EMMA

Emma's fingers felt for the iPod at her shoulder. She switched off Strayhorn mid-song, with a bit of a flinch—hating to end a favorite so abruptly, but recognizing she was too jacked up to pay attention anyway.

She breathed a bit deeper, glad to hear only the sounds of her feet- thud, thud, thudding - up the dirt path. She was grateful for the curve ahead, leading her deeper into the woods, farther from the feelings she was trying to leave behind.

She wondered if she'd ever run it out, really. This unrelenting, uncontrollable buzz she invariably experienced, each and every time she had a run in with Regina. It was tiring, enraging, and all too predictable anymore, and Emma was done. Done.

So go.

She gritted her teeth against her own train of thought, as she began making her way up the steepest slope of Mt. Diablo, the dormant volcano at the edge of Storybrooke. She purposefully smacked the tips of her shoes into the ground, seeking firm purchase in the dirt, and pushed. Just go on. Keep running.

A sweet, wide-eyed Henry bubbled into her conscience, and a goofy grin instantly replaced the scowl Emma had worn all morning. She knew she loved that kid with every last ounce of her, and she wanted do right by him no matter what—in spite of herself—or Regina.

"Turn around."

Emma nearly stumbled, but her arms