Archive of Our Own ^beta

Cinnamon, spice, festive cheer, and baby shit waft through the air.

Emma wrinkles her nose and sighs. “Oh god, not again?” She shakes her head, but a smile curves her lips. “Alright kid, let’s get you all cleaned up.” She hoists Henry up under his outstretched arms just as Regina turns the corner.

“Emma, are you—” Regina stops mid-step, rests a hand on her hip, and presses her lips into a straight line. Even still, Emma can see the mirth shining in her eyes. “I see you’re hard at work baby-proofing this room, Sheriff.”

Emma rolls her eyes, arching a brow, and passes Henry to Regina like they’ve done a hundred times before. “You were saying?”

It takes only a second before Regina scrunches her face. “Oh. Well,” she says, adjusting him into her arms. Immediately, he burrows into the crook of her armpit and shoots Emma what looks like baby stink-eye, as if communicating that he’d throw a huge fit if Emma tries to pry him from Regina.

“Yep, so I’ll get to baby-proofing after I get his stinky little butt all cleaned up.”

Regina lets out a breath. “Don't be ridiculous, Miss Swan.” She shakes her head and turns on her heels. “You still have a task to carry out. I’ll take care of it.” And with a final boop on Henry’s nose, she carries him away.

For a long moment, Emma stands mesmerized. She can’t help but watch Regina love Henry so easily, so freely, holding onto him like he’s the most precious treasure in the world. She’s also weak to the magnetic sway of Regina's hips, just as she was the day they met, and she doesn't catch herself grinning like an idiot until Regina and Henry disappear into the baby room.

No. No no no no. No. Oh god, no. Emma holds her breath and winces at herself. Her own stupid, stupid heart. She cannot be having these thoughts, feeling these feelings. Especially not toward Regina, who took in Emma and Henry after Emma failed to find permanent residence in Storybrooke. “It's my responsibility as mayor to ensure my citizens have access to housing,” Regina had said, and then unceremoniously thrust a set of keys into Emma's hand.

That was almost a year ago. 

Since then, Storybrooke’s undergone a few housing development projects, and Emma knows it's only a matter of time before she overstays her visit at Mifflin.

For the time being, she's still welcome here (probably because Regina's so damn attached to the kid) and she'll do whatever she needs to do to earn her keep. Right now, that means completing the task Regina assigned to her.

She gets on all fours, the ice-cold wood seeping through her jeans, and crawls. 

Only a week ago, Henry was a little too curious about the shiny new lights strung up around the living room. He followed its path, crawling until he reached its end. Then he wrapped his grabby hands around green wire and pulled until the plug disconnected from the wall, leaving a gaping tear in the electrical wiring.

Today, the newly installed Christmas tree sits in the corner of the room. Regina insisted that they needed a tree—that Henry needed to have a full holiday experience, complete with stockings over the fireplace, colorful lights illuminating every room, presents stacked underneath the tree, and milk and cookies for Santa.

(Of course, the milk and cookies were Emma's idea, which Regina begrudgingly agreed to.)

The whole set-up is everything Emma would have imagined her perfect Christmas to be, the kind of holiday celebration she had spent her entire childhood wishing for… until the reality of her situation dawned upon her and she outgrew childish joys and wishlists for Santa.

At least her kid gets to experience this. First, though, Emma has to ensure that anything dangerous is out of Henry's reach. She pokes around the bottom, reaches for the lights strewn around the tree, buries herself beneath the tree, tussles with its firs like a one-year-old might…

Yeah. Okay. Not kid-friendly. At all.

“I could get used to seeing you like this, Miss Swan.”

From under the tree, Emma startles and jumps, her head crashing into branches. Stray firs fall like rain and tangle into her hair. Behind her, there's a chorus of breathy laughter and amused cooing. “Hey! I swear to god, I'll make you crawl under the tree next time,” Emma puffs out, still backing out inch by inch for fir-free freedom.

“I'm a little too refined for that, don't you think?”

Emma shakes fallen needles from her hair, barely escaping the clutches of assassination by arbor. “Mmm, add evil to that list,” she quips, as she starts arranging the many presents sitting atop the tree skirt into a makeshift baby barrier.

Regina hums. Emma doesn’t need to look to know that there’s a smug smirk on her lips. 

“You don't think I'm evil, do you, Henry?” Regina whispers, tickling Henry's tummy with her free hand. He gurgles and claps and babbles in response, and Regina raises her chin to look at Emma with pride. Unfettered affection reflects in her eyes. “See?”

Emma sets the final heavy present down with a thud, her stomach twisting and turning with hope from all this domesticity. She swallows down the lump in her throat and forces her voice into something light and nonchalant. “He didn't say anything!” she retorts. Sweat glistens off her forehead, and she wipes it off and sprawls onto the floor. “It's safe now. I think.”

Eyebrows raised, Regina sets Henry down. He takes to the familiar feeling of rug underneath his small hands and begins his slow journey toward Emma.

“Come here, kid,” Emma coaxes, watching his tiny limbs carry him forward. 

Concentration is set on his face, the multitude of lights from above raining prisms of color that run across the length of his body. His every coo and gurgle wring Emma’s heart, tugging on strings she didn’t know existed, his melodies pulling her along. Her cheeks spread wide, the light blurring a little in her vision. How in the world did she ever consider, even for a second, giving this up—giving him up?

Regina watches with equal fervor and adoration, her lips mouthing tiny cheers of encouragement.

Fuck. Her heart pounds against her ribs, the force of it threatening to spill her tears. She clears her throat. “Don't hold back on him, Regina,” she says, voice hoarse and wanting.

Red flushes up Regina's cheeks. “I wasn't—” she starts, but when Emma raises her eyebrows, Regina averts her eyes. “Fine. You caught me.” She kneels to the floor, hesitation flickering over her face. 

Henry looks at her, his expression morphing into a cheesy little grin, and that’s all it takes for Regina to shrug off whatever was holding her back. “You can do it, Henry,” she cheers. “Just a little more!”

New determination washes over Henry, and with two uncoordinated arms, he pushes himself up onto shaky legs. He manages a tiny shuffle forward, a half-step, then another, before he stumbles into Emma's waiting embrace.

“See? He just wanted a little push from you,” Emma says. 

Regina turns her head away. “Don't be ridiculous, Miss Swan. He…he was crawling to conserve energy before he decided to give walking another try,” she huffs. Henry sploots onto the floor, innocent confusion in his beady brown eyes. “Isn't that right, Henry?”

He tilts his head, a goofy giggle pulling at his cheeks.

“Don’t agree with her,” Emma faux-scolds the kid under her breath. “The Evil Queen of Mifflin Mansion has a big enough ego already.”

“Emma,” Regina stresses. “I heard that.”

Emma huffs out a laugh, leans back on her elbows, and looks up at Regina. “What are you going to do about it? Punish me?”

Regina rolls her eyes, but the slightest twitch still curves her lips. “Swan…”

At that, Emma’s chuckle turns into a full-bellied laugh. “If you told me a year ago that this is where I'd be today, I would have laughed in your face. Remember how we met last year?”

“How could I ever forget?”

~*~ 

Where's the goddamn town Emma's been promised?

The tires of her car hiss over the narrow asphalt as her old but trusted yellow Beetle tears through the dark forest. The engine hums steadily, her headlights creating an uneven tunnel through the trees, the lights pulling them out of the darkness for a heartbeat before they vanish behind her. 

She passed the "Welcome in Storybrooke!" sign a while ago already, but there’s still no town in sight. All she sees are crooked branches as she narrows her eyes at the endless black. The wind slips through a loose seal in the door, piercing the silence of the cabin, and though the radiator is providing some heat, the cold sliver of air makes her shiver every time. It doesn't help that she's dripping sweat. Anxiety settles in her stomach. She needs this town, and fast. 

The car hits a dip and thumps hard. Each vibration runs up her spine, reminding her just how little time she has left. She cries out in pain, sobs once, but then grits her teeth and plows on. The town must be here somewhere. She hasn't seen any exits, and—

"Oh god, not again," she wails as another contraction blooms low in her spine, morphing into excruciating pain within seconds. Her entire body goes rigid. Her hands tighten around the wheel, her fingers burying themselves into her palms, until her knuckles go white. Her toes curl inward, and she digs her feet into the car, but her foot's on the gas, and her Bug goes faster and faster and screams at her to stop. She forces herself to puff the pain away like she'd seen on YouTube—the only access to prenatal care she's had—and she huffs and sobs and whines until finally, mercifully, the contraction dies down. Quickly, she slips her foot off the gas, and the car slows, mirroring her own settling state of mind.

The contractions had started a little while ago. At first, they were just uncomfortable and Emma had thought that if this was what contractions were like, she’d have an easy ride. She grimaces self-deprecatingly. Not anymore.

She swallows hard and wipes sweat off her forehead. God, she really needs this town. 

Somewhere, someone must be listening to her desperate request, because suddenly the trees part and the road bends, and there it is. The town that’s most definitely Storybrooke. The name is ridiculous, she thinks absentmindedly. But when she drives into town and sees its houses and shops adorned with lights and ribbons, the park filled with decorated Christmas trees, complete with a stately bell tower looming over the library, it does seem like a fairy-tale town straight out of a postcard. The kind of town where nothing bad could possibly happen.

Well, Emma knows better. She narrows her eyes at the shop signs and directions. Surely, there must be an inn somewhere. Despite the remoteness of this town, surely they have space for visitors, right? God, she hopes they do.

