Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Like all mysteries, it begins with a crime.

A theft.

A number of thefts, in fact. But unlike your classic acts of larceny, these ones boggle the mind. Objects disappearing in the night and then reappearing days after, making people wonder and second guess if it was all just in their heads.

A lot of questions with no answers. Too many doubts and what-ifs.

One thing's for certain, however; this is a mystery that can only be solved by an idiot. And perhaps her queen. And maybe with a little help from magic, deputies, and one reformed teen.

Weeks of peace and quiet have once again been breached. Welcome to not-so-sleepy Storybrooke; home to colorful characters, mysteries, and apparently, thieves.

---

Soon, Emma thinks.

Or at least, that's what she hopes.

Above her, Regina starts to writhe; always a good sign. Emma smiles against the moaning woman's lips. Emboldened, she works her tongue harder and picks up the pace of her fingers, beads of sweat rolling down her clammy, flushed face.

Three minutes in, and despite her increased efforts, it still doesn't happen.

Emma stifles the urge to groan.

Please, her aching jaw begs.

Yes… now, her cramping fingers agree.

Seconds turn into minutes, and a couple of minutes turns into several more. Eventually, however, her majesty finally surrenders and gives way. Somewhere during alternating between broad swipes and quick flicks, curling fingers and incessant pumping, the woman above her finally lifts her hips with a gasp and traps Emma's head between a pair of toned legs, immaculately manicured fingers tangling around her blonde locks and grabbing tight.

It hurts a bit, she's not going to lie, but instead of that sharp pain, the relief that ripples all over her spent frame is the one that dominates her senses.

There, Emma exhales shakily, her eyes practically rolling to the back of her head as she slumps against her once-nemesis, and now full-time lover, when Regina's legs finally release her from their vicious trap.

It's done.

Wiping off the copious amounts of saliva around her mouth, on her chin, and even on her neck, Emma flexes her smarting jaw and winces when she hears it pop in place.

See, despite her reputation as an ice queen and her oftentimes difficult and closed-off personality, it's not very difficult to turn the formidable woman on. Getting Regina off, however? Well, that's a whole different ballgame.

"Jesus Christ… Regina…"

"Hm?"

"I... can't feel my tongue," Emma mumbles, her reddened cheek pressed against the warmth of Regina's navel. Her right hand twitches for a second and then, naturally, cramps up. "Or my fingers."

Fresh from her orgasm and perhaps still riding her high, a satiated Regina merely offers a soft grunt in reply.

Emma sighs.

"Even your vagina's high maintenance."

Not unlike the moment she came, a now semi-conscious Regina rakes a hand through her tousled blonde locks and tugs on a handful of strands, and even though she likes to think it's meant to be a playful gesture, it hurts just enough that Emma has to hiss in a breath.

"Ouch. Offended, much? It's not like I lied, it's the truth."

"That's rich coming from the person who fell asleep on me after I spent the better part of the evening catering to her wishes and bringing her pleasure — thrice."

"It was a long-ass day at work," Emma murmurs weakly, shifting and resting her chin on Regina's abdomen, meeting the brunette's uppity gaze. The various assortment of toys and flimsy fabric strewn about the queen-sized bed is a testament to the dark-haired woman's words. Regina, in all fairness, brought her A-game tonight. And Emma, well, she just brought in the Zzz's. "But, hey, at least I managed to wake up and give you this big one, right?"

"Be that as it may, pillow princess, you owe me two more."

Emma's brows slowly make their ascent to her forehead. "I thought we've never kept score?"

"Maybe you never did."

"And you did?"

"My dear, why do you think I've always insisted on making you work hard? As far as I'm concerned, repaying your debt will keep you busy in the foreseeable months."

"Months?"

"Weeks, if you refrain from dozing off before you can reciprocate."

"To be completely fair, work's been really kicking my ass lately - what with some of Gold's stuff vanishing and then cropping back up in the station and all," Emma sighs in her defense. "Speaking of which, do you mind popping by the station tomorrow -— say around two? I have something to show you," she continues. And then stops. And blinks. "Wait a sec... exactly how long have you been holding back and letting me, literally, work my tongue off?"

Regina shrugs noncommittally.

"Oh c'mon, really? My own deputies probably think I let you punch me on the face all the time from the way I'm always flexing my jaw at work. Heck, Mary Margaret even went as far as to tell me to go see a doctor and get my right hand checked out."

Naturally, her majesty has the audacity to smirk. "Why, Sheriff Swan, I thought you enjoyed a challenge?"

"I do, but…"

"But?"

There is always something about that arrogant, bored expression that's just perennially etched on Regina's smug mug that makes Emma's facial muscles twitch. And, also, sends that treacherous organ in her chest aflutter. And as such...

"Tch… okay, fine. I just do," Emma acquiesces rather easily, pressing a wet kiss on the brunette's velvety skin. "But I wouldn't call making you come a challenge, really."

"Then what would you call it?"

"My pleasure."

.

.

.

She tries, she really does, but Emma can't keep it together anymore and just lets out a rather unladylike snort, and for her part, Regina just rolls her eyes, fighting back a smile.

"That was—"

"Smooth?" Emma offers.

"Sad," her majesty manages a mild scoff. "I see you finally have an answer to Henry's question during dinner…"

"Yeah?"

"Yes, I believe we've found your dwarf name."

"What, Smoothy? Charmy? "

"My dear, try Corny."

"Hey, if we're aiming for accuracy here," Emma nips on a small patch of skin near Regina's bellybutton, and when the other woman gives a low grumble of displeasure, she proceeds to soothe the angry red mark she makes with her tongue. Looking up, she meets a pair of squinted brown eyes and grins devilishly. "Right now, it's more like Horny."

"Insatiable," Regina sighs.

"I wasn't the one who demanded one more orgasm," she counters.

"Well, I wouldn't have felt the need to 'demand' such a thing if somebody had only delivered in the first place. And it's two."

"Right. Of course."

The sheer curtain billows with the breeze. A shiver slithers down her spine, the chilly air dancing on her bare back and drawing out goosebumps on her heated flesh.

Stifling a yawn, Regina raises the hand that's still draped over Emma's head. With an idle flick of a wrist, the window slams itself shut, and like a deflating balloon, the curtain falls limply against the sill.

Taking in the sight, Emma lets out a low hum. Her head's not tingling; there's no electricity frying her pores. Regina didn't siphon magical energy out of her, that's for sure.

"Just last year and your magic would've turned that window into splinters," she notes, shifting slightly and slowly making her way up the raven-haired woman's naked body. "You're really getting the hang of it."

"I still have a ways to go," Regina admits in a thoughtful tone of voice, flexing her fingers almost neurotically before Emma stills them by entwining them with her own. "But you're right, it's getting progressively easier to control it. It's merely a case of finding my center—"

"And by that you mean the part of me in you," Emma interjects playfully.

She gets promptly ignored, of course. "—and holding on to it. I have to stabilize my powers; I need to. I have to be strong enough to be able to perform complicated spells on my own when the need arises."

"But you don't have to do it alone, though. I'm here; it's been months since you-know-what, you can draw energy fr—"

"No."

"Regina, it's—"

"No," Regina grounds out. "We've had this conversation before, Emma. Never again. I won't risk it."

"What if the price to pay if we don't is too high?"

"Then it's a risk I am willing to take. Henry would never forgive me," Regina murmurs, those expressive pools of brown boring into hers in the moonlight. Pulling out of her grasp, Regina reaches out and traces the faint, almost-imperceptible scar near her clavicle — an act that even Emma, herself, absentmindedly does from time to time. Sometimes she swears she still feels the blade lodged in there. "I would never forgive myself."

Emma swallows thickly and then clears her throat, always awkward in the face of sentimentality. "Now who's Corny?"

Regina gives her a dry, reproachful look.

And just like that, the moment is gone.

Lying on her side, she rests her hand on Regina's stomach and slowly leans in to capture those pillowy lips that have given her immeasurable pleasure tonight — thrice.

Emma smiles into the kiss, and pretty soon, Regina relaxes enough for her to really get into the act.

It doesn't take long before she finds herself inching her hand down to that sweet spot between her queen's legs. Slowly, gently, she runs a finger along the neatly trimmed patch of short, dark hair and then, with Regina's guard still down, she goes in for the kill and pinches the sensitive nub on the woman's sex.

Regina's legs twitch involuntarily and Emma hears the softest of hisses coming from behind the woman's clenched teeth.

"You know, 'sensitive' isn't a word one would normally associate you with," she says with a straight face, a wicked little glint in her emerald green eyes.

"And the same can be said about you and subtlety," Regina throws right back. "If you're finally ready to go another round, my dear, you just have to say the word."

"Less teasing, more pleasing?"

The hand that pushes her head downwards just about says it all.

Settling in place, parting those slick folds, Emma licks her lips and digs in for more.

Who cares about numb tongues and aching fingers?

Round Number Two.

Here we go.

---

"What the heck's wrong with you?"

Emma's eyes snap up from the report she's perusing to the inquisitive face of the teenager by her desk. "Hm?"

Rufio, donning his usual tri-hawk but missing his signature red streaks, inclines his chin towards her right hand which — as is the case these past few days — has been glued to her face all morning, massaging her jaw. "Somebody sock you in the face?" he clarifies.

From out in the bullpen, Leroy clears his throat.

Rufio sighs. "Somebody sock you in the face, ma'am?"

"Nah, just ate something, uh, tough last night," she waves off, squirming in her cushy seat, her eyes quickly zeroing back to skimming yet another one of August's novel-length incident reports. "And drop the ma'am, kid; stick with Sheriff. Makes me feel less old."

"Yeah, good luck with that," he snorts. "Heard your birthday's coming up next month?"

"Don't remind me."

"Good luck with that, too," he adds with a smirk. Rather conspiratorially, Rufio leans in and says in a low voice, "I know you're not a fan of surprises so I'm giving you a head's up. Been hearing rumblings of your mom throwing a huge bash in your honor from some of the people working at Town Hall."

The groan that escapes her throat is something that just cannot be helped.

"What, not a fan of parties, either?"

"Oh, I like the food and the booze and the dancing, don't get me wrong. I just don't like, y'know, being the sole center of attention and all that jazz."

"You'll get a shit-ton of gifts," Rufio points out.

"Yeah, I guess that's true," she acknowledges with a worn breath. "But then there's only so much, I dunno, fawning a person like me can handle." Not that she's ever been excessively fawned over during any party of hers — hell, come to think of it, the only real birthday party she's had was when she turned seven; they had supermarket cake in the foster home, and by the end of the afternoon, it ended up on her and the other five kids and all over the kitchen walls, too.

"Then why not just slip out early or something. It's your party, you can eat-and-run if you want to."

"Maybe," Emma shrugs, though she doubts Mary Margaret would ever let her do such a thing; David, on the other hand, would maybe let her go — knowing him, he'll even help her escape if she asks nicely. "Anyway, what are you doing here? You need something, kid?"

"I just finished doing the inventory."

"And?"

"Nothing missing today from the evidence room."

"Good," Emma says, and then, noticing the deep crease between his brows, continues on with a quiet, "And what about the evidence evidence room?"

"Yeah, about that..."

Here we go again, Emma leans back against her seat with a sigh, setting aside her report. "What's new?"

"I noticed a couple of things have been moved around since yesterday," Rufio shares, scratching the side of his neck. "Nothing big, just things kinda pushed off a few inches from where they were before. I wouldn't even have noticed if it weren't for the dust marks — or lack of 'em. See, sometimes it's a good thing that I slack off with the cleaning."

"Tell that to Leroy and his allergies."

Rufio chuckles, and then sobers up when somebody clears his throat — again. "Funny thing is, I think the new wards your girlfriend put on the doors and windows weren't even touched — and Ruby agrees with me."

"And the security footage?"

"Showed nothing out of the ordinary, as usual," he says, perching himself at the edge of her desk, reaching for her purple glass paperweight — the twin to the blue one in Regina's study. "Ya think August's right? Think it's a ghost?"

"That, or somebody knows how to tamper with our security cameras," she pinches the bridge of her nose. "Know any tech savvy people in this town?"

"Considering that up until the curse broke, most people here — myself included — had been using Windows 95, no."

"Fair point," Emma concedes, pursing her lips in a thoughtful manner.

"Anyway," Rufio says after a quiet moment, glancing at his wristwatch. "I think I better scram."

"Why? I thought you didn't have any community service scheduled today?"

"I don't, I just have to go and grab Deputy Fat Ass'—"

For the nth time, the sound of a throat being cleared cuts through the air.

"Got a frog caught in your throat, Leroy?" Emma queries.

"Nah, just a disrespectful little turd, Sheriff," the man replies, shooting his teenaged apprentice a sharp look over a copy of the Daily Mirror.

Rufio works his jaw and then lets out another long suffering sigh. "I'm gonna go grab Deputy Goldberg's lunch. Do you want anything from Granny's, ma'am?"

"Sheriff," she corrects.

"Yeah, that."

"I'm good, thanks," Emma says with a small smile.

"Alrighty then," Rufio jumps off her desk, and much to her horror, tosses the paperweight in the air. Thankfully, he catches it effortlessly with his other hand then slams it back on the table with a soft thud. And by habit, he turns to her and throws a casual, "See ya later, loser."

A blue, ratty stress ball finds its way to the boy's head.

"I mean, Sheriff," he shoots a remorseless Leroy a vexed glare. On his way past the dwarf's desk towards the door, he tosses the ball back to the deputy with a grumble, stomping his sneakered feet.

"Keep your cool," a headset-wearing Jackson — whose memories have all about been restored at this point thanks to an old hook, Regina's magic and some kind of thingymajig from Rumplestiltskin's abandoned stash — tells his brother as the teen walks by the dispatch table. "Don't let him get to you."

"Remember, I want a double-double! Make sure Granny puts a lot of ketchup packets in the bag, too!" Leroy calls out to the departing teen.

.

.

.

"Grumps," Ruby sighs and drops her pen on the pest control form she's writing on, swiveling her chair to face her colleague as Rufio's heavy footsteps disappear down the hall. "Was that really necessary?"

Leroy tilts his head.

"We put him under your wing so you can teach him the ropes when he's not doing all that community service."

"Yeah," the dwarf shrugs, setting aside his newspaper. "And your point?"

"I really don't think making him go on coffee and burger runs count as teaching, do you?"

"'Course, I do."

"Yeah? And what is that supposed to teach him?"

"Accuracy."

Ruby and an eavesdropping Emma arch their eyebrows in unison.

"If he doesn't get a simple food order right, he ain't got the chops to be a police officer," Leroy says matter-of-fact, unapologetic as ever.

"Uh, with all due respect, you got Deputy Booth's coffee wrong the other day, sir," a bold Jackson oh-so helpfully points out.

"Woody likes his coffee the same way he likes everything else, complicated," the grumpy one fires back. "I don't think even he can get his damn coffee right."

Technically, that's true; even Emma can't disagree with that.

"Okay, but what about letting Rufio paint your house?" Ruby continues. "What the heck does that teach him?"

"Creativity."

"And polishing your shoes?"

"Cleanliness."

"He's your apprentice, Leroy," Emma's second-in-command reminds her co-deputy, an acerbic bite in her normally happy-go-lucky tone. "Not your slave."

"He's my bitch," Leroy deadpans, forever the stubborn jackass. "I'll train him any which way I damn please. And on that note... hey kid!" he barks into his walkie-talkie.

A few seconds later, the speaker crackles and Rufio's unamused voice sounds out with an exasperated, "Whaddya want?"

"..."

"Whaddya want, sir?" the teen corrects with a tired breath.

"Grab me a bottle of Coke, too."

"Leroy," Emma warns, finally jumping in.

"Fine. Just a can," the shameless bastard sighs.

The long suffering women of the Sheriff's Department — plus, Jackson — collectively roll their eyes.

"What?" an unrepentant Leroy shrugs. "Respect, responsibility and obedience. My methods might seem a bit out there, but that's what I'm teaching the grunt. So park that damn eyebrow down, Dispatch. You're just as bad as your damn brother — maybe you need a lesson, too."

Despite the lightning bolts snapping between the two men, Jackson's aforementioned eyebrow unhinges itself from his forehead. Resembling Rufio's tight, constipated expression to a tee, he goes back to answering the station's phones, possessing just enough restraint to let the matter go.

Ruby, on the other hand, is not one to back down that easily. So, throughout the next half hour, the woman squabbles with a pigheaded Leroy — alternating between exchanging barbs and launching full-on tirades — until Emma's throbbing head has just about had enough and she shushes the pair up with a clipped, "The next one to talk replaces August's shift and gets night duty for a month!"

That does the job. So marvelously, in fact, that her very mature deputies just spend the majority of the next hour giving each other the cold shoulder — and the occasional side-eye.

---

The peace that blankets the room is a welcome relief.

Although… be that as it may, several moments later, Emma inwardly acknowledges that silence isn't all that it's cracked up to be. It is actually as disconcerting as it is relaxing; probably because she's gotten used to hearing the endless tittering and bantering of her deputies at work.

It's only when the clock strikes half past one that the quiet is breached by the familiar — and somewhat comforting — sound of click-clacky footsteps echoing from the hallway. Her ears pick it up instantly and Emma doesn't think that anyone's all that surprised by how fast she gets herself up and off her chair.

"You're early," she breathes when she steps out of the stifling office, the door swinging shut behind her with a sharp click.

"You sound surprised," Regina notes, taking her sweet time bridging the distance between them, her hands tucked inside her sexy, designer trench coat.

"More relieved really," Emma smiles lopsidedly.

"Why so?"

"Long story," she waves a hand. "Just your typical office drama, no big deal."

When they're finally standing face-to-face, it's Regina who makes the first move and leans in for a soft kiss, her fingers seeking purchase on the hem of Emma's button-down shirt. It's interesting how easy it is now, kissing outside of their own home. It wasn't that long ago that they'd both recoil at the prospect of intimacy beyond the mansion walls. Holding hands has never been a problem — they've gotten used to it from months and months of Regina siphoning energy from her. But kissing, hugging and the like? That took some time. They might not be at her parents' level of ease when it comes to public displays of affection — and to be honest, she doesn't think they ever will be because they're just not the type — but they're getting at least a quarter way there, step by slow step.

"You have something to show me, Sheriff?" Regina murmurs, pulling back and gently swiping her lower lip with a thumb.

Emma blinks. "Yes," she clears her throat and straightens her spine. "This way please, ma'am."

"Ma'am?"

"The kid's rubbing off on me."

Regina wrinkles her forehead in question.

"It's nothing," she waves off again.

Guiding Regina by the hand, Emma leads the way to the end of the sparsely lit corridor — earning a sly jab on Mary Margaret's budget constraints from the former Mayor when some of the lights start to blink — before turning into the area with a restricted access sign hanging from the ceiling.

"I see your jaw still hurts."

As if touching a hot potato, Emma's right hand immediately falls to the wayside. "And whose fault might that be?"

"Yours and your inability to pleasure a woman effectively."

"Funny," she smirks. "Could've sworn it was yours and your inability to come without hurting me."

Regina stops them both with a look. "Was that an accusation, Miss Swan?"

"Observing is not accusing, your majesty."

"I'll keep that in mind the next time I share my observations of your many inadequacies in the bedroom."

"How does giving you three orgasms in one night make me inadequate?"

"You simply made us even, my dear," Regina reminds. "And it very well could've been four. Or more. Hence, inadequate."

"What, are you a nympho now?"

"Says the person who prefers sneaking into my bedroom every night instead of being an adult and just moving in."

"It's a big step," Emma hedges, stopping outside the evidence room and pulling out a keycard from her back pocket, pressing it against the sensor by the door.

"We live in the same house, Emma."

"It's a bigger step," she clarifies, shuddering lightly when she thinks she catches a glimpse of a tiny brown tail disappearing inside a little hole on the adjacent wall. Forget doing the paperwork, she's going to tell Ruby later to skip the form and call the exterminators ASAP. "Besides, my junk can't all fit in your room."

"I believe I wasn't asking you to move your junk in — I neither have the space nor the stomach for it," Regina sticks her nose in the air, stepping inside the room while Emma holds the door open for her. "I was specifically talking about you moving into my bedroom."

"Wait—so, you're asking?"

"In a manner of speaking."

Emma makes a show of lifting her eyebrows, silently encouraging the raven-haired woman to continue on her statement.

"Yes," Regina finally wrenches out.

"You're asking me to move in with you?"

"...yes."

"Really?"

"..."

"Seriously? Me and you?"

The look of annoyance that flashes on her lover's features is a pretty nice indication that she's maybe sort of pushing it, so Emma finally drops the act and allows a brilliant smile to take over her lips. "Ah, see, that wasn't so hard now, was it?"

"What?"

"Oh, and the answer's yes."

Instead of the stoic mask of pretend-nonchalance that she's expecting to see, Regina's face just contorts into a confused-looking frown.

"Wait," Emma mirrors her frown, feeling self-conscious and a bit stupid all of a sudden. "Were you just pulling my leg?"

"That's it?" the other woman says in lieu of an answer.

"What do you mean?"

"I merely didn't think you'd surrender your independence that easily; I was expecting you to put up a fight," Regina says, no longer beating around the bush. "It's no secret how much you value your autonomy. You're the type to come and go as you please."

That's true, but… "It's pretty difficult to come and go when you've already laid down roots, dontcha think?"

It's a throwback to a day long past; a day when she was reminded of her tendency to cut and run by the woman standing right before her. And as such, Regina doesn't respond; she just inhales deeply through her nose and stares unseeingly at one of the cracks on the floor.

"Look, I stayed in Storybrooke. I stayed in the mansion despite your best attempts to drive me away early on," Emma says with a small fond smile, leaning back against the door until she closes it shut. "And in spite of how I may have been coming into your room every night, I don't sneak out of it in the morning."

At this, brown eyes finally lift to meet her own green ones.

"I stay, Regina," she stresses quietly, taking a step forward. "I stay even when you hog the covers. I stay even when you wake me up with your morning breath-"

Regina harrumphs.

"Heck, I even stay when you try to force me out of bed because of your compulsive need to start our day at the buttcrack of dawn. I stay."

The other woman moistens her lower lip before swallowing visibly. "I know," Regina says hoarsely.

"But you're right, though," Emma continues, stopping right in front of the other woman and resting her hand on Regina's hip, letting her thumb caress the smooth material of Regina's coat. "I do love being independent and all, and I really, really like my room in the basement. But... to be honest, I've been ready to take the next step for a long time now; I was just waiting for you to ask."

"Why?"

"Because it's a big step. Well, a bigger one. And I wanted you to be ready; I wanted you to want it, too."

This time around, she's the one who invades Regina's personal space and initiates the kiss. "Now," she pulls back a moment later, but not before leaning in for another quick peck. "Am I at least allowed to bring up a toothbrush?"

"Haven't you done that already?"

Emma shrugs. "Figured it'd only be polite to ask."

"Yes, four months after the fact," the brunette sasses.

She just smiles and grabs hold of Regina's wrist, tugging her gently into the other end of the cluttered room. There, another door's standing wait — and though seemingly inconspicuous, this one actually has more security features than the one they've entered previously.

Emma scans her keycard once more and then types in a five-digit code on the pad. It gives a couple of beeps before the red light turns green, and while she pulls down the door handle and steps in, she turns her head and says, "Rufio thinks somebody was in here again last night. Nothing's missing, though."

Regina lets her hand slide down against the door jamb. "My ward's untouched."

"He said that, too. And him and Rubes don't think the ones on the windows have been messed with, either."

"Nevertheless, I'll reinforce all of them, perhaps add another one."

Feeling the wall for the light switch, she flips it on with a finger and bathes the room in stark white light. It makes the space look almost clinical - which goes well with the almost chemical way this place reeks.

The room itself is no bigger than the evidence room adjacent it. They're structured identically, too — both rectangularly-shaped, 440-square foot spaces housing rows upon rows of shelving units.

It's what's on the shelving units, however, that set the two rooms apart.

While the evidence room contains such things as confiscated switchblades, various articles of clothing and even odd ones like a collection of garden gnomes, the room they're presently standing in holds objects that are infinitely more interesting and far less mundane.

They've come to call it the evidence evidence room. When in reality, it's more like the Rumplestiltskin House of Horrors. See, all of the things they've confiscated from Gold's abandoned house and pawnshop are stored here. From creepy porcelain dolls to vials of dragon blood, everything one can think of to decorate a haunted mansion or reanimate the dead, it's all in this place.

"Ruby and Rufio are still doing the more in-depth catalog of the junk. They've done shelves one through five, they have fifteen more to go."

"Remind them to handle that with utmost care," Regina points at an amber jar. "That's a gremlin head, don't get it wet."

"Duly noted," Emma nods, filing that info in her head. "Anyway, I asked you here today because I needed to show you something."

"Your cleaning person should be flogged, yes," her majesty swipes a finger against one of the shelves and makes a face.

"I know, but not that," Emma chuckles softly. "This is what I wanted to show you," she thumbs at the faded door behind her.

Turning the knob, she pushes at the scratched wood and bites back a wince at the unholy creak the hinges make. Still, she steps aside and motions inside with a flourish.

"What in the world is that?" Regina frowns, hands planted on her hips, eyeing the unvarnished desk pushed against the wall and the antiquated swivel chair right beside it.

"Surprise! It's your new office."

In the end, the only one getting surprised is her. Because it's remarkably surprising that her head's still attached to her neck at the pure indignation that statement elicits.

"My new what?!"

"...office?" Emma practically squeaks.

"That's a closet."

"It's not a closet anymore if it's refurbished," she reasons with a pathetic little grin.

It's kind of intimidating and also hilarious how the other woman looks when her nostrils flare.

"C'mon, Regina," Emma braves the storm and stands behind her unhappy girlfriend, holding the rigid brunette by the shoulders. "Look at it, and I mean really look at it. What do you see?"

"A closet," Regina curls her lip.

"Opportunity," Emma corrects. "A fresh start."

"I've been working as your consultant for a little over a year now, Sheriff," Regina reminds her in a tone no less biting. "I've had my fresh start."

"Well, this is a fresher one."

"This 'fresher' start smells a lot like mold."

"Nothing a little clean up won't fix," Emma gives Regina's shoulder a comforting squeeze. "We'll clean it up."

Regina lifts an eyebrow. "We?"

"I'll clean it up," she amends. "Look, I even got you a plaque," she tries, breaking out the puppy eyes, motioning at the platinum object on the table with Regina's name and title emblazoned on it.

The former Mayor, however, remains unmoved. "What, is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"It looks nice…"

"Putting a red bow on a pile of garbage doesn't alter what it is."

"I know, but it makes it prettier."

The side-eye she gets is one of epic proportions. "What on earth even possessed you to think it's a good idea to put me in a closet — and not just any closet, mind you, but one that's in a room far removed from any other office in this depressing hole?"

"That's the thing, there's not a lot of foot traffic here," Emma says, letting her hands trail up and down Regina's arms. "And I know you. I know that you'd rather work alone than spend even five minutes listening to my deputies argue like children. You'll end up murdering them."

Regina doesn't even bother with a denial.

"Besides, what better place to put my Magical Consultant than in the magical room, itself?"

This time, she places a lingering kiss on that slender neck. And then another for good measure.

"We'll be working in the same building…" she says in a sing-song voice. "Doesn't that count for something, at least?"

"I still find it insulting that you find it acceptable to stuff me in a closet," Regina budges a fraction, softening up a bit despite the crease between her brows. "You really are your father's daughter."

The unladylike guffaw that suddenly escapes her lips is one that she doesn't even bother stopping. And despite what plans she might have to hold on to her displeasure, Regina looks away and actually cracks a small smile.

Wrapping her arms around her cranky lady, Emma rests her chin on Regina's shoulder and holds her flush against her body. "I'll fix it up, I promise. If I have to take down a wall to make it bigger, I'll do it," she murmurs. "Hey, I'll even put a window in so you'll have a nice view of the courtyard. I know it might not stack up much against your old office, but I swear we'll make it work."

"It's constricting."

"I know."

"And it smells."

"That, too."

"But I suppose it has its charm," Regina eventually gives way, if not reluctantly. "Just like somebody else I know."

Emma hums.

"So…" she begins after a moment.

"So?"

"It's a brand new office."

Regina scoffs.

"What do people do in brand new offices?"

"Work."

Butt, Emma rolls her eyes. "I know, and...?" she goads.

"I prefer to think of myself as a consummate professional, Sheriff. I don't mix work with pleasure," Regina says in a haughty tone, though that's kind of hypocritical coming from someone who brings her 'lunch' in the interrogation room from time to time. "What's more, it's tacky to have sexual relations in one's office."

"Well, this isn't my office."

"Apparently it's mine."

"So now it's your office? I thought it was a closet?"

"And you said it was refurbished," Regina counters, turning in her arms. "Well then, tell me. What is it really, Sheriff? An office or a closet?"

"Right now?" Emma smirks, tugging at the straps that hold Regina's trenchcoat closed and then pushing the woman into the room with a light shove. "It can be whatever the hell we need it to be."

Closet, it is.

---

There is something extremely discomfiting about walking alone in the dead of the night. Multiply that tenfold if one's walking through the woods. It's not just the symphony of sounds that nature and wildlife perform that make it haunting — it's the visuals; the streaks of moonlight filtering through the branches, the rustling of bushes as unseen animals scurry past, the shadows dancing in every direction. Oh, definitely the shadows.

Especially the ones that talk.

"Do you have it?"

Jacques Rouleau stops in his tracks, and his senses are so heightened that the sound of a twig snapping underneath his boot is like a whip cutting through the air.

He swallows hard, once, twice, and then clears his throat. Despite its seeming invisibility, he can tell just where the boundary is that separates this magical town from the rest of this non-magical world. There's a slight shimmer in the foreground, a palpable energy, that tells him just where he's not supposed to step past or risk losing all that he is — at least the 'him' before Storybrooke.

It's two feet away. And the disembodied voice that talks to him again lies beyond that.

"I said, do you have it?"

It's chilly out tonight, but that doesn't stop him from sweating bullets. "N-no," he croaks out. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?"

He flinches and then braces himself, expecting some kind of force to come barrelling his way and sweep him off his feet. Nothing comes; he pops an eye open, and then another, and sighs in relief. "I'm s-sorry, I r-really am. We'll try again tomorrow."

"You told me you've found it."

"And t-that wasn't a lie, please believe me! We thought we'd found it, but it turned out to be something else."

"You imbecile," the voice hisses quietly, but it packs enough venom that the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. "I'd given you everything you needed. A description, a drawing, a photograph. What more do you require to do such a simple task? Another set of brains, perhaps?"

"N-no! No, p-please, don't," he begs, and it takes every ounce of bravery inside himself to keep from tucking his tail between his legs and scampering away. "I'll find it. I'll get it. I swear on my life."

"Good," he hears. "Because that's about the only thing you have left to gamble, Mr. Rouleau. Well, that and your cousin's life."

"We'll get it," he straightens his back, fronting an air of confidence that he does not have.

"See that you do," is all the answer he gets. "You have until Sunday night. After that, no more."

He finds himself left on his lonesome soon after.

An ashen Jacques releases a shuddery breath, swaying on his feet.

Yes, he hates the shadows.

---

"Hey, ma'am?"

"Ruby."

"Ruby," Rufio says from his spot on the floor, sitting with his legs crossed while a notebook rests on his lap. "I sorta have an idea."

"Mhmm?"

"But I need you to tell me if it's any good before I go to the Sheriff and make a fool of myself."

"Shoot," Ruby says, though she never actually looks his way. Standing on her tip-toes, face scrunched in concentration, the woman grunts softly as she pulls out a bulky ceramic pot from the shelf adjacent to his.

"I was just thinking…" he starts, idly doodling circles on the corner of his notebook. "Books and the internet have been helpful and all, but don't you think it'd be easier and smarter for us to actually bring in some kinda expert to help us identify all this shit?"

"Regina's officially moving into her office on Monday."

"I know, but I'm thinking of somebody else."

Occupied with the task at hand — unlike him, the eternal slacker — Ruby takes a moment to jot down the markings on the pot in her notebook before meeting his gaze and asking, "Who?"

"The old fart," Rufio says. "Paul's pretty sharp for someone with one foot in the grave. Don't tell him I said that," he quickly follows up. "And, y'know, he used to be some kind of big time scholar or nerd in his home world — or so he says."

To Ruby's credit, she actually appears to consider his idea instead of outright shooting it down like Leroy would've. Her lips pursed in thought, she lets out a soft hum and then nods. "Go to Emma with it, I'll back you up. Though I don't think she'll need that much convincing anyway; she'll give Paul clearance to this place for sure, she trusts him."

"So do I," he murmurs, and once again, while the tips of his ears are burning red, follows it up with: "But don't tell him I—"

"—said that," Ruby finishes with a smile. "I know."

"His head would swell," he says feebly, scratching at his neck. "Oh… need help with that?"

"Nah, I'm good," Ruby dismisses, and just like that freaky, superhuman grandmother of hers, she hefts the ginormous pot over her head and puts it back on the shelf without so much as breaking a sweat.

He 'rests' for five more minutes — okay, maybe ten — before he forces himself up to his feet and back to work again. Half an hour later, he's sketched and described roughly six to-be-identified objects in his notebook — about half of what his too-damn productive companion has accomplished in the same time.

Rufio sighs.

"How come you're so fast?" he asks with a whine.

"Twenty-eight years of waitressing during the lunch rush has to count for something," Ruby mumbles while doing a crude drawing of a golden lamp. And unlike Rufio — who takes his sweet time trying to make every illustration look like a frickin' masterpiece — she finishes hers in record time.

"Your drawings are better than mine, too," he says pathetically, glancing at his work and then at Ruby's. "I don't get it, how can you draw faster and better than me?"

"Maybe if you drew with your hand and not your big ass mouth, you'd actually get shit done."

Oh… great, Rufio exhales hard through his nostrils, just barely stopping himself from rolling his eyes.

"Checking up on your slave, Leroy?" Ruby snarks, keeping her back on her colleague as she reaches for the next object on her list.

"Not my fault the turd needs constant hand-holding."

Rufio bites the insides of his cheeks.

Forget alcohol, there's no bigger downer in this town than Deputy Douchebag right here.

"Anyway, didn't actually come all the way to this crummy, stinky hole for the grunt," Leroy wrinkles his face, scratching underneath his nose at the fine collection of dust bunnies in this room. "Came to tell you that the exterminators just arrived."

"Already?" Ruby turns to face the man, her forehead creased in puzzlement. "They're not scheduled to go here 'til next week. Why'd they come early?"

"Beats me," Leroy shrugs. "Maybe they give mouse problems top priority."

Speaking of which… "I saw a small one in the evidence room on my way in here today," Rufio pipes in, scratching the itchy part of his left cheek with the butt of his pen.

"I think I saw that little guy, too," she agrees.

"Yeah, so I dunno, Ru-ma'am," he rushes out, avoiding the dwarf's disapproving gaze. "The way I see it, who really cares if they're a few days too early? I say get rid of those damn buggers fast — before they make their ugly babies."

"For once the kid and I are on the same page," Leroy, of all people, says.

"I know, and I totally agree with you guys," Ruby places a monkey skull back and then tucks her notebook under her arm. "I was just confused because I wasn't expecting them until Monday, that's all."

"Well they're waiting in the bullpen," the dwarf says, arms crossed on his chest as he leans sideways against a shelf. "Do me a solid and deal with them yourself?"

"Why? I have work to do here — plus, I have to do my patrol in a couple of hours."

"The Sheriff's still at Town Hall. And trust me, sister, if I do the supervising I'll end up strangling Rouleau. That asshat still owes me money—"

"Yeah, you and the rest of the town," Ruby points out. "That guy's neck-deep in gambling debt."

"That's an understatement," Rufio snorts. He's lost track of the times he's seen the Beagle brothers beat the living shit out of the poor bastard for missing one of his payments; Gold's thugs were as merciless as they were relentless. "I bet the only reason his company's still standing now is because the snake's not here to collect."

"Mhmm," she hums in agreement. "I don't think there's anybody left in town that that guy hasn't mooched off of — well, except maybe Regina."

"And probably your grandma," Rufio thinks.

"Actually, he owes Granny three grand."

"..."

"..."

"There was a time she got hooked on horse racing," Ruby clarifies upon seeing their faces. "But then the curse broke and some of the jockeys turned out to be shifters too, and then it just got too weird to watch."

"...okay," Rufio says after a long pause, and for his part, a poker-faced Leroy just grunts.

"Anyway," the stocky deputy speaks up after a moment, clearing his throat. "You gonna go tail the bastards today, Red?"

"Somebody has to finish this," the aforementioned woman motions behind her. "I have four, no, five more left to go on my list."

"Then let the kid do it."

"He has his own assigned shelf to worry about."

Rufio nods in silent agreement. Like hell he's gonna do five more than what he needs to do today; he still has to go to the damn library and do some research on the ones he has now.

"But... how about you take over for me here, and I go out and handle Rouleau and his guys?"

"No!" he shouts, the word barrelling out of his mouth like a bat out of hell.

Shit.

"I-I mean, you don't have to. Don't you have more important things to do, sir?"

"I do," Leroy confirms, his narrowed eyes practically igniting his hair on fire. Slowly, and with purpose, he reaches out and wraps his fat fingers around the notebook Ruby's offering, the man's gaze never leaving his beet red face. "But I'd be more than happy to take over here — since it's obviously something that you don't want."

Crap.

"So," the dwarf turns to his co-deputy. "Whadda I have to do? I just have to doodle crap, right?"

"Yeah… it's a little bit more complicated than that," Ruby clutches at the back of her neck. "It doesn't have to be perfect, but make sure your 'doodles' at least resemble the thing? List down any features that pop out if you can, too. Anything that'll help us identify it quicker."

"Sounds easy enough," Leroy gruffs out, flipping the pages until he gets to Ruby's last drawing. "Where do I start?"

"Second shelf," she inclines her head in its general direction. "Finished the top-most one already and the first two things on the second."

