A/N: I've been posting this fic over on AO3 for a few weeks now. I always intended to cross post it here and just got sort of lazy and never started (oops!) but I figured it was better to start posting it late than never :)

I did want to warn about a few things, so you know what you're getting yourself into:

1) This is completely AU

2) The endgame here is swan queen but it will be slow burn. Like really slow burn. Emma and Regina don't even meet until the end of the second chapter. But hopefully the pay off in the end makes it worth it.

3) This deals extensively with a cancer diagnosis and everything that comes with it. At times there will be somewhat tedious medical discussion, which I considered omitting but decided against because I think it really helps to speak to Emma's state of mind and hopefully also makes certain things that are going on more clear. If, for some reason, you've read my Fosters' fic Swim, you should know exactly what I mean when I say tedious medical discussion. Actually, if you happen to have read that fic, you may recognize some of the medical details since the diagnosis I've used here is the same - that being said, the medical stuff is really just the backdrop here and I think you'll find that the story itself is significantly different than that one.

Anyhow...hope you all enjoy! :)

xxxxxx

And up in the distance, even in the dead of night

If we can make it to the morning, we can get things right

It's been a tough go lately, I hate choosing sides

What we do in the darkness will come to light, alright

And in time, the things that hurt today will begin to fade away

Come to Light, Arkells

xxxxxx

Chapter 1: Flashing Neon Signs

Emma Swan was not the kind of person who went to the doctor. She did not get yearly physicals, or routine checkups of any kind, she certainly didn't have a GP, and, truthfully, she couldn't even remember the last time she'd seen a doctor. Yet, here she was, sitting in the waiting room of a walk in clinic.

Her job was to blame. Not in the way she'd always assumed it would be - chasing a bail jumper leading to an injury that couldn't be addressed with a bag of frozen peas and a bottle of painkillers - but to blame nonetheless. She'd had a cough for weeks, a loud horrifying hacking sound. It sort of sounded like one or both of her lungs was trying to expel its way right out of her body. It was the kind of sound that drew instant attention from every stranger she crossed paths with - with looks ranging from disgust, surely thinking she was contagious and going to give them the plague, to extreme sympathy, clearing thinking she was seriously ill. Drawing that kind of attention to herself was not at all conducive to working in a job that required her to primarily observe and not be seen. So, here she was, waiting to see a doctor, even though she would rather be pretty much anywhere else.

She sat in that waiting room for an hour, nearly haven convinced herself to leave, or more like running out of ways to convince herself to stay, when she was finally called into an exam room.

She fidgeted while the doctor, a man old enough to be her grandfather, that was if she actually had a grandfather, asked her questions, only stilling when he approached to listen to her lungs. His face gave nothing away as he listened carefully through the stethoscope, asking her to take deep breaths. He dropped the stethoscope back around his neck and she waited expectantly for him to speak but he said nothing, reaching forward to feel her neck instead.

"How long have you had this lump over your collarbone?" He finally broke the silence, his brow furrowed as he removed his hands.

Emma frowned, confused, the tips of her fingers reaching up instantly to ghost against the place his fingers had just been. Not that she was really sure what she was feeling for. "I-" she stuttered out, "I don't know."

The doctor just nodded, the expression on his face serious, "Okay." He pulled sheets of paper from cubby slots on the wall, hunching over the counter to scribble on them with a thick black pen.

Emma watched curiously, bringing the back of her arm up to cover her mouth, letting out the cough she'd been holding in, the force of it reverberating through her entire body.

After a minute the doctor straightened, holding the papers out for her to take, "We're going to do some blood work, a chest x-ray, and an ultrasound. Blood work can be done at the lab down the hall to the right, x-ray and ultrasound is across from the lab."

Emma stared at the papers that had been shoved in her hands, stunned a moment. She'd come here to be told she'd picked up a bug that was going around, to be given a prescription and sent on her merry way, not for a slew of tests being ordered by a much too serious looking doctor. "Right now?" were the words that left her mouth when she finally found her voice. It wasn't exactly the question she actually wanted to ask, which was more along the line of, 'what do you think is wrong?' or maybe 'do I have to?'