Another contraction strikes, sharp and mean. She doubles forward, totally unprepared, gripping the wheel so hard the leather groans under her fingers. Emma’s vision tightens, black spots line her vision, and the windshield blurs. The pain is so severe that she can’t move, can’t steer, can’t drive, can’t do anything but suffer through this vicious contraction. Suddenly, the car lurches up—a sidewalk, Emma realizes through a haze of agony. She shrieks, screwing her eyes shut. Instinctively, she releases the steering wheel to protect her belly as she braces for impact—

A heartbeat later, she crashes into something and comes to an abrupt stop, but she hardly feels it. What she does feel is her contraction worsening. She forgets to breathe, clenches her teeth as she whimpers, and bounces her head against the steering wheel until the pain subsides and she’s able to take in a breath again. 

For a moment, she stays like this—head on the steering wheel, arms firmly wrapped around her belly—until her vision clears. She lifts her head. Her Bug has crashed into a mailbox. Steam escapes from the hood and Emma knows that her trusted car is out of commission and that she’s out of funds for any repairs. Her heart sinks, and she exhales shakily. 

But right now, that doesn’t matter. She just needs to find shelter, fast. “Hold on a little longer, baby,” she says as she creaks the car door open and winces at its screeching, ominous tenor.

Then, piercing through her misery—voices. The sound of people is coming from inside a building just up ahead—a diner. And according to the sign, it is also a Bed and Breakfast. Oh, thank fucking god. 

Emma’s knees go weak in relief. She stumbles out of the car. “We’re almost there,” she murmurs, caressing her belly. The baby kicks her stomach in response. She flinches, hissing at how sensitive the contractions make her body feel, but starts walking toward the B&B.

~*~

“Oh crap,” the woman behind the reception desk says as Emma stumbles in, her wide eyes flitting from Emma’s face to her belly and back up. She takes off the reading glasses. “Come in, child.”

She’s an older woman; not super old, but definitely past sixty, and looks very much like a concerned grandmother with whom you shouldn’t mess. 

“I need a room,” Emma says, quickly, foregoing pleasantries. “Doesn’t matter how big or—”

“Oh crap,” the woman says again, blinking rapidly, worry creasing her brow. “I’m afraid we’re overbooked as it is. It’s Christmas Eve.” She says it if it explains everything. 

Emma’s heart sinks. Panic rises to her chest. “I just need one night,” she pleads. “Is there a—a—I don’t know, a storage room that’s big enough to stay in? A garage?”

“I’m afraid not,” the lady says, sympathy on her face. “But let me make some calls for you to see if nearby inns and B&Bs have any availability." 

Emma nods, relieved. While the woman busies herself on the phone, Emma takes a look around. She hadn’t noticed before, so focused on getting a place to stay, but the place looks straight out of a damn Hallmark Christmas movie. Lights weave and twinkle around the hearth, on which a garland lies and stuffed stockings hang down from. More garlands, decorated with lights and ornaments, adorn the corners of the room from the ceiling to the floor. The stairs are also decorated with fake Christmas branches. In the corner of the lobby, an enormous Christmas tree, way too big for the space, sighs heavily under the weight of its decor. Not a branch is visible from all the ornaments, lights, and ribbons. On top shines a sparkling star. If this woman has a space big enough to store all these Christmas supplies during the off-seasons, surely she can stay there? Hope flutters in her chest. 

Then, she feels it. The pressure low in her spine. Shit, has it been 10 minutes? The last two contractions were 10 minutes apart… at least, she thinks they were. She's not exactly timing them. Adrenaline starts to rush through her veins, and her heart starts pounding in her chest as the pain builds, swiftly and relentlessly. Emma gasps, grabs the edge of the reception desk and bends over on instinct, as if it’ll hurt less like that. It doesn’t. Her body goes rigid as the contraction intensifies. She hangs on for dear life, holding her breath and whimpering helplessly until the pain subsides again. Then, she gulps in much-needed oxygen with shuddering breaths.

The woman on the other side of the desk is eerily quiet. Emma raises her head, feels a drop of sweat sliding down from her temple and wipes it away with her sleeve. “I really,” she pants, “really need a room.” 

The woman’s worried stare is piercing, the gears in her head turning. “I can see that,” she replies, still calm but now determined. She steps around her desk, towards Emma. “Okay, new plan. The closest available room is an hour away,” she tells her, “but you won't make it there. Instead, let me—”

The B&B door slams open, and Emma jumps. “What idiot ran their death trap on wheels into town property?” 

“Um, that would be me,” Emma says, wincing, and turns toward the voice. The world suddenly slows and she blinks. The woman is the most beautiful woman Emma's ever seen.  Short dark hair frames her sharp cheekbones in soft waves, and she wears a black coat that seems especially tailored for her. On her impossibly high heels that Emma could never be able to manage, she looks like one of those glossy women from magazine ads, perfectly polished and oh so attractive. Her full lips press into a thin, disapproving line, and her dark eyes seem hard and unforgiving, but when Emma meets her gaze, the sudden connection sends a little jolt through Emma’s chest. 

The woman narrows her eyes. “Who the hell are you?” 

“Emma Swan,” she says hastily, blinking out of her temporary stupor. “I need a room.” 

“Everything’s full, Madame Mayor,” the receptionist says. “But I called around and Bangor has room for—”

“Then I suggest you go there, Miss Swan.” 

The disproving look she gives sets off something inside Emma. “Well, if I hadn’t just totaled my car, I would,” she returns prickly. 

Then, she gasps in surprise. A warm fluid runs down her legs. Oh, no. No no no. For a second, she’s horrified. She doesn’t need to pee, and yet, she can’t hold it in. But then she realizes it isn’t pee. Dazed, she feels how the fluid soaks through her pants. 

“It seems her water just broke, Miss Mills,” the innkeeper says. “And she just had a contraction. She’s obviously in no condition to drive. We need to get her to a hospita—”

“No!” Emma snaps as she tries to unstick wet fabric from her skin. She shivers. “No hospital.” 

Miss Mills’ dark eyes narrow further, and she gives Emma a slow once-over. It feels like she’s judging her, Emma thinks, and she swallows. “Why not?”

Emma bites her lip. “I just can’t, okay?” A flicker of despair escapes her voice, one that Miss Mills doesn’t miss.

The mayor turns to the innkeeper. “Eugenia, send Ruby to my house with some sheets. You,” she says, directing her gaze at Emma, “are coming with me.” 

“What?” Eugenia and Emma say at the same time, eyes widening. Their gazes lock before they both turn to watch the exasperated mayor.

“There aren't any other quick options, and I refuse to take part in an insanely twisted nativity scene, where we shove her in a barn. The town certainly doesn't need that kind of publicity. So she comes with me.” 

And here, Emma thought Miss Mills was going to throw her out. Both she and Eugenia gape as Miss Mills impatiently steps towards Emma and wraps her hands firmly around Emma’s biceps. Emma winces—it doesn't hurt, but her body is so sensitive that any touch feels uncomfortable. 

“Eugenia,” the mayor continues, “if you would call Mr. Tillman and have him remove the yellow monstrosity from the pavement, that'd be most appreciated.” 

Stupefied, Emma lets the Mayor lead her away.

~*~

“Why not?” Emma says, a bit stupified and a pout on her lips. Her finger hovers over delicate whipped cream, the taste of spices—nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves—and pumpkin barely out of reach.

Regina slides the pie tin away and slaps Emma's hand with her spatula. “Because you'll spoil your appetite.” 

Emma’s veins heat with surging affection. She tamps it down behind a pouty facade and huffs under her breath, “Bossy as always.” 

“Practical,” Regina amends. Even with Regina's back to her, Emma can hear the satisfaction rippling the word’s surface. “And need I remind you that—”

Beep beep beep!

“Shit!” Regina curses through gritted teeth. “I need to—” She throws the spatula into the sink, spins on her heels, and arms her hands with oven mitts—all in the blink of an eye. From the oven, she procures her freshly baked signature lasagna and sets it onto the countertop. “While this is cooling, I'll prepare the…” The words trail off into mumbles as Regina recites her plans and nods to herself. Her hands are already focused on grabbing the next item, her gaze set on her next goal.

Emma breathes out a chuckle and lingers for a second. This sight before her is one that never fails to stun her into a state of awe. 

Regina’s dark hair, now a little longer than when they first met, frames her face and furrowed brow. Her jaw is clenched tight, her body transitioning from task to task without pause, strutting around in high heels too impractical for cooking. Regina may be practical when it comes to eating habits, but everything about her screams extra when it comes to her wardrobe. Besides, it can’t be easy parading around a damn kitchen in those things. 

But Regina does. Her full lips are pressed into a tight line, her dark eyes hard and focused. Like this, she looks beautiful, because Regina only overwhelms herself like this when she cares, even though she would never admit to it.

“Regina.”

“—twenty minutes to cool, and then it's time for—”

“Regina.”

More incoherent mumbling.

Emma steps closer, behind Regina, her hand hovering over the small of Regina's back. Her fingers ache to reach out, to snap Regina out of whatever stressed state she's dug herself into.

Helpful, Emma thinks. She wants to be helpful. She needs to be helpful. She swallows down her hesitation before she closes the space between them. “Regina.”

“What?!” Regina snaps, jolted from her trance.

“Okay, Grumpy,” Emma says. Her hand rubs circles where she’s touching Regina, and she can feel Regina’s tension ease just a little.

Regina lets out a long exhale. Sets the lettuce in her hands onto the island. “I’m— I’m sorry. For snapping at you. I shouldn’t have—”

Emma gives her a knowing smile, even though Regina doesn’t look her in the face. “I know.”

Regina’s lips pull, a ghost of a smile. Her shoulders relax, and she takes in a long, unsteady breath, in time with Emma’s breathing. On their shared exhale, Regina’s muscles loosen.

