A/N: As always, sorry for the delays.
Content Warnings: Depression, physical domestic abuse (not graphic), self-harm, references to sexual abuse, and language.
Major turning point here, y'all - strap in, and thanks for coming along far!
Before.
"What the hell are you playing at tonight?" Trev demands, circling her. He's drunk, and angry, and every part of her is telling her that this is when she should just meekly submit to him. Apologize, make nice, and give him everything he wants.
It's what usually works, and after years of trying out everything that doesn't, she's gotten somewhat good at knowing how to keep things calm and quite, her husband appeased.
But she's tired, and frustrated, and what exactly had she done wrong here?
Helped a scared little girl? Kept her from feeling as alone as Elizabeth does every day?
So she doesn't back down – she looks right at Trev and says, "She needed someone."
"Maybe, but some dude and his kid ain't your problem. Coming home to me - that's the only thing you're supposed to worry about." His voice softens, then, like he's speaking to her as if she's a very small, very stupid child (ironic considering what they're arguing about, she thinks, darkly). "Look, I know you wanna caretake everyone, baby, but that's not what we do. We've done pretty well by just keeping to ourselves and minding our own business. Just you and me against the world. Right?"
"Trev, she was scared. I couldn't just...leave her all alone like that. I couldn't."
"Playing house with some brat kid won't make you a mom," he reminds her, his tone cruel and caustic. "You know that, right?"
It's a direct hit to Elizabeth's heart, a terrible reminder of the bitter truth that is her infertility. Her shoulders sagging, she shakes her head, just wanting to be away from this fight. From him. "I'm tired. I want to sleep."
She starts to walk away from him, even gets a few feet while he stares at her in shock, but then he grabs her arm hard enough to bruise and pulls her back to him. Almost instinctively (though, she might argue as to where that instinct had come from) she puts her hands out in front of her to keep him away.
It's a poor choice, and his eyes widen in surprise and hurt. "What the fuck, Lizzie?"
"I'm tired, and I don't want to do this," she repeats, and forcibly shoves his hand away.
It's the wrong decision, the wrong move, and she knows it even before he reacts to her touch by slapping at her. Only he's a very big man, and when he slaps, it's more like a punch, and when he hits the side of her face, she goes down, the entire side of her face feeling like it's exploding with pressure and pain.
"We do this when I say we do," he yells. "You're my wife and you don't...we don't...we don't...God.." Looming over her for a moment, he sees the way she's folded into herself, and his eyes widen as he realizes what he's done to her – again. "Baby," he says. "God, Lizzie." He reaches down and grabs her by the forearms, meeting no resistance as he pulls her to her feet. His voice practically breaks as he looks at what he's done to her, as he sees his mark. "You're my wife," he says again before kissing her hard.
Like sex can somehow make the violence fade away.
Only, it's all the same these days.
She wants to resist, thinks to resist, but she can barely see now, and what's the point.
He's right, and this is all stupid.
She'd brought this on herself, all of it.
It's not like she hadn't known it would come to this when she'd ignored her husband's calls. When she'd gotten immersed in the life of Henry and Lucy Mills, even if only briefly.
It'd been a mistake – one she won't make again, because yes, it's easier when she's alone.
It's better when Trev is the only person in her life – he's happier, and she's…safer.
He breaks from the kiss (and she can still taste alcohol and tobacco on her tongue, his breath soured by hours of drinking and smoking), and then leans his forehead against hers, almost conciliatory. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You know I never mean to hurt you. You know that. I love you so much," Trev insists. "I'm just trying to protect you. I can't protect you if you don't let me, right?"
She thinks of the many times he says that word - "right" - each of them a demand for capitulation and obedience.
"I don't want protection," she murmurs, head back against the wall, her head pounding.
"But you need it," he insists, and then he's pulling her into his arms, peppering kisses across her, his own tears splashing down her. "That's my job in this family of ours. To save you from the all the fucked up that's out there. That's my job."
"Right," she whispers.
And wonders – but doesn't dare say – as he squeezes her tight, "But who will save me from you?"
Now.
Regina wakes with a violent shudder, her wounded body convulsing violently for a few moments before she manages to get control of herself. Before she forces stillness.
Settling a hand over her chest, feeling her heart pounding erratically, she tries to chase the images from the dream away, but she can still see Trev over her, his face red with anger.
Her body aches, new and old injuries throbbing.
She can feel him on her, his hands, his body.
His anger and his desires always prominent.
His needs always dominant.
His protection always edged with violence and possession.
She rises gingerly from the bed, and staggers towards the bathroom. A sharp twist and there's steaming hot water spraying down. She undresses quickly, awkwardly, and settles into the shower. It's too hot, but it feels good, and she's reminded of how many times she had done this exact thing during her years with Trev. Washing away hours and years of feeling filthy and used.
Unable to scald his touch away, she wonders where he is now.
Wonders if he'd survived being shot.
Wonders if, even now, he's looking for her.
Panic settles hard in her belly, and forces her from the shower. Still dripping wet and naked, Regina makes her way across the room, passing by the open window long enough to notice how gray and dark the sky has gotten. Pushing this thought away (though the Queen is telling her not to, trying to warn her), she makes her way over to an antiquated laptop, one that was as stuck in time as the rest of Storybrooke. Her anxiety screaming, she impatiently waits as it powers it up, then brings up a search engine and types in: Trevor Carson – Bangor, Maine.