"Let's see here," the bearded bastard says, looking down at the page and then up at the shelf before reaching for one of the many glass vials in this room — the one with some weird bluish smoke swirling inside. "I guess this guy's ne—ack!"

It all happens so fast.

A brown blur zooms on the shelf, right past the vial in Leroy's hand, and as such, the 190-pound wimp yanks his hand back and sends the object soaring.

As if in slow motion, Rufio and Ruby stand with their mouths agape and their eyes equally as wide, watching in horror as the vial spins in the air and lands on the concrete floor.

It breaks, of course. Right by Rufio's feet too.

"Oh fuck me," is all that he manages to say as smoke billows out of the shattered container and begins to envelop his hapless form, coiling around him like a boa constrictor.

It wraps around his legs… his torso… his neck... and then everything fades into black.

---

Emma thinks she may have jinxed the kid.

Actually, it's entirely plausible that she did. Thoughts become things! Mary Margaret kept on repeating in today's city council meeting, and if her mother's drivel were in any way true, then yeah, Emma did jinx poor Rufio.

When she sat there, wishing, hoping, and even praying for something — anything — to happen to pull her out of that mind-numbing meeting filled with Councillor Worthington's endless complaints and Mary Margaret's consistent reminders to have faith and think positive, Emma never thought that something bad would crop up.

Least of all to the kid.

Leroy didn't say much, he just told her to hurry. And boy did she.

The hospital is dead when she barges right through its double doors. Save for the staff and maybe two people in the waiting area, the ER is almost bare.

With urgency propelling her, Emma makes it to the reception desk in just a few big strides, and right when she's about to demand information from the receptionist, a sound makes her stop mid-sentence and turn around. "Hey…" she says to the owner of those pretty-much distinguishable footsteps, sobering slightly at the sight. "What are you doing here?"

"I got an urgent phone call from Deputy Lucas," Regina stops before her. "I was told there was a magical emergency."

"Magical? I heard it was a medical one."

"It's a bit of both," a haggard-looking Leroy walks up to them, running a hand down his face. "Sheriff. Mrs. Sheriff."

It's slightly better than him calling her 'you' — as he'd been accustomed to after the curse broke — but Regina still rolls her eyes.

"What the heck happened?" Emma asks.

"I swear, it's not my fault."

"Nobody's blaming you for anything. Tell me what happened."

"It was an accident," Leroy stresses once again, sounding just like Henry did when he broke one of Regina's decorative crystal bowls last week. It's not a good sign; guilt is not something she often associated with the shameless, often unapologetic man. "Long story short, there was a mouse—"

Emma shudders.

"I got spooked. I tossed a vial. It went poof and the kid just…"

"Just...?"

The dwarf exhales through his mouth, looking worse for wear. "He just... you have to see it for yourself."

Emma and Regina share a look.

That doesn't sound ominous at all.

"Where's he?" she asks quietly.

"With Whale and his brother," Leroy mumbles, scratching at his beard. "Follow me."

---

It takes her brain a full minute to register what's lying right before her when Whale tugs open the curtain to the examining room.

"Well," is all that Regina says. And that pretty much sums it up.

"The bad news is," Whale begins with a sigh, tucking his hands inside the pockets of his white coat. "The magical smoke, or whatever it was, matured him by about seventy years."

Through her periphery, Emma sees the doctor's lips move, and her ears pick up a bit of what he just said, but to be completely honest, comprehension falls a bit short because she just can't seem to stop gawping at the kid.

Kid.

Ironic, all things considered; bald, scrawny and just plain wrinkly, Rufio looks twice as ancient as the loveable fossil they call Paul.

"The good news, well," Whale glances at the patient lying on the examining bed. "He's not dead."

"—yet," Jackson grits out, glaring daggers at Leroy as he holds his brother's bony hand.

"He's a stubborn bastard. I'm sure he'll pull through," Leroy says. He turns to Regina then, and, despite the tightness of his expression, there's something in his eyes and the way his lips are set that just screams fear. "That damn maturation spell will wear off, right? Right?"

"Maturation spell? He's practically senile!" the former pirate snaps, eyes flashing with murder. "Look at him, he's another wheeze short of a heart attack!"

Seemingly oblivious to the drama surrounding him, Rufio, although conscious, just lets his gaze flit from person to person inside the cramped space. Emma's not entirely sure he can even see them, given the size of the cataracts that practically eclipse his chocolate brown irises.

"This vial that you broke," Regina finally speaks up, all business-like, turning to her deputy while Jackson continues to fume by his brother. "What did it contain?"

"I dunno, some kind of weird, blue smoke."

"What shade of blue?"

"It was... blue," Leroy shrugs uselessly. "Just blue. What difference does it frickin' make?"

"Plenty. And that difference, quite literally, spells life and death, dwarf," Regina bites back, unamused, before turning to the rest. "As far as I can recall, there are two sources of maturation magic in the Enchanted Forest; they're both extracted from the lungs of nymphs — and they're both blue."

"And we can tell them apart from what shade they are," Emma puts two and two together.

"Precisely," Regina says, and the fleeting look she gives her way is almost proud. "Those from celestial nymphs are lighter in color and their effects are temporary — the opposite can be said about the ones from the water nymphs."

"Light, good. Dark, bad," Whale simplifies it.

"Sky blue and the boy might have a chance; royal blue and you might as well start planning his funeral. So, if I were you, Deputy, I'd think long and I'd think hard. What shade of blue?"

Mary Margaret's favorite dwarf swallows visibly, shifting in place.

"The lighter one," Leroy says after a moment, a deep crease between his brows. "D-Definitely the lighter one. Yeah."

"Are you sure?" Storybrooke's magical consultant presses.

"Yes. I think."

"That's not good enough. Confirm it with Ruby," Emma tells him. It never hurts to be sure. "Where the heck is she anyway?"

"At the station," Jackson supplies. "She stayed behind to hold down the fort and also keep an eye on the exterminators."

"About that," Leroy pipes in. "Red and I both agreed to let the pest people do their thing in the, uh... evidence evidence room first," he throws a wary glance at Whale. "That place is crawling with those damn buggers."

"Naturally," Regina says under her breath, giving her the side-eye. "Of course you had to stick me with the vermin."

"The exterminators are taking care of it now," Emma says just as quietly, giving the annoyed woman a soft caress on the small of her back in an effort to placate. "Leroy," she looks at the man. "Radio Ruby, please."

"Roger that," he says, unclipping his walkie-talkie from his belt. And even though he steps out of the curtained area, they can still overhear his booming voice from the other side of the cloth.

"If he's right and it's really the good kind of blue, when do you think the spell will wear off?" Jackson directs at Regina.

"In the old world, no more than a day or two. But…"

"Magic is different in this place," Emma finishes the thought, resting her hands on the side of the examining table where her not-so-young friend's resting.

"So there are no guarantees," Regina folds her arms on her chest. "It might be an hour, a day, a week, a month."

"A year," Whale adds.

Jackson lets out a groan and screws his eyes shut, rubbing his face with his lone hand. "Bloody hell, this is like Toll Bridge and that coma all over again, isn't it?"

"It might seem that way," the doctor gives him a small, consoling squeeze on the shoulder. "But at least he's conscious and his vitals are good."

"For how long, though? Look, I've been pinching his damn hand every other minute just to make sure he doesn't fall asleep. Old people have the tendency of not waking up."

"I'm sure the ancient crones in this town would find that reassuring," Regina mutters, facing away.

"And what if he suffers a heart attack? Or a stroke?"

"It's light blue," Leroy re-joins them.

"Then he's in the right place for things like that," Whale answers Jackson's question, and even though his words aren't exactly very professional sounding, Emma finds them strangely reassuring. "We'll keep him here and keep a close eye on him until the spell wears off."

"You can stay with him, too," Emma tells the troubled man. "I'll pull a temp from Town Hall to take over dispatch duties while Rufio's in here."

Jackson nods once, moistening his lower lip before biting it. "Thank you, Sheriff."

"Don't mention it. And you," she looks down at her once youthful friend, and it's only when she covers his hand with her own that his gaze finally stops flitting around the room to meet hers. "Be the tough little brat I know and kick that spell out of your body, alright? You can't be a Lost Boy when you look like their great, great, great grandpa."

Rufio looks at her blankly.

"You have to speak up," Whale advises, leaning in close. "He's a bit deaf in one ear."

Of course he is.

Emma sighs.

Yeah, she definitely jinxed the kid.

---

"—I'll keep you posted."

"Please do," Ruby replies. Exhaling a generous amount of air from her lungs, she clips her walkie-talkie on her belt. And even though she thinks the conversation is done, it seems her colleague has other ideas.

"By the way, tell Rouleau we're taking off the cash he owes me from his damn bill," Leroy's disembodied voice cuts through the room like thunder. "And that bastard better give us a discount while he's at it."

Shaking her head, Ruby resumes her previous position of leaning against the wall, her arms crossed. "Hear that, Jaq?"

"Crystal clear, Deputy Lucas," Jacques gives her a salute, kneeling by one of the sticky traps he's setting up along the edges of the room. "I can even throw in a free termite check if you want."

"I'm sure the Sheriff would like that," she smiles. "Oh! Careful not to hit that thing," she rushes out, catching Bruno, Rouleau's lone companion, almost elbowing a jar off a shelf. "That's liquified ogre brains, you really don't want that all over you."

The scruffy, droopy-eyed man couldn't have shuffled away from it any faster.

"Say, Ruby, you still seeing that fireman?"

"Maybe, who's asking?"

"You-know-who," Jacques chuckles, the sides of his eyes crinkling. "Gus can't seem to stop talking about you."

From the right side of the room, near shelf number thirteen, Ruby's sensitive hearing picks up a squeak.

"Gus?"

"Oh, you might know him as Billy."

"Ah," Ruby says, turning her head back in the man's direction. "That's interesting, considering that your cousin can only manage a simple 'hi' and 'hello' whenever we bump into each other."

"He's a shy kid."

"No kidding," she says, playing with the leather cuff on her wrist. "But, yes, I'm still seeing Joe."

"Ah, that's too bad," he says, scratching at the odd-looking choker on his neck. "For poor, o'l Gus-Gus, of course."

The two men work in silence after that, setting up trap after trap and only stopping for an occasional, "What's this?" when Rouleau sees something that piques his interest. Though it's one of the more unremarkable pieces on shelf six that seems to fascinate him the most — judging from all the times Ruby catches him stealing glances at it.

"You thirsty, Jaq?"

"Hm?"

"That's not water, just so you know," she tells him, nodding at the hourglass that caught his fancy and the sparkly liquid within.

"Yeah? What is it?"

"No idea," Ruby shrugs, and that's the truth. "But trust me, it's not water."

Nothing in this room is ever what it seems.

"Good to know." He chuckles loudly then, even though it sounds a bit hollow.

She tilts her head, studying the unkempt man. There's something in his shifty demeanor that sets off warning bells in her head. Though, Ruby can't quite put a finger on it yet, so she just does the only thing she can do at this moment — she keeps a closer eye on him. Hey, for all she knows — and going by his track record — he might just be planning to swipe something off a shelf to use in paying off one of his many debts.

Jacques doesn't look at the hourglass anymore.

If you ask her, she thinks the guy is actively preventing himself from doing so — probably feeling her gaze boring a hole through his skull.

"So," Ruby fills the pregnant pause after several moments of silence. "You guys are just setting up sticky boards, huh? What about gas or poison?"

The lighting isn't good from where he's crouched, but she thinks she sees Jacques' expression darken at her question. Though, it might also just be her eyes playing tricks on her.

"That's inhumane," he says quietly, wiping his hands on his ratty overalls.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing," the exterminator shakes his head, straightening up. "Poison? It might be very effective, but as much as possible, we try to avoid using it. The cons outweigh the pros, in my humble opinion. If the rodents die within the walls or inside the heat vents, the stench would be a bitch to get rid of."

"That's true, I guess," Ruby acknowledges with a slight nod.

"Alright, I think I'm done," he declares some time later, after blanketing more than half of the room's edges with his glue boards. "Bruno, you set?"

"Just about, boss," the aforementioned guy grunts in reply.

"So, we'll do the adjacent room next as well as the main office," Jacques turns towards her, gathering up his supplies. "The rest of the station we'll do tomorrow, and we'll also check on the traps we've set up then. That sound good?"

Ruby nods.

The two men, for some reason, cover the plain evidence room in half the time it took for them to do the first one. Maybe it's the lack of interesting, magical distractions in the place, or more plausibly, they were just itching to go out for a smoke break — judging from the neurotic way they were sucking on the unlit cigarettes dangling between their lips.

"You really think sticky paper is enough to get rid of the mice?" Ruby asks when they step back inside the building ten minutes later, her satiated companions reeking like ashtrays.

"Yes, ma'am," Jacques smiles wide, the silver crown on his upper right tooth glinting in the sunlight streaming through the window. "I bet you, by this time tomorrow, your rodent problem will be no more."

She takes that statement at face value, but to be honest, in some odd, peculiar way, it feels like the first believable thing he's said all day.

---

It's Friday.

Which means Emma has no choice but to park her ass down in the living room after dinner, even though she wants nothing more than to crawl into bed after the day she's had. It doesn't matter that she spent the good chunk of the morning having her brain cells murdered at the council meeting, or most of the afternoon straining her vocal chords trying to talk to Rufio.

Friday nights are Family Movie Nights.

And Henry is a stickler for tradition.

At the end of the day, and despite her constant yawning, Emma doesn't really mind. The events of last year taught her to never take family time for granted. She only wishes that he had chosen a different movie, though.

Ratatouille is the cherry on top of a rodent-filled day.

And it seems her mind and Regina's are on the same wavelength.

"Did you make sure that the exterminators were thorough? If I see even just a single hint of a tail on Monday, I will incinerate the whole room."

"And I'll probably pour the gas and hand you the match myself," Emma says. "Ruby said they basically covered every inch of the place with sticky boards. They'll be back tomorrow to finish the job."

"Always thought that was weird," Henry joins in the conversation, mumbling over a mouthful of popcorn.

"Hm? What was?"

"You know, that one of Cinderella's mice ended up killing rats here for a living," their child says in between the two of them, grabbing another fistful from the bowl on his lap.

"Wait, Jacques?"

"Yup."

"Huh," Emma acknowledges with a slight tilt of her head. "You're right, that's weird."

Wait.

She stops mid-chew.

That is weird.

"Regina?"

"Hm?"

"Mice," Emma clambers out of the blanket and hits the pause button on the remote.

"Hey!" Henry protests, sending bits of popcorn out of his mouth and down his shirt.

Ignoring her son's whining, she flicks on a lamp and turns on the sofa, facing a baffled Regina.

"Mice," Emma repeats one more time. "We started noticing them scampering around at roughly the same time that things started getting moved in the evidence evidence room. And speaking of that room, they're always in its general vicinity — if not in it, then the rooms beside it."

Regina straightens up, uncurling her legs from under herself and planting her feet on the floor. "They never show up in the camera feeds."

"Because we were always looking for people, not animals," Emma nods.

"That would explain how the perpetrators were able to bypass my wards. Traveling through walls would eliminate the need to use doors and even windows."

Henry, who's now past being annoyed at having his movie interrupted, just watches the two of them with interest and stuffs his face with more food.

"Did you know that that Jacques guy was a shifter?"

"No," Regina shakes her head.

"That's what I thought, I don't think even Ruby knew either," Emma rakes her fingers through her hair. "She would've said something if she did."

"It's not something that he would advertise, I'm sure."

"Why not?"

"It's part of my job description as Magical Consultant to be aware of Storybrooke's magical populace. And I have heard that rodents are one of the most underrepresented groups in the dual-natured community in this town," Regina shares in a thoughtful manner, wiping off the salt and butter on her fingers on a napkin. "There's a stigma attached to them, much like werewolves, but worse. They're widely considered to be at the very bottom rung in the hierarchy of the shifter world — no more better than worms and bugs."

"So, it's not 'in' to be vermin?" Henry concludes.

"You could say that, sweetheart," Regina smiles indulgently, brushing his hair away from his face.

"Okay, say if Rouleau and his friends are really the ones going through Gold's stuff, the question now is why?" Emma frowns, thinking out loud.

"Clearly, they're looking for something," her majesty states the obvious. "And the fact that they've been taking and then re-placing small objects back after a day or two only means that those inept fools have been unsuccessful in locating it."

True, but…

A good thief would scope the area first before making their move. They've been making a lot of blunders these past couple of weeks, that's true, but Jacques had all afternoon to study the room today.

Shit.

"Actually," Emma stands up, wipes her hand on her jeans and then offers it for the other woman to take. "Let's go."

"Why? Where to?"

"The station. I have a strong feeling that they might've already found it."

---

It's a testament to how far Regina has progressed in her control when she doesn't teleport the two of them into a wall.

They end up smack dab in Emma's office too, another welcome surprise.

Although Ruby wasn't kidding when she said that the place is booby-trapped beyond belief.

"Jesus Christ," Emma hisses under her breath, kicking her left foot back and forth in an effort to get rid of the paper that's stuck under her boot. "Were they trying to trap humans or mice?"

"Those with tiny brains. The traps don't discriminate, obviously."

"Funny," she says dryly. "It's not my fault that you teleported me right on top of it. Now, help get this off of me, please."

With a flick of a finger, the sticky paper disappears. Along with Emma's boot.

"Accident," is the only thing Regina says. And it's only when Emma persists to give her the 'are-you-kidding-me?' stare that the woman finally exhales, as if mildly put out, and magicks her footwear back in place.

"Thank you," Emma mutters.

"Don't mention it," Regina drawls.

The eye-roll that elicits is automatic. It just goes to show that no matter how much their relationship has evolved, their ability to get on each other's nerves remains as potent as can be.

"What now?" the maddening woman whispers, turning to her for direction.

"Here," Emma replies, inching around her desk and setting herself down on her chair with minimal noise as possible. One careful tap on the space bar and the CPU starts to whirr, her computer coming out of sleep mode.

"You don't power it down at the end of the day?" Regina asks, looking over her shoulder; the pure judgment and condescension in her voice reminiscent of a certain tight-ass Mayor. "No wonder your department's expenditures are through the roof."

"A single computer barely makes a dent on the electricity bill," she mumbles, typing in her password. "Besides, I wasn't the one who demanded seven hundred fifty dollars worth of crystallized crap — now that hurt my budget."

"I didn't demand, I requested," Regina sniffs. "And you could've said no."

Technically, that's true, she did submit a requisition form — nine frickin' times until Emma finally caved in.

"And need I remind you that that crystallized 'crap' has been essential to keeping bad elements out of this town, Sheriff? How many creatures have stumbled into fissures since I began reinforcing the barrier separating the two worlds?"

"Three."

"One," Regina deadpans. "A creature with three heads is still one creature. We've been through this a hundred times."

"I know. Why'd you think I said three?"

Now it's Regina's turn to roll her eyes.

"Alright, let's see here…" Emma bites her lower lip, double-clicking the red-eye icon on the desktop with her mouse. In a matter of seconds, the screen fills up with several small windows, each showing a live-feed of the different rooms in the station.

Cameras seven and eight — the ones positioned at different vantage points in the evidence evidence room — are what she maximizes and puts side by side.

It really is a damn good thing that the department's security feed is accessible from her computer; saves them the trouble of going to the room right away and possibly alerting the would-be thieves about their presence.

"Do you see anything?" Emma asks, eyes narrowing, her nose virtually pressing against the monitor.

"Your head," Regina frowns. "Move."

"Please," she schools, pulling back and scooting a bit to the side. "Better?"

"It'll do," her demanding partner-in-crime says, their heads now side-by-side, cheeks brushing against each other.

And from there, several minutes of intense squinting occur. Followed, of course, by moments of hushed squabbling whenever someone — mostly Emma — would raise a false alarm. It's not really her fault that some of the bigger dust-bunnies look like mice; someone really needs to take a vacuum to that place before it turns into a full-on petting zoo.

Twenty long minutes in, they finally hit paydirt.

Emma spots movement first, but it's Regina who actually says 'there!' and jabs a finger onto the screen. Not just one, but three rodents had entered the frame. The biggest of the three leading the pack, they come out of a tiny hole in the wall and move into the room in a straight line. Regina and her both let out a quiet hum at the sight. Those critters are far too organized to be anything but shape-shifters; looks like they've finally found their thieves.

Emma opens her drawer and pulls out her spare gun, flipping the safety off with her thumb.

Without missing a beat, Regina grabs hold of her free hand.

The moment they touch and the other woman closes her eyes, the air starts to crackle with magic and their bodies begin to thrum.

And then the room shifts, and in a blink, they're gone.

---

The tiny intruders are halfway up the sixth shelf when Regina flicks on the lightswitch and Emma yells, "Freeze!"

And you know what, those buggers actually do.

If there's still any doubt in her mind that they're dealing with shifters, it's completely gone by this point. What kind of self-respecting mouse would actually follow orders? Even without provocation, normal rodents would hightail it out of there at the first sign of giant human legs.

But, no. Not these three stooges.

Like deer caught in headlights, they stop mid-climb on the shelf's metallic post, their wide, beady eyes deadset on Emma and her pointed gun. The tiniest one in the bunch even lets out a horrified sounding squeak.

They're human… they're human… they're human…

Emma repeats in her head like a chant, keeping her pistol steady despite her skin crawling and the mighty goosebumps breaking out on her arm. She hates mice. Hates them. And the only thing keeping her from shrieking like a banshee and emptying out her clip like a madwoman is the thought that… yep, they're human.

Regina steps beside her, fireball in hand.

"You have three seconds to transform back into your pathetic human forms before I burn you all to a crisp," her majesty warns, imposing as only an ex-Evil Queen can be. "The only thing better than a dead mouse is a well-done one."

"One," Emma starts. "Two."

No one moves a muscle.

Fine then…

"Three!"

Squeak!

And all hell breaks loose.

Still in its mouse form, the biggest one in the bunch is the first to let go of its hold on the post, and as it falls down, it takes the other two with him. They land on the floor with a clumsy plop but recover almost instantly, and before Emma knows what the hell is going on, the nasty creatures are already between her legs.

"Fuck!" she shrieks, and she swears she jumps five feet in the air in fright.

Regina, thankfully, keeps her wits.

There's now a trail of smouldering glue paper on the floor as the woman launches fireball after fireball at the rodents; the critters dodging both them and the sticky obstacles like a group of expert slalom racers. At the rate they're all going, it's a wonder the smoke alarm hasn't gone off yet. Hell, it's a miracle the whole room hasn't gone up in flames.

"They're heading for the hole!" Emma exclaims after she finally gathers her bearings.

Regina, with her jaw set and brows meeting in concentration, acknowledges her with a grunt before closing her hand into a fist. And when she unfurls her fingers and flicks her wrist, the golf ball-sized hole in the corner of the room vanishes.

Another wrist flick from the former queen and all the small fires go out, saving them from getting drenched when the sprinkles inadvertently go off.

Unfortunately, two out of three rodents manage to go through the hole before it disappears.

The unlucky one, like a scene out of a Tom and Jerry episode, runs right into the wall with a squeak.

Quickly, Emma and Regina run over to corner the little guy in an attempt to block its escape.

"You had your chance, no more one-two-threes," Regina taunts with a cruel smile, conjuring up another fireball. She aims, pulls her hand back and—

"N-No!" In a puff of red smoke, the brown mouse transforms into a man - a man decked in oil-stained coveralls and his face smeared with grease, no less. "P-Please, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Don't kill me, please! I beg you!"

Regina curls her lip in disgust at the cowering man's quivering form and makes no move to get rid of the fireball.

Emma, on the other hand, tilts her head and frowns.

She knows this guy.

"You're a mechanic in Michael's garage," she recalls, her gun still pointed at his head. "Billy, am I right?"

"Y-Yes, ma'am," he nods, beads of sweat peppering his forehead and even his upper lip.

"So I'm guessing grease monkeys don't earn much, huh?" she follows up. "Is that why you're masquerading as a thief in your spare time? Got some things to buy, maybe bills to pay?"

"More like gambling debts, my dear," Regina quirks an eyebrow, looking down her nose at the guy. "Did your cousin put you up to this, little mouse? Is that sniveling low-life running late on his payments again?"

His gaze falls to the floor, a telling sign.

"I see," Regina scoffs. "So he's fallen so low that he has to steal in order to get by. Pathetic."

"We're n-not stealing, ma'am," Billy swallows visibly. "I swear on my life, we're not."

"A liar and a thief," her majesty sneers. "Your life must mean very little to you if you're willing to curse it for a lie."

"I'm n-not lying!" he exclaims, shifting to his knees now, his hands on his chests. "I promise you, I'm not. I m-mean, how can it be stealing when the owner of the thing just wanted it back, right? Right? Technically, it's his, not yours."

Emma swears one can hear a pin drop in the room, and she's pretty sure Regina stops breathing for a moment. Hell, she can even hear her own blood rushing through her ears.

"His?" Emma murmurs, green eyes narrowing. "Who's he? And what thing are you talking about?"

"He's gonna kill us," Billy says instead, clutching his shaved head in his hands and sagging against the wall in despair. "Oh God, he's gonna kill us. We owe him and now he's coming to collect. And when he does, we're dead. Dead."

He's obviously about to lose it.

"He?" Regina finds her voice again, her tone low but no less deadly.

Billy doesn't answer.

Instead, he just says something that makes Emma's blood boil and the fireball in Regina's hand to grow twice in size.

With his eyes rimmed red, Billy looks at them, his voice hollow. "He's gonna kill us. No one breaks a deal with Rumplestiltskin. No one."

Chapter Text

Henry has a wart on his left foot.

Yep, he does.

He swears he got it from Nicholas after he borrowed his gym shoes.

Hang around the kid long enough and he's bound to talk your ear off about it. No one is spared all the grisly details, not even the girl he's crushing on.

"Grandma said that if Paige really likes me, she'll accept me warts and all!" is the comeback of choice everytime she chides him for telling the poor girl.

Emma appreciates the sentiment, sure, she just wishes her mother didn't encourage his tendency to overshare.

His behavior is very atypical of a boy his age, but then again, there is also nothing remotely typical about their household. He is very much Regina's son in that he is utterly confident and secure in his ways, but also Emma's by how shameless he can be.

Regardless, they're proud of him. They just wish he'd stop telling them over supper how the black dots — they look like weird freckles, Emma! — seem to be multiplying every day.

So… yeah. It's been an ongoing saga. And even though she's kinda new to this whole parenting thing, she knows enough from following Regina's lead that, as a family, they're all in this predicament together.

So, Henry's wart problem becomes the family's wart problem.

That's why both of his moms were present during his appointment with the dermatologist. And Emma's just grateful that even though Regina had become an expert on warts and their morphology seemingly overnight, Dr. Weiss was still kind enough to dumb it down for the rest of the group.

And by that, she means herself.

Emma's not even going to pretend it was for Henry's benefit. The kid is cut from the same cloth as his mother, seeing how the two Mills' had spent the whole evening prior to the appointment poring over wart content from Dr. Google — homework, Miss Swan — while Emma busied herself with the new Tomb Raider game. Even the doctor was impressed with Henry's knowledge of medical jargon — mispronunciations and all.

Anyway, Emma's takeaway from that hour-long thing was that… warts are stubborn as fuck.

Much like icky toenail fungus, they are an absolute bitch to get rid of. And that wart treatments — and there's a lot of them — mostly involve just irritating the wart. That's because the virus that causes them lives so superficially on the skin that it's difficult for one's immune system to find it and get rid of it effectively. Therefore, the main goal of therapy is to irritate the warty skin enough that it activates the immune system into search-and-destroy mode. Or something.

She must've looked pretty damn lost somewhere along the way, because just when her eyes had started to gloss over, she felt Regina's hand on her thigh and her warm breath on her ear as she whispered, "Think of it in terms of inciting a revolution to topple a tyrant, my dear. The rebel is the medication, the populace is the immune system, and the dictator is the virus. The rebel need not get his hands dirty by assassinating the dictator himself — he merely needs to rile up the populace so that they rise up and do it for him."

She honestly doesn't know how Regina can make warts and viruses and revolutions sound so… alluring… but she's thankful nonetheless. And she did thank her a few times that night, so there's that.

So, basically, Henry is gonna have to Che Guevarra his plantar wart.

That she can follow.

Her current predicament, however, she can't quite get a grip on yet.

Because Emma can't seem to understand why, on this night of all nights, when the knowledge that their — for lack of a better word — nemesis has re-emerged in Storybrooke, all Emma can think about is that… Henry still has a wart on his left foot.

Maybe because it's been months since the first doctor's appointment and they're on their fourth—or fifth?—different treatment now.

They've tried duct tape. They've tried salicylic acid adhesive pads. They've tried freezing with liquid nitrogen. And, heck, they've even tried Baba Yaga's rancid magical poultice. Short of nuking the damn thing, it feels like there's nothing they haven't done.

The stubborn bugger just won't go away.

It's like banging your head against a wall; you throw everything you possibly can at it, hoping that your efforts will be enough, and then… it persists. Like a damn cockroach after a nuclear fallout. You think you've gotten rid of it once and for all, and when your guard is down and you've been lulled into a false sense of security, it roars back to life like a disfigured phoenix and comes back at you with a vengeance.

Basically… like Gold.

And just like that, the proverbial lightbulb goes off in her head.

That's it then. That's the connection.

After months of quiet, of peace, of nightmares about swords and wraiths and death and masks, and of constantly looking over her shoulder and waiting for the other shoe to drop…

He's back.

And in the absence of answers, in the face of her fears, and in some weird convoluted way, the only truth she can find comfort in, and the only thing Emma can gleam out of this is that…

Rumplestiltskin is a wart.

And, damn it all, here they go again.

---

She doesn't even know where to begin to process it all.

Like, where does she even start at this point? They haven't even gotten to that part in her therapy yet. Her weekly sessions with Dr. Hopper mostly involve talking about the events of the last year — especially the incident at Toll Bridge — and how she can effectively move on from the trauma; they haven't really touched upon important shit like effective coping mechanisms when the inevitable happens and Rumplestiltskin steps out of her nightmares and into her reality.

Somehow, she doesn't think taking in deep breaths and visualizing a babbling brook will do much to make her feel better.

And this… well, this sucks.

And for a moment, she starts questioning why on earth she even agreed to see a shrink when it obviously doesn't do much during moments when she really needs something to work. But then she remembers—she's not really seeing Archie just for her own sake.

No one came out of that whole experience unscathed — visible or not, they all have their scars, their battle wounds. And, well, she's not the only one suffering from nightmares.

In her defense, Regina is not one to advocate for something she hasn't tried at least once — that's why it carried more weight when the woman insisted on therapy for Emma several months ago.

Well, insisted might be an understatement. Emma didn't get manhandled — that would be utterly ridiculous being that she is a grown-ass woman with her own agency — but she was definitely escorted to Dr. Hopper's office. By Regina. By Henry. By her parents. By her deputies.

They might as well have put up a banner saying 'Buckle up, we're going on a guilt-trip!' when they all showed up at her house one day for an intervention. Because god-forbid she has the audacity to express her desire to go back to work since physio wasn't kicking her ass anymore and she could remain upright for a whopping fifteen minutes before she needed to sit her ass back down on a chair.

Whatever panic she might've felt when Emma blurted out 'I'm so bored at home, I wanna come back to work on Monday' over a mouthful of Fruit Loops, Regina hid it well. And if she didn't know to look for the telltale sign of a protruding vein on Regina's forehead, Emma would be none the wiser.

So, if she were really honest with herself, she'd admit that it didn't really come as a surprise that Regina frickin' Mills rallied everyone, even her beloved Snow White, to make sure she didn't do anything stupid. It might be over the top, but then again, when has that woman ever done anything half-assed?

"You're not stepping foot in that station without all of your doctors giving you the all-clear," Regina had said in a tone that brokered no arguments. "I will not suffer your idiocy, Emma Swan. I'd rather you be bored to death than be outright dead."

It took six grueling sessions of baring her soul before Dr. Hopper rubber-stamped her return to active duty. She had been ecstatic then, and despite some stressful days here and there, police work had generally been a welcome thing in her life.

Until two hours ago, that is.

Funny how fast things went from 'not good' to 'shit, this is bad' territory the moment they caught a mouse in the evidence evidence room and the shifty shifter ratted out their mastermind as being none other than Rumplestiltskin.

It turned an already exhausting day into an unbearable one.

And the funny thing is, this night is far from over, and she knows it's only gonna get worse from here.

Because it's now almost ten in the evening on a paycheck Friday — otherwise known as karaoke night at The Rabbit Hole — which means at any given time within the next two hours, the station's phones will be ringing off the hook because someone was hogging the mic again, or singing a song completely off-key, or serenading someone else's girlfriend, or picking a ballad that's too damn depressing, or bastardizing their favorite diva's song, or some other reason that's so fucking absurd that an all-out brawl breaks out and someone loses a tooth, maybe a handful of hair, and more often than not, their freedom for at least a day or two. Three if one of her people gets hurt when responding to the call, because a) more paperwork, and b) screw you.

So it's basically the calm before the storm here at the Sheriff's Department.

There's only one person in lockup and that's their mousy friend from earlier, a guy by the name of Billy, exterminator Jacques Rouleau's younger cousin. A guy who, according to the department's newly digitized police records (aka their database for the mischievous and magical), works as a mechanic at Michael Tillman's garage and has no priors apart from a dropped misdemeanor charge for an altercation during — surprise, surprise — karaoke night at the local dive bar.

Though on second look, and after she actually reads what's written on August's novella of an incident report, it seems like Jacques was the one involved in the fight with a drunk and irate Rapunzel (who, it seems, really lets her hair down after six shots of Cuervo), and Billy just got roped into the whole mess by coming to his cousin's defense.

Emma doesn't really get taking a pool cue to the face for someone who butchered Whitney Houston's seminal classic, I Will Always Love You, but to each their own, she guesses.

It can't be worse than getting yourself locked up and facing charges such as breaking and entering, tampering with evidence, and her personal favorite, aiding and abetting a major pain in the ass. Especially since that pain in the ass happens to be Rumple-fucking-stiltskin.

Exhaling a generous amount of air from her lungs, Emma throws her head back against her chair and wrestles with the temptation to just close her eyes and drift to sleep. Maybe when she wakes up, she'll find herself in bed, Regina rubbing her back and telling her that it's okay, just another one of her nightmares again.

Man, wouldn't that be the dream.

A pipe dream, maybe. But pipe dream or not, there's one thing Emma knows beyond a doubt. And that's if she survives this, she's definitely getting her money's worth during her next Therapy Tuesday with Dr. Hopper.

Although for his sake, he better have something better to suggest than smelling pine trees, or tai chi at the park, or imagining rainbows, or holding babies, or—have you tried knitting?

"Penny for your thoughts," Emma hears after a moment, soft enough not to startle her. Catching herself, she quickly soothes away the deep crease between her brows and smiles faintly at the other woman in her office.

"Nothing, I—" she stops short when she sees the look on Regina's face, and then sighs. What's the point in lying when she can read her like a book? "I was just thinking about what kind of bullcrap Archie would have to come up with next time to help me deal with all of this."

Regina lets out a derisive snort, and then gives Emma a look that tells her she knows that there's more to it than that, but mercifully, she just asks, "Is he still suggesting you procure yourself an emotional support animal?"

Emma has to scoff at the ridiculousness of that notion, and when she looks back up at the woman who's perched on the edge of the window sill, she just shrugs and says, "Yeah, he does. Even though I keep telling him I don't need one because I already have one at home."

The eyebrow raise that elicits is slow and deliberate. "I'm in a magnanimous mood, my dear, so I will choose to let your impertinence slide. However, refer to me as an animal again and I might not be so kind."

"Who says I was talking about you?"

Regina just fixes her with a stare.

"You're no fun," she says with a wry smile, before sobering up a little to ask, "How 'bout you, by the way? How's your own therapy going?"

The put out expression that abruptly takes over Regina's face is answer enough, but after a moment passes, she still manages a stilted yet diplomatic, "Dr. Hopper and I appear to be at an impasse."

"How so?"

"He believes that I still hold grudges and I am of the opinion that I merely hold a grudge," Regina sniffs, smoothing out a wrinkle on her black slacks with her palm. "There is a difference between the two, he just refuses to see past semantics."

"Not ready to let 'bygones be bygones' or whatever the crap he says?"

"The cricket can advocate for forgiveness until he's blue in the face; I will never be ready to wipe the slate clean with Rumple," Regina declares, the steel in her tone leaving no room for doubt. "Nor would I ever be willing to."

Emma nods, just listening quietly, worrying on her bottom lip with her teeth.

She can't really fault Regina for that, the fact that she'd rather bury the man than bury the hatchet. There's too much history there; too much bad blood. And maybe blaming Gold makes it easier for Regina to grapple with all that guilt and anxiety she seems to be struggling with.

The woman still wakes up in the middle of the night to check that Emma's still there and still very much alive, and there's a part of Emma that's scared that no amount of therapy can ever make that stop, and her heart breaks a little for causing such distress to someone she loves.

Staring unseeing out the window and the darkness enveloping their sleeping town, Regina picks at the hem of her crimson blouse, and then breaks Emma out of her thoughts with a pensive, "My relationship with Rumple, even on its best days, has always been contentious."

Understatement of the century, she thinks.

"That being said, we both had a proclivity for finding glee in toying with each other. Despite how much blood he and I drew, in a twisted way we reveled in our little game of give-and-take," Regina continues quietly, twisting the ring on her finger. Her eyes darken again. "But this time he took too much. He went too far. And until Dr. Hopper accepts that there are certain lines that people simply cannot 'get over' once crossed, I will refuse to follow his advice on the matter."

Fair enough.

Emma gets it, she really does, but she's also sure certain denizens of Storybrooke would call Regina's stance hypocritical considering how she didn't just cross a line but a whole frickin' world to enact her curse. But, well, that's a whole different issue altogether.

