shoves it into her arms, cutting her off. “Clean yourself up,” she demands without making eye contact. She gives her hair one last brush over before she rests her hand on the doorknob. “And count to one hundred before you leave. I don’t want anyone seeing you.” 

With that she leaves Emma to watch, bewildered, as she cracks the door and slips through it as if nothing had fucking happened. 

As if she hadn’t just came on Emma’s thigh. 

Clean yourself up . She huffs, pulling her jacket back on, and feels absentmindedly at her mouth. It seems that Regina had at least had the foresight to wipe her lipstick away this time. The only trace of their encounter is the wet spot on Emma’s jeans. She can feel the soaked denim rubbing against her skin, and while she’s sure it’s a bit visible, they’re dark wash. It’s not like she’s got a dryer in here, anyway. Like hell is she gonna steal one of the Nolan’s towels for that. 

Emma wanders out of the closet on what she thinks is count sixty-nine – nice – and leaves the party early with only a wave to Henry in the way of goodbyes. It’s not like anyone else here knows her anyway. 

Mary Margaret practically jumps her at the door of the loft. “Emma, Emma, Emma,” She says, pulling her in by the wrists and shutting the door behind her. “Emma!” 

“What, what, what, what?” Emma replies, eyes just as wide. On the one hand she’s grateful for the distraction. On the other hand, all she really wants to do is go bury herself under her blankets with her trusty vibrator. 

“I don’t know what to do!” She runs a hand through her dark crop of hair. “David came here.” 

Emma raises her brows. “David came here ?” She’d heard about everything going on between them. Every time she returns home Mary Margaret has something more to rehash: David read a book with her today. He’s been having a hard time with that since waking up. David went on a walk with her. David ate lunch with her. 

David has a wife. 

David kissed her, out by the old toll bridge.

David wants to be with Kathryn, actually. 

It’s all kind of a lot – it’s not like Emma’s never been the other woman, it’s just that she’s never been the other woman when there were feelings involved. She’s always been able to cut and run when the relationship she’d been intruding on went sour. What Mary Margaret’s got herself tied up in is messy , and Emma’s told her so on more than one occasion. 

She nods fervently. “He told me he wants to be with me. That he doesn’t feel anything for Kathryn.”

Woah. Emma blinks. Mary Margaret stares at her hard. “I don’t know what to do, he told me to meet him by the toll bridge – where we found him – tonight. With my answer.” 

“You know what?” Emma sighs. It might be selfish to bring her own problems into her advice, but. “You should do what you think is right. David’s a grown man. He can figure out his own life.” 

Mary Margaret sighs and settles onto the couch. “Okay. Okay, I’m –” she beams at Emma – “I’m going to do it. I’m going to tell him that I want to be with him.” 

“Good for you,” Emma manages, and it’s a little weak, but she means it. “Just be careful, okay?” She’s had her fair share of experience with these kind of men. And while David isn’t exactly some random she’d met in a bar, men who are willing to leave for another woman once are usually willing to do it again. She thinks about saying as much, but Mary Margaret is beaming at her, and so she refrains with a tight smile. 

Mary Margaret’s eyes widen. “Oh! I have to get ready.” She looks frantically at Emma. “Will you help me pick out my outfit? Please?” 

Emma winces. “Sorry. I have to cover the night shift. Graham had something pop up.” 

“Ew. I’m sorry.” Mary Margaret wrinkles her nose, and Emma shrugs. 

“Don’t be. The night shift is pretty uneventful. Chances are I’ll just…reorganize a closet or something.” 

What it actually entails is her trawling around in the cruiser, unfortunately. It’s so boring she’s inches away from falling asleep at the wheel only an hour or two in. 

Nothing ever happens in Storybrooke but explosions and missing coma patients, apparently. Not even a cat stuck in a tree. By the time she strolls by the mayor’s mansion, she’s halfway considering sending her a you up? text like some sort of desperate fuckboy. 

That is, until she spots somebody climbing out one of her second story windows. 

Now that’s interesting. 

Emma kills the lights and parks the cruiser, climbing out and shutting the door as quietly as she can. The person’s in a hoodie, a man, probably – and finally . A break in. Something she can do something about. She darts ahead of him and hides in a bush, hoping to at least catch a glimpse of his face – 

Oh. Shit. 

“Graham?” 

He starts. Practically jumps out of his skin. “Emma? I was just…I was out for a walk.” 

“A walk,” Emma echoes flatly. “Right out of Regina’s window?” Guilt flashes across his face and Emma’s heart sinks as the realization settles in. “Oh.” 

“It’s not what you think,” he hurries out. “Regina just needed me to –”

“What?” Emma spits, betrayal writhing in her like snakes as she takes in the man in front of her. “Sleep with her?” 

Graham shakes his head, like Emma hadn’t just caught him sneaking out of her bedroom window. “It’s not…what it looks like. You have to understand, I – I don’t feel anything with her.” 

“Okay, gross,” Emma says, shaking her head. “I don’t care. Whatever you guys are doing, leave me out of it.” She holds up a hand and blows past him. She turns, chucking the keys to the cruiser at him. “You can finish the night shift on your own.” 

David can figure out his own life . 

Regina can figure out hers. Emma’s not going to let her keep toying with her, not – especially not now. She shouldn’t care that much and she knows it – but she can’t help it. It hurts . 

Commitment hadn’t exactly been part of the deal. It’s not like Regina is her girlfriend. It’s just – Graham, really? 

It all clicks into place: the way she listens to him, how he seems to be able to calm her with one look. And it makes her skin crawl. 

All Emma wants is to crawl into bed with some ice cream – maybe see if she can bother Mary Margaret into a horror movie marathon. But when she opens the door, she finds her roommate already curled on the couch, tear tracks down her cheeks. 

“Oh, shit,” she murmurs, and Mary Margaret bursts into a fresh round of tears. “What happened?” 

“He said he remembers,” she sulks. “He remembers his life with Kathryn, and he wants to be with her, not me.” 

“Fuck.” Emma sighs, closing the door softly behind her and sitting down next to her roommate. This thing with Regina pales in comparison to what David had done. He’d strung Mary Margaret along, just like Emma had been afraid of. Still, though. “I had a shitty night too.” She picks up her phone, checking the time. “What do you say we order pizza and watch something trashy?” 

Mary Margaret nods, hiccuping out, “That sounds nice.” She wipes at her tears and reaches for a tissue from the end table. “What happened to you?” 

Emma laughs, devoid of amusement. “Oh, you know.” She shakes her head, mouth twisting into a wry smile. “The usual. Love sucks, you know?” 

Love . Even the word terrifies her. What she feels is not love. She’s just – betrayed. 

It dredges up a laugh from Mary Margaret though, and so Emma considers it a win despite her discomfort. “Yeah, it does.” 

The next several days pass relatively uneventfully, and Emma thanks the fucking universe for it. Henry sneaks off to meet her at Granny’s, as per usual, and Ruby shoots her knowing smiles, also as per usual. Henry thinks he’s getting away with sneaking out, but Emma catches Regina watching them from a distance more than once. 

It’s just as well. Regina’s the last person Emma wants to talk to right now. 

She goes into work at the very last minute in order to avoid Graham. Sure, she makes polite conversation, but nothing more. He’d lied to her. Faked an emergency so that he could fuck Regina – and that’s not even what Emma’s mad about. 

She’s mad that it’s brought to the surface the exact thing she doesn’t want to confront: she’s jealous. 

Mary Margaret and David are back on, she thinks. She’s jealous of that , too, because their situation is even more fucked up than her own – their connection through Henry aside – and they’re happy. They’re making it work. So why can’t Emma get past this block? 

Drinking alone at the bar Mary Margaret had taken her to just seems pathetic, and she doesn’t want to drink alone in the loft, either. But a stiff drink would do her good, and she’s pretty sure Ruby keeps hard liquor behind the bar. 

Granny’s is packed, full of people seeking out the same thing as her and stoners eating french fries alike. 

And also Graham, apparently. 

“You’re kidding,” Emma mutters to herself. He catches her eye and she turns around immediately, heading back for the door. 

A dart lands in the doorframe, inches from her head. 

She whips around, finding Graham standing there with three more darts in his hand. “What the hell?!” 

“Can we talk?” His voice is groggy, and god – 

“Are you drunk?” Emma shakes her head, holds up a hand. “You know what? Nevermind. I don’t want to know.” She storms out of the diner, back out onto the street before he catches up with a hand on her shoulder. She whips around, shoving it off. “What?” 

“I want to apologize,” He says, practically begs. “I need you to understand.” 

“Sounds like a you problem,” Emma says, still heading back for the loft. “I don’t need to understand anything. What you do with Regina is your business.” The words are sour on her tongue even as she says it. 

“I don’t feel anything with her!” 

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Are you kidding me, Graham? I don’t want to hear about this right now.” 

“I don’t want her,” he says. 

“That’s worse.” That’s worse, because that makes her bitter . “You should talk to Archie.” 

He shakes his head. “Emma, please, I..”
“You what?” Emma asks, bewildered. “I don’t care, Graham! Go home! Or back to Granny’s, whatever! Just leave me out of this!” 

He sways and then he lurches forward, cupping her face in his hands as he drags her forward and kisses her. His breath is sour with whiskey, the reek of it pungent and overwhelming as Emma shoves him back. 

“What the hell was that?” She stumbles backwards, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. “That was so far over the line, you have no idea.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, but he’s only halfway here. “Did you see that?” 

Emma shakes her head. Unbelievable. “See what?” 

“The wolf,” he answers candidly. “And the knife…” 

“How fucking drunk are you?” She steps out in front of him, watching his blown pupils as his gaze slides over their surroundings. “You need to go home. Or maybe to a hospital, actually.” 

His eyes lock on her, and it seems like he finally realizes what’s happening. “I’m sorry. I thought…I really thought…you seemed so jealous,” he finishes, his words slurring. 

Emma gapes at him. “Not like that,” she says. “I’m gay, Graham. Whatever it is you’re looking for, you’re not going to get it with me. Go. Home.”