"Yes," the doctor nodded, not looking any less serious, "Come back here when you've gotten them done."

xxxxx

Despite the pretty clear instructions on the location of the lab, which were further assisted by a large arrow pointing in its direction, Emma took a detour as she walked out of the clinic waiting room, veering in the opposite direction the arrow pointed and slipping into the public washroom. Glad to find the room empty, she walked over to the sink leaning on the counter as she studied herself in the mirror. She swallowed thickly. The lump, a lemon sized thing, resting above her collarbone on the left side seemed so obvious now. She reached up to poke at it. It didn't hurt, at all. She wasn't sure why that surprised her, but it did.

How had she missed this? Being observant was key to her livelihood and yet she'd missed this deformity literally staring back at her in the mirror. How long had it been there? Had it appeared over night or creeped up slowly over weeks? A month? Certainly not longer than that, right? And what was it? A lump could be innocuous, right? Harmless. The serious expression on the doctor's face hadn't actually meant something bad? Or had it?

She shook her head, trying to shake away her racing thoughts. She sighed, reaching forward and twisting the tap on so that she could splash cold water on her face.

xxxxxx

After blood work, the ultrasound, and the chest x-ray, as instructed, Emma returned to the clinic waiting room. Taking a seat in the corner, her knee bounced nervously up and down as people talked in hushed conversations around her. She picked at tape holding a piece of gauze in place in the crook of her arm. It hid the place that the needle had been inserted in to steal her blood, filling vial after vial until she lost count. Her knee bounced faster, her teeth biting down on her lip, gnawing on it, and then she couldn't take it anymore. Waiting was killing her. She didn't want to be here. She sprung from her seat and walked quickly over to the receptionist desk, rocking on the balls of her feet as she waited for the lady, who appeared to be in her late fifties, to look up. It didn't seem like the lady was ever going to look up but then a fresh wave of coughing tore it's way out of Emma's chest and blue eyes were instantly blinking in her direction.

"Umm…" Emma stammered when the receptionist shot her an expectant look, "I was just, uh, wondering if you could maybe call with the test results? Instead of me waiting here for them?"

The expectant look transformed into one verging on incredulous, punctuated by a slow quirked eyebrow. Based on the look, Emma expected to be chastised but when the receptionist spoke, all she asked was, "What's your name?"

"Emma Swan."

The receptionist consulted her computer screen and then checked something on the counter. When she looked up, the incredulous expression on her face had been replaced with a blank one, her gaze no longer quite meeting Emma's, which was a dead giveaway that something wasn't right. A sinking feeling settled in Emma's stomach, like a stone, when the older woman spoke, still not looking her directly in the eye.

"You're next on the list to be called back into an exam room. It's really best if you wait to see the doctor."

Emma swallowed, reaching up and running her hand through her long hair. Her eyes darted to the door, the option to just walk out still seeming viable, but then she sighed, her eyes turning back to the receptionist, "Yeah, okay."

xxxxxx

Emma was back in the same exam room as before, waiting for the doctor. She could hear him talking in the room next door. It was muffled but she could still make words out. So much for medical privacy.

Her hand raked through her hair for probably the fiftieth time in the last few hours and her knee resumed it's bouncing, interrupted only by bouts of coughing, which shook her entire body and required her full focus.

After what felt like forever, the door to the exam room finally opened, and the doctor stepped in carrying what was presumably her chart. She eyed him carefully for some indication of what the tests had shown but his face remained schooled in the same serious expression as before. Perhaps that was just his natural expression.

The doctor cleared his throat, setting the chart down on the counter, "So, I'd like you to go for a CT scan. We've called the hospital and they can fit you in tomorrow at 7am. Will that work for you?"

Wait. What? Emma blinked rapidly as she tried to process this new information. He wanted her to do another test? "Why?" The question she'd wanted to ask earlier escaped now.

The doctor, whose name she should probably learn, suddenly looked uncomfortable and Emma didn't understand why. What was so difficult about answering that question? There must be a reason he wanted her to go for the test.

"Look," he finally said, "I don't want to worry you. It's best if we get the CT scan done and then we can talk ."

Emma went rigid, a flare of stubborn indignation running through her, "No. Either tell me why. Or I'm not doing it."

The doctor sighed but he nodded, "The ultrasound confirmed what I suspected, the lump is a swollen lymph node, which could just mean you have an infection of some kind, although your blood counts are normal. But the chest x-ray...it showed something. The CT scan will give us a better picture."

Emma could tell that he was picking his words carefully. "Something?" she prompted, not willing to settle for that half answer. This doctor clearly suspected something, he must, otherwise why was he being so evasive? She coughed into the back of her arm again as she waited for an answer.