A newspaper article comes up, reporting the details of an escaped husband killer and her famous (for a writer) male acquaintance. Police believe they had become obsessed with and then kidnapped the wife of a local man who had been shot and nearly killed during the abduction.
The man - poor innocent Trevor Carson - just fears for his wife's safety, believing that she is too good-hearted and trusting to escape her kidnappers. He just wants his wife home where she belongs, Trev is quoted as saying from his hospital bed. He misses his Elizabeth terribly, and he's so very scared for her because that con woman and the druggie writer, they've probably done something terrible to his wife.
They've taken her away from him.
And he just wants her back with him.
Regina doesn't think, just reacts, and then her hand is slamming into the screen of the laptop, forceful, and violent, the screen shattering along with two of the knuckles on her hand.
Gasping for air and half cradling her now wounded hand, she turns around, and catches sight of her naked form in the mirror. She turns again and spots a fresh pile of clothes sitting on the dresser-top – green and black plaid pajama bottoms and a white tank-top (most certainly Zelena's, she thinks, and probably left by her, too). Pulling them on hastily, wincing as the rough cotton rubs against her reddened skin, her eyes land on a pack of cigarettes on the dresser. As she grabs the pack of cigarettes and the lighter, she sees blood dripping down from her busted knuckles – a clench of deep anxiety at seeing her blood staining the carpet – turning, she then staggers to the window. She's not thinking – not really – or she would remember how difficult it is to get onto her roof. She'd learned that lesson many years ago during her first months in Storybrooke, but apparently she's forgotten it now. Or maybe just doesn't care.
She shoves the window open and crawls out, scraping her feet against the shingles. She drops down on her knees after a moment (and the bitterness she feels at assuming this position makes her stomach flip-flop) and then onto her bottom as she scoots across, slipping only a little bit before she manages to find a place to settle. A place to look out on Storybrooke.
Her little town that has suffered so much thanks to her.
Blinking slowly, she pulls a cigarette from the pack, and slides it into her mouth, her thumb rubbing against the wheel of the lighter to start the flame. Orange and sparking bright.
Her head tilts, cigarette drooping and then falling to the ground as she watches the flames.
"No," the Queen says, understanding first. "Regina, no –"
"You'll feel," Elizabeth murmurs. "We need to feel something again."
"Then we act," the Queen insists. "Then we fight!"
"You don't understand; this is safer," Elizabeth pleads. "Let us be safer."
"This is weakness."
"Maybe, but at least we're surviving!"
"No, we're not!"
Their words merge and fade, noisy in her head, an argument between her broken pieces.
She lifts the lighter up to the palm of the hand with the busted knuckles, waits for the burn.
She feels…nothing.
Eventually, she thinks, and keeps the flame burning.
Before.
"You think this is ridiculous, don't you, Emma?"
"I think you're not a fucking cricket," she replies tiredly, looking back at the spectacled psychologist; part of her sentence is that she has to go through anger management sessions.
Which seems exceedingly indulgent, but it's not like she has a lot of choices here.
Which is why she's sitting in a little room with couches, for once not cuffed.
Because he can help her sort through the rage that had led her to kill her husband. Maybe he can help her figure out why she'd punched the guard who'd groped her.
Or so they say.
They'd have to actually understand what had happened to help. But they don't understand, don't actually care to, and this is all just pointless.
The doctor chuckles. "No, I'm most certainly not a bug."
She winces at that, thinking of Regina.
Who is not someone she should be thinking about while talking about Killian.
Well, they know him as Brennan because they don't actually know anything.
In any case, she realizes it's probably impossible not to think about Regina when Killian comes up, because it'd had been her night with Regina that had finally unspooled her marriage. She understands now – after so much time in this terrible prison – that she and Hook had been coming apart long before the truth about her and Regina had come out. They'd been over long before she'd admitted to cheating, but that doesn't do a damn thing for her guilt.
Because in the end, she'd still made the choices she'd made.
A box she'd opened because her impatience and curiosity had gotten the best of her.
A night between friends that had turned into something far more because…
…well, because in truth, they've always been far more.
Not that any of that matters now – regardless of why it had happened (or if it was always inevitable), Killian's blood is still on her hands – literally and figuratively.
"Let's get back to talking about you. Tell me what you're feeling right now, Emma."
"Frustration," Emma admits, folding her hands into her lap. She's trying to stay as still as possible, and not only because there's an armed guard next to the door, even though she's pretty sure that all of the guards around this place have it out for her. No, the truth is that her back continues to be her biggest enemy these days, and even the slightest pull is agonizing.
So she stays still and she moves carefully, trying to avoid people and conflict and…
…and yet she's still Emma Swan, so conflict tends to find her like a faithful mutt.
"Understandable. It can be hard to look beyond these walls and see a future."
Emma just stares back at him. In no mood to humor him.
"You won't be here forever," he tells her.
"Easy for you to say. After we're done here, after I get thrown back into my comfortable dark little cell, where I'll spend the rest of tonight on edge, listening to every sound, wondering if the next time the doors open, I'm going to get my ass kicked again, you'll get to go home to your safe little house." She looks down at his hand and clocks his wedding ring. "Presumably with a wife who loves you. Or maybe she doesn't and she's screwing around on you like I was on my husband. Either way, you get to go home and curl under warm blankets, and you'll be safe."