With that she whips around, ignoring his protests as she finally stomps off towards home. 

Graham texts her at least once a day after that. It’s hardly anything creepy, just confirmations that she’s still coming in for her shifts with the occasional apology, but still. If he’s going to say he’s sorry he can do it in person. 

Which is why, when she comes downstairs to find flowers sitting on the dining room table, she chucks the fucking things in the garbage, ignoring her roommate’s cries of protest. 

“If Graham thinks flowers will work on me –” 

“Oh, no. Those were…mine, actually.” Mary Margaret eyes the wreckage in the trash can, wincing at the snapped stems and bruised petals. Emma grimaces. 

“Sorry.” And then, she’s not so sure if she is. “David?” 

Mary Margaret draws in a deep breath, tentatively placing her keys on the top of the bar. “Victor, actually.” At Emma’s confused look she clarifies, “Whale. We went on another date last night.” 

“You know what?” Emma carefully extracts the bouquet from the garbage and places it on the counter with gentle hands. “I’m glad that you’re giving yourself the chance to move on. Putting yourself out there and all that.” She wrinkles her nose, though, and adds, “...was the date at least any better than the first?” 

Sighing, Mary Margaret gives a noncommittal shrug. “I mean…no. I slept with him. But no.” 

Emma stifles a laugh. “Well. At least you got laid. I’m going on a three week dry spell.” 

“Three weeks?” Mary Margaret says, eyes wide. She slides into a barstool, leaning over the counter as she exclaims, “You didn’t tell me you slept with him!” 

“What – oh, Graham? God, no.” Emma shakes her head. “No. No, it was – I didn’t even a name, it was just like…a one night stand kind of thing, I mean –” 

Mary Margaret’s eyeing her now though like she thinks she’s caught her. “No, no, that explains a lot. Why you’re so emotional over all of this.” 

Emma blinks. “I do not get emotional over men.” 

She snorts at that. “The floral abuse would say otherwise. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. But really, Em, he’s a nice guy.” 

“I –” Emma glances down at the trashed flowers on the counter and tries once again to prop up the pitiful remains. And – well. Fuck. “You don’t get it,” she says, frowning. “Graham’s not my type.” 

“Really?” Mary Margaret deadpans. “Rugged, gorgeous men with nice beards and blue eyes aren’t your type? Are you insane?” 

“Nope,” Emma replies, tight. She taps her fingers on the countertop a few times and then starts, “look –” 

Mary Margaret cuts her off though, asking with obvious disbelief, “What is your type, then? Gawky, tall guys? Awkward ones? Big guys?” Emma shakes her head at every tick on the list, and Mary Margaret sighs dramatically. “Okay. Grotesquely muscular, with big bulging veins and lots of hair.” 

Emma wrinkles her nose. “Ew.” 

Mary Margaret barks out a laugh. “You know what? Agreed. So then what is it?” 

Twenty-eight years, and it never gets easy. She’s had this conversation a million times with a million different people, and it’s ended a million different ways, but something about this one – she’s just. Not prepared for it to go like… that . Emma just stares at her, swallowing back her apprehension with her heart in her throat and says, “Mary Margaret.” 

“What?” She’s grinning her eyes sparking, as Emma’s mouth twists into an expression of uncertainty and her hands curl around the edge of the counter behind her. She falters for a second, the gears whirring in her mind, and then it seems to dawn on her all at once. Emma can see the shift when it happens in the way her eyes widen and her mouth drops open, just enough that she can’t hide it, and she prepares herself for the worst. “... oh, ” she says, and Emma’s heart drops through her chest. 

She steels herself, trying her best to steady out the waver in her voice. “That’s…not gonna be a problem, is it?” 

“What? No!” Mary Margaret answers quickly, fervently, shaking her head hard enough to rattle it. “No! Emma, no. Of course it’s okay.” She stares for several seconds more. “No, I just…didn’t expect that. Okay. Wow. Wow! I’ve never had a lesbian friend before.” 

Emma swallows back the lingering fear, the heart-wrenching apprehension that follows this every fucking time, and says with dry amusement: “You don’t say?” 

That seems to pull Mary Margaret out of her stupor. “Hey!” She fixes a playful glare on Emma and says, “I’ll have you know I’ve always been an ally.” 

Emma laughs, the action itself a lightening of her heavy limbs, and says, “I wouldn’t expect any different.”

Mary Margaret rolls her eyes, folding her hands together and tucking them into her lap. “Alright, then. If it’s not a man , who the hell did you sleep with? And why does it have you so wound up?” 

“I never said the sex had me wound up. And hey – I never said I’m wound up in the first place.” 

She raises a brow at that. 

“Ugh.” 

“You wanna know what I think?” Mary Margaret asks, making it very clear that she’s not going to wait for an invitation. “ I think that you’re just protecting yourself. With that wall you put up.” Her eyes glimmer and she says, “Whoever it was – and I do expect a name eventually, you know – you should call her. She’d be lucky to have you.” 

The snort of a laugh that comes out of her is both disrespectful and involuntary, but she can’t bring herself to take it back. The thought of her calling Regina and, what – asking her out on a date? Is so fucking ridiculous that she can’t help it. “Yeah, that’s not…thank you, but it was a one-nighter. Actually, it wasn’t even a one-nighter, it was a quickie.”

“Ooh. Well. Was it any good?” A mischievous smile crosses her lips.

Emma shakes her head. “No. Yes.” 

“Wow.” Mary Margaret scoots off her barstool and heads for the fridge instead, pulling out the ingredients for whatever she’s going to make for lunch. “Sounds like she’s got you pretty messed up.”

Emma grimaces internally, and maybe a little externally too. “You have no idea.” 

She thinks, maybe, that that conversation is the catalyst for her showing up at Regina’s door later that day. She’s been telling herself it’s because Graham has stepped down in the wake of his breakdown in the street – evidently he’s been losing it more, his texts to Emma more of a cry for help than she’d realized. Ruby had called her a few hours earlier to come and pick him up from the diner. When she’d arrived he’d been curled into a booth, muttering about how he didn’t want to hurt Mary Margaret. 

But that’s a sham, because she knows that Regina knows the position falls to her. She also knows that Regina will try to challenge her on it – but really, it’s nothing that can’t be done through an email. 

No. She wants to see her. 

Actually. She wants to fight . 

“Hey,” she says, blowing right past Regina’s secretary and into her office. She’s got some old man in her sitting area, a wrinkly son of a bitch that takes one look at the metaphorical storm cloud that she’s dragged in with her and says he’ll reschedule. He closes the door behind him, at least, so the whole hallway doesn’t hear when Emma demands, “What the fuck did you do to Graham?” 

“I slept with him, if that’s what you’re asking.” Regina says it simply – as if it hadn’t been the very thing eating away at Emma for the last several days. She clenches her teeth and tries again. 

“Yeah, I know that. I’m asking why the fuck having sex with you drove him off the deep end.” 

Regina’s brows shoot up in mock-surprise. “Miss Swan, if you’re implying that my feminine wiles are enough to drive a man insane, I’d almost consider that a compliment.” She stands and then adds, “But in all seriousness, I have no idea why he’s been acting so erratic. I did discuss his stepping down with him. I’m sure that you’re aware the position falls to you, though I have my doubts about your competence.” She lets her eyes drift over Emma. “Maybe I should be asking you what you did to drive him so insane.” 

Emma rolls her eyes. “Please. He was talking about you . About how he doesn’t feel anything with you, right before the muttering started.” 

“So you just decided to give it a shot yourself, hm?” 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, Emma,” Regina simpers. The distance between them is closed in one short stride – and then Regina’s got a finger trailing gently beneath Emma’s jaw. “Don’t be so righteous. You and I both know I wasn’t the only one in his bed.” 

Emma snatches Regina’s wrist. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” 

Regina doesn’t attempt to wrest free of her grasp. Instead she just says, “please. If you’re going to make out on the street, it’s going to get back to me.” 

“What – oh, wow.” Emma can’t help it. She laughs outright, right in Regina’s face, and that ’s what makes Regina step back a hair, brow furrowed. But Emma keeps her grip firm. “I wasn’t fucking him, Regina. I’m not even into men. I’m a lesbian.” She shakes her head, bewildered. “God, I can’t believe I ever wanted to fuck you.” Regina swallows at that, the only sign that Emma’s gotten under her skin aside from the way her lips press together. And Emma can’t resist the idea of finally finding a crack in her armor, of finally finding a wound and picking at it until it bleeds, and so she adds: “I wasn’t pissed because I wanted him . But you know what? I’m not falling for it anymore.” With that she uses her hold on Regina to push her back, throwing her arm to the side as if she can’t stand to be near her. Regina stumbles backwards, eyes wide. 

She recovers quickly, though, because that’s what Regina does . Emma watches as she steadies herself, steels herself – until her eyes are hard and cold as the slow smile at her lips. “I wasn’t manipulating you, Miss Swan.” She reaches down and gathers her things without looking. “But if that’s how you want to play this, then fine. I can be very persuasive.” She pushes past Emma, knocking her shoulder with her own on the way. With a huff and a roll of her eyes, Emma follows the other woman out of her office. “I was having fun,” Regina continues coldly as they enter the hallway. She turns and locks the door behind them without so much as a glance Emma’s way. “But I can see that you’re no longer of use to me.” 

“Wow.” Emma stands there, stunned. She hadn’t expected her to say the quiet part out loud. “Alright, then.” 

Regina gives her one last cold glance before she turns and leaves. 

Emma doesn’t see her again until she shows up at the station, worry etched in her features. 

“Why is it that you only come see me when you need something?” Emma asks without looking up from her work. Regina doesn’t say anything, and so she drops her pen with a sigh and asks, “Did Henry run away again?” 

“There’s a storm rolling in,” Regina says stiffly, “And your roommate is out there running around in the woods with my best friend’s husband.” 

And – okay. That’s a new one. “What the hell are you talking about?” 