And it's not like Emma can't understand her point of view or her feelings on the matter. Because if there's anyone in this world who can sympathize with Regina, it's the person who was lying at death's door, a blade lodged in her chest, choking on her own blood, terrified as fuck, and—

Emma screws her eyes shut.

She really doesn't need to rehash that tonight. This is not a good time; she can't afford to pick at the patchwork that months of therapy have painstakingly assembled just because Gold had the nerve to come back and ruin a good thing just by being, well, here. She can't—

There's a taste of acid in her mouth.

But even when blood seems to be rushing to her ears, she still picks up movement from her periphery, and when she opens her eyes again, she's greeted by the image of Regina sitting on the edge of her desk, looking at her in that way of hers that makes Emma feel so fucking naked.

But also so damn safe that when Regina's soft hand reaches forward to caress her cheek, and she lets herself lean into her touch, to focus on the thumb brushing against her clammy skin, Emma finally lets go of the breath she's holding in.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring you back to that godforsaken place."

Emma smiles ruefully, placing her hand over Regina's and giving it a light pat. "It's okay, it rears its ugly head from time to time, but it's getting better. I'm getting better."

She knows her words don't really convince the other woman — heck, she doesn't fully believe them herself, but at least the tension on Regina's face eases by a fraction and she looks like she can breathe a little bit too.

"I promise, I'm fine," Emma follows up, softly, and then places a lingering kiss on the inside of Regina's hand before slowly pulling away from her grasp and entwining their fingers instead. Their matching rings rub against each other then, in a way that gives her a moment's pause, because it's a sobering reminder that however hard it gets sometimes, however scary, they're both still here.

And sometimes that's all that matters.

They're interrupted by a knock on the door. It's a testament to the gravity of the moment that they didn't even notice that August had finally rejoined them despite being able to see the rest of the station through the glass partitions.

Exhaling quietly, Regina gives her hand a gentle squeeze before straightening up and retaking her spot by the window.

Emma waves him in.

"He's out like a light, boss," her deputy shares with a sigh, closing the glass door of her office behind him with a soft click. At the far end of the room, in Emma's old cell, a lump on the bed resembling Billy Rouleau is lying curled up, looking tiny as, well, a mouse. "I've never seen anyone literally cry themselves to sleep before."

"You clearly haven't spent a lot of time in foster homes," Emma says, not without irony. Ignoring the guilty look she suddenly receives, she reaches for a pen and starts fiddling with it. "So, uh, has Ruby found Jacques and the other mouse yet?"

Her deputy shakes his head in the negative. "She lost their scent in the sewers."

Awesome.

Emma shuts her eyes, briefly, and pinches the bridge of her nose. "So, what, she can't smell shit in there?"

"Well, technically—"

"Rhetorical question, Woody."

"Sorry, Sheriff," August clears his throat. "I'm not worried at all though. I know we'll find them soon enough," he says, sounding too optimistic for someone working for a department that doesn't really have a great track record when it comes to catching fugitives.

Argos, anyone?

But, okay, fine. Argos-Emma did have the advantage of scent-scrambling wards, lots and lots of them, a gaggle of Lost Boys to boss around, and oh right, first-hand knowledge of the future ensuring that the thief was always a step ahead of the authorities. So, maybe she should really cut them some slack. After all, the game was rigged from the beginning - by herself, nonetheless.

"Plus," August continues, pulling her away from her reverie. "There's a full moon tomorrow night, you know how freakishly heightened Ruby's senses get then."

"...true," Emma acquiesces.

Ruby, often ravenous during that time of the month, could suss out what one had for breakfast and dinner from a simple 'good morning' from the other side of the bullpen. No one bothers hiding snacks at the station during those times — it's what someone as smart as Regina would call an exercise in futility.

"And if her nose still fails, we can always request assistance from the Storybrooke Shifter Society," August supplements, and then takes up Emma's offer to sit when she inclines her chin at one of the guest chairs by her desk. "Heard there's a lot of cat people there. Bet they know how to sniff out a mouse or two."

Regina crosses her arms and chances a glance at the occupied cell. "Did the blubbering buffoon say anything new?"

"Same old, same old. Gold's gonna kill them, no one breaks a deal with Rumplestiltskin, he doesn't know where Gold is, etcetera etcetera," August scratches at the stubble on his cheek, quickly rethinking his desire to lean back when the rickety chair creaks under his weight. "He really doesn't seem to know much apart from needing to break into the station to steal something for Gold. For such a dumbass, Jacques seems to be the brains of the operation."

"All the more reason to find him then," Emma agrees, tapping her desk with the pen. She stops when she feels the disapproving glare thrown her way, and promptly chucks the pen back into its holder. "Does Billy know anything at all about what they're stealing, at least?"

"Just that it's an hourglass."

"Oh?" Emma arches an eyebrow, well that's promising. Eagerly, she turns to Regina. "You've read Ruby and Rufio's reports, how many hourglasses have they cataloged in the evidence evidence room?"

"They're not nearly close to being done, but from what I can recall," Regina squints, and then her mouth sets into a thin line. "Give or take, fifty-three."

Fifty… three…

"But… why…?" Emma breathes out, her features contorting in confusion. No wonder their rodent guests kept coming back trying to find the object. "Why the heck does he have so many hourglasses? Who needs that much?"

Regina sighs then and meets August's equally weary gaze. "Would you like to do the honors, Deputy Booth?"

The man shakes his head. "No, thank you," he says graciously. "You go ahead."

"Hourglasses were once regarded as collector's items in all the magical realms," Regina deadpans. "An enterprising merchant had a surplus of them, and in a flash of inspiration, made a deal with Rumple. Like a plague, this brought about the hourglass hysteria that swept over all the kingdoms. It was unfathomable the fervor with which those imbeciles were procuring them, truly believing that the rare ones would increase in value over time."

Emma blinks. "Oh."

"Predictably, that bubble burst soon enough, and the rabble found themselves some other insipid thing to throw away their coins at."

So, basically, hourglasses were the Beanie Babies of the Enchanted Forest. Emma would laugh, because damn that's just ridiculous, but right now she just feels like banging her head against the wall.

"You know what's weird though?" she says after a beat, running her fingers through her hair. "I know he likes collecting favors and such — but Gold doesn't exactly strike me as a bandwagoner. I still don't get why he has a shitton of hourglasses."

"That's because it's not about the hourglasses per se, my dear. It's about what they represent."

"Gullibility?"

August snorts.

"While I cannot argue with that, it was mostly desperation," Regina says, "Those wretched souls would use them to bargain with the Dark One, utterly convinced that they're the most valuable thing they could possibly offer. And the imp took them, not because he needed something tangible to seal the deal, but simply because he could."

"He found satisfaction in stripping someone of what they held dear," August pipes in. And to his credit, it's obvious he's making a conscious effort not to look at Regina. There's really nothing to be gained by unpacking that box tonight.

"Okay. This hourglass," Emma sits up, a little abruptly, steering the conversation back to neutral waters. "What does it look like? Did Billy give you a description of sorts?"

"Only that it contains some kind of bluish shimmering water and not sand," August replies with a helpless shrug.

"That eliminates barely a third of the hourglasses in that room," Regina says drolly. "And even then, we still have to determine precisely what kind of water it holds."

"Kind of water?" Emma scrunches her nose. "Like what, mineral? Filtered? Spring?"

"More magical, less ordinary, Miss Swan."

"Carbonated?"

Regina doesn't even bother hiding her eye roll. "I was thinking more along the lines of The Fountain of Youth, my dear. But either way, this talk is pointless because there's a high probability that it might not even be water to begin with."

"That's actually true," August sighs.

Emma looks between the two of them, feeling more than a little lost.

"While sand and water-filled hourglasses are more common," Regina intones, probably out of pity for Emma after noticing the knitted brows on her face. "Pixie tears were also used by mastercraftsmen because of their unique aesthetics and their ideal viscosity."

Emma's not even going to pretend that she knows just how and why viscosity relates to the mechanics of an hourglass, so she just nods her head and leaves it at that.

"And they are blue in color, so I suppose that makes a strong case for a pixie tear hourglass being Rumple's objective," Regina follows up, frowning in thought. "But then again, I could be mistaken."

So basically they're still operating on hunches. Nothing new, really.

Emma chews on the tip of her thumb.

"Why does it matter what's in them though?" she follows up after a second. "Isn't the actual hourglass more important than whatever's inside it?"

"Not all the time," Regina shakes her head. "Especially when it concerns prized substances like pixie tears — those are the ones where the actual value is in the filler and not the vehicle that holds it."

"I remember my dad was absolutely furious when I traded our cow for one," August shares, almost sheepish, absentmindedly rubbing his knuckles on his jeans. "We were saving Jean for the winter."

"A cow," Regina echoes. And then scoffs. "Deputy, if you were my offspring I would've turned you back into a tree and made a bonsai out of you for buying a fake. An authentic pixie tear hourglass went for at least twenty cows — you got swindled."

Emma's not really familiar with what the going rate for cows in the Enchanted Forest was, but she guesses from the grimace on his face that they went for a lot.

"Why were they pricey?" Emma inquires, looking at Regina. "What's so special about pixie tears aside from how viscous they are?"

"For one, they are indeed rare. They're notoriously difficult to come by since collecting tears from those creatures is akin to squeezing blood from a rock. Pixies are inexplicably, ludicrously, and perpetually happy that making them cry is a cumbersome act," Regina practically sneers out, like being too damn happy is on equal footing with catching leprosy. "And two, perhaps the most important, their tears carry an abundance of mystical properties—"

"They're potent aphrodisiacs," August interjects, a tiny gleam in his eye, and then promptly deflates after being on the receiving end of Regina's famous side-eye.

"—that are useful in a multitude of maladies," a ruffled Regina carries on, flicking a few errant strands of hair away from her eyes. "Such as—"

"Wait, hold up," Emma lifts a finger, perking up suddenly. "Humor me for a sec," she directs at Regina, who obviously doesn't enjoy getting interrupted again judging from the exasperated sigh she makes. "What if Gold is actually looking for an hourglass with pixie tears, does that mean he's sick or something?"

It's a testament to how much their working relationship has matured that Regina actually takes a moment to consider her words instead of immediately laughing at her face.

"If he were indeed searching for pixie tears, then I suppose one could infer that," Regina acknowledges, pursing her lips. "That being said, the fact that they're used in far too many elixirs would make it rather difficult to ascertain what he could potentially need them for. Unless you ask Rumple yourself — and well, it would be easier to make a damn pixie cry than to get a straight answer from the imp."

Emma and August both bob their heads in silent agreement.

"What are the most common uses for them though?" Emma asks, folding her hands on her lap and leaning back against her chair. Might as well indulge and satiate her own curiosity at this point. "Are they like a cure for cancer?"

"No dear, that would be mermaid scales," Regina simply says, serious as a heart attack. "Pixie tears are for more, shall I say, pedestrian afflictions. Dandruff, nail fungus, warts, thinning hairline, poor memory. And yes, Deputy Booth, also a low sex drive," she continues in a tired if not indulgent tone.

August doesn't say anything, but Emma can definitely see the tips of his ears pinking despite the muted lighting in her office.

So… dandruff and the like, huh?

Emma stares at the ceiling and then puffs out a breath from her lips. She really can't imagine Gold going through all this trouble to get rid of a toenail fungus, or, ew, revive his flatlining sex life, but stranger things have happened in this town. And the fact that they're totally not outside the realm of possibility is just so outrageous, it's enough to bring a grown woman to tears.

Man, she hopes it never comes to that.

"Perhaps he came back to Storybrooke for a wart on his foot," Emma's ears pick up, making her wonder for a hot second if Regina can actually read her mind. They exchange a look then, and despite the dour mood in the station, they both allow themselves a small smile.

Too bad the moment is interrupted by a shrill sound cutting through the silence.

August and Emma share a loaded glance. Without much fanfare, her deputy gets on his feet and heads for the ringing phone.

Like frickin' clockwork.

"Here we go again," Emma sighs. She pulls on her leather jacket and grabs her holster from its perch near the filing cabinet. Regina, looking none too pleased, merely pushes herself off the window sill and sticks out her hand for Emma to grab.

Their fingers are already intertwined and Regina's all poised to teleport them by the time August is done with the call.

"Fistfight over a Mariah song," he manages to say with the straightest of faces. "Started after some lady named Ariel threw a beer bottle at a woman singing Always Be My Baby to her husband."

"Ursula," Regina rolls her eyes.

Emma stifles a groan.

"What the hell is it about this town and fighting over divas?"

"Oh my dear Miss Swan," Regina drawls, sounding almost bored. "Don't you know that princesses are the biggest divas of all?"

And with that, the floor beneath their feet vibrates, and in a blink of an eye, they disappear.

---

Jacques is no stranger to running for his life.

In the old land, in another life, that's all he ever did. One could say that it's all he's ever known. Growing up dirt poor in the slums of Jaspiere, street rat was more than just a slur thrown at him and his cousin — it was their life, their reality. Orphans at a young age, and left to their own devices, they had to learn to fend for themselves. To survive they had to eat and to eat they had to steal. And stealing almost always involved running, whether on two legs or four.

Sometimes they'd go for days without shifting back into their human forms. At least as mice their stomachs were smaller and finding shelter for the night was easier. And in an odd way, it was safer. Predators existed in all shapes and forms — existing on the bottom rung of society made them invisible to most people, and yet they never seemed to fail to catch the attention of the crooked, the villainous, and the wicked.

They were good for the dirty jobs, the menial tasks. And the seedy underbelly of Jaspiere honed their talents and profited from their desolation. That is how stealing defined their lives and running became their forte.

It all became too much at one point, when Jacques realized that there didn't seem to be a limit to how low he could go for a full belly and warm feet.

And that revulsion and self-loathing were at their peak when the curse ravaged the lands, so much so that Jacques was one of the few who welcomed it with open arms.

And as living proof that one could live multiple lives and still have crappy luck in each one, he turned from a skittering mouse into a sniveling weasel.

Trading his chains for a noose, his cursed persona had gone from stealing everything to losing almost all he had to gambling. Down on his luck doesn't even begin to cover it — when the Savior broke the curse and lifted the veil from people's eyes, he found himself drowning in debt and beholden to another monster.

Both in the literal and figurative sense.

Gambling may have ruined his existence, but Mr. Gold may just end it.

This was supposed to be his second lease in life. A chance to start anew with a cleaner, fresher slate.

But look where he is right now, mucking around in a sewer in the dead of night, filthier than he's ever been.

"Jaq," he hears a sharp whisper from behind him.

He doesn't stop, he can't. They can't lie low as rodents until everything blows over. No, not in this world. Magic is different in here, and they wouldn't be able to maintain their animal forms for more than a few hours, let alone several days. So they've been running all night, from four legs and now down to two, and even though his lungs are on fire and he's covered in shit, that wolf of a deputy might not be far behind so they can't afford to—

"Jaq, stop," Bruno's gruff voice echoes, bouncing against the damp walls. "We have to go back—"

Like fuck they would.

"We have to go back!" Bruno finally catches up to him and grabs his arm, yanking him back into the shadows, away from the moonlight filtering through a storm drain above. "You left him! You left Gus!"

"Shut up," Jacques hisses, getting right in his oldest friend's face, his own shaking fists bunching up the hysterical man's shirt. "Last time I checked, you were running too. We left him. So shut the fuck up before your huge mouth lets every single fucking person in this town know exactly where we are."

"But Gus—"

"Might just be safer in jail than he is with us," Jacques finishes, letting out a labored breath, and then he loosens his grip and eventually lets go of Bruno's shirt. "The Savior and the Evil Queen will hopefully make Rumplestiltskin think twice about killing him."

"But what about us? What do we do now?" Bruno asks, sagging against the wall, looking older than his years. "We still don't have the fucking hourglass."

"I don't have the hourglass," Jacques corrects, removing his cap and wiping at his drenched brow with his forearm. "This is my stupid debt to settle, bud. I appreciate all your help, I really do. But when he comes collecting and I can't pony up, you have to promise me that you'll—"

It hits him like a damn lightning bolt.

The collar around his neck is burning with the heat of a thousand suns.

And no matter how many times it's happened in the past several days, he can never seem to brace himself for the excruciating pain. Before he knows it, he's doubled over, clawing at his neck, whimpering like a child.

He's being summoned.

"I thought you had until Sunday night?" Bruno says, hovering over him like a worried mother hen. "Jaq, you can't go, not yet. He'll kill you."

"It's… not… like… I… have… a… choice…" he manages to wrench out of his gritted teeth, struggling to get up on his trembling, unsteady legs. Short of cutting his head off, nothing can stop the collar from burning except for the one who put it there in the first place. And Rumplestiltskin is as impatient as he is persistent.

Out of breath and just plain out of luck, Jacques only barely gets himself upright when he notices that his stocky friend is no longer at his side.

"I'm sorry, Jaq," Bruno's disembodied voice reverberates off the mossy walls.

Jacques turns towards the sound and stops cold in his tracks. Where Bruno got a damn two-by-four in the damn sewers, he doesn't fucking know.

"You might not have a choice, but I do," the man says, holding the piece of lumber like a batter at plate. "And I won't let him off you."

And the last thing on Jacques' mind, right before he gets smacked on the head, is that with best friends like these, he might as well be fucking dead.

---

It's almost midnight when they finally return to Mifflin Street. Emma's pretty sure that Regina had meant to teleport them inside their home, but given the exhausting night they've had, she wisely bites her tongue when they materialize out in the front yard.

To be honest, she's just happy that they somehow manage to end up right on the brick walkway and not on one of the hedges lining it. Or the roof. Or, y'know, the neighbor's bedroom.

Because even though Regina's control over her magic has improved by leaps and bounds, there have been, erm, occasional accidents that have left them in rather compromising positions.

Suffice to say, Judge Poole and his wife from across the street — Mr. and Mrs. Clause for the uninitiated — still can't look them in the eye after all this time. And, well, neither can Emma, really. Which makes it especially fun when she has to testify at the courthouse and all she can think about is that she's seen Santa's south pole.

That's not even the worst part, to be honest.

Regina doesn't really sweat the small stuff, but whenever her magic fails in an epic way, it puts the proud woman in such a godawful mood for the rest of the day. So awful that it takes a lot of cajoling, kissing, flirting, seducing, and even bribing to even get her out of her funk. And, well, Emma doesn't think she has it in her to seduce, let alone have sex tonight because — what's the saying again? — the spirit is willing but the body is weak. And sleepy. So damn sleepy.

Right on cue, she lets out a yawn.

Regina reaches the front door before Emma can even make a single step forward. Instead of telling her to hurry up and stop dillydallying as she is prone to, Regina just stands there quietly, only the slightest slump on her shoulders betraying her own fatigue.

Yawning again, Emma digs out her keys from her jacket, and crap—she totally forgot to call Mary Margaret and check up on Henry. Quickly, she checks her phone, and true enough, there's a text from her mother from a couple of hours ago.

"Henry's asleep, they played Mario Kart all night," Emma walks over to Regina, typing in a quick apology by way of multiple emojis — which Regina often scoffs at but Mary Margaret is totally a sucker for — and then hitting send. Satisfied, she tucks the gadget back in her pocket. "They wanna take him to Granny's for lunch tomorrow so she said we could just pick him up in the afternoon."

"Very well," is all Regina says, her voice sounding just a tad hoarse from all the yelling they had to do at the rowdy bar.

Standing in front of the locked door, Emma fiddles with her keychain and rifles through the assortment of keys it holds.

And since tired Regina is cranky Regina, and cranky Regina is, well, even less patient than an impatient Regina, Emma's not really surprised when her majesty's hand suddenly darts out in front of her. Nevermind that Emma finally finds the right key anyway and—

Well...

She swears she feels it a split-second before it happens.

And for posterity, let's just say… they made a really good call by sending their son to her parents for a sleepover tonight. Not that Henry can't handle being home alone for a few hours, not at all, but because Emma's pretty sure the poor kid would've shat the bed just about now. Heck, she almost did.

How else would one react to a door quite literally blowing off its hinges in the middle of the night?

"Uh… I see your penchant for grand entrances is still intact," she mumbles, standing motionless by the doorway, her right hand still uselessly holding up the key where the lock used to be. "Shame I can't say the same about the door though."

Regina walks past her and steps over the carnage, only sparing her newest victim a cursory glance. "Hardly my fault," she merely says, flicking the doorknob to the side with the tip of her black pumps. "You were taking too long."

Emma sighs.

And then makes a mental note to radio August about ignoring disturbance calls reporting an explosion at the former mayoral mansion tonight. Not that the neighbors would ever call it in; those poor bastards have gotten pretty jaded about all the weird shenanigans — magical or otherwise — coming from their home since the curse broke.

Though radioing her deputy will have to wait, seeing that Emma barely has time to cross the threshold before Regina waves a hand and the splinters start vibrating on the hardwood floor and flying off as if possessed. They rearrange themselves back together like a jigsaw puzzle, and just like that, the door reforms right behind her like it hadn't just been blown to smithereens.

Any other day, she would've been impressed that Regina's magic was able to accomplish such a feat without making it ten times worse. She supposes that she should just be happy that there's nothing for her to clean up.

"Should we tell them?"

"Hmm?" Regina says, disappearing into her study.

"My parents," Emma supplies, pulling off her boots and giving the underside of them a quick check for blood, because, well, apparently Little frickin' Mermaid has a mean left hook and Ursula can throw punches from different angles like she has eight arms or something. Satisfied, she hangs her jacket on the rack and bounds up the foyer steps to follow after Regina. "Should I call and tell them about Gold? Or wait until we know more?"

"That depends — would you prefer my personal or my professional take on the matter?"

"Uh, both, I guess?" She stops by the doorway and leans against it, watching a barefoot Regina pad around the room, placing her shoes neatly against the wall.

The woman proceeds to untuck her blouse from her trousers and Emma gives herself a moment to just enjoy and take in the view.

"As your magical consultant, I believe it's only prudent that you inform the mayor immediately, Sheriff Swan," she thinks Regina says in that no-nonsense way of hers, but really, she's only half-listening.

Because there's always something so fascinating about watching Regina slowly start to dishevel herself after a long, taxing day. The extra popped button that gives a little peek of lace underneath, the tousled strands of brown hair falling to her face, the crimson lipstick that no longer looks as red and angry — they all add up to form a sight that, as embarrassingly cliché as it sounds, just takes Emma's breath away.

Not that she'd ever say that out loud.

She doesn't need to; not when everybody and their mother already seem to know just how much she's whipped anyway.

"On the other hand, being that you are my lady friend which, for better or worse, strengthened my familial ties with you Charmings, I see no harm in waiting until tomorrow to tell your mother, my dear. As much as I enjoy making her squirm, I refuse to deal with her neurosis until the morning."

Regina catches her staring then, and since they're well past those initial days of dating where everything felt new and foreign and just so damn awkward, Emma doesn't avert her gaze but instead lets a small, lazy grin pull at her lips.

The look she receives in kind tugs at that invisible string that's wrapped around her heart like a leash, and never one to possess any fortitude in matters like these, Emma surrenders control of her legs and lets them take her to the waiting woman.

"I'll call them tomorrow," she murmurs against Regina's lips before leaning in and closing the distance completely. They've shared many kisses over time — slow ones, heated ones, rough ones, wet ones, desperate ones — this one is not intense or harried or frantic, but it's nice and warm and—

"Wait—" Emma pulls back abruptly, and then blinks.

"What is it?" Regina asks, a frown tainting her features.

"Did you seriously just refer to me as your 'lady friend'?"

Regina, naturally, has the moxie to feign ignorance.

"Jesus, Regina — you just officially asked me to move into your room the other day. Would it kill you to call me your girlfriend?" Emma gripes, and then pauses. That was a rhetorical question, but now that she's actually thinking about it, she doesn't think she's ever heard Regina use that descriptor for her either.

Which is... interesting, sure, but it also, kinda, hurts. "What are we to you, just friends with benefits?" she jokes, though it comes off a little sullen than self-deprecating.

Instead of dignifying that sorry little quip of hers with a response, Regina simply brushes at Emma's lower lip with her thumb, obviously biding her time. "I was always of the opinion that such labels are tacky and do nothing but cheapen the relationship as a whole," she finally says, looking at her from under her lashes.

"And what, 'lady friend' is better?" Emma challenges, lifting a brow.

"I—" Regina works her jaw, and then snaps it shut. "—suppose not."

"So, humor me then, what am I to you?"

Regina exhales through her nose.

"C'mon, your majesty," Emma goads, lifting her chin. "What am I to you?"

"Idiot," Regina finally says, sounding mildly exasperated, and then cups Emma's face with her hands and fixes her with a stare. "You're mine."

Oh-kay… Emma swallows.

That was kinda hot.

"Now, listen close and listen well, Miss Swan, because I'm about to bestow you a gift that's bound to make you insufferably pleased with yourself for quite some time," Regina says, prefacing, in that unique way of hers that sounds both tender and just a tad condescending.

Her curiosity piqued, Emma braces herself and gives Regina a slight nod.

"This world, I suppose all worlds actually, would love to hand us labels — girlfriend, Evil Queen, lover, Savior, partner — labels that, frankly, serve no greater purpose than to keep us in boxes," Regina begins, looking thoughtful, and then her expression hardens when she says, "But I refuse to live in a box ever again, and I refuse to constrict you in one too."

Emma thinks she gets that, at the end of the day, but also—

"My dear, you're not just a girlfriend, a lover, a companion," Regina carries on. "Those words, those labels, are about as garish as they come. And I do not deem it necessary to waste a single breath uttering such nonsense when they do us — you, in particular — a great disservice."

The woman lets her fingers wrap around some strands of her blonde hair, and Emma swears she can't even breathe let alone take in anything else but Regina right now.

"Because you have come to mean more to me than they could ever describe. You almost died for me, Emma Swan. So, no, girlfriend doesn't do you justice at all," Regina says, quietly, her gaze boring into hers. "But, perhaps, my idiot does."

Emma bites on her lip.

And finally allows herself to breathe.

This woman. Seriously.

"Better?" Regina queries, her voice low and warm.

"Loads," Emma swallows thickly and then smiles, leaning into the hand that's now massaging the back of her neck, sending tendrils of pleasure up her head. "Though please never call me your lady friend again."

"Very well," Regina says, before pulling her forward into another kiss. This time Emma doesn't break away until it's clear they're both sated.

Maybe they'll never be like her parents — with their pet names and their catchphrases and their utter devotion to love and being in love. Maybe she'll never share David and Mary Margaret's vision of what love should be like and look like — because while they see theirs as a mountain, huge, vast, and visible from miles away, Emma sees hers as an iceberg, in that despite what little they let other people see of the icy tip, there's much more to it than meets the eye, and it's all just for them.

And even if most people can't seem to wrap their heads around the whys and hows of their relationship — because Regina can be an ice queen and Emma's not the bashful romantic type and they're both not the kind of people to take long walks on the beach — ultimately, it all boils down to... love.

It's as simple as that.

And they have it for each other in spades.

And that despite their many differences, philosophical or otherwise, they are compatible in ways that matter.

At the end of the day, that's all anyone can ever wish for, really.

---

Emma's not really sure why they're not in bed yet.

She's yawned more than she's said actual words in the past half hour, and she's slowly but surely fusing herself into the armchair — which is technically not her fault since nothing that looks like it belongs in a modern art gallery should ever be this damn comfy. But Regina has excellent taste and the bank account to back it up, so here she is, just enjoying the fruits of Regina's labor-slash-curse by melding with her upholstery.

Regina doesn't seem to mind, but to be honest, Emma doesn't think she's noticed either. Her majesty is far too preoccupied working her mini-bar to pick up on Emma sucking up most of the oxygen in the study with all her yawning, let alone becoming one with a designer armchair.

This is really just karaoke night's fault to begin with — the fact that she's so tired and not in bed. If they didn't have to waste precious time breaking up a Mariah-induced catfight, they would've spent more time talking about Gold, his probable motives, and his potential whereabouts in town — if he's even in town to begin with. It's not like their magical version of an intruder alert system went off anytime recently. But then again, the spell the nuns used at the barrier was so new and untested that there was no guarantee it even worked in the first place.

Anyway.

The point is, if they'd just discussed the important stuff earlier instead of getting sidetracked by the inane, she would be in bed right now, limbs sprawled and drooling on the pillow.

But now, as it goes, there's still a lot to unpack, a lot of angles to consider. And knowing Regina, she'd want to tackle at least a few of them before they can even call it a night and—

And… yeah. That's probably why they're not going upstairs anytime soon.

But you know what…

Screw it.

Emma rests her eyes for a minute. Just a minute, she swears.

She doesn't fall asleep, she really doesn't, at least not all the way. Because she's still conscious of her surroundings and she can tell just how many ice cubes Regina puts into the crystal tumbler by the amount of clinks she hears.

Not only that, her ears also pick up the tiny little scrape of the glass decanter getting uncorked and Regina slowly tipping it over to start pouring.

And pouring...

And pouring...

And pouring...

Still pouring…

And... god that's a lot of cider, Emma pops an eye open. Yep, 'just a nightcap' doesn't really hold water anymore, but 'I've had a long day, and I need this' does.

In a fine display of dexterity, Regina lifts the brimming glass to her lips with nary a spill, and then proceeds to take such a generous sip — if one can even call it a sip — that Emma feels compelled to open both eyes just to take it all in. She has the strongest feeling that Regina will refill her glass sooner rather than later, but she keeps that to herself and evens out the wide-eyed expression on her face when Regina finally turns to her and asks, "Would you like some cider, dear?"

"I dunno, do you even have any left?" she says anyway, cracking a small smile, unable to help herself.

"Of course I do," Regina takes another long sip, completely unruffled by her suggestion. "And I always have a batch fermenting in the cellar just in case."

Somehow she's not surprised.

"You know what, sure, why the heck not," Emma caves, stifling another yawn with the back of her hand. And with what little gas she has left in the tank, she heaves herself from the backrest with a rather unladylike grunt and somehow ends up semi-upright. "Just a little b—" Regina fills the glass to the brim. "—alrighty then," she chuckles weakly, resigning herself to her fate.

As if there's any doubt left that she's gonna sleep like a baby tonight.

She's not so sure about Regina though.

Mouth set into a thin line, eyes a bit glazed over, Regina begins to pace the room. Which is odd in itself because the woman is more of a sit-down type of brooder and not a pacer. But here she is, walking the length of the study and then back, only stopping occasionally to take even larger sips of her drink.

Watching Regina's strides, no matter how slow her pace, is like watching a damn pendulum go back and forth. And any other time, Emma's sure she'd been lulled to sleep by the consistent to and fro. But there's something so compelling — and more than a little worrying, really — about watching someone so guarded slowly start to unravel that she's kept awake by the sheer novelty of it.

Her majesty empties her glass after the fourth lap.

And Emma, who's still nursing hers, has to make an active effort to bite her tongue when Regina makes a quick pit stop at the mini-bar to fill it back up. She wants to say something, she really does. Concern has a way of chafing at that part of her that's always been protective of Regina Mills, but Emma knows better than to nag.

When something is bothering Regina, and especially if it's serious, she will talk when she's ready to talk — goading will only serve to get her head bitten off.

So Emma leans back and molds her body into the chair once more, forcing herself to tamp the uneasiness in her gut by making a dent in her own helping of cider.

So she just sits and sips.

And waits.

Until the silence stretches further and further, that pretty soon, her already struggling eyes start feeling heavier with every ounce of amber liquid that burns down her throat. It speaks volumes about Regina's state of mind that she doesn't say a damn thing when Emma lets her half-empty glass rest rather precariously on the armrest. She could just place it on the accent table, sure, but she's too tired to stand up and grab a coaster.

Truthfully, Emma doesn't know exactly how many minutes have flown by, but by the time her ears pick up the low murmurs coming from Regina's direction, she glances to her left and sees that the ice cubes in her glass have already melted.

"...sorry?" Emma blinks rapidly, licking her lips, wondering if she had actually dozed off there. She gives her head a sharp shake and sits up just a little straighter. "You said something?"

"I want to rip his heart out."

Emma stills. "Pardon?"

"I want to rip his heart out."

Okay. She heard it right the first time then.

"Rumple?"

"Who else?" Regina exhales, tracing the rim of her glass with a finger. She's standing by the fireplace that Emma hadn't even noticed was going until now, orange flames casting shadows on the woman's troubled profile. "There's a thought, a desire, that's been consuming me all night. Most nights, if I'm being honest."

"And that involves sticking your hand inside his chest and ripping his heart out?"

Regina simply nods, once, her unfocused gaze still resting on the fire. "I want to rip his heart out," she says once again. "And crush it. End it once and for all."

"Regina." Emma rubs her face. "Are you telling me or are you asking for my blessing?"

The fact that the woman appears to be seriously considering this does nothing to appease the worry bubbling inside of her.

"Does it matter?" Regina just says, and then shoots her a poignant look, "And before you start, I am well aware that I've been down the path of vengeance before and I know exactly where it leads. But that doesn't change the fact that I feel this way and that—" she stops mid-sentence, and then downs another huge gulp of cider.

"That what?" Emma prods.

"That he's here," Regina says, turning to face her now. "He's here, Emma. I don't know precisely where, but nevertheless, this is the closest he's been within my grasp since he'd left town — since he handed you that accursed sword and you left me—"

"I didn't leave you. I'm still here," Emma gently interjects.

"By sheer luck," Regina spits out, as if that's a bad thing. "No, you left me. There is no arguing that — I will not hear it," she says, and whatever Emma has to say in her defense dies on her lips.

She's still new to this relationship thing, but she's becoming quite proficient in learning to pick and choose her battles. And this argument, well, there's no winning here.

"You left me," Regina reiterates, brows furrowed, and then takes another sip. "You had to leave because of that swine. He gave you no choice."

"I left for you. I left because I needed you to live," Emma says, as calmly and as measured as she can, hoping to get her point across without further antagonizing an obviously agitated Regina. She really should've stepped in after the first glass of cider. "I did have a choice, Regina. I chose you. I'll always choose you."

"No," Regina maintains, her hand trembling slightly that her drink sloshes dangerously close to the edge of the glass, almost spilling on the hardwood floor. "He gave you the illusion of choice — and that is hardly the same as having one."

"Regina… c'mon now..."

"Do not patronize me, Emma Swan," she receives in warning, Regina's eyes blazing. "He gave me the mark of the wraith — he sentenced me to die. And you, you honorable idiot, you felt compelled to go on your suicidal quest to save me from a fate that he had preordained. And why? Because he needed you to be compliant. He needed you to agree to wield that damn sword and break his curse. And as a final act of charity to you, my dear, he made you believe that you were acting of your own volition so that you could walk into your death with your dignity intact."

That's…

That's not false.

At least not entirely.

Grabbing the back of her neck, and unable to meet Regina's piercing gaze any longer, Emma averts her eyes and stares at the floor.

"There are no coincidences with Rumplestiltskin. And everything he does, big or small, is done to advance his agenda," Regina murmurs, more than a little bitter, and then finishes the rest of her cider. "I know it makes you sleep easier to believe that you had a choice in the matter, but the truth is, you were just a means to an end."

Harsh, but… okay.

Of course, Regina isn't finished.

"And after all is said and done, you, the Savior he had promised, were merely a pawn - destined to be used, abused, and discarded once you've served your purpose. You were simply cannon fodder, my dear."

Emma balls her hands into fists, letting her nails dig into the skin of her palms. It hurts a little, but not as much as the sting from Regina's words. They're steeped in truth, and if there's something therapy has taught her, it's that the truth is never comfortable.

But… neither is ignorance. Especially if it's rooted in avoidance.

And the truth is, she's known all along, she just chose to ignore it.

So…

"Who cares?" Emma eventually says, after she finds her voice.

Over by the mini-bar, Regina stops mid-pour. "What did you just say?"

"I said who cares?" Emma repeats, louder, and then finally looks at the other woman again. "Maybe people like me are sheep, destined to be put out for slaughter. But have you considered that maybe not everyone has the stomach to be a wolf? And that's not necessarily a bad thing?"

Regina's eyes widen a fraction, obviously not expecting her outburst.

"So who cares if I was just a stupid pawn in his fucked up game? Who the hell cares?!"

Her knuckles are so white and she can't seem to stop her fists from shaking on her lap, but Emma wills herself to carry on.

"At the end of the day, I accomplished what I had set out to do. At the end of the day, I kept the promise I made to our son. At the end of the fucking day, you are alive — and that's all that matters to me."

"Emma—"

"No," she lifts a finger. She's not yet done. "I may be an idiot, but I am not stupid. I knew what I was getting myself into, I knew exactly what I was signing up for. And you are so damn preoccupied with that bastard's screwed up mind games that you're forgetting one important thing," Emma says, straightening her spine and holding Regina's gaze, unflinching. "I've never had a choice when it comes to you and the kid. I will always pick the two of you over anything else — my life included."

Regina, for once, doesn't have anything to say.

"And I sure as hell don't consider that a weakness or something to be ashamed of. Your safety, your wellbeing, your life, is non-negotiable to me."

Now it's Regina's turn to look away, swallowing thickly as she replaces the decanter in its place, keeping her back to Emma.

"And before you call me a moron," Emma continues. "I know you well enough to say without a frickin' doubt that you feel the exact same way. That you, if our roles were reversed, would not hesitate to step into Argos' shoes just to keep me alive. So let's drop all this pretense, shall we?"

Even with fatigue and the alcohol dulling her senses, she notices the moment when Regina deflates a little bit, her shoulders slumping slightly as she nurses her glass close to her chest.

"And you know what, Regina?" Emma says, unballing her fists and exhaling a deep, cleansing breath. Her tone softens considerably as she murmurs, "You give me so much credit for saving you from the wraith, but you keep forgetting that you also saved me. I'm still here because of you."

