Apate: the personification of deceit.

Then my soul appeared. It said

just as no one can see me, no one

can see the blood.

Also: no one can see the harp.

Then it said

I can save you. Meaning

this is a test.

Fugue, Louise Gluck

Henry's up before the alarm goes off, scrabbling around for his towel and clean underclothes for a good three minutes before he heads down the stairs, almost tripping twice and hitting that fourth step with enough weight to wake the entire building. She hears him hiss "Oops" before continuing anyway, and when she smiles her cheeks feel tight and over-dry, feel like they're cracking after a day at the beach. She reaches up to touch her face, feels the strange smooth-stiffness on both cheeks, driest just beneath her eyes.

Crying in her sleep. She hasn't done that in years. She'll need to wash her face before Henry can get a look at her.

It takes the two of them a good forty minutes to get ready, and Emma can't help but smile when the kid comes down the stairs while she's putting her boots on, dressed in a button-front with his hair carefully combed. "Lookin' sharp," she teases, and he scrunches up his face in distaste but tugs at the collar of his shirt.

Of course he hits the fourth step again, and Emma hears shuffling from the bedroom, reaches for her coat quickly. Henry doesn't get the hint, takes his time tying his shoes and keeps his head down when Snow shuffles out into the room, greeting them both with a smile. "Good morning. Where are you two off to so early?"

Kid didn't get the hint to hurry up with his shoes, but he picks up on Emma's body language of say nothing like they've been pulling cons for years. "Henry," she says softly, and waits until he looks directly at her. "You okay with walking by yourself?"

He doesn't look over at Snow before nodding. "Yeah. I'll text you after?"

Emma nods, wants to push his hair away from his forehead but knows he'll make that face again, wants to do something to just—and then remembers that she can. She can. So she leans forward, kisses the very top of his head and then pushes lightly at the middle of his back, guiding him towards the door.

She knows Snow isn't moving through all the motions of seeing Henry off, knows that just behind her is a wall of anxiety and tension and even the idea of it makes that old, good-sharp rage slice up between her lungs, curl around her sternum. Part of her says walk away, walk the fuck away before you ruin this and part of her says but no one fucks with your son.

She turns around slowly, hooks her thumbs into her front pockets and takes two steps forward, keeps her chin down and her eyes down but her anger is up, up, up. "Who," she starts, softly, "the hell do you think you are?"

Snow takes a small step back, startled. Good. Good. "I—Emma, what—"

"You thought you had the right to talk to him about what happened with Cora? About what we had to do?" she hisses.

It takes three seconds, three solid thumps of her heart, before the surprise on Snow's face turns to resentment. "I am his grandmother," she retorts, and the sharpness in Emma's chest flares up brightly. "I'm the one who had to explain to him that Regina was arrested while his mother conveniently disappeared! I'm the one—"

"You don't get to make up for abandoning me by co-opting my responsibilities to my son!"

The only sound is Snow's sharp inhale. She wears a wounded half-pout that pokes at the pressure between Emma's lungs. It would be better for Snow if she could keep her face blank, or if Emma could close her eyes. It would be better but it can't be.

"You had no right to tell him about Cora," Emma continues, taking one more step forward. "That was for me and Regina to do. That was something for us to figure out with him, not you."

Snow shakes her head, takes a step backward and bumps against the kitchen island. "Emma—I—you can't just leave things to fester with him, he's too smart, he knew—"

There are ways for this fight to go but justification isn't one of them. "People I'm willing to take parenting advice from? Not you."

"Emma!"

David's standing in the doorway of the bedroom and Emma can't help but roll her eyes, because of course this would escalate. And Snow's tearing up and fuck. She didn't want tears. She just wanted a quick, simple, all-out fight—get all the rage out, get all the bitterness out. But this bullshit—niceties don't get anybody anywhere. "Look, I didn't—" and she stops. She doesn't owe anybody anything here. Not really. "Do you think his mom being in jail is easy for him? You think that maybe he might not be able to handle the idea of his moms teaming up to kill his grandmother right now, when the only support he's ever known is locked in a six by six cell?"

"Emma," David says again, but in that soft white-wool voice. "She didn't mean—"

Emma wants to bang her head against a wall. "I don't give a damn what she meant or didn't mean. I give a damn about the fact that I had to spend last night telling Henry that of course he won't have to kill his own mother because she used to be bad!"

Snow gasps, and David physically recoils, but Emma knows they still don't get it because Snow comes towards her with her arms out. "Emma—I never thought—"

"No," she snaps, and crosses her arms over her chest to ward off contact. "You're right. You didn't think."

Snow's eyes are watery. "Emma, I really didn't mean—"

She tries to keep it in, she really does, but she thinks of the way Henry's whole body shook from sobs and that pressure between her lungs slices upwards, quick and sharp. "I don't care what you meant, you fucked up!"

The fact that Snow's response is confusion, that David's brows furrow, that neither of them even understands what the problem is—Emma's feet burn, they itch, that pressure between her lungs starts pressing up against her heart, starts whispering in her ear. Tell them about Geppetto, it says, tell them how they got played. Let them feel this too.

She takes a deep breath, then another, and another. The sharpness uncurls, just a little, just enough to back off and make her capable of kindness again. Neither of her parents says anything, which says everything even though it shouldn't. "Fine. Fine. Let's go with your interpretation of right and wrong. Telling him was right. So his pain and his fear, that's right too, huh?"

"Of course not," Snow insists, "but—"

"But nothing. If the first thing was right, everything that follows should be, too, right?" She stares at Snow, who just looks lost, who just wrings her hands helplessly. "It was wrong, Snow, and what's worse is it was cruel. And then there's the part where you lied to him and said it was only Regina, and that's just—I don't even know what that is, actually. What is that?"

Snow opens her mouth, closes it, tries again. "I—he already knows what she's capable of—I didn't want him to be afraid of you—"

It's a reflex, really, kicking out; the sole of her boot slams into the near leg of one of the stools and sends it skittering across the floor. Snow jumps, but David's shoulders slump, like he saw it coming but kept wishing it wouldn't.

Emma curls her fists tight, keeps breathing through her mouth to keep herself still. Stay still. "How did I make a living before I came here?"

Snow and David look at each other in confusion, but Snow answers. "You were a bail bonds—"

"What does that mean, Snow."

It's silent, mostly. Both Snow and David try to start sentences but quit before anything comes out.

"It means that sometimes, I gave out money to fucked up people to get them back on the streets. It means that sometimes, I gave out money to good people to get them out of jail for a little while, except most of the time—most of the time, they lost their case anyway. It means I banked my day to day life on other people's fuck-ups. It means I've taken family homes, retirement savings, college funds—I've taken people's last dimes and all their hope. That's how I made bank. That's how I paid the rent. That's how I fed myself, clothed myself, kept my stolen car. Do you get what I'm saying?"

Silence again.

"You all want to mourn your time warp without your happy endings, and that's cool, I respect that, but you need to put things in perspective. Because here's the thing: the happy endings I've taken can't be restored with a kiss. Time doesn't stand still for those people. They lost everything and had to keep on living the same life. So if Regina's so terrible and cruel, then I'm worse."

"She's killed—"

"We've all killed, David," she snaps, finally looking up with all that good-sharp rage high in her throat and deep in her eyes. "And some of us have even cut up the bodies and burned them up, too. You've killed and I've killed. So cut the shit with pinning that all on Regina like somehow your murders weigh less than hers. I shot Cora three times and then I cut her body up into tiny little pieces and you helped me wrap those pieces up in a tarp and then burn them all up so don't you fucking stand there and absolve me of what I've done just to keep your fake world order in place."