“It seems Miss Blanchard found a bird that she decided needed to be returned to its flock. And David Nolan went with her.” She gestures to the window. Black clouds are visible on the horizon. “Kathryn is worried. She can’t get ahold of him.”

“I’ll try calling her.” It goes right to voicemail, and Regina just taps her foot. 

“If David doesn’t have any service,” She says, exasperated, “Then it stands to reason she doesn’t either. I suggest we go out and look for them.” 

“We?” 

“Kathryn is worried,” Regina says. “I’m coming with you.” 

“Great,” Emma says, unable to even fake enthusiasm despite the electric currents in her chest. “Wonderful. Let’s go, then.” She scoops her keys off the desk, and Regina follows her out to the cruiser. 

The clouds come in fast, though, and it’s less than twenty minutes out on the old roads through the woods before the rain is coming down so hard that they can barely see. 

“Take a right,” Regina demands out of the blue, nearly yelling to be heard over the rain.

“What? Why?” 

“Take a right,” Regina repeats, insistent. “I have a cabin out here. We can wait it out.” 

Emma does as she says. She has to pull over on the road, the cabin’s drive far too muddy for her to pull off into it, and they have to make a run for it through the rain. 

They’re both entirely soaked when they stumble through the threshold of the cabin. Emma’s feet squelch in her boots with every movement, and Regina’s heels are all but ruined. They’ve gone from sleek black to a slurry brown, clay caked around the top of the heel, and quite frankly Emma’s shocked that she even managed to make it across the yard in them. 

“Ugh.” Emma holds her arms out from her body, despising the heavy clinging of her clothes. Regina’s standing stiffly beside her, dripping comically onto the tile. 

“In this instance, we agree.” Regina grits out the words. She’s shaking, shivering, Emma realizes, the thought dispelled by utter shock when Regina reaches out and uses her shoulder to steady herself as she slips off her heels. She doesn’t acknowledge the action, simply placing them neatly on the shoe rack to their left and then just…standing there.

“Well,” Emma says, shedding her heavy jacket and letting it fall to the floor, “I’m not staying in this shit.” Without so much as waiting for an acknowledgement she begins peeling off her clothing: her thin shirt first, deposited right on top of her jacket, and then she bends down and starts unzipping her boots. She kicks them off and lines them up neatly by the door because she’s got at least some sense of etiquette, despite popular belief, and then pulls her tank top up and off too. It’s only when her fingers land on the button of her jeans that she realizes Regina is staring. “What?” 

Regina blinks, open-mouthed, before she closes it abruptly and shakes her head. She turns and stalks off, disappearing around the entryway and presumably down a hallway. 

“Okay, bye,” Emma calls, sarcasm dripping. She’s not weird for wanting to be dry . Heavy wet clothes aren’t fun for anyone, especially when it involves denim. Besides, she’d left her bra on – and it’s not like she’s wearing lingerie. The thing is just cotton. Scowling, she unbuttons her jeans and pulls the zipper down. That’s as far as she gets before Regina turns the corner again, a towel in hands – and, fuck. A towel wrapped around herself. 

Only a towel. 

Okay, that’s not quite true – Emma can see her bra straps peeking out from the hem, so it’s reasonable to assume she’d kept her underwear on, too. But still . Her mouth is dry , her heart thudding so hard she’s afraid Regina can see it. 

Regina only frowns, though, and shoves the towel into Emma’s arms. “Cover yourself up,” she says. 

“Why?” Emma taunts, unable to resist the opportunity to poke and prod. “Afraid you might like what you see?” She holds her arms out, putting her torso on full display, covering her fluster with bravado. Regina holds her gaze, stubbornly refusing to look down before she turns and stalks off again. Emma gives a little huff of a laugh, placing the towel on the decorative table next to her so it doesn’t get wet as she calls after her, “Bold talk for the one in her fucking panties right now.” 

Silence is her only reply. Shaking her head, Emma resumes her stripping. She’s secretly thankful that Regina hadn’t stuck around to watch the humiliating dance that is peeling her wet skinny jeans down her legs. 

When she’s left in nothing but her undergarments she wrings her hair out over the tile out of pure spiteful glee, and then wraps the towel around herself. It’s a nice damn towel, too, thick, soft, and fluffy and impossibly white without a hair dye or makeup stain in sight. She heads deeper into the cabin, bumping around in the dim light in the direction she’d seen Regina wander off in. She finds her in a pristine bathroom, working by the light of her phone’s flashlight, sliding her own clothes neatly onto hangers and placing them on the shower rail to dry. Emma frowns, watching her and debating whether or not to ask for hangers of her own – but Regina hadn’t offered her any, so. She disappears back to the entryway to collect her things and hangs them over the ledge of the bathtub instead. 

“So,” Emma drawls, breaking the uncomfortable silence. Regina sighs. “Got any clothes in this fancy ass cabin?” 

“No.” Regina practically growls the word. 

Emma sucks her teeth. “Somebody’s grouchy.” 

Regina huffs, but when she speaks again the edge has softened. “We only keep linens here. We’ll have to make do with the towels.”
“Wonderful,” Emma deadpans. She turns, perching on the ledge of the bathtub so she’s facing Regina. “Nice view, at least. You never let me see anything before.” 

She’d been fixing her hair in the mirror, but she pauses at Emma’s words, turning and leaning her back against the ledge of the sink. “I’m not letting you see anything now.” 

Emma shrugs. “You’ve got great legs.” 

“Hmph.” Regina crosses her arms over her chest, her eyes roaming over Emma. “Likewise, sheriff.” She just stands there for several moments, both of them just waiting – for what, Emma doesn’t know. 

But fuck , does she look good. Even if she’s being used – it might actually be worth it to be Regina’s toy just to get that fucking towel off. 

Or for Regina to get her off. 

Emma glances behind her at the shower. “You got hot water here?” The idea of tossing their clothes to the floor, dragging Regina back and fucking her under the spray – Emma resists the urge to squeeze her thighs together. 

Regina eyes her suspiciously. “Why?” 

Emma shrugs, not even trying to conceal her appraisal. Regina’s got one leg crossed over the other as she leans, the towel riding up her thigh just the barest bit. The rain got to her makeup, mascara smudged under her eyes, her hair tousled from the haphazard brushing, and – well. The overall effect is…something. “No reason,” Emma says. 

Regina laughs – actually laughs , and it’s small and mocking, but it’s a laugh nonetheless. “I thought you were done with me. Being my toy .” 

“Yeah, well.” Emma tilts her head. “That was before I saw you soaking wet.”

“Oh, Emma.” Regina shifts, uncrossing her legs and pressing off to the sink before gliding forward to stand in front of her. She bends down, towel pulling away from her torso tauntingly, and tilts Emma’s chin up with her fingers. She’s close, not quite close enough to kiss her, but – Emma could pull her in, if she wanted. When she speaks her voice drops, low and husky. “You’ve seen me soaking wet before. On many occasions.” She trails her fingers along Emma’s skin until they pass the edge of her jaw one by one. “Fairly certain you’ve felt it.” 

Regina hovers for a moment more, basking in Emma’s rapid breathing and ruddy cheeks before she stands and strolls out of the bathroom. 

She finds her on the couch. Emma moves to sit down next to her, certain that Regina’s moved past whatever they’d had, but she’s watching her hungrily, drinking in every movement. 

And, well, Emma’s feeling bold. 

She reaches for the edge of her towel, right where she’s tucked it in at her chest. Regina tilts her head, drawing in a deep, heady breath as Emma fingers at it, taunting. And then she lets it fall. 

“Oh,” Regina breathes, eyes raking over Emma’s body. It’s heady, that gaze on her, and she steps forward. Regina sits up, encouraging, and Emma sinks down onto the couch. 

It’s Regina that kisses her. It’s intoxicating, after several days without, and Emma wants more . She draws one arm around Regina’s waist and tugs, pulling her forward and slipping one hand between her legs, encouraging Regina to part her own around Emma’s leg and straddle her thigh. 

Regina’s towel is damp against her thigh, and Emma wants it gone immediately. She wants nothing between them, no barrier – she needs to feel Regina, wet against her skin. 

Emma pulls back just far enough to meet Regina’s eyes as she pushes two fingers beneath the edge of the terry cloth, just below where Regina’s tucked it at her chest. The heat coming off her skin is overwhelming, the soft flesh of her breast pressing against Emma’s knuckles with every breath, and Emma holds Regina’s gaze as she pulls her hand forward and lets the towel fall away. Regina reaches up and pulls it off of her back, leaving her bare save for her undergarments as Emma’s hands go to her waist. She trails them down until they hit Regina’s hips, skimming her fingertips over the sides of her panties before she tucks her fingers underneath. Regina shudders, brushing her lips against Emma’s as Emma pushes her down, just rough enough to push her flush against the thigh she’s got tucked up between Regina’s parted legs. Emma feels it immediately, the wetness seeping through the sheer fabric – hot and slick and intoxicating, and Emma presses up with her thigh, bearing down on Regina’s hips with her hands and rocking gently, encouraging her to grind. A whimper escapes Regina lips as she falls forward, one elbow tucked against the arm of the couch just above Emma’s shoulder so that she can make better contact. Emma takes the opportunity to press her lips against Regina’s neck, sucking at the delicate skin and worrying it between her teeth as Regina slides against her, coating her thigh in her arousal. 