A short silence stretches between them. They're standing so ridiculously close and Emma wants to say something else, but her damn stomach is fluttering and squeezing and flickering with anticipation. In the end, she settles for a meager, “I’ll help you?”

“It's fine.” Regina wrings her hands over her stomach, and a swallow snakes down her throat. “You didn’t even want a huge celebration in the first place. I can’t make you—”

“You’re not making me do anything. I want to,” Emma says, and when Regina doesn’t respond, she continues. “You’re going out of your way to throw this party for Henry, and I— I mean, I can’t thank you enough. For everything.”

“I do hope I’m not overstepping.”

Overstepping? Regina spares no expense to provide for Henry, and she’s worried about— Emma shakes her head and scoffs. “You’re seriously worried about that? This is everything I wished for growing up, everything I wanted Henry to have, and I sure as hell wouldn’t have been able to give him any of this without you.”

The words hang in the air between them. One final synchronous inhale and Regina turns to face Emma. Her lips pull into a line, like she doesn't quite believe Emma's words. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Emma repeats. “So, how can I help?”

Regina assigns Emma salad duty. There’s not much to mess up when it comes to cutting up vegetables and tossing a salad. Not that she'll mess anything up—at least she hopes not—but Regina hasn’t believed a word she says about her kitchen competency since she broke a toaster a few months back.

“You’re not making a mess over there, are you, Miss Swan?” Regina asks as she stirs the soup.

“I’m just tossing a damn salad, not doing rocket science or anything.”

A huff of a chuckle. “Henry makes quite the mess during meal times. It could be genetic for all I know.”

Emma snaps her tongs together for emphasis. “He’s a baby!” But then the words sink in, and she shifts on her feet, her salad-tossing a bit more erratic than before. “And I clean up after him! Or I try to, as best I can… but if there’s anything I’m not doing that you want me to do or anything I’m not doing good enough or even anything I'm doing that you want me to stop doing—”

“Emma, breathe. I’m joking.” Regina reaches out and rests a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “I enjoy your company. Yours and Henry’s.”

Emma's heart skips a beat. Small deliberate touches like these aren't exactly rare nor are they commonplace between them. “Good,” she says and winces at the quiver in her voice. Why the hell can't she ever keep herself together around Regina? She clears her throat. “Good. Yeah. That's—that's good. We like being with you too. I mean, I can’t speak for Henry, of course, but he practically sees you as—” She sucks in a sharp breath and bites her tongue.

“Sees me as?” Regina asks. There's something in her voice, something tentative that rises to the surface.

Sees you as his other parent. Just the thought makes Emma’s body burn. She chuckles nervously. “Nothing. It’s nothing,” she says, words jumbling and slurring. “Speaking of messes, remember the mess I caused last year? I don't think anything will ever come close to that.”

There’s a second when Regina’s face falls, her cheek indenting inward, before she shakes her head, her pained expression gone so quickly Emma thinks she imagined it, and says, huffing feigned annoyance, “That was terrible. You practically murdered my finest piece of upholstery.” A smile spans across her face, not quite meeting her eyes. 

Emma swallows down her worry and pastes on playful offense. “You’re never gonna let me live this down, are you?”

~*~

“You always this bossy?“ 

The woman behind the wheel rewards Emma with an irritated glower. 

Emma shifts uncomfortably, the plastic she's sitting on crinkling with every movement. Before she was allowed in, Miss Mills ordered her to drape a plastic bag over the passenger seat of the classic Mercedes. “The seats are leather,” she’d said, “and this car is older than you and far more valuable.”

Now, the woman sighs. “You call it bossy,” she says, her eyes fixed on the road, “I call it being efficient. This town would fall apart if I didn’t tell them what to do.” 

Emma snorts. This woman might be beautiful, but she's also an asshole. “Doesn’t seem like you have a lot of faith in your townsfolk,” she remarks. 

Miss Mills scoffs, but doesn’t reply, and Emma takes it as a confirmation. There’s a short silence between them, and it allows Emma to reflect on what’s happened in the past few minutes. The B&B. The mayor’s entrance. Her quick solution of taking her in. The relief of having somewhere to stay surpassed her sense of safety for a little while, but Emma realizes now that she has no idea where she’s going. A flicker of worry creeps under her skin. It’s not that she doesn’t feel safe, but this woman is a stranger. At least Eugenia knows where she is, and at least she’s with the mayor, right? She exhales, her breath a little shaky. She has nothing to worry about. Well—aside from getting this baby out.

“Do we need to inform anyone about you being in labor?” The question pulls Emma from her thoughts. 

“Like who?” Emma asks, slightly confused.

Another irritated sigh comes from her left. She’s probably classified Emma as one of her dumb townspeople already. “Unlike others who believe in higher beings, I don’t believe that anyone can magically conceive a baby without a partner. Not even one about to be born on Christmas Eve. So do we have to inform the fa—”

“There’s nobody,” she cuts in. Rude, perhaps, but she doesn’t want to talk about that. There’s simply too much to explain and it could destroy her chances of finding a roof over her head for tonight if she did. “It’s just me.” 

A short silence stretches between them, and it might not be judgmental but it kind of feels like it is. 

“Very well,” the mayor says slowly, and opens her mouth to say something else.

But Emma gasps as another contraction blooms, slow but heavy, a deep ache that builds and builds until it washes over her like a wave. She whimpers, bends over as her feet dig into the car. Thank goodness she’s not driving this time, she thinks faintly. She grabs the car’s dashboard, her fingers cramping and gripping on for dear life. Her breathing is shallow and quick and halted, and then she feels like she cannot breathe at all and—

Someone touches her arm. Instinctively, she wants to yank it away. But the crushing pressure that squeezes her entire lower belly into pulp doesn’t let her. “Breathe with me, Miss Swan.” The words are far away and Emma thinks she imagines them. “Emma!” Miss Mills snaps next, and oh—this, she hears. 

Through a red haze of pain, Emma looks up. “Breathe,” the mayor says. “Copy me.” She inhales. Then, she puffs out three times, before she inhales again. Reflexively, Emma does the same. The pain withdraws to its den, that spot near her spine, where it lurks like a vicious coiling snake, waiting to strike again. She leans back against the chair. For a little while, at least, she can breathe again.

“Holy shit,” she says, and it’s only then that she realizes her face is wet with tears. Quickly, she wipes them off her cheeks. She leans back into the seat and closes her eyes, surrendering herself to the sound of the humming engine as her breathing settles. 

“Didn’t you take a pregnancy course?” 

Emma barks out a bitter laugh. She hasn’t really been in the position to take one, but she doesn’t want to tell the mayor any of that. “No,” is everything she says, and she waits for judgment. None come.

Instead, the mayor says, “We’re here.” She nods once at something on Emma’s right.

Emma turns her head and squints through the windshield when Miss Mills pulls into a short driveway, and her eyes widen. A house—no, a fucking mansion—looms before her. The walls are painted white, a stark contrast to the darkness surrounding them. The porch is wide and spotless with two steps leading up to a polished mahogany door and the single, unlit lantern above it. It’s static and majestic, rising from the end of the driveway like it owns the street. It’s a beautiful house, the most beautiful Emma has ever seen, and very much a place for a woman like Miss Mills. 

But not for her. Emma swallows hard, her throat tight. She feels incredibly out of place. 

So she focuses on the more glaring thing she notices. “You didn’t decorate for Christmas?” Because despite the magnificence, it’s the only house on the block without decorations. No wreath on the door, no garlands or ribbons, no lights. It’s shrouded in darkness. 

“No,” Miss Mills says, and her tone says it’s not a topic of discussion. Seems they both have things they don’t want to talk about, Emma thinks. The mayor shuts off the engine and opens the door. “Let’s get inside, shall we?” 

~*~ 

Overwhelmed by the luxury of the house, Emma reluctantly follows the mayor, who steps  onto the porch, and unlocks the door. She goes inside, disappearing from view. But Emma stops before the porch. Two steps are leading up to it, and, from what Emma can see when the light flicks on, there are two more steps leading up to the foyer. With the baby pressing against her pelvis, these stairs seem impossible on her own. She leans heavily against the porch pillar in defeat.

Seconds later, the mayor steps out, brow furrowed. “Aren’t you going to come in?” 

Embarrassment flashes through Emma. “Um. I’m—” She peeks inside, past the mayor. The perfectly polished wooden floor is gleaming under the artificial light, and her eyes land on an impressive staircase winding up to the second floor. Her heart sinks. It’s beautiful, but at the moment, also highly impractical. If she thinks these steps to the porch and foyer are already a challenge, she’s never going to be able to climb those stairs, possibly to a bedroom. Why didn’t she think this through? Think any of this through?

Misery settles in her bones as she returns a dubious look to the two steps up leading to the front door. “I don’t think I can climb these.”

Understanding flickers in the mayor’s eyes. “I’ll help you.” A few steps and Miss Mills has closed the distance between them. Something inside Emma’s stomach squeezes. It’s not a contraction this time. It’s something else. A flicker of anticipation. Fucking hormones, she thinks, gritting her teeth. But there’s no time for her thoughts to linger, because Miss Mills takes her arm and helps her up the first step. 

She feels extremely clumsy, nearly toppling over when her feet don’t want to cooperate, but manages with the mayor’s stabilizing hand on the small of her back. It steadies her enough to take the first step, then the second, and it hurts, but it’s manageable. Flushed with embarrassment, she takes the next step up and wants to let go, when another contraction hits viciously and without warning. “Oh,” she cries. Her knees buckle, and faintly, she registers Miss Mills catching her and preventing her from falling. God, this hurts. She sobs, the shocks only adding to the pain searing through her belly. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” she cries out, and she thinks she repeats it over and over and over again until the pain subsides. What remains are fat tears and a running nose and rivulets of sweat running down her body. She doesn’t even dare to cast a look at Miss Mills at this point. 