The doctor waited for her racking cough to subside before answering her question. He seemed more resigned now, as if he'd sorted out that he was going to have to tell her everything. "It showed what appears to be a mass in your mediastinum - that's the space between your lungs."

"A mass?" Emma repeated like a parrot, swallowing thickly. She was coughing not because she'd picked up some bug but because there was a mass nestled between her lungs? It didn't even sound real.

"It's likely another swollen lymph node, like the one above your collarbone."

Emma opened and closed her mouth once, twice, a third time, before she found words, her forehead scrunched up in disbelief and confusion, "Is it an infection? That's what you said it could be, right?"

The doctor considered his response for a long moment, eyeing her with plainly obvious concern, "I don't want to speculate. I'd like to wait for further evidence. That's why it's important that you have this CT scan done. As soon as possible. Will the appointment tomorrow at 7am work for you?"

He was clearly trying to change the direction of the conversation but Emma wasn't having it. She didn't like being lied to, even if this wasn't so much a lie as an avoidance meant to protect her. "Please tell me what you think is wrong," her voice was strained.

"Emma," he said seriously, but the pleading look she shot him seemed to affect him because his resigned expression returned, and he answered, "There is a possibility that what we're dealing with here is Lymphoma."

"Lymphoma," she repeated, testing the word out. It sounded strange. "What is that?"

"Cancer," the word was nearly whispered, as if he didn't actually want to say it out loud. His next words were louder though, firmer, "Please understand, just because it looks like something, doesn't mean that it is. We will see what the CT scan shows and then the next step, if it comes to that, will be to get a biopsy to confirm what we're dealing with. Now. Does tomorrow at 7am work for you?"

Emma froze, her mind immediately beginning to race. Cancer? Cancer?! This doctor thought she might have cancer? How could that be? This kind of thing didn't happen to almost 26 year olds, not even notoriously unlucky ones, right? It couldn't be right. It would turn out to be wrong. Because life might have been unfair to her since the day she was born and promptly abandoned on the side of a road but she'd thought she'd made it through the worst. Hadn't years of being given back, over and over and over again, of being unloved and often mistreated, been punishment enough for one lifetime? She knew better than to expect anything to go her way but the last year here in Boston hadn't been downright horrible, lonely, but not horrible. She'd really thought she'd turned a corner. And now she maybe probably had cancer. Of course. Because life hated her.

"Emma?"

Her racing thoughts were interrupted and Emma startled, blinking rapidly as she looked up at the doctor. He was eyeing her worriedly, a hint of apology in his eyes, as if this was somehow his fault.

"Tomorrow?" He prompted, "Can you make that appointment?"

Emma swallowed, her thoughts still a jumbled mess, "I...uh...yeah, I can make it."

"Good," he nodded, "You don't have a GP, correct?"

Emma nodded back her confirmation.

"Okay, then come back here the day after tomorrow. The results from the scan should be ready by then, I'll have them sent here. For now I'm going to give you a prescription for a puffer, it should help some with the coughing."

xxxxxx

Emma moved quickly through the waiting room and out of the clinic, her head ducked low, intent on avoiding the gaze of anyone still sitting in the waiting room. She was sure she still looked shell shocked, she still felt shell shocked, like the world was tilting off its axis. The idea of anyone, even complete strangers who she'd likely never see again, seeing her like that bothered her quite a bit. She'd worked her entire life on projecting strength, on being strong, because that was how she protected herself, that was how she survived. Knowing that she was currently projecting something much different than that was worrisome, almost more so than the word that was running through her brain on an incessant loop that wouldn't stop.

Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.

The word repeated over and over through her brain like it was a beat being played louder and louder on a drum. She yanked the door to her yellow bug open, sliding into the driver's seat, snapping her seatbelt in place, and turning the car on. As she pulled out of her parking spot, she reached for the radio dial on the dashboard, turning it on, and then cranking the volume until it was impossibly loud, loud enough that she could feel the music reverberating through her body even over the hum of the car, loud enough that stopped at a red light she got glares from other drivers, loud enough that she was probably causing permanent hearing damage, and, yet, not loud enough to drown the word out.

Cancer.

xxxxxx

Emma didn't stop to get the puffer, deciding that whatever relief it may provide could wait until she felt more prepared to face strangers and less like her head was going to explode or her heart was going to beat it's way right out of her chest.