Emma lets her continue like that for a moment, drunk on the weight of Regina’s body working over her own. But then she moves downward, craning her neck forward to nip at Regina’s collarbone, and Regina leans forward obediently with a low rumble of a moan in the back of her throat that quickly dissipates into a breathy sigh as Emma travels down to her breast. The lace of her bra is barely there. It doesn’t cover a thing, her dark brown nipples hard and visible through the fabric, and so Emma doesn’t waste any time. She releases Regina’s hips and brings her hands up instead. She tugs the cup of her bra aside with one, sweeping her tongue across the sensitive flesh as she tweaks the other between her fingers. Teeth replace tongue as Regina’s breathing grows more and more ragged, until Regina’s free hand curls tight around Emma’s bicep and Emma reaches around to unhook her bra completely. Regina sits up just long enough to pull it down and toss it aside, forgotten, and then she’s back over Emma, kissing her hard, pressing her tongue between Emma’s lips and scraping her fingernails down Emma’s stomach until she reaches the waistband of her pale blue underwear. Emma cants her hips forward subconsciously and Regina laughs, a breathy noise against her lips, and Regina just barely teases – slips the tips of her fingers beneath the elastic and curls her fingers, digging her nails in for the briefest moment before she pulls them out again and slides them down above the fabric instead. The shock of pleasure as Regina skims over her clit is insane – far too much for just a simple touch, but Emma’s soaked, her clit swollen and needy, and god, she wants nothing more than for Regina to just touch her properly. 

Except, maybe, to do the same to her. 

Her hand finds Regina’s hip again, but this time it’s with force. This time it’s for control: she wraps her other arm behind her thigh and lifts her just enough, pushes her so that she can spin them, until Emma’s sitting properly on the couch, upright with her feet on the floor. She positions her own legs between Regina’s, pushing at her thighs until she parts them. Regina takes it in stride, finding her balance with her arms at the back of the couch. It’s intoxicating, watching Regina spread her legs like that, lowering her hips slowly over Emma’s as she straddles her. Both her hands slide around to Regina’s ass as she takes in the sight: Regina Mills, the mayor of this town, total bitch, topless and wanton, dark eyes burning and lips kiss-swollen. 

Fuck. 

Emma slips one hand down the front of Regina’s panties, and finally, finally touches her. 

Regina’s lips part immediately, her eyes rolling back as Emma slides two fingers over her clit. Heat radiates from her skin, heady and inviting, and Emma pushes her hand farther down to find her soaked, dripping wet, ready for her – she parts her fingers and slides Regina’s clit between them, a tease that earns her an impatient whimper before she finally pushes inside. 

Regina chokes out a moan that’s halfway between a curse and nonsense. She’s hot and tight around Emma’s fingers, her muscles flexing as Emma curls her fingers forward and slides them slowly back out. Breath hitching, Regina lifts her hips in tandem, rising with Emma’s movement until her fingers are nearly completely out before she sinks languidly back down. Emma stills, watching with bated breath as Regina rides her. A whimper slips out when Emma presses her thumb to her clit, a noise that she’s never expected to come from the other woman, and it’s dizzying. Regina rocks over her hand, her hips working slow and deliberate, until she’s shaking with her head tucked against the crook of Emma’s neck, her breath tickling hot over Emma’s skin as she gasps with every thrust. 

Regina comes with her teeth buried in Emma’s shoulder. 

It’s overwhelming, the pain an electric undercurrent to the ache between her thighs and the fluttering of Regina’s walls around her fingers, the way she bucks against Emma’s thumb, her whole body jerking as she rides it out, her mouth hot and wet against Emma’s skin. Her other hand tangles in Emma’s hair as the aftershocks wear off. 

Emma gives her a brief reprieve and then she pushes another finger inside, three now, and strokes Regina’s clit with her other hand. Regina whimpers, clutching at Emma’s hair as she shudders, but Emma pulls away and tugs at the fabric of her underwear. 

“Take them off,” she breathes at Regina’s ear, the first words either of them have spoken. It feels like breaking something, and so Regina just nods, rising just long enough to push them off, and then she’s back over Emma’s lap, completely bare. 

Emma leans forward and takes a nipple in her mouth, biting down as she slips her hands beneath Regina’s thighs instead, making sure her legs are locked around her waist before she lifts, picking Regina up and murmuring against her lips, “bedroom?” 

“To the left of the bathroom,” Regina replies, and Emma carries her over, depositing her directly on the bed. 

She slides three fingers back inside her without pause, earning a cry far louder than any she’d heard on the couch. 

By the time they’re finished the storm’s long cleared. Emma has no idea how long they’ve spent naked on that bed, only that she’s leaving with more soul-shattering orgasms than she’d bothered to count.

They stumble back out to the car, the most humiliating walk of shame that Emma’s ever had to do. The ground is a slippery mess underneath her boots. She can practically feel the tension rolling off of Regina. 

It’s only compounded when the car doors pop open. 

“Emma!” Mary Margaret calls. God, of all the people, did it have to be her? David follows quietly, nodding to them both. His face is as red as Emma’s must be right now, and she has the half baked thought that at least they’d obviously been doing something like she and Regina had, too. With any luck their own embarrassment will be enough to blot out any suspicion they may have. 

She gets lucky, she thinks, because the drive back is only filled with awkward silence. She drops Regina off at the mansion first without a word, and David back at the animal shelter. It’s probably better than his home, what with Mary Margaret being in the car and all. 

“I don’t want to know,” Emma says, before Mary Margaret can so much as speak. “Okay?” 

“Alright,” Mary Margaret squeaks out. 

And that’s that. 

The days are tense after that. 

Mary Margaret is wrapped up in her affair with David. Emma is wrapped up in trying to balance the station, which honestly just involves a lot of paperwork, and indulging Henry’s fantasies while also trying really fucking hard not to indulge her own, very different fantasies. 

And it’s really fucking difficult, because she’s realized: there’s more to this than just sex for her.

And despite that realization, Regina is still fucking infuriating . 

“If you’re going to be sheriff of this town I expect a certain decorum,” Regina’s saying, tapping the stacks of papers in front of her against her desk as if they’re not perfectly aligned already. “Wear your uniform. File your paperwork.” 

Emma raises a brow. “Don’t fuck women in your best friend’s closet?” 

Regina’s expression darkens like a storm cloud. “We didn’t fuck at Kathryn’s.” 

“Close enough,” Emma shrugs, knowing full well she’s wrong. “You got off.” 

“Yes,” Regina replies simply. “I did.” She drops the papers back to her desk, exasperated. “Is that all you’re going to focus on? The fact that we’ve had sex?” 

“Maybe.” 

Regina rolls her eyes. “I still maintain that you should never have been elected, and that you don’t belong in my town.” 

“Just your panties, then?” Emma tries to play off the way that stings even with the knowledge that Regina doesn’t actually mean it. She picks up a fancy pen from Regina’s desk, studies it for a moment, and then tosses it back down with more carelessness than she really should just to piss her off. Regina’s upper lip twitches. “Maybe I should take you to Graham’s magic well. Maybe it’ll grant your wish and I’ll take off in the middle of the night.” She tips over a knick nack instead – a little horse figurine, go figure – and now she’s just being petty, but it feels good. “Who’s gonna fuck you then? I bet he doesn’t even eat pussy.”

Regina wrinkles her nose as she rights the figurine. “You’re crude.” 

“Oh please. Like you’re such a prude.” Emma narrows her eyes. “But I’m also not wrong, am I? Wow. That sucks.” 

“What I did with Graham was…adequate,” Regina finishes, and Emma can see that even to her, it sounds lame. “And it’s also none of your business.” 

“Wow,” Emma laughs. “Adequate. God. I hope you never describe me that way.” She leans forward. “Admit it. I’m the best fuck you’ve ever had.” 

An angry huff passes her lips before anything else. “What you are is a pain in my ass.” 

“Oh, bite me.”

Regina studies her for a moment, eyes lingering on her lips before they flicker back up to meet her own. “You did like that, didn’t you?” She steps forward, all traces of her former irritation gone as she backs Emma up against her desk. 

And, well, sex in an office has always been on Emma’s bucket list. She finally gets to do that thing where she sweeps the papers off, and that’s well worth the fact that the secretary definitely hears them. 

It doesn’t last, though, because it never does. 

“You don’t really think he did this, do you?” Mary Margaret’s looking at her like she’s been betrayed, like Emma’s disappointed her – and fuck, Emma knows that look. She’d thought Storybrooke would be different, that this was finally a place where she’d never have to see that again – but here she is. Always. 

This is different, though, than all the other times. 

Kathryn’s missing. David confessed their affair, and now she’s missing, and god – messy. Emma hates messy. 

“No,” she answers honestly. “But I have to explore all the possibilities. And you have to understand – both of you – that this looks bad.” 

Mary Margaret looks between both of them. “What do you mean?” 

Emma grimaces. “You guys were having an affair, and now she’s missing. It’s gonna look pretty suspicious to anyone on the outside. If I don’t investigate –” 

“I told her,” David breaks in. “I told her and she didn’t take it well, but she knew.” 

“I know.” The strain is obvious in Emma’s voice, and she wishes for her friend’s sake that she could tamper it. “I know,” she repeats, steadier now. “I just have to treat you both as suspects until I can gather enough evidence to eliminate you. Okay?” Mary Margaret frowns, but David nods. “Alright. Okay. So, David, let’s go talk, okay?” 

Mary Margaret looks like she wants to say something more, but a reassuring glance from David holds her back. It stings, but Emma tries to ignore it. 

Things are gonna be tense at home. 

Briefly, she contemplates hiding out at the dive bar they’d gone to several weeks prior, and then she feels even worse. Mary Margaret might want her support despite everything, and Emma’s not even sure if she’s going to be able to give it to her. 

After all that, David doesn’t even really give her anything useful. He’s got no alibi. He’d told Kathryn about their affair in their home and she’d disappeared, according to him, and he’d assumed that she was staying with her father. He shows her a text he sent, an apology followed by an I hope you’re safe , and that’s it. He went to bed. 

Which means nothing for the case. 

Emma releases him with the sinking knowledge that he’ll probably go down for this. That is, until a few days later, when Emma gets the call that they’ve found something out by the old toll bridge. 

It’s Ruby who points at it, shaking with her copious eye makeup now running all the way down to her chin, one hand clasping her nose shut like she’s surrounded by rotting flesh. Emma can’t smell a damn thing. Maybe she’s getting sick. 

The box, as it turns out, contains a human heart. 

She brings it to Storybrooke’s lab personally, and bribes the tech with a fifty to give her anything he can right then and there. He snatches the bill eagerly. “I’d have done it for twenty,” he says, handing her over the report. 