She can't breathe because it's taking all her air to stay still, but God, it feels good to be this again—this cold, this incisive, this true.

Snow shakes her head, steps closer to David. It's a defensive repositioning and it's—if Emma had any illusions about this resolving well, they're gone now. "Cora had to be stopped. You were doing the right thing—"

The right thing. All that good-sharp rage deflates in one startling withdrawal; she's left with just this solid weight of sadness. "This," she murmurs. "This is exactly what I don't want him to hear. I don't want him to hear that killing is right. I don't want him to hear that doing bad things is justifiable because that's not what—" she hesitates and the words rise up through all the sadness. She says them slowly, lets them settle into the empty space where the rage used to be. "That's not how he was raised. That's not what Regina taught him."

The fastest flash of understanding passes over David's face so quickly that if she hadn't been searching for his reaction, she would have missed it. It's impossible to miss Snow's scoff, but David—David nods at her. David knows what she's talking about.

"Of all the people who would teach him that," Snow starts, "Regina should be at the top of the list—"

"Stop." Emma says it quietly, looks right at Snow. "Stop. We—I can't look past this right now, but I might be able to next week or next month or whenever, but I can't—you need to stop believing that she hasn't been a good mother. She has done right by our son for years and years and years. She loves him so much that it hurts to even think about—"

She crumples. It's abrupt but unsurprising because every time she thinks about Regina and their son, every time she thinks about how he used to write all of his Es backwards and how Regina is the only one who treasures every misspelled Henry ever written, her heart gets so full that it aches like she will break at any moment. She crumples and David surges forward but she can't—that's not okay. Not yet.

"I don't like to be touched," Emma says, and she doesn't mean for those words to hurt them but they do and she can see it—

"Sure," David says, and lowers his arms and his chin and his eyes. "Sorry."

There are so many different types of grief in Snow's eyes; Emma doesn't know what to do with any of them. "So what—what do you need, Emma?" she finally asks, voice wavering. "How do we—what do you need?"

The last twenty eight years and nothing, you're too late for me are the first things that come to mind and she drags them back from where they're tripping towards the tip of her tongue, buries them underneath all this Regina-Henry-sadness. "I need to know that I can trust you around Henry. That you won't pull things like this, things that make his relationship with Regina harder, things that make her bad and me good because none of that is real." Snow frowns, starts to say something, but Emma keeps going, has to keep going, has to say it. "He's ours, he loves both of us, you can't—you can't mess with that. I need to know you won't mess with that."

David nods first even though they all know not a single word was towards him. He already knew. He had to have known. Take the horses to the tree line—he knew.

Snow, though, she looks as hard and wary as when—God, as when Cora asked Who is Henry? But finally, finally she nods; it's curt, but it's a nod. "Of course."

She doesn't mean it. There's too much history for her to mean it. Emma's not dumb, not when it comes to people and motivations and grudges. She wonders, briefly, which absence would be more offensive to Henry: a dead mother or living grandparents.

She's just so tired. "Okay," she lies. "Okay."

The disappointment in Regina's eyes when the double doors click shut behind Andre and Julian hits just as hard as her right hook. "Henry's sleeping in? Good, he looked tired—"

"He went to church." Emma drops into one of the folding chairs, passes the breakfast bag through.

Regina doesn't move to pick it up, eyes narrow and wary. "What happened? Is he all right?"

"He's sad and scared and confused, Regina. His mom is looking forward to her own execution, of course he's not all right." Her eyes are just so heavy; they drift closed under the weight of all the things she wanted to say to Snow, all the things she can't ever say to Snow. "He had a talk with my mother yesterday."

The way Regina's spine stiffens and her mouth curls into a sneer and her eyes start to burn, dark and dangerous, it all scares the shit out of Emma. She doesn't think she's ever felt so much anything for anybody—but then again, that's Regina, all the way through. More emotion than any one person should have to handle. "What did she do to my son?" Regina hisses.

And because Emma is an idiot, is a fool with foolish thoughts, she wonders what it would have been like, if anyone in this whole fucking world had loved her enough to hate for her like this. Who she might have been if anyone had felt as much for her as Regina is capable of feeling.

Stupid, stupid Emma. She pinches her eyes shut, shakes her head to chase away her foolishness. "He asked her why you're so sad." She waits for it to sink in, waits for Regina's rage to recede just enough for guilt to rush in. "She told him that you killed your own mother."

Anger rises up in Regina's body; anger stretches out her fingers and pulls her shoulders back and hardens her jaw and it's a frightening and desperately beautiful thing to see. Emma wishes it wasn't. "Three nights with my son and she's already—"

"I told her to fuck off."

Even now, with the whole world in ruins around them, there is something absurdly satisfying about shocking Regina into silence. The longer she stays silent, though, the less satisfying it gets, until finally Emma shifts her weight in the chair and ducks her head to get out of the way of Regina's disbelieving stare.

"I mean, kind of," she tacks on, but Regina's eyes don't change. "It was a clusterfuck. But I told her she was wrong to tell him anything without talking to us first, and she was wrong to lie, and that I won't let them do anything that disrespects your position as his mother. Ever."

"What did you tell him?"

Her voice is raspy, low and rough, and the words take so long to come out that Emma can't help but think of the early nights in the diner, of the Daniel night. "I told him that we killed your mother. Both of us. And that it made you very sad to have to do it, but that Cora would have hurt him to hurt you and we would do anything to protect him. You would do anything to protect him. So we killed her. And killing is wrong."

She'd be so much more comfortable if Regina could give her anger again, but instead Regina is giving her that wide-eyed everything look, the one with gratitude at the outer corner of the eyes. "You told him all of that?"

"Yeah."

"You didn't have to."

Emma scoffs, because Regina's an idiot.

"You didn't. You had a ready lie that would have made things—easier."

"Easier for who?" she fires back.

Regina exhales slowly, and that stiff, rage-spiked spine relaxes, lets her shoulders loosen. She's nodding to herself, like getting confirmation of something, and Emma waits. Waits and prays that Regina doesn't give a mandate like keep your mother away from our son because—because Emma can't make that choice, even if it's an absurdly easy betrayal to choose.

"Henry—he has an incredible capacity for anger, Emma. And not like yours or mine, where we—where it's a weapon, it's an attack, it's there the moment we need it, fully formed and ready. He... grows it, like a seed. It takes months and years but it grows. And it only ever comes from one thing, it always comes from betrayal. His anger is only ever from betrayal and—he's a good boy, you see that, right?"

It's a stupid question and Regina asks it in that throaty, throttled voice because she knows. She knows that sometimes Henry is a brat and sometimes he's mean but—God, Emma could see how good he is even when she could only see him from her car.

"He's a good boy because anger isn't a default for him, not like it is for you or me, but if you betray him—he can forgive anything quickly, selfishness and stupidity and fear, but not lies. Don't lie to him, not ever. Say it's something you're not ready to talk about, or that you don't know how to talk about it yet, or whatever the truth is, but don't—don't lie to him, don't give him something to grow against you."

Emma holds her breath because it hurts to inhale when Regina cracks like this.

"Archie has gotten very good at helping him disperse that anger, when it comes—"

All the resentment comes screaming up like bile in her throat, because—of all the people to deal with betrayed anger, Archie, and—and because Emma had made the mistake of not believing Henry about the curse, but Regina had actively lied, over and over again, how can she sit here and say don't lie like it's tried-and-true advice—

It's all over her face, apparently; Regina sighs. "The first lie was about his adoption," she says softly. "It was the only lie for a long time. And when that lie was revealed—he just—he wasn't my baby anymore. His anger—he wasn't my baby anymore."