"There wouldn't have been a need to save you if he hadn't meddled and manipulated events in his favor. You wouldn't have needed saving if he just—" Regina finally speaks, her voice still carrying that bitter edge despite the obvious grief that's lurking just below the surface. "All of this is his fault. All of this is his doing. He leaves a trail of destruction in his wake while he remains unscathed — hiding behind his deals to keep himself unblemished. Why should I be the only one punished for my transgressions while he gets away, scot-free? Why should he be spared of the pain that he himself inflicts?"

"So is that it then?" Emma raises an eyebrow. "That's what it boils down to? You want to rip his heart out to even the scales and hurt him the way he's hurt you? I thought you've learned your lesson? I thought you were done with all of this revenge crap?"

"This isn't about revenge," Regina says, whipping around.

"Bullshit," Emma challenges, and then laughs shortly. "You just admitted that you wanted to crush his heart and kill him. What is that if not revenge?"

Regina raises her chin. "Justice."

"Justice," Emma lets the word roll off of her tongue. She exhales, long and hard, and casts a baleful smile at the defiant face looking back at her. "This isn't the Enchanted Forest, Regina," she says, quiet, and more than a little tired. "This world isn't your kingdom to rule. As much as you may want to, you can't be the judge, jury, and executioner in here."

"And why not?" Regina sniffs, adamant as she can ever be. "He's powerless without his dagger but I still have my magic."

"You forget," Emma says, leaning back into the seat and folding her arms. "You also have me. And I'm here to—"

"To keep me honest, Sheriff?" Regina mocks, her voice trembling in the slightest. She takes another swallow of her drink and then follows up with a resentful, "To keep the Evil Queen in check?"

Emma regrets ever letting the woman anywhere near all that cider tonight, she really does. The combination is so bad it's almost driving her to tears.

"You're better than this, Regina," she just sighs. She's not even sleepy any more, she's just so damn exhausted. "I know you are."

"He's wronged you the most!" Regina suddenly exclaims, almost desperate, and this time the cider spills onto the floor. "Why are you on his side?!"

"I'm not on his side, I'm on yours!" Emma cries out, equally hopeless, getting on her feet so abruptly she almost knocks the chair back.

"My side?" Regina spits out, and even from where she's standing Emma can see the angry tears prickling at the sides of her eyes. "If that's the case, then why are you like this?! Why can't you understand?!"

"Because we can't move forward if we let him pull us backwards!" Emma yells right back, at her wit's end. The palpable heartbreak she sees staring back at her is enough to sober her up a little, and she takes a moment to count to ten in her head. "He's an anchor, Regina," she says after a while, shaky, but in a more subdued tone. "He's dead weight. And we achieve nothing if we allow him to pull us down. If it's revenge you're after, the best one is to just move on with our lives. To prove to him that he doesn't have a hold over us — he never has."

A tear escapes then, Emma thinks she sees, but Regina turns away from her and swipes at it with a finger so quickly that she's not really certain. The woman downs the remainder of her drink in one go and then sets her glass on her desk with a listless sigh.

"No hold over us?" Regina echoes, silent, and then a strangled sound escapes her lips. "Every single night, without fail, I wake up and put my head on your chest to listen for a heartbeat. And you," she twists around, and the fire in her eyes dies a little when she looks at Emma. "You still toss and turn in your sleep sometimes, clawing at the scar near your clavicle, crying over some phantom pain that I can never seem to soothe away."

Emma dips her head low.

"So saying that he doesn't have a hold over us is a gross misrepresentation of reality, don't you think, Miss Swan?" Regina points out rather evenly, swallowing thickly. "Especially in light of the fact that we are both in therapy for PTSD."

She doesn't answer. She can't seem to. All Emma can manage to do is stare at the wet patch on the floor and scratch absentmindedly at that damn spot near her collarbone.

"You almost died…" Regina murmurs after a moment, broken, her eyes searching every inch of Emma's face as tears finally streak down her cheeks. This time, she makes no effort to wipe them away, to hide them from her. "I almost lost you."

"But you didn't," Emma bridges the distance between them. Gingerly, she wipes at the moisture with her thumbs, and then reaches down to grab hold of Regina's hands, squeezing, willing the trembling to cease. "You made sure of that."

And despite the fight that's still evident in those glistening brown eyes, Emma pulls Regina into her arms and locks her in a tight embrace. And they stay that way for several moments. They stay that way until Regina's breathing settles and her body loses a fraction of all that tension that seems to be consuming her from within.

"You have the aggravating tendency to tease me about how you snuck into my impenetrable heart like a thief in the night," Regina says into her chest after a while, her fingers clutching the back of Emma's shirt a little too tightly. "But the truth of the matter is, Emma, I let you in."

Emma's hand stills behind Regina's head.

"I let you in," Regina repeats, more forceful, pulling back to look at her face, and then her eyes begin to dim when she murmurs, "And then he wrenched you away."

"Regina…" Emma breathes.

"So, yes, I am angry. Yes, I may be a bit vengeful," Regina says, and then exhales, and when she speaks again, her voice is more even but no less determined. "But despite it all, I am practical. I am pragmatic — I see a cancer in our lives and I am not afraid to cut it out. And even if there is a part of me that is itching to draw blood and pick at his wounds, to toy with him the way he's trifled with us, at the end of the day, I will simply do what is necessary to protect what I hold dear."

Regina reaches out and caresses her cheek, and Emma being Emma, instinctively leans into her touch.

"So forget revenge, forget justice, because at the root of it all, I just want to end it."

Sighing softly, shutting her eyes briefly, Emma covers Regina's hand with her own. She gets it, she really thinks she does. And while she doesn't condone murder, she's watched so many crime documentaries to know that while capital punishment is not something she agrees with, it offers a certain degree of freedom to some victims. But that's… that's not something she wants for her family. She desires freedom too, sure, but not at Regina's expense.

And she hopes it never has to come to that.

"Is he really a threat to us, Regina?" Emma whispers after a beat.

"He will always be a threat."

"That's not really what I'm asking," Emma says, her green eyes searching brown ones. "We've been up in arms all night, just because it's him and we have all this history, but you said it yourself, he's powerless. He has no magic. So is his presence here really a threat to us? To this town?"

"Do not underestimate him," Regina's face darkens, pulling her hand back. "You, of all people, know what he's capable of."

"I do," Emma nods. "But what if he's really just after something trivial that he left behind… like magical vitamin water or that pixie tears stuff? What then? You rip his heart out over medicine?"

"Emma," Regina says, using that tone she uses on Henry whenever their son is being exasperatingly naive to the point of stubbornness. "Do you really think that Rumplestiltskin would go through all the trouble of coming back to a town he hurriedly left behind just for an elixir?"

"I wouldn't count it out, no," Emma stands her ground. "But… Police Work 101. We can't discount all angles until we've properly investigated and eliminated them."

Regina works her jaw for a moment and then shuts her eyes, probably doing her own version of counting to ten in her head.

"You've come such a long way, Regina," Emma says, tenderly, tugging at the hem of the woman's slightly rumpled blouse. "I don't want to see you piss away all that progress and all the goodwill you've built in town so far over that piece of shit. Besides, even death is too good for someone like him."

"And what does he deserve, hm? If not an end to his miserable existence, what does that imp deserve?"

"A very long life."

Regina stops and gives her an odd look.

"Long enough to have karma constantly, and consistently, kick his ass," Emma finishes, leaning against the mahogany desk, crossing her arms on her chest. "Nothing we can do to hurt him can ever compare to what he can do to himself."

She can pinpoint the exact moment when exhaustion finally edges in and the fight finally leaves Regina. The circles under her eyes have never seemed more prominent. "I never pegged you for a believer of karma," Regina just sighs.

Emma smiles, small but earnest, patting the space beside her. "I never believed in true love, either. But here we are."

"Yes," Regina just says, moving to lean against her side, standing shoulder to shoulder against the table. "Here we are."

Screw fairytales, Emma thinks, when silence offers a respite. Happily Ever After is really just a prelude to all the convolutedness of life, and the real story lies in navigating through the chaos, and finding one's place in it.

"So… what do we do now, Regina?"

"What we've done up to this point, Miss Swan," she gets in reply. "We wait and see."

Emma nods. "Then I'll follow your lead."

"Promise me one thing?" Regina murmurs after a moment, quiet, reaching for her hand and interlocking their fingers together. "Whatever happens, whatever we uncover, promise me that you won't stand in my way when I deprive him of that which he so desperately desires. If you won't let me end him, give me the satisfaction of that at least."

"Okay," Emma nods, and then lifts their entwined hands and places a tender kiss on the back of Regina's hand. "I promise."

It's now god knows what time, she's drained like hell, and to be honest, Emma doesn't really know if they've gotten anywhere. Maybe they just kept going backwards and forwards, and heck, maybe even circled back to the beginning.

At this point, she really doesn't know and she really doesn't care.

Because when Regina rests her head on her shoulder and closes her eyes, all Emma cares about is lightening the load off the woman's shoulders. All she wants is to make it better, to take away the hurts that are haunting her.

So when she places a kiss on the top of Regina's head and breathes in her scent, Emma makes a promise to herself that whatever happens within the next few days, she will do everything in her power, short of murder, to give them closure.

Even if that means listening to several cider-induced breakdowns over Rumplestiltskin.

Because everything has to end. And even misery has its limits.

It can't all be rainbows and sunshine, but it can't all be doom and gloom either. Life may be a bitch, but in some weird, comforting way, it can be fair too.

Chapter Text

Emma wakes up in a tangle of sheets and an empty bed. She has no idea what time it is, but the spot beside her is cold — a good indicator that she's probably overslept. She's sure it's not noon or anything ridiculous; Regina lets her sleep in most days, but even her graciousness has its limits. That woman's body clock is so potent and damned disciplined that not even a hangover can keep her from getting out of bed at six-thirty AM.

Emma doesn't envy her one bit.

She only had half a glass of cider and her head's pounding. Though, really, it might be a stress-related headache more than anything else.

And if there's an incentive for her to roll out of bed, there's no greater one than the bottle of Tylenol that she knows is waiting for her in the kitchen.

Rolling to her side, eyes still shut, Emma reaches blindly for her phone on the nightstand. She squints at the tiny screen for a few seconds, yawns, and then lays the gadget face down on her pillow. Apart from a 'nothing to report' text from August, she has no other messages.

Now that she's a smidgen more awake, her other senses also stir and her nose picks up a scent that is really, really doing a marvelous job enticing her to get up. There's fresh coffee brewing downstairs. And she can imagine its invisible hand, curling a finger back and forth in a come hither motion, inviting her to come partake in all its caffeinated glory.

And Emma Swan is nothing if not easy when it comes to her coffee.

So, before she knows it, she's padding barefoot down the staircase, clad only in a white tank top and her favorite red panties. A welcome perk of sleepovers at the grandparents' is that she can prance around the house in her underwear without fear of traumatizing her son. And it's a thing she absolutely loves taking advantage of — something Regina often points out, and over time, has just accepted as the norm.

"G'morning," Emma says in greeting when she crosses the threshold into the kitchen, lazily scratching at an itchy spot on her lower back. "What time is it?" she yawns, stretching her arms above her head.

"Quarter past eight," Regina simply says from the breakfast nook, flipping through the Saturday paper. "I just put on a fresh pot of coffee for you."

"Thanks," Emma mumbles, popping a tablet of Tylenol in her mouth before bending under the tap to wash it down with water. "How are you feeling by the way?"

A stilted "Fine," is what she gets in reply, which tells Emma all she needs to know.

She inwardly sighs.

She's woman enough to admit that she purposely takes her sweet time fixing her cup of joe — buying herself a few extra seconds to mentally ready herself for whatever's ahead. At this point, she really wouldn't be surprised if they rehash their conversation from last night. And, well, at least there's enough coffee in the pot for that.

But then...

There are bear claws sitting in the middle of the breakfast table.

And the sight of them not only gives Emma pause, but actually makes her feel more than a little guilty. Depositing her mug by her usual spot on the table, she brushes behind Regina and places an affectionate kiss on the side of her temple.

"For carrying me to bed," Regina answers her silent query, not taking her eyes off of the story about the new alpaca at the petting zoo, which Emma knows out of principle isn't nearly as interesting as Regina is making it out to be. "Which I presume wasn't an easy task considering how tired you were."

"It was nothing," Emma brushes off. "Though I have to say, you're actually kinda deceptively heavy for someone your—" she glances down, sees Regina's face, and then finishes with a lame, "—size."

"I'm going to pretend that I didn't hear that." Regina flips a page.

"Please do," Emma mumbles, giving Regina a quick peck on the top of her head, and then shuffles to the seat on the opposite side. She grabs a bear claw right as she plops down, and then gives it a nice whiff. "I've missed these," she sighs contentedly.

"Those are also for—" Regina pauses, still not making eye contact, the vein on her forehead making the briefest appearance. "For… listening and being, well, you," she eventually says, and then leaves it at that.

"Anytime," Emma smiles, and then takes a big bite out of her favorite pastry. "That's what I'm here for," she says between a mouthful.

"I'm sure I keep you around for more than your listening skills," Regina says, and for the first time the ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of her lips. "You do somehow manage to possess a handful of redeeming qualities."

"Just a handful?"

"For some people that's more than enough."

"Right."

"Also, I thought it sounded better than simply saying three."

"Three, huh?" Emma smirks. "Lemme guess... my good looks, irresistible charm and pleasing personality?"

Regina snorts. "Your audaciousness for one," she says, flipping to the end of the paper and then sliding off her seat.

And before Emma can even swallow the morsel in her mouth, she finds Regina's thumb and forefinger lifting her chin and making her look up.

"Your enviable metabolism being another," Regina murmurs, using her thumb to brush away the glazed sugar on Emma's lips before bending down to give her a soft, lingering kiss. "Although it's almost always offset by your atrocious diet."

"Is the last one my quick reflexes?" Emma guesses, punctuating this by stealing another kiss before Regina manages to straighten up. "Also, you got me the bear claws."

Instead of answering, the woman just lets out a small hum and gives Emma's cheek an indulgent little pat before heading towards the sink with her empty cup.

"So, what's the last one?" Emma reaches for her coffee.

Sauntering out of the kitchen, Regina throws her a meaningful glance — one that's eerily similar to those that often precede encounters that end up with articles of clothing haphazardly divested and strewn on the floor — and with a little smirk, says in parting, "The way you look in and out of that red underwear of yours is a personal favorite."

Emma almost chokes on her coffee. "Yeah?"

"With a slight emphasis on out."

Well.

She looks down at the half-eaten bear claw in her hand, and then at Regina's retreating figure.

"Where are you going?" Emma calls out.

"Shower," she hears from the direction of the stairway.

"Care for some company?"

"Finish your breakfast, dear."

Emma looks at her food once more, purses her lips in thought, and—screw it. She devours the bear claw in three big bites and washes it down with one huge gulp of coffee.

Despite her haste and practically parkouring up the stairs, Regina's already stripping out of a sexy cotton and lace number by the time Emma barges into the master's bathroom.

"Done so soon?" Regina smirks, watching her slightly flushed form through the vanity mirror.

"Nah," Emma grins lopsidedly, leaning against the doorway. "I'm here for dessert."

"I believe you've just had that for breakfast, dear."

"Well now I want the zero-calorie kind."

"My, isn't it a little too early for that, Miss Swan?" Regina quirks an eyebrow, going into the shower area and turning the knob midway to hot before stepping back out.

"Perks of being an adult, I suppose."

Regina takes off her earrings and places them on the counter. "What, dessert after actual dessert?"

"More like shower sex and after-shower sex," Emma smiles broadly, tugging up the ends of her tank top and pulling it over her head.

"Presumptuous, aren't we?"

Emma takes a few steps forward and stops right behind a very naked, very hot Regina and whispers in her ear, "Audacious, remember?"

Regina rolls her eyes, but there's a twinkle in them when she steps back into the shower. And then throws a look over her shoulder that makes Emma absolutely feel... things. "Coming, my dear?"

"Not before you, I promise."

And for the first time this morning, Regina actually laughs. And as Emma quickly divests herself of her red panties and bridges the distance between them, she also finds herself chuckling against the woman's lips — right before she gets pulled into a searing kiss under a steady stream of water.

Really, it might not be the answer to their current predicament, but damn if sex isn't a great stress reliever, much less a welcome distraction.

---

This is the worst possible time to be sick.

Ruby's nose is all plugged up and gross, and when she sneezes over her plate of sausages and eggs, Granny side-eyes her and just mutters, "I read that wearing articles of clothing helps with a cold."

Sniffling with her red nose, Ruby ignores the older woman and quickly wolfs down her breakfast.

She could wear a large parka over a turtleneck shirt, pants with no holes, and a totally utilitarian pair of boots with no hint of heels, and Granny would still think she's not wearing enough to cover her body. It's been an endless point of contention for decades.

For someone all about women's empowerment, her grandmother is a bit of a prude.

And Ruby just doesn't want to get into it today.

"I might be late tonight, there's some stuff going down at the station," she stands up and chugs down her entire glass of orange juice in one go. "Don't wait up, okay?"

In lieu of a response, her grandmother throws a pack of Kleenex in her direction, not even looking up from her crossword puzzle. That's Granny's version of a 'take care of yourself' and Ruby just shakes her head and smiles, tucking it into the pocket of her bomber jacket on her way out.

The walk to the Sheriff's Department is quick and uneventful, barring the occasional scandalous sneeze and a brief stop here and there to blow on a tissue. Ruby's guessing that she looks as pathetic as she feels, because even Sneezy throws her a pitiable look when she walks by his pharmacy.

This is a really bad time to have a stupid cold.

How can she possibly sniff out Jacques and his accomplice if she can't even smell shit right now?

Although...

"It smells like shit in here," is what comes out of Ruby's lips the moment she steps foot inside the station.

"Good morning to you too," August yawns, fresh from night duty, walking past her on his way out of the building to go home.

"Don't you smell that?" Ruby grabs the back of his collar and tugs lightly, forcing him to take a rather clumsy step backward. "It smells like shit in here."

"Leroy's blowing ass in the toilet," August shrugs, completely nonchalant. "He just had his morning coffee. Not even surprised you can smell it from here, what with the full moon and all."

In her wretched state, she had forgotten that there's a full moon tonight. Which explains why her sense of smell hasn't been completely obliterated by her cold.

But…

Ruby's brows knit together in confusion.

As sad as it sounds, she's worked with the two men long enough to know which one just did number two based on a single whiff. Everyone has a distinct scent. And this one… this isn't just Leroy. This is more potent.

In terms of stages, this isn't dwarf levels of stinky, this is more… septic tank.

Ruby stills.

"Call the Sheriff," she barks at August as she darts forward, letting her nose lead the way. "I think I smell a rat."

---

"Where is he?" Emma asks without preamble the moment she bursts through the double doors, Regina hot on her trail.

Clustered in the middle of the hallway, her deputies start and twist towards them, stopping all conversation.

Emma's all out of sorts — blonde hair still damp from the shower, shirt buttons in the wrong holes, boot laces untied. Her complete antithesis, Regina is immaculately put together as usual, not even a strand of hair out of place. In Emma's defense, and unlike her companion, she didn't get any magical assistance before they hurried out of the house. But also unlike Regina, she doesn't really care as much about keeping up appearances.

Still, they must make quite a peculiar pair, so she kinda gets why her deputies are gawking, but this isn't the time.

Emma snaps her fingers, calling their attention back to her face and not the mess that is the rest of her.

"Where is he?" she repeats.

"Interrogation room," a sniffling Ruby thumbs at the door behind her, sounding mighty blocked up. "I found him cuffed to the table, knocked out cold. He has a nasty bump on his forehead from a blow to the head."

Wanting to see for herself, Emma leads the pack into the observation room where they can all watch their quarry through the one-way mirror. It's not exactly the most spacious of places, but they all manage to squeeze in.

And by squeeze in, she means her deputies. Because the three have the wherewithal to give Regina a wide berth, knowing better than to crowd the intimidating woman.

Naturally, Emma isn't afraid to intrude in Regina's personal space. Arms folded on her chest, she's practically touching elbows with Regina as they stand side by side, observing an unconscious Jacques. He's slumped against the metal chair, head lolling backwards, both hands restrained by the magic-resistant cuffs bolted onto a thick, heavy duty latch in the middle of the table — designed to subdue all types of magical folk, shifters especially.

"I didn't even hear them come back," August confesses, sheepish, grabbing the back of his neck. "Between Billy's sobbing and the two ladies yelling and clawing at each other through the bars, my ears were taking a beating most of the night."

"It's fine," Emma waves a hand, eyes still glued to Jacques and the gnarly contusion on his left temple. "Who brought him here?"

"His buddy Bruno," Leroy supplies. "He asked us to go easy on Jacques. Says he was just being threatened by Gold to do his dirty work."

"And where's this Bruno?" Emma follows up.

"In Billy's cell," August says.

"Turned himself in the moment I found them in there," Ruby supplements, wiping at her nose with a ball of tissue. "He said he took Jacques here to save him. Figured that he'd be safer with us than out there where Gold can get him."

Emma nods. That makes sense, she guesses.

"Does this Bruno know where Gold is?" Regina inquires, hands on her hips, all business-like.

Ruby shakes her head. "Jacques is the only one who meets with Gold face to face. Apparently he just summons him using some kind of enchanted choker and Jacques comes running — literally."

That might be their key to finding Gold, then.

"Is that the leather thing he's wearing?" Emma tilts her head, squinting. "The one that looks like a dog collar?"

"Yeah," Ruby nods in the affirmative. "Weird, right?"

"I've seen it before," August says, stroking his chin in thought. "On several people, actually, now that I think about it."

"Yeah?" Leroy says, and then almost presses his face into the glass for a closer look. "Oh—hey, you're frickin' right! I'm pretty sure one of the nuns has one too. Well, ex-nun," he says in a stage whisper, all conspiratorial-like. "Nova said that Blue got so mad when Sister Mary Clarence wouldn't remove hers that she did the fairy nun version of voting her off the island — or convent, whatever."

"Ex-communication," August supplies.

"What he said," Leroy grunts, nodding. "I thought it was a bit extreme, but I didn't feel like sticking my nose in their business. Blue can be a bit of a—"

"Facist, yes, I agree," Regina says flippantly, waving a hand. "Moving on, is there anyone here who actually knows something useful about this collar of Mr. Rouleau's?"

No one speaks. And after a few seconds, Regina audibly sighs.

"You know what, I think the Beagle brothers were wearing them at the bank the other day — just in a different color," Emma says after a moment, and then she nudges Regina gently with her hip. "Remember? We had a good laugh about it."

Regina purses her lips, and then nods after a second. "We both thought it was another ludicrous trend like shoulder pads and those atrocious wallet chains."

"I, uh, thought it was a BDSM thing," August admits, feebly. "Doc Facilier is sporting one around his neck, and, well, everyone knows he's into a lot of kinky shit since he leaked his own sex tape, so I just assumed it had something to do with the town's exclusive underground sex club."

"Underground sex club?" Emma snorts. "In Storybrooke? Yeah, right."

"Why, this is a quaint little town with a sizable population of repressed fairytale folk, Miss Swan," Regina points out, rather matter of fact. "Is it so preposterous to think we'd have ourselves a little sex club?"

Actually…

Good point.

"They convene in the basement of Gothel's mansion — every first and third Saturdays of the month," Regina whispers into Emma's ear. And at the raised eyebrow Emma directs at her, follows up with a slightly dismissive, "I used to have it raided by Sheriff Humbert when I was in dire need of entertainment."

Okay then.

Naturally, Ruby's ears pick up on this, and over Regina's shoulder, Emma makes eye contact with her deputy.

"Gothel's Brothel," Ruby mouths at her, and then winks.

Emma clears her throat.

"Alright," she claps her hands, once, and then rubs her palms together. "If we wanna know more about the collar, we might as well ask the person wearing it. Shall we wake up Mr. Rouleau?"

"Uh, not so fast, Sheriff," August scratches the side of his head. "It's a bit… complicated..."

Emma fights the urge to groan. "Define complicated," she says, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"It might be boobytrapped," Leroy deadpans.

"Well… fuck," Emma pouts.

"Bruno says that Gold put that collar on Jacques last year — the day before he skipped town," Ruby explains further, eyes glued to the weathered leather strap that looks like it has seen better days. "He seemed to be really freaked out by it — like it could just make Jacques' head explode at any given moment. And, so, I dunno, Em. I think we need to tread carefully here."

"Gold might've enchanted it to self-destruct the moment someone tries to remove it," August says. "Or when Rouleau does something that he had warned him not to do."

"Like talk to the cops," Emma mutters, more than a little bitterly.

"Exactly," Ruby bobs her head, before sneezing into the bend of her elbow. Wiping her nose with her soiled tissue, she continues with a stuffed up, "So, before we wake him up, I say we find a way to get it off him first."

"Eliminating the immediate threat from the equation might make it easier to secure the mouse's cooperation," Regina murmurs, staring at the aforementioned neck piece. "I agree with Deputy Lucas."

"Okay, then, that's our next assignment," Emma says, tearing her gaze away from Jacques and turning to her deputies. "Ruby, find out all you can about the collar; Leroy, I want a list of all the people wearing the damned thing; and August, go home and rest — you've been racking up too much overtime. Regina and I will take over from here."

Tasks assigned, they disperse quickly soon after, leaving Emma and Regina to their own devices.

"So, Jacques, the Beagle brothers, Facilier," Emma enumerates, counting with her fingers. "I don't know about the fairy nun, but those three have known ties to Rumple."

"Sister Mary Clarence used to be a lounge singer at the local dive bar before she entered the convent," Regina fills in, like the walking encyclopedia that she is when it comes to everyone's cursed backstories. Poor woman must've been really bored before Henry — that or she's really the town's biggest gossip. "She was always known for her questionable taste in men — I suppose that's where Gold factored in," Regina finishes.

"Okay, so the nun's an ex, the Beagles are his hired muscle, Facilier's his quacky homeopath, and gambling addict Jacques is a pawnbroker's wet dream," Emma sums it up, and then glances sideways at Regina. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"It follows that Rumple was the one who placed the collars around all of their necks," Regina nods, and then gently pulls at the end of Emma's jacket to get her to turn towards her. Slowly, almost meticulously, Regina starts fixing the misplaced buttons on Emma's shirt. "Like an owner marking their property."

"Or a master branding their slaves," Emma sighs, meeting Regina's equally tired gaze. "What a douchebag."

"Indeed," Regina murmurs.

What a fucking douchebag.

---

It says a lot about the quality of people working under her that Ruby comes back to Emma with a lead not even an hour later.

"It's not much, but I think I've hit a breakthrough," Ruby declares the moment she lets herself into Emma's office. And then stops when she notices the way Regina and Emma are huddled together by the desk, talking in hushed tones. "Sorry, am I interrupting—"

"Nah," Emma shakes her head while Regina straightens up and tugs at the end of her blazer. "We were just—"

"Discussing the merits of turning the mermaid, and her equally mouthy rival, over to the fish market to silence them once and for all," Regina says, sitting by the window sill, not even half-kidding. "Close the door behind you, Miss Lucas. If I hear any more of their squabbling, I might just gut them myself."

Obedient as ever, Ruby does as she's told.

Emma offers a slight nod in gratitude.

A closed door isn't nearly enough to block off the seemingly endless bickering happening in the holding area, but at least it mutes it down to a semi-tolerable degree.

"What do you have for us?" Emma plops down on her chair and beckons her deputy closer.

Ruby uncoils the piece of paper in her hand and lays it in the middle of the table. It's a blown-up picture of the collar around Jacques neck, and Ruby jabs a finger at the part of the image that's circled with a red marker.

Emma leans forward, frowning, and then lifts her eyes to her deputy. "That's Jafar's logo."

"I checked his website," Ruby says, and then hands the photograph over to a waiting Regina. "He doesn't have it listed anywhere in his products page. But, get this," she says, and then whips out a document with the El Dorado Savings Bank's logo emblazoned on top. "I went through our copy of Gold's financial records, and see here? Right before he skipped town, he made a payment to Jafar's company. I think—"

They're interrupted by a knock on the door.

"What's up?" Emma waves a bedraggled-looking Jackson in, the man still wearing the same clothes from the previous afternoon. "Aren't you supposed to be at the hospital?"

"I just wanted to say hello. I'm only here to pick up some of Jet's stuff," he says, lifting the ratty hoodie in his hands for effect. "Figured it'd be somewhat comforting for him to be surrounded by his favorite things — even if he can't remember them. Paul and Pockets are watching over him while I'm gone — they said hi, by the way."

"How's the kid doing?" Emma asks, making a mental note to visit Rufio as soon as she has time. And Paul and li'l Pockets too while she's at it.

"Uh, better, for sure. I think the effects are slowly wearing off," Jackson shares, shuffling from one foot to the other, and then allows himself a small, relieved smile. "He's regressing — but in a good way. It's a slow process, but now he's aged backwards enough that he's grown hair on his head."

"Oh, yeah?" A red-nosed Ruby sniffles, sounding genuinely pleased. "That's good."

"He's gone from completely bald to having enough strands for a comb-over."

That's… not so good.

Emma makes a face, unable to help herself.

"Yeah," Jackson nods, grimacing slightly. "I thought bald looked better too."

"His tragic hairstyle aside, the fact that he's already starting to regress is promising," Regina opines, and then leans forward to slide the photograph back on Emma's desk. "I am sure he'll be back to his younger, rambunctious self within the next few days."

"Tell him to Benjamin Button himself faster," Emma instructs Jackson in her best Sheriff voice. "Even if he says otherwise, I'm sure Leroy can't wait to have his apprentice back."

To be honest, Emma's not sure if Jackson's heard her — going by the odd look that suddenly mars his features. Without asking for permission, he reaches forward and then rotates the photograph with his prosthetic hand.

"They're pretty fucked up, eh?" Jackson says, and then makes a wry face. "I hope you ladies aren't thinking of becoming one of Gold's Gophers too."

That gets everyone's attention.

"Gold's... Gophers?" Emma tilts her head in question.

"That's what my buddies and I call the poor sods wearing the Cat Calls around town — Gold's Gophers," Jackson says plainly, eyes still glued to the picture. "He put them around their necks as a Christmas gift of sorts. Kinda fucked up if you ask me."

Ruby frowns. "Cat… Calls?"

"Yeah, the collars," Jackson says, and then glances up and finally notices the faces in the room. "Wait—you didn't know what they were?"

"What do you know about them?" Ruby asks, beating Emma to the punch.

"Only the things Iago told our poker group," Jackson shrugs, casually slinging his brother's hoodie over his shoulder. "He tends to talk his mouth off whenever he has a bad hand."

"Easy money," Ruby notes.

"Precisely why we keep him around," Jackson smirks, throwing Emma's deputy a quick wink. "Anyway, you know how Iago's always hustling, always looking for ways to make cash? Well, a few months ago, he told us he hit paydirt."

"The collars?" Emma guesses.

The man nods. "Turns out he was Jafar's guinea pig for a prototype he was developing around Christmas last year. There were some… complications, and Iago threatened to drag Jafar to court. Long story short, he finally got his settlement money last May and he wouldn't quit bragging about it."

"What did the collars do?" Ruby asks, and then sneezes.

"Bless you—Okay, so, basically, to preface," Jackson says, grabbing a piece of kleenex from Emma's desk and handing it to Ruby. "Remember last year when that De Vil lady lost one of her pets and she was plastering those reward posters everywhere?"

Dabbing at her nose, Ruby merely bites on her lower lip.

Sitting perfectly still, Emma throws a discreet glance at Regina and almost chuckles at the dark look that's quickly overwhelming her girlfriend's features. Of course they remember that time. How could anyone forget how Regina Mills and her wonky magic chased Cruella and her bajillion posters out of Mifflin Street? Heck, even the Daily Mirror still namechecks the 'Fire and Brimstone' incident during fire prevention month.

Never in a million years did Emma think that vandalism, of all things, is that one-step-too-far for the former Evil Queen, but well, one could never accuse Regina of being predictable, that's for sure.

Anyway.

Oblivious to the memories he's eliciting, Jackson simply carries on and says, "I don't really remember it because, yay, amnesia and alcoholism. But, well, apparently, the crazy amount that lady was willing to pay for her lost dog inspired Jafar to develop a collar that would summon pets to their owners at the press of a button."

"Okay, lemme guess," Emma clears her throat, directing her attention back to her dispatch officer. "He called them Cat Calls and they were defective?"

"Bingo," Jackson grins. "Instead of just summoning your pet, they ended up torturing them too."

Emma scrunches her face. "Like a shock collar?"

"I think they were more traumatizing than shocking, really," he mutters, scratching under his nose. "Iago still has marks on his neck to prove it. They're like rope burns — except ghastlier."

"Rouleau's neck looks pretty mangled up-close too," Ruby shares with a grimace.

"So, yeah," Jackson says after a moment. "That's pretty much all I really know about them. Sorry I couldn't help much."

"Trust me, you've helped loads," Ruby says, reaching a hand out and giving his leather-clad arm a fond squeeze.

The two share a small smile.

Of course, Regina clears her throat — loud enough that even Emma straightens in her seat — and effectively kills the moment.

"Anyway," Ruby says quickly, practically squeaking, flushing to the tips of her ears. "We've probably taken too much of your time. Thanks for all your help, Jackson. Send our regards to Rufio and the others. Goodbye," she basically pushes the poor guy out of Emma's office.

"Bye," Jackson says uselessly over his shoulder before the door closes unceremoniously behind him.

Emma wants to laugh, she really does.

But the mortified look on Ruby's face when she turns back around is just so damn pitiful that Emma decides to give her a break and just let it go.

"Right, back to this collar business," Emma says, filling the pregnant silence. Nothing lessens awkwardness more than talking shop. "So, seeing how he basically created a torture device, Jafar was probably forced to scrap the project altogether — that's why it's not on his website."

Ruby swallows and nods, her face slowly returning to its normal shade. "But knowing how shrewd of a businessman he is, he probably went to Gold to try and sell him the defective prototypes anyway," she says. "Which would explain the transfer of funds."

"Jafar is all about the bottomline," Regina intones. "Selling to Gold would ensure that he recouped his expenses and perhaps made a tidy profit out of it too. The collars might not have worked as intended, but they would certainly be of use to those with... more nefarious agendas."

And Rumplestiltskin fits that to a fucking T.

That man is always scheming — always planning and plotting and pulling at multiple threads that intersect at various points to form a gargantuan web of misery and broken lives.

It's almost clinical, the way Gold operates and subjugates his way around town.

Big favors, small favors, it's all the same for the man. Granting favors is how he tethers people to him, like a puppeteer holding all the strings. And there is never a question of 'if' when it comes to Rumplestiltskin, it's always a matter of 'when' he decides to collect and tug on a particular string.

Emma's sure that people like Jacques ask for big enough favors that their string transforms into a noose around their necks. And the more Gold tugs, the tighter it binds, and the more desperate his puppets become.

Because while favors are the tether, it's ultimately fear that binds.

Emma's eyes widen.

"They're fail-safes," she breathes out, and then abruptly sits upright. "Look at the date," she points at the bank document. "He made the payment on December 23rd — I had already broken his dagger at that point, he was already without his magic. But no one knew that because we kept it a secret from the town."

"Belle," Ruby nods. "She was scared he'd get lynched if people knew."

"That one time it would've been acceptable for Snow to divulge a secret, and she chose to keep her mouth shut," Regina says under her breath which Emma promptly ignores.

"The one thing that kept people in line was his magic. Take that away and he doesn't really pose much of a threat to most of the people here — hell, even Granny could beat him to a pulp with his own cane," Emma says, although technically, that's a bad example since Granny can probably still beat the shit out of people half her age, but that's beside the point.

The point is…

"He needed a fail-safe. He needed contingencies put in place. You said it yourself last night, Regina — there are no coincidences with Rumplestiltskin, everything he does is meant to advance his agenda," Emma continues, feeling positively electrified. "He planned everything down to the last meticulous detail. And if ever something doesn't go according to plan, well, that's what the fail-safes are for."

"And he's clever enough to suspect that we would do something to the barrier after he left," Regina says and begins pacing the small space, as if tuning in to the same wavelength as Emma. "He knew that we would do something to make it harder for him to slip back unnoticed."

"The alarms haven't been triggered," Emma points out, and then her lips break out into the most beatific of grins. "They frickin' worked, Regina. He hasn't crossed the barrier at all. Which means—"

"He needed minions to do his dirty work for him," Ruby supplies. "He put collars on people indebted to him so that he could use them to call on those folks in times of need. Like some sort of magical dog whistle if he ever needed something, I dunno, fetched from Storybrooke."

"Exactly!" Emma exclaims with a smile, pounding her fist on the desk in excitement. "Those collars can't self-destruct or explode or whatever. They're pretty harmless—save for the torturing part," she quickly amends, and then continues with, "And Gold couldn't do shit to them without the Dark One's power. So, bottomline is, they're not deadly, but of course, he couldn't let Jacques and the others know that."

"It would've been counterproductive," Regina agrees, stopping in place at the side of Emma's desk. "Because he needed them docile, he needed them subservient. And the only way to ensure that is to frighten them into submission."

"So he did what he does best — he manipulated them and used their own fears against them," Emma looks at the two women in front of her and then rakes her fingers through her hair. "And now those fools are walking around town wearing a damn BDSM collar because of a fucking bluff."

"They could've removed it at any time," Ruby exhales, and then shakes her head in disbelief. "Those poor idiots."

"Fear is an excellent motivator," Regina simply says.

Emma sighs. "And desperation is the best inspiration."

It's become clear to her then, that while the thought of Gold fills her up with anger and disgust, most people don't have that privilege. To them, the hopeless souls he's tormented over the years, Rumplestiltskin elicits only fear. A palpable kind of fear, of terror, that sends grown men — in rodent form at that — skulking around a damn police station in the dead of night to spare themselves from his wrath.

That's probably why Gold loves to wield it as a weapon. Fear is compelling. It's coercive, it's brusque, it's brash, and oftentimes, it gets the job done. Because people don't think when they're afraid, they just act. Consequences be damned.