Emma realizes with a sinking heart that she’s just paid fifty bucks for her best friend’s arrest warrant. 

The fingerprints belong to Mary Margaret. 

“This whole thing is ridiculous,” Mary Margaret says, taking the seat at the far side of the table. The suspect’s side. “I didn’t hurt anyone.” 

I know , she wants to say. She chews at the inside of her lip instead because – well. She doesn’t know, not really. 

“I’m sure we’ll get this all cleared up,” Regina says, honeyed. “If that’s true.” 

Exasperation overcomes Mary Margaret’s face. She doesn’t break eye contact with Regina even as she addresses Emma. “Why is she even here?”

Regina raises her brows. “Because this is my town, dear.” 

Sighing as she sits beside the mayor, Emma shoots Regina a reprimanding look before she turns back to Mary Margaret and hopes she seems reassuring. “Look, having a third party here is a good thing. There’s a conflict of interest given our relationship.” Regina bumps her thigh against her own when she says relationship – and god, she’s going to kill her. This isn’t the fucking time. “Somebody has to be here to make sure I stay impartial. Since I have no deputy, it defaults to my boss. Which is,” she grits out as Regina switches to bumping the toe of her shoe against her calf, “her. Unfortunately.” 

“I think you’ll find that I’m really quite focused on justice,” Regina simpers, balmy and innocent and fake as hell, holy shit. “Whichever road that takes.”  

“Right,” Mary Margaret deadpans. “I’m sure you are.” 

“Well.” Regina folds her hands in front of her. “Shall we begin?”
Emma rolls her eyes, but she hits the record button on the ancient tape deck she’s had to dig out of storage for this. Using her phone would be a hell of a lot more practical – she’s not even sure if she can port this thing to digital if she wants to – but that would only be further contamination of the evidence, so. Twenty year old tech it is. “Alright. State your name for the record?” 

Mary Margaret sits up straight. “Mary Margaret Blanchard.” When she speaks it’s clear and confident, cool in a way that Emma knows is for show given her rattled demeanor not a few minutes earlier. 

“Alright. The heart was found near the old toll bridge. And it had been cut out by what appears to be a hunting knife. Have you ever been to that bridge before?” 

To Mary Margaret’s credit, she doesn’t lie – not that it would go very far, given that it’s public knowledge that’s where they’d found David when he’d gone wandering from the hospital, their other uses of it notwithstanding. “Yes,” she says. “Many times. It’s where David and I liked to meet.”
Emma stiffens, wishing like hell that Regina wasn’t here. “And you met there for what purpose?” 

Mary Margaret locks eyes with her. “We were having an affair.” She draws in a deep breath, gaze shifting to hold Regina’s as she continues, “I’m not proud of it. And I am sorry for what we did. But that does not mean that I killed Kathryn.” 

Emma stands as she speaks and pulls out the only bit of evidence they have besides the heart: the box the heart had been found in. The one that has her roommate’s fingerprints on it. She pulls a glove over her hand and then removes it from the plastic, placing it gently on the table. “Have you ever seen this before?” 

Fingerprint science isn’t exact. It can be shoddy. And Emma hopes, fucking hopes that Mary Margaret will say no, and they can add that to the bin of it wasn’t her , however weak that may be. 

But life likes to bite her in the ass, and so of course Mary Margaret’s eyes widen, her lips parting in surprise before she looks at Emma and says, “...That’s mine.” 

Fuck. 

Emma’s heart sinks. “You’re sure?” Mary Margaret nods, hands tucked against her lap. “That’s what we found the heart in.” 

“Don’t you see what’s happening here? Somebody stole it – somebody wanted to frame me. She leans forward, hands on the table and says, “Of course my fingerprints are on it if it’s mine, I’m innocent –” 

Regina’s hand lands over Mary Margaret’s and everyone stops, the shock of that simple action resonating hard. “It’s okay, Miss Blanchard.” Mary Margaret stiffens. “I know what it’s like to lose someone you care about. To be publicly humiliated. It put me in a dark place. Changed me.” 

And, okay, this is new. Something Emma hasn’t heard about – and by the confusion written on Mary Margaret’s expression she hasn’t either. Something that isn’t common knowledge around town, and the pain in Regina’s eyes almost looks genuine. 

Of course, she ruins it.

“I can only imagine what losing David Nolan did to you.” 

Mary Margaret jerks her hand back like she’s been burned. “I haven’t changed,” she says, cold, desperation breaking through as she looks frantically between them. “I’ve always been the same person – a good person – I didn’t do this!” 

Emma all but throws the box back into the evidence bag and tosses it back on the table. Anger boils under her skin, hot and itchy as Regina regards her roommate with a kind of sick satisfaction. She snaps the glove off and says, harsh and demanding: “A word in the hallway.” 

Regina follows her out without protest, Mary Margaret staring after her with unfettered disgust. 

“I thought you were going to let me do the questioning,” Emma says. 

“Oh, was that too harsh?” Regina raises her brows. “How do you know she didn’t do it? If somebody really stole her jewelry box as she says, wouldn’t there be signs of a break in? You live with her, you tell me.” 

Emma falters. “That’s really none of your business,” She says out loud – but…no. Of all the people who could be capable of something gruesome like this, her roommate – the woman who had bailed her out of jail on a feeling and offered her a place to stay just out of the kindness of her heart – isn’t it. 

Regina’s eyes flash, though, like she’s satisfied. “You see my point.” 

“All that I see ,” Emma grits out, “is that you’ve got some kind of fucking vendetta against her. I don’t know what the fuck it’s about, but giving Henry a bad grade on a bird house or some shit is hardly reason to condemn her for a crime that she obviously didn’t commit.” 

“She did give Henry a bad grade on his birdhouse,” Regina says simply, conversationally, like they’re not discussing a fucking murder case here. “Said he didn’t put enough heart into it.” She eyes Mary Margaret through the window, where she’s just visible between the slats of the open blinds. “But that’s the least of her crimes.” She narrows her eyes, lifting her chin as she studies the schoolteacher. “No. You don’t know the first thing about her,” Regina murmurs, more to herself at this point than to Emma. “Or what she’s capable of.” 

Emma watches her, more than a little disturbed. Regina seems entirely lost in thought. Her lips twitch, a frown settling over them as her expression darkens. “What the hell happened between you two?” 

Her words seem to draw Regina back to the powerplay at hand, and she perks up near instantaneously, that fake cheer sliding right back into place. “None of your business.” She echoes Emma’s earlier comment. She slips back into that honeyed tone, eyes burning as she brings her hand up to trail her fingers over Emma’s crossed arms. “I’m sure you of all people,” she husks, “can appreciate the desire for a little discretion. That is,” she amends brightly, “unless you’ve told her exactly how close we’ve gotten?” 

Emma catches her hand, shifting so that her body blocks Mary Margaret’s view through the window. She hasn’t so much as looked up at them, thankfully, but fuck, Emma does not need that. “Stop. Things are fucked up enough as it is.” 

Regina laughs, the sound ringing and loud enough that Mary Margaret does look up, jarred. Emma offers her a grimace, keenly aware that her hand is still wrapped around Regina’s. She squeezes, hard enough that Regina winces. “We can get rough if you like.” 

Exasperated, Emma huffs, dragging Regina around the corner and out of sight from the window by her sleeve. “Are you fucking serious?” She asks in a rough whisper the moment they’re out of sight. “What’s your problem?” 

“I’m simply enjoying myself.” Regina’s eyes glint. Emma’s tugging has brought them closer together, and as much as she wants to step back and put some much-needed sobering distance between them, she can’t bring herself to move. She cups Emma’s flushed cheek in her palm, tracing her thumb over her cheekbone, and adds in a husky tone, “I do love it when you’re all worked up.” 

And fuck, for the love of all things fucking good, Emma hates this. She hates herself , because she’s fucking thrilled – the heat in her face isn’t just from anger, from anxiety – and the heat between her thighs definitely isn’t at all . Her heart thuds hard beneath her ribs, and she’s overcome by the desire to kiss that smug fucking smirk right off Regina’s mouth. 

But she’s wearing lipstick again, that same dusty pink that doesn’t suit Emma’s skin tone at all, and she knows from experience that it takes work to get that off. 

And so she shoves Regina back hard with a hand at her chest that’s definitely copping a feel, and spits in an embarrassingly breathy tone, “fuck you.” She shoulder checks her on her way past for good measure. It doesn’t make her feel better at all, though, and when she slips back into the interrogation room and sits directly across from her only friend in this godforsaken town she feels as shameful as if she’d tongued Regina and told her she loved her. 

Not that there’s anything here but the physical. 

Regina follows her in shortly after, the rage that bubbles in Emma’s chest a further comfort and confirmation that she does not have anything tangled up in this but orgasms and a desire to rail a woman that looks like she stepped out of a fucking office porno at all times. They continue the interrogation with stilted words, and the moment Regina clears the station Emma whips out her phone and types out a furious text. 

I’m going to get you back for that later.

The reply comes less than a minute later, completely misinterpreted and also exactly what the hell she’d been hoping for: Looking forward to it. 10 o’clock. My place. She rolls her eyes, grinding her teeth in angry little twitches, all while Mary Margaret looks on with wide eyes. Before Emma can type out a reply it chimes again: Don’t knock . 

“What now?” Mary Margaret bemoans, oblivious. 

“Nothing,” Emma bites out. She shoves her phone into her back pocket and then scrubs her hands over her face, drawing in a deep breath in a futile attempt to cool down. “She’s such a bitch,” she finally says, palms still covering her face. 

Mary Margaret, to Emma’s relief, laughs at that. It’s strained, tempered by her situation, but it’s a welcome breath of fresh air to Emma’s ears. “Always has been.” 

David bails Mary Margaret out the moment they finish, of course. Emma’s grateful for it, of course she is. But part of her worries how this will look, Emma letting Mary Margaret go home when she’s a god damn murder suspect – the fact that they’re going to the same home. 

