It's an each morning kind of thing for them, the sort of thing that tends to become so much ritual and instinctual habit that you don't even really think about until the tragedies of life step in to force you have to think about it.

Every morning, they lean in and kiss each other goodbye. Just for the day. There's no thoughtless "I love you" type statements uttered because even after five years together – and eight years of knowing each other - those words still mean too much to be as casual as a "have a nice day at the office" kind of peck. Oh, they're shared in the passions of their bedroom or in the darkness of trauma, but rarely in the quiet of their hard-won normality.

So it's just a kiss goodbye and then the violent gasping chug of the Bug.

Regina laughs, and wiggles her eyebrows knowingly, unable to hide her smirk.

"Not funny," Emma groans, her head playfully slapping repeatedly against the steering wheel; her car is technically younger than Regina's but the Queen's impeccably cared for Mercedes will easily outlive the poor little yellow Bug and there's just no getting around it. Still, Emma's stubborn and after a few moments, she tries again and this time, the Bug clunks its way awake.

Emma claps her hands together victoriously and grins.

Regina just shakes her head and says as she sips from her coffee mug, "Be careful."

Because it's slippery out and she really does hate this car (even as much as she loves it for what it means to Emma).

But it's only three miles to the Sheriff's station and so when Emma waves at her, Regina flicks her hand as if to say "go away" and then turns and heads back into their house, back into her office where she'll be working from. Back to where there is a stack of paperwork higher than two stacked coffee cups. That's why she's at home today. Because it's all about reviewing and signing budgetary forms, and she's in no mood for anything but slow jazz and stocking feet by the fire.

Her eyes flicker towards the clock and she takes note of the time in the most casual of ways.

But that doesn't mean that she doesn't absorb what the numbers mean to her heart. Because in five hours, Henry will be home from school. In seven hours, Emma will be home from work.

She sighs, and then turns on the music.

Emma calls around noon just to check in, but she sounds tired and hassled so Regina quickly flips the conversation around to finding ways to make Emma laugh; it's something at which she's gotten curiously good over their time together and she knows how to be just sarcastic and biting enough about the morons in this town of theirs to lighten Emma up. It works and Emma sighs.

And then chuckles in that distinctly self-depreciating way that sums up Emma so very well.

"Will you be home in time for for dinner?" Regina asks near the end of the call, her eyes flickering over to the harsh cold rain as it beats against the window, the sound less than soothing.

"Maybe. I think so. I'm on my way out to check the sandbags."

"If you would like, I would be happy to come out and help," Regina offers.

"You sure you're not just trying to get out of paperwork, Madam Mayor?"

"I resent that implication; I take my responsibilities to this town and the paperwork that is involved in the never-ending upcoming of this town quite seriously, Sheriff Swan."

"So that's a yes."

"Of course it is."

They both laugh and then Emma says, "Nah, stay inside and warm; it crazy cold and wet out here. And besides, it shouldn't take more than a few hours for me and my dad and the dwarves to check all the sites and then if all goes well and the bags are doing what they should, I'll be home in time to knock on Henry's door and pretend we don't know what he's doing in there."

Regina winces at that. "Charming."

"Yes, I am," Emma replies cheekily.

It's the worst double entendre ever, but then it's time for Emma to get to work.

"Let me know when you're on your way, and I'll have some hot chocolate warm and waiting for you," Regina advises.

"Oh, that sounds like heaven," Emma sighs.

Regina chuckles. And tries to ignore the feeling she has that she should say something else.

Something like: "I love you".

But she doesn't say those words here and now because this isn't one of those big moments.

This is normal stuff…everyday stuff.

And besides, Emma knows.

Of course she does.

The line goes dead after "See you in a few hours" and one last "be careful" and then there's just an unholy mountain of paperwork staring back at her again. So she sighs and gets to it.

Henry gets home right as the phone in the kitchen is ringing and for a moment, she's distracted by how wet and miserable her nearly seventeen-year-old son looks; just the walk from his car to the house has drenched him to the bone and he's shaking his shaggy locks like a dog would, water spraying every which way as she scolds him (lightly and without any kind of real bite) for making a mess. But the phone is still ringing and he asks her in still weirdly deep voice if she's going to pick it up and she suddenly she realizes that no, she doesn't want to pick it up.

Because she knows there's bad news on the other side of it.

"Mom?" Henry asks, coming to stand right beside her. He's 5'10' and towers over her now, his long legs and lanky body seeming to continue to lengthen by the day. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know want to pick that up," she says quietly, as if in a daze.

He gives her a weird look and then strides over and answers it. "Yo."