And now Emma can't even find it in herself to be mad at Jacques and his vermin ilk. Ultimately, what she feels for them is worse.

Pity.

Because they are merely puppets without agency.

One could argue that they have a choice. But what Regina said last night still rings true, that at the end of the day, choice is but an illusion.

In reality, you do what you do to get by.

And that is what good often finds difficult to comprehend. Not everyone is chivalrous. Not everyone is brave. Not everyone can stand up for their convictions and remain untouched. And that concepts like moral abundancy are a luxury that few can afford in a world where inequality and an imbalance of power will forever persist.

That's precisely why Rumplestiltskin's methods find success. It's easier to appeal to someone's sense of self-preservation than their sense of decency.

And more than nine months of wearing those damn collars is proof of that.

"You've been right all along. Maybe we should've told the town the truth about Gold after all," Emma eventually concedes, giving Regina a weak smile.

She knows it's too little too late for concessions. And Regina's indulgent pat on her hand is but a small consolation, and at this point there's nothing Emma can do but sigh.

Hindsight really is 20/20.

---

The first thing out of Jacques' lips when he comes to is a simple, but very apt, "Fuck."

The second thing out of his mouth when he realizes just where he is and what he's restrained to is a more elaborate, "Oh, fuck me sideways with a broom."

And the third and final thing out of his damn trap when he eventually notices the Sheriff leaning against the wall and playing with a butterfly knife is a pathetic, sad, and just miserable, "I'm gonna fucking kill Bruno."

Though it kinda feels like his own head will do him in first.

When he says he has a splitting headache right now, he fucking means it. It literally feels like his head is about to split into two. Heck, maybe fragment itself into a million pieces. With his crappy luck he wouldn't be surprised.

Jacques is no stranger to getting his ass beat, but he's never been on the receiving end of a frickin' wooden slab to the face before. The groin, sure. But never from someone he considered his best fucking friend. When all this is said and done, and if he somehow manages to come out of this experience with his head still attached to his body, he and Bruno will have a nice long chat about friendship, trust, and what constitutes acceptable modes of violence when attempting to save a friend's life.

But for now, and for posterity, he just mutters, "I'm gonna fucking kill Bruno," one more time. With a little, "That fucking dick," thrown in for good measure.

And since life can never seem to give him a damn break, Jacques catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror and instantly recoils. The side of his forehead is swelling up so bad he looks like a fucking bump that grew a face. He's never been a looker, but damn, "I look like Quasimodo," he says, torn between laughing and crying.

"His uglier cousin, maybe," the Sheriff finally speaks, a little smirk on her lips, still playing with the damn knife. "Plus, he definitely smells better than you. What cologne are you wearing, Eau de Latrine?"

"Now, now, Sheriff Swan," he hears a velvety voice say, and the Evil Queen herself steps out of the shadows and into the dim light coming from the pendant lamp above. The smile on her lips is practically predatory and Jacques curls into himself in reflex. "No need to mock a man for venturing into the sewers for a midnight stroll. Storybrooke is such an idyllic town, I'm sure even our sewage system has its charms."

"I suppose," Emma Swan lets out a mock sigh. And then grins broadly at him. "Oh, where are my manners? Good morning, Jacques."

"Morning, Sheriff Swan," Jacques returns in kind, giving the woman his best approximation of an angelic smile. "And hello as well, Madame Mayor. Just so you know, I voted for you every election."

"As did every single person in Storybrooke," Regina Mills points out, sounding rather bored.

"That's because you were the best candidate, ma'am."

"Dear, I was the only candidate."

Jacques shifts in his seat. "Like I said, the best," he forces a chuckle.

"I would like to say that I'm surprised to find you in custody, Mr. Rouleau," the former Mayor says after a second, folding her arms on her chest. "But I would loathe to start our little tête-à-tête with a lie."

"Trust me when I say that I'm also surprised to find myself in here," Jacques says, still grinning, and then tests the restraints on his wrists a little by jiggling them. Man, these are tight. "What would we do without our friends, huh?"

"In your case? Probably die," the Sheriff just says straight up. "You should get Bruno something nice. He just saved your miserable life."

It sure doesn't seem that way.

Jacques lets out an audible sigh.

And then stiffens as the blonde woman stalks towards the table and then places the closed knife down in full view. Not taking her piercing gaze off of him, Emma Swan reaches inside her jacket, pulls out two small pills, and then lays them in the middle of the table: a red pill and a blue pill.

"Go on then," the Sheriff says. "Which one would you like?"

Jacques hesitates.

"Oh, for fucks sake," Emma Swan rolls her eyes. "This isn't the damn Matrix, Jacques. That's Tylenol and Advil. I didn't know if you had allergies so I brought you both."

"Oh."

Reaching forward, he tentatively flicks the blue one towards him with a finger, and since he can't really lift his hands much, he bends down and pops the pill between his teeth before straightening up and knocking it back into his throat.

"May I have a glass of w—"

The former Mayor waves a hand, and in an instant, a mouthful of water floods his damn mouth out of nowhere and Jacques finds himself literally choking in surprise — and then coughing so violently that he spews all the water out. Across the table. All over Emma Swan.

So… yeah.

"Sorry…" he mumbles uselessly, wiping his chin on the shoulder part of his ratty coveralls.

The doused woman ignores him completely, and just lets out a hushed, but no less huffy, "Seriously, Regina?"

"The poor man can barely lift his hands, let alone raise a glass to his face," the Evil Queen motions at his restraints, and then hands the scowling Sheriff the silk handkerchief that's tucked in her blazer's pocket. "I merely improvised."

Emma Swan just dabs at her face with the hanky, expression all tight. When she's done, she just exhales through her nose, gives the brunette an exasperated little head shake, and then looks at Jacques. And smiles. In a Stepford Wife kind of way that gives him pause. And also the heebie-jeebies.

"So, where were we, Jacques?" she asks, voice dripping with honey.

Definitely the heebie-jeebies.

"Oh, right," the Sheriff says, an ear to ear grin still plastered on her face. Without breaking eye contact, she grabs the butterfly knife and makes her way around the table. "Don't worry, I'll try to make this as quick as possible."

With the deftness of someone who knows her way around a blade, the woman opens the knife with two quick flicks of a wrist. And then points it at his face.

Oh, fuck.

The bump on his head is throbbing pretty much at the same rate that his heart is hammering in his chest.

It's not like he's never been tortured before — hello, killer collar — but as someone whose pain tolerance is not the greatest, Jacques knows he doesn't really do well under duress. And if he cracks, well, his head might just crack in half for real.

What is the saying in this world, dearie? Snitches get stitches? Gold had told him, and the collar is there to keep him honest — by lying, naturally.

"Now don't move," Sheriff Swan warns, waving the knife at his face. But her voice is kinda getting drowned out by the thundering in his ears, that he has to really focus on reading her lips when she says, "I don't want to hurt you, Jacques, but if you—"

"Help!" Jacques screams at the top of his lungs, startling the Sheriff so badly that she almost drops the knife on his lap, right on his crotch. His eyes bug out of their sockets, and for a moment both of them freeze. "Help!" he howls again, thrashing his head from side to side. "Police brutality!"

Rolling her eyes, the Evil Queen snaps her fingers. And everything stills. Well, he does, at least. She might as well have pointed a remote at him and hit the pause button.

He's conscious, he's very much aware of his surroundings. But apart from his eyeballs frantically darting from side to side, taking it all in, he pretty much can't move anything else.

"Alright, let's try this again," the Sheriff sighs loudly, and with Jacques unable to put up any resistance, she leans forward, tugs at his collar with a finger, tucks the blade right under, pulls and then—snap!

The all-too-familiar stranglehold of the collar disappears. And the next thing he sees is Emma Swan dangling the accursed thing in front of his face before straightening up and casting it aside on the table like a rag.

Regina Mills snaps once again.

As if breaking out the surface of water, or waking up from a nightmare, a gasping Jacques thrusts himself forward and gulps in air into his lungs, chest heaving up and down.

He can feel the beads of sweat falling down his reddened face, the pulsating pain emanating from his head, and the dull persistent ache that's still chafing on his neck. There's too much going on with his battered body that's just vying for his attention, but at this point, all Jacques seems to care about is that… it's gone.

The collar is gone and he's still alive. The fucking torture collar is no more and his head isn't rolling on the floor.

So, either Rumplestiltskin lied or—fuck it, he lied. Because that's just how he is and that's something he would totally do.

And Jacques doesn't know whether to laugh or cry about it. So, to be honest, he does a little bit of both.

It takes him a few moments to pull himself together — because, goddamit, he lost his dignity and pissed away his freedom for this? — but when he finally calms down, he lifts his head and squirms at the matching set of disapproving looks aimed his way.

"I told you not to move," the Sheriff gripes, a bit half-heartedly, shaking her head at him from the other side of the table.

"I thought you were about to torture me," Jacques admits timidly.

"This is a police station, not a damn dungeon," she makes a face. "Why the heck would you think we'd torture you?"

"You just waterboarded me!" he sputters.

The Sheriff floors him with a look. "How's it waterboarding if all of the water ended up on me?"

That's…

Alright, fair point.

"Besides, torturing is more of her schtick," she thumbs at the Evil Queen sitting on the chair beside her, posture so imposing you'd think she's on her throne. "But she's more likely to rip your heart out than your fingernails, so there's that. Plus she's playing the good-cop today."

"Rather convincingly, if I might say so myself," Regina Mills just says, flicking a piece of lint from her dress pants. "Your bad-cop routine, however, needs a bit of fine-tuning, my dear."

The Sheriff merely brushes that off with a wave of a hand. "I'm sure there's no need for any threats and silly intimidation tactics anymore, right Jacques?" she leans forward, flashing him a smile that still kinda looks intimidating. "You're gonna cooperate with us, I'm sure of it. Answer all of our questions, hm?"

Jacques eyes the collar warily, swallows hard, and then looks at the expectant face of Sheriff Swan. Exhaling a shaky breath from his lungs, he nods his head weakly.

There's a part of him that's still scared, that's still fucking petrified that Rumplestiltskin's going to materialize out of thin air and just snap his neck. And Jacques knows that you should never bite the hand that feeds you — and despite everything, he is that deeply indebted to Mr. Gold — but how far is too far and how much is he willing to sacrifice for a master whose hold over him is only as strong as his own damn fears?

That godforsaken collar is right there, taunting despite its sorry state. And the sight of it proves to him once and for all, that in the old land, and in this world, there really is no place for a timid mouse.

Jacques straightens his spine.

Screw it, then.

"Inner pocket of my coveralls, left hand side. There's a photograph and a drawing of an hourglass—"

---

They're really getting better at all this detective work.

Sure, it takes them a little bit of time, but Emma's pretty certain they've found the right one. After much searching and a lot of deliberation, they narrow the field down to three very similar-looking hourglasses.

And they arrive at their final choice by process of elimination. And really, it's the easiest part. The first one contains spring water, the second one is dyed well water, and the third has pixie tears.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out which one has more value to Rumplestiltskin.

Emma's never seen a liquid so shimmery before — and it feels a bit wrong to describe someone's tears as pretty, but they're so sparkly and glittery — that, yeah, she totally gets why people would pay at least twenty cows for them. It's what she would imagine diamonds would look like if they were liquified.

So, in the end, Regina's hunch about pixie tears was correct. Which isn't all that surprising to Emma since Regina is, well, Regina and she's sharp as hell.

No, what's more surprising to her, is the fact that after finding tangible proof that she's right, Regina isn't even gloating about it.

The woman is just standing there, the much sought after hourglass in her hand, frowning mightily at the empty hallway outside the evidence room, more than a little lost in thought.

"So, do you think it's for a plantar wart or a weird rash?" Emma says, but before she can get an answer, she finds herself jogging after Regina when the woman practically bolts and rushes back to the interrogation room, heels and all.

"Is this the only thing he asked you to procure?" Regina asks, well, more demands, from Jacques when she bursts through the door.

Clearly spooked, it takes him a second to regain his composure before he gives a slight nod. "Yes, ma'am," he says.

Regina's shoulders relax a little bit, but then—

"Though he called on Doc Facilier too, the first night," Jacques follows up, seemingly as an afterthought.

Regina stiffens by the door, her grip on the knob tightening. "And what did Gold require of him?"

He shrugs uselessly. "Just some stuff from Doc's shop — salamander blood, empty vials, small cauldron. Nothing special."

The deep crease between Regina's brows tells her that's not really the case, but before Emma can even open her mouth, Regina spins back around so abruptly that she inadvertently slams the door behind her.

"Of course..." Regina breathes out, eyes going wide, her hand slackening to her side. And then, as if electrified, she's on the move again.

"Regina," Emma calls after her. "What the hell? What's going on?"

"It's not a plantar wart," Regina just says, marching off into the direction of the station's front doors. "It's worse."

"What, a genital wart?"

Emma catches the woman's hand and stops her in her tracks.

"No, Miss Swan," Regina looks at her. "It's Belle."

Chapter Text

Emma doesn't know shit about magic.

It's true. And it's not something she's ashamed of. If you had asked her two years ago what magic meant to her, she would have shrugged her shoulders and said three things: top hats, rabbits, and David Copperfield. And that really was the extent of her knowledge and interest in it back then.

Things change when you become the Sheriff of a magical town.

Not by a lot, but enough.

Pretty quickly her definition of it grows beyond the scope of simple party tricks to actual sorcery. From cape-wearing magicians to fairies in nun habits. And from pulling cute animals out of a hat to not-so-cute creatures stumbling out of a fissure.

Her understanding of it evolves and so does she.

But truly, the biggest catalyst for Emma's transformation from indifferent to involved is simply living in the same house as a powerful sorceress. Not to mention becoming romantically involved with her too. And really, at that point, magic is pretty much inescapable when it's lying right beside you in bed.

Still, Emma's limited yet working knowledge of magic has all been gleaned on a simple need-to-know basis. It may be too reactionary, but as Sheriff, it's not her job to know everything, and it's dangerous to pretend otherwise. That's exactly why she has an expert like Regina as their magical consultant — to make sure they're not shooting in the dark in matters of the arcane.

So when Regina tells her that pixie tears are special on their own — but when mixed together with salamander blood make for one of the most potent memory elixirs in existence — Emma is inclined to believe her.

Because, ultimately, even though she's improved somewhat, Emma doesn't know shit about magic.

---

So… a memory elixir, huh?

Sounds like something a snake oil salesman like Doc Facilier would be hustling around town. Just like that hair growth potion of his that left Leroy's head still bald but the rest of his body shockingly sasquatch-esque for the good part of a month.

That said, Regina swears upon this particular memory concoction, so Emma knows it's legit.

But more importantly, she also thinks that Regina is right about another thing:

It's Belle.

At the root of it all, at the center of all this mess, is none other than the town's former librarian and Gold's one-and-only flame.

It makes a lot of sense, it really does. And it's not difficult to come to the same conclusion as Regina the moment Emma finds out what Rumplestiltskin is so desperate for.

And that is...

Belle French has lost her memories.

Think about it. Seriously. Why else would a powerless Rumplestiltskin — who went through all that trouble to leave — go back to the town he couldn't wait to get out of and risk the wrath of all the people he had wronged along the way?

Love, of course. As cliche as it may be.

Belle is Gold's linchpin.

And somewhere out there, in the bigger world outside of Storybrooke, his life has come undone.

Because Belle has lost her memories, and most probably reverted back to her cursed persona just like Jackson did last year. Something must've happened, something Gold didn't account for, and whatever he did to ensure that Belle remained just as she is outside of the barrier has now gone to shit.

Now he's back to fix that.

He probably already got his salamander blood from Facilier, now all he needs is the more elusive pixie tears.

And since life works in mysterious ways, and fate has a wicked sense of humor, they have in their possession the one thing that he so terribly needs.

And law enforcement or not, Emma's not above using it as leverage to finally rid themselves of their imp problem. The man revels in the art of dealmaking. Let's just see how he likes having to agree to one that's all on their terms.

One way or another, their Gold problem is ending tomorrow night. And all she can say is, good-fucking-riddance.

---

But like always, things are never that easy.

And just when she lowers her guard thinking that they've won, Emma gets thrown a curveball.

By Regina, no less.

"What do you mean we're using it to force concessions?" the woman had said to her the moment Emma voiced out her plans for the hourglass. "We talked about this last night, Emma. We're not handing it over. What we are going to do is dangle it in front of his face and taunt him with it. And then he'll know what it feels like to be truly powerless."

And that's how Emma finds herself out in the front courtyard of the Sheriff's Department, openly gawping at the defiant face of her magical consultant.

"Regina, he can't touch us anymore. Hell, Ruby is running with scissors all over town right now and snipping the collars in half — literally cutting his ties with his minions," she points out, waving a hand and motioning to the rest of the town around them. "There's nothing more he can do to us at this point. I say give him what he wants, but make him agree to a deal first."

"No," Regina simply says.

Emma ignores her and powers through. "No more coming back, no more pulling strings."

"No."

"No more collecting — he forgives all the debt people all over town owe him and wipes the slate clean."

"No."

"And this time when he leaves, he'll leave Storybrooke for good. We're giving him that hourglass, Regina. But on our terms."

"Absolutely not," Regina grounds out, her fingers tightening around the said object. "We are not giving that cretin what he wants. That's not what we agreed upon."

"Circumstances have changed!" Emma exclaims, feeling her face heat up. "You said it yourself, this is about Belle. If we withhold the hourglass, we hurt her. And then what? We'd be no fucking better than Rumplestiltskin."

A humming Leroy walks out of the station at that moment, notices the flailing hands, then quickly makes a U-turn and disappears back inside.

"Hurt her?" Regina mimics, and then lets out a loud scoff. "My dear, I'm doing her a favor. She's now free of him. I say leave it be."

"You can't be serious?" Emma breathes out. She searches Regina's face for a moment, and slowly, her hands slacken to her sides at the steely resolve she sees. "She's innocent, Regina. She doesn't deserve this."

"And what, you did?" Regina bites back, the vein on her forehead growing even more prominent. "You deserved to be collateral damage because you happen to be the Savior and he had a curse that needed breaking? Is that what you think, that you're expendable?"

"That's not—it's not the same," Emma manages, running a hand down her reddened face.

"You're correct, it's not," Regina agrees, and then lets out a little mirthless laugh. "Because he left you to die. I, on the other hand, am leaving his precious Belle in a much better place — alive and free of the memories that shackle her to a beast."

"Do you truly believe that?" Emma murmurs, quiet, tilting her head to the side. And then she lets a worn grin tug at the corner of her lips. "Or is that your way of justifying it to yourself, hm?"

Regina doesn't answer.

She just stares unseeingly at the line of shops across the road, watching people mill about. They're not loud by any means, but their respective body language is probably screaming volumes, considering the amount of curious glances being thrown their way from time to time.

"You're condemning an innocent party to live a cursed life," Emma says after a few moments, turning her back against the Saturday crowd across the street, giving them a small semblance of privacy. And this time she doesn't bother hiding the disappointment in her voice when she says, "Jesus, Regina. I thought you'd changed."

The woman's face crumples for a second, and then something else completely overtakes Regina's features. And when she lifts her head and meets Emma's gaze, there's nothing in her brown eyes but resentment and a world of hurt.

And when Regina finds her voice, it sounds both wretched and hollow when she says, "There are risks to crossing the town line. He knew that. Yet his selfishness and his arrogance compelled him to take her with him. But despite that—"

Regina pauses, swallowing thickly.

She takes a step back from Emma then, away from her reach, putting distance between them. And with eyes glistening in a way that makes Emma's chest suddenly feel so damn tight, Regina murmurs, "He knowingly endangered her, and even though she had succumbed to a fate of his own doing, in the end, I'm still the villain in your eyes. My dear, I thought you were different."

And just like that, Emma feels the wind getting knocked out of her. And whatever anger she felt earlier dissipates in place of guilt.

"Regina—" Emma starts to say, but then the woman turns on her heels and begins to walk away. "Regina, wait, please," she practically begs. And screw the people openly gawking now, Emma quickly moves to give chase.

It's not difficult to catch up — she manages in just a few strides. And when Emma reaches out a hand and grabs Regina's arm, the other woman catches her by surprise by quickly whipping around before she can even open her mouth.

"You promised," Regina says, and even though her tone is biting, her eyes and their unshed tears betray her hurt. "You said you wouldn't stand in my way."

"Regina, please," Emma whispers, more than a little desperate. "We can't do this to her. We can't punish her for his sins."

Regina's eyelids flutter shut then, and a tear escapes and rolls down her cheek. As if anticipating Emma's touch, Regina moves her face away before Emma can even wipe at it.

Sighing softly, Emma drops her hand.

Exhaling a shaky breath, Regina takes a moment to compose herself and then swipes at the moisture with her fingers. And when she meets Emma's eyes again, there's ice there that's reminiscent of days when Regina had sky-high walls in place to protect herself.

"You're the Sheriff," Regina finally says, squaring her shoulders. "I am merely your employee."

"Regina…"

The woman shakes her head. "Don't," she says. "As I said, I am your subordinate. And as such, all you have to do is give the order."

"You're more than just my subordinate, and you know that," Emma counters, and if she sounds a little worn, that's because she is. "You're my—"

"Sheriff Swan," Regina cuts her off. Without much fanfare, she opens her hand and shows her the hourglass on her palm. "If your desire is to let him have this, then give me the order and I will personally hand it to him myself."

Emma runs a hand through her hair and looks up helplessly at the sky. Of course, she wants to help Belle… but not like this.

Never like this.

"Give me the order," Regina says again.

And when Emma's lips close and open uselessly with no words coming forth, Regina takes pity on her and grabs her hand, turning it palm-side up.

"I am doing this for you. Only for you," Regina says. "And I may not agree with your decision, but I know my place. Your word is law here, Sheriff."

The hourglass that Regina places in her hand is cool to the touch — but Emma's not sure if it only seems that way because of how feverishly warm she feels. Regina covers her hand for a moment and makes Emma's fingers curl around the object.

"It's almost three, Henry's waiting at the diner," Regina says. And with that, she just gently pulls her hand back and turns towards the parked Bug.

She doesn't bother looking back.

And, somehow, Emma doesn't blame her.

---

The ride home is fraught with silence. So much so that within two minutes of entering the car when they pick him up at the diner, Henry decides to fill it by talking. And talking. And talking. That for a second Emma wonders if he's even pausing long enough to take an actual breath in. And also—Jesus, just how much sugar did her parents feed him anyway?

The tiniest 'uh-huh's' and 'mhmm's' from her are enough to spur Henry on, and by the time they pull up at home, file out of the Bug, and make their way to the house, the little motormouth is still going strong.

He only stops chattering when they cross the entryway and a tight-lipped Regina clambers up the foyer steps without breaking her stride. And when the doors to her study shut behind her, so do Henry's parted lips.

The mechanical sound of a lock clicking into place coming from somewhere that's not the mansion's front door is so foreign to her ears, that Emma finds her hand hovering over the deadbolt knob for a second, before turning it with a heavy sigh.

Regina has just locked herself in her study.

The woman might as well have put up a 'do not disturb' sign on the door.

And despite appearances, Emma can take a hint.

She won't force a conversation and she won't go where she's not wanted.

Because, frankly, Regina's not the only one who's not ready to talk just yet — Emma has her own fair share of processing to do.

But before she gets into that, her own curiosity has her standing in wait by the bottom of the staircase, hand on the banister, silently listening. And when her ears pick up the all-too-familiar clinking of glassware and pouring of liquids, Emma finally hangs her head and sighs.

"Long day?"

She glances up and shrugs weakly at the tilted head studying her. "You could say that, yeah."

"Is mom okay?" Henry asks in a whisper, his hand tugging at the cuff of her red jacket. "She didn't say anything when I told the story of how I beat everyone at Scrabble."

Emma can't help but smile at that. That for a boy who oftentimes likes to grumble at his mother's overly doting ways, the best barometer of Regina's mood is the manner in which she responds to things that normally make her proud of her son. "It's—" She wants to say nothing, but Emma doesn't really feel like lying to the kid, so she just settles for the more truthful, "—complicated."

The frown that's still etched on his face isn't showing signs of letting up. And when he looks up at her again, there's a deep crease between his brows that exudes such frustration that Emma can't help but see Regina staring back at her.

"Scrabble's our game, Emma," Henry stresses, as if that should mean something and everything all at once. "She would never not react to it unless something super bad happened."

"It's complicated, kid," Emma says with a worn breath. "Nothing bad happened. We just got… bad news, that's all."

"What kind of bad news?"

"The kind that threw a wrench in your mom's carefully laid plans," she says, and instead of going upstairs as planned, she changes course and makes her way to the kitchen, her son following closely behind. "And you know how she gets when something unexpected crops up that ruins things she was looking forward to."

"Like when," Henry starts to say, and then wrinkles his face in thought. "It starts raining hard when we're about to go horseback riding?"

"Yeah," Emma nods, grabbing a glass and filling it up with water from the faucet. It's not as exciting as Regina's current poison of choice, but it'll do. "Or like that time last month when you told her that Captain America was now your favorite Avenger — an hour before your Iron Man-themed birthday party was set to start."

"She was really… stressed," he mumbles, a little guilty, and then heaves himself up on the island counter with a grunt.

Emma snorts into her glass.

Stressed doesn't even begin to cover it. Especially when a flustered Regina tried to turn all the red party decorations blue, but her wonky magic decided to mix both colors instead, so Henry had to settle for a purely purple everything party — from the tablecloths down to the balloons.

He was a good sport about it though. Regina, on the other hand, sulked all afternoon. That is until the darn kid had the wherewithal to stand on the makeshift stage, get in front of the mic, and tell all of his guests that purple is his new favorite color because he loves purple grapes, eggplants, and lilacs, also it's regal — like his mother. That he also loves a lot.

Regina's face at that moment is something Emma had seared into memory.

And thinking about it right now causes a lump to form in her throat, and she has to stop drinking to prevent herself from choking.

"Does it have something to do with your mouse problem?" Henry asks, quiet, tapping his fingers against the granite countertop.

"Sorta," Emma just tells him, dumping the rest of the water down the sink before depositing the empty glass in the dishwasher. "It's nothing we can't handle though, and y'know what, we've faced bigger problems before. So don't worry about us, okay?"

The kid doesn't say anything. He doesn't even look up to meet her gaze. Not even when Emma walks over and gives his hair a good muss.

"Okay, kid?" she tries again, bending down slightly to try and catch his eyes. He averts them a few times, but Emma is stubborn enough to keep moving her head to follow, and in the end, Henry just lets out an audible sigh and floors her with a look.

"I'm not worried about you," he says point blank.

Well, ouch. But okay, she did tell him not to worry.

"I'm worried about my mom," Henry confesses, his tone losing the sassiness it had not just a moment ago. "Yeah, she had her mad face on. But did you actually see her? Her eyes—she looked just… sad."

"And I don't?"

"No," he shakes his head. "You just look worried for her too."

Emma straightens up and looks away, clutching the back of her neck in reflex.

"That's… true, I guess," she admits, licking her lips, and then puffing out a breath. The hourglass feels so heavy inside her pocket all of a sudden. "But I can't really be there for her right now."

"Why not?"

"Because sometimes people need space, Henry. And if I force myself in there, we'll probably just fight," she murmurs, letting the word 'again' die on her tongue. He doesn't need to know that they've been fighting — even if it is fairly obvious. "And to be honest, I have to sort out some things in my head too. I can't really be there for her if I'm not completely there — you know what I mean?"

He gives a slight nod, but the frown on his face still doesn't abate. "Mom gives me space sometimes when I'm feeling a bit down, so I think I get it," he says, and then chews on his lower lip. "But then she'll always make sure that—"

The kid doesn't finish the thought. Suddenly re-energized, he just pushes himself off the counter and starts rummaging through the different cabinets and drawers, pulling out an assortment of things that he places by the stove.

Emma doesn't ask. She doesn't need to, really. Just one look at the items he's collected so far tells her all she needs to know about what he's up to. So she just takes a step back and leans against the whirring fridge, making sure not to get in his way.

And now she has another damn lump in her throat.

She's messed up plenty in her life, made a ton of bad choices, so how on earth can such an intuitive creature ever come out of her? It boggles the mind, but… it's not all that surprising if she really thinks about it. In his case, nurture played a bigger role than nature. And as such, this is all mostly thanks to Regina.

And damn if that doesn't make her tear up a little bit.

Because the sight of him right now is like a balm to all the guilt that Emma knows she'll forever harbor.

She made the right call. She didn't give him a better chance in life when she let him go eleven years ago. She gave him the best.

---

Regina always makes cocoa for Henry when he has a bad day.

And despite the woman's neat-freak tendencies, Emma's positively sure that Regina will excuse the mess the kid has made in the kitchen.

Because when Regina answers the knock on the door, and her eyes land on the sight of her floppy-haired son standing there, holding up the steaming mug of cocoa between his palms, Emma swears she can see Regina's breath hitch.

"I'm sorry you're having a bad day," she hears Henry say, their little prince copying the words that Regina always uses on him whenever their roles are reversed. It's proof of how much his mother has consoled him over the years that he has her whole spiel down pat, even to the last, "If you want, you can tell me all about it. Or if you don't want to, I can just sit with you and keep you company. Either way, I just want you to know that I'm here for you."

The moment Regina takes in a shaky breath is when Emma averts her gaze and slowly takes a step back into the kitchen, and towards the door to the basement.

And even though he's been borrowing from Regina's repertoire thus far, Emma's certain that the next line her ears pick up is all Henry. "You can have your space, mom. But that doesn't mean you have to feel alone."

And the worry in Emma's chest eases in a way that is both relieving and surprising, allowing her to breathe a little easier. Regina's in good, capable hands. And now Emma can deal with her own feelings in peace.

They'll be okay. Deep down she's always known that. It's just nice to have a reminder of it, that's all.

---

She's not really surprised when her phone starts vibrating a mere ten minutes into her relaxing bath.

News travels fast in this sleepy town, and despite it being a weekend, gossip never seems to take a day off.

To be honest, the only shocking thing is that the call hadn't come in much earlier than it did.

So, with a sigh, Emma grabs the buzzing phone with the non-wet hand that's dangling off the edge of the tub, and brings it to her ear.

She doesn't even need to look at the caller ID. "Hey MM, what's up?" Emma says, eyes closed, head thrown back against the tub.

"So, I heard you had quite an… exciting afternoon," her mother says, not even bothering with pleasantries.

"Leroy?" Emma guesses.

"The nuns, actually."

Of course, she smiles wryly.

"Isn't there a commandment against rumor-mongering in the bible?" Emma says, opening her eyes and staring at her toes poking out of the bubbles. "Thou shalt not talk shit about other people or something?"

"I don't believe so," Mary Margaret chuckles lightly. "Though slander is against the law."

"We ought to enforce that."

"Well, Sheriff," the incumbent Mayor says in her best official sounding voice, "That would mean locking up most of my constituents. And I don't think the station has enough capacity to keep them all detained."

"True," Emma agrees with an exaggerated sigh. "Folks here tend to be blabbermouths."

"Oh, mostly just the fairies."

"I thought they mainly dealt in wishes? They spun tales too?"

"Emma, where do you think the word fairytale originated from?"

"...fair point," Emma concedes. That makes a shitton of sense, actually. "So what did our resident busybodies tell you? That there's trouble in paradise?"

"Not their exact words, but the sentiment is… similar."

"Of course," Emma rolls her eyes.

"But they also told me that the two of you are in their thoughts and that they'd be praying for you ladies during evening prayer tonight."

Emma snorts. "Thoughts and prayers. How kind of them."

"They mean well," Mary Margaret softly chides. "So…"

"So?"

"Do you wanna tell me what happened?" her mother finally asks.

"Honestly? No. But I'd rather you hear it from me than anyone else," Emma says, skimming the top of her bubbly fortress with her free hand. "So… you know our little mice problem?"

"Mhmm..."

"Well, it turns out it was more of a rat problem," Emma exhales. "The rat being Gold. He's back."

The sound of cutlery clinking against porcelain ceases, and Emma can just picture her mother with a cup of tea before her, her hand frozen while holding the end of a teaspoon.

Though it doesn't take long before Mary Margaret regains her bearings and immediately launches with, "Should we start mobilizing our reserve troops? The nuns are always ready but it might take a day to organize the rest. I can put the town in high alert for fissures and whatever they bring forth. If he starts causing trouble, I want us prepared for the worst. And also—"

"Hey—hey, easy there. Breathe," Emma says, cutting in before her mother pops an aneurysm. "He's not here to cause trouble. He's not even in town — the imp's been skulking near the town line and meeting his minions on the down low."

"He can see through the barrier?"

Emma shrugs. "He created the curse — if anyone has the ability to see past the cloak around Storybrooke, it'd be him."

"Makes sense," her mother murmurs. "So, if he's not here to cause trouble, then what is he here for?"

"Pixie tears," Emma just says.

"He went back for an aphrodisiac?"

Despite it all, Emma finds herself chuckling in amusement. "Jesus, what is it with you people and your one track minds? Even August mentioned that."

She can just imagine the little shrug her mother makes. "It was all the rage in the old world… if you could afford it, that is," Mary Margaret mumbles. "So what does he need the tears for?"

"A memory elixir," Emma shares. "Regina and I both agree that he needs it for Belle."

"Of course… I was afraid that was gonna happen," her mother lets out a deep sigh. "They took a huge gamble when they crossed the town line."

"Understatement of the year."

"So, does he have the pixie tears?" Mary Margaret asks.

"Nope, we have it," Emma murmurs, shifting in place, careful not to let the bubbly water slosh over the tub. "We found the hourglass containing it this afternoon."

And for a brief moment, there's nothing on the end of the other line but static, but then Mary Margaret lets out a small, "Ahh," that tells Emma more than several words could ever say.

Some would call it a mother's intuition, but at this point, Emma is more inclined to chalk it up to Mary Margaret's knowledge of her and Regina's personalities when the woman just says, "You want to give the hourglass to save Belle and Regina doesn't."

"Basically," Emma nods weakly. "But please don't hold that against her. It's a bit complicated, you see."

"Now that's an understatement."

"True," she smiles wryly. "This whole thing just blew the lid wide open to some crap that Regina's been trying to contain for months since… you know what. And, well, here we are."

"You don't have to explain, Emma. I… understand how she feels," Mary Margaret admits, her voice growing so quiet that Emma has to up the volume on her phone to hear. "And truth be told, there is a huge part of me that wants to advocate for the same thing as her."

That gets Emma to sit up straighter. "Are you fucking kidding me? You?"

"Language, young lady," Mary Margaret hushes. And then sobers up enough to say, "And before you pass judgment, just try to understand that I am saying this as Mary Margaret the mother and not the Mayor or the school teacher or the advocate of everything good and pure and wholesome."

"Okay…" Emma says, urging the woman on.

"So, speaking as your mother — and a person who loves you very, very much — doing the right thing in this situation might be harder for me than it is for you."

"Why, because I'm the Savior and thereby just compelled to save everyone?"

"No, not at all," Mary Margaret murmurs. "It's different for us — the ones you would've left behind if things didn't turn out the way they did. If your life had ended at that riverbank, for you that would've been it, y'know?"

"Death is kinda final that way, yes," Emma mumbles, more than a little cynically.

"Yes, but not for us. Not for me, your father, Regina, Henry," her mother enumerates, and the sadness in her tone kills the sarcasm that Emma's prone to using as a defensive shield. "I know life would need to go on for all of us. But… how? It's never easy to carve out one's way through grief, through loss."

The water is getting a bit tepid, but Emma doesn't budge an inch.

"And even though it did not happen, the fact that we got so close to losing you doesn't make the fears, the anxiety, all the less potent. If anything, your survival amplified them," Mary Margaret intones, and then lets out a harried breath. "So, I get it, Emma. I understand where Regina's coming from. When faced with the man who almost took your life, the last thing on my mind would be to save his loved ones — no matter how fond I may be of them."

"So you'd doom Belle to a life without her true memories?"

"Ultimately, I would hand over the pixie tears," Mary Margaret eventually admits. "But it wouldn't be easy, and in a way it would even break my heart. Anger is an easy emotion to hold on to because it doesn't feel as empty as sorrow. And thinking of life without you feels empty enough."

Emma swallows hard and blinks rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay. Why is she so damn emotional today?

After a moment of silence, she clears her throat and says, "Regina gave me the hourglass. To use it as I see fit… or something."

Mary Margaret lets out a small sound of understanding, but in true Charming fashion, asks anyway, "Then if that's the case, why do you sound so sad?"

"Because…" Emma trails off.

She made a promise not to intervene. She gave Regina her word last night. And for someone like Emma who grew up without much, her word was pretty much all she had for the longest time. It's a currency she values above all. And on top of that, she loves Regina more than anything.

But to hurt him is to punish the sweet librarian whose only sin is loving a beast. And regardless of Emma's personal feelings towards Gold, she doesn't feel right about any of that.

So now, despite Regina giving way, Emma doesn't know what to do.

Honor demands benevolence. But love requires fidelity.

And Emma can either be the kindhearted Savior or Regina's faithful and trustworthy idiot. She can't really see a scenario where she can be both.

There are times when one can toe the line, and this isn't one of them.

"...whatever I choose, someone ends up getting hurt," Emma finally says, hugging her knees to her chest.

"Oh, Emma. I'm sorry..."

"It's okay," she sighs. "I'm sorry too."

Because it's fundamentally wrong to have to choose between doing the right thing and breaking someone's heart.

There really is no winning then.

---

Dinner is an awkward affair.

Even though she's spent a good chunk of the last hour slaving away in the kitchen, Regina is barely touching her food. And, well, it's not like Emma's doing any better just moving things around her plate with her fork.

Across the dinner table, their eyes meet occasionally, but Regina always averts her gaze so quickly that Emma finds herself deflating every single time.

It gets so tedious after a while that, pathetically, it just devolves into a game of who can stare at their own plate the longest and ignore the other person completely.