Emma wants the missing words, wants whatever chaos Regina's suppressing.

"The other lies came easy, after that."

Then she can hear them all, all the missing words. About fear and desperation and blindness and thinking if only he can stay this small—

"Do you regret it?" she whispers, and waits until Regina looks at her, looks at her with that everything look. "Any of it?"

Regina hesitates. "I could," she says faintly, and those dark, dark eyes go unfocused for a moment. "But everything led to Henry. Regret—I wouldn't undo anything."

Emma gets that. Oh, God, she gets that. "But—but you feel—"

Lingering silence, until Regina finally says, "Unable to return to that way of life." After a moment, she corrects herself. "Unwilling to return to that way of life."

They sit in silence for a few minutes longer, and then Emma nudges the breakfast bag with her foot, and Regina leans forward to take it. "I would take back Kathryn," she adds in a murmur, and sets her fancy coffee on the floor. "That was—" and she breaks off, sighs. "I would take that back."

It's enough. Even that much—it's enough.

Henry texts at ten to say that he's going to Archie's, and Regina lays back on the cot and stares at the ceiling in silence. He texts again at noon to say Archie's taking him for lunch and they're going to talk more afterwards, and Emma chucks her phone onto the couch against the wall and lets all the air rush out of her lungs. "I should've talked with him more. About what we did. What it means."

"You did what you could."

"Apparently it wasn't enough."

Regina sighs, turns her head toward the back wall of the cell. "Get used to it."

The hollowness in Regina's voice almost doesn't register, what with the way her words get muffled by misdirection and brick. Almost, but does, and Emma stills, feels cold and confused. "Regina?"

She can just barely see those thick, dark lashes moving, three blinks and a long moment closed, but there's no movement at Regina's jaw, no words she's planning on offering.

"Regina—he's gonna come see you, he's just—he's getting his bearings, it's—see, I knew I should've made it clearer—"

"Let it go, Emma," Regina says softly, and Emma wants to fight that, wants to pick a fight because Regina is a good mom and good moms don't let things go.

Before she gets a chance to do anything, Julian steps through the doors and clears his throat deferentially. "Gold's here again," he tells them, looking only at Emma.

And then that fucker himself pushes Julian aside with his cane, hobbles into the bullpen with a smile. "Such devoted servants, Regina, I must say I'm—"

"Shut up," Emma snaps, and reaches up for Carnwennan before realizing it isn't strapped to her back. Her gun isn't at her hip, it's locked in the case in her desk. Fuck. "No visitors. Julian, get him—"

Gold switches his cane to the other hand, taps the handle against Julian's chest without turning. "I think we can make an exception for me, can't we?"

The florescent light by the door keeps flickering so she can't be sure, but she thinks the handle of Gold's cane shimmers blue for just a moment. Julian steps back into the vestibule without resistance, closes the door firmly behind him.

Emma really, really wants her sword. Swords, plural. Especially the one with fuck you, magic written all over it. "Leave, Gold. I mean it."

"Don't doubt that you do," he lilts, and takes three arhythmic steps forward. "My business isn't with you, Savior." And then he tilts his head, smiles widely. "How is the saving business going, by the way? Struggling a bit with this particular operation, are we?"

Yeah, she really wants that damn sword.

"Emma," Regina sighs, and it doesn't escape Emma that this whole thing is a clear replay of yesterday, except this time they're double fucked instead of just plain fucked. "Let him just… do whatever it is he came to do, and then he'll leave."

"Obey your sovereign, dearie," Gold mocks, and she can't help the way her mouth twists into a snarl.

"Enough," Regina hisses, voice sounding closer than a moment ago. "Your business is with me, Rumpel, so get on with it."

His gaze narrows and shifts from Emma's face to Regina's; Emma can see the moment he decides to shift gears, watches him carefully step around the corner of a desk to walk towards the outer wall. Buying time, she realizes; he's regrouping. "But haven't you guessed yet?" Gold finally asks, pausing by the couch where Emma's phone still sits.

Shit. She steps forward, but Regina reaches through the bars and grabs at her, snags a finger around one of her belt loops and yanks her back. By the time Gold turns, Regina's already retreated to the far corner of the cell, and Emma's left standing with all her weight pressing forward and every muscle in her body tensed. "You know I tired of your games years ago. Speak plainly."

"Years ago?" he echoes, and smirks. "So the game you played for the Savior's pretty little swords, that was what, exactly?"

For just a moment, Regina's sneer seems directed straight at Emma, but when Emma looks properly, it's clear that it's all for Gold. "A game of my own," Regina answers. "The point, Rumpel."

He smiles again, returns his gaze to Emma and limps forward two steps, stops at the very end of Regina's cell. "Payment, your Majesty."

Emma feels her stomach drop, and from the way Regina's clutching at the cuffs of the henley, the feeling seems mutual. "Very well," Regina finally says, and lifts her chin. "What is it you want?"

He's still looking at Emma, like he's waiting for her to catch on to something, and the weight of his stare makes her skin crawl, makes her take a half-step back—and damn it, as soon as she moves she sees triumph in his eyes. "A small thing, Highness, a trifle."

It's so clear that Gold is enjoying the anxiety they're both wearing like a shared second skin, that he's toying with Regina, and there's shit all Emma can do about it without playing right into his hands. She looks to Regina, who glances back with just as much defeat in her eyes, and they wait in silence.

Eventually, Gold turns his body to face Regina, his smirk barely diminished. "You will find a way for me to cross the town line as I please, without negative consequence to my identity."

Like hell, Emma opens her mouth to snap, but Regina's fingers splay out in warning. Gold doesn't miss it, but he doesn't look away from Regina, doesn't stop smiling that eerie, self-satisfied smile. "And if I refuse?" Regina asks quietly. "Or if I fail?"

"Those are not options in this deal."

"Failure is always an option."

Something passes between the two of them, something Emma can't detangle. "And it has always cost you greatly," Gold murmurs, sibilant and smug.

From the way Regina's fingers curl in, the way her lips part and pale, Emma knows she's missed something, some crucial piece of information. But this—this is something she can't interrupt; she doesn't know how to play these war games. "I'll need materials."

Three words and Regina's voice like breaking glass and Emma wants to throw punches until everything gets better. Gold takes two steps back as if he can sense the violence bubbling up to the surface, but nods once. "Everything you could need came with us. You have only to look." Regina's mouth twists, and Gold's smile flashes bright. "So glad we could come to an agreement."

They watch him limp out in silence, and when Emma turns back to Regina, she finds her sitting hunched over on the cot with her head in her hands. "Regina?" she whispers, and tightens her fingers around one of the bars.

"I need to think," Regina mumbles, and starts to massage her temples. "I need—I need to think."

"Okay." Emma moves back to the chair, pulls it up close. "Okay, so, let's think, what was all of that, and what materials, and—"

"No," Regina says, but doesn't look up. "You can't help with this one."

It actually startles her, being shut out, being shut out now. "What? No, to hell with that, I can—"

"No," Regina says again, stronger, and her fingers are digging into her temples, nails leaving half-moons in her skin. In the same voice that made Emma want to shred that list of charges, in the same voice that fucks her up inside, Regina adds, "Please, Emma. I need to think."

Trust me, those hands are saying. Trust me, those slumped shoulders are begging. But Regina can't even look her in the eye, won't even give her that much.

She stands up abruptly and shoves the chair back into her old desk, stomps over to the couch and grabs her phone. "So I'll tell our kid you needed to think when he asks to see you?" she snaps, and immediately regrets it.

Regina doesn't flinch, though, not visibly. "He won't ask," she says quietly.