There's a pause and then he's turning towards his mother.

She shakes her head, a hand lifting up towards her mouth, covering up a caught scream.

"She's alive," he says softly, but almost urgently. "Mom, Emma's alive."

She lets out a gasping sob, understanding what he hasn't yet said.

His arms encircle her – her strong baby boy – and he holds her tight.

Saying again, "She's alive."

The Savior might be alive, but the Bug is dead.

The little car that had seen so much of Emma's life is now broken at the bottom of the creek bed. It had apparently toppled over into the muddy creek below after the water had caused Emma to spin out on the road. The metal has been bent and cracked, but what Regina notices the most as they pass the accident site is that the roof of the vehicle has been ripped off, torn away as if to get to the person that was inside: Emma.

"How is she?" Regina demands as she and Henry rushes down the hallway, her flats not making the noise that her heels usually do. Despite the sharpness of her voice, she doesn't look like the Mayor right now. She's unkempt, her hair a wet mess plastered to her scalp and the little makeup which she had been wearing when she had left the house fifteen minutes earlier is now smeared and leaking down her face, but no one mentions these things; they're unimportant.

The only thing that is important – the only thing which matters – is Emma's condition.

David and Snow stand at the same time, moving towards mother and son in sync, their hands tightly joined as they reach Henry and David. "She's in surgery," Snow states, her voice shaky.

"How bad?" Henry asks, his young eyes so very wide.

"Bad," David admits and then clenches and unclenches the hand that isn't being clutched by Snow. When he does it again, Regina notices the deep cuts on his palms – red and furious.

"Were you in the car with her?" Regina queries, her head tilted slightly as she studies him.

He seems puzzled for a moment, like he can't quite understand. Then: "No. I was…I was in the truck. We were both heading home. I got the call from Sleepy, who saw her spin off the road." He clenches his hands again. "I tried to pull her out but I couldn't get the metal to bend for me."

His strange words washing over her, Regina nods because she finally understands what's going on here. "Has he been seen by a doctor?" she asks Snow.

"He will be," Snow replies, an arm wrapped tightly around her husband; he's weirdly unresponsive to her, his blue eyes staring outwards like he's stuck in some kind of state of shock. "But he wanted to be out here for when they tell us about Emma. He won't leave until we know."

"I know the feeling," Regina murmurs, and then thinks about how much has changed and evolved between all of them. To the point where though her heart is currently seizing with fear, she feels the need to help Emma's family. Her family, too, she knows. And has known for awhile.

She would do anything for these people.

"Look at me," Regina instructs gently, suddenly stepping closer to David. After a glance at Snow, she reaches out for David's hand, her touch light. Again, she says, "David, look at me."

After a moment, he does.

"Emma is strong; she's not leaving us today. Do you hear me?"

These seem somewhat odd words considering how panicked she had been less than a half hour ago, but now she's here and she finds that the faith which she has in Emma is absolute.

"David," she urges.

He finally nods his head, still clearly dazed.

She can't help the shock he's in (part of her is in it, too), but she can help his hands. Her healing magic isn't strong - she'll never be excellent at white magic - but it's enough for this.

"Take a breath," she commands.

"Take a breath, Grandpa," Henry presses when David doesn't appear to responding to the order. "It's okay. Let me mom help you, okay?" He punctuates his words with a soft smile.

That does it and then David is inhaling and exhaling and nodding his head at Regina; she closes her own eyes and then lets the magic trickle up through her fingers and into his hands. When she looks again, the red cuts have faded to just angry looking streaks across his palms.

"Better?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Good. Now tell me what happened."

It's a simple story, really; Emma had been on her way home after hours of checking sandbags, and had hit a water slick that had caused her car to rapidly spin-out and then she'd toppled down into the creek bed (which had thankfully not been flooded or else she might have drowned while stuck in the car). It had taken help from Michael Tillman to get her out of the Bug. Thankfully, his truck had been nearby, and there had been little in getting Emma removed.

All the same, Regina asks in a sharp tone, "Why didn't you call me the moment that narcoleptic dwarf called you? I might have been able to get her out of there even sooner."

"I wasn't thinking," David admits. "Sleepy was the one who got Michael; I just…I was just trying to get her out of there." His face contorts and for a moment he looks like he's going to collapse but then there's Henry with a hand on his forearm and he's helping David to sit down.

"I called you as soon as I heard," Snow says, glancing over at her husband in concern.

Regina nods and look towards the doors to the ER.

Thinking about the words which she should have said, but hadn't.

And now wonders if she'll ever have the chance to say.