And truly, Henry really deserves a medal. The kid is single-handedly holding everything together with his probing questions about anything and everything under the sun. He is so patient and persistent in his efforts to get his two mothers to converse with him, that Emma feels so frickin' exhausted from all the energy Henry seems to be expending. Plus, it's not like he's gaining that much traction either.

That said...

She's not a sadist, and after a while of watching him struggle to find a safe topic to blather on about, Emma decides to throw the poor kid a bone.

And, also, the ball in Regina's court while she's at it.

"I love you."

Regina's fork stills over a chunk of roasted potato. And Henry trails off mid-sentence like a dying balloon and just looks between the two of them, all bug-eyed.

Emma glances up from her plate and inhales a deep breath. "I love you," she says again, firmer, holding Regina's questioning gaze.

"And I'm sorry we're having… disagreements. But even though we don't see eye-to-eye right now, I just wanted to remind you of that. Because sometimes it's easy to forget the important stuff when we're hurting, so… yeah," Emma nods to herself. "I love you — a lot."

Slowly, gingerly, Regina puts down her fork and wipes at her mouth with the table napkin.

"Likewise, my dear," she murmurs quietly, and the tightness in her posture relaxes by just a small fraction.

Henry clears his throat.

"I love you, too," a chastened Regina tells Emma, glancing briefly at their son.

And then finally, even though they've been eating for the past half hour or so, they actually start digging in. And throughout the meal, a less talkative Henry looks like the cat that just ate the canary.

"See, that wasn't so hard, right?" he says over a mouthful of pot roast, kicking his legs under the table.

Emma finds herself indulging him with a smile.

There's still a lot of work ahead, a lot of things they still need to deal with, but this feels like a step in the right direction at least.

She'll take her victories, no matter how small.

Because even though Emma still feels the weight of everything bogging down her shoulders, and Regina still looks mighty forlorn, at least the kid seems happy.

Silver linings, and all that jazz, you know?

---

It's almost eleven when Emma hears footsteps going down the basement stairs.

For a moment, she thinks it's Henry coming back — he did forget his copy of the newest Arachno comic on her armchair — but the more she listens to the dull thumps and how soft and measured they are, she realizes it's not the kid.

Those aren't Henry's ostentatiously heavy and energetic footsteps.

True enough, when she pops her eyes open and lifts her head a little off of her pillow, she's greeted by the sight of Regina standing tentatively in the doorway — clad in her silk navy pajama bottoms and one of Emma's white tank tops.

They stare at each other silently for a minute before Regina finally takes a step forward and asks, almost hesitantly, "Are you coming to bed?"

It's kind of a silly question considering where she is and what she's lying on right now, but Emma sits up anyway and mats down her tousled hair. Technically, this isn't officially her bed anymore since a couple of days ago, even if she hasn't slept in it for months, but — "I wasn't sure if you wanted me there with you tonight," she admits softly.

Regina just nods, seemingly in understanding.

"Though I'm not really used to sleeping alone anymore," Emma admits feebly, propping up her pillows against the headboard and then scooting up to lean on them. She pats the empty space beside her in invitation. "So I was kinda hoping you'd let me into your room and into your bed tonight… eventually."

"Our room," Regina corrects, accepting her offer and padding towards her in those utterly ridiculous fluffy slippers that the woman simply adores. "And our bed."

And for a moment they just sit beside each other, side by side, taking in Emma's old bedroom. Not much has changed in the past several months. Save for a spare toothbrush and a few select articles of clothing that she keeps upstairs, most of her junk is still in here. She's still using the basement's bathroom too. So Emma finds it just a bit odd, that even though she's in this space regularly, she can't exactly pinpoint why it feels a bit alien to her now.

Maybe she's just outgrown it somehow.

Now that she feels more at home sharing cuddling space with a woman who seems incapable of falling asleep if they're not huddled together on her king-sized bed.

"What are you thinking of?" Emma asks after a second, taking notice of the unblinking way that Regina's staring at her hands.

Regina's jaw tightens for a brief moment, and then she relaxes after letting out a breath. "Would it truly be so bad?" she asks, almost silent.

"Would what be so bad?"

"Letting Belle carry on as Lacey."

Emma sighs inwardly. And then shuts her eyes momentarily to mentally prepare herself for what's ahead. "Tell me about Lacey," she says instead, indulging her curiosity. "What's she like? What's her backstory?"

"She's... a bit of a character and a staple at The Rabbit Hole," Regina hedges, her finger absentmindedly tracing the abstract shapes on Emma's bed covers. "She has a bite, that one. Definitely has a backbone. She loves to put up an act of naivety, but in reality, she is deviously smart and calculating as can be. She knows what she wants, how to get it, and often succeeds when she puts her mind to it."

"And?" Emma prods, tilting her head. "Everyone seems to have a major flaw built into their cursed personas. What's hers?"

"I suppose there's no getting around it," Regina exhales, then looks at Emma and deadpans, "The woman is a floozy."

.

.

.

"You made Belle a bimbo?" Emma sputters out.

"If we are being technical about it, Rumple did. He was the architect of my curse," Regina simply says, lifting her chin, unruffled as ever. "My dear, it was like purchasing a prefabricated home — I merely gave him an outline of what I wanted, he decided on the specifics of it."

That doesn't really make it any better.

"Yet knowing her… proclivities, you still want her to continue on as Lacey?" Emma asks, and then pinches at the bridge of her nose. "Jesus Christ, Regina."

"Sexual liberation is not a bad thing. Don't be such a prude, Emma. You are better than your parents."

"Regina," she says, lifting her brows. "Seriously."

The put out frown that mars the woman's features is a clear indication that they're not really going to settle this Belle-slash-Lacey deal tonight, but Regina doesn't seem to be ready to let it go just yet.

"If there is anyone better equipped to survive the world outside of Storybrooke, it would be Lacey," Regina says unapologetically, nose in the air. "She is tenacious, she is a fighter. And she would never, ever let Gold get away with half of the things that Belle had easily forgiven him for."

Emma lets out a long, suffering sigh.

"She's no doormat," Regina tells her.

"That's great," Emma smiles sadly. "Too bad she's no Belle."

Finding themselves at another impasse, they both sit in silence for several moments, staring at the wall ahead.

"So… tomorrow evening, we are giving the imp his hourglass, yes?" Regina finally broaches the topic, so casually it's like she's asking about the weather. Though the vein on her forehead betrays her like always.

Clutching the back of her neck, Emma nods weakly, green eyes dropping low to her lap. "I'm sorry, Regina. Please believe me when I say that the part of me that doesn't want to disappoint you is almost as strong as the one that wants to do the right thing," she says, twisting the ring around her finger. "But… I just can't do that to Belle. I couldn't live with myself."

Regina works her jaw for a moment, and then eventually manages a stilted, "Very well."

"Can you answer a question for me though?" Emma murmurs after a minute, chewing on her lower lip. And when she hears a low hum coming from beside her, she carries on with a soft and thoughtful, "If I was the one who lost my memories — of you and of our life together — do you think people would also say that I am better off not remembering you?"

Regina snaps her jaw shut and looks away.

"I'm not trying to make you feel bad or dredge up awful aspects of your past, but—" Emma licks her lips. "If we're gonna put Gold and Belle's relationship under a lens, I think it's only fair that we take a hard look at ourselves as well. Because as much as I hate it, we can't deny that there are a lot of people in town who see our relationship as a mirror to his."

Emma feels, rather than sees, Regina tensing up. And so she reaches for the balled up fist on the woman's lap, and covers it with her own.

"And because of that, there will always be those who won't understand what we have and why we work — the same way we, ourselves, don't frickin' get what the heck Belle sees in Gold. It's just how it goes, I guess," Emma shrugs, caressing the back of Regina's hand with her thumb. "Everyone has a past — it just so happens that yours and his are more checkered than most."

Regina swallows tightly, but still refuses to look her way.

Deep down, Emma gets how her relationship, as personal as it is to them, shakes a lot of people to the core. It really all boils down to people's perception of heroes and villains, good and bad. Because it is easier to see things in black and white, and it is infinitely harder to comprehend the different shades of gray that the world truly exists in.

It's more comforting to think of things in absolutes.

Like… a monster is a monster, period. A monster can't have any redeeming qualities. A monster can't be anything but bad and evil and despicable.

So, what happens then when someone good, like a Savior or a dutiful princess, ends up falling in love with that monster? What happens to the fantasy then?

It falls like a stack of cards in a storm.

Because if someone good can find something to love about a monster, does it follow that maybe they're not as monstrous as people make them out to be? That someone, for example, living under the guise of an Evil Queen is actually just a woman who is simply hurting?

"Look, I love you," Emma gives Regina's hand a gentle squeeze, "So much so that I just don't think — or don't actually care, to be honest — about other people's opinions regarding their so-called Savior falling in love with the woman who had cursed them for twenty-eight years. I don't see you as the Evil Queen. To me you are just Regina. My Regina."

Regina looks down at their now entwined fingers, the tightness in her jaw still evident. Although there's a hint of glistening tears in her eyes that weren't there a few minutes before.

"And we can argue until we're both blue in the face that Belle is better off without Rumplestiltskin, but at the end of the day, that should be her decision and hers alone," Emma says, and this time she reaches out and gently inclines Regina's chin to face her. "The same way I expect people to respect my choices if I were in her shoes. I want to keep choosing you, Regina. And even if they claim to have my best interests at heart, no one should be able to steal that away from me."

The floodgates finally burst open then, and as Regina's face crumples and her tears fall freely down her crimson cheeks, Emma pulls the woman into her arms and holds on for dear life. This is pretty much reminiscent of what happened the night before in Regina's study, but unlike then, the sobs wracking Regina's body now feel more anguished, more defeated.

And damn if it doesn't feel like Emma's own heart is getting squeezed in a vice. Blinking back her own tears, she buries her face in Regina's hair and alternates between whispering reassurances in the woman's ear and leaving kisses on the side of her head.

And when her breathing finally settles and her chest isn't heaving as violently, Regina sniffles into Emma's neck and manages a shaky, and broken, "It feels... wrong."

"What does?" Emma murmurs, her hand rubbing circles on Regina's back.

"Giving him what he wants," the woman says, her voice thick. "Despite what you might think, I understand why you feel so strongly about this. But, yet, it still feels wrong. It feels like a betrayal — to the Emma who sacrificed herself near Toll Bridge, to the one who went back in time to save my wretched self."

"Regina…"

"Tomorrow night, I am giving the man that doomed you to die the key to his happily ever after," Regina says, sniffling, and then lets out a short, bitter laugh. "If that's not proof of life's incessant need to make a mockery of my emotions, I don't know what is."

Emma doesn't really have anything to say to that.

Because she's said it once and she'll say it again... life really is a bitch. And she guesses that the only consolation to be found out there is that it's fair at least — in that no one is spared from being its whipping boy.

And somewhere out there, Gold is feeling the brunt of life's sick sense of humor too.

So, there is justice in the world, somewhat.

"Is it still true?" Emma questions after a while, when Regina's body relaxes enough to just let go and meld completely into her arms.

"Hm?"

"What you told me last night, does it still ring true? That you just want to end this?"

Regina doesn't verbalize her response, but nevertheless, Emma feels her nodding her head.

"Then let's end this once and for all," Emma says in a whisper. "You know him better than anyone, Regina. If we don't give him the hourglass, he's not going to turn around and just give up. I mean, would you? If you were in his place?" she pulls back just enough to search Regina's watery, red-rimmed eyes. Gently, Emma cups the woman's warm cheek with a hand. "If I lost my memories and he kept the cure from you out of spite, would you stop just because he said no? Or would you do everything in your power to save me?"

Regina swallows, brown eyes flashing dark for a moment. "I would burn this town to the ground in pursuit of the cure," she finally admits.

Emma allows herself a wry smile. "He's not going to stop, Regina," she says, quiet. "Belle is his line — let's not cross it. So, please, I'm begging you, let's just end this."

And finally, without any words or fanfare, an exhausted-looking Regina finally shuts her eyes, and simply nods.

Just like that, it's like a considerable weight has been lifted off of Emma's shoulders. But despite it all, she can't find it in herself to feel glad, much less relieved.

Because there's something in the way her shoulders are slumping that tells Emma that Regina's never going to be fully okay with all of this.

The struggle is plain to see.

And Emma feels for her, she really does.

Mary Margaret is right — the magnanimity of giving one's blessing at the expense of their own principles, their own desires, is akin to shattering their own heart.

Regina's heart is breaking right before her very eyes. And there's nothing Emma can do but to hold her close and whisper words of consolation that really won't make the bitter pill any easier to swallow.

But she tries anyway.

Doing the right thing is never easy, because if it were, more people would actually do it.

"I'm doing this for you," Regina murmurs into Emma's tear-soaked shirt, repeating the words she had said outside the station this afternoon. Although they lack the vitriol this time around, they're equally, if not more, broken. "Only for you."

"I know," Emma swallows hard, placing a kiss on the woman's head. "And I'm so sorry."

---

For the first time in, well, ever, Emma is the first one to stir.

They never made it out of the basement and up to their bedroom last night, so now here they are, tucked under the covers of Emma's old bed.

Regina's still sound asleep, the poor woman tuckered out after crying all night. And even though she's barely had a good night's rest herself, Emma doesn't go back to sleep the moment it lets her go from its clutches. Instead, she rubs her eyes with a fist and then extends her arms over her head for a languid stretch, careful not to jostle her slumbering bedmate.

Which is an exercise in futility because Regina is such a light sleeper.

"What time is it?" Regina murmurs, her voice thick with sleep.

Emma reaches out for her phone on the nightstand and squints at the lock screen. "Almost seven-thirty," she mumbles. Noticing the alert displayed on there too, she types in her code and opens the unread message that August had sent last night.

She's not really worried about missing anything important. Her deputies know to call if it's urgent.

"August took in Facilier for questioning," Emma shares with a yawn. "He admitted to bringing Gold stuff from his shop the other day," she scrolls down to the rest of the message. "Salamander blood, empty flasks and vials, and—what's an elder bladderwrack?"

"A rare plant found only in the waters of Neverland," Regina mumbles, her back still turned on Emma. "Makes one susceptible to suggestion."

"Oh," Emma says. And then scrunches her nose. "Wonder what he needs that for? Is it like—"

Regina sits up abruptly, sending one of the pillows tumbling off the bed.

"Uh," a wide-eyed Emma merely says, suddenly a little more lucid. "You okay?"

"That bastard—" Regina just says to herself, and when she turns to look at Emma, there's a glint in her eye that's not from tears for a change.

"Where are you going?" Emma asks, watching the other woman clamber out of bed and hurriedly step into her fluffy slippers.

"My study," Regina just says, quickly bending down to grab the fallen pillow and placing it on the bed. "I have to go through some of my old manuscripts."

"What's going on, Regina?" Emma sits upright.

"Do you trust me?" Regina just says, walking around to Emma's side of the bed. This time, she's the one reaching out to caress Emma's confused face — even running a thumb to smooth out the crease between her brows.

"Of course I do," Emma nods, turning her head to kiss Regina's palm.

"Enough to allow me to take point in our whole operation tonight?"

Emma's eyebrows hike up to her forehead, but she quickly tamps them down at Regina's expectant gaze. "Yes, of course," she says, clearing her throat.

Regina smiles then, a genuine one at that, and with a little kiss on Emma's lips, she turns on her heels and heads for the door.

"What's going on, Regina?" Emma calls out, asking her question again.

Pausing briefly by the doorway, Regina just throws her a glance over her shoulder and says, "I am not a hundred-percent certain, but it's looking very likely that — I wasn't wrong, but I wasn't entirely right, either."

"What do you mean?" Emma asks, absolutely lost.

"It's not just a memory elixir," Regina yells behind her as she climbs up the stairs. "It's that — and more."

"How can it be more?" Emma asks into an empty room. And then sighs in frustration.

How the hell can a memory elixir be more than what it is?

"Maybe it is for a wart too, after all," she grumbles, falling back into her pillow.

Who knows? Not her, that's for sure.

Why? Because Emma doesn't know shit about magic.

Chapter Text

As always, he paints an imposing picture — the tailored suit, the carved wooden cane, the diamond-studded watch, the handmade Italian leather shoes.

On the surface, he appears to be every bit like the Mr. Gold that threw his weight around Storybrooke for twenty-eight years, tormenting the hapless fools in town with his money and his thugs.

Motionless, he stands there, just a mere few inches from the invisible barrier, his hands planted firmly on the handle of his cane. Regina's palm itches at the sight — how wonderful it would probably feel to snatch that stick away and beat him to a pulp with it.

The thought consumes her for a moment, but it's one she eventually lets go. His comeuppance will come soon enough — it may not be as bloody, but she's certain it'll hurt just as bad, if not worse.

And so Regina remains hidden from view.

A lifetime ago, when she was being molded into the Evil Queen he needed her to be, he had hammered into her the importance of biding one's time when seeking vengeance.

It was one of the hardest things she had to learn. After all, becoming queen and getting what you want, when you want it, slowly but surely erodes one's capacity to be patient.

But he was persistent. To him, the beauty of power is that it enables the wielder time to revel in their quarry's misery. And time, well, not a lot of people have that luxury.

There is no gratification in a quick death — watching your prey bleed out and seeing the light in their eyes ever so slowly dim is the only way, Rumplestiltskin would always say.

Regina had struggled with that sentiment initially. Revenge is revenge. Whether quick or prolonged, it would be glorious and it would be hers. But now, now she understands his reasoning and why he had been so unrelenting. He needed her to be pliant, because he needed her to execute a curse that involved a lot of time basking in her empty victory against Snow White.

So now here she is, a product of his own making — watching and waiting. Biding her time, setting the pace.

Because the tables have turned and it's now her master himself that has become her prey.

And now, half an hour later than his supposed rendezvous with Rouleau, Regina knows he is getting restless. And that is exactly how she wants him to be. On pins and needles, poised on a knife's edge.

Taking her time also pays off in other ways. The longer she watches his unmoving form, the more she actually sees.

There is something quite... different about him tonight.

It's almost imperceptible but it's there. It's the dark circles around his eyes. The slight hunch of his shoulders. The stubble on his gaunt cheeks accentuated in the darkness by the pallor of his face.

He looks like a defeated man. A broken man. One that reeks of desperation.

A smile creeps across Regina's lips.

She lets him stew for a little while longer before she waves a hand and lets him see past her cloaking enchantment. And for the first time in a long, long while, she thinks she sees his breath hitch when he finally takes notice of her presence.

It almost gives her a moment's pause.

Almost.

It's something that she's grown accustomed to — having struck fear in the hearts of men for decades — but it's disconcerting to see it from him, of all people.

Rumplestiltskin's never been scared of her. No, he's never respected her abilities enough to fear her. On the contrary, and despite how much it bruises her pride to admit it, the most he could ever offer her was his condescension.

She was never much of a threat to him.

Well... until now, it seems.

Underneath the pale moonlight, she catches the way his index finger starts to tap furiously against the ring on his other hand.

Regina's smile grows broader.

Step by slow step, she takes her time. And when they're finally standing face-to-face with nothing but a magical barrier, and years and years of contention, backstabbing and one-uppance between them, Gold has moved on to twisting the band around his finger.

"Regina," he says, and to his credit, if he is feeling any sort of unease, his voice doesn't betray it. "In all the years I've known you, I've never taken you for one to enjoy midnight strolls in the forest."

"I could say the same about you," she returns in kind. "But I suppose stranger things have happened in these woods."

He has the nerve to mimic her smirk as he eyes her up and down.

"You look well."

"Mhmm, and why shouldn't I?" she asks, folding her gloved hands in front of her. "Were you expecting to see a different person, Rumple? A grieving woman, perhaps?"

"Of course not. I had heard your Savior survived, after all."

"No thanks to you."

The silver cap on his tooth glints in the moonlight when his smile widens. "Either way, at least things worked out for the best. Judging from how… relaxed you look, it seems your relationship with Miss Swan agrees with you."

"And judging from how haggard you appear, yours clearly doesn't." Regina makes a show of looking behind his shoulder, as if searching for somebody that she already knows isn't there. "Tell me, where is that precious librarian of yours?"

His little grin wavers slightly.

"Otherwise preoccupied, I'm afraid."

"Ah, so I take it she wasn't up for an excursion into the woods?"

His smile vanishes into thin air.

"I don't believe it's any of your business."

Regina hums. "So you say."

Somewhere overhead, an owl hoots. And as Gold's dark eyes continue to bore into hers, she remembers all those moments in Storybrooke and the Enchanted Forest when they faced each other like this. Though the context might vary — in the sense that at any given time, they might be conversing as enemies, allies, co-conspirators or rivals — there is something fundamentally different about this meeting tonight.

Tonight, she knows she holds all the cards.

Tonight, there are no illusions in her mind that the balance of power has shifted in her favor.

She knows it; he knows it. But as always, he'll never admit to it.

"Why are you here, dearie?"

Case in point.

If Regina weren't so used to his audacity by now, she might be taken aback by that question. As such, she just lifts a brow.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that question, Rumple?"

"What do you want from me, Regina?"

It swells up almost instantaneously then — the bitterness and rage that's been swirling inside of her for months. And even though some of it has managed to bubble over since Friday night, Regina's managed to keep most of it at bay.

She is acutely self-aware.

And she knows she's more effective — and, ultimately, more dangerous — whenever she lets her anger simmer beneath the surface until she's about to strike.

But this is the man that's been haunting both dreams and her waking hours ever since discovering Emma's comatose self last Christmas — the very monster at the focal point of whatever vestiges of anger she has room for in her otherwise perfect little life with her family.

And he's right here. Arrogant as always — even if his arrogance is clearly contrived this time around.

The smile on Regina's face dwindles, her expression hardening like stone. "You've got some nerve showing your face here again."

"Trust me, Madam Mayor, I had no intention of ever coming back to this accursed town of yours."

"Oh I believe you," Regina acknowledges, sliding her gloved fists inside the pockets of her coat. "But I don't trust you — never have, never will."

"Fair enough," he acknowledges. "Now, do tell, why are you here?"

"You've always had the answers, Rumple. You tell me."

"You're here to kill me."

Regina smiles. Such certainty in that statement. If anything, it makes her feel even more emboldened. "Kill you?"

"I'm not a fool, dearie."

"No, of course you're not. You are Rumplestiltskin, after all. The clever one — the great master of his own fate," Regina drawls out. And then drops the honey from her tone. "But in being so, you've also unwittingly become the architect of your own demise. What's the word for that? Oh, right — hubris."

He scoffs at that, but she knows she got to him.

"So am I here to end you?" Regina ponders out loud. "Well, Emma believes that the best revenge is just to live my life. To be happy. To be able to stand here, with you, with all the animosity and all the history between us, and just walk away. Let it go."

"And what do you think?"

"The pull of vengeance is strong," Regina admits. "I look at you and all I see are the broken parts of me that you've molded, picked at, and discarded over the decades. I look at you and all I see is red. My blood, Emma's blood. They ooze from the pores of your hands like the stench of misery you've always left in your wake."

His eyes flicker upwards to meet her gaze, and then the slightest of grins tug at the corner of his lips. "So you are here to kill me."

"A mere step closer and the barrier will do just that," Regina murmurs, lifting a hand and moving her fingers before her as if she were caressing silk. With every deliberate movement, the air appears to shimmer, betraying the invisible forcefield that lay between them. "I reinforced it with a curse that's particularly deadly to you and only you. Wasn't that difficult considering the amount of junk you left behind. But you knew that already, didn't you?"

"I suspected as much," Gold admits, mirroring the caustic little grin on her lips, his feet planted firmly on the other side of the barrier. "You do, after all, have a legendary predilection for revenge."

"That you fostered and took advantage of," Regina points out.

"You always speak as if you were a passive participant in the whole sordid affair," he snorts. "Need I remind you, dearie, ours was a mutually beneficial partnership? I might've armed you and even guided your aim, but you were the one who pulled the trigger — so to speak."

"There wouldn't have been any need to pull any triggers if you had only been brave enough to choose your son over your dagger."

"And you wouldn't have let me lead you down the path to darkness if you had only learned to let go," he snarls. "Don't blame me for what your mother did to that stable boy, dearie. I wasn't the one who ripped his heart out."

"But it was you who led Emma down the path of her own destruction — at least own up to that."

"Own up to what? It was a path she chose herself."

"You needed her to break your dagger. You didn't give her a choice!"

"She had a choice," Gold says, and with his dark eyes sweeping her from head to toe in what can only be described as a look of disdain, he spits, "And she chose you."

"Yes, she did," Regina says, chin held high, refusing to let him see how the Savior's sacrifice is something she still struggles with to this very day. Emma chose her and almost perished for it, and Regina will carry that guilt with her until the day she dies.

"I want to rip your heart out and crush it," Regina manages to say after a beat, recovering her bearings. "But Emma is right — death is too good for someone like you. I realize now that it's almost insulting to consider it. A quick end will not satiate my hunger for retribution. No, it's nothing but a temporary fix that will leave me feeling empty and unsatisfied in the end."

Just like how she felt when the novelty of trapping her enemies in Storybrooke wore off. At least in the beginning. Before Henry. Before the curse broke. Before Emma Swan.

"What do you want from me, then?"

"On the contrary, it's what you want from me," Regina murmurs. Now, for the first blow. "Belle's lost her memories, hasn't she?"

It cuts through the air and lands perfectly on his smarmy little face.

It takes him only a fraction of a second to release the tension in his jaw, but that's more than enough. He doesn't say anything. Not that he has to. Gold's never been one to be forthcoming with information whenever it served to prove her right.

Regina half-smiles. It doesn't matter.

"One of your little minions squeaked," she shares, eliciting a faint twitch from his brow. "I know why you're here, what you're after. Never send mice to do a man's job, dear."

Unable to help himself, his lips curl up into a sneer. And Regina has seen that look enough times to know that Jacques Rouleau is probably feeling a chill down his spine at this very moment.

Unfortunately for Gold, she's not done.

With a flourish, Regina waves a hand, and all the collars they've cut and collected all over town materialize into thin air and drop before their feet like flies.

"As you can see, we've also gone ahead and divested you of all your remaining... assets. I'm sorry, Rumple, but it seems like you have to add your minions to the list of people in town that are very, very unhappy with you," she says with a little pout, simply reveling in the moment.

"So, you're here to gloat then?" Gold looks at her and sighs, deep and theatrical. "Oh, dearie. You are nothing if not predictable."

"I think I would rather call what I'm doing taunting," Regina smiles, and then quirks a brow. "Nevertheless, I'm also here to make a deal."

That gets his attention.

Gold tilts his head in question.

Slowly, delicately, Regina makes a show of reaching into the inner pocket of her black coat and pulling out her ace card.

The hourglass and its glittering contents do not disappoint in the least.

Gold's eyes widen in the smallest of ways, but he keeps his expression as neutral as can be. Pretty pointless, if you ask her. The stench of desperation coming off him is so potent, it's absurd he's still insisting on pretending otherwise.

She holds the object up to eye level, making a show of studying the shimmering tears it contains. Moonlight hits it at a perfect angle, and the enchanted liquid disperses the light in all odd directions, creating quite a spectacle before them.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Regina murmurs, her eyes flicking from the hourglass to the man whose own gaze is transfixed onto it.

She doesn't think he even realizes how he's curling and uncurling his fingers around the handle of his cane — as if he's just itching to reach out and snatch the hourglass from her grasp.

Regina bites back a sigh.

This is going to be so easy — too easy — that it dampens her enjoyment of it by a small degree. But... no matter. In the greater scheme of things, that's not such a bad problem to have.

It takes Gold a second to break free from his trance, and when he manages to tear his gaze away from the hourglass, he squares his shoulders and asks, "What do you want for it?"

"What, not even going to deny that this is what you're after?" she lets her eyes widen in faux surprise, dangling the object between her thumb and forefinger.

"I have no time for games, Regina," says the man who delighted in toying with people's lives for centuries. "Tell me what you want for it and we can both be on our way."

"You're no fun," Regina lets out a long and dramatic sigh, before snapping with her free hand. Like a torch lit aflame, the hourglass glows purple with her magic and levitates from her palm. And even though she brings her arm down to her side, it stays suspended between them like a balloon tethered to an invisible string.

It's within reach of them both, but just close enough to the barrier that it serves to torture him more than anything.

"What do you want for it?" Gold enunciates each word, knowing exactly what she's doing.

"Very well, let's get down to business," Regina huffs, rolling her eyes, pretending to be put out. "Luckily for you, dear, I am in a very altruistic mood tonight — I merely want three things in exchange for this hourglass."

"Just name your price," he says, his tone ripe with impatience.

And just because she can, Regina flicks an errant strand of hair from her eyes and deliberately takes her time. She will not be rushed. Especially by him.

She smirks at the annoyance that flashes on his face, and then begins.

"One," Regina says. "You leave Storybrooke for good. No more coming back, no more prowling about in the dead of night. This is the end of your time in my town."

"Done," he says readily, tapping his cane once. "Next."

"Two — you forgive each and every debt incurred to you by all individuals living in Storybrooke. It follows as well that all of your previous dealings are now null and void. As such, no more collecting, no more pulling strings."

"Fine," he grits out through clenched teeth. "And the last one?"

Now for the jugular.

"Three," Regina says, and then allows a predatory grin to spread across her lips. "I want all of the elder bladderwrack in your possession."

And just like that, his mask cracks and his nonchalant facade falls to the wayside.

"No," Gold shakes his head, the slightest quiver in his voice. "I need that for what I have to do."

"Oh, Rumple." Regina clicks her tongue. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

"I need the bladderwrack, Regina."

"No, you don't," she says in a tired tone. "If your goal is to restore your precious Belle's memories, you simply need pixie tears and salamander blood to accomplish that."

He bristles in place. "That's not true, I need—"

She lifts a finger to shush him. "I might not have been your most enthusiastic student, but I did take copious notes. You don't need the bladderwrack for a memory elixir, Rumple. Not unless..."

Regina looks him straight in the eyes.

"...you need to alter her memories and not just restore them," she finishes, letting the words hang in the air for a moment.

His grip tightens around the golden handle of his cane.

"You finally did it, didn't you?" Regina tilts her head. "You finally drove her away. What was it that pushed her over the edge? What line did you cross that even Belle — with her ludicrous tendency to forgive — could no longer make excuses to justify your actions?"

His gaze doesn't waver from her scrutiny. But his clenched jaw tells another story.

"Was it even an accident that she lost her memories, hm?" she asks, studying the deep lines on his weathered face. "You went through all of that trouble to ensure her mind remained intact outside of the barrier — yet you broke her yourself, didn't you? You did it on purpose."

Finally, he averts his eyes.

Regina just shakes her head and scoffs.

And he has the audacity to call her predictable.

"What did you do?" It's pointless to even prod. She knows he will never be upfront with her — especially with that information — but she still asks her questions anyway. "What could you have possibly done that you felt that damning her as Lacey is better than letting her live as Belle? For the meantime, at least."

His eyes flicker up to the hourglass still levitating before them.

And it's only then, when she sees the longing plainly written on his face, that Regina realizes the truth. That while he needs the pixie tears to restore his life to normalcy, what he's truly desperate for is a chance to start over.

But like always, it has to be on his own terms.

He razed his own world to the ground so he could build it back up as he sees fit. After all this time, even without the Dark One's dagger, he's still playing god.

Which tells her that, in the end, he never really learned his lesson.

"If you want the hourglass, give me all of the bladderwrack," Regina says, pulling his attention back to her. "I'll make your choice simple, dear. Restore all of Belle's memories or none at all."

"That's not—you don't..." he trails off, and then scowls. And if his goal is to intimidate her, he should've done a better job of hiding his shaking fists.

"All or nothing," Regina says.

He looks to be on the verge of tearing his hair out. Whether it's anger-induced or brought by despair, she doesn't know. And she truly doesn't care.

He could've won again. He had it all planned out — his salvation and redemption, even if they were built on deceit.

It's just too bad that the one thing he didn't account for is the fact that he taught her well. Too well.

"Regina, you don't—"

"No, you don't," she cuts him short. "You don't get to pick and choose your truths — you don't get to play with her mind and justify it as love in your head."

Regina lifts her chin. "She either forgives you for what you've done or she moves on with her life. You don't get to decide for her."

He works his jaw then and looks up at the canopy of trees above them — as if he could glean some answers from the heavens and not from the hell that is his own mind.

"Like I said, it's all or nothing, Rumple." Regina folds her hands in front of her waist. "So, old friend, do we have a deal?"

The lump in his throat is visible even in the darkness, and though it takes him a moment to come to a decision, he finally wrenches out, "Yes."

Regina offers her hand to shake, but since the barrier still stands between them, and she makes no effort in crossing it herself, he just looks at her hand and sneers at the gesture.

Very well then.

She turns her hand palm-side up. "Give it to me."

He looks like he would rather pass a kidney stone, but he manages to produce a small vial out of his breast pocket.

But instead of tossing it towards her, Gold's fingers curl around it.

"Now, now, hand it over," she urges, as if she were talking to a misbehaving pet.

His nostrils flaring, he tightens his grip like a vice.

Regina rolls her eyes.

And then snaps her fingers.

In the blink of an eye, the vial disappears from his grasp and reappears on her palm. And before he can even open his mouth to protest, the algae-like bladderwrack glows purple with her magic, and then shrivels into itself and disintegrates into dust.

"Now give me the hourglass," he says.

Regina's eyebrow arches at his demanding form.

"Well, this is awkward," she sighs, long and dramatic. "I believe I said I wanted all of it."

The impatience in his eyes disappears in favor of dread. Silly man. To think she'd ever fall for that trick when they'd done it to each other for decades.

Regina snaps one more time. Not surprisingly, an identical container of bladderwrack appears in her upturned palm.

And if he had any vestiges of hope left in his body, she takes care of them by setting her hand aflame and incinerating both vials.

If that's a little bit dramatic, it's because she wills it so. If she's ruining his happily ever after, she's going to do it with flair.

Ridiculous or not, he will remember it.

"Oh, and know that I have also taken the liberty of destroying whatever little of it Facilier had left in his shop. So if you really need some, dear, you simply have to make the journey to Neverland yourself."

With a satisfied smirk on her face, Regina makes a show of flicking the ash away with her fingers.

The slack-jawed look on his face is one that she will always picture when she is in dire need of cheering up.

"Now, where were we?" Regina taps her chin. "Oh, yes. Here you go."

She grabs the levitating hourglass and flings it in his direction. It crosses the barrier with a faint fizzle and lands squarely in his hand. And then it just vanishes.

"What—"

"An illusion," Regina says, grinning like a feral cat. And then waves the hourglass that never left her grasp.

"You—" he seethes. "We had a deal."

"Yes, and?" she says with a flippant shrug. "Oh, stop your pouting. It was a harmless trick."

"Give me that!" Gold snarls, reaching for the enchanted object in her possession. Catching himself, he stops in the nick of time. As if burned by an invisible flame, he draws his hand back, conscious of the barrier that he almost touched.

"You want this, Rumple?" Regina purrs, holding the hourglass by its narrow neck and shaking it back and forth.

"Give it to me."

"How bad do you want it?" She takes a step back. And then another.

"Regina," Gold warns in a tone so quiet but no less deadly. "I told you, I have no time for your games. Hand it over."

"How bad do you want it?" Regina asks again. She stops several steps from the barrier, deciding the distance between them is finally to her liking. "Bad enough to die for it?"

"I thought death was off the table?"

"I never said it was," she shrugs. "But seeing how fair you were to Emma when you sent her away on that suicidal mission of hers, I merely thought it fitting to give you what you supposedly gave her — a choice."

By the time realization sinks into the man's tight features, Regina has already dropped the hourglass to the ground. The thick forest floor breaks its fall, but that doesn't stop his breath from hitching in his throat.

"So, what's it going to be?" Regina asks, just toying with his anxiety by carelessly nudging the hourglass with the tip of her boot. "Save Belle or save yourself? You cross that barrier into your death, and I promise you, I will restore her memories myself."

He's pacing back and forth now, like a tiger in its cage.

"What does it matter if you die?" she continues with a shrug. "You're already dead to her anyway."

He stops and leans into his cane, and she can imagine from the expression on his face that he's just about ready to start beating on the barrier with it.

"Or you could just turn around and walk away," Regina intones. "Find a way to make Lacey fall in love with your beastly charm. I'm certain your bank account will help greatly in that endeavor."

"We had a deal," he says, low and quiet, his thin lips twisting into a sneer. "Where we came from, deals meant something. You gave me your word."

"As did you," Regina reminds him. "And have you forgotten that you tried to deceive me first with the bladderwrack?"

"You asked for the one in my possession. I handed it to you."

Regina lifts an eyebrow. "Firstly, I had to pry it from you with magic. And secondly, I asked for all the bladderwrack in your possession."

"The other vial was in my vehicle. It was hardly my fault that you weren't specific."

It must be tedious going through life operating mostly on loopholes, but she supposes that's where he thrives. When one's nature is to deceive, they can hardly help themselves.

It truly is pathetic.

"And here I was thinking that breaking your dagger made you less duplicitous than before," Regina sighs.

"And I thought finding love had saved you from your wicked ways," he says in kind. "Some people in this little town think you've reformed — that you've let go of the darkness and have embraced the light. Your precious Savior, especially. She goes as far as believing it entirely, the poor innocent fool that she is."

He motions at the hourglass by her feet. "But that, that is proof that you haven't changed at all. Miss Swan's devotion to you might have humanized you in people's eyes, but under all that veneer, you are still the Evil Queen," he spits out, pointing his cane at her. "Is it really true love then, dearie, if it can't even triumph over your own malevolence?"

If he thinks that will get a rise out of her, he's mistaken. All it does is make her cackle.