But at the end of the day she’s followed all the rules, and so she doesn’t voice her concern. Nothing she’s done can give Regina cause to fire her – and she would, given the chance, despite their arrangement. Emma’s got no delusions of garnering her favor, even if she is getting ready to go fuck her within an inch of her life. 

She manages to dodge Mary Margaret for most of the evening, but she’s in the living room when she goes to leave, unavoidable and awkward as hell. And, because nothing in Emma’s life can ever be easy, she asks where she’s going. 

“Just need a breather,” she mumbles, feeling incredibly fucking guilty about the whole thing. She should be home, supporting her friend and providing an ample supply of wine and chocolate and a shoulder to cry on, but instead she’s sneaking out the door to go and fuck the woman who wants her locked away. She hesitates with her palm on the handle, halfway over the threshold, and glances back at Mary Margaret’s pale face. “You should call David. It’d be good for you both to be together right now.” 

That’s the wrong thing to say, she knows. She can see it in the way Mary Margaret’s face falls. 

But Emma’s never been one to deal with difficult emotions well – running is kind of her thing. It’s hardly new. It shouldn’t rouse any suspicion. 

It’s who she’s running to that’s the problem. 

She arrives on the mayor’s doorstep at 10:07, having parked a full block away and walked the rest. The temperature’s dropped, the air biting, but it’s worth the sting in her fingers to know that nobody will roll by and see her bright yellow bug parked out front. 

“You’re late,” Regina says, opening the door before Emma even shoots her the i’m here text. She wants to call her out for waiting on her – but Regina’s fist is curled in her shirt before she even has the chance, and then she’s being pulled inside, the door shut immediately behind her. “Nobody saw you?” 

“Nope,” Emma confirms. “Romantic,” she adds in a deadpan. 

Regina rolls her eyes, shoving Emma by her shoulder until her back is at the wall. “Shut up,” she says, and then kisses her. 

It’s reminiscent of their kiss after the mines collapsed only because of the location. Everything else is different this time: Regina’s flush against her in every sense of the word, her lips parted against Emma’s and her tongue darting out to press at Emma’s mouth. She loops her arm around Emma’s neck as she kisses her, her other hand curling in the waistband of her jeans and tugging her impossibly closer. 

Every shred of guilt that Emma’s been holding onto flies out the window. She’s got no sense of shame, not like this. 

“Upstairs,” Regina growls against her lips, as if she’s not the one locking Emma to the wall. “In case he wakes up.” 

Emma nods. The last thing they need is for Henry to wake up for a glass of water or something and find them like this. She pushes Regina off of her and starts up the stairs without waiting for an invitation, Regina following her without so much as a complaint about her boldness. When Regina slips out ahead of her and catches her by the wrist to drag her to her bedroom, Emma doesn’t waste the time to look around. Part of her is curious, sure, but the other, much more significant part is fucking frustrated .

And so she clicks the door softly behind them, turns the lock, and then demands: “Take off your clothes.” 

Regina gives a tiny little laugh, an indignant huff of a thing, but the wildfire in her eyes betrays her. Her lust wins over any desire for the upper hand, apparently, because she does as Emma says, fingers working one by one over the buttons on her top. Emma slips off her own jacket, tosses it to the floor, and kicks off her boots before she reaches for Regina’s half-undone shirt and tugs her in by it, kissing her with renewed fervor. She doesn’t release the fabric, instead grasping a side in each hand and pulling. Buttons pop off and Regina gasps, a startled noise that’s halfway to a growl, and she bats Emma’s arm as she pulls back. 

“That was expensive ,” she scolds, the disdain coloring every word tempered by the way her chest is heaving. 

“I don’t care,” Emma replies simply, pushing the fabric from her shoulders. Regina allows it, her hands finding the hook of Emma’s bra as soon as they’re free, and Emma continues, “and you liked it.” 

Regina grunts. “Give me back the gray one and we’re even.” 

Emma responds by wresting Regina’s arms off her, twisting her around, and bending her over the bed. She holds one of Regina’s arms behind her back, allowing her the other to prop herself up just barely. Her face is still pressed halfway to the covers. Emma reaches down and, catching the hem of Regina’s skirt, rucks it up over her ass to reveal thin lace under sheer tights. She leans her hips against Regina’s as she bends over her to murmur at her ear, “No.” She releases the other woman’s wrist, trailing down instead to gather some of the sheer mesh over her skin. “You should’ve been prepared if you didn’t want me to rip anything.” With that she tears a hole in the pantyhose, large enough for her to slip her hand inside and skim over the outside of Regina’s panties. Regina gasps, whether from the abuse of her clothing or the sudden pass of Emma’s fingers over her clit through soaked fabric, she’s not sure. Maybe both. “That’s better.” She punctuates the words with an open palm over Regina’s ass, hard enough to leave a bright red handprint, and far too loud for their current circumstances. But Regina moans at the pain, a low rumble in the back of her throat that’s muffled by the bedspread, and Emma doesn’t fucking care. She does it again for good measure and then demands, “Get on the bed. On your back.” Before she can obey Emma unhooks her bra – it’s lace, black like her panties and she hadn’t even taken the time to appreciate it, but oh well – and Regina shrugs out of it as she flips obediently. 

Regina settles against the pillows at the head of the bed, eyes locked on Emma’s every movement as she follows her up. She reaches for Regina’s skirt first, catching her pantyhose in the same breath and tugging them both down her legs to discard them on the floor. Regina watches her with unabashed lust, swallowing hard when Emma pushes her thighs apart and settles on her stomach between them. She sucks the skin of Regina’s thigh between her teeth first, biting and working at the tender flesh until she’s certain she’ll leave a bruise: she wants to leave marks this time. She feels Regina’s fingers thread through her hair, push it back from her face, and she meets her eyes after she pulls back to survey her work. She thinks about saying something, about voicing the unspoken, but they both know: this is a claim. 

She leaves a trail, each pinch and worry of her teeth earning a whimper and a tightening of the oil of Regina’s fingers in her hair. Emma finally makes her way up to the sheer scrap of fabric. It barely covers her, thin and flimsy, and she trails to tip of her tongue in a stripe up the center. Regina’s breath hitches, her eyes wide with anticipation, and she pushes Emma’s head down as she bucks her hips up. Emma responds by holding them down, locking her in place with a flat open palm over either side of her pelvis as she taunts her. 

Regina gives a frustrated huff, head thudding back against the pillows. Emma laughs against her, and she hisses, “get on with it.” 

“Fine,” Emma replies, releasing Regina’s hips. She pulls her panties to the side with one, exposing her near fully, and slides two fingers inside of her without pretense as she locks her lips around her clit. 

“Oh – fuck –” Regina gasps, her whole body tensing at the sudden shock. She’s ready for it, soaked and with her walls fluttering around Emma’s fingers, but Emma’s not holding anything back. “Shit. I didn’t mean –” 

Emma pulls back with a laugh, easing her thrusts back into gentle curling slips of her fingers. “That’s what I thought.” 

“If you’re not going to fuck me right –” 

Oh, fuck that. Emma pulls out of her completely, pushing up off the bed so that she can sit up. Regina protests until she reaches for her panties, shoving her thighs back together so that she can rip them down her legs, and tosses them up by Regina’s shoulders. With that she climbs over her, swinging one leg over her hips to straddle her instead. Regina watches with wide eyes as Emma looms over her and reaches for something in her back pocket. Two somethings, actually, borrowed from the station and gleaming silver as she moves.

“You,” she says, catching Regina’s wrist and cuffing her to the bedpost in one smooth motion, “are so –” the other one – “fucking –” she snatches the scrap of lace from the sheets and stuffs it in Regina’s gaping mouth – “annoying.” 

The only response she gets is a bewildered huff of air through Regina’s nose. Her shock fades quickly, replaced rapidly by something halfway between rage and want. 

The scene before her is intoxicating. Regina’s face is flushed a deep scarlet, her eyes burning and her wrists straining slightly, but she’s not protesting – not vocally. Her legs are parted and her thighs glistening, her chest rising and falling with heavy, ragged breaths. 

“Yeah,” Emma says to herself, drinking in her handiwork. “That’s better.” 

When she settles back between Regina’s legs and laves her tongue over her clit, Regina locks her calves around her neck. 

Emma leaves the mansion that night with several new scrapes and bruises and at least two prints of Regina’s teeth: one on her shoulder and another high on her thigh, the twin revenge to the marks she’d given herself. She’s sated and floaty, shaking and dazed – and guilty as hell. 

It’s nearly three in the morning by the time she makes it back to her car, and it’s a fucking miracle she’s managed to walk there at all. She drops heavy into the driver’s seat and allows herself a solid three minutes just to process the thorough fucking she’s just had. The thorough fucking she’s just given . 

And then there’s that nagging little thought underneath all of that. The one that she’s been ignoring since the moment it had wormed into her mind: that this isn’t all she wants. 

Fuck. 

Regina’s infuriating. Emma hates her. Except when she doesn’t: the moments when her guard slips just enough for Emma to see what’s underneath. Moments like those few seconds in the sheriff’s station earlier, when she’d spoken candidly about losing someone and it had resonated with Emma as true . 

How the fuck is she supposed to do anything about it now? Hey, by the way, I know we’re in the middle of this murder investigation and all that, but I asked the woman who wants to lock you and your boyfriend up out on a date. She said no, because there’s no way in hell she’d say yes, but – 

Emma groans and drops her head against the steering wheel. She bumps the horn on the way back up and jumps so hard she whacks her elbow on the door. 

She allows herself ten seconds to wallow in self-pity before she peels off, praying like hell to a god she doesn’t believe in that nobody had peeked out their curtains to see who the hell was honking in the middle of the night. 

Kathryn reappears just before the DNA comes back from the lab and confirms that the heart had belonged to her. 

Read that again, Emma tells herself: the DNA confirms that the heart belongs to Kathryn Nolan . 

Kathryn Nolan is sitting right in front of her. 