Emma slams her office door behind her.

Henry comes into the diner dragging Archie behind him. Emma's not remotely prepared for that—doubled back to avoid Marco, earlier—but she doesn't really get a choice when Henry pulls Archie to stand right next to the table. "I borrowed ten dollars from Archie. Can you pay him back?"

Emma glares at Henry, because they really need to have a talk about entitlement and appropriating other people's money. "The hell you need ten dollars for? And why didn't you just ask me before?"

"No time. Do you have a lighter?"

She's just managed to get her folded-up change out of her front pocket and stops, stares Henry down. "Did you borrow ten dollars to buy cigarettes or anything else that may be rolled, lit and inhaled?"

His nose crinkles up in confusion and distaste. "Ew. No."

She finally looks at Archie, points at him and narrows her eyes. "Did you buy any such substances for him?"

Archie, bright blue eyes wide and apologetic, shakes his head. "No, Sheriff, I would never."

"Emma," Henry interrupts. "Do you or do you not have a lighter?"

She hands Archie a ten dollar bill and studies Henry's face. He's up to something but nothing about his body says bad. "Yeah, I've got a few confiscated ones at the station."

He smiles at her, slips into the seat across from her. There are two odd clink-thumps as he slides across to sit up against the window. "Cool. Let's get Mom something with mashed potatoes."

And even though he's up to something, her son is full up with love again, so Emma looks up at Archie and puts a smile on her face. "Pull up a chair," she offers, and when he hesitates, nods encouragingly. This Henry isn't the one she held last night, isn't the one she kissed goodbye this morning; whatever else he's responsible for, Archie's got a hand in this, too.

"Loaded mashed potatoes! Mom likes bacon, right?"

When they get back to the station with Ruby and a styrofoam clamshell with meatloaf and loaded mashed potatoes, Regina's sitting cross-legged on the cot and massaging her wrists, with the Tweedles sitting on the chairs in front of the cell tossing a paper ball between them. Emma coughs into her hand and they immediately get up and head for the door, Left giving Henry a short nod as he passes. "Visitors," Emma calls, but Regina's already looking at Henry like the sun's rising at midnight.

He's a good kid. He's a good, good kid, goes right up to the bars and waits for Regina to come to him, to hug him back. "I'm sorry I took so long today," he says, and Regina still has that face of wonder on. "But we got you good stuff for dinner."

Ruby takes a step forward, offers a shy smile. "I gotta head back to the rest of my shift in ten minutes, but, I figured we could talk a minute?"

Something in the way Ruby's smiling—not hazy-happy like before, but still gentle, like she doesn't want to spook Regina, like she's trying to say something with just the lines of her face—makes Emma reach out for Henry, nudge him towards her office. "We'll hang out for a little bit. Gimme a heads up when you're ready?" She says it to Ruby but keeps looking at Regina, whose gaze comes back to Henry every few seconds like she doesn't really believe he's there, like she has to check to see if he's a trick of the light. Ruby nods, passes the food into the cell along with the cutlery sleeve and settles into one of the chairs.

Henry gives Regina one last glance and smile and then heads into Emma's office, immediately starts rifling through her drawers. "The lighters?" he asks when she comes in, not looking up.

"What makes you think I keep confiscated things in my desk?"

"Because walking over to the storage room is too much effort?"

Smart ass. She comes left around her desk and unlocks the top drawer of the back filing cabinet, paws through the cheap Bic lighters until she gets to a heavier imitation Zippo. "You gonna tell me what you need this for?"

"You'll see in a minute."

"You gonna tell me anything about your day?" she asks, still not turning from the file cabinet.

Henry shuffles behind her, takes a few retreating steps. "I talked to Archie."

"And swindled him out of ten bucks to go buy something that I'm assuming I will also see in a minute."

He laughs, a little, and sits in one of the visitor chairs. "Yeah."

"If you want to tell me anything about talking to him, I'll listen." It's so much easier to say these things when she's flipping the lighter open and shut and doesn't have to actually make eye contact. "Not that I'm saying you have to. But… you know. If you feel like it."

Henry's silent for long enough to make her look up to meet his eyes, and for a moment she wishes she'd left it alone. The energy's gone out of him again; he looks tired again, uncertain again. "Not yet," he says softly.

She nods, closes the filing cabinet and holds up the lighter. "It's been a minute. Can I know your nefarious plans now?"

And then he's smiling again, shaking his head with just enough smugness to make Emma relax. "Nope."

Henry waits until Regina's finished eating before he kneels in front of the cell and pulls two pillar candles in glass holders out of the pockets of his coat. They're tall and off-white and Emma's half ashamed that she didn't realize his pockets were that full, but she's more confused, because it's not like they turn the lights out on Regina and even if they do, she's pretty sure Regina's not afraid of the dark.

But from the look on Regina's face—all warmth, all love, all heartbreak—it means something big. It means Henry's better than good. "How did you get these, Henry?" she asks, voice as soft and sweet as when she tells Emma his stories.

"I gave Father Gabe ten dollars and he said I could bring them to you, as long as I promised to bring you to Mass next week," Henry explains, and moves both candles until they're positioned at the midpoint of the cell, still on his side of the bars. Then he takes the lighter, struggles to flick the wheel hard enough to get a flame up. After three tries, he starts to press his lips together in frustration, and Emma takes a tentative step forward. She doesn't know what this is about, but she knows she needs permission to step into this.

Henry looks to Regina, and Regina looks at her like she's telling his stories, nods just once. Emma kneels next to Henry, thumbs the wheel hard and holds it until the flame climbs past the lid. Henry points to the candle on the left, and Emma picks it up, tilts it sideways to be able to angle the flame in. When it takes, it flares for a millisecond, pops softly; Henry wraps both hands around the glass and sets it down exactly where he had it before. "This one's for Welo," he says, and reaches through the bars to hold Regina's hand for a second. "And this one's for your mom."

For a moment, it feels like none of them breathe. Regina's left hand tightens around Henry's, and Emma makes sure to look at her, look right into her eyes, when she presses the lighter into her palm.

Regina, of course, is the only one who remembers the kid has to take his medicine, so they pick themselves up at a quarter to ten and pull their coats on. The way Henry explains it, blowing out the candles just isn't done, so Emma moves them to the corner window well in her office, pulls the blinds up so Regina can see them from her cell.

They're both quiet on the walk back to the apartment, and they almost make it to the door of the building in silence, but just as they pass the alley between the sporting goods store and their building, Emma hears the clink of bottles and what sounds like scraping plastic. "Go on up, Henry," she instructs, and unlocks the front door for him. "Lemme just check this out, and I'll be right up, okay?"

He nods, gets through the door and then comes right out, barreling into her to give her a hug. "Thanks," is all he says, but she gets it, gives herself fifteen seconds to hold tight to him.

When the door closes behind him, she unsnaps her holster, keeps her palm pressed to the grip of the pistol but doesn't draw. A flashlight would help right about now, but she's never been one to win employee of the year and probably isn't ever going to be. Crab-stepping into the alley, she calls out. "Anybody here?"

"Emma?"

It's David's voice, and she relaxes, snaps the holster shut again. "David, what are you—" and she cuts herself off when she steps into view of the faintly-lit portion of the alley. David's sitting on one of the crates from the other night with a six-pack next to him and exhaustion all through his body. She doesn't want to jump to conclusions, she really doesn't, but—he was taking care of her kid. "Do this often?" she asks, tries to keep her voice casual.

He blinks at her, sighs. "Only when I've really screwed up. Or—Nolan did. David Nolan did this when he fucked up."