She took the stairs up to her apartment at full speed, racing up three floors as if she was being chased, which she sort of was, just by her own brain and outpacing it was essentially an impossible feat. She slammed the door of her apartment shut behind her kicking off her shoes and hanging up her leather jacket before she headed for the kitchen, yanking open the fridge door.

She studied the sad contents of the fridge, three beers, an almost empty container of orange juice, a random assortment of condiments, a half eaten jar of pickles, and two strawberry yoghurts. She needed to go grocery shopping. Not tonight though. For once in her life, she wasn't hungry. The opposite, actually, she felt pretty nauseous.

She hadn't opened the fridge looking for food anyway, the beer was what she wanted. She grabbed one, twisting off the top and tossing it onto the counter, closing the fridge door with her hip. She took a long pull of the cold beer as she walked over to the couch, flopping herself down. The cold liquid sliding down her throat wasn't nearly as satisfying as she'd hoped it would be. She reached for the remote and turned the TV on but, just like the radio in the car, the television did little to drown out her thoughts.

After fifteen minutes of trying to pay attention, she gave up, setting the mostly finished beer down on the coffee table and pulling out her laptop. She pulled up a search engine and typed in Lymphoma, clicking on the first link that came up. She got two sentences in and then she shook her head. What was she doing? This was a horrible idea. She closed the window and set the laptop aside, picking the beer back up and chugging the rest of its contents. She stood, walking back over to the kitchen, setting the empty beer on the counter beside its discarded lid and contemplating her options. She shouldn't drink on an empty stomach. She probably shouldn't drink at all right now. But the thought of eating still made her feel queasy and the possibility of being buzzed enough to shut her brain up was too tempting. Decided, she pulled a second beer from the fridge and headed back for the couch, sipping the drink slowly, trying once again to focus on the television.

It sort of worked for about ten minutes but then her attention was drawn back to the laptop, pulling it back onto her lap. She stared at it blankly for a long moment before she typed in another search.

Cost of cancer treatment.

She hesitated a split second and then she hit enter, again picking the first link and starting to read. In many ways this was an even worse idea than her first search and, yet, she couldn't stop herself, she kept scrolling down.

She had some medical insurance. Like the visit to the walk in clinic, her job was to blame - or perhaps was to thank was more appropriate in this instance - for that small relief. She'd always assumed she'd get injured eventually and that she'd need the insurance. But it wasn't good insurance. It had copays and deductibles and even just this scan she was supposed to be having tomorrow would cost her. If she really was sick, would she be able to keep working? Would she be able to afford medical bills and her apartment? The thought of having to give up her apartment made her chest ache. She was proud of this apartment. It was a fairly tiny one bedroom place but it was nice and clean and bigger than anywhere else she'd lived since she'd run away from the foster care system at seventeen and it even had furniture that she'd picked out herself. She'd been here in Boston for a year, and in this apartment for eight whole months, it was literally the longest she'd lived anywhere since her first foster family had given her back at the age of three. What if that was in jeopardy?

She sighed loudly, finishing the rest of her second beer and slamming the laptop closed.

What was she doing? Why was she worrying like this? It could be nothing. She shouldn't be worrying until she knew something more concrete. Knew for sure that it was cancer. Maybe it wasn't. But maybe it was. Why wouldn't it be? Why would anything in her life ever go right?

"Shut up," she growled out loud at her brain, beyond frustrated by the incessant inner dialogue.

She sighed again. It was going to be a long night.

xxxxxx

The CT scan was nothing like Emma imagined, which, okay, she didn't really have much to base this imagined vision on, but still. Why had nobody mentioned that getting a CT scan included being forced to drink some horrible cocktail beforehand? She couldn't even chug it like she wanted to, she was supposed to sip it slowly over a designated period of time. Its only saving grace was the sugar free raspberry lemonade they mixed it with, although she imagined that Kool Aid powder would have done a better job of masking the horrible taste.

It only got worse from there. The test required an IV. The IV itself wasn't a problem, needles didn't really bother her, it was what they did with the IV, which was inject her with some horrible dye that would apparently give them a better picture. The dye had the unfortunate side effect of setting her insides on fire, every inch of her body unpleasantly, although not painfully, warm, like smoldering from the inside out, with the added bonus of being pretty damn sure she'd peed herself (which thankfully, she had not).