Whale comes out a few hours later.

"Good news and bad. Which do you want first?"

"Just tell us," Regina demands, in no mood for any of this.

"Of course," he drawls. "All right, then. I believe that Sheriff Swan is going to be just fine. But she cracked her head pretty good and there was some fairly heavy bleeding. We've relieved the pressure and the prognosis appears to good for a full recovery, but we need to be cautious for a few days at least. These kinds of injuries can be tricky and we want to just…be on the lookout."

"For what?" Regina presses.

"Anything. Head injuries can be unpredictable. We just need to keep our eyes open and…worry about responding if the need arises," Whale says and then turns and walks away.

"Well that was useless," Henry mutters.

It's what everyone was thinking.

They finally allow for visitors in the morning, and it's almost too much.

Because Emma is covered in so many white bandages and gray tubes and she's bruised just about everywhere on her body, but especially on her beautiful face. There is a swath of gauze wrapped around her head and this whole thing just looks so very wrong; she looks wrong.

But Victor thinks she's going to be all right; says she will be.

So Regina sits down beside Emma, takes her hand and squeezes it tight, pressing her fingers between Emma's and holding on. She says, her voice shaking, "Don't you dare leave me, Swan."

Emma wakes a few hours later, wincing against the light and the pain and the cotton that seems to be swamping her.

Wincing in pain and also terribly confused and afraid.

Which becomes evident when she looks at everyone in the room like they're all strangers to her. When she says, "Who are you?" Regina almost turns around and burns Victor to a crisp right on the spot because clearly somehow he'd messed this up – somehow he'd made it worse.

"It's amnesia," Victor says once they're all out of Emma's room, the group of them standing together in the hallway.

"I know what amnesia is, you moron," Regina snaps. "Do remember that I have been part of two curses that at least somewhat featured it, will you, please?"

"Oh, I remember that all too well, Regina," he notes, a flash of meanness in his eyes.

"What did you do to her?"

"I did nothing," he insists. "She was nearly killed in a crash tonight."

"Mom," Henry says.

She takes a breath and nods herself, pulling herself back under control.

"Whale," Snow redirects. "Is this a long-term thing? Is it serious?"

"Will she remember us?" David asks quietly.

"I'm not sure exactly what we're dealing with just yet, but looking at all of her neurological scans, I don't think that this is a permanent thing. It's hard to be one hundred percent certain with these things, but this is most likely just because of the swelling. Once it goes down - and it is going down - she will probably regain full access to her memories. The brain is complicated."

"Yes, so you keep saying," Regina sneers before turning away to anxiously pace.

"Maybe one of these days, you'll listen."

"Enough," Henry says. He rests a hand on his mom's forearm. "So what do we do?"

"You wait," Victor replies. "Maybe pray a little if you do, and hope for the best."

Waiting is something she's never done particularly well.

Praying is something she finds to be utterly useless.

And Emma and Henry and Snow and David are why she has hope; she's terrified almost beyond words that she's about to lose all of this.

Terrified that she's about to lose the one person who truly gets her.

Still, she waits.

And maybe she even does pray just a little bit.

The hope will have to come from Snow and Henry.

David brings Regina a black coffee with two sugars in it the next morning and for a moment they just stand close together.

"How did she look this morning?" he asks finally.

"Better," Regina answers and she doesn't know if it's a lie or just a hopeful half-truth; Emma had been sleeping while she'd been in there so perhaps that's better than being afraid.

"Good," he says and then clenches and unclenches his hands.

Even though the cuts are gone.

"Hey," Henry says as Regina enters the room. She sees him sitting next to an awake Emma, a half-played checkers board on the table in front of them.

"Hi," Regina replies. Her eyes flicker up to his, an unspoken question there, and he shakes his head in the negative, a soft sad smile on his lips.

"No," Emma says, her tone dry and slightly broken. "I still don't remember who I am. But since you two are trying to communicate in code – badly, I might add - and neither one of you has left my side for long, I'm guessing that I'm someone to both of you. And you to me."

"You are," Regina nods. "But we're not supposed to -"

"We don't look at all alike so I'm guessing you're not my sister."

Both Henry and Regina cringe at that, Henry wrinkling his nose in ill-conceived disgust.

"And look of horror on the kid's face suggests that we're not just friends, either," Emma notes with a bit of a knowing smirk. Which hurts because…right now, she doesn't know anything.

"Emma -"

"Lovers?"

Regina doesn't reply.

"Okay. So are we together?"

"I'm not supposed to influence your memories," Regina says, unable to hide her heartbreak.

