He's waiting for her outside of Dr. Hopper's office, leaning against the hood of her car.

The last image Regina has of David is him pulling a gun on the love of her life, but she's had just enough time to push all the ruined parts back safely inside herself, so she simply glares at him and states: "Move."

"Regina—"

"I hope you didn't get the impression that we're any sort of team simply because we shared something of a common goal this afternoon."

He sighs, like the weight of being so constantly, pathetically good all the time actually takes a toll on him.

"I just," he holds up both hands, "I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I went to check on Henry, and when I got back, you were gone. We never got a chance to talk after whatever happened to that monster."

"Daniel," she corrects him, without knowing why.

"After what happened to Daniel," David agrees, gently, and no, Regina will not accept kindness from Snow's beloved; she'll tell him to go to hell, she'll rip out his heart and feel it gorgeously turn to dust between her fingers, she'll…

She won't do any of those things, because Henry will never forgive her.

She won't do any of those things, because she can see hundreds die at her command, she can fill a crypt with stolen hearts, and she can curse an entire realm, but she still can't quite do to Snow, what Snow did to her, and it makes her sick to admit it.

There's rain starting to fall, fat, heavy drops of it, and David glances skyward. When he looks back at her, she thinks he's remembering tears streaming down her face, her fists desperately, ineffectually hitting his chest until he'd yielded.

"At least let me drive you home."

"No."

"You're in no state to—"

"I'm perfectly able to assess what I am and am not capable of, Charming, and right now I—"

The rapidly falling drops dissolve into a sudden sheet, and this time the rain simply cascades down on them, no warning, no time to prepare or hide or build up her walls.

David pulls his jacket over his head, draws Regina under it too. "Get in the truck, Regina," he yells over the sound of rain beating the streets, pointing to his god-awful Ford.

She relents, and he actually opens the door for her and guides her in, because he's a real life goddamn idiot Prince Charming who can't let it go, not for a second, not even for an Evil Queen.

"Where's Henry?" She asks, as soon as he climbs in on the other side.

He slams the door shut. "Ruby's watching him. I'm not completely incompetent, you know."

"So long as you agree you're partly so," she replies, and she shouldn't like it that he hides a grin.

They sit in silence as he starts to make his way to the mansion, Regina surreptitiously glancing at the interior of the car. Nothing to her Mercedes, of course, but interesting all the same. It's all so very…Brawny paper towel man. She tucks her elbows into her sides, uncomfortable.

David's cell rings, and he reaches for it, navigating the truck through swiftly forming puddles on the road.

"Ruby? Yeah, I'm just—when did the call come in? Hang on," he turns to Regina, "Grumpy got a call at the sheriff's station about someone in the woods, out by the town line. D'you mind if we—"

Regina makes sure to sigh as slow and deep as she can. This is what comes from having a (self-appointed, she might add) deputy sheriff and no deputies.

"Fine," she says, pursing her lips.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," David tells Ruby, and turns the steering wheel.

The road by the edge of the woods is deserted, so far as Regina can tell, but David steps out with a flashlight to be sure. Can't have any of his precious subjects accidentally wandering across the town line; never mind that he's endangering himself by doing the exact same thing.

Honestly, is stupidity a requirement for heroes, or are the Charmings just unusually blessed?

"No sign of anyone," he says, dripping wet and shivering when he comes back in. He reaches for his cell again, pushes a few buttons and holds it up to his ear before glancing at it, confused. "And, no service."

Regina stares out the window, silent.

He starts to move the truck, squinting through the downpour across his windshield. The wipers are barely clearing anything.

"I can't see a damn thing."

"Perfect. You're an idiot," she snarls at him, because she should be at home right now, in front of a fire drinking too much cider and failing at her attempts to not think about Henry or Daniel or magic, buzzing through her fingers, potent and electric and effective.

"What the hell was I supposed to do, Regina, leave some poor sap out here to die? Of course you wouldn't care about helping anyone but yourself!" He shouts back.

"Well look at all the good you did them!"

"Just—!" He slams his hand against the dashboard, his knuckles white from the way he'd gripped the steering wheel.

Regina can't help it; she flinches. David looks at her in surprise, but then understanding lights up that dim expression: she's had enough of men and monsters, today, forever.

"I'm sorry," he says, at once.

She pointedly ignores it, pulling the threads of herself back together. "What do you propose we do?"

"Stay here," he replies, shutting off the engine. "It's safer than heading out in a storm like this. You know, Snow and I did the same thing, once, when we got caught out here during a downpour. Well, we holed up in a cabin, but…"

"How disgustingly adorable."

David shrugs, like it isn't really a perfect fairy tale memory after all. "You have a better idea?"

She sighs, again. "No, I don't suppose I do."

There are goosebumps starting to form on Regina's arms. She smooths her skirt, tucking the excess folds neatly under thighs, and tugs her blazer closer to herself.

David reaches over his seat, roots around something behind it until he draws out a threadbare blanket.

"Here," he offers it to Regina, "It's not much, but it's better than nothing."

There are still droplets of water splashing down the back of his neck, and his jeans are so soaked they look almost black.

"I'm fine," she insists, as coldly as she can. "Keep it."

He doesn't look fooled. Perhaps Regina will have to give him credit for not being as thick-witted as he seems.

Of course, David throws this all to hell only moments later: "I never did find Whale," he admits, and she rolls her eyes at the sheer incompetency of the sheriff's office. "But if—if you do want to talk about Daniel—"

"We can have a nice little heart-to-heart? I don't think so."

"I'm not saying it has to be me. But you can't just keep this all bottled up. If I thought I'd lost Snow and Emma forever—"

"You have no way of knowing what happened when they fell through that portal," she interrupts. "Or if they'll ever find their way back. So no need to speak in hypotheticals, David: you may very well never see your precious little family again."

There's joy and guilt, both, prickling in those words. She's always had a talent for riling men up, one way or another, and she wants to watch the truth burn his immutable faith. She wants him to feel the same emptiness that's scraping at her soul.

But he only shakes his head. "I have to believe that isn't true. Snow and I will—"

"Spare me," Regina warns. She'd willingly face his firing squad once more if it meant never having to hear their insipid catchphrase ever again.

They're quiet for a few minutes, or maybe an hour, or three. Regina shivers in spite of herself, and this time David doesn't ask—just pulls the half of the blanket that isn't covering his lap over to her. His forearm is warm even as it slips and slides, still rain-wet, against her hand.

The blanket inexplicably smells of the stables: of leather and wood, and her eyes fill.

"I killed him," she says, quietly. "I killed the the last person to ever love me."

"Whatever Whale did—bringing him back—that wasn't Daniel, Regina. You can't kill someone who's already gone. And he's not the only person to—you still have Henry."

"No, I don't. Maybe I never did."

Kathryn's father could turn things to gold, just by touching them. Regina turns them to ash—sometimes without even trying, but mostly it's done with heady deliberateness.

Mostly she conjures up flames in the palm of her hand.

David turns to look at her, and his eyes are so, so blue, like Daniel's, and nothing like Daniel's. David is a shepherd who rose to rule a kingdom, and her stable boy is dead, dead because he had no right to her noble hand.

"He'll never be mine again."

This time when she shivers, it's into the plane of David's shoulder, and the dampness forming on his chest isn't from the the storm still raging, muted, around them.

The arms around her feel just like his, and when she closes her eyes she's eighteen again, riding Rocinante under a never-ending sky, joyful and unbroken and free.