Chapter Text
Emma doesn’t need to open it to know what’s in the heavy yellow envelope the courier had handed her. She knows what’s in it, because there’s an identical one that’s been sitting in her bottom drawer for the last three years. She also knows that good things never come in envelopes like this. She’s been carrying it around from city to city and she’s lost count of the number dingy apartments and sublets she’s lived in in that time. It’s been a long time since she’s really had a place to call home, as long as that envelope’s been in her possession.
This one’s a little less dingy than most; at least the plumbing works – mostly – and she hasn’t found any suspicious holes in the wall. At the last place – or was it the place before – she’d almost broken the nose of the live-in custodian when she caught him peeping at one of the women down the hall. So far, there haven’t been any peeping toms and the neighbours are quiet and mind their own business; just the way she likes it. No, this place is mostly un-terrible and maybe she’ll try to make a go of it here for a while.
She grabs a beer out of the fridge and sits down, contemplating the envelope on the coffee table in front of her. She necks half her beer and then reaches out to the still-unopened envelope, arranges it carefully so its edges line up with the corner of the table. She goes to her bedroom, opens the drawer and pulls out the envelope’s twin and tosses it carelessly onto the table. It knocks over her half-empty beer and she can’t help but feel a slight, momentary satisfaction when the expanding puddle of ale engulfs both of the envelopes.
She stares at the mess in front of her and wonders, why now?
*****
She’s just sat down with another beer, which she hopefully won’t spill this time, ready to watch a re-run of Ninja Warrior when there’s a knock on her door. She tries to ignore it, but it keeps getting more insistent. She sighs and finally hauls herself off the sofa, getting ready to tell the Jehovah’s Witnesses or whoever it is to fuck off and leave her in peace.
She opens the door, freezing in surprise at the person who greets her on the other side.
“Henry? What on earth are you doing here?” she asks, when she finally manages to marshal her wits enough to find her words.
She hasn’t seen Henry since she and Regina had broken up and she almost doesn’t recognise him as the small, sullen boy Regina had brought home from the adoption agency all that time ago. She’d recognised that look back then, because it had been the same one she’d seen in the mirror every day of her life in foster care. Now, though, he’s impeccably dressed (even if Regina’s tastes do run a little towards accountant-chic) and as he meets her eyes boldly, she can see that the last few years have been good for him.
Her surprise yields to a pang of loss at that thought, because even though he was Regina’s son, for a time there’d been something between them, something that had felt a little like a make-good from the universe for all the shit she’d been through growing up. It had been hard letting go of that and she’d thought about reaching out a thousand times, just to see how he was going, but Regina had made it abundantly clear when she left that Emma had no claim, legal or otherwise, on Henry’s time.
A few times, after a few too many drinks, she’d picked up the phone, calling the old number and listening to Regina’s clipped tones on the answering machine before remembering that they were both thousands of miles away in Vancouver. Those moments had always ended with an empty bottle of something and a multitude of regrets, the least of which was the resulting hangover.
Looking at him now, it’s obvious Regina made the right decision. Without her, Henry has thrived, and he’s been spared all of the ugliness that she knows can creep in when a relationship breaks down. None of that explains why he’s standing on her doorstep in Boston on a Saturday evening.
His words, when he finally speaks, don’t do a great deal to shed light on the situation. “You need to come home to Storybrooke. It’s an emergency.”
“What’s happened?” All sorts of scenarios flash through her mind, each more terrible than the last.
“Mom’s getting married.” Even though it’s far less terrible than some of the things she’d imagined, her heart still sinks.
She looks over at the sodden envelopes behind her, on her coffee table; Henry’s statement is confirmation of exactly what she had already known must be in that second envelope and now she knows why Regina’s chasing her again for a divorce after all this time.
It had taken months before she was able to open the first envelope and read through the divorce papers. They’d only been together a little more than two years, and by most people’s standards, that probably wasn’t much of a relationship. But even still, there was something so cold and clinical about the sum total of a relationship being defined in a series of clauses and a monetary value.
The financial terms of Regina’s proposed settlement had been very generous – far more generous than it needed to be – and she could just imagine the pained look on Regina’s lawyer’s face as he drew up the document. It wasn’t about the money, though. It’d never been about money, even though it had been obvious from the very start that Regina had plenty of it.