She'd hoped she'd be able to gleam if it was good news or bad news from the person administering the test but even her lie detecting super power was of no use. She wondered if they taught a course in poker faces for medical professionals. They all seemed to have mastered the same blank expression.

All in all, the whole thing pretty much sucked.

xxxxxx

Waiting two days to go back to the clinic to get the CT scan results was a little bit like torture. At least the puffer sort of worked, enough that Emma wasn't coughing every five minutes, allowing her to focus on work. She'd managed to track not one, not two, but three bail jumpers in that time mostly because she desperately needed the distraction. Tony, her boss of sorts, the owner of the bonding company, was thrilled.

She was back at the clinic now, sitting in a different exam room, waiting to see the doctor, whom she'd learned when she checked in today did in fact have a name - Dr. Garrison. Just like two days previous, her leg bounced nervously while she waited. The receptionist had done the not making eye contact thing again when she'd checked in, which really could mean nothing but it had left Emma feeling especially unsettled.

She wasn't sure if she should breathe a sigh of relief that the wait was over or hurl when the doctor finally walked into the room. She suddenly felt like her head was trapped underwater, her heart beating erratically in her chest, the thumping echoing in her ears.

"Hello Emma, how are you today?" Dr. Garrison asked.

Distracted by the thumping of her heart, Emma's response was delayed. "I'm okay," she finally managed to get out, wondering if the wobble in her voice was as obvious to the doctor as it was to her.

"Has the puffer helped?" Dr. Garrison asked, motioning for her to stand so that he could listen to her chest.

She nodded, rising from her chair and shuffling closer, taking deep breaths as the doctor pressed the cold stethoscope to her back and then her front.

Dr. Garrison was silent, listening intently for several long seconds before he removed the stethoscope from his ears, hanging it back around his neck with a nod, as if satisfied. "Okay," he clasped his hands together, "So, I received your CT scan results…"

Emma gnawed on her lip as she waited for him to continue.

"The mass in your chest is swollen lymph nodes as we suspected. The mass is about the same size as the one over your collarbone. About 3 inches in diameter. The scan showed other swollen lymph nodes as well, smaller, about an inch, in both of your armpits," the words were spoken carefully.

Emma swallowed, a hand reaching up to rake through her blonde hair, "What does that mean?" Had the doctor just said there were lumps under her arms? Had she missed those too?

"Well...findings are still consistent with lymphoma. We will have to go ahead with the biopsy to confirm that diagnosis and establish what type specifically we are dealing with."

Emma's heart thumped impossibly louder. Not the news she'd been hoping for.

xxxxxx

The biopsy was scheduled for the following week.

Of all the places Emma expected to be reminded of how alone she was, she hadn't really considered that checking in for an operation would be one of them.

The first thing the nurse taking her vitals asked was who was picking her up. Apparently she wouldn't be allowed to drive after being put under general anesthetic.

"Uhh…" Emma gnawed her lip, trying to think up a suitable lie, "A friend." That seemed reasonable. This nurse didn't need to know that Emma had no friends, heck, she hardly even had people she was friendly with.

"Can I have their number please? We'll call when you're out of surgery," the nurse eyed her with raised eyebrows, clearly not believing her unconvincing lie.

"Uhh…" Emma had nothing to say to that.

The nurse's eyebrows quirked higher a moment before her expression softened to something akin to pity, which really was worse as far as Emma was concerned.

"If you don't have anyone to pick you up, that's okay. We can call you a cab."

"Yeah, okay," Emma sighed. She wanted this nightmare to be over.

xxxxxx

Emma hated hospitals in the same generic way that most people hated hospitals - they were too white, too sterile, and they all seemed to have the same smell, as if they all used the same non-specific cleaning product.

Lying on the operating table while people fluttered around her, attaching wires to her torso and busying themselves doing who knows what else, it occurred to Emma that there were much more specific things to dislike about hospitals.

This room, for instance, was much too cold, the operating table too hard, and the beeping that began once they'd attached the wires to her seemed insufferably loud.

Her mind raced, contemplating if it was too late to decide she didn't want to do this, but then they were asking her to count backwards from a hundred. She made it to ninety-six and then there was nothing.

xxxxxx

She woke to someone standing over her, her first instinct was to jerk away, but her body's response was sluggish and her limbs did nothing more than flail pathetically. "Mmm," she grunted out, momentarily confused as to where she was, her eyes only open a sliver.