She’s covered in dirt, her eyes wide and almost feral. She won’t speak, and she keeps holding her arms tucked in front of herself like she’s afraid of being hurt. Emma texts David the news before she makes her next stop: Regina’s office. 

“Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?” 

“No,” Regina says simply. Emma waits for more, but nothing comes. 

She blinks. “No? Are you serious? That’s it?” 

“Yes,” Regina says. She’s stiff, her shoulders held perfectly still as she stares at something on her laptop. Emma doubts there’s even anything on it. 

“That’s all, Sheriff.” The words are cold, dismissive – abrupt like they haven’t been for weeks now, and despite Emma’s better judgment it stings . She hovers, still processing, until Regina huffs and sets the papers she’s been shuffling down into a neat stack on her desk. “Did you need something else?” 

Emma steels herself, trying hard to keep the hurt from infiltrating her voice. “So we’re back to that then, huh?” 

She thinks she can see Regina grit her teeth. It’s hard enough that the muscles around her jaw twitch, but when she speaks it’s so cool an unaffected that Emma’s left wondering if she’s just imagined this entire affair they’ve been having. “We were never anything different.” 

“Oh.” It’s the only thing Emma can manage to get out, and it’s naked – every ounce of the betrayal, the hurt she’s feeling imbued into that one little sound. She swallows hard to keep her voice from shaking and adds, “I didn’t realize this was all just a game to you. I guess I should’ve known.” 

Regina’s quiet for several moments. She rolls her pen between her fingers and drops her eyes to her desk. “Maybe you should have.” 

Emma scoffs – half a laugh and half disbelief and entirely fucking ruined – and nods. “Right. Well.” She wipes her sweaty palms on her jeans and hopes, for just one deluded moment, that Regina will take it all back, that she’ll eat her words and beg Emma’s forgiveness – but of course that doesn’t happen. She just keeps on staring at those damn papers, rolling that damn pen between her fingers. 

“We found Kathryn,” she says, a courtesy. Regina doesn’t even seem shocked. Not that Emma had expected her to – she’d obviously had something to do with it. At this point, she’s certain. “I know you were friends and all. 

Regina swallows visibly, the only sign that she’s even disturbed. “That’s nice,” she says, and it’s bland. Like Emma’s just read her the weather. 

Emma lets out one last choked laugh and turns, moving just a little too fast to not call it fleeing the scene. Regina’s receptionist tells her to have a nice day, and Emma blows past her without an acknowledgement and feels guilty for it, but like hell is she going to let the townspeople spot her fleeing the mayor’s office crying. 

Crying. Because that’s what she’s doing. 

Emma doesn’t even realize until she hits the elevator – she feels the sting at her throat and the heat in her cheeks and the glaze over her vision as her eyes begin to water, but she doesn’t actually process the fact that she’s crying until the doors close in front of her and she’s alone to choke out a sob without the threat of prying eyes. 

She doesn’t do well with being hurt. She knows it. She makes it as far as the station, though, before she decides that’s not fucking enough . 

Gunning it back to the office after she’s just run feels almost more like a walk of shame than leaving the cabin had, especially when she makes it as far as Regina’s secretary and is told that she’s gone home early for the day. “Migraine,” the girl says, eyeing her. “Hit her right after you left.” 

“I’m sure it did,” Emma says. She mumbles her thanks and then heads for the mansion instead. 

It takes pounding on the door five times before Regina finally opens it, looking worse for wear. 

Tough shit. 

“Hey,” Emma says gruffly, pushing past her. “Mind if I come inside?”
“Actually, I do.” Regina bites the words out, but she closes the door behind her anyway. “What are you doing here, Emma?” Her words are wary. She just sounds tired now. 

“Because despite my best fucking judgement, and despite the fact that you’re a total asshole, I actually care about you,” Emma snaps. “Wild fucking concept, I know.”

Regina’s jaw sets. “Your mistake. I didn’t ask for that.” 

And that’s just – wow. Emma laughs, cold and cruel, and says, “You know what? I actually thought you were – I don’t know. A person? A human being, under all that – whatever the fuck it is. Hatred? Self-loathing? I don’t know anymore. But I thought you might be capable of – of feeling something for someone. For me.” Regina’s eyes shine, her fists curling, and Emma doesn’t know why but it’s that that cools her anger. It settles inside of her, a dull burn in the place of the wildfire. “I actually think the worst part is I was right.” Regina’s eyes snap to hers at that, wild and angry and desperate, and Emma holds up a hand before she can be cut off. Before Regina can start in on her denial. “Whatever you’ve got going on, Regina, it’s holding you back. You’re terrified to let anyone in and so you push everyone away. I’ve seen it. It’s what you did to Kathryn, it’s what you’ve done to me – hell, it’s even what you’ve done to Henry. You’re too afraid to love right.” 

“You’re wrong.” Regina practically growls the words. 

“Then prove it.” Emma catches her wrist and her eyes drop to the contact like it’s something foreign. “Tell me.”

Regina just stares at her hand for several moments. She’s stiff, and then she twitches, like she can’t make up her mind – and then she turns. She moves quickly, like she’s afraid she’ll talk herself out of it, as she closes the gap between them and kisses her.

Emma sees the light behind her eyes before she fully feels the rush.

 She pulls back just in time to see an explosion of rainbow and pure white bursting around them, an impossible circle of energy that disappears through the walls like they’re nothing.

She looks to Regina, startled – and sees only pain. 

“Congratulations, Emma,” Regina says. Her voice is thick. “I love you too.” 

And Emma doesn’t even have a moment to process, because then Regina’s got her palm splayed across her chest, shoving her roughly back across the threshold of the mansion. 

She just barely makes it out onto the concrete before the door slams in her face. 

The walk back to the loft is…surreal, to say the least. It’s every walk of shame Emma’s ever done – and she’s done a lot – rolled into one, layered and compounded by the dazzling, bewildered stares directed at her by everyone she passes. The townspeople watch her in awe like she’s some sort of – 

Like she’s exactly who Henry had said she is. 

The savior . 

It’s not a title that Emma wants. It’s not a title that she’s ever wanted. 

Archie grins at her from across the street, waving wildly and laughing like a child before he’s swept up by Marco in a hug that lifts him clear off the ground. Emma looks away and hurries on. 

Mary Margaret sweeps her up in a crushing hug the moment she enters the loft. She kisses her on the forehead, cups her face in her hand, she’s got tears running down her cheeks and god – it’s too much. It’s just too much. Emma breaks her hold and Mary Margaret stumbles back, hurt on her face, but she also looks like maybe she understands. She takes Emma’s hands in her own instead, her eyes shining. 

“You did it,” she says, breathy and ardent, and Emma shakes her head. “You did,” she insists. “You broke it, Emma, just like the prophecy said you would. Just like I knew you would.” She squeezes Emma’s hands and then her face crumples and she sweeps Emma into another hug anyway, sobbing into her shoulder. Emma doesn’t know what to do, so she just stands there, letting her cry. “My little girl,” she says. “Oh my god, you’re my little girl.” 

Emma doesn’t even have time to process that before there’s a pounding at the door. She stumbles back, grateful for the release, but it’s short-lived as David blows into the loft, gathering them both in his arms. Mary Margaret’s crying again, David practically crushing her, and god, she wants to run . 

It takes them several minutes, but eventually it comes: the question Emma’s been dreading. 

“How did you do it?” 

“I…kissed her,” Emma says, and looks desperately at Mary Margaret. “All I did was kiss her.” She says it like she’s pleading, begging for some other explanation – and maybe she is. 

But all Mary Margaret does is stare at her. 

“Emma,” She begins, tentatively, fragile – and yet, insistent in a way that Emma’s never seen in her. “Who?” 

Emma blinks, and studies her roommate. Her mother , according to Henry. 

“Regina,” She says, and Mary Margaret blanches. 

“Oh, god,” Mary Margaret says, her brow flying up as she stumbles back against David. She fixes her eyes on Emma and says, “You’re in love with my stepmother.” 

“I kissed her,” Emma says, and it’s a desperate plea; a protest: it was just a kiss. That doesn’t mean that – 

“True love’s kiss,” David says, breathy and reverent, like it’s fucking real . “It broke the curse.” 

“No,” Emma says, and that’s the last thing she remembers. 

She blacks out after that. 

She’s not proud of it, but she blacks out. 

Emma expects things to be horrible after that. After all, how can she not?

They’re…okay, actually. 

Mary Margaret – Snow? Her mother? Mary Margaret – takes a moment to recover after that particular…reveal, struck by the memories dumped into her mind all at once combined with that revelation, but to her credit, she doesn’t give Emma anything of a hard time for it. 

It may have a little to do with Emma fainting in the living room. 

“It’s not what I expected,” She says, hands wrapped around her mug so hard her knuckles are turning white. “Not at all,” She echoes, and Emma starts to feel a twinge of irritation at her fixation. She shakes her head though, and then she seems to come back to herself. “But…you did break the curse.” At that Mary Margaret’s eyes land on her, and she reaches out, covering Emma’s hand on the counter with her own. She rubs her thumb over the back of Emma’s hand and says,  “I owe you so much, Emma.” 

That sentence is heavy , Emma thinks, and she fights hard not to pull her hand back.

A knock at the door – another fucking knock at the door, and Emma resolves then and there to buy a fucking ring camera – saves her from having to come up with a response. David opens it. Archie’s standing there, looking like he’s just run a marathon. 

“I didn’t know where else to go. You have to help. There’s a mob – they’re headed to Regina’s.” There’s sweat at Archie’s panic-wrinkled brow. He’s the exact opposite of when Emma’d seen him earlier. Desperately, he meets her eyes, locking on like he knows. He knows , Emma realizes, and that understanding sets off a bright red warning light in her mind. “They’re going to kill her,” He says, directed at Emma and Emma only, and he only waits until Emma’s feet start moving before he takes off again. 

“Emma, wait!” 