But none of that is important right now. What is important is Henry standing here in front of her, a few hundred miles away from where he should be and she’s caught between being delighted to see him and just a little bit furious. She’s not his mother, but she’s also not going to go easy on him for pulling a stunt like this. She folds her arms, pinning him with the kind of look that promises a serious ass-kicking.
“I don’t think that really counts as the kind of emergency that justifies you running away to Boston.” He looks like he’s about to argue and if Emma’s honest, she kind of doesn’t have a leg to stand on, because Regina’s the reason she’s spent the better part of the last three years running halfway across the country and back.
She pushes that thought aside. “How’d you get here, anyway?”
“Stole Mom’s credit card and caught the bus.”
She’s caught between a degree of admiration at his resourcefulness and anger at the thought of him putting himself in danger like that.
“Can I stay here for a while?”
“Not a chance. We’re getting you back to Storybrooke before your mother decides to come down here and murder one or both of us.” She’s pretty sure which one of them will be in trouble and knowing Regina, it won’t be the 11-year-old who ran away to Boston.
“I mean after you’ve gone to Storybrooke and saved Mom from marrying The Douche.”
“Somehow, I doubt your Mom wants to see me, but I know she’s definitely going to want you home as soon as possible.”
She’s kind of hoping he’ll argue with her on the first point, but she’s not surprised when he doesn’t.
She picks up her phone. She’d deleted Regina’s number years ago, but she still knows it by heart. She dials the numbers slowly and listens as it rings, wondering what exactly she should say to Regina. She’s not sure whether she’s disappointed or not when it goes through to voicemail. She leaves a short message and hangs up, before turning back to Henry.
“Okay, kid. Let’s go.”
*****
Emma’s never been much of a conversationalist, but she tries to fill the long car ride. There’s a lot to catch up on, but it feels mostly bittersweet hearing about the details of Henry and Regina’s life without her in it. It’s a series of memories she should have made alongside them; instead she’s spent the last three years trying to forget what she'd had.
She wonders if Henry still has his book of fairytales. He’d come to them from the orphanage, clutching the heavy book under one arm, a threadbare teddy bear under the other. The bear looked like the kind of generic charity appeal Christmas gift that all the kids wound up with, Emma knew from experience. Her own, much-loved late teddy, Mr Grizzly, had ended up the victim of an older kid who’d decided to use him for dissection practice.
But the book had been something special. She remembers Henry poring over it for hours on end, even though she and Regina were pretty sure he didn’t know how to read yet. It took three months before he’d let either of them touch it and she remembers the smile that had dawned on Regina’s face at that first evidence of trust, luminous and utterly besotted with this small, quiet boy she’d chosen to be part of her family. That trust had bloomed and it wasn’t long before Henry lying between them on Regina’s bed as they took turns to read the stories from his book became a nightly ritual.
“When did you get back to Storybrooke?”
“Almost a year ago.”
“And you’re back for good?” She’d kind of half-expected Regina to stay in Vancouver.
“Yeah. Mom decided not to try for another contract. I kind of wish she had, though.”
“You liked it there?”
“It was okay.”
Emma rolls her eyes at that. It’s such a typical pre-teen, non-committal response, but she gets the sense that Henry thought it was a little bit more than just okay.
“Besides, if we’d stayed there, Mom wouldn’t have met The Douche,” Henry adds a moment later.
“So, your Mom’s fiancée…” Emma asks, even though she doesn’t really want to know. She’d tortured herself plenty of times with thoughts of what Regina might be doing, who she might be with. Now, given the opportunity to give those abstractions form, she hates herself for it, but she also can’t resist finding out.
“He’s kind of a dick,” Henry says.
“Language,” Emma chastises him reflexively, although she mostly (completely) agrees with him on that point, even without meeting the guy.
“Well he is. Aunt Zelena says he’s a smarmy git.”
“So, does he have a name, other than The Douche?”
She doesn’t need to look over to know that Henry’s scowling. “Robin.”
“How long?” In spite of herself, she can’t help asking just how quickly Regina moved on.
“Last Spring.”
So only a few months.
Emma wishes she could say the same for herself, but three years later, she still feels like she’s stuck in a holding pattern. It’s ridiculous, because before Regina had swooped in and upended her life, Emma had been in exactly the same place. A new town every few months. An unmemorable series of jobs–enough to pay the rent and keep her car running long enough to get to the next stop.