"How are you feeling, Emma?" the person standing above her, a woman, asked.

"Mmm...sleepy," Emma mumbled, her eyes closing shut again against her will. Slowly the memory of where she was, and why, came tumbling back to her. The hospital. The biopsy.

The nurse smiled, the amusement evident in her tone, "Yes, well, that's to be expected."

Emma forced her eyes to blink back open to look at the woman, this time managing to force them wider than a crack. "I…" she started but then realized she had no clue what to say. Should she ask how it went? Would this nurse even know? Or maybe she should ask how long she would be here? Could she leave now maybe? Her brain was filled with a kind of fog that made it impossible for her thoughts to completely unjumble and none of those questions actually left her mouth.

The nurse reached forward and patted her arm, "Just rest. You'll feel better in a little bit and then we'll get you discharged, okay? If you're in pain or if you're nauseous, you just let me know. Your surgeon left instructions that you could have something for either of those things. Everything went well. He'll be in in a while to talk to you and give you your discharge instructions."

"O-okay," Emma managed to stutter out, following only about fifty percent of what was said, her eyes sliding back shut once more.

xxxxxx

After about an hour, Emma felt semi-alive again, the fog still present but no longer completely consuming. The nurse looking after her had given her a banana popsicle, followed by a shot of anti-nausea medication when the aforementioned popsicle unsettled her stomach.

As promised, the surgeon came in to tell her that everything had gone according to plan with the biopsy and to give her the discharge instructions, which were fairly straightforward. She was to leave the incision covered overnight, change the dressing and remove the drain he'd put in in the morning (which she was assured would be easy and not as horrifying as it sounded), and come back in a week to have the stitches removed. The biopsy results would take about a week to come in.

It was another half an hour before Emma was dressed back in her jeans and white tank top and the nurse was calling her the previously promised cab and taking her down to the front entrance of the hospital in a wheelchair.

It had gone from light to dark in the time since she'd entered the hospital and sitting in the back seat of the cab, Emma rested her head against the window, watching the lights of the city pass by in a blur of colour.

xxxxxx

If waiting for the CT scan results was torture, then waiting for the biopsy results was pure hell. To Emma, it sort of felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing that at any moment someone might push her off that edge.

She was on a stake out when the call finally came in eight days after the biopsy. She recognized the clinic number flashing on the phone on her passenger seat and she scrambled to pick it up. As quick as she was to grab the phone, she hesitated a moment, taking a deep breath to try and calm herself, before hitting the answer button.

"May I speak with Emma Swan?"

She recognized the voice, it was the doctor from the clinic. She didn't know why but she'd expected the receptionist and for a moment she was too stunned to reply.

"Hello?" the voice on the other end spoke again after a moment had passed with no sound.

"S-sorry," Emma stuttered out, "This is Emma speaking."

"Emma, it's Dr. Garrison," the man announced, unnecessarily, "I'm sorry to do this over the phone but I thought you'd want to know right away, the biopsy results came in..."

There was a pause and Emma stopped breathing while she waited for him to continue.

"It's Hodgkin's Lymphoma."

There are moments where your entire life changes and they are so obvious that someone may as well be standing there with a flashing neon sign. Emma knew that this was one of those moments.

xxxxxxx

Regina sat behind her desk at Town Hall and pulled her phone off the hook, dialing a number she now knew by heart. This was a call she'd made weekly for five months. She'd gone as far as setting a reminder in her calendar to tell her to do so.

She listened to the familiar greeting of the receptionist of the Boston adoption agency.

"Yes, hello," Regina replied when the standard much too cheerful spiel was over, "this is Regina Mills. I'm just calling to check on the status of my file."

The reply she received was always the same one. There was no need for her to call weekly, the agency would call her immediately as soon as there was something to report, these things typically took quite some time, but her file was still active and they guaranteed that one day she would be bringing home a baby, she just had to be patient.

"Yes, okay," Regina replied tersely, trying not to sound unfriendly but not sure she was succeeding, "thank you for your time. Have a great day." She hung up before anything else could be said.