It’s too late, though. She’s following Archie down before her parents – god, that’s weird – can stop her, piling Archie into her car and flooring it until she can’t get any closer without hitting someone. There’s a hell of a group on Regina’s lawn, half of them holding shovels and one of them with a chainsaw that looks suspiciously like the one Emma had discarded on the lawn of the town hall. All they’re missing is the pitchforks. 

“Hey, hey!” Emma calls, pushing her way through the crowd until she’s standing directly in front of Regina. “Back off, everyone. She’s not dying.” 

“Your help isn’t needed nor wanted, Sheriff.” Regina’s voice is carefully controlled: steady in a way that Emma knows means she’s faking. Hard. “I’ve got this under control.” 

“Fuck off,” Emma bites out without turning. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now – if anyone’s going to kill you it’s going to be me. I’m not letting you die at the hands of Dr. Whale .” 

Said doctor lurches forward again with a sneer at his thin lips. “Move,” he demands. 

“Yeah, no. You can fuck off too.” He lumbers towards her and Emma catches a whiff of alcohol – whiskey, maybe, and god. This fucking town. She counters him with nothing but a palm at his chest and he’s so drunk it actually works. She scans the crowd. “I know you’re all pissed. You have a right to be. I’m pissed too.” She catches a few eyes and glares until they back down. “But I’m the one that fucking saved you all, and so out of respect for me – and Queen Snow White –” which, ew , but it seems to work – “You’re going to let me handle this.” 

A couple of murmurs go through the crowd. 

“Or I’ll kill you,” Regina adds, clear as a bell, and raises her hands. 

That works. 

The crowd scatters, a few screams ringing out as they dissipate. 

“Are you kidding me?” Emma asks nobody in particular, turning. “You’re really that terrifying?” 

Regina just shrugs, the exhaustion clear in the bags under her eyes. “I’ve been trying to tell you this whole time.” She meets Emma’s eyes, a tired frown at her lips. “Go home, Emma.” 

“No.” Emma reaches around her instead and throws the front door of the mansion open. She pushes Regina inside, and she seems too worn out to protest. 

“I can’t imagine what you want to hear right now.” Regina walks into her own home obediently, dropping down onto the couch in her living room. 

“Just tell me what happened.” Emma practically begs. She sits down in the armchair across from Regina, heavy, and takes her hands in her own. “I know there’s more to it. Henry’s storybook can’t have the full story.” Regina doesn’t reply. She just keeps her eyes locked on the weak little fire in the hearth, and a pang shoots through Emma’s chest. “I know you, Regina, whether you like it or not. I know there’s something more there. Just – tell me why .” 

Tell me why you hurt all those people, I’m begging you .

She can’t quite get it out, though, that last bit – because that would mean making it real. That would mean acknowledging that the woman in front of her, this woman that she by all accounts loves , if what Mary Margaret and David had to say about the lifting of the curse is true, is a murderer. 

A killer. 

She doesn’t feel like a killer. 

Sure, Regina is mean. She’s fucking lethal with her tongue, and she never knows how far is too far. She’s impulsive and quick to anger. 

But she doesn’t feel cold . 

Emma had accused her once of having no soul. Now, those words ache in her, guilty and hollow. She’d been wrong. 

“I don’t want to believe that you could hurt anyone without reason,” Emma whispers finally. Her voice cracks in the middle, the turmoil she’s got swirling around seeping in whether she likes it or not, and finally. Finally, Regina looks at her. 

Her eyes are big, glassy – red-rimmed and swollen, and fuck. Emma had known she’d been crying before she’d arrived, but still, seeing the evidence in front of her is something else. Emma’s never known her to cry. 

“You’ll find,” Regina says finally, voice thick and quiet, “that I’m quite the disappointment, Miss Swan.” 

“Quit calling me that.” Emma surprises even herself with the fierceness with which it comes out. “You’re trying to depersonalize this shit because it’s easier for you.” Part of her wants to reel it in. Regina’s been through a lot, this is hard for her – but deep down, Emma knows she can’t handle her like glass. Tough shit , she tells herself. “You love me. You said it yourself. Don’t just push me away because it’s too hard.” 

Regina barks out a laugh at that, and while it’s not exactly friendly, it’s the most emotion she’s shown around her in days and Emma’s fucking thrilled for it. “You make a terrible therapist,” she says, and there , there’s the laughter. Just a tiny trace of it underneath all the misery and loathing. 

“Maybe so,” Emma humors her, “but I think you’d rather talk to me than Archie right now.” 

Regina snorts. “That bug got his PhD from a curse, so you’re right.” 

Emma wrinkles her nose, a tiny smile at her lips. “So he was really a cricket, huh? Like an actual, honest to god insect?” 

Regina nods, her mouth twisting to an expression Emma’s seen a million times before on Henry. “And I was the Evil Queen.” She meets Emma’s gaze with that, tilting her head to the side and affecting something cold. “Honest to god.” Emma doesn’t give her anything back, just raises a brow, and Regina continues, “Doesn’t that scare you?” 

Emma shrugs. “Not as much as it should. Not if you had a good reason.” She squeezes Regina’s hands. Regina glances down as if she’s only just realized that Emma’s holding them. “And I know you never do anything without a damn good reason, even if you don’t always think through how it’s gonna come back to bite you in the ass. So,” she continues before Regina can protest that, “how about you just tell me why the hell you spent fifteen years hunting my mother through the woods like a dog, and then we’ll move on to the whole building a town from nothing and giving everyone lame personalities and stupid names thing later.” Regina’s mouth is hanging open, an offended little gap, and Emma laughs. “You named Jiminy Cricket Dr. Hopper .” 

She closes her mouth. “Yes, well.” She shrugs and then draws in a deep breath, pulling her hands back from Emma’s and reaching tentatively for her neck. Emma watches as she pulls a chain from the collar of her sweater and, handling it with reverence, unclasps it from her neck. It holds a simple gold band, and she turns it over in her fingers like it’s precious. She doesn’t take her eyes off it when she speaks. “It’s a long story, Emma. Are you sure you want to know?” 

Emma tries not to let the exasperation show. “Yes. I really, really do.” 

Regina nods. “Alright.” She draws in a breath, deep and wavering. “When Snow – Mary Margaret. When she was a girl, I saved her from a runaway horse. She came flying through our property, just – screaming. It was going to throw her, and so I saved her. I didn’t know who she was at the time. I only found out she was the princess the next day, when my mother told me that the King was coming to see me.” Her voice breaks on the word king , and Emma resists the urge to ask. “He…proposed.” She turns the ring over in her fingers several times. “He said that he’d spent years searching for a woman who’d take an interest in his daughter.”

“But I didn’t want to be Queen. Not at all.” She shakes her head. “I was in love with our stablehand.” She slips the ring onto her finger. “Daniel.” Several moments pass before she speaks again, as if she’s gathering her thoughts. “We planned to run away together. Start a new life somewhere far from all of it, but Snow found us in the middle of the night. She told my mother, and Daniel was killed.” Her voice darkens. “He died in my arms. I’ve never forgiven her for that.” 

She shakes her head. “I married her father. There was no way out for me at that point. My mother was hanging over me, and then the court – once I was in the castle there was no getting back out. Leopold kept me on lockdown. I think he was afraid I’d run. He was right.” 

“I tried a few times, actually. Kept getting caught by the castle guards.” She shrugs. “And then I learned I could use magic, and so I stayed. I poured years into honing my skills and searching for a way to bring him back, but nothing worked. And every day of that for eight years, I had to care for the person responsible for his death. Raise her.” Her voice breaks. “There was nowhere for me to go. I didn’t have access to the coffers. Even if I ran, I’d have no money, no home. No, what I needed was power. So I killed him.” She swallows hard. “I killed the King, and then the castle was mine to command. I couldn’t have what – who – I wanted, and so I focused on revenge instead.” 

Steadily, Regina tells her everything: about hiring Graham to hunt Snow down. About taking his heart when he tried to trick her. How Snow evaded her at every turn, about how she ate away at the castle until it was filled only with her guards, and how she slaughtered anyone who got in her way or aided Snow in any way, about the apple and her almost-execution and subsequent banishment, all the way up to casting the curse. 

“I didn’t kidnap Kathryn,” Regina says at the end. “I made a deal with Gold. It was stupid, and it was vague. Kathryn was going to give Mary Margaret and David her blessing, and he offered to do something that would keep them apart. I never asked for that.” She leans her chin in her hand, pensive. “I don’t know what he did with her. She was a good friend to me, Emma. She’s never going to forgive me now.” Her voice is hollow. 

Emma shrugs. She’s probably right. “Maybe not. But you never know.” She leans forward, resisting the urge to take Regina’s hand in her own. “There’s always a chance, Regina. You just have to keep trying.” 

“Just like with Henry,” Regina says, her voice breaking. Her eyes start to water, her expression falling – and that’s the first real emotion she’s shown all day. 

“I’m not letting anything get in the way of that,” Emma says, shocked by the insistence in her own voice. “I’ve seen how you love him. Maybe you don’t always show it right – but I’ve seen it. It’s going to take a lot of work on your part,” she warns, “but I’m going to make sure he sees it too.” 

Regina nods. 

“Okay,” She says. “Okay?” 

“Okay,” Regina answers. And then she laughs, a humorless, bitter thing. “You’re not going to run?” 

Emma laughs too, reaching out to take Regina’s hand in her own. “No. No, we’re way past that now.” She traces Regina’s palm with her thumb, following the lines with the tip of her nail. “Anyway, according to everyone, that was True Love’s Kiss.” Regina stiffens, her hand pulling back just slightly, but Emma keeps her grip on it. “Hey, you’re the one that said it out loud. I think you’re stuck with me now.” 

“That doesn’t scare you?” 

“Oh, it terrifies me,” Emma says candidly. “It’s scary as fuck.” She finally meets Regina’s eyes again, weaving their fingers together. “But we’ll do it together. Okay?” 

Regina draws in a deep breath, silent for several moments. But she doesn’t pull away, and eventually, she replies: “Okay. Together.”