She deflates, comes and sits on the crate next to him. Now that she's closer, she can see that all the Blue Moons are still capped, except for the one in David's hand. When he sees her looking, he picks one up and holds it out to her.

She knows a peace offering when she sees it, takes it without saying a word and uses the teeth of one of her keys to pop the top rather than have to worry about her gloves. "There are warmer places to drink, you know."

"Not on Sundays."

"I meant the apartment."

"Not today."

She isn't sure what he means by that, so she waits.

It takes him until she's a third of the way through her beer before he says anything else. "I'm sorry." He takes a deep breath, leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "I'm sorry. About yesterday and Henry, and this morning, and this whole mess. I'm sorry I can't fix this for you."

She keeps her eyes on the asphalt, because if she looks at him and sees him giving her that babygirl look, she might completely lose it.

"The first thing I ever killed was a dragon. Not the first thing, I guess—I'd fished and hunted, and had to slaughter chickens every now and again, but—the first kill it to kill thing, you know? I was a novice and a moron and I had a whole team of knights with me and I got three of them killed. I got them killed because I was a novice and they had to be assigned to protect me, and if I got them killed, maybe I killed them. Maybe they were my first kills and not the dragon."

It shouldn't be comforting, but the idea that somebody else is losing it, too—the idea that someone who is maybe like her, someway, is losing their shit too—somehow makes things a little bit better. So she stretches her arm out, clinks the bottom of her beer against his. "My first was a dragon, too," she offers. And then she amends, because she was listening, "I mean, the first kill it to kill. Well, no, okay, first kill anything, because fishing and hunting and chicken slaughter, just… no, but… you know."

David watches her, expressionless, through her babbling. And then, after a beat of silence, he smiles at her, just for her, and it's easy to smile back.

Henry's still awake when she comes to bed, although he looks like he'll be down for the count within half an hour. "I forgot a candle," he says, as soon as she's settled under the blankets.

"Huh?"

"For Daniel. I forgot a candle for Daniel."

She freezes.

"Did… did she tell you about him?"

Emma thinks of the Daniel night—weeks after it happened, because Regina struggled to say his name—and of what Regina said and didn't say. She said he'd been forced back. She said they'd desecrated his body, defiled him, fucked with his soul and twisted him up. She said he'd been in so much pain. She said they made her sweet, gentle, all-love Daniel violent, and foul, and full of darkness. She didn't say who and she didn't say why. She didn't say goodbye, or I'm sorry, or we can find a way, let's try. She said she set him free.

"Yeah," Emma whispers. "Kinda."

Henry's breathing is shaky, and when she looks over his eyes are pinched shut. "She never talked about him, either."

He says it so small, so softly. Emma wishes like hell that Regina could tell her own story to the one person who needs to hear it. "I don't think she knows how to, kid."

"I don't know how to ask."

She doesn't know what to say, takes too long trying to figure something out, because when Henry turns onto his side, it's with a soft whuff that he only makes when he's asleep. His spine presses against her side and this—it's such a luxury, to know what sounds he makes in his sleep, to be able to turn and see him after ten years of pushing every question out of her mind.

It's a luxury and yet every moment with him is stained with Regina, because for every question she's ever had, Regina has the answers. Did he do this with her, when he was small? How long since he'd been trusting enough to sleep by her side? Did it make her ribs ache and spread, the way it makes Emma's? Did the weight of his small body feel like gravity to her, too?

Emma wants to claw every lingering note of citrus from her senses—citrus and ginger, Regina and Regina and Regina—but instead she just listens to their son breathe, listens and watches and says thank you over and over again, until she forgets how to form the words.

"I don't know how to save you."

"You're not supposed to."

"I don't want you to die."

Regina smiles at her, soft and kind, and Emma wants to shake her until she comes back. "That's kind of you."

"Tell me how to fix this," Emma whispers, but Regina just shakes her head.

"This is the fix."

"No."

"Yes." And Regina just looks at her, and waits, and Emma has nothing to offer anymore. "Tell me a story?"

"A story?"

"Yes."

Emma looks at her, and looks at her, and looks at her, and can't refuse. She starts talking—slowly, because talking about the desert is something she doesn't do—about what Arizona looked like in May when she was seventeen and stupid in love and what it looked like in June when she was seventeen and so so alone and then what it was like to drive north on 93 in April. How different the desert looked after a year and incarceration and childbirth and betrayal and how even the air felt empty and how that somehow, someway, felt like hope.

Regina doesn't interrupt or drift off or anything besides look straight at her with those dark, dark eyes shining in the sunlight. When Emma—hesitant and awkward and frightened beyond logic—lets their hands brush before reaching for a sugar packet to fiddle with, Regina reaches forward to rest her fingertips on the bones of Emma's wrist, lets her keep fidgeting but gives her something to hold on to anyway and—

Regina's the only one who gets it. The only other one who knows.

She and Henry hit the diner for breakfast around 7:30, not saying much on the walk over or when they're sitting across from each other with a plate of pancakes apiece. Ruby sneaks Henry a can of Redi-Whip even though Emma's mostly sure that Granny banned the stuff last year, and there's a certain concentration on his face while he adds a smiley face to his chocolate chip pancakes that lets her know the silence isn't bad, just… necessary.

Things feel better today. Today they'll get answers, and part of her, a big huge solid part that she doesn't really know how to trust yet, knows that David genuinely wants this to work out, believes that he'll do his best to make things good. And that means they won't sentence Regina to death. Emma can make anything work, any other situation, as long as Regina stays breathing. As long as she stays alive.

When Granny hands over the paper bag with Regina's breakfast, Henry takes the lead, bundling up again quickly and tugging Emma out of the diner before she's zipped up her jacket. His eagerness is faintly contagious; she picks up her pace and catches up with him just outside the station. He's got this look on his face, his nose scrunched up and mouth slanted, like he doesn't know how to get something out. "Spit it out, kid, you just made me jog on a full stomach, I've got nothing but resentment for you right now."

A smile brightens his eyes, just for a second. "Can I—is it okay if it's just me and Mom, for a little bit?"

She smiles at him, as kindly as she knows how, and hands over the food. "Text me when it's cool for me to come in?" He nods, and she ruffles up his hair because she can. "And don't steal her food, okay, if you're hungry we can get you more stuff."

"Duh, Emma," he groans, but smiles before he ducks into the station.

She laughs to herself, shakes her head and turns towards the town green and the bench she'd claimed on Saturday, but she doesn't even make it across the street before the station door bangs open again. Turning around and reaching for a sword in the same movement, she freezes when she sees Henry barreling towards her, face full of panic and confusion. "Henry? What's—"

"She's gone, Emma, she's gone and there aren't any guards and the cell's cleaned out and open!"

As soon as she processes, she sprints past him and into the station, and sure enough, the bullpen is empty and the cells are empty and there's no sign that Regina was ever there. The extra lock on the door is gone, her blankets are gone, the folding chairs are back in the stack under the break table. The only things to prove that Regina was ever there are the two pillar candles in the window of the office, burned out but still real.

"What does it mean?" Henry's voice comes from behind her, small and scared, and she steps out of the empty cell, just looks at him for a minute.

"It means they brought her over to Town Hall already," she says quietly. "They brought her over already."

He steps closer hesitantly, and she can't tell what he's thinking, can't read what his wide eyes and trembling hands mean. "But—Grams and Gramps were just waking up when we left. There's no way they're there already."