"We all make choices," he tells her, so patient and calm. So patronizing. "I'm here to help you figure out the ones you've made. But you have to be brave, Emma. You have to be willing to confront the worst of yourself to get there."
She laughs bitterly. "All due respect, Doc, which to be honest, ain't much, fuck off."
"Emma –"
"No, you don't get it. None of this is what you think it is. My life isn't what you think it is. I don't have a choice in this bullshit game, and neither do you. Except not to play anymore. That's my choice." She closes down, then, pulling her legs up to her chest to show him as much.
The pain is immediate and excruciating, but she simply grinds her teeth and stares at him.
Stares until he nods to the guard, and then it's time to go back to her cell.
Time to survive another night.
Some (most) days, Emma wonders why she's still even bothering to try.
Now.
She's downstairs with Henry – having come over early because she'd wanted to be here before Regina wakes up – assuring him that they're going to find a way through this.
He nods and offers her a cup of coffee. Reaching for it without thinking, she winces because this is the tightest her back has been since making their feverish escape.
The whole carrying Regina through the hospital, jumping in a car, and high-speed chases hadn't helped. If only she could use the magic she's feeling within herself now to help herself.
Ah, but that would be too easy, right?
"Mom –"
"Here, let me," Zelena says, coming up behind her. Her hands slide to Emma's back, and Emma jerks in the grip, still not adapted back to being touched so freely (she finds it far easier to touch others than to allow them to put their hands on her – a control thing), and most certainly not by Zelena. She gets a murmured apology and then numbing warmth is flowing into her body.
She sighs in relief, understanding that the magic is only being used as a painkiller, but no less grateful. When this is all over, she'll do something about her back.
Maybe start on the whole healing process.
But it's not over yet, and there are still so many miles to go on this journey.
"Thanks," she says, then looks over at Henry. "I guess it's time to stop stalling."
"Do you know what you're going to say to her?"
"Just try to be honest with her," Emma replies. "And I guess, go from there."
You mind if I go up with you. I mean, just to check on her. She was in pretty rough shape last night," Henry says, thinking about holding his mom in his arms. "I guess, I just –"
"Need to see her to make sure she's all right. I get it." Emma shrugs. "And yeah, of course." She looks over at Zelena, "What about you? Do you need…want to join us for this, too?"
"No," Zelena replies, quietly, her voice trembling noticeably. "I'm not the one she needs…or wants, for that matter." And then she turns and heads downstairs, to where her daughter is. The one person she really feels like she can still help through her nightmares.
"She feels helpless," Henry says, intuitive for a moment, wise beyond his years. In a moment, he'll return to his relentless drive forward, his need to heal his family as quickly as possible, but for now, he sees the pain around him, the cracking of three very strong and brave women.
He sees their traumas and their weary edges, their lives lived roughly and often harshly.
The writer in him understands as does the former addict.
The son in him aches.
"We all do," Emma says, darkly.
He reaches out his hand to her, fingers tangling, squeezing, reminding her how far they've already come through this nightmare. From a prison cell to a hospital room to here.
She nods slowly, understanding.
And murmurs, "Okay."
Like it means everything, like it says everything.
Like it one day might be the truth for all of them
Maybe…one day.
Before.
The smoke clears from around him as he appears in the middle of the room. There, he finds the newly crowned young Queen sitting up the bed, curled up in a ball, her arms wrapped tight around herself, her eyes pressed closed. She's rocking back and forth, her hands clenched tightly in a death grip. Like maybe she can will everything away from her.
He knows better, knows that such things aren't possible; and at that point, there's nothing left but vengeance.
He's counting on her eventually realizing that, needs her to find that relentless pain for his plan to work.
But in this moment, there's something different on his mind.
Something different in his heart, even as darkened and crippled by malice as it is.
"Regina," he says softly, approaching her bed.
She jumps, eyes open, afraid and darting backwards; Rumplestiltskin knows a darker time will come, a time when she will sense his arrival within seconds, but right now, she's so very young.
So very innocent and her instincts haven't been honed to feel energy or magic yet.
That will change.
But this evening, magic isn't his focus.
This, the night of her wedding to the King.
"Why are you here?" she demands, voice shaking. She's dressed in a simple gown, carefully prepared to look like a beautiful innocent, if no longer virginal, queen even when she's alone and supposed to be sleeping. He thinks it rather interesting that she doesn't ask why he's in her bedroom, but then their first meeting had been here so perhaps it's not quite the surprise.
Or maybe the days' events have numbed her to such a degree that nothing is a surprise now.
That won't stay the case, he thinks grimly, and knows that his fingerprints will soon be all over what's to come. The guilt he feels at this is minimal, quashed by his need to see his son again.
That doesn't change, but what he sees tonight is something he has a need to make…better.
"Are you…hurt?" he asks.
"Do you care? Isn't this what both you and my mother wanted? Me married and positioned? Well, I am. I'm positioned exactly like all of you wanted me to be. You must be so proud."
He looks back at her, his face purposefully neutral because yes, that is what they'd wanted.
For different reasons, of course.
"Are you hurt?" he asks again.
"In no way in which you can assist," she replies. Then glares at him, "Go."
"Regina –"
"Your Majesty," she snaps. "If I'm going to be beneath him, then at least I get to keep the title."
"Let your servants help you," he suggests, because it's clear to him that she's refused all aide.
There's still blood on the sheets, and he realizes that the gown she's wearing is the one she was likely wearing when the King had come to see her. Revulsion runs through him, and he has to breathe, reminding himself that this girl is but a pawn to him, no more important than that.