Miss Mills sighs. “We’ll set you up in my study,” she says. There’s an edge to her voice that makes Emma swallow.

“I’m sorry,” she says, because she thinks she’s supposed to, even though she’s not really sure what for.

“For what?” The raven-haired woman looks at her, one eyebrow raised. Emma can feel it, but she doesn’t look up to meet the woman’s face. “Your contractions are around five minutes apart. I have no idea what that means in terms of how far along you are, but what it does mean is that I have to call someone more adept at dealing with this.” 

“I don’t want—” 

“My sister is a midwife.” Miss Mills looks at her with a knowing gaze that doesn't allow for any contradictions.

Emma pauses. “Oh.” She can only nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

With the mayor’s help, she takes the next two steps up to the foyer, survives the ascent, and immensely relieved, lets the mayor lead her to the couch in the study. 

Miss Mills takes out her phone, and while Emma tries to get comfortable, the mayor calls someone. She casts a taxing look at Emma before she steps out of the study. “Zelena? It’s Regina. I need your help” is all Emma overhears before the voice is too far away.  

Regina, huh? It’s the first time Emma is hearing her savior’s name. It suits her. Very queenly, she thinks, as she takes the time alone to breathe. But sitting on her ass hurts like hell, so she tries lying down. Not comfortable. Lying on her back or her side is equally painful. The best she can do is prop up a soft pillow below her and lean against the armrest. 

Regina returns. Her forehead wrinkles when she sees Emma. “If you bleed on that pillow,” she says, “you’re paying to get it cleaned.” 

Emma snorts. She doesn’t want to antagonize the mayor, and maybe she should be a little bit more grateful, but she really can't help herself. “Tough luck, lady,” she counters, “I don’t have any money, or anything of value.” 

Regina tilts her head at her and narrows her eyes. “We’ll see about that.” She heads for the door again. “I’ll get you some water. Midwife’s orders.” She’s out before Emma can say anything. 

Closing her eyes, Emma sighs deeply—as well as she can, anyway. A yawn escapes her, and rubbing her eyes makes her realize how exhausted she is. Maybe she should’ve thought this out a little more, but she’d just wanted to get away from everything and drove and drove. She’s been on the road for so long, and it’s late, and if she could she would pass out instantly. But this ever-present pain prevents her from doing so. 

She gasps as it starts low again, deep inside, then quickly claws upward. Oh, fuck. Has it been five minutes already? Regina—she needs to call out to Regina—but all she can do is grunt in pain, her vocal cords as paralyzed as the rest of her body. Her fingers curl into fists and nails dig into her palm. Gasping for breath, she feels her throat closing up and her vision narrowing and her chest freezing—

“Emma. Stop fighting.” There’s someone in front of her, and her pain-addled brain is slow to recognize that it’s Regina. “Lean with it,” Regina says, her voice sounding from far away. “Don’t fight it. Now breathe.” A cool hand on her face makes Emma blink, and she sucks in much-needed oxygen. “Good,” Regina says. “Breathe with me. Now.” And Emma does, copies Regina’s breathing as well as she can until the contraction ebbs away. 

“God dammit,” she pants, wiping her forehead with a sleeve. She closes her eyes and wants to lean back, but it hurts to move. She spreads her knees and leans forward, but that isn’t any better. A frustrated groan escapes her throat. “Maybe I need to walk it off,” she mutters.

“Very well,” Regina says, offering an arm that Emma gratefully accepts. “When the next one comes, we’ll do it together. Just follow my lead.” 

The authority in her voice tells Emma that people usually do follow her lead, and she can’t help but snort. “How did you become an expert in all of this?” With her free hand, she waves at her belly, carefully taking a step to see how it feels. Yes—moving is definitely better than sitting down.

Regina’s mouth twitches. It’s the first attempt at a smile Emma has seen form around her plump lips, and it makes her stomach somersault. This time, it isn’t from a baby kicking it. “My sister practiced at home a lot,” she replies dryly. 

Emma doesn’t know what to say. She’s still impressed by the flicker of a smile on Regina’s face. A slightly uncomfortable silence stretches out between them. Regina clears her throat. “So, do you know what you’re having? Boy or girl?”

“A boy, they told me,” Emma says immediately. 

Regina nods. “Have you decided on a name?” 

With a sigh, Emma shakes her head. Of course she’s played with name ideas, but she’s never settled on one. None of them seem to fit. “I was hoping I’d know what to call him when I see him,” she murmurs. “Does that sound stupid?”

Regina shakes her head once. “Not at all.” 

Another silence falls between them. Emma chews on her lip. Suddenly, she’s desperate to keep this conversation going. “If you were having a baby boy, what would you name him?” 

For a moment, Regina doesn’t answer, and Emma wonders if she needs to repeat the question. But then, Regina shifts. “Henry,” she says. “After my late father.” 

Henry. The name echoes in Emma’s head. She wants to nod and reply, but then the pressure starts to build again. She gasps. Her eyes widen and instinctively, she searches for Regina’s eyes. Regina grasps her hands, lowering her gently onto the couch. Then, she sits in front of her, holding her panicked gaze. “You can do this, Emma. Just do as I do.” 

~*~

Zelena is the first to arrive. She bangs on the door multiple times within the span of a minute, and when Regina yanks it open, the redhead’s first words are, “Bloody hell, it looks like Father Christmas hacked up his entire workshop in here.”

Regina scoffs. “At least I have some semblance of Christmas spirit, unlike a certain red-haired Grinch I’m acquainted with.”

“Oh, please.” Zelena flips her hair in a show of defiance. “You had no consideration for the Christmas spirit until Blondie here popped into your life. Literally.” Her hands gesture down her belly to mimic a bulge of pregnancy, and when they reach her groin, she flicks her fingers outwards with a flourish. “Pop!”

“Zee! I swear to—” Regina starts, but Zelena pushes past her and beelines for Emma.

Or, more accurately, for Henry, who's bleary-eyed with sleepiness and still trying to wake himself up.

“Hello, poppet! Your Auntie Zelena is here, with gifts abound for the little birthday boy!” She props herself on bent knees, red hair whipping Emma on the arm, and sticks her face right in front of Henry. 

He blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. And then breaks out into hysterical sobs. 

“Oh, come on! I delivered you, you little to-be delinquent!”

“Zelena!” Regina reprimands and slaps her sister’s shoulder. There’s thinly veiled worry in her incredulous look, and her gaze locks with Emma’s as she pulls Zelena away. 

Emma’s face flushes, the flutters in her stomach double, and oh god—when Regina looks at her like this, with so much care and concern, it makes clear that her falling in love with Regina Mills was inevitable. She reassures Regina with a subtle nod before excusing herself and Henry from the tornado of chaos.

She shuts the baby room door behind her, drowning out the sound of bickering sisters with white noise and Henry’s weakening sobs. Ever since they discovered that white noise helps calm Henry and ease him into sleep, Regina spared no expense fitting the room with a surround sound ensemble of white noise. After that came the baby monitor, then the changing station, then the recliner, then the baby toys, and really, she could go on and on for hours about all the things Regina’s bought for Henry.

It makes her wonder what’s going to happen to this room. It had previously been a guest room, but Regina was quick to convert it after Henry was born. Will it turn back into that once Regina decides it’s time for Emma and Henry to move out?

Shit. Emma doesn’t think she’d be able to sit through that conversation without breaking down. She’s come to rely so much on Regina, unfairly so, and the thought of raising this kid without her is enough to send Emma into a spiral.

As if reading her thoughts, Henry starts to sob again.

“I know, kid. You’re pretty attached to Regina too, aren’t you? But what do you think about finding our own place, just the two of us?”

The questions only make him cry harder. Emma sighs. Settles herself into the recliner and rocks Henry back and forth. She knows she can’t stay with Regina forever. Maybe she should just rip the bandage off now and start looking for a place. After all, she’s holding a stable job as town sheriff and has some savings, surprisingly, for the first time in her life.

A gentle knock on the door jolts Emma from her thoughts. 

“Emma?” Regina says, peeking her head through the slit. “How is Henry doing? Am I interrupting?”

“Of course not. Henry’s—” Emma starts. She looks at the bundle in her arms, who has since stopped crying and is now reaching for Regina. “I think he misses you,” she says, her words wet and chest a little fuzzy.

Regina’s mouth slopes into a long, slow smile, her eyes glistening with a gentleness she reserves exclusively for Henry. She walks over and reaches out to caress Henry's cheek.

He gurgles and coos, and from his mouth drips drool that he's too content to swallow down. Regina chuckles and wipes it away with his bib. “You’re a messy little prince, aren't you?”

Emma's breath catches in her throat. Maybe it's the damn holiday cheesiness or her emotions going crazy thinking about Henry's first birthday, but there's a yearning in the pit of her stomach, roaring and churning and senseless and destructive.

She bites the inside of her cheek. Hard. Enough for the taste of metal to coat her tongue and her eyes to water.

Regina must notice because she's searching Emma's expression, peering into depths Emma has never been able to hide from her. “I want to apologize for…for Zelena’s thoughtlessness. Henry won't turn out like his—” She gestures with one hand as if looking for the correct words, her other hand held hostage by Henry’s grip around her index finger, and says the next words with vitriol: “Like his sperm donor.”