He could be right. Snow and David had just been brushing their teeth when she and Henry left. They could have gotten ready and gone straight over, but it's just as likely that they didn't. And if David isn't there—if the council is dealing with Regina without David there, without Snow there—

A loud click-thump catches her attention, and she looks up to see the double doors swinging closed again, Henry nowhere in sight. "Shit," she hisses, and takes off after him. The kid's a decent runner for a bookworm, but she manages to grab him by the hood of his coat just in front of Gold's shop, tugs him back and wraps her arms around him to hold him in place.

He fights her, and she's unprepared for it, so his frantic attempts to get loose knock them both to the ground. "No, no, let me go!" he shouts, and she takes an elbow to the gut but holds on.

"Henry—Henry, stop—"

"Let me go! I have to ask him—Emma, let go!"

"Ask who—" and she freezes, all her muscles tightening up when she realizes exactly where they are. "Henry, no."

"He can fix this—"

"No!" she shouts, and finally manages to get some leverage, turns him around to face her and holds him in place by the sides of his coat. "No. You don't go to him for anything. You don't offer him anything. Are you listening to me? You don't go near him. You hear me?"

Henry is crying. He's crying and shaking his head and whispering, "No, no, no," over and over again. "You promised you'd save her. This is the only way. I have to save her, Emma, I have to make a deal, it's the only way."

"No," she whispers, and tries to hug him but he pushes her away.

"You promised."

"I won't let you make a deal with him, Henry. And if your mom knew—"

"So you make it! Make a deal, whatever he wants, just give it to him—Emma, please!"

He's sobbing openly and trying to twist away from her and how the hell is she supposed to explain to him that she can't make a deal because she already knows what Gold wants and she has no fucking idea how to give it to him and she promised she would think and somehow she knows thinking means don't ever give him power over you, not for anything, never again, how is she supposed to—

Make a deal. Make a deal.

She focuses in on Henry again, reaches up to cup his face, wipe some of the tears from his cheeks. "Listen to me," she says softly, and when he shakes his head, she holds tighter. "I keep my promises. You know I keep my promises."

"So save her!"

"I'm gonna," she says, and repeats it, stronger. "I'm gonna. But I need you to listen to me and trust me right now. Right now, Henry. Are you listening?" He nods, and his crying slows down. "I need you to stay away from Mr. Gold. Right now and forever. And right now, I need you to go to Archie's. And if Archie isn't there, you go to the diner and you stay as close to Granny as possible, okay? And you wait until your mom and I come to get you. Understand?"

His crying stops completely, and he stares at her with wide, wide red eyes. "You're gonna save her?"

She nods, grips his shoulders tightly. "Right now. But I need to know you are safe and not doing anything that puts her in jeopardy. So you gotta go."

"You're gonna save her?" he repeats, and she tries a grin, is pleased when it takes authentically.

"That's what saviors do, right?"

When she kicks open the door to the assembly room—because if she learned anything from Henry's damn book, it's that entrances matter—none of the council members are sitting down yet. Three of them, including David, are clustered over by a Keurig on a side table. Snow and three others are in various stages of getting to their seats—seven chairs at three tables, shaped in a U. And in the middle of the room, a good ten feet from the council set-up, is a single heavy ladderback chair, and Regina sitting shackled in it.

The chair can't be more than two feet from where Cora fell. Emma looks and sees red and wet and grey and squish and every instinct in her body says to get Regina away from there.

Movement to her left: Tweedledee rushes her like it's flag football and not a dumb move. She smirks, can't help it, and points Excalibur at him, watches as he pulls up short and comes to a halt. "Smart boy. Who's got the keys?" His eyes flick to the locksmith—Daedalus, and she nods, takes two steps forward.

"You can't be here, Sheriff."

She rolls her eyes, looks to where the voice came from and isn't entirely surprised to see Mitchell Hermann, standing near the head of the U tables and frowning at her. "Question one," she starts, raising her voice so it fills the room, and walks up to Regina's chair. The manacle chain is looped around one of the rails of the chair back; the same goes for the shackles at her ankles. "How, exactly, do you plan on getting all of the townspeople to actually pay their property taxes?"

Regina looks like hell, puffy-eyed and dry-lipped and possibly ashen-faced. The fluorescent lights aren't helping her any. "What are you doing?" she whispers, but Emma ignores her.

"You," she says to Daedalus, pointing at him with the sword. "Uncuff her."

"Absolutely not!" This time, it's the florist, stomping forward from the coffee maker.

Emma rolls her eyes. "Wasn't a request," she tells Daedalus.

Maurice keeps going. "You have no authority in—"

"Authority?" she echoes, and turns on him. "Who the hell put you in charge? I remember getting all of your votes. I sure as shit don't remember voting for you." Maurice pulls up short, and she keeps her eyes on him for as long as she can before turning back to Daedalus. "I said, uncuff her."

"No," is all she gets from him, but he's not hiding the fact that the keys are clipped to his belt loop, so she keeps the sword up, moves in and takes them off of him, retreats and gestures with the sword to tell him to move over to where Tweedledee is still standing, with Tweedledum two paces behind him.

"What are you doing?" Regina whispers again when Emma comes up behind the chair and starts working on the manacles.

"Choosing Henry," she hisses back, and lifts her head. "Second question. When you completely fail at getting everyone to pay their taxes, what's the game plan for outsmarting the IRS and the FBI when they come investigating?"

The room is completely still for a moment, and Emma looks over to where Snow is, completely still next to a chair with a cup of coffee steaming on the table in front of her. There's nothing but shock on Snow's face, and for reasons she doesn't understand, it hurts, right between her lungs.

There's no time for that, not now. "Not so good with the Q&A format, huh? Gotta tell you, kinda necessary for small town governing," she drawls, and when Regina huffs something just below hearing range, she can't help but grin.

"We are their monarchs. They will comply," says the woman next to Mitchell—the only person she doesn't recognize, so probably Helena.

"Yeah? Did the teachers comply with orders to go back to work, or is Henry hanging out at the library all day because he's a delinquent?" The woman stiffens and tries to hide it, but she looks over to Mitchell and Emma doesn't miss it. "And fair warning, say delinquent and you answer to both of us.

"The schooling situation is separate from the taxes issue, Sheriff, and to be frank, they are both above your pay grade. Your concern is unwarranted."

She's gotten one wrist cuff open and Regina pulls her arm forward, rotates her wrist a couple of times, and then twists in the chair to look back at Emma. Emma doesn't look up until her other wrist is free and she can hand the keys over for Regina to take care of her own feet. "What do you think is going to happen if a bunch of IRS pencil pushers roll into town and start poking their noses into the records for the past twenty eight years? You think it's all gonna turn up roses or you think they'll dig up some dirt? 'Cause me, I'm thinking dirt. I'm thinking enough dirt to justify hauling at least half the town up to Portland and oh, wait, remind me again what happens when someone gets dragged across the town line?"

A heavy thud-clink behind her tells her that Regina's gotten at least one leg free. Tweedledee and Tweedledum are trying to flank her and move in; Regina needs to hurry up.

"What's your point, Sheriff?" Mother Superior—or the Blue Fairy, now—demands from next to David.

Emma hears the keys clatter to the floor, turns to keep her back to Regina and put at least one of the Tweedles in her line of sight. "My point is, you either have no idea of the shit about to rain down on you, or you don't care. My point is that I can cross that line without a problem, and my son can cross that line without a problem, so I don't have to care about what happens to anybody else. But I'm the one who knows what it's like dealing with feds and I'm the one who knows that the best way is to never do it in the first place."

"Emma," Regina hisses, and the keys knock against the shackles loudly.

Emma ignores her, again. "So let's make a deal. You all like to make deals, right? I'll give you something you need, and you give me something I want."

"Emma, no," Regina says, voice hoarse and horrified, and the shackles finally hits the ground.

