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The anger that she’s been harbouring for years doesn’t dissipate as easily as she’d like it to. Sometimes, she takes it out on you, and her words burn deep in your heart even though you know she doesn’t mean them.
When she apologizes after, she proves her sincerity the only real way- by being better. Next time you think you’re about to be attacked simply for being there when she’s at her wits end, she bites her tongue.
But turning it inwards isn’t any better. On bad days, her lips become red and swollen from chewing. Purple crescent moon marks accumulate on her palms from balling her fists.
One night, you catch her eyeing a small blade. You know from experience, from a few hard teenage years in the system, where it leads, and you’re not interested in seeing the woman you love go down that path.
You hand her a pair of sneakers and a hoodie to cover her sports bra and cotton shorts. You pull her by the elbow out the front door into the night air. When you start running, she says “this is stupid,” but she follows you. She beats you back to the house, panting and sweaty, the pain evaporated from her eyes.
Being good and being nice are two separate things, and Regina struggles with the social intricacies of the latter. You know that she’s changed since the Enchanted Forest, but sometimes it’s not so apparent to Storybrooke’s other citizens.
On nights after town hall meetings, when her self doubt keeps her awake, you hold her tight against your body. You stroke the back of her neck with a single lazy finger as you wonder how a woman like her could possibly feel as small in your arms as she does in this moment.
“They’re so quick to think I’m against them” she whispers into your shoulder.
“They’ll see you like I do someday” you reply in your most reassuring voice, because you believe it.
You pull away just enough to look at her face, hoping she can see the love that you so often think is too much to contain in a single body overflowing through your green eyes.
For good measure, you start to place gentle kisses on her forehead, her temple, her jaw. Your hands run up the soft skin of her sides, moving her satin cami out of the way as your lips stop at her collarbone before continuing down.
“Well, hopefully not exactly like I see you.”
Her chest jerks under your mouth as she lets out a small giggle. You’re not sure if you’ve ever felt anything better.
She sits in her study, legs crossed, nursing a glass of bourbon that’s been watered down by ice cubes long since melted. When she notices you in the doorway, she takes a deep breath, as if collecting her courage, and says “I don’t know if the things I’ve done are forgivable.”
That’s when you realize. You’ve forgiven her a hundred times over; you know she knows that. You can tell her she’s a good person all you want, but you can’t force her to see it.
You walk over to her slowly and stop behind her chair. You place your hands on her shoulders, massaging gently, and lean down until you can smell her shampoo. As you breathe her in, you promise silently that you will love her extra until she’s ready to love herself.