"Why do you care?" she asks, echoing the question in his mind.
He laughs, shrill and loud, and if she knew him at all, she'd know it for the front it is. "Because we have so many things to do, dearie, and you being ruined by a single night isn't in my plans."
She flinches at the word "ruined", and he does so inwardly as well, thinking about how his son would turn away from him after hearing his words to the young frightened Queen.
"I'm fine," she murmurs. "I just want you to go away."
"Be careful what you wish for," he says gravely, and he doesn't just mean tonight. "But if alone is what you would like, then alone you shall be." She thinks to correct him – that's the last thing she wants – but then he's turning away from her, stopping only to say, "It'll get better."
"It won't," she says, her voice so flat, the pain she's feeling seeping into his bones.
"There are better places to be," he tells her, his back still to her. One of his hands opens and closes, nails cutting into flesh and drawing just the slightest bit of dull colored blood, a stark if chilling reminder of both his humanity and the utter lack of it. "Inside your mind. Away."
"I don't know –"
"You will." Another pause, and perhaps one more plea, "Let your servants take care of you." He lifts his injured hand and says theatrically, his own mask firmly back in place, "Our first lesson is in the morning, Your Majesty. Don't be late; I don't like to be kept waiting. Ever." And with a dramatic flick of his wrist, red smoke is covering him and carrying him away from her.
Away from this desolation and destruction.
She stares at the dissipating smoke, feeling sparks of anger within her.
Sparks of horror and shame.
Her fingers grip at the gown she wears – the gown meant for her husband's eyes.
Behind her, the sheets of the bed ruined with her blood.
Rumplestiltskin had been right: everything about her has been ruined.
Tears dripping down her cheeks, she's never felt more alone than she does right now.
Never felt more lost and broken.
She thinks, "Better places to be," and wonders where.
Now.
"She's not here," Henry says, confusion peppering his tone. He's been downstairs all morning, and he's sure she hasn't left her room since he'd brought her here hours earlier.
He's sure she has to be still here. Where else would she be, he wonders, his anxiety spiking.
Because, what if -
"Kid," Emma says suddenly, breaking him from his darkening thoughts. "You ever remember your mom going out onto the roof?"
"What?"
"Roof." She points to the open window. "There's blood on the sill. And that –" she points over towards the busted laptop on the desk, and then towards a few small drops of blood (not a lot, and not very big, his logical mind quickly inserts( on the carpet. "Suggests it came from her."
He frowns slightly, running a hand through his hair. "No. Never," he says. "I went out there a couple times when I was a teen – it's easier getting there from my room, but…never her."
"Yeah, well, things change," Emma sighs.
"I'll go," he suggests.
She shakes her head. "You asked me to help her through this –"
"Your back –"
"Is better for the moment," Emma cuts in. "And eventually, Regina is going to help me through what I'm going through, too. Because that's what your mom and I have always done for each other. Maybe not today, but eventually."
"You weren't so sure of this before," Henry reminds her. "Why now?"
"You," Emma tells him, simply, a hand gently touching his cheek. "You're the proof of every bit of what's good or right within both me and Regina. You're the proof of how we can come together. You're the one who taught me that a lot of good can come from fighting back."
"Maybe, but, you two have always been a fighter and…you become close for more than just me," he insists. "You two become…more…all on your own."
"Yeah, as time passed, sure. But we started off by putting aside our…battle with each other, because in the end, you were always what mattered most to us. Then, I guess, we found ourselves somewhere else." Her eyes grow glassy as she thinks of this, as she thinks of Boston.
As she thinks of how much guilt and anger Regina is still harboring because of that night.
How much self-loathing.
"Be careful," he pleads.
She shrugs. "If I fall and splat myself –"
"Not funny," he stops her, his voice quiet and aching.
"No," Emma admits. "Probably not." She leans in and kisses him on the cheek, holding it there for a few long lingering seconds as she lets so many emotions rush over her, and then she's pulling back and dropping low, and then climbing her way through the window to Regina.
Before.
He's calling her name over and over as he rushes quickly to her side. Pausing only for a brief moment, he puts his hand into the open flames rising from her palm, carefully settling his hand over the hand that she had placed into the fire, as the smell of her burning flesh fills the room. "Regina," he says again, his tone sharp and frightened. He pulls her now wounded hand away, enclosing it gently within his own.
She blinks, and the flames dissipates, vanishing back into her palm as though they'd never been there at all. "Daddy?" She looks down at her hand, seeing the black seared edges around it, somehow hoping that the flames would help her to feel…anything.
Feeling the pain of the burnt away flesh; she cocks her head to the side curiously, thoughtful.
She's dazed and numb, he thinks grimly, and wonders wildly how hard it would be for them to run away. To get her away from this never-ending nightmare.
Oh, but that's impossible, and he knows it, and so he pushes these thoughts from his mind.
"Regina, what are you doing?" he pleads. "When did you start…when did you learn how to make fire?" There's unmistakable fear streaked across his weathered features, his dark eyes showing the kind of haunted fear that only a parent can truly possess towards his child. Especially a parent who has seen this kind of magic before, and knows what terribly things it almost always leads to.
She turns to face him. "I...I needed to learn how."
"Did you mother teach you?" he demands.