"Why not?" Henry asks suddenly, turning to face his adoptive mother. "If we tell her the truth about our family, how is that bad, Mom? Won't it just help her to remember us?"

Regina swallows. "I don't…Victor just…" her hands jump into the pockets of her jacket as her anxiety takes over. She looks for a moment like she's about to break down.

"I remember that," Emma says suddenly. "You hands, I mean. You do that when you're…when something is upsetting you." Emma nods, her eyes on Regina's fidgeting pockets.

"See, Mom? She's in there. We just need to nudge her."

"No," Regina says quietly. Because Victor had said not to and this isn't something that she's going to go bold on; Emma means too goddamned much to her – risks are unacceptable here.

"I'm okay," Emma assures her, frowning slightly. "I am."

"You better be," Regina replies sharply, and then she's turning and walking out of the room, her heels clinking loudly against the hard floor of the hallway as she makes her grand exit.

"Full body armor," Emma murmurs.

"Yeah, she does that, too," Henry agrees. "So you need to remember everything, okay? Because only you know how to take it off." He then makes another face of disgust - even at seventeen not really wanting to think about his mothers doing those things with each other.

Emma doesn't exactly know why, but she finds herself chuckling in response.

The swelling in Emma's head is going down and so that means that thankfully, her memories are returning in sputters for her, but they're like vague half formed images and hazy pictures.

Emotional impressions without context.

It's good…very good.

But all of this still hurts Regina more than she can put into words.

Because Emma is getting better each day, but she still doesn't remember the last five years; she doesn't know who these people around her are to her.

She doesn't remember the woman whose bed she's been sharing; she doesn't know who the beautiful woman who hasn't stopped beating herself up for not saying the words is to her.

The moment hadn't mattered then, but it matters now.

God, does it matter now.

Emma remembers the car accident.

Kind of.

She remembers the grinding and crashing and then the sound of her own breath.

Broken and gasping.

She remembers sirens.

And hopelessness.

"Did you bring me a maple bar?" Emma asks when the door opens and Regina enters with a bakery bag under her arm and two cups of coffee in her hands.

"Yes."

"Good."

Regina tilts her head in curiosity. "Did you remember more?"

Emma nods her head slowly. "A little bit more, I think. Yeah. If…if I tell you what I have remembered, will you tell me what I'm remembering?"

"Perhaps."

Emma grins at that and it makes something warm blossom in the middle of Regina's gut.

"Okay. I remember handcuffs."

Regina narrows her eyes at that.

"Just kidding. But I do remember some silk handkerchiefs."

"Do you now?"

"I do."

"Emma."

"Right. Behave. I know." The blonde smiles again before growing serious and almost thoughtful. "But I do remember you holding me. I don't know why but I was crying. And I felt like I was coming apart at the seams – like everything was wrong - and you were just there and you kept promising me that I was never going to be alone. You kept telling me that I was loved.

"You are loved," Regina says instinctively. Then, reluctantly remembering that she's not supposed to give too much away, she asks, "How much of your childhood have you recalled?"

"Enough to know that it wasn't great."

"It wasn't. You went through…a lot during your time in the foster system. But you chose to open up to me. You…let me know what you'd been through."

"You held me."

"I did." She takes a breath and then says quietly, "I love you, Emma."

Like it should explain everything.

For Regina, it does.

She meets Emma's eyes, hoping that it does for her as well.

A few moments pass in uneasy silence, and then Emma reaches out a hand to her and Regina willingly gives her own over, allowing Emma to fold her palm over Regina's, lightly squeezing.

"I don't remember everything," Emma tells her. "I don't remember a lot, actually."

"I know."

"I don't really remember us."

Regina looks down, her heart breaking. "I know."

"But I know that I love you, too. I know."

Their eyes meet again, and Emma's are steady and certain.

Regina lets out a breath and it's almost a sob.

But then she forces herself to smile.

It's all she can do not to cry.

She steps out into the hallway, and Henry turns towards her, noticing the wetness around her eyes.

"Mom?"

"She's coming back to us," Regina tells him, her smile not nearly as confident as her words.

"I know," he tells her.

"Keep saying that," she urges him, her own faith fragile.

"I will," he promises.

After all this time, still the owner of the heart of the truest believer.

The swelling is almost gone now, but the bigger memories still seem to be caught somewhere in her mind.

Which apparently is where Archie comes in.

And the Internet.

It's like those stupid absurd "I'm not a doctor but I stayed in a Holiday Inn so now I know how to lobotomize a banana" commercials and an anxious and constantly on-edge Regina doesn't hesitate to let everyone know this.