Emma looks at her, extends a hand to help her stand up, and when the surge of acid-bright energy stops overwhelming her, she holds out the hilt of Excalibur with a soft smile. "Trust me just a little bit longer," she murmurs, and closes Regina's fingers around the sword hilt. "And keep the sharp end of that away from me."

"Name your terms," comes a growl from behind Snow, and Emma narrows her eyes at the man as he moves forward. He's long-haired and wide-jawed and wearing wide-cuffed leather gloves, but his eyes are bright and kind and familiar. Midas, she realizes when his gloves glint in the light.

Carnwennan is still sheathed on her back, but now that she's given Regina a weapon, Tweedledee and Tweedledum are slinking back to stand with Daedalus. There's something to be said for reputation. "You let her go and you leave her alone, and I'll make sure every single person in town pays up and on time. And if there's any holdouts, I'll do whatever it takes to make sure there's no outside involvement."

"Absolutely not." Mother Superior, arms crossed and body rigid, shakes her head. "We will not grant the Evil Queen mercy for the possibility of your half-hearted efforts—"

"She needs to be brought to justice," Maurice sputters.

Emma laughs. Throws back her head and laughs, and it does exactly what she wanted it to: scares the everloving shit out of them. Maurice takes three steps back. "Justice?" she echoes, and laughs again. "Okay. So your goon squad's gonna go make some more unlawful arrests, right?" She gestures towards Daedalus and the Tweedles. "Next up is Gold? Oh, wait." She turns her head to look at David, and he winces, but steps forward anyway. "You can't, because you made a deal that lets him get away with everything and gets you nothing in return."

The room is silent.

"Right. How about Albert Spencer—I'm sorry, King George? He murdered and maimed Billy. Or, how about Jefferson? He assaulted, kidnapped and drugged me and Mary Margaret, but he's walking around a free man and word is, he somehow got his daughter back, too."

Next to David, Mother Superior shifts uncomfortably. Emma can't see a wand in her hand, but that doesn't make her any less dangerous, so she reaches for Regina's wrist and pushes her back, away from the chair, behind her own body, covers the move with a taunt. "Or—how about you, flower boy? You tried to wipe your own daughter's memory, push her over the town line by force. Kind of like attempted murder, isn't it? Eliminating a whole person from the face of the earth? So why don't you come on down, sit right here for a few days?" She jerks her chin towards the empty chair, and Maurice drops his gaze.

"This is ridiculous," Helena says, and Emma tightens her grip on Regina, takes a deep breath through the spike in energy.

"No, this isn't ridiculous. What's ridiculous is that you're all so busy deciding whether she lives or dies that you're letting this town collapse in on itself. You're supposed to be the kings and queens and leaders around here, but apparently you don't give a single fuck about the actual people out there. You put the town comptroller on babysitting duty for a week. Has anybody even gotten paid? Are they bartering down at the grocery store or is there a widespread theft problem you're sitting on, too?" Behind her, Regina makes a small sound of frustration, but it's almost inaudible with all the shuffling of the council members. "So let's make a deal. Sell yourselves out to me. I'm not so bad, am I? I'm not prancing around, cackling and asking for your unborn children, am I?"

Snow knocks over her coffee. David looks at her helplessly, but no one moves.

"Come on," Emma continues, and keeps her voice low and soft and smooth. "Best deal you're ever gonna get. A bonafide savior as your law keeper, for the bargain price of one pardon."

"Her pardon," Mitchell snaps. "Do you have any idea what she's done?"

"Murdered. Manipulated. Stolen," she lists, and thinks Graham and rape and thinks Leopold and marriage and bites the inside of her cheek. "Betrayed. Assaulted. And there's not a person in this room who hasn't done at least three of those things right along with her."

"There is a difference, Princess—" the Blue Fairy starts.

Emma grimaces, releases Regina's wrist, unsheathes Carnwennan and glares flatly down the blade at the fairy. "No, there really isn't."

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" Regina whispers, practically in her ear.

"Do me a favor and shut up?" Emma mutters back.

"She's right," David says quietly, and steps forward again. "None of us are innocent. And we need her help."

"Not at this price," Maurice mutters.

"Trust me, you don't want me as your enemy," Emma warns, and she's sure Regina hmphs. "You don't take this deal, and the first thing I'll do is tell every single person in this town that any tax money they pay is going into your personal accounts and not to the state. You'll have a revolt on your hands and the IRS at your heels and right when it gets as bad as it can get? I'll take my kid and leave town, and let this whole place burn. And that's if you just banish her. And if I'm feeling kind."

"You wouldn't lie," Midas says quietly.

"Wouldn't I?"

"They wouldn't believe you," Helena scoffs.

And Emma smiles. "I'm the Savior. You know what bullshit people will believe if it comes from a savior?"

"You would leave?" Snow whispers.

Emma looks at her, and she feels the weight of Regina's hand on her back—a warning, but she doesn't know of what. "I won't keep Henry around people incapable of mercy," she says, keeps her voice steady and pushes aside the gnawing churning ache in her stomach. "Especially not if it means keeping him away from his mother, too."

"Don't do this," Regina whispers. "Please don't do this."

"Deal," Midas says suddenly, and tension she didn't even realize was coiling up in her back unwinds in a rush.

"What," Maurice roars, and Emma reaches back to grab on to Regina, keep her back and safe, and for a moment she's just flailing at the air until Regina's fingers dig into the sleeve of her jacket, until she's there and solid and real.

"I remember the riots at the beginning of George's reign. Do you?" Midas spits back. "She's right. We can't—we don't know anything about this world and how it works, not really. And people will follow her. If she says pay, they'll pay."

"This is… extortion," the Blue Fairy says, and her indignation almost makes Emma laugh.

"Shouldn't you be used to it by now?" she asks, and when that small, smug face pales and turns, just slightly, to check Snow's reaction, it almost feels like a win.

"This is not how we conduct affairs of state," Helena says, eyes narrow and mouth pinched. "There are laws that she has broken both in the old world and in this world—"

"Old world's gone. And in this world, you have a burden of proof to meet, and I'm telling you right now, 'it was magic' doesn't cut it."

"Deal," Mitchell sighs out, and sinks into his chair.

Maurice throws up his hands, rounds on David. "Can't you control your offspring?" he demands, and David actually smiles before casually tossing his half cup of coffee into Maurice's chest and following it up with a left hook to the nose.

"David," Midas shouts, and Emma isn't sure if she wants to laugh or scream. She won't look back to see if Regina's laughing, won't look back to see if there's a smile at last—but God, she hopes so, she hopes so. "Later," Midas adds, softer, and Maurice—on the floor with coffee soaking through his shirt and a trickle of blood from his nose—sputters in protest. "Get up, Maurice."

To his credit, David offers a hand to help him, but Maurice shoves him back and gets up on his own. "Once a peasant—"

"Hold your tongue, Maurice," Snow murmurs, all softness and patience, but that hard, hard look is back in her eyes and in the tension at her jaw.

"Stop this, Emma," Regina's whispering. "Just—just leave, now, and they'll all pretend like this didn't happen, and—"

"No," she says, too loudly, but no one hears her over Maurice's next words.

"I would," he snarls, pulling his shirt away from his body with a grimace, "if it wasn't clear that your wayward bitch of a daughter is playing rebellious teen and you're falling for it."

David practically growls, but there's a look from Snow and he stays still, fists clenched at his side. "Our daughter isn't playing anything," Snow says, and she sounds so sad, so sad. "She's doing the right thing."

It shouldn't hurt this much, hearing those words. It really shouldn't.