"No, the man that you helped me find did," she replies dully. "Rumple –"
"No!" he replies with alarm. Then quieter, "There are too many people about. If they knew –"
"They'd burn me," she replies, her voice too high, too chipper. The numbness is slipping away now, replaced by clear indications of pain, and with that pain, shock and surprise. Surprise at how far she'd gone. She'd started out just practicing her fireballs in the quietness of her own suite, desperate to master at least one of Rumplestiltskin's perplexing lessons. Then she'd become curious whether they could be dangerous to her as well. And if they were, could such pain make her finally feel something for the first time in weeks.
Something besides revulsion and self-loathing.
With a flick of her hand to make the fire grow, she had settled her other hand over it, and oh, yes, indeed, Regina had felt pain. Not much at first, just flickers of stinging warmth against the thin delicate skin of her palm. Then once the burning started, she gasped, but perhaps it was as much in pleasure as in pain. Or maybe, it's all the same for someone like her, broken and destroyed, nothing more than an expensive possession.
Rapidly changing flickers of pain, pleasure, and then nothing. Rinse and repeat.
Her life in a warped crushed little nutshell.
"We need to get you cleaned up," her father says softly, leading her back towards her bed.
"I'm fine," Regina answers automatically, the words her husband demands of her.
"Regina, you're hurt," he replies, turning around so he can try to find the supplies he needs.
"What does it matter?" she asks, turning her wounded palm over and looking at it. She looks up, catching her reflection in one of the mirrors – an image of a stunningly beautiful girl with a mangled hand – and chuckles to herself. "Ugly. On the inside and now on the outside."
"No," her father responds as he turns back with a cloth and a bowl of water. "You mustn't hurt yourself, Child." His eyes are wet, and for a moment, she feels deep regret. But not for herself.
"Daddy," she says, her good hand reaching out. "I'm all right. I'm always all right."
"I should never have sent you to that creature," her father exclaims. "This is my fault."
"He taught me how to protect myself," Regina tells him. "He's teaching me to be strong."
"You were strong!"
"Was I, Daddy?" She asks, looking up at him, her eyes wild. "Was I strong when I let Mother murder Daniel? When I let her say yes to the King? Was I strong when I said yes to the King?"
"You didn't have a choice in any of those things."
"Now, I do," she answers with a smirk that's just a shade shy of madness, and then she ignites her good hand again, watching wide-eyed as the flames dance across the smooth of her palm.
"Regina, please!"
She watches the flames for a few seconds before sighing, and flicking them away, turns her attention back to her damaged hand, her eyes widening as Henry places the cloth against the ruined skin, the bolts of pain causing her to finally truly recognize what she's done to herself.
Charred skin surrounding damaged tissue, her nerve endings now violently firing away.
"They'll know," she whispers, the haughty confidence sliding away from her. "He'll know."
She means the King.
Her husband.
The one man who now controls every part of her miserable existence.
"I don't want to die," she says, and she's not quite sure that's the truth, but she's also not sure that it's a lie, because even if her hope for resurrecting Daniel is now long gone, perhaps if she learns enough magic, maybe she can still figure out a way to make everything better, right?
Oh, but it's insanity. All of this. All of her hope.
Because she's only been at this magic thing for a few months now, and if they come for her – if they accuse her of being a witch – there's no way that she'll be able to defend herself.
She'd just wanted to feel something…anything.
Something more than the screaming emptiness that has become her every day.
Now, all she feels is fear.
And despair so thick that it's practically strangling her.
Perhaps the numbness was better.
Perhaps you don't know how good nothingness is until it's replaced with something awful.
"Shh," her father soothes. "We'll figure this out, darling."
"How?" she asks, now just a young girl who desperately needs her father. "How?"
He lifts his hand to touch her face, smiling softly, sadly at her, "We'll call your teacher."
"Daddy –"
"I was right in what I said before; I never should have told you about that book. I never should have opened the door to him and his corruptions, but what's done is done, and he's our only hope for saving you now." Cradling Regina's maimed hand between his, he offers his daughter a reassuring smile. "Everything is going to be all right, Regina. I promise you that it will be."
"Don't make promises you can't keep," she says, tears leaking down her face as she tries to echo his smile but failing terribly. "I'm not sure this matters; I'm not sure I can be saved."
"I haven't given up on you yet," Henry announces. Then firmly, resolutely, "And I never will."
She tilts her whole body towards him, her head settling on his shoulder. His arm goes around her, and she allows herself, in spite of the pain she feels, to indulge in his love for her. She allows herself to feel her father's affection, honest and true, at least for this moment. Then, with absolute certainty, her voice just barely audible, the young Queen whispers, "You will."
"No," he says again, his hand over her uninjured one, squeezing tight. "Never."
Now.
Two steps out, and Emma finds Regina sitting on the edge of the roof, legs dangling over, only her pajama-bottoms anchoring her from sliding off. As Emma gingerly approaches, she notices a lighter in Regina's hand, the tiny flame of it flickering against the soft flesh of her palm.
Were they not on a roof, Emma thinks that she would have rushed to Regina – certainly, she would have called out in alarm, but thankfully, old instincts kick in and she's able to stop herself from either reaction. Instead, her hands out for balance, she continues to approach slowly.
"You know she's here, don't you? The Black Fairy," Regina states, eyes on the flame, seemingly unaware of how badly she's burnt herself; there's the faint tinge of charred flesh in the air.
"I know," Emma nods. "And we'll figure a way to deal with her. Like we always do."