It's definitely her hormones, Emma thinks. There's no other explanation for why pure hatred in someone's voice could sound so fucking hot.

“It's fine,” Emma says, and finds that she means it. She hadn't noticed that her worries about Henry turning out like herself or Neal had entirely disappeared. That whenever she thinks of Henry's future, it's no longer a bleak life defined by poverty and a sperm donor with a criminal record. 

But in every single iteration of Henry’s future, there's no version in which she doesn't foresee Regina.

The realization is almost too much right now. Her gaze flits around the room, trying to find something to focus her emotions on, but everywhere she looks is marked with stories of Regina's meticulous care: the chip in the crib from when Emma tripped (without Henry in her arms, thank god) and had to reassure a frantic Regina; the framed horse painting that prompted Regina to share stories about her childhood; and the blackout curtains that Regina bought immediately after noticing Henry’s sleep difficulties.

So Emma focuses on the fact that she and Henry are going to move out soon. Yes. They'll find their own place, they'll unburden Regina, and it's a sobering thought. “What's going to happen with this room?”

“Excuse me?”

“Like, the crib and the changing station and—” Emma shrugs.

Regina blinks, and then regains her composure. “I figured the crib would be replaced by an actual bed, and perhaps a desk will take place where the station currently is. The wallpaper might need changing as well.”

The lump in Emma's throat grows, rooting itself into the pit of her stomach. Of course Regina's already thought about this. “Yeah,” she croaks, thankful her words haven't failed her. “Yeah.” She nods. “Are you gonna rent it out after?”

Regina tilts her head. “Rent it out?”

“Yeah.” Emma chuckles nervously. “After me and Henry move out.”

Regina sucks in a harsh breath. The air between them stills. Frozen in time, neither of them moves.

Then, everything shatters. Henry’s stomach gurgles, and his hungry cries fill the empty space between them.

Regina startles back. “I— I'm not certain,” she says, her voice miles away. “I'll—” She gestures towards the world beyond the door. “I'll give you some privacy.”

Without giving Emma time to respond, Regina slips out, further and further away, her cracked expression and drooped shoulders and hunched back the last thing Emma sees before the door closes again.

~*~

It takes forever for Regina’s sister to arrive. Or maybe not, but it definitely feels like it. In the meantime, more contractions wreck Emma’s body, and Regina, who doesn't leave her side, helps her breathe through them. Each of the contractions is still met with a panicked spike, but Regina, sometimes firm and sometimes gentle, gets Emma to cooperate every time.   

And it does help—not just the exercises, but also having someone here. She imagines if she were staying in a storage closet instead. Or in a barn. She isn’t sure she would’ve survived. Rationally, she knows that people have been doing this since the beginning of time—she can’t for the love of god understand why because every time the pain wracks through her entire system, it feels like she’s dying a little. 

“I didn’t even want this,” she groans after yet another one. “I didn’t—never wanted this.” 

Regina’s hand stutters for just a second. “Well, Miss Swan,” she says, her tone colder than before, “If you didn’t want a child, then maybe—”

“I didn’t know I was pregnant before I got arrested,” she snaps, exhausted and frustrated with everything. Regina freezes entirely, and Emma realizes her slip. She snaps her jaws together. Oh, shit. “I mean—”

“You were… incarcerated?” Regina’s voice is liquid ice, and her lips press together. 

“I, um,” Emma stammers, and she wishes for a contraction right this second so she doesn’t have to talk about it. “I don’t want to talk—”

“Miss Swan, I am the mayor of a quaint but very respectable town,” the woman cuts in sharply. “Do I need to worry about you?”

Emma tenses, her flight responses kicking in. Mentally, that is, because physically she’s in no shape to go anywhere. Another contraction is in her very near future, and she’s already dreading it. She’d collapse before she reached the front door. She swallows thickly, rapidly considering her options. “No,” she says. “I, um…ah, I was set up.”

Regina only raises an eyebrow at her fumbled response, and Emma narrows hers. “I was,” she stresses. “They cleared my name a month ago.”

“Right.” It doesn’t seem Regina believes her, and now that the cat's out of the bag, Emma needs Regina to believe her. But she knows there isn’t enough time to explain everything herself before the next contraction hits. 

“You can look it up,” she says quickly. “If you just Google Neal Cassidy.”

Regina stares at her, a wrinkle appearing on her forehead, and takes her phone out. With a few deliberate taps, she pulls up a webpage, and her eyes skim over its contents. She tilts her head slightly when she looks back up. “He framed you, you went to jail, and you found out you were pregnant while incarcerated?”

Emma looks away. “Yeah.” She swallows. “He got caught on his next job. He’s gonna be away for a long time.” Good riddance, she thinks grimly. “And my name got cleared.”

“And then what, you decided to go on a road trip to the middle of nowhere?”

It’s amazing how this woman can make her feel like an idiot with a few deliberately chosen words. She winces. “Well. Yeah.” 

Regina’s sigh of disapproval flares up Emma’s frustration, because honestly, until she’s been in Emma’s shoes, there’s nothing—

“Oh. Fuck.” A pressure wraps around Emma’s stomach like a metal belt ratcheted tighter and tighter until she can barely stay upright. Regina’s warm hands steady her. While the contraction runs its course, Emma forgets her train of thought and succumbs to the moment. 

~*~ 

“So, where’s our pregnant little delinquent?”

“Zelena!”

“Oh, sorry.” A tall redhead with piercing green eyes sashays into the study. Emma blinks—Zelena is not what she expected and looks nothing like Regina. “Is that offensive? Do you prefer Wayward waif? Naughty little lawbreaker?”

“Jesus, is this your sister?” Emma complains. “Why did you even—”

“I wanted her to know what she was getting into, so I sent her a text,” Regina says, her eyes narrowed on her sister, who seems completely unbothered.

Zelena cackles. “The one and only. Her better half.” She sniffs, while Regina rolls her eyes. “Anyway, to work. Baby wants out, but we've got to ensure he’s not doing all the work.”

“He’s not doing anything,” Emma murmurs. 

“Oh, but he is,” Zelena disagrees. “Pushing through a birth canal isn’t easy. And with a mum stupid enough to refuse a hospital and the glorious pain meds there, he needs to work even harder.” 

Ah, Emma can now see the resemblance between them. Their disapproval looks the same. 

Pain meds sound nice, though. She hadn’t even thought about those. “I’m considering heading over right about now,” she admits, albeit begrudgingly. 

“Ah, but then you'd have a condescending prick as your doctor instead of me. Let me check if we can still administer some pain relief, or if that path has already crashed and burned. So, clothes off.”

Emma nods tiredly. If Regina trusts her sister, so should Emma. She’s past the shame anyways. There is none when this baby needs to come out, and fast. Besides, she's suffered through enough involuntary check-ups in prison and lets Zelena and Regina help her get undressed and into an oversized, comfortable shirt. “I’ll go get some blankets while Zelena conducts your check-up,” Regina says, and before Emma can respond, she’s gone.

~*~

By the time Emma and Henry rejoin the party, all of their guests have arrived. They're seated around the living room, basking in each other's company.

Regina is the first to notice their reappearance. She always is, when it comes to Emma and Henry. But she seems to draw further away when their eyes meet, brown irises fading behind iron walls and eclipsed darkness, her heels clipping into wood as she makes her way into the kitchen.

With each step, the pit Emma feels digs further into her chest, crushing bone into fragmented shards, and she wraps her arms tighter around Henry. She can't shake off Regina's sullen, detached expression, can't unsee the pain simmering underneath Regina's plastic smile, and an itchiness that makes her want to jump out of her own skin spreads throughout her veins.

But it's Christmas Eve. And it's Henry's first birthday. And today should be full of joy and celebration. She manages to hide her unease behind a damn believable smile. “Wanna say hi to everyone, kiddo? They're all here for you,” Emma whispers.

Henry shrieks his excitement, and heads turn to greet the birthday boy.

Gepetto speaks first. His timeworn face looks decades younger behind his cheek-to-cheek grin, and he claps his hands together and opens his arms. “There's our little Christmas miracle!”

Ruby elbows him, light and teasing. “Shush! Don't let Regina hear you! She nearly threw a fit last year at those words!”

Ingrid shakes her head with a chuckle. “‘I refuse to let my town participate in some twisted nativity story,’” she mimics, back ramrod straight and voice a muted sternness.

“‘Better my mansion than some shoddy barn and manger,’” Zelena jumps in.

“‘Remove that yellow monstrosity!’” Ruby finishes.

At that, Emma opens her mouth in offense. “Hey! Be nice to the Bug! She's the reason Henry and I got here in one piece!” Henry reaches out, babbling what Emma thinks is his agreement. “See?” she says, chest puffed.

“More like two pieces,” Granny scoffs. She eyes Emma, then Henry, and then back to Emma. “Two.”

“Oh, don't be so fussy, Eugenia,” Gepetto rasps with a chuckle. He reaches out with a trembling, wrinkly finger to caress Henry's cheek. “It's unbecoming of people our age.”

“Our age?!” Granny balks, light teasing in her posture. “Our age! I'll have you know I'm still in my prime, you old geezer.” She steps forward, fists raised, pushing past Ingrid and Ruby, but Zelena blocks her path.

“Don't get your knickers in such a twist. You'll stain the poor babe’s innocence.”

“Drama,” Ruby snickers.

Granny rolls her eyes and twists back to face Henry. “You're lucky you're cute, child.”

~*~

Dinner goes by smoothly. Or as smooth as it can possibly go with a one-year-old expert food flinger, an unhinged half-sister, a wolfish punk rocker, and two bickering elders.