"No," Regina whispers, and her voice is shredded.

"Deal," Snow says, and her eyes are wet.

Emma grabs Regina's hand and goes straight to the door.

They actually make it past the bank before Regina rounds on her, which is a whole half block further than Emma expected to go without being hit. And Regina doesn't even hit her—she presses the hilt of Excalibur into her shoulder and pushes, like she's trying to get both the sword and Emma away from her, like she wants nothing to do with any of it. "What the hell were you thinking?"

It's actually a relief, to have this happen now, to not have to sit with more of Regina's eerie silence. So Emma grabs the hilt of the sword before Regina lets go, stands there with a weapon in each hand and deadpans, "Honestly, how much I'm craving a vanilla malt."

Regina blinks at her, and Emma takes advantage of her surprise to lower her head and twist to sheathe both swords. "I told you—"

"You told me nothing," Emma cuts her off, and it comes out just slightly too harsh because Regina's in her face in the next moment, all fire and fury, and she can't even be upset about it.

"I told you that you need to think, and that you need to put Henry first, and your next step was to piss off the seven most influential people left in this town and put yourself at their disposal!"

"And I told you that you're not dying!"

Regina sneers at her, and God, this shouldn't be such a relief. "Imbecile. How else do you think you get out of a deal with Rumplestiltskin?"

Emma freezes. "What?"

Regina shoves at her again, both palms to her shoulders, but doesn't advance. "Contracts with Rumplestiltskin are rendered null and void if either party dies by another person's hand. Interminable interference."

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.

"I told you—"

"What's the price?" she whispers, and when Regina—no, no, no, Regina just kind of crumples in on herself right there in the middle of the sidewalk and no, no, no, no. No. "Henry?"

Regina won't look at her, won't open her eyes, and Emma—Emma reaches out to her and then hesitates, hands hovering just under her elbows, because she can't put hands on a woman who wanted her death to be worth something—oh, Jesus, she can't, she can't, she can't.

An odd, syncopated skritch-skritch-click from behind Regina makes them both freeze and look and when Emma catches the shine off the top of that fucking walking stick, she grabs Regina by the arms and pulls her to her, pushes her behind her, away from Gold. "Get the fuck back, Gold," Emma snarls, and he chuckles.

"Good morning to you, too, Sheriff. Your Majesty, you're looking… delightfully alive."

And it's clear, before Regina even says it: "You knew this would happen."

Gold shifts his shoulders in a vaguely self-satisfied way. "I knew the chances. I must say, I didn't expect such a brilliant performance, Sheriff. There's hope for you yet." And then he smiles, wide and wicked, and leans forward just slightly. "Let me know when to expect you, Regina. Give me a chance to put the kettle on."

All she can focus on as he walks away is that damn skritch-skritch-click. It's all she can hold in her mind, because he knew, and of course he knew, who would put in a death clause if they didn't know death wasn't on the table, of course he knew, how could both of them have been so stupid—

There's no time for thinking. This, right now, this moment—this is what Emma knows better than anything else in the world. "You have to go," she chokes out, and Regina finally looks at her and those dark, dark eyes are so devastating— "You have to go and pack your bags and then the two of you have to go."

"What?"

This time, she does put hands on Regina—grabs her at the elbows and squeezes lightly, just enough to get Regina to look at her. Just look. "You and Henry. You pack your shit and you get in the car and you go."

Regina looks at her, and looks at her, and shakes her head and pushes at her. "You've lost your mind—"

"No. You can leave, and he can leave, and Gold can't, and none of those council fucks can, so you and Henry will leave and start fresh and you will give him a normal life somewhere, and—"

"And you?" It's just a whisper and she hates it.

"What about me?" and no, it's not her fishing for anything, it's—she's not the important one here, this is about Regina and Henry and they're the only ones who matter now. Ever.

"Would you—stay?"

She thinks of David drinking a beer and throwing coffee and Snow making tea and crying and then of Henry making her a sandwich and sharing his fries and she feels sick inside, sick all over. "Gold will—you know he'll lash out."

It feels like the wrong answer, even though she knows it's the right thing, but the way Regina looks at her, the way everything in those dark, dark eyes just burns her up inside makes her think that she doesn't know right from wrong at all. "So you would stay."

"I'd—I'd visit, as often as—"

"You'd sacrifice yourself and Henry's happiness—"

"His happiness doesn't depend on me, Regina."

It's the wrong answer again and she's starting to hate the way Regina's looking at her, like this is a personal betrayal. Doesn't she get it? Doesn't she see that Emma's just trying to do right by—by both of them?

"You really think," Regina says, in that quiet voice that's heavy with tears, "that there's any chance for him to be happy without you?"

She flinches and hates, hates, hates how much this feels like the end of everything. How they're standing here lost and confused and deciding their son's whole future right now. "You really want to risk his life on a couple crappy afternoons with a biological parent?" she says, and the words claw at her throat as she says them, rip her up from the inside out.

Regina says, "No," and Emma thinks she should be relaxing, but no just means that she's going to have to say goodbye and she doesn't have that in her. She can't—she doesn't have that in her. "I won't risk his life. We'll draft a custody agreement, and you'll sign it, and you will go. You and Henry."

"You're out of your goddamn mind."

But Regina just shakes her head, takes a half step in towards Emma and—no, she won't ever have it in her to say goodbye. Not ever. "The only way to keep Henry safe is to get him out of town. You are the only person who knows anything about the outside world. The only way to keep Gold pacified is to give him what he wants. I am the only person who can do that. This is how it has to be."

"I'm not leaving you alone in this fucking town, Regina, and you're an idiot if you think Henry would be okay with that for even a minute," Emma snaps, and she wants to shake her because why is she being so stupid and self-sacrificing? "You don't get to leave him. Remember? You don't get to do that."

"He needs you, Emma," Regina whispers, and Emma wants to cry.

"Don't send him away," she whispers back, and tries to tell the truth but she can't, she can't. "Don't send him away," she says again, and feels stinging in her eyes.

"Mom?"

Before Emma can even process the cry, Henry's barreling into Regina, wrapping his arms around her waist and saying a million things into the green henley Regina's still wearing, and she's gonna have to talk to the kid about fucking obedience, at some point, but right now—right now he's looking up at his mom and smiling like he's still the boy who knocked on her door last October. Like there's hope for all of them yet.

And Regina—Regina. Emma doesn't know if she's ever seen anything quite as devastating as the relief and joy and fear and love all mixed up in those dark, dark eyes. Regina kisses Henry's forehead and looks at him like she'll never get enough of his smile and if Emma ever doubted what she would do for this, for these two, she knows now.

So when Henry, all-love-Henry, pulls back from Regina just slightly and wrinkles his nose and says, "Mom? You kind of, um… reek," Emma laughs, bright and true, and smiles for them both.

"You are a little ripe," she teases, and feels the tears receding.

"A shower would be nice," Regina admits, and Emma doesn't miss the way her arms tighten around Henry.

So she smiles, soft and simple, and nods. "Let's get you two home," she says, and there's hope, there's hope, there's hope for them yet. She can see it in those dark, dark eyes, in the corners of that mouth. There's hope; Regina's smiling.

Endless thanks to Kate, Lynn and Dex for constant feedback. Also thanks to everyone who's ever contributed to meta discussions, especially Eshu & Ana; all of your thoughts have made this piece so much richer than it would have been without you.

Here ends Part II. All of your feedback has been cherished. Part III, Persefone, will take some time to churn out-it may be closer to 2014 before I'm able to delve into that volume with the passion it deserves. Thanks for sticking with me through this one; I hope most of you will come back for the next piece.