"That is precious," Regina says, wiping at a non-existent tear from her eye. "Look at you, pointing out my own malevolence after what you've done to your true love — not to mention your sinister intentions for the bladderwrack," she scoffs. "And how rich of you to mock me about true love when here you are, facing the possibility of your own demise over the very same thing. You, Rumpelstiltskin, the coward. Staring death right in the face for it."

She nudges at the hourglass again.

"Your true love or your life?" she reminds him.

He snaps his jaw shut.

"And you're wrong about Emma, by the way," Regina continues. "Because despite the fact that I like teasing her and calling her a simpleton, she is anything but simple."

She throws a fleeting glance in the direction where she knows her Sheriff stands in wait, probably pacing back and forth, just itching to join her here.

Unlike Gold's fragile relationship, and despite his mockery of hers, Regina's love stands on a solid foundation of trust. And Emma proves this by giving her what she had requested — the opportunity and the space to deal with him herself, in order to get her closure.

"Emma doesn't believe I'm all good. Nor does she think I'm still evil. She sees me as someone who is capable of being both." Regina lifts her chin. "She sees me as an actual person."

She tilts her head and studies his pathetic form. "But what about you?" she asks. "I'm sure she knew you were no saint — but what will your Belle think of you now? After you sacrificed her mind and violated her autonomy just to save yourself?"

He has the gall to avert his gaze like he is capable of shame.

"I am sure you're trying to justify your actions as a necessary evil in service of your true love," Regina continues. "But was it really necessary or was it just evil? And is it still true when you've bolstered it with lies?"

"Lies?" he spits out, finding his voice once more. "You hypocrite. You—you just tricked me!"

"Yes, I did," Regina smiles, unapologetic as sin. "Always the double standards with you — can dish it but can never take it. I lied, Rumple. That barrier won't kill you. It's not lethal, just... unpleasant. It's like you said — I may have changed, but not that much."

She lets him stew on that for a moment. But now that the truth is out, she doesn't hold her breath for him to come running past the barrier in a mad scramble for his precious hourglass.

No, she knows him better than that.

And in matters that require having faith and possessing even an iota of bravery, Rumplestiltskin will always disappoint.

He doesn't move an inch.

"What are you waiting for?" Regina waves at the shimmering object. "I'm fulfilling my end of the bargain. Take it and be on your way — your Belle awaits."

Gold's wide, bloodshot eyes remain fixated on the hourglass, his body moving slightly back and forth as if he's about to lurch forward. His feet, however, are as stubborn as his will.

As such, he remains rooted in place.

And there is an unmistakable tremor in his voice when he barks, "Throw it here, Regina."

"No," she stands her ground. "Fetch it yourself. Enough with letting people do your dirty work. You want Belle back? Earn it."

"We had a deal!" he says for the umpteenth time.

"And I'm not reneging on it. Like I said, the hourglass is yours," Regina grounds out. "For once in your miserable life, Rumple, don't take the coward's way out. Get it yourself."

"How can I know you're not lying? How can I know that this isn't one of your ploys to get me to walk into my own end?"

"That's just it, you don't," she simply shrugs. "You just have to take my word for it. And trust that, unlike you, I respect my own relationship enough to keep my promises. I told Emma that I would let you have the hourglass to save your Belle, so there you go."

"Hand it to me then!" he cries out.

"Oh, dear, I told her that I'd let you have it — I didn't say anything about personally handing it over myself." Regina sighs dramatically. "So why don't you just come here and claim your prize? Get this sordid affair over and done with."

"No," he shakes his head vehemently. "You've cursed the barrier — I'm not crossing it."

"Oh, did I say that I cursed it? My apologies, I misspoke," she finally admits, placing a hand over her heart. "You can thank the fairies for reinforcing the barrier. Why, I merely suggested they put in an additional deterrent to keep a pest like you out. You trust the insufferable do-gooders to make it non-lethal, don't you?"

She's not sure if it bodes badly on her character or the Blue Fairy's that the stress on his face doesn't abate in the least.

But no matter.

Everything is out in the open now.

She has come clean about the barrier and has dropped all pretense.

It is up to him to decide his own fate.

And here he is, still refusing to take a single step forward.

His turmoil is so pitiful that she can't help but sigh.

"You sad excuse of a man," Regina murmurs, watching the tragic display before her. She doesn't have to come closer to see that he is on the precipice of tears. "I am already giving it to you. Just come here and claim it, the barrier won't kill you."

"Give it to me, Regina," Gold whispers, his tone as close to begging as it can possibly get.

And then it happens.

"Please."

Regina stills.

So… it has come to this.

And for a moment she wonders if her mind is playing tricks on her.

One word that she has never heard from his lips. One word that she never expected to hear from him. Not even tonight — when she walked into this encounter knowing that she'd already won.

But now the dam is broken, and his desperation is pouring out.

"You have your happily ever after," he begins to implore. "You don't need to do this. We are cut from the same cloth, you and I. We've made bad decisions, we've committed numerous transgressions. Don't I deserve a chance to redeem myself like you have?"

"Redemption?" Regina murmurs, letting the word roll off her tongue. And then she lets out a derisive laugh.

Unbelievable.

"You've had many chances at it, yet you've squandered them all," she spews out, feeling her anger suddenly swell in her chest. The gall of this snake. "You've made no amends. You've not worked for it. You lie, manipulate, and deceive — yet you still think the world owes you your salvation because you've already suffered for your mistakes?"

Regina's dark eyes sweep his hunched form. "How have you suffered?" she asks, her voice low. "By losing your son? By losing Belle?"

"My dear, that's not suffering," she lets out a scoff. "That's inevitable."

He doesn't have an answer to that.

The man merely leans into his cane, as if he truly needs the support to remain upright. Perhaps the gravity of his sins is finally weighing down on his shoulders.

As it should.

But one can only hope.

"Look at yourself," Regina sneers, motioning at him and the sorry sight he makes. "Look at what your choices have wrought."

She doubts that he is even capable of introspection, but the way he looks up at the night sky then before shuddering out a breath tells her that maybe, just maybe, there's still hope for him yet.

He seems to possess a degree of self-awareness at the very least.

But then again, real soul-searching goes beyond just being self-aware. And in the end, Regina doesn't believe that he truly has it in him to be brave enough to reckon with himself and acknowledge his part in his own undoing.

"You are here through no other fault than your own, Rumple," Regina carries on after a moment, her tone losing its biting edge in favor of exasperation. "Take this as substantial proof that your downfall is, and will always be, that of your own making."

And Emma is right.

Her vengeance, no matter how deserved, will pale in comparison to his own comeuppance.

There is nothing she could ever do to him that could be worse than what he is capable of doing to himself.

Because...

"After all this time, and even without the Dark One's influence, you are still your own worst enemy."

"Regina, please..." the great Rumplestiltskin himself mewls out.

She shutters her eyes then, briefly, taking it all in — allowing his despair to wash over the parts of her that had long desired for this.

For the release that she knew only his desolation would bring.

The shackles of vindictiveness start to loosen their hold.

And finally, Regina takes a step backward.

"Take it and go," she orders, and then makes another move away from the hourglass. "But remember our deal, old friend. Break it and I will end you."

"Please… give it to me…"

"Take a leap of faith and get it yourself."

He still doesn't move. And she doesn't have the patience to wait. So, Regina gives him one last pitying look, tucks her hands in the pockets of her coat, and walks away.

"Goodbye, Rumple," she murmurs in parting. "May we never cross paths again."

She doesn't look back.

It takes a while, and she's almost halfway down the path to where her love lies in wait, when eventually, the sound of crackling electricity and the agonized scream of a sniveling man is carried to her ears by a soft breeze.

It doesn't break her stride.

It's music to her ears, like a salve to a festering wound.

Regina exhales a deep breath and then, finally, unfurls her fists.

And lets it all go.

Overhead, the full moon streaming from the branches seems to illuminate all the dead weight she's shedding in her wake.

The weight of betrayal… of anger… of bitterness… and of despair.

The weight of a life suffered in the shadow of the man who shaped her into the monster that she had allowed herself to become.

She's no longer that wretched woman, no longer that deplorable being — she hasn't been for a while. But by walking away, her head held high, her happiness within reach, she finally succeeds in driving that final nail into the coffin of her old master's creation.

With each step, the tightness in her chest, that burning fury that threatens to engulf her on her worst days, begins to loosen its grip.

Until eventually, Regina finally breathes. And smiles.

Truly smiles.

---

She finds Emma right where she had left her.

The Sheriff is no longer pacing the side of the deserted forest road as she did almost an hour ago, but she's not sitting still either. The poor thing is perched atop the hood of her police cruiser — head bowed, arms resting on her knees, left foot tapping on the bumper incessantly.

Regina can feel her anxiousness from several feet away.

Feeling merciful, she leans in and purposely steps on a twig.

Emma's head flies up.

And the woman bounces off the car and springs to her feet the moment their eyes meet. And before Regina can even utter a word, she finds all the air being forcibly expelled from her lungs as Emma comes barrelling in and enveloping her in a tight embrace.

Truly, it seems that her idiot will never run out of ways to take her breath away.

Regina doesn't complain.

She didn't even realize how much she needed the contact until she's burrowing into the crook of the other woman's neck and breathing in deep, letting the familiar scent work its magic on her exhausted self.

It's been a long day.

"Are you alright?"

Regina manages a nod but doesn't pull back from the warm hug. That seems to be enough to release the palpable tension in the blonde's shoulders.

"I heard screaming, is he—"

"He's alive," Regina reassures, giving Emma a light squeeze before stepping out of the woman's arms. "The fairies managed not to mangle the spell, if you can believe it."

Emma nods.

"He's in excruciating pain, but alive nonetheless," Regina shares with a worn breath. She takes hold of Emma's hand and begins tracing the woman's emerald ring with her thumb. "Remember what happened when I enchanted this ring? Do you recall what it did to you?"

The Savior makes a face. Of course she remembers, she'll probably never forget.

"That — multiplied by a tenfold."

"Ouch," Emma winces.

"I am sure the Blue Fairy will be unbearably pleased with herself," Regina mutters, unable to keep the sourness out in her tone. That two-faced wench and her puritanical cult will never fail to elicit disdain. "I suppose I'll have to bear witness to her smug little face for at least a month — even though reinforcing the barrier with a non-lethal deterrent is by no means a tall order."

"Well, magic is—"

"—different in this world," Regina finishes with a tired sigh. "Oh, don't I know it."

"But, man, he actually crossed it," Emma lifts her eyebrows in awe. "Leroy radioed as soon as the alarm went off in the station. I didn't really believe it — until I heard the screams."

"For a brief moment, I feared you'd come running at the sound."

"Well, I thought about it… but nah," the Sheriff confesses, and with a little lopsided grin that reminds Regina so much of their son whenever Henry's proud of a particular deed, Emma declares, "You told me to stay put so that's what I did."

"And you didn't think I was doing the screaming?"

"Nope, too high pitched."

Regina arches an eyebrow at that, slow and deliberate.

"What? Yours is at least an octave lower."

"Miss Swan, are you saying that he sounds like a girl and I don't?"

"I'm saying you sound like a... woman."

"I would certainly hope so," Regina mutters. "Even though I don't have the vaguest idea what that means."

"Just that you're more dignified, I guess?"

"My dear, you've never heard me scream."

"..."

She foolishly walked into that.

Regina fights an eyeroll. "Oh, shush."

"Didn't say anything," Emma says, green eyes twinkling impishly, leaning in for a quick kiss.

"Are your deputies still in position?" she murmurs against her Sheriff's lips, steering them back to the business at hand before matters devolve even further — as things go whenever they get… distracted.

"August is standing watch along the western perimeter and Ruby is at the eastern one," Emma confirms with a nod. "He came alone. Also, not a single one of his friends showed up to join the party - not even the Beagles brothers."

"I am shocked."

"Right?" Emma smirks, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

"Although… incapacitated or not, he's still within the town limits," Regina says after a moment, when the thought finally dawns on her. "I suspect he'll see himself out after he catches his breath, but I don't want him dilly-dallying any longer than he should."

"You and me both," Emma says, and without breaking contact, gently tugs Regina along as she makes her way back to the cruiser. Reaching into the open window of the passenger's side door, the Sheriff grabs hold of the two-way radio with her left hand, refusing to let Regina go with the right.

It's a bit absurd — this clinginess — but it's not like she makes a move to let go of the blonde either.

"Attention folks, Regina's back with me. Does anyone have a visual on Gold?"

It's a pretty pointless query, considering that without the help of night-vision paraphernalia, there's only one person among the two who can even remotely see in the dark, let alone perceive things at a distance.

True enough...

"I have eyes on him," Ruby's voice crackles from the unit on the dashboard. "He's curled up around the hourglass, still moaning and groaning. What are your orders, Sheriff?"

"The two of you move in on his location and kindly escort the worm out of town, please."

"Copy that," the werewolf replies.

"Roger, Sheriff," August confirms shortly after.

"I don't think he'll put up much of a fight, but don't let your guard down. Let us know when he's finally out of sight, over."

And with that out of the way, Emma clips the device back in its place on the console and pulls her torso out of the window.

"Done," the blonde exhales, straightening back up.

Regina smiles at her companion, and then looks down at their joined hands.

And reminiscent of the wind getting knocked out of her earlier, her little grin dwindles down into a slight frown.

Slowly, reluctantly, she lets Emma go.

It comes out of nowhere, the uncertainty that suddenly dampens her triumph. And when she lifts her gaze and meets Emma's questioning one, Regina hesitates for a brief moment before putting her own thoughts into words.

"Are you... angry at me?" she finally utters out.

"Huh? What for?"

"You had asked me to forego revenge but…" Regina trails off and looks behind her, at the beaten path she had just traversed, and murmurs, "...I couldn't resist its pull."

"So… what exactly did you do to him?"

"I may have… encouraged him to cross the barrier to fetch the hourglass himself," she confesses. "It was unnecessary, yes, but... satisfying. For me, of course. Him not so much."

"That's not—"

"—part of the plan, I know," Regina supplies rather quickly. "It was a... creative choice I made on the spur of the moment. Mostly for my own catharsis."

"Actually," Emma scratches her cheek. "I was going to say that it didn't sound that bad in the greater scheme of things," she manages a light shrug, and then scrunches her nose when she says, "Heck, it's closer to a kick in the balls than straight-up ripping his heart out and crushing it like you originally wanted to. So, really, it's a downgrade."

"So…" Regina frowns. "...you're not angry?"

It is almost frustrating — the way Emma's looking at her right now. In that maddening way of hers that makes Regina wonder if the woman's devotion has a limit.

Somehow, she's not even surprised that the Savior shakes her head from side to side in response to her query.

"Disappointed then?"

"Not at all," the blonde says.

"Surprised?"

A smile. "Nope."

"I... let him have the hourglass."

"I know you did," Emma murmurs, her gaze locked on hers. "I also knew you'd make him work for it."

That she did.

The plan was for her to hand over the pixie tears after he agreed to a deal and she destroyed all the elder bladderwrack in his possession. And while she didn't necessarily deviate from it, she did take some liberties.

Rather painful ones for Gold, yes, but what is done is done.

"If anything, it just tells me that you're really no Evil Queen," Emma says after a moment, an amused grin playing on her lips. "Just a petty one."

Regina rolls her eyes, but finds herself mirroring the blonde's smile nonetheless.

"And to tell you the truth," the Sheriff continues, leaning against the side of the cruiser, hands tucked in her jeans. "When you showed me your old notes and I read how adding that bladder-whatever thing would corrupt the memory potion, it felt…" she stops for a second, frowning, seemingly grappling for the right word. "...wrong to give him the hourglass so easily."

"And after the drama we went through yesterday, and how I advocated on his behalf despite him not deserving any good will, I felt frickin' duped," Emma continues, not a little bitterly, her mouth twisting downwards. "I am all for saving Belle — but Gold deserved, I dunno, a slap on the wrist for doing her dirty like that."

The feeling of vindication rushes over Regina, but she is not even tempted to gloat. And it doesn't feel like much of a victory when it only serves to hurt the person she loves.

And the cretin got more than a slap on the wrist, that's for certain. But then again, people very rarely have the privilege of picking and choosing their own punishment. At the very least he gets to live another day of his miserable existence. But more importantly, live with the full consequences of his lousy decisions.

Ironically enough, that might be the harshest punishment that she could ever dole on him.

"You know what, no matter how you look at it, destroying the bladder-thing is gonna count as revenge anyway," Emma murmurs thoughtfully, kicking at a pebble by her feet. "It just so happens that it also aligns with doing the right thing in this situation. I know you talked about it the other day, but I guess we can even call this… justice?"

"Poetic justice, perhaps," Regina exhales, mimicking the blonde and leaning against the car too. She gives Emma's shoulder a gentle nudge. "And you're right, my dear. At the end of the day, the most devastating blow lies in the loss of the bladderwrack and the second chance it represented."

"Second chance?" Emma snorts. "Belle's mind is not a damn etch-a-sketch that he can just shake and erase whenever it suits him."

"Unfortunately, dark magic corrupts that way," Regina murmurs, a little sadly at that, tucking her hands inside the pockets of her coat. "You possess it long enough and it will blur every line, loosen every moral — until it's impossible for one to distinguish between right and wrong. And even if it's clear cut and the wrong choice is plain to see, you lose your ability to give a damn."

"But messing with Belle's head though? That's a bit extreme — even for him."

"Is it? I can assure you that he's done much worse, Emma."

"But she's supposed to be his true love…"

"And that probably makes matters worse — he would do anything to keep her precisely because of that. And his moral compass has eroded so much that he can't even see how wrong it is to disregard her autonomy the way he did," Regina continues, and then smiles wryly when she murmurs, "In his mind, he did it for love."

"That's fucked up."

"Yes, but magic is also more reactionary than logical. Factor that in with his need to control everything and his fear of losing his true love — and you get Lacey," Regina points out. "It doesn't help that dark magic wielders are more susceptible to using it as napalm to all of life's challenges — whether warranted or not."

"That's still wrong on so many levels though."

"It is," Regina agrees, not even bothering to sugarcoat it. "I don't condone it — not anymore — but I understand why and how it happens. I was that person for decades, and to a certain extent I still am, but I am better at keeping my impulses and demons at bay."

"Okay… don't get offended," Emma hedges, shooting her a poignant look. And Regina suspects she knows the question on the blonde's mind before Emma even asks, "Would you ever do something like that to me, though?"

"Would I ever erase your memories just to cover up something nefarious I've done?" Regina purses her lips, pretending to give it considerable thought. "Of course not," she says a mere second later.

"Yeah?"

"If you had asked me years ago, my answer might have been different," Regina admits with a sigh. "But right now, after everything we've been through, after all that's happened to us, there is no way I would violate you like that. I wouldn't be able to look at myself in the mirror, let alone face our son."

Her eyes downcast, Emma lets out a soft hum, just taking her words in.

"Regardless of how much I complain about some of your questionable habits, my dear, I would never change anything about you."

Emma directs her a sideways glance. "You love me, warts and all?"

"Unfortunately," Regina lets out a dramatic sigh. "It seems the heart is as treacherous as it is tasteless."

That earns her a low chuckle from the blonde. "To be fair, you could do much worse," Emma says, self-deprecating as ever.

"I suppose," Regina plays right along. "Slim pickings in a town full of cursed souls."

"There's always one of the dwarves, y'know?"

"Dear, I may be reformed, but I'm by no means charitable."

Emma coughs into her fist, biting back a grin. "Whale's single."

"I refuse to be with your mother's sloppy seconds."

"Ursula?"

"Too handsy."

"Blue?"

"Over my dead body."

"Jackson?"

"Too much eyeliner."

"That De Vil lady?"

"High maintenance."

Emma lifts a brow. "Pot calling the kettle black, much?"

"Have you met Cruella?"

"...true," the blonde acquiesces. "Okay, what about Facilier?"

"Been there, done that. Never coming back."

"..."

"What? I was an Evil Queen, not a frigid one. I had… needs."

"Okay," Emma drawls, wrinkling her nose. "Oh well, I guess you're really stuck with me then."

"As are you with me."

They both sigh, and like magnets, huddle even closer than before. And as Emma reaches for her, Regina looks down at their now entwined hands and smiles to herself.

It seems like a lifetime ago that Regina would blame something as innocuous as the wind for standing a little too close for comfort to the Savior, but now here they are, not even a millimeter apart.

And she's not even ashamed to admit that she dips her head a little bit to make it easier for the blonde to place a kiss on her temple.

They stand that way for a while, leaning into each other side by side, perfectly at peace in the other's company. It's still a bit unfamiliar, this feeling of absolute contentedness in such mundane moments, but she relishes it nonetheless. And she would have preferred to bask in it more, but after a while, Regina catches those emerald green eyes staring at her so intently that she feels compelled to break the comfortable silence surrounding them.

"Something on your mind, dear?"

It takes Emma a moment to formulate her words, and her voice is soft when she finally speaks her mind. "Did you get what you came for? Did you get your closure?"

"I… did," Regina admits, equally as quiet.

"How do you feel?"

"I want to say lighter, but in reality—" she chews on her lower lip. "I feel... invigorated."

"Yeah?"

"It's odd, but I can't wait to wake up tomorrow and just… live. All this time I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop, constantly looking over my shoulder, worried that he'd come back and take it all away. But now that he's out of the equation, I look forward to simply living — if that even makes any sense."

She feels Emma giving her hand a little squeeze, and when she looks at the blonde, all Regina sees is relief in those pools of green.

"I'm happy for you," her Savior says, a serene smile on her face. "And I'm excited for what life has in store for you, too."

"Did I overstep?" Regina has to ask. "Did I take away your own chance for closure by meeting him alone tonight?"

Emma appears to think about it for a moment, and then eventually, shakes her head.

"To be honest, I had weeks to make my peace with it… with him... when I lived as Argos," Emma exhales a breath. "Don't get me wrong, he's a bastard and I can't stand his guts. But over time, I've come to see him for what he is — a necessary evil. I couldn't have saved you without his help, no matter how messed up it was."

"But what about your nightmares… your trauma..."

Infuriating as ever, Emma merely shrugs. "Par for the course."

"Emma."

"Okay, hear me out… I got shish kabobed by a soul-sucking blade, blasted into a river by an explosion, almost drowned in my own blood, and was in a coma for months," Emma lists off nonchalantly, and then chuckles in spite of herself. "So, I kinda agree with Dr. Hopper. In that, despite willingly walking into my own death, it will take time for me to fully heal after managing to walk out of it. Brain's kinda stubborn that way, you know? Charming genes and all?"

"But are you sure?" Regina doesn't let it go. She knows her idiot fully well. As much as Emma loathes the title, the woman is a Savior through and through, too honorable for her own good. "You're not just saying that to spare my feelings?"

"I swear on my life," Emma places a hand over her heart, looking at her straight in the eye. "Outside of making a deal and giving him the hourglass, meeting him tonight would've only picked at wounds that have already scabbed over. It wouldn't have been cathartic for me at all — just really annoying."

"You better not be lying to me, Emma Swan."

"I'm really not," the blonde insists. "You needed the closure, Regina. And I wanted you to have it."

The sigh that escapes her lips then is something Regina can't help, but Emma at least tries to soothe her worries away by leaning in for a tender kiss. It doesn't quell her fears, but it does quiet her thoughts for a moment. And so she gives in to it, and allows herself to savor the contact, no matter how brief.

"Do you know what's exactly two weeks from now?" Emma murmurs when she pulls back. "Do you know what date it is?"

Regina's mouth forms a thin line.

Of course she knows. She's been dreading and anticipating the date for months.

"October sixth," Regina finally answers, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"You took a big step forward tonight — and I've been thinking about this a lot recently — but I'd like us both to move on from all the things that went down last year," Emma says, her tone laced with a quiet determination. "I will forever be grateful for the part 'he' played in our lives, but I think it's time to put my dear friend to rest," she smiles almost ruefully. "So on the sixth, I want to go back to the clearing, make my peace, and say my goodbyes to Argos."

Regina manages a solemn nod.

"Would you like me to be there with you?" she asks after a few seconds, tucking away an errant strand of blonde hair behind Emma's ear. "Or would you like your privacy?"

"You and Henry are Argos' family too," Emma lightly shrugs. "I think it would be nice if you guys could join me. It doesn't have to be a sad affair."

"Let's make it a celebration of life then?"

The blonde stops chewing on her lower lip in favor of donning a small, almost shy smile. "I would love that."

"Sheriff?" Ruby's voice cuts through the air, interrupting their moment.

Emma turns around and reaches into the car again, grabbing hold of the transceiver. "I hear you. What's the status?"

"Took us a little while, but he's gone," Ruby reports. "He got electrocuted again when crossing the barrier so he practically had to crawl all the way back to the highway."

"Almost felt sorry for him,"August supplements."Almost."

"Don't worry though," Ruby intones. "I made sure to listen until his car was at least a mile away before we radioed."

"That's great news," Emma replies into the speaker, relief evident in her tone. "Excellent work you two."

"Hey, boss lady?" Leroy joins in from all the way over at the station, most probably still sourgraping over being left out of all the action in order to hold down the fort.

"Yeah?"

"Why did Gold cross the barrier anyway?"

"To get to the other side," Emma just shrugs.

Regina fights the urge to groan. But then she sees the twinkle in those green eyes and the playful smirk on those lips, and just like that, she foregoes her eyeroll for a little sigh.

This idiot.

"And on that note, go home and rest up, August and Rubes. See you guys tomorrow at the station. And have a quiet shift, Grumps."

One by one, all three deputies say their goodbyes.

And with that out of the way, her Sheriff once again pulls herself out of the window. Unable to help herself, Regina tugs at the ends of Emma's slightly bunched up jacket, fixing it for the woman. And when her fingers linger at the hems, somehow she's not surprised that the blonde instinctively steps closer.

"It's done," Emma murmurs. And then a radiant smile spreads on her lips. "It's over."

"It's over," Regina mimics.

"Holy shit."

"Indeed."

They both sigh.

"So..."

"Hm?"

"You're still in charge of Operation Fool's Gold, your majesty. What's our next move? What do we do now?"

"Now… now we move on, Miss Swan," Regina simply says.

Emma smiles. "I like that plan."

"As do I."

Taking a step back, the Sheriff opens the passenger door and motions inside with a flourish. "Shall we go home then, your majesty?" She offers a hand.

One that Regina doesn't hesitate to take.

"We shall," she gives the blonde a perfunctory nod.

Although, before entering the vehicle, she finds herself pausing briefly by the door. "Before I forget, I took the liberty of grabbing us a souvenir of sorts," Regina shares, and with a flick of a wrist, a tiny vial materializes in her palm.

"Is that—" Emma frowns, her eyes studying the shimmering liquid within.

"He doesn't need all of the pixie tears for the memory elixir," Regina shrugs. "So I thought it wise to help ourselves to a teaspoon of it — for our son and his little predicament."

"Sneaky," Emma chuckles. "But I approve. You think this will finally get rid of the kid's plantar wart?"

"If it doesn't, then it's beyond hope."

"The tears are that effective, huh?" The Sheriff purses her lips, and then snorts. "Imagine a world where pixies are more in touch with their emotions. We'd have no warts, better memories, and bigger libidos. Maybe we should save some for ourselves."

"Of course you'd say that," Regina says with a tired sigh, fighting back a treacherous grin.

"Just saying, it wouldn't hurt to sample the product. For science, you know?"

"Science," Regina drawls. "My dear, you're incorrigible."

"Whatever, you love me."

Regina just lets out a hum.

And as she enters the car and settles into her seat, she watches as Emma carefully shuts the door and then bends down to talk to her through the open window.

"You do love me, right?"

Regina rolls her eyes. "What do you think?"

"I dunno, maybe I need to hear it."

"Miss Swan, we've had a long day," Regina plays coy. "So why don't you just go inside the car and take us home, love."

"Love?" Emma echoes, and then tilts her head. "Huh."

"What?"

"That's new."

"Yes, and so?"

"I like it."

Regina exaggerates a sigh. "Just get in here, Miss Swan."

"Call me that again and I will."

"Miss Swan."

"Not that, the other one."

"..."

"Well?"

"If you're going to be this obnoxious about it, then no. I refuse."

"Even if I ask nicely?"

"Especially if you ask nicely."

"Why?"

"Because you're annoying when you beg."

"You think I'm annoying even when I'm not begging," Emma points out.

"Yes, but now you're even more so."

"I haven't even started begging yet."

"That makes it even worse," Regina mutters.

The blonde's grin grows even broader.

"Please?"

With an exasperated sigh, Regina brings her face within a hairbreadth of her infuriating companion. It takes everything in her not to break character.

"You're an idiot, Emma Swan."

"Only for you, your majesty," Emma whispers against her lips.

And when they kiss, Regina swears it's meant to shush the aggravating woman up. The fact that it makes her heart flutter and her head feel light is just coincidence.

A happy accident.

One that seems to happen over and over again. So she can hardly blame herself when she drops all pretense, forgets herself, and just sighs…

"I love you."

"And I—" Emma smirks. "Thank you."

.

.

.

Regina rolls her eyes.

"Idiot."

"Yours."

Always.

THE END.

Epilogue to follow.

Chapter Text

Things have been quiet on the work front.

And by that, and barring the recent run-in with Rumplestiltskin two weeks ago, Emma means that things have been quiet on the monster front.

It's mostly thanks to Regina, really. If the woman were to ever decide to gun for the mayoralty again, Emma thinks she could run on a platform of public safety and put up a decent fight against her mother for her old seat.

Because as expensive as they were, Regina's seemingly frivolous procurement of crystals that Emma had to source from a new age store in Boston, has made a surprisingly significant dent in the number of fissures seen in recent months.

Not that Emma knows exactly how they work — something about bolstering thin spots in the fabric between the two worlds, or some other tedious thing.

She really has no clue.

She's just happy that they work.

Because if they didn't, she'd have to endure yet another meeting with Councillor Worthington and sit through one more painfully in-depth review of the expenditures of her department, and explain why they needed close to eight-hundred dollars worth of amethyst, bloodstone and obsidian from all over the damn world. Nevermind that, for starters, it's not cheap to protect a town against bad elements period — let alone magical ones. At this point, his nitpicking is just absurd, but Regina's right — at the end of the day, pencil pushers only care about numbers.

And damn if their numbers haven't been looking mighty fine recently. They've only had one fissure since Regina started scattering those crystals all over town three months ago, as opposed to two fissures practically every month.

So, yes… they are kicking ass — by not having to kick monster ass. A win-win in her books for sure.

That said… and like everything else in life, nothing is completely foolproof. And even with their recent successes, things still manage to slip through the cracks.

Literally.

Take today for example.

This morning's fissure brings about a small band of gremlins to their not-so-sleepy town — courtesy of an event organizer's misguided attempt to liven up this Sunday's flea market with dancing lawn gnomes, of all things. Turns out four or five is fine, but enchanting four dozen of them is just pushing it — as evidenced by the gaping hole that erupts in the middle of the bazaar.

So, yeah, things had been quiet on the work front.

But now here they are, a Sheriff, three deputies and an unruffled queen, fighting their way down Main Street like a Macy's day parade gone horribly wrong.

It doesn't help matters much that a spooked Marco accidentally sideswipes a fire hydrant with his truck while trying to avoid one of the many hysterical market goers. And since it doesn't take a genius to figure out that gremlins and water are a bad frickin' combination, it's not difficult to imagine what happens next.

Their small band of gremlins multiply into a sizable army of rabid, angry monsters.

And since guns are pretty much useless in a situation like this — unless maybe it's a machine gun and maintaining property values and avoiding collateral damage aren't a top priority — everyone has to be creative in finding ways to deal with their recent visitors.

Regina's weapon of choice, predictably, is perfectly aimed mini-fireballs.

And Emma? A tennis racket.

If that seems like an odd choice, it's because she left her sword at the station, and after a gremlin chomped her police baton out of her hand, grabbing a tennis racket from a nearby stall seemed like a no-brainer.

Besides, she and Regina work well as a team.

As such, she just whacks a gremlin towards the brunette and then the woman hits it square on the face with a fireball. It's not ideal, sure, but it works.

And as for her deputies...

August is holding his own with a baseball bat, thwacking the creatures on the noggin' like they're in a messed up game of real-life whack-a-mole.

And there's Leroy, commandeering a riding lawn mower and mowing down the gremlins running amok along the sidewalks.

And while the two men are painting quite a grisly scene, they pale in comparison to resident badass, Ruby.

Truly her grandmother's flesh and blood, Emma's second-in-command is going to town on the critters with her bare hands, fresh manicure be damned.

So, things are going well...

Until they aren't.

Everything happens in the blink of an eye.

For the first time since this whole ordeal began, Regina misses and accidentally knocks the racket out of Emma's hands.

And the last thing Emma remembers before a bright purple light flashes before her eyes is an angry gremlin zooming towards her, deceptively fast with its spindly legs. The thing looks like a hairless, scaly, drug-addled muppet. And it would've made a cute yet peculiar sight if not for the murderous gleam in its beady eyes and the razor-sharp teeth it bares at her.

With no time to waste, she squares her shoulders and plants her feet firmly on the ground, ready to punch the daylights out of the precocious little bugger.

But then… the little hellion disappears.

No, really.

It goes poof.

Well, fine, it's more of a… boing.

See, the moment the gremlin jumps and tries to simultaneously claw and gnaw at her face, purple light erupts from her jacket and, just like airbags going off, Emma's suddenly encased in a transparent sphere of thick plastic. The critter hits her then and boing! — the poor creature flies in the opposite direction like a damn pinball while Emma gets knocked on her ass.

And then rolls.

Because someone had enchanted her frickin' jacket to deploy a human-sized hamster ball around herself. And now even Leroy is gawping at her like she's just grown three heads — and that's doubly insulting considering that the guy himself strapped pillows to his forearms to serve as arm guards.

Emma's getting side-eyed by frickin' pillow Popeye and it's not even funny.

To add insult to injury, her plastic prison suddenly vanishes, and like a sack of potatoes, Emma lands on her back with an ungainly plop.

"Seriously?!" she wheezes out at the brunette lobbing fireballs by the laundromat. "When I asked for extra protection, I meant to make my jacket bulletproof!"

"Creatures can't shoot guns, Miss Swan," Regina just says, flicking away, not even breaking a sweat. "Besides, you asked for a protective bubble."

"Clearly a figure of speech! You couldn't just give me a helmet and a kevlar vest?!"

"Next time be more specific."

This woman.

Emma rolls her eyes and clambers up to her feet.

Although… there's really no time for her indignation. Because as soon as she stands upright and grabs her fallen racket, she catches sight of her nemesis climbing out of the wreckage of a nearby craft beer stall.

The good news is... beer doesn't seem to make gremlins multiply the way water does.

The bad news? Her friend is obviously not a fan of Archie's Hoppity Hops brew and is practically foaming at the mouth when it guns for her again.

This time Regina doesn't miss.

Before the gremlin can even get close enough for Emma to swing at, a raging fireball hits it right on the chest and it disintegrates into a sad pile of monster goo.

"Thanks…" Emma mutters, lowering her sporty bludgeon, still a little miffed.

"Less pouting, more fighting, dear," Regina chastises, throwing her a quick sideways glance, before eviscerating a gremlin chasing after a mother and her toddler.

Right.

Back to work.

"Your parents are back with the nuns!" Rufio yells at Emma as he skips past with a copper pipe, completely back to his old energetic self — and looking way too happy to be killing monsters instead of doing whatever menial task Leroy had assigned him today. "They said they'll handle the fissure and the broken hydrant!"

"Copy that!" Emma acknowledges, and then swings the racket and whacks a creature, sending it Regina's way for its very own baptism of fire. "Incoming!" she gives a heads up.

Too bad her warning falls on deaf ears.

Because the moment Emma hits the gremlin, Regina gets distracted by the absolutely ridiculous sight of Mother Goose whipping two critters by her stall with her homemade sausage links. The madwoman is swinging away like they're frickin' nunchucks — not that she's accomplishing anything except antagonizing the gremlins even more. But she somehow manages to keep them at bay, long enough for August and his bat to come to her rescue at least.

To be fair, Emma would've probably taken a second or two to gawk as well — if not for the fact that she had just put Regina in harm's way and must now go and rectify her mistake.

So, without a second thought, Emma gives chase.

Have you ever seen someone running after a tennis ball after hitting it themselves? Well, lemme tell you, it's not easy.

Especially if the ball has a mind of its own and doesn't appreciate getting hit in the first place.

The gremlin lands about three meters away from Regina. And without taking a moment to gather its bearings, quickly ambles up to its feet — murderous eyes deadset on her majesty.

To her credit, Emma manages to catch up… in a way.

Years of being a bail bondsperson account for something at least. This isn't her first rodeo — she's chased numerous people on foot before.

And, really, mythical creature or not, this isn't unlike those times. So, Emma lets her instinct take over and lunges forward to tackle the little twerp.

Of course… she realizes her mistake a split-second later.

It plays like a bad movie right before her very eyes.

A flash of purple light.

Human hamster ball.

Landing on her quarry with a boing.

And then rolling forward.

Right in front of her majesty.

And now… now Regina is paying attention.

Without taking those brown eyes off of her, the woman flicks a wrist and sends a fireball hurtling in the direction of the gremlin Emma had just bonked.

And just like what happened earlier, the plastic sphere disappears as quickly as it had come, and Emma tastes pavement once again — only this time face first.

"My hero," Regina deadpans.

"Just… don't," Emma sighs.

"You okay, Em?" Ruby asks a second later, a gremlin in each hand — holding them by their feet and banging them together like monster cymbals. "You hurt?"

"Just my pride," she mutters to herself, and then uses the racket to push herself upright. "I'm alright," she directs at Ruby with a worn smile.

"What's with the ball of—"

"I don't wanna talk about it," she rushes out the words, cutting the woman right off.

"Well, it's very creative," Ruby persists anyway.

"I think you mean ridiculous," Emma mutters dryly, side-eyeing the one-woman fire show across the street.