"But we don't always, Emma. That's why we're here now. That's why we're like this."
"Sometimes we lose," Emma admits as she finally settles herself next to Regina. She casts a wary eye towards the hard ground below, aware that neither of them could make the fall without at least some damage. Even more aware that her back would shatter under such impact. Still, steeling her nerves, she reaches out her hands, pausing before shakily placing one over the lighter, immediately stopping the flame from searing any more of Regina's tender skin.
Regina doesn't react; but in fairness, Emma hadn't expected her to. Because some traumas aren't just teachable moments.
Some go far deeper than just stopping the burning.
"Stop," Emma says softly, even though she's got her hand around the lighter.
"What does it matter?" Regina replies, and then turns and looks at her. "Last night, our grown son carried me to bed, and he and my sister tucked me in. Like I'm a child."
"Family takes care of each other."
"Again, not always."
"We always come around," Emma insists as she looks over Regina's injured hand, observing the bloodied and badly broken knuckles. "But right now, I need you to stop hurting yourself, okay?"
"It's the only way I can feel anything," Regina answers, her voice cracking.
"With all due respect, Regina, I think you feel too much right now. And that's the problem."
Regina laughs bitterly. "What do you know about how I feel?"
"I know you have Elizabeth rolling around in your head. And I know you think you hate her. Because you think you should. Because she – like the Queen – is everything opposite of who you want to be. Everything opposite of everything you've tried to build yourself into. You made your peace with the Queen, but you don't know how to make the same peace with Elizabeth."
Regina doesn't reply to that, just looks out at the street, at the lights and houses.
Taking a breath, and deciding that she has to move forward here, that she has to press on and try to get through to Regina enough for her to understand that she's not alone in this – even if her understanding is surface level at best – Emma reaches for Regina's wounded hand. She pauses slightly, her own hand hovering over Regina's. "Will you let me try to help you?"
"Heal me?" Regina counters. "I mean, isn't that what this is, Miss Swan? You want to take poor pathetic Regina and try to jam all the broken pieces back together so that no one has to worry."
Emma shrugs. "I just want to be there for my best friend, Regina." She smiles sadly. "I know you don't consider me that right now, but that's what we were before…before she took it away."
"Before we took it away," Regina counters. "We made that choice, Emma, not her."
"We did, but…we were still friends even after that night."
Regina turns and looks at her again. "Why does it matter so much to you? Why do we?"
"For the same reason it mattered all those years ago – we understand each other. We're… I guess we're kindred. But even if you don't believe that, we're still family. And family never quits on each other." She looks down for a moment, and then takes a deep breath. "Okay, look, cards on the table? You know I don't particularly want to be here right now. Because my own head is a fucking mess. Because every time I move in any direction, I want to cry or scream. Sometimes both. But I'm here in spite of my back and in spite of my head, and maybe that doesn't mean much to you right now, but I need you to know that I'm here because you are my best friend. You're the one person besides Henry whom I would do anything for."
Regina's eyes close for a moment. She says, "I remember him inside of me."
It feels like a non-sequitur, entirely disconnected from their current conversation, but Emma has a fair idea that too many of the demons in Regina's mind are related to the men she's been married to. Both of them against her will, since one was a choice made by her cursed self.
"I remember being pushed backwards onto a bed and staring at the ceiling. I remember feeling pain, and then him touching me and saying, 'Don't cry, Lizzie,'…and Emma, those are two different events for me. One was…your grandfather –" she has to force the word out, and it takes everything Emma has not to visibly flinch – "And the other was the prick who nearly beat me to death in that alley. They're not the same event, but they are in my head now. And that's what I keep coming back to. Two decades with men who used my body. Who used me."
"You got away from both of them," Emma tells her. "You're free of both of them."
"Yes, now I am. Because I murdered one and you shot the other one. But Trevor is still alive, Emma. Still out there. And he wants me back. He's looking for me. Did you know that?"
"I didn't," Emma says, quietly. "But –
Regina shakes her head to cut her off. "I know that I shouldn't be afraid of Trevor Fucking Carson anymore, because now I know who I am and who I've been. I'm the Evil Queen." She laughs darkly at this, not noticing the way Emma flinches in response to her words.
"But you are?" Emma prompts. "Afraid?"
"Terrified," Regina admits, then looking down at her wounded hand, she seems almost curious about it. "You know, I can feel my broken ribs and how sore and beaten the rest of me is, but I can't feel these burns. They feel like nothing. I suppose…I suppose that's rather fitting, no?"
"No, it means you're in shock. Your body has been through so much – too much – over the last few weeks, and this is just too much," Emma contests. "Please, please let me help you."
"With my hand or –"
"Everything. I know…I know you don't trust me, and I get that; I screwed everything up for us by…" she lets out a resigned breath, "...giving in to what I felt for you. What I still feel for you even now."
"Don't –"
"I won't. I get it, okay? And I didn't say that to guilt you or put pressure on you. I said it, Regina, because underneath everything that happened that night is a whole lot of love for you. In every way. And this is me, and you know that love and trust have never come easy to me. You know how much I end up burning down – like my marriage. But…I still trust you, and I think there was a point when you trusted me. All I'm asking is for you to remember that and…give me a chance, because I think if we're going to have any chance to save our family, we have to…be a team."
"A team," Regina repeats. She blinks, then, tears in her eyes. "You know what I hear?"