She gritted her teeth, her jaw tightening as she stared at the wall across from her desk. She wasn't disappointed - or at least that was what she was trying valiantly to tell herself, what she told herself after every one of these calls. Of course, even if she wouldn't admit it to herself, she was disappointed. When she'd decided a year ago that her lonely existence would benefit from a child - someone to love and someone to love her - she'd assumed it would be easy, or easy enough. Even after she'd received the devastating news that she could not, would never be able to, carry a child, she'd still thought it would be easy. She'd wasted little time wallowing in the news of her infertility, waiting only one day before contacting the adoption agency in Boston. Things had moved quickly at first with filling out paperwork and passing the home visit to become adoption approved but things had dropped off quickly after that and here she was, five months later, still with no baby.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and her administrative assistant, Susan, popping her head into the office.

"You're appointment is here," Susan announced.

Regina frowned, her eyes darting over to the calendar still open on her computer, "What appointment?" There was no appointment showing. In fact, the only thing in her calendar for the entire day was the reminder to call the adoption agency.

"Kathryn Nolan," Susan clarified, as if that should be obvious, but seconds later her eyes widened in horror and Regina could see the realization dawning on the young woman as she stuttered out, "Sh-she called this morning. I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you. I'm so sorry. I didn't put it in your calendar."

Regina eyed Susan incredulously a long moment, the look admonishment enough, no words were required. Eventually she sighed, "Do you at least know what she is here for?"

Susan gulped audibly, shaking her head.

Regina sighed louder, pinching the bridge of her nose and taking a couple of deep breaths. Good help was hard to come by. Susan tried hard, she was just rather scatterbrained. It drove Regina crazy. "Very well then, send her in, I'll just have to discern the reason for her visit myself," her tone was terse, her displeasure evident.

Susan gulped again, mumbling out another, "Sorry," before disappearing back out the door.

Moments later Kathryn was striding into the room, greeting Regina with a friendly smile, "Hi Regina, how are you doing?"

"Hello," Regina returned the greeting, "I'm well and yourself?"

"Can't complain," Kathryn shrugged.

Regina studied the other woman carefully, trying to decide if this was a social visit or not. Regina had lived in Storybrooke for nearly ten years, yet Kathryn was one of the very few people she counted among her friends. Although, admittedly friends might be too generous of a term. At least Kathryn didn't flat out avoid Regina's gaze if they passed in the street, and the other woman had even invited Regina to have dinner with her and her husband Fredrick on occasion. Regina wondered if maybe that was why Kathryn was stopping by today but the fact that she'd apparently called ahead to make an appointment would seem to suggest otherwise. "Why don't you take a seat," she motioned with her hand to the chair in front of her desk, "Did you want a coffee? I can have Susan fetch you one."

"I'm okay," Kathryn shook her head at the offer of coffee as she took the seat in front of Regina's desk. "Besides," she smirked, "Susan looked rather frazzled, I have a feeling she isn't up to the task of fetching coffee."

"Yes, well, frazzled, I'm afraid is Susan's natural state," Regina responded with a mostly straight face, only the hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth, "she usually manages coffee just fine if you did want one."

"That's okay, I really am okay," Kathryn waved the second offer off with her hand.

"Very well. So to what do I owe this pleasure?" Regina quirked an eyebrow. Usually she wouldn't mind chatting for a while, well not with Kathryn anyway, but not knowing the reason for this visit was putting her on edge and she wanted to resolve that quickly.

Kathryn crossed her legs, folding her hands over her knee, "So I received an interesting call this morning...from your mother."

Shock over took Regina's face for a moment and it took a great deal of effort for her to school her features back into their usual impassive expression. "What did Cora Mills want with you?" Despite her best attempt, Regina's delivery was very much less smooth than usual, still recovering from her surprise.

"To hire me as your publicist," Kathryn replied matter-of-factly.

"Publicist?" Regina uttered the word incredulously, her shoulders straightening, her entire body going rigid, preparing for a fight, "And why pray tell does my mother think I need a publicist?"

Kathryn did not match Regina's defencive posture, instead leaning back in her chair, clearly an attempt to appear as non-threatening as possible. She shrugged one shoulder, almost indifferent, "Something about you running for Congress?"

"I mentioned that once in passing, as a possibility, not a certainty," Regina shook her head in complete disbelief. The conversation had been two days ago, her mother was nothing if not prompt. At 33 she'd thought she'd moved passed having her mother meddle in her affairs, she should have known better. Heck, she never should have even told her mother where she'd moved to after she'd left Portland a decade ago. Her life would have been better for it. "She had no right to make decisions on my behalf," Regina's voice was terse, as she struggled to maintain her composure, "Please tell me you said no." The guilty look on Kathryn's face told her that that definitely wasn't the case, "You didn't?" Why on earth would Kathryn agree to this? Regina could feel her anger flaring. Kathryn was supposed to be her friend.