"Well, I knew she'd cover you in bubble wrap sooner or later," her deputy chuckles lightly, casting aside the now incapacitated gremlins like ragdolls. "She's very—"

"Over-the-top?"

"—protective."

Emma just rolls her eyes, and then swings her racket to send a passing gremlin Regina's way — where it promptly meets its fiery end.

"Anyway, there's only about a dozen left," Ruby points out a moment later, wiping her brow on the sleeve of her department-issued jacket — probably because even the backs of her hands are completely matted with dark green gremlin goop. "We'll be done by the time they start serving Sunday lunch at the diner. Your parents and I are going. You ladies wanna come with?"

"Maybe next time?" Emma scrunches her nose apologetically. "We have plans today."

"Oh, right! It's the sixth," Ruby exclaims, eyes alight with recognition. "So, hot date?"

"Family picnic."

"Ah, keeping it PG then," Ruby smiles, and then makes a display of her lightning-fast reflexes when she suddenly darts forward and snatches a gremlin that's hanging off the back of Leroy's passing mower.

"Yeah... I don't think Regina had R-rated stuff in mind when she said we'd be eating out today."

"I'm sure Henry will appreciate that," Ruby smirks, and in one fluid motion, yanks hard and divests the gremlin of its ugly head.

Dear god.

She's no wuss, but Emma almost retches at the gruesome sight. "Jesus, Rubes."

"It helps if you think of them as featherless chickens," the woman just shrugs, tossing the headless gremlin away, unbothered as ever.

"That… doesn't make it any better…" she mutters uselessly, blanching in disgust. "You're gonna give me nightmares."

"Just be happy Granny isn't here. I've seen her do the same thing with her teeth once."

Somehow Emma doesn't doubt that.

Just then, a high-pitched shriek sounds out over all the chaos and they both turn in the direction of its origin.

It seems like Bashful and his lungs aren't shy in the face of danger, and the dwarf is in need of assistance from the critter gnawing at his leg.

They both sigh.

Duty calls. And Ruby answers.

"Apparently gremlins taste like chicken!" Ruby yells over her shoulder as she bounds off to save the hapless man.

Emma snorts.

Everything tastes like chicken. But good to know, she guesses.

"You're dead meat!" a familiar voice howls from behind Emma, and she spins around to see a very red Pockets racing after the gremlin that had just decimated his mother's pie stall.

"Davy!" Mrs. Smith screeches after her son. Still lying on the pavement, the woman pushes at the wooden sign that had fallen on her legs. "It's alright, ma's okay! Come back here!"

Her plea is ignored by the irate boy.

Despite his pint-sized frame, the ballsy kid's never one to shy from dangerous situations. So it doesn't really surprise Emma when he pounces at the gremlin without an ounce of hesitation, and starts hammering away at it with his tiny fists.

"You… hurt… my… mom!" the little ball of indignation roars, probably the angriest Emma has seen the normally sweet child.

Though… gutsy or not, the boy is gonna get his face clawed off.

Gremlins are vicious little shits.

Knowing this, Emma springs into action.

She barely has time to yank Pockets away by the back of his hoodie when the gremlin takes a swipe at her young friend with its claws.

Thankfully, the creature misses its mark by a mere inch. Thinking fast on her feet, and to buy herself some time, she stomps on its chest with her boot to keep the thrashing hellion in place.

"Rufio!" Emma yells at the teen fighting nearby, and as soon as he turns to face her, she unceremoniously tosses Pockets in his arms. "Get him and his mom somewhere safe!" she orders.

"Aye aye, boss lady," Rufio salutes, heaving the youngest Lost Boy over his shoulder and making a run for a shaken Mrs. Smith.

"Kill it with fire!" Pockets barks at Emma, serious as a heart attack, a mighty frown still on his face.

"Yessir," Emma bites back an amused grin. And without further ado, she turns to the creature teething on her boot like the world's ugliest baby and readies her racket. "Regina!" she calls out.

"Yes, dear?"

"Pockets wants this one extra crispy, please and thank you."

This time, Emma makes sure that she has her partner's undivided attention before she moves her foot away and gives her hostage a good whack with the racket.

The creature lands way past the median line. Not too close to Regina who's on the sidewalk, but not too far either.

It's not bad, and Emma might've even admired her handiwork for a second had it not been for her own well-meaning father swooping in to save the day. Or something.

Unlike his daughter, David remembers to bring his sword to the party. But like Emma, he's of the act-first, think-later variety. And when he sees the gremlin land two meters away from Regina, he picks up his pace, pulls his arms back and swings with all his might.

To his credit, he has excellent hand-eye coordination.

Prince Charming decapitates the bugger, cutting its head cleanly right off.

Too bad what happens next isn't clean at all.

Maybe it's the angle at which he beheads the monster, and possibly aggravated by the fact that he really put his weight into it. Whatever the reason, the cut head flies up, and horror upon horrors, hits Regina right in the throat.

And, of course, it rolls down her chest before it lands with a splat on the pavement, leaving a trail of green goop on the woman's white, button-down shirt.

Now, despite always being the butt of jokes for his simple ways — warranted or not — David is smart enough to look absolutely horrified, mumble a sheepish apology and take a step back. Then two. And then quickly make a run for it after pointing at an older lady screaming for help.

Coward.

Emma sighs inwardly.

But, really, she can't blame the guy.

The glare her girlfriend is shooting at her father's back is as potent as any sleeping curse, and she wouldn't be surprised if he just suddenly dropped unconscious over there.

And she supposes that it really doesn't help much that Regina is intimidating enough for most people on a good day — but covered in gremlin goo and by her once-archnemesis' husband too?

Well.

Anyone with half a brain would stay the hell away.

Not her though.

Emma isn't her majesty's idiot for nothing, and she proves this by jogging the short distance between the two of them and stopping right in front of a fuming Regina.

And since she's also the Savior, Emma decides to show her poor father mercy — by redirecting the former Evil Queen's ire to a person who can actually take it without fear of actual repercussions: herself.

"A protective bubble would've been nice just about now, huh?"

Predictably, that does the trick.

That laser-like glare shifts in her direction and Emma just smiles lopsidedly, casually twisting the racket in her hand.

"Green suits you though — any color does, actually."

Largely unimpressed, Regina snaps her fingers and her soiled shirt disappears in favor of a cleaner one. It says a lot about the brunette's state of mind that she magicks herself into a hot pink blouse. With frills.

Emma bites her tongue.

As reliable as it has been lately, Regina's magic can still fall victim to the whims of her own emotions — anger being one of the stronger ones.

Emma doesn't think Regina's noticed the shirt though. And she's not going to point it out just yet because she's actually enjoying the sheer novelty of it. So, what she chooses to say instead is...

"You've got some gremlin on your chin."

"..."

"And a little on the side of your mouth too."

If looks could kill, she'd be lying next to the severed head by their feet.

"Don't use magic to clean that," Emma warns, grabbing hold of Regina's hand before the woman can flick her wrist or snap her fingers. "Don't mess with that face. I like it too much."

Regina exhales, long and hard. "What on earth are you—"

"Regina," Emma lifts both brows, and then moves her gaze downwards. "Your shirt."

Finally, the other woman looks down and clamps her lips shut into a thin line.

"Come here," Emma sighs, taking pity and wiping the offending goop off with her own hand. "Did you get some in your mouth too?"

"Miss Swan, you'd be holding back my hair right now if that were the case."

That's true.

"Apparently it tastes like chicken."

"Everything tastes like chicken."

"That's what I thought!" Emma beams, wiping her hand on the side of her jeans with nary a care in the world — not like it's the first time she's had monster goo on her clothing, after all. "Hey…" she nudges the scowling brunette after a second, sobering up a fraction to say, "Chin up, yeah? It could be worse."

"I highly doubt that."

"You could be that guy," Emma thumbs behind her, right at the ill-fated gremlin who lands itself in Ruby's grasp. She doesn't even need to look to know what happens next. The sound of guts spilling onto the pavement is sufficient to paint a horrific mental picture.

Finally, Regina's scowl gives way — to disgust, sure, but beggars can't be choosers. "Miss Lucas seems quite… energetic this morning."

"Time of the month."

"We just had a full moon two weeks ago."

"Other time of the month," Emma shrugs. "She said werewolf periods are pretty intense, mood-wise."

"I can see that," Regina says dryly, her dark eyes sweeping over the carnage Emma's deputy is leaving in her wake.

Yeah, it's a bit overkill, but Ruby gets the job done, and in times like these, that's all that matters.

Stepping up on the sidewalk beside the brunette, Emma turns around and takes a moment to survey their surroundings. Wrecked stalls, dismembered gremlins, wasted produce, broken glassware. Everything is a mess, and this is going to an absolute bitch to clean up — but that's what Jacques and his ilk are for. Community service is better than jail time, but it's still not a walk in the park, that's for sure.

"Only two gremlins left," Emma observes, resting her racket on her shoulder. Giving her companion a sideways glance, she gently nudges the woman with an elbow. "Whaddya say we wrap this up so we can go home? We still have a picnic to prep for."

"My dear, everything has been ready since last night," Regina sniffs. But then a fireball materializes on the woman's upturned palm. "Although we are both in dire need of a shower, so I suppose a bit of haste is in order."

Shower, huh?

"Care for some company?"

"I said we, did I not?"

Emma smirks. Fighting, whether with monsters or each other, has always been a potent aphrodisiac. "Last one then?" she bounds off into the street, twirling the racket in her hand.

The fireball grows twice in size.

"Whenever you're ready," Regina says.

This time around she makes sure that David is nowhere near when she smacks the last remaining gremlin and sends it flying towards a waiting Regina.

"Incoming!" Emma yells.

The ugly little bugger gets smacked on the face with a fireball and catches aflame before it even hits the ground.

You think they'd just won the doubles championship at the US Open with the way Emma just holds up the racket and pumps a fist in the air, but right now, she doesn't really give a damn about keeping up appearances.

Not after the morning they've had. And definitely not after finally eliciting a small smile out of Regina since this whole thing began.

And if the proof is in the pudding, all anyone needs to do is look at the many puddles of melted gremlin scattered all over and they'd know. That even if they make the most unconventional of monster-fighting duos, their partnership simply works.

"Nice serve, Sheriff Swan."

"Great shot, your majesty," Emma returns in kind, smiling from ear to ear. "I would say something like 'game, set, and match' but that would be too—"

"Trite?"

"I was gonna say corny, but close enough."

The tiny smile on Regina's lips grows just a little wider.

"So I guess I shouldn't say that the Savior and the Not-So-Evil Queen won the Gremlin Games because that would be too lame?"

"No, because it would be untrue," Ruby cuts in. "Pretty sure I've killed more than you two ladies."

"And I'm pretty sure having werewolf blood counts as doping."

"What do you call Regina's magic then?"

"A handicap," Emma says, and then inclines her chin towards her magical consultant, "Just look at her shirt."

Ruby snorts.

"Careful, dear. Keep in mind that I teleported us here," Regina harrumphs, standing a smidge straighter, refusing to be shamed.

"Pink looks good on you too," Emma says, smiling all-too-innocently.

"By the way, paramedics are moving in to take a few people to the hospital — mostly concussions and a couple of broken bones from what I could see," her deputy shares, trying to wipe her bloody hands clean on a torn banner. "As usual, the nuns are gonna deal with the ones with minor injuries."

"Good. As soon as everyone is accounted for, call in Jacques and the rest of the clean-up crew."

"Roger, Sheriff."

"Uh, hey, boss?" August joins the fray, a little out of breath and sweating profusely.

"What's up?"

"What do we do about all the gnomes?"

Right.

She'd forgotten about that.

Emma scratches at her neck, and then flags down Pillow Popeye. She supposes that it would only be courteous to ask the lone dwarf in the group. "Grumps, what do you wanna do about your dancing brethren?"

"Gnomes ain't dwarves," Leroy huffs out, slamming on the brakes and bringing his death mower into an abrupt stop right before them. "They're—"

"Cuter?" Emma teases.

"Smarter," Regina says in all seriousness.

Leroy's little frown tells Emma that her highness might actually be right. "Could never stand those uppity bastards — think they're better than us because they're 'tinkerers' and not miners. I say conga-line 'em up and I'll go and run them over."

"Absolutely not. We're doing no such thing," an affronted Mary Margaret declares, marching towards them with her hands on her hips, her yellow cardigan peppered with splotches of dark green. The Mayor thrusts a finger in the direction of the sashaying lawn ornaments. "Look at them, they're adorable."

Even Mary Margaret's most loyal dwarf side-eyes her for that remark.

"Okay… what do you propose then?" Emma asks her mother.

"I want them moved to the City Hall's front lawn — actually, all the public sector buildings, including the Sheriff's Department."

Uh… no.

"They could all use a bit of color," David seconds with a nod, playing the supportive husband.

The three deputies simultaneously shoot their Sheriff a loaded look.

Of course she's gonna veto her mother's questionable decorating plans for the station, but before she does that, Emma chances a sneaky glance at the silent woman on the sidewalk.

She bites the insides of her cheeks.

Man, if she could only pull out her cellphone and snap a photo.

Then she'd be able to show it to Mary Margaret a year down the line and say, this, this is the exact moment when Regina started thinking about driving you out of office.

Because if it hadn't been planted before, the seed is definitely there now. And it's clear as the distaste plainly written on Regina's face — her majesty is considering running for her mother's seat in the next elections.

And, hey, she'll probably win.

"We should put them outside all the shops on Main Street too — I'm sure they'll put a smile on everyone's faces."

Scratch that, she'll definitely win.

---

"Did you put on some bug spray?"

"Nah."

"You should though. You're wearing a sleeveless shirt."

"I'm good, thanks."

"Do you want me to grab the bottle for you? It's just on the kitchen counter."

"Seriously, I'm okay, kid. Did you put some on?"

"Of course I did."

"Good, your mom will be happy."

"I know. What about sunscreen? Did you at least put that on?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"I hate how it smells. Actually, I hate how they both smell."

"You should parent by example."

"I am — you just do whatever I'm not doing."

"Emma."

"Henry."

"Mom will get annoyed at you."

"She's always annoyed at me."

"...right. But she'll get annoyed-er."

"That's not a word."

"Don't care. Just you wait, as soon as she gets down here, I bet she'll tell you to put both on."

"Oh, she already did. But if she repeats it, I'll just say no — again."

"Uh-huh."

"What?"

"Did you really say 'no' to her?"

"I walked away."

"That's not the same. I bet you just pretended like you didn't hear her."

"Whatever, I still didn't say yes."

"Knew it. You can never say 'no' to mom."

"That's not true."

A sigh.

"Emma, it's just sunscreen and bug spray. Why are you being so stubborn about this?"

"Because I refuse to get parented by my own kid. And especially by my own girlfriend — I'm not her child."

"You're definitely not. If you were, you'd be more responsible. Like me."

Ouch.

But true.

"Put on some sunscreen and mosquito repellant," Regina directs at her the moment she joins them out in the backyard. And before Emma can put her foot down, a kiss gets deposited on her cheek as the brunette glides past, while the softest, "Please, love," gets murmured into her ear.

Just like that, Emma's defiant 'no' dies on her tongue.

She's so easy.

So damn easy.

And Regina knows her all too well.

"You tried," Henry snickers beneath his breath as Emma begrudgingly makes her way back to the house, tail between her legs.

She re-joins them a few minutes later reeking like chemicals and coconuts, not to mention feeling greasy as hell, but at least her bossy companions appear satisfied. And while Emma's being taunted by the shit-eating grin from her offspring, the mild sting is offset by the little rub she gets on the small of her back courtesy of Regina.

And without their son noticing, the poker-faced woman moves her hand south to give Emma's rear end a nice couple of pats. And then a firm squeeze.

Predictably, that deals a major blow to the petulance that's still lingering on her face.

And when she leans in to give Regina a quick kiss, Emma's pout is completely gone from her lips.

"Shall we?" her majesty asks.

"Let's go," Emma smiles.

And with Henry and Emma each carrying a hefty rattan basket, they make their way to the gate at the back of the property and begin the short trek towards the all-too-familiar clearing.

Regina acts as the glorified bush-whacker.

The woman leads the group, hand outstretched, magically clearing their path. It's really convenient, Emma has to admit, but the sheer amount of bugs that Regina's magic disturbs is pretty remarkable, if not kinda worrisome. They don't get eaten alive by the mosquitos though — and Emma pretends not to notice the blatant 'I-told-you-so' smirk Henry keeps throwing over his shoulder.

Fine, the bug spray was a good idea. But like hell she's ever going to acknowledge that.

When they reach the edge of the clearing, Regina lifts a hand, stopping Emma and Henry from taking a step further. With a flick of the wrist, the woman does a little bit of landscaping on the slightly overgrown space and transforms it into a decent park-like locale — complete with a picnic table in the middle and a little pond on the side.

Really, as much as heavy emotions can negatively impact her spells, Regina's magic can be quite impressive when the brunette's feeling relaxed enough to focus on calming the chaos that is her powers.

"Sweet," Henry crows, bounding into the clearing.

"Maybe next time we can turn the pond into a hot spring when the kid's not around," Emma whispers conspiratorially to her companion.

"Insatiable."

"Just saying," she smiles lopsidedly, and then gives Regina a kiss on the cheek before following after their son.

"Mom? Where's the food?" Henry asks, looking inside the basket that he had just plunked down on the table.

"It's with Emma, dear."

"Gotcha," the kid says, and then gets right to work and starts unloading his basket.

Heaving her own heavy load onto the wooden table, Emma can't help but chuckle at the items that the kid starts pulling out.

There are no red solo cups. No paper plates or plastic utensils.

Regina's packed their 'utilitarian' set of dinnerware — for when they have to, god-forbid, slum it, Emma guesses. It still looks like expensive china though. But then again, what does she know? She used to buy all her plates from Wal-Mart — so any set that's worth more than thirty bucks is an extravagance in her eyes.

The fact that she's the only one amused about the whole thing tells Emma that this isn't uncommon at all to the pair.

Heck, the kid doesn't even bat an eyelash when he pulls out actual cloth napkins and stainless steel cutlery.

He proceeds to set the table expertly, woven placemats and all.

Emma just mentally shrugs.

It is what it is.

She's just happy to be part of this family, quirks and all.

"Ready to look inside door number two?" Emma asks after Henry finally puts his basket away. The kid nods from across the table, kneeling on the bench so he can peek inside too.

Regina sits herself right beside Emma and elects to keep mum, being the only person privy to its contents on account of packing everything herself. Satisfied with just watching, the woman reaches for a bottle of root beer that Henry also unpacked and pours herself a glass.

"On three," Emma instructs.

"Alright," Henry indulges, placing his hand over hers. "One… two…"

"Three," they chorus and flip the lid open.

There's a container of mixed fruits, a cheese platter, and...

"Pizza?" Henry perks up, truly Emma's flesh and blood. "Awesome!"

"Why, were you expecting a salad or something?" Emma snorts out a laugh.

"Of course… what else do you eat on a picnic?" Henry tilts his head, looking genuinely confused.

Oh, Lord.

Emma's head snaps towards his son's mother.

"Garden salad," Regina just says. "It's our picnic staple — check underneath the fruits."

Emma sighs.

She shouldn't have asked.

She's never had anything remotely healthy on a picnic before. Then again she also has the eating habits of a child, and technically those 'picnics' were more keggers, so maybe she's not the best barometer of what's proper in this regard.

Though… pizza is a decent step in the right direction.

Especially since Regina picked her favorite kind, even if it's the safest and most common topping in existe—

Emma stops unpacking.

And just stares at the slice that Henry puts on his plate and Regina warms up with magic.

"Huh," she breathes out.

It's not just any pizza, it's…

"Pepperoni," Emma mumbles, and then shifts her gaze to the one responsible for it.

"I thought it was only fitting for what we are celebrating today," Regina merely says, studying her reaction over a glass of her root beer.

"I... you thought right," Emma agrees with a little smile, and then proceeds to serve the two of them a slice before sitting down.

And she's so touched by the damn gesture that she doesn't even call out her companions on the fact that they're about to eat pizza with utensils, because at this point, who gives a damn?

After all, Emma can lower their group's hoity-toity rating all by her lonesome. She grabs her slice by the crust and eats with her hands.

"What's so special about pepperoni pizza?" Henry asks after swallowing a mouthful of it.

"It's only the best kind," Emma declares with a smirk, but then turns a tad serious when she adds, "But it's also someone's metaphor for the truth."

"Whose?"

Argos.

"Mine," Emma says, before taking a generous bite out of her own slice.

"I have to ask," Regina starts, cutting a small piece with a knife and then spearing it with her fork. "How on earth did you even come up with that?"

"I wish I had an awesome story for it," Emma admits in between chews. "After Paul sent me back, I suspected that Argos-me had pulled it out of their ass—sorry," she directs more at Regina and not the kid, because she's sure he's heard worse at school. "And I didn't really think much of it until I had to meet my past self face-to-face for the first time. I remember I gave the boys money for pizza around noon that day — and those buggers didn't even save me a darn slice, just one crummy piece of pepperoni that I'm pretty sure had fallen on the floor."

"So, you're saying that it was brought about by hunger?" Regina lifts a brow.

"And bitterness," Emma mutters. "Trust me, you've never experienced true hunger and frustration until you've lived in a house full of teenage boys. I don't think they even chew their food, they just inhale it."

"That's a choking hazard," Henry wrinkles his nose in distaste.

Emma covers her mouth with the back of her hand, trying to hide her amusement from her son. He is precious, and he is so much Regina's child, and she doesn't think the two of them even realize the extent of it.

"Speaking of choking hazards, don't talk when your mouth is full, sweetheart," Regina gently reminds the kid.

Scratching his neck, he dons a sheepish little grin and does as he's told.

"You know, you never mentioned it in your journal," Henry says a while later, when he's done with his first piece and is reaching for seconds. "What was it like to time travel?"

"The actual traveling part was a blink-and-miss-it sort of thing, but it was still a doozy. I remember feeling nauseous for at least a day," Emma shares, thoughtful, and then looks behind her at the spot where she had materialized after Paul's watch did its thing. "I popped up right… there. It honestly felt like I was ripped apart and shipped in pieces, even if it was only for a fraction of a second."

"Whoa," Henry breathes out, eyes widening, and cranes his neck to look at the part of the clearing that she'd just pointed out. "What was weirder, that or transforming into Argos?"

"Oh, Argos for sure," she says after swallowing a bite. "It took me a while to get used to being 'him'. It was so surreal how the mask completely, well, masked everything. The moment you put it on, it's literally like wearing someone else's skin, y'know? You're still you, but it doesn't feel like that at all."

"Like when Bruce Banner turns into the Hulk?"

"Not exactly. I mean, with the Hulk, you can still see Banner in him, right?" Emma says. "But with me and Argos? Pfft. No resemblance at all."

"I don't know about that, Miss Swan," Regina joins in coyly, her voice ripe with teasing. "Bothersome, questionable fashion choices, a deadly penchant for heroism—"

"No physical resemblance at all," Emma clarifies, rolling her eyes, yet matching the brunette's smile nonetheless.

"What was the Sword of Ashe like?" Henry fires off next.

"Heavy."

"Was it awesome?"

"It saved your mom from the wraith," Emma says, matter-of-fact. "So, yes. Definitely awesome."

"Cool," Henry nods in approval. "Too bad it's broken."

"It's for the best, my dear," Regina murmurs, reaching for the container of salad and sliced fruits after eating half of her pizza slice. "A mythical sword like that is too dangerous to have around."

In reflex, Emma's fingers seek purchase near her clavicle, right at her barely-there scar, and she doesn't even realize that she's doing it until she feels Regina's warm hand rubbing her thigh. Slowly, she lowers her hand back down to the table.

For her part, Regina gives her knee a comforting squeeze before resuming her own meal.

"Who'd win in a fight, you or Argos?" Henry directs at her a moment later.

Discomfort momentarily forgotten, Emma dabs the sides of her mouth with the quilted cotton napkin, pretending to give his query considerable thought. "In an even fight?" she purses her lips, and then smirks. "I'd say me. But either way, it'd still be me, regardless."

"It's a win-win," Henry grins. "Unless you both kill each other."

"That would be tragic," Emma snorts. "But also ironic."

"And sadly not outside the realm of possibility," Regina notes wryly, before popping a grape in her mouth.

"Can you imagine though?" Emma turns towards the other woman. "If that had actually happened?"

"Only you could manage to kill yourself twice over, dear."

"Well, I am nothing if not thorough."

Regina tries, she really does. But after a second of trying to keep up a straight face, her majesty's mask cracks and she lets out a deep, hearty laugh.

Maybe it's because she very rarely lets herself go like this, but Regina's laugh is pretty damn infectious. And soon enough, Emma and the kid join in and their laughter fills up the clearing.

Naturally, only Emma has a coughing fit afterward.

Regina rubs her back, and is kind enough to hand her a glass of water after all the coughing subsides.

"Thanks," Emma says after taking a rather huge gulp, tears still in the corner of her eyes.

"Was it hard?" Henry asks timidly a few moments later, when things settle down. "Living as Argos and watching us from afar? Did you miss me and mom?"

Emma swallows thickly.

The kid's never really asked her questions about her time as Argos, and Emma suspects that it's because he didn't want to rock the boat since he knows she's in therapy and he's heard her screaming once or twice in the middle of the night. But it was never becoming Argos that gave her nightmares — it's what happened at Toll Bridge. And now she feels kinda bad that she's never really talked to him about it and given the distinction.

He's making up for lost time now, that's for sure.

"All the time," she eventually says. "You don't know how many times I was tempted to take off the mask and sneak into the house to spend time with the two of you. I knew her, well, my schedule by heart, I could've easily done it."

"But did you?"

"Only once," Emma says with a sad smile. It was to say her goodbyes. "At the grocery store."

This time, Regina reaches for her hand. And she doesn't let go.

Henry asks more questions.

Silly ones, serious ones.

Emma answers all of them.

And towards the end of their meal, the fullness of her belly becomes a nice counterpoint to the lightness in her chest.

She really needed this. And judging by the kiss Regina places on the back of her hand, the other woman knows this all too well.

Therapy, while extremely helpful on its own, is like baby steps. This, what they're doing right now, feels like a giant leap. And despite what it might look like to most people, it's really not that difficult to talk about that time in her life — if anything, it's rather cathartic.

It's not a past that she is ashamed of — quite the contrary, to be honest. But whether or not she is proud of what had transpired is a moot point.

Because at the end of the day, the past can still weigh a person down.

And this is what this whole picnic is about.

Moving on.

Emma's learned what she can from her time as Argos — now it's time to take what she gleaned, be grateful for it, and carry on with her life.

As things go, the only way both of them can finally be at peace is to lay one of them to rest.

Dr. Hopper called it growth.

Emma calls it progress.

---

They all decide to bury the enchanted hockey mask at the now infamous spot in the clearing.

It's only fitting, after all.

Along with the remnants of the Sword of Ashe — the broken hilt and the fragment pried from Emma's chest on that fateful day — the mask is secured away in Regina's vault.

Naturally, and with a snap of her finger, Regina summons it with her magic and the object materializes in Emma's hand.

For a moment, all she can do is stare at it.

She knew that Rufio had recovered the mask and given it to Regina the night Paul sent her back in time, but Emma hasn't laid eyes on it since Toll Bridge.

And, man, it looks like it has been through hell and back.

It's cracked from top to bottom and matted with what looks like a mix of dirt and dry blood, and she's not sure if it's her imagination or her faulty memory, but the mask feels heavier in her hand.

A part of Emma is tempted to wear it one last time, to see if it still works.

Her palm itches to just bring it up to her face, just as she's done many times in the past.

But before she can do so, she gives her head a little shake to rid herself of the offending thought.

This whole affair is all about moving forward, and as tempted as she might be, giving in to her curiosity feels like a step backward.

And so she just crouches down to place the item gingerly inside the hole that Regina's magic had dug.

A trowel suddenly appears right on the heap of displaced dirt before her.

She murmurs a quiet thank you to Regina, grabs the tool, and begins the careful task of burying the most tangible thing they have of Argos — aside from herself, that is.

It doesn't take her that long to finish.

And a deep sigh is all that comes out of her lips when all is said and done.

No elaborate ceremony. No speeches. No crying.

Emma had said no to all three when they had asked her earlier.

This is a celebration of her new lease in life, not a funeral — despite the fact that she had just buried a remnant from her past in a shallow grave. To be fair, the deed is mostly just symbolic.

The closest she gets to tears is when Henry kneels down, rearranges his stack of stones that now serve as a marker, and whispers a heartfelt, "Thank you for your sacrifice and I love you a lot," to the mound by their feet.

And while Emma's eyes are bone dry when she stands up, it's Regina, of all people, who sheds an actual tear.

"Hey..." Emma frowns, pulling the teary-eyed woman into her arms. "Why are you crying?"

"I'm not."

"She's definitely crying," Henry observes, looking at his mom over Emma's shoulder.

"I see tattling runs in the family," Regina murmurs, loud enough for only Emma to hear.

She stifles a laugh.

"C'mon, this is supposed to be a happy affair," Emma says instead, placing a loving kiss on the side of Regina's head. "It can't be all sad and depressing — I'm still alive."

"If it makes you feel better, these are happy tears."

Emma doesn't call her out on the obvious lie. She just holds Regina tighter. "A year ago, would you have believed it if someone had told you that you'd be crying for Argos?"

She manages to get a small laugh out of Regina for that one.

"I wished him dead," Regina murmurs. "But you knew that — I wasn't exactly subtle in my desire to end his existence."

"No, you really weren't," Emma chuckles lightly, rubbing the woman's back. "It's all good, though. I wouldn't have been doing my job right if I didn't antagonize you enough to want to murder me."

"I suppose." Regina pulls back enough to look her in the face. "You were truly aggravating."

"Not much has changed in that regard, huh?"

Her majesty rolls her eyes, but her upturned lips betray her anyway.

"Shall we go home?" Emma asks.

"Are you sure you don't want to say any parting words before we leave?" Regina swipes at a tear with her finger, turning in her arms so that they're standing side-by-side, holding each other by the hip.

Not wanting to be left out, Henry sandwiches himself in between his two mothers.

"Yeah, Emma, you should really say something," the kid prods, elbowing her side. "All superheroes make speeches at the end."

"I'm not a superhero. And this isn't the end."

It's her new beginning, as cheesy as it may be.

"You're the Savior," Henry states. "That's close enough."

"Kid, I don't think I possess any ability that can even be considered a superpower."

"I don't know about that, dear," Regina intones. "Your stubbornness is quite legendary."

"Excuse me, that's an attribute, not an ability."

"I am certain attributes factor in, too."

"That's not how superpowers work, they're—"

"Emma," Henry interrupts, sounding older than his years. "Just make a speech."

"But—"

"Please, love," Regina follows up, pushing the right damn buttons again.

Emma lets out a deep and theatrical sigh. "Okay, fine," she mutters, finally giving in.

Surprisingly, and even though her companions can be more than a little demanding, they do allow her a few moments of silence to gather her thoughts.

Which she appreciates, because how on earth does she even do this?

She might be her mother's daughter, but she sure as hell didn't inherit Mary Margaret's oratory skills or her flair for grandiose speeches. Heck, even David is better at things like this than her.

She'll just wing it, then.

And as she stares at the makeshift tombstone that Henry had made using rocks that he gathered around the clearing, Emma begins with an oh-so-eloquent...

"Hey." She shuffles her weight on her other foot. "Um... long time no see. How's it going?"

Even she has to wince at her opening salvo.

To their credit, and despite suspecting how tempted they are, her two companions don't burst into laughter.

She's never enjoyed being put on the spot, but if she really has to say a few meaningful words, doing it in front of the two people who mean the most to her isn't too bad, right?

If anything, she can close her eyes and pretend that she's all alone too.

She doesn't do that though. As awkward as she feels right now, knowing they're here with her makes it all worthwhile somehow.

So… screw it.

Exhaling a deep, cleansing breath, Emma decides to just speak from the heart.

"You really were the best and the worst of me," she murmurs softly, starting anew. "You were brave, strong, and annoying beyond comparison. But despite some of the more questionable things you had to do, I know your heart was always in the right place."

She pauses a couple of seconds to gather her thoughts.

Regina gives her hip an affectionate pat, urging her on.

"I'm sorry that I'm leaving you behind," Emma continues a little more confidently, talking just a smidge louder. "But sometimes in order to move forward, we have to shed parts of ourselves that only weigh us down, you know? And while I never regretted becoming who you were, I'm still struggling with some of the more traumatic things that happened to you. And I think that part, at least, has to end sometime, right? All the bad stuff?"

This time around, it's Henry that reaches for her free hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

"I'm sorry you had to go through all that, I really am," she says somberly, and then allows herself a small smile when she says, "But guess what? We made it. We're still here."

It's still so unbelievable to her in a lot of ways. Just how her life turned out the way it did.

It truly does put things in perspective, just how fortunate she is.

"Despite our crappy odds, we managed to get a second chance to live our life — so, please trust that I won't waste it. We've been through too much for me to ever take it for granted."

If fate didn't intervene, she would've been buried alongside that mask. And this site would've been an actual grave and not just a symbolic shrine.

And that thought alone is sobering enough to make her hold her family tighter.

"So… I guess this is it. This is my first step forward. Goodbye, old friend," Emma says in closing. "And thank you."

She looks in Regina's direction, admittedly in search of validation. Much to her relief, there is not a hint of judgment in those deep pools of brown. Regina just gives her that look — the one that makes Emma feel things in that once cynical organ that resides in her chest — and simply offers her a proud, radiant smile.

Their son doesn't even complain when they share a kiss over his head.

Although in true Henry fashion…

"Now you're crying," he points out a mere moment later, looking up at Emma's face.

"Jeez, you really are a blabbermouth," Emma musses his hair, and he bounds out of her reach with an energetic laugh. "And these are happy tears, just so you know!"

"Happy tears," Regina repeats, brows raised.

"Yes," Emma returns, wiping at them with the back of her hand. "Just like yours."

They share a knowing smile.

And this time their child groans in protest when they come together for another kiss — this one longer and less chaste than the last. Henry makes himself scarce in a hurry, muttering something about searching for flowers to put by his stack of rocks.

In a normal situation, it would've been highly inappropriate to make out over someone's grave. But there's nothing remotely normal about any of this.

It's a metaphorical burial, after all.

So they carry on without a care in the world, oblivious to their surroundings.

Until Emma's cellphone rings sometime later.

Reluctantly, they pull apart.

Foreheads still pressed against each other's, Emma sighs into Regina's lips. And then places one more quick kiss on them before pulling back and taking out her phone from her pant pocket.

She answers the call and immediately puts it on speakerphone.

"This better be important," Emma says, her words coming out terser than she had intended. "I swear, if it's another—"

"Sheriff," Leroy's breathless voice wheezes out. "We missed one."

"What do you mean?" she probes, sharing a wary look with Regina.

"A gremlin got inside the convent."

"That's on the other side of town. How the heck did it get all the way over there?"

"It snuck itself in my patrol car," the dwarf rushes out his explanation, and in the background, Emma picks up a loud crash followed by some very colorful cursing from a disgruntled nun — who obviously missed the memo on not taking the Lord's name in vain. "Didn't realize it until I popped open the trunk and it came at me like a bat outta hell. It broke into the building before I could stop it."

"Are the fairies helping you?"

"Most of them are protecting the orphans and their stash of dust. There's a handful helping me out, but this one's a slippery bugger. We can't seem to get a good shot at it."

"Leroy," Emma pinches at the bridge of her nose. "You're supposed to be at the station. What the hell are you doing at the convent in the first place?"

"That's not important right now," Leroy is quick to brush off, just as a deafening bang echoes from the background. "What's important is that they have a frickin' pool in here. And if the li'l dipshit gets anywhere near all that water, we're screwed."

Great.

More gremlins then.

Although…

"The nuns have a pool?" Emma turns to Regina.

"Obviously, the puritans did not take their vows of poverty," Regina says, matter-of-fact. "Or if they did, they refused to take them seriously."

"Well, Blue is—"

"A hypocrite, yes, I am well aware."

"Trash talk her later," Leroy practically shrieks, his gruff voice ripe with panic. "We need help ASAP! I forgot about the hot tub!"

Oh, God.

"Radio Ruby and August, call them in," Emma orders. "We'll be there shortly."

She ends the call just as Henry comes back to deposit his impressive hoard of dandelions by his rocks. She doesn't have the heart to tell him they're weeds and not flowers, but she doesn't think he'll really care either way.

"We're leaving?" he asks.

Emma nods. It's a good thing they packed their stuff earlier as this is turning into a grab and go situation. "We'll teleport to your grandparents. They'll watch over you while your mom and I deal with the gremlin at the convent."

"Why? What did Blue do?"

Emma snorts.

"The other gremlin, sweetheart," Regina says.

How she manages to do that with a straight face, Emma doesn't know.

And they really need to have a talk about Regina's habit of making disparaging remarks about the nuns in Henry's presence. Warranted or not, her majesty's mistrust is rubbing off on their impressionable son.

But there's a time and place for that, and now isn't it.

As such, Emma extends her hand for the other woman to take. "Ready for another adventure, your majesty?"

"It seems we have no other choice," Regina exaggerates a sigh, taking her up on her offer and linking their fingers together.

The brunette then snaps with her free hand and the picnic baskets vanish into thin air.

"Sweetheart?" Regina turns towards Henry.

Knowing the drill by now, the boy quickly dusts off the dirt from his hands and grabs hold of his mother.

But before Regina teleports them out of the clearing, she glances at Emma and looks her up and down, scrutinizing her from head to toe.

"What?"

"Your attire provides absolutely no protection, Miss Swan. Should I enchant your clothing again?"

"Only if you do the same with yours."

"I don't look good encased in plastic, dear."

"You look good in everything."

Regina scoffs, but her lips curve up in a smile. "Idiot."

And then the earth thrums and they disappear in a haze of purple smoke.

They might have their new beginning, but some things will truly never change.

And she likes it that way.

The End.