"Where? In your…in your head?"
"Yes. Where they are. Where they always are. The Queen and Elizabeth."
"Tell me," Emma says, and reaching her hands out again, she gently takes Regina's wounded hand between hers, inspecting the busted knuckles and the burns carefully.
Waiting to ensure she's not going to violate Regina by doing something before she's ready.
"I hear them in conflict. One wants to surrender and hide, the other wants to fight back and destroy. I just want to survive, Emma, but I don't know how to anymore. I don't know how."
Emma nods, and then says once more, "Let me help you."
"I'm tired."
"I know. Me, too. I might not have all the voices in my head that you do, but I think what we feel isn't all that different. At least the just wanting to survive part. That's been my life for as long as I can remember. Even when I couldn't remember." Turning Regina's hand, she lifts up her own and allows the briefest glimmer of gold to manifest. Zelena using her own magic on Emma's back had given her the idea, and well, the truth is that this is all she can do so far – the barest minimum of magic, and maybe this won't be more than magical Tylenol, but Emma feels like it's something and hopes Regina recognizes just how much she really is trying here.
"Your magic is working again," Regina notes, head slight cocked.
"Kind of. More show than anything else, but I guess I can do this."
"White magic. Natural healing," Regina murmurs. "Of course it came back first."
"It won't be enough to stop the Black Fairy."
"No," Regina agrees, and then lifts the hand which isn't in Emma's and flicks it, like she's trying to draw a fireball into her palm. Neither she nor Emma are the least bit surprised when she instead, she whimpers in pain, her hand falling and sweat beading on her forehead as she shakes.
"Easy," Emma tells her. "Take a breath."
"She wants me to fight, and I can't do anything. Well, I can hide like Elizabeth wants, but…"
"But that's not who Regina Mills is," Emma insists, again looking down at Regina's hand. It, like the rest of her body, is not fully healed, but the healing has started, even if in feverish and frantic starts and stops.
Relatable, Emma thinks grimly, and wonders again why this struggle is hers to have.
Why is she the one trying to save Regina? The one everyone believes must?
A look down at the hand in hers, and then up at Regina's tear-streaked face, and she knows.
Because this is what they have always done for each other – pulled each other from the abyss.
"I don't know who Regina Mills is, anymore," Regina protests. She takes her hand back from Emma and cradles it against her wounded chest, her ribs healing but still so sore. "I keep trying to figure it out, and keep trying to find grounding, but then there are these –" she holds up the cigarettes. "And I remember Elizabeth so clearly. I can feel her fears and her desperation; I can hear her in my head, telling me that we should just go back home again. It's safer there."
"That's how she survived."
"On her knees. Like I did when I was a young Queen. Only I'm her, too. Elizabeth."
"You keep coming back to the sexual part," Emma says gently. "Do you want to –"
"No. I don't…I don't ever want to talk about that."
"Okay."
"You're trying so hard, and I don't understand why, Emma. I'm broken. I told you that before, and it's still true now. Maybe even more so now." She lifts up her wounded hand, evidence of her point. "Everything else – everything that happened… everything that's in my head… even everything that happened between us, it just doesn't matter anymore. My body, my heart, it's all broken and I don't know how to fix it again. I'm tired of having to. I told you all I want to do is survive, but maybe Elizabeth is right…maybe I'm tired of fighting to survive and failing."
"I get it. I do. Believe it or not, I do understand. More than I want to," Emma tells her. She looks down and then across the street, trying to draw her thoughts together. Finally, her voice almost inaudible, she says, "For ten years, I lived inside a cement box. Every day was spent trying to figure out if today was a day when someone would try to beat me to death, molest me or just remind me that in their eyes, I wasn't even human to them. Every day, I tried to figure out why I cared. Why not just let them kill me? Why not just let the Black Fairy win? You know what I figured out, Regina? It was for you. And Henry. And my parents. I know we tell ourselves that surviving has to be for ourselves, but there are times when it can't be because what you see in the mirror isn't someone you care about. Even when it's you. So you make it one more day for the people who love you. The people who want you to be there tomorrow morning."
"Even if their lives would be better without us?" Regina asks, wincing as fresh pain hits her.
Emma lifts Regina's wounded hand up again, fingers glowing again as she pushes more healing magic into the burnt skin and the busted up knuckles. "I think that maybe we're the worst judges of that. You might think my life would be better without you in it, and I might think that yours is better without me in it, but I know I spent ten years missing you; and our kid and your sister and my parents, they all spent the last ten years missing the hell out of both of us."
"I didn't know who I was for ten years."
"Now, you do. Now, I do. Look, we can't change what was done to anyone. To the people we love. We can't change our choices, and yes, it's selfish -"
"Emma –"
Emma shakes her head. "You were pissed at me – you might still be pissed at me - but you were telling the truth. What we did that night in Boston was selfish. I was selfish. I should have dealt with my failing marriage, and then, if something happened between us…but that's not what happened. We made a choice, and it was the wrong one at the wrong time, but I am done regretting it. Done regretting so damn much…I opened that box, Regina; you told me not to, and I still did it, and I have spent so much time blaming myself for that box and for that night and where has it gotten me? Where has it gotten any of us? The only one who won…was her."
"So simple."
"No, I'm just tired. Tired of being alone. Tired of being lonely. Tired of ugly empty little boxes." She looks over at Regina, hoping for some kind of reaction, some kind of understanding.