"Look," Kathryn sighed, her expression apologetic, "I didn't say yes, exactly. I just didn't say no either. You must know that your mother is kind of hard to say no to, she is rather insistent," Regina opened her mouth to protest but Kathryn held her hands up to stop her, "And that's not an excuse but think about this...if I said flat out no, she was going to find someone who would agree...and it's not as if Storybrooke is teaming with publicists, her next call was going to be to some company in a big city. I will answer to you not her, I'll respect your wishes, do whatever you want. Do you really think some publicist from Portland or Boston or god knows where else would do the same?"

Regina was silent for a very long moment, her teeth gritted tightly together. Finally she gritted out a single word response, "Maybe." It was as close to agreement as Kathryn was going to get.

"Here's the thing Regina," Kathryn folded her hands back in her lap, "Elections are still two years away. When it comes time to make the decision, if you don't want to run for Congress, then you don't run for Congress. But I assume you still want to remain mayor? And a little good PR never hurt anyone. A little good PR that you don't have to pay for. Isn't that even better?"

Regina bristled, her entire posture stiffening again, "I do a great job as mayor. Are you trying to suggest that's not PR enough?"

Kathryn immediately shook her head, her hands going back up in defense, "No, not at all. You're right, you are great at your job, Regina, no one would deny that...but you're also a bit…" she swallowed, her voice dropping as she considered her words carefully, "...aloof." There was a brief pause before she continued, "You've been here, what? Ten years? And most people still don't know anything about you. Heck I've had you for dinner at my house multiple times and I didn't even know your mother's name until today." Kathryn ran a hand through her hair and when Regina didn't immediately jump in, she added, "You ran unopposed in the last election, Bob practically handed you the job when he retired, and I've heard rumblings that Mr. Gold is considering throwing his hat in the ring next time around. I, for one, have no desire to see that man become mayor. Let me be your publicist. We won't have to do much, I promise."

Regina blinked slowly, once again lapsing into silence as she digested Kathryn's words. She wanted to snap back, she nearly did, but a small nagging at the back of her brain gave her pause. Was Mr. Gold really going to run for mayor in the next election? Certainly he wouldn't win over her? Would he? And what if she did decide to run for Congress? The necessary choice was becoming clear, even if she wasn't sure she liked it. "Fine. But you will not accept money from my mother. I will pay you myself," her words were firm. Regardless of Kathryn's previous assurance that Regina would be the one making the decisions, she would not risk it. She refused to let her mother have even the possibility of control over her again.

Kathryn's eyes widened in surprise a moment, clearly having expected further argument. She recovered quickly though, "Yes, sure, of course. Whatever you want."

Regina's posture remained rigid, despite Kathryn's agreement. She still felt on edge and her tone said as much, "So then. What exactly are you, as my publicist, going to do to for me?"

Kathryn settled back in her chair, looking relaxed again, apparently unbothered by Regina's tone, "I was thinking we could start with some volunteer work. That typically goes over well with everyone."

Regina pursed her lips, "What kind of volunteer work?"

"My first thought was at a pediatric oncology centre," Kathryn's response was immediate, she'd clearly spent some time before this meeting considering options.

Regina's response was just as immediate, "No." Children were a bit of a sore point for her at the moment. She wanted a child so badly that sometimes it actually hurt when she encountered parents with their children. The thought of being surrounded not only by children, but by very unwell children, made her stomach twist. That would certainly be much too painful to deal with. Perhaps that made her a horrible person, she didn't know, but she couldn't help it.

"Okay," Kathryn shrugged, not even attempting to convince Regina and Regina couldn't help but wonder if that was deliberate on the other woman's part, a way of showing that she really was here to listen to Regina.

"Nothing with children," Regina clarified her previous rejection further, suddenly worried that all of Kathryn's suggestions would include minors.

"Okay," Kathryn repeated, still seeming unbothered, "Then how about an adult cancer centre? The American Cancer Society is always looking for volunteers."

Regina hesitated a moment but then she sighed, "Okay, fine. Set that up."

There are moments where your entire life changes and you have no clue until much later when you look back on a series of events and pinpoint that moment as being the one where things began, as the moment in time that set you on the path to change. Regina had no clue that this was one of those moments.

xxxxxx