“Can't believe we were missing out on your cooking,” Ruby mutters between bites. “Can't believe we all thought you were scary.”

Regina rolls her eyes and musters up her most serious expression. “I can still raise your taxes.”

“Bah! All talk and no bite!” Granny says, raising her fork in the air.

“Blondie here really did a number on ya, Sis.”

Ruby slaps Zelena's shoulder. “Regina's soft now!” she says, and Henry gabbles excitedly and flings a spoonful of mush onto the floor.

“She’s always been soft. I remember when Regina was but a wee teen, she…” Gepetto trails off, regaling them with a heroic story about Regina saving the town’s children after the nearby mine collapsed.

The reluctant hero in question purses her slanted lips, nose cinched with disdain. Ruby and Zelena only guffaw harder.

Ingrid and Emma watch on as the chaos unfolds, the only two more preoccupied with food than conversation.

The dishes that Regina prepared for tonight are Emma's favorites, after all (save for the salad). She digs into portion after portion like she's forgotten she no longer has to fight for her meals, as if gorging herself with food and showing Regina how much she appreciates the meal can somehow appease the grumpy mayor.

Ingrid watches Emma knowingly. “Slow down. Food’s not going to mysteriously vanish. At least, not anymore.”

Emma, to her own credit, places her utensils down and chuckles sheepishly. “Habit.”

“Don't I know it. I swear I'll have to heimlich one of the kids some day. Surprised I haven't already had to, actually.” Ingrid shakes her head, a soft chuckle accentuating crinkled eyes. “The kids miss you, you know?”

From the corner of her eye, Emma flits her gaze from Henry to Regina. “I've been busy,” she says, and notices Ingrid’s smile widening further, “but I'll try to stop by soon.”

“Please do,” Ingrid says, and reaches out to take Emma’s hand. “Don't forget you have an entire town who cares about you, no matter how amazing of a thing you have going on here.”

Amazing. What she has here sure is amazing, but soon… her stomach lurches like the ground beneath her is crumbling and she's falling into an abyss. She reaches out to wipe stray food off Henry's cheeks and runs her fingers through his hair. “Yeah,” she says, a forced croak.

There's another wave of laughter and hoots from the table, and Emma’s attention is pulled away. The air is light, cheer and jokes prancing around the room, and even though Regina's lips are curled upward, pain twitches its corners.

“Trouble in paradise?” Ingrid asks, miraculously sunlit pupils reflecting too much understanding.

“Nope.” It's too quick of a response, too charged under wet, shaky tremors. Too raw. “So, update me. How are Hansel and Gretel doing?”

~*~

When they sing to Henry, it's the most beautiful sound Emma’s ever heard. She rocks the kid in her arms as she sings along, Regina beside her filming the entire occasion, a sense of shared pride unspoken between them.

The feeling only lasts as long as the song, before Regina pulls away from Emma again during the entirety of presents.

By the end of the night, Emma doesn't remember much. She remembers shaking her head at Regina’s comment about her being uncivilized as she tore through wrapping paper, tossing crumpled wads onto the floor. She remembers a new crib and Gepetto’s warm expression and Ruby rubbing her biceps as she complained about the damn thing’s weight yet again. She remembers a new hat embroidered with a swan and Ingrid hiding her bandaged fingers behind her back. She remembers ridiculous baby clothes screen-printed with rock bands definitely not meant for babies and Zelena's resounding chortle at Regina’s incredulity. She remembers the hand-knit “ugly” Christmas sweater and Granny's bashful huff when Henry was amused by the wolf pictured on the chest.

But most of all, she remembers Regina’s face wavering with something tender and warm and all too pained, and she remembers her heart tearing itself raw with worry and panic and an impulsive need to run.

~*~

Zelena works fast. She inspects Emma’s belly with deft fingers and determines that the baby is in the perfect position. Then she checks the dilation and grimaces. “I have good news and bad news.” 

“Bad news?” Anxiety spikes. “Is there something wrong with the baby?”

“What? No. Baby’s fine.” Zelena waves Emma’s concerns away. “Good news is he’s almost ready to come out. But you’re almost fully dilated, so that means no painkillers.”

“Oh.” Well, just her luck. Before she can respond, the doorbell rings. Regina’s heels click-clack towards it just as the next contraction hits. She groans and whimpers and huffs and puffs and Zelena is great at what she does, but Emma really prefers Regina. 

When her vision clears and the room comes back into view, there are three people staring at her. 

“Go along then,” Zelena says without looking up. “It’s not a monkey zoo in here.”

“I heard about a baby,” an older man with a gentle, timeworn face says. He’s bald, with a fringe of soft gray hair, and his white beard and mustache are neatly trimmed. His voice is lined with an accent that Emma cannot place. “H-how?” Emma wipes her arm over her forehead, swiping her slick hair back. 

“Consider it the curse of living in a small town, where news spreads faster than common sense,” Regina comments dryly, a flicker of irritation in her voice.

The man smiles at that, unbothered by the comment. “Eugenia called me, thinking you might need a crib.” He gestures behind him. A tiny wooden crib stands on the other side of the couch. The edges are rounded and smooth, safe for tiny hands, and the headboard is covered in a delicate pattern of swirling vines. It’s clearly hand-made, and oh so beautiful.

Emma blinks. “I can’t accept that—”

“Oh, you will,” the woman next to him grumbles. She’s exposing too much skin considering the weather outside. Her dark hair is streaked with red, and for some reason, Emma immediately likes her. “Granny told me to bring over some sheets, and when I got here I had to help with carrying it in. It’s fucking heavy so you better accept.”

“Ruby,” Regina cuts in sharply. She turns to Emma, her gaze unbidden. “Your baby needs to have a safe place once he's born. Gepetto’s crib provides just that.”

“But I can’t—”

“It’s a gift,” Gepetto says. “A—a Christmas gift.” His eyes shimmer in triumph. 

The chuckle from his left makes Emma turn her head to the tall, blond woman standing next to him. “In some cultures, it’s quite rude to refuse a gift,” she says, but her voice is friendly. She’s holding a tote bag in her hands and takes a step forward, presenting it. “I brought you baby blankets for the bed and baby clothes. Figured you might need some.” There’s no judgment in the words, just a weird, open curiosity in her gaze.

Emma slowly nods. “Thank you,” she says. 

The woman’s mouth quirks up. “I brought a few sets. In different sizes, too.”

Regina must’ve seen the dubious look on Emma’s face, because she explains, “Ingrid is an emergency foster parent. She’s always prepared to house children.” 

Ingrid nods with a smile. “All ages,” she confirms, handing the bag to Regina. “Do you need help, Mayor Mills?”

Emma doesn’t hear the reply because another contraction overwhelms her. Vaguely, she hears Regina usher everyone outside, telling them to get a room upstairs in order. Then, within the blink of an eye, Regina reappears beside her. She doesn't want to crush Regina’s hand, but she knows she is as she grabs it. Regina doesn’t even wince. “This one feels different,” Emma whines.

“That’s good,” Zelena tells her. “Means you’re almost ready. But don’t push until I tell you to, no matter how much you want it, because it’ll rip you open in ways even I can’t fix.”

Well, isn’t that nice to look forward to. 

~*~

In the end, that sinking feeling plagues Emma the entire night. When most of the party leaves, she loses herself in cleaning up the aftermath as Regina asks, uncharacteristically reserved, for permission to change Henry's diaper.

“Now, what the hell did you say to my sister?” Zelena demands once Regina’s gone. Her shoes tap an impatient rhythm on the floor.

Emma stills, reeling from the accusation. The paper in her hand wrinkles in her fist. “What are you talking about?”

Zelena lets out a controlled exhale and runs an agitated hand through red curls. “Don't tell me you haven't noticed she’s been down in the pits all evening.”

“Of course I have!” Emma huffs, unable to hide the waver in her voice. The worry she’s clammed up all evening suddenly morphs into frustration and bursts like a million pinpricks cutting into her skin. “But I don’t know why— I mean, I didn't say anything to her!”

Zelena’s brows pull into a line. “Well, clearly you did, because—” There’s a slight pause. She blinks, eyes growing distant for a beat before they snap back to the present with newfound clarity. “What was your little chitchat in the nursery about?”

Emma balks. “What?” She’s no stranger to Zelena’s nosiness, but— “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just answer the question, you bloody dimwit.” Zelena’s airy words push through clenched teeth, her jaw locked tight as if biting back her last bits of patience.

Fine. This isn’t a battle Emma’s willing to pick, not right now. “About how you have no filter,” she says, and watches Zelena’s eyes roll to the back of her head. “And then about what Regina's going to do with the room once Henry and I move out.”

“Move out?” Zelena's face scrunches up in confusion. “You want to move out?”

Emma swallows and hears herself spit out, “Of course not!” She sighs, shifting her weight, and her body closes in on itself. “Of course not. But Regina was talking about turning it into a guest room.”

Zelena narrows her eyes. Tilts her head. “What? A guest room? That’s a first. What did she say, exactly?”

“Something about replacing the crib with a bed and bringing in a desk and changing the wallpaper.” Emma shrugs. “I figured that Henry and I can't freeload here forever and—”

The sound of Zelena’s palm slapping her forehead rings in the empty room, and a red welt appears right where Zelena lifts her hand. “Oh my fucking god. You’re both bloody idiots.”

“What the fuck, Ze—”

“You have the hots for my sister.” It’s not a question.

“I— What?”

Zelena rolls her eyes. “You, Emma Swan, love my sister, Regina Mills,” she states plainly, as if daring Emma to challenge her.