“And they’re engaged already?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Henry shrug. “He’s a dick, but he’s not an idiot. He knows he’s onto a good thing with Mom and he needs to seal the deal before she comes to her senses. Which is why it’s so important that you come back and make her see that. I’ve tried and Aunt Zelena’s tried but Mom’s so stubborn.”
Emma sighs, because Regina’s not the only one in the family who’s stubborn. The kid sitting next to her pretty much defines that quality right now and the more time she’s spending with him, the more she can see little parts of Regina reflected back at her.
“Maybe that’s telling you something, Henry. Like, maybe she’s happy with him, however much of a dick you think he is.”
Henry makes a frustrated noise and kicks his foot against the car door.
“Careful, kid. If you want to get anywhere at all, let alone Storybrooke, you’re going to have to treat The Bug nice. She’s pretty much only held together with duct tape these days.”
He manages a grudging apology, but then he’s right back onto his cause of the moment. “She just hasn’t had time to see him for what he is, yet.”
“Have you given him a chance? Tried to get to know him?” Emma can’t believe she’s defending the guy, when instinctively she hates him and wants him about ten thousand miles away from Regina.
“I don’t like him and I don’t want to get to know him.”
She gets it. She really does, but it’s also not her place to interfere in Regina’s relationships and it’s something Henry and Regina will need to sort out between themselves.
“I don’t know what you think I’m supposed to do about it. If you’re expecting me to burst into the church like some deranged jealous ex-wife when the priest asks if anyone objects to the union, it’s not gonna happen.”
From Henry’s silence, she can tell that’s exactly what he was expecting her to do.
“Kid, there’s no way in hell I’m buying into this. Your Mom and I aren’t exactly on great terms–” technically they’re on no terms at all–“but I’d probably prefer it if she didn’t want to actively murder me.”
“She’s getting married in a bloody forest.” Henry continues to make his case and Emma rolls her eyes at what is very obviously a quote from Zelena. “Can you imagine her running around in a forest in a wedding dress, up to her ankles in bear poop? He’s obviously brainwashed her somehow. Maybe he’s drugged her, or poisoned her...”
She interrupts him before he can go any further down the rabbit hole. “I don’t know what to say, kid. You know your Mom used to ride horses for fun once upon a time. Pretty sure she’s been in a forest at least once or twice in her life and maybe even enjoyed it.”
“He drives a Smart car,” Henry says, as if this single fact is the trump card that’s going to get her to change her mind.
Emma snorts. She hasn’t met the guy, but he sounds ridiculous. “And I drive a clapped-out Bug that your Mom thinks should have been scrapped years ago.” She pats the steering wheel and mutters a quiet apology to her faithful steed at even mentioning such a terrible thing.
“So what are the rest of his crimes, other than driving a ridiculous pretend car? Has he tried to feed you tofu?”
Henry wrinkles up his nose. “Gross. But yeah, he cooks weird food. And he goes around turning all the lights off behind me and even though he doesn’t say anything I know he wants to be on my case about stuff all the time.”
“You know, I might have to agree with him on the lights thing. You were pretty notorious for that as I recall,” she teases him gently, mindful of the fact that she’s pretty sure he was afraid of the dark, at least back then.
“You haven’t signed the divorce papers yet, have you?”
Emma shakes her head, partly in confirmation and partly at herself for managing to get even slightly sucked into this ridiculous scheme.
“Good,” he says a little gloatingly. “Make sure you don’t. There’s no way they’re getting married next month.”
“Next month?”
“Yeah. The wedding’s on the eighth.”
Two weeks away. It hadn’t occurred to her that it would be so soon.
*****
They stop for gas about an hour out of Storybrooke and when Emma checks her phone there’s about a thousand missed calls. Her thumb hovers over the call button for a long moment of indecision before she chucks her phone back into her bag. Regina will probably kill her for not returning the call, but she’s pretty sure she can be on the road and halfway back to Boston by the time Regina’s stopped hugging Henry and telling him off.
She figures she’ll take her chances.
Henry raids the shelves of the gas station for pretty much every kind of junk food under the sun, looking a little defiant, but she just rolls her eyes and hands over her credit card, snagging a Coke for herself. She figures Regina’s going to make him eat his vegetables anyway, so what’s the harm.
He starts eyeing a rack of magazines and Emma drags him back out to the car before he does something stupid like try to sneak a girlie magazine into his pile of loot. Knowing Regina that would definitely be a hanging offence.