"You're not the only one tired of being alone," Regina admits. Then, as if realizing just how much she's exposing herself with such a confession, she quickly adds on, "But…it's safer."
"No, it's not." Emma gestures towards the window. "All it does is take us away from the people who want to be with us. The ones who love us. Like our son who is waiting for us inside. And downstairs? Your sister and your niece. And our –" Emma laughs. "Our granddaughter, Regina."
"All people who could be hurt if –"
"If we do nothing. If we let the loneliness and fear win. I did. You did. Story of our lives. And maybe if we had all the time in the world, we could find our way out of this naturally. We could go to therapy and talk about how shitty our last ten years have been, but –" she points to the skyline. "That black cloud over there? It's not threatening rain, and we both know it; she's here, and we're going to have to face her. She tore our lives apart; we let her."
"You think we're stronger than we are. You think I am."
Emma grins, and it's strange, and almost out of place, but it's all Emma and the way she has always pushed Regina – always challenged her to be her best and strongest self. "I know you are."
"And what if the war inside of me continues? What if Elizabeth comes to the surface?"
"Then she'll protect us. Like she protected me," they hear from behind them.
Both women snap around, eyes widening as they see Henry and Lucy stepping out onto the roof, Henry's hand settled on Lucy's shoulder as he carefully guides her out onto it.
Regina starts to stand, startled, old instincts kicking in; it's Emma's hand which steadies her, and keeps her from pitching over and ending up fifteen feet below splatted into cement.
"She shouldn't be out here," Regina declares. "It's not safe!"
"She insisted," Henry tells her. "She's Swan. And she's Mills." He offers them a cheeky grin.
Emma winks at him, and then turns her attention back to Lucy. "What do you mean by what you said? About Elizabeth?"
"When dad passed out that first night, Elizabeth stayed with me. She made sure I was safe and told me it'd be okay. And when I went to see her at the diner, she took care of me there, too."
Regina's brow knits, her mind spinning, that night still so clear to her thanks to the nightmare she'd had earlier. But then there's Elizabeth in her head, quiet and yet firmly curiously resolved as she says the words which Regina then says aloud, her eyes on Lucy, "I couldn't let you be scared."
"I know," Lucy agrees.
"Exactly. Elizabeth was braver than you think," Henry offers up. "I know you don't think she was strong enough because she was with him, but she was strong enough to eventually leave him. And she was strong enough to put the needs of a little girl who needed her in front of her own."
"She always wanted a child," Regina murmurs.
"Now, she has one, and he loves her more than she could imagine; he missed her –" Henry looks up at Emma and smiles softly, "Both of his mothers more than either of them could imagine. But we're all here now, Mom. All of us. Ready to fight with you. To fight together."
"Is Zelena waiting to crawl out on the roof, too?" Regina jokes feebly.
Which makes Emma grin – because even the attempt at levity has to be a good sign.
"Not sure this roof can take another person," Emma tells her. "So how about we go in?"
"Not…not just yet," Regina says. "I need…let me have a moment with them."
"Them?" Lucy asks, so young and innocent, so incapable of understanding this kind of trauma.
"Herself," Henry murmurs, taking his daughters' hand, and starting to lead her back.
"She really loved you," Regina says suddenly, turning to look at Lucy, something intense burning in her eyes – something that feels like Regina, but also…not quite her. "Elizabeth, I mean."
Lucy grins. "I love her, too."
Not loved, love.
Said so simply, as only a child can.
Regina lets out a breath, eyes closing as the sound of scuffing tells her that Henry and Lucy have disappeared back into the house, leaving her with just Emma, the two of them side-by-side.
"Do you want me to go?" Emma asks.
"She's getting closer," Regina says instead, eyes back on the horizon. "She wants us to know that she's coming for us. Again."
"I'm ready if you are."
"We both thought we were last time. And…look where that got us."
"I know," Emma says, because anything else would be a lie.
"Do you think when this is all over, they'll be quiet?" Regina asks.
"The Queen and Elizabeth?" Going off of Regina's almost innocent nod, Emma replies, "I don't know. But maybe if we can help you find peace – help all of us find it – then maybe…maybe?"
It's not much of an answer, certainly not a definite one, and Regina has no real hope that this fight will go any better than the last one, but she's tired, tired of losing, tired of this.
Tired of feeling like she's broken, like every bit of her has been ruined by her many traumas.
"We could fail," she says. "We could lose."
"We could," Emma admits. "But I have faith in us."
"I can't do that again," Regina tells her. "I can't…" her voice lowers, sounding so small and young and so much unlike the world-weary woman who has been through all that she has. "I need to be able to say no, Emma. I can't have that choice taken away from me again. I can't."
"We can't," Emma states. "And we won't. I won't let that happen again. To either of us. So if you need to tell me 'no', then okay; I'll walk away. I'll figure this out on my own…I won't force you into this fight."
"You really mean that, don't you?"
"I do understand, Regina," Emma tells her, and ten years rushes through her mind in a single second. And then behind that, her entire history with Regina, the fights and the friendship, and the love.
Slowly, Regina lifts her good hand towards Emma's face, pausing long enough for Emma to take it and squeeze it, their eyes meeting, only honesty between them now.
"You do," Regina murmurs.
"Tell me what you want do here Regina?" Emma pleads. "What do what you want?"
Regina brings their joined hands to Emma's face, and says, her voice strong, "To fight."
:D