Emma folds her arms over her chest, her eyes shifting and avoiding any contact. The pounding in her ears crescendos until she can't even hear her own voice, and her head buzzes and clouds. All she can make out is her mouth moving, and she hopes that she's actually forming words. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“If you're going to lie, at least make it goddamn believable,” Zelena growls. “Just tell her.”

Emma’s heart thunders, her voice quivering with exasperation. The wooden floorboards could collapse under the weight of her panic. “It's not that easy,” she murmurs, body slumping in exhaustion now that the adrenaline has left her.

It’s as if Zelena isn’t listening to a word Emma’s saying. She hums in response, smug triumph in the way her chin tilts up. “Hah! So you do love her!”

Emma whips her head around, panic surging through her blood again, and scans her surroundings. “Shh, what if Regina hears you? I wouldn't want her to—”

“Tell her,” Zelena sing-songs, and then she continues.

Emma reaches out—to cover Zelena's mouth or to strangle her, she's not sure. But Zelena sidesteps, continuing her wicked little dance and repeats, a little louder and more pointed, “Tell. Her.”

“Tell who what?” a voice breaks in.

Fuck. Emma's heart leaps to her throat and dread surges to her stomach. Fuckfuckfuck. She jolts around and sees Regina standing right behind her, Henry in her arms. Emma’s blood rushes to her face, heats her skin, pounds against her veins.

“Uh— um—” She shoots Zelena a glare, a silent plea, but the damn redhead only gives her an exaggerated wink.

“Go on, Swan. Make me proud,” she says, and then, with a graceful leap, snatches Henry from Regina’s arms. “Oh, and—” she adds, pausing in her step. Digging into her pocket, she flashes something green before tossing it to Emma. “Henry and I will excuse ourselves for a tad while you two idiots sort yourselves out!”

“Zele—!”

But Zelena is already strutting off toward the kitchen, bouncing on her heels with every step.

Emma groans and plucks the greenery off her shirt.

Mistletoe.

Fuck. At that moment, Emma decides she hates Zelena for telling her what to do. She shoves the stupid little sprig into her pocket, feeling its stems dig into her skin the same way her nails mark her palms with crescent moons.

“Tell who what?” Regina repeats, unfazed by her sister's antics. In the dim lighting, her lipstick nearly looks bloodred against her skewed lips, and Emma fights off her instinct of pulling away.

~*~

Emma wants to push more than anything. It feels like her pelvis is cracking open with every breath she takes, and she really needs this baby out. Pronto. But every time she pleads with Zelena, Zelena says no. Emma wants to scream and cry, but Zelena says no again, because she should save her energy “for when the real party starts.” Regina tells her to listen.

“Fuck this,” Emma yells, her breath stuttering. “Fuck all of this.” 

“Emma—” 

“No,” she rages, voice cracking as another bolt of pain slams through her. “I hate this, and I hate you both for telling me what to do. I hate not having a choice, again!” Her whole body curls forward, urges her to push, but she still can’t—she’s not allowed. Zelena’s hands are firm on her thighs, fingers digging into her flesh. Only when the contraction ebbs away does she feel the sting of Zelena's nails boring into her. She raises her frustrated gaze.

Zelena rolls her eyes. “Trust me, I’ve heard far worse. And again: no pushing. You’ll thank me later.”

Emma claws at the sheets, gasping for air. “I need to! I feel like I'm going to crack open like a—like a—”

“Watermelon in a microwave?” Zelena offers helpfully.

Emma chokes on a sob and a laugh at once. “Yes!” She squeezes her eyes shut, breath hitching. God, the pressure is unbearable; white-hot, splitting, like her body is tearing its way out of itself. She really, really needs to—

“Emma Swan,” Zelena snaps, “do not push or you will regret it for months.”

“I hate this,” Emma repeats, but her words are caught in sobs. She gives in to the misery and despite the people around her, she feels so terribly alone.

Then, a firm hand lands on her shoulder. “Emma, look at me,” Regina says. “Stay with us. Breathe.” 

“I can’t,” she cries out, the sound a half-scream. “I can’t breathe and I can’t puff anything away and it feels like my bones are cracking and—” She stops for air and inhales with shallow breaths.

“I know,” Regina says, calm but urgent. “But you’re almost there. Let Zelena get you there safely.” 

Yeah, right. Easy for her to say. Emma shakes her head, frustrated tears leaking from her eyes, but she’s too tired to retort. 

And then, another contraction builds at the same time a different kind of pressure erupts. Pain and shame rumble together, and she’s trying and trying, but it’s so hard to listen to Zelena right now. “I need to… bathroom,” she brings out between two huffs.

Zelena looks utterly unfazed. “No, darling,” she says, her green eyes glinting. “That’s the baby bulldozing his way out. Glamorous, isn’t it?” 

Emma grits her teeth, unable to breathe the contraction away. “No—”

“No, I know. It’s horribly normal. Insanely uncomfortable. And,” she adds gleefully, “very much my cue.” 

“C-cue?” Finally, the pain subsides, and Emma is aware of Regina’s steady presence behind her, hands firmly pressing on her shoulders. Her fingers are massaging softly, and it’s actually… nice. 

“Almost,” Regina murmurs as Zelena checks the dilation.

“Very much almost, I’d say,” Zelena repeats happily. Emma wants to hit her with something for taking so much pleasure in Emma’s pain. “Baby’s crowning. Now, Emma, hook your arms under your upper legs and draw them close to your chest. When the next contraction comes, you can finally push as hard as you can until the contraction subsides. Then we wait for the next.” 

“Oh, thank fucking god,” Emma says. The relief that those words bring her is indescribable. Finally she gets to do something.  

“But no screaming. Takes too much energy,” Zelena says, and looks at Emma as if she should know this. “Best to direct all of it to popping out that baby, don’t you think?” 

That… actually makes sense. She nods, rubbing a hand over her hot face. Her hair, slick with sweat, clings to her forehead and cheeks. “Okay.“

“Tell me what you need me to do,” Regina’s voice sounds from behind Emma. Only Regina could ask for a job to do and make it sound like a command. Zelena frowns at them. Her nose wrinkles in dismay. “This couch setup you have isn't very ideal,” she says, and it sounds like an accusation that Emma is too tired to fight. 

Regina does it for her. “If you’re asking me to get a bed downstairs, I’m—” 

“No need. I said it’s not ideal, not that I can’t make it work.” The redhead waves Regina’s words away, directs her emerald eyes at Regina calculatingly. “Regina, darling, congratulations, you’ll take on the role any adoring lover would.” Emma gasps, her chest squeezing instantly. “Sit beside her, put one arm behind her back and keep her forward when the contraction hits. She can’t collapse.” 

Regina lowers herself gracefully onto the couch. “Understood.” The steady tone makes Emma's chest flutter again, and a second later, she feels an arm slipping around her shoulders. Emma raises her gaze and meets Regina’s dark eyes, which hold a silent question. Emma nods. The faint scent of apples lingers in the air, and Regina’s strong arm steadies her, warm and solid against her back. For the first time in forever, she doesn’t feel like she’s all alone anymore.

But then, a rapid pain builds up and she gasps. Immediately, Regina’s arm tightens around her as Emma searches Zelena’s gaze. “This is your grand finale,” Zelena smiles. “Push as if your life depends on it.” She smiles that annoyingly gleeful smile. “Go on, Swan. Make me proud.” 

She pushes up Emma’s legs to her chest, and Emma grabs them automatically and god, it feels so good to finally be able to do something. Her world narrows and she shuts everything out as she pushes with everything that she has. The contraction subsides and she chokes on her breath. “Again with the next contraction,” Zelena barks, cutting through the haze. “You’re almost there.” 

And Emma does. It takes two more contractions and then, the world splits open and the baby slides free and the pain is… not entirely gone but infinitely more survivable than before. Emma collapses against Regina, and Regina holds her steady and eases her gently back on the couch. A sharp wail breaks the silence and Emma turns her head to where Zelena is quickly examining the baby—her baby. Her baby! Holy shit. She exhales with a shudder, the weight of the concept landing heavily on her shoulders. With her eyes, she follows Zelena’s every move, and then, when the redhead deems everything in order, she lowers the boy onto Emma’s stomach, draping a soft blanket over them.

Instinctively, Emma wraps her hands around her baby, pulling him close. The world narrows, and for a few seconds, it's just the two of them. He is warm and sticky—but so is she, and he actually smells nicer than she does. She smiles at the thought, studies him for a few seconds. His eyes are screwed shut, his nose the cutest thing she’s ever seen. His lips are tiny and pouty and he’s licking his lips and sniffing her belly. Then, he purses his lips, and Emma is reminded of Regina, just a little. She takes one of his little hands, his fingers so tiny and soft. They curl around her finger immediately, full of trust, and something deep inside Emma melts. He is hers.

~*~

A hushed silence passes. Something deep inside Emma freezes. She chews on her lower lip, her nervousness lingering in the space between them. “It's nothing,” she eventually says and winces at how lame it sounds. 

Regina doesn’t seem to notice, her attention elsewhere. She gestures a weak hand toward the kitchen. “Clearly it's more than nothing if it's got Zelena acting like a fool.”

Emma shrugs. Stammers nonsense. A gargle of sounds, all teeth and throat, rise out of her, but none of it is coherent.

What’s she supposed to say here? Yeah, your sister clocked me as having the biggest, gayest crush on you and thinks that confessing my undying love is a jolly great idea?

The silence spans on. There are hints of noise Emma doesn’t recognize as coming from herself - an anxious inhale, feet shuffling back and forth, gravity centering and decentering, a mouth opening with failed attempts to speak. It drags on and on, each second lifting Regina’s eyebrows and chin.