Even as she desperately hopes that this will work.

For his part, David is hopeful

Because he needs to see his daughter again.

He needs her to recognize who he is and not hate him.

That Emma would never hate him for not being able to bend metal with his bare hands is beside the point because he hates himself enough for all of them.

Snow is trying to keep everyone together. Her husband, her five-year-old son, her former stepmother/now kind of daughter-in-law/somewhat sister figure/person and her grandson.

Which when you say it all like that, it's pretty weird, Snow muses as she looks at her family.

As she realizes how desperately they all need Emma to remember because her family is running on fumes. They're all trying – with varying degrees of success – to stay hopeful.

But it's hard and there's so much fear.

And yet none of them goes home or leaves Emma's side.

All of them insisting that if this is Emma now and forever more, she will still be loved.

If it is, they will adore her and love her…but…they still want their Emma back.

Which means it's up to Archie to bring her home.

For a mail-order shrink, he's good, but he's not a miracle worker. It takes time, but the memories continue to trickle back. Bits and pieces and there's some fake stuff in there as well.

Memories of a different reality, broken reminders of a gift given by Regina long ago.

Whale thinks that it's possible that the fake memories are the problem and not the head injury. But as they can't actually be removed, well, they'll just have to work around those.

And they do.

Every day, Archie works with her, and helps her pull everything apart.

And every night, someone in her family confirms some of the new details for her.

She remembers the accident more clearly with each sunrise and sunset – she recalls the images that she's been seeing and dreaming about for weeks now coming into vivid focus.

She remembers a man - her father - trying to pull the metal of the crashed in door apart with his bare hands, blood dripping down from his palms as he'd clawed at the bent frame.

She remembers him begging her to hold on.

When David comes to see her, she hugs him so very hard.

She reminds him that she's still here.

He holds onto her, and can't stop himself from crying into her hair.

She calls him, "Dad," and he says, "My little girl."

She looks up and sees her mother watching; she nods at her and then Snow comes closer.

Her eyes closing as she wraps her arms around her husband and her daughter.

Every night (they've kept her in the hospital, unwilling to expose her in her state to the town), Regina and Henry (and occasionally David and Snow) sit beside her and talk to her and tell her that she's not alone. She's not alone, and there will never again be a time when she will be.

Every evening when the lights go out, Emma's holding Regina's hand, their fingers woven together. Emma doesn't remember them, but she feels that this is true.

This is real.

It's a few months after everything had almost ended for her when she remembers.

Everything.

A misguided attempt at a date that had gone upside down, and led to an argument.

A sheepish apology on both of their parts which had led to their first kiss.

An impromptu romantic dance in the backyard under the stars.

A different kind of dance that they'd done a few weeks after that one – this one far more sensual - on Egyptian sheets.

She remembers waking up and rolling around to see enigmatic dark eyes watching her, fear and uncertainty in them.

Worry that this had all been a kind of lie.

But it hadn't been and since then, five years have passed.

She remembers, "see you in a few hours" and "be careful".

She remembers the rest of the crash – every single detail of it.

She remembers being in the Bug, her life bleeding out of her, thinking this was this end.

She remembers thinking about Regina and Henry and her parents.

She remembers pleading for more time, wanting to have so much more time with her family.

And she remembers thinking about the things she hadn't said.

When Regina takes her hand that night, Emma reaches over and pulls the Queen into her arms.

And then she says, her tone vehement, "I love you, Regina; I love you so much."

"You remember?" Regina asks, eyes bright with hope.

"I remember."

Emma leans in again and this time, she kisses Regina as passionately as she possibly can.

Exhaling when Regina kisses her back.

So many things being said.

Finally. Fully. Entirely.

It's a ritual they have. A quick kiss before heading off to work.

They banter and they tease and then they lean in and their lips brush and Regina says, "I love you."

"Love you, too," Emma says as she leans in and pulls Regina flush with her, and then maybe she sneaks another kiss just because she can. Sometimes it's chaste and…sometimes it's not.

Sometimes it leads to things that neither one of them really have time for considering their roles in this town of theirs, but both of them now try to make a few seconds for it, anyway.

When Emma heads down to her car - a new SUV which could probably survive a zombie apocalypse or even an attack by an ogre army or two - Regina feels her heart speed up and there's always that fear that this might be the end, but it's finally getting better. She tells herself, anyway.

She imagines that she'll always be just a little bit afraid.

Afraid that tomorrow, all of this could be gone in the time it takes for metal to crush and crunch and for a heart to stop beating.

But at least, there won't be things left unsaid.

Never again.

-Fin