Finally, Regina sighs. “Damn it, Emma.” Her lips pull tight. “I recognize that I— I’m not an easy person to be around, and I apologize if I’ve—” Her gaze drops to the floor, the lift of her chin following. “I hope I haven’t caused you or Henry any discomfort.”

Emma draws in a sharp breath. “What?”

“I’ve been told, on more than one occasion, that I may be too stubborn at times. If that’s what you’re struggling to convey to me, if that’s how you perceived this get-together—”

“You’ve got to be joking,” Emma whispers. Her ears fill with remnants of the shakiness of Regina’s voice, her memories drawing forward the image of Regina’s hands wringing, and she shakes the thoughts out of her head. She steps forward, her hands itching to reach out and lift Regina’s chin to lock their gazes together.

Instead, she shoves her trembling hands into her pockets. The damn mistletoe tickles her fingers, a mocking reminder of what she can never have. She shakes her head. “Regina. When I told you that this is everything I’ve ever wanted for Henry, I meant it, okay? It wasn’t some—I don’t know—some dumb, meaningless words to make you happy or whatever. This is seriously more than I ever could have imagined. You’re more than I ever could have imagined.”

Regina swallows thickly. Her eyes are red-rimmed and glossy and still disbelieving. “I don’t understand. If that’s the case, then why? Why consider moving out?”

“Come on,” Emma says with a scoff. “We’re basically freeloading off of you here.”

“You pay rent,” Regina protests.

Emma rolls her eyes. “That you redistribute back into my paychecks in your monthly town budget re-allocation meetings.”

“I don’t— It’s a vote!”

Emma raises her eyebrows. It’s a vote she knows is basically unanimous because no one really reads the proposals since they implicitly trust whatever the hell Regina chooses to do with town funds. “Anyways, I know you only asked us to move in here because of the town’s housing shortage. But since you’ve fixed that issue, I figured it’d only be a matter of time before we overstayed our visit, and I didn’t want to put you in the awkward position of—”

“Stay.” 

“What?” Emma yanks her gaze up at Regina, who smiles weakly and clears her throat.

“Stay here. With me. Both you and Henry.” Regina’s voice is barely a whisper, her heart bleeding, open and raw. She nods and sucks in a sharp inhale. “Stay with me here,” she repeats. Fear dots her irises, turning brown to pitch black. Her eyes flit down and break contact again as she picks imaginary lint off her blouse and presses her hands into her stomach. 

Emma doesn’t know what to say, as love and apprehension coil in her stomach. Her mind runs through this past year of memories: stressful and sleepless nights, stumbling over parenting, laughing through mishaps and mistakes, joyous milestones, taking care and being taken care of, not being alone for the first time in her life. 

“God,” Emma exhales. It sounds like a strangled laugh. “I want to. I really do. You don’t even know how much. Meeting you, living with you has been—it’s the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me.” She can feel herself well up with dread, building in her chest and rising up. “But you wouldn’t want that if you knew that I—” She holds her breath. Her panic suspends in her throat. Bile burns her esophagus and she feels like she’s going to hurl. 

But she needs to meet Regina’s vulnerability with her own—it wouldn’t be fair otherwise—even if the whole thing crashes and burns. Even if she falls. 

She gathers up every bit of courage that she has. “That I’m in love with you.”

Immediately, Emma wants to take back her words. Her heart trembles, her muscles tense, her lungs beg for release, but she doesn’t dare move. 

Their silence stretches a rift between them. Just outside, the hum of cars speed down the street. A motorcycle revs its engine. Zelena’s gravelly chortle resounds past the kitchen.  

Emma doesn’t know how she finds the courage to steal a glance at Regina. There’s something unreadable in the way Regina is watching her, eyes comically wide, tears on the brink of spilling over.

Fuck. “I know. I know, okay?” Emma says, tripping over her words. Every damn sentence is an attempt to bridge the chasm between them, a wooden plank planted on wobbly ropes that she hopes will stick and provide any sort of foundation. “I’m a mess. I’m a flight risk. I’m probably the last person in the world you wanted to hear this from.”

“Emma—”

Itching to move, Emma starts pacing up and down. “And god, I never expected this. Sure, I thought you were drop-dead gorgeous the first time I saw you, but damn, were you grumpy.” She runs an unsteady hand through her hair. “And then I got to know you, to really know you, and once I saw who you really were, I knew that falling in love with you was just—” 

“—if you would just shut up and listen—”

“—a matter of time. And you’re the mayor of this whole-ass town. And I’m… well, I’m me. And I know I’ll never—”

“—I’m going to kiss you now.”

“—be enough and that I’ll kind of always be a fuck up, but—wait, what?” Emma says, startled. A warm hand circles Emma’s wrist and stops her in her tracks. Another hand cups her cheek. 

Then Emma feels herself pulled across the rickety bridge of her own making into a world where Regina’s lipstick-stained mouth crashes into hers. The first touch is admittedly clumsy, teeth on teeth and nose bumping against nose. 

A surprised grunt crawls past Emma’s lips, turning into a moan. Her head blurs, the lights around the room spinning out of focus and reordering themselves back into line, and it takes a second for her brain to catch up to reality. 

Regina’s hands slide down Emma’s arms to her waist. Emma instinctively buries her fingers in Regina’s hair, sighs into lips she’s only dreamed of touching, and kisses back. She rocks on her heels, her heart bursting with untamed energy, and god, for the first time, Emma knows what it feels like to come home.

It doesn’t last long, because Zelena’s voice booms from the kitchen where she’s holed herself up. “Is it safe to come out yet?”

Reluctantly, Regina pulls her lips away and presses her forehead to Emma’s and huffs out an exaggerated sigh. The last of her tears are streaking down her face, and Emma chuckles and catches them with her finger and rests her hands on sticky cheeks.

“Alright darlings, we’re absolutely knackered, so do us all a favor and tuck away any exposed bits and parts!”

Emma chuckles. “Just give us our damn kid and leave, okay?” she calls back.

Regina jerks her head back, eyes widening, and fresh tears well up. “Our—our kid?”

Emma pulls her closer and nods. “Our kid,” she repeats, grinning as she pecks Regina on the lips. “He’s always been ours, don’t you think?”

The smile on Regina’s face is enough to light the rest of Emma’s life.

“Well, would you look at that?” Zelena says, reappearing. Emma and Regina jump apart and turn to face Zelena. Her face houses the widest, smuggest smirk Emma’s ever seen. “Storybrooke’s most popular roommates look quite cozy together.”

“Zee—”

“I accept thanks in coffee and holiday gifts,” Zelena says as she passes Henry back to Emma. “You're quite welcome. God knows how long you idiots would've taken.” She rolls her eyes.

Regina growls. “Go find yourself a girlfriend and make yourself scarce, Zee.”

“After everything I've done for you!” Zelena gasps, feigning offense. Her hands fly to her chest and rest there as if she were wounded.

Regina ignores her sister’s tantrum and wraps an arm around Emma and Henry. She presses a gentle kiss to Emma’s temple.

Zelena sees the scene and gags. “How vile. I'd better escape this hell hole before the two of you start shagging it out right here,” she says as she makes her way to the door.

“We're not—!”

“Henry’s—”

Zelena claps her hands together once. “And this is why Henry is my favorite family member!” she says, guffawing, and then leaves.

Emma blinks. Adjusts Henry in her arms. Leans her head against Regina's shoulder. “Family, huh?” she murmurs.

Regina smiles and nods. “Family.”

~*~

She did it. She really did it. Something inside her settles. This is her baby. “Hi, baby boy,” she whispers, and her stomach tightens. Her baby. Her responsibility. A new kind of panic rises. She looks up, meeting Regina’s gaze. It's the softest Emma’s seen so far. 

“What if I can’t do this?” Emma says softly. “What if I can’t give him his best life?” 

“Well, worrying about it certainly won’t help,” Zelena says dryly. “It’s not rocket science, darling. Feed him, change him, love him, don’t drop him. That’s the gist of it.” 

“You can do this,” Regina says, her tone steady and convincing. 

Emma’s eyes flicker from Zelena to Regina. “I don’t even have a place to stay,” Emma murmurs dejectedly. Regina seems to hesitate, her gaze shifting from Emma to Henry, and there’s a fierce protectiveness in it that Emma hasn’t seen before. It takes Emma’s breath away even as fresh tears sting behind her eyes. She pulls her baby closer and then realizes, “God, I don’t even know how to hold him or how to feed him or change a diaper and what if—”

“You can stay here.”

“What?” Both Zelena and Emma yank their gazes up to Regina, who huffs and rolls her eyes.

“Just until you’re back on your feet.” Her voice is dismissive, not tolerating any contradictions. She nods at the baby and changes the subject. “Have you decided on a name, now that he’s here?”

Emma doesn’t know what to say. Gratitude and instinctual wariness coil together in her stomach. She directs her gaze at the sleeping baby at her belly. He’s breathing regularly, his fingers curling into fists. He is the cutest and god, Emma is already in love with him. She exhales. Regina has been a bit rough around the edges, but she’s saved Emma. There’s no need to be wary, right? 

Then, she remembers the question, and she looks down at her child again. She studies his tiny face and there’s only one name echoing in her head. She looks back up and bites her lip. Hesitantly, she asks, “Does he… does he look like a Henry to you?” 

Regina’s eyes widen and Zelena inhales sharply. Emma swallows thickly. Maybe this wasn’t a good decision, she thinks, but then, Regina’s gaze softens. She reaches for the baby’s cheek, caressing it so tenderly with a single finger that Emma wants to cry.

“He really does,” Regina murmurs, and smiles. “Welcome to your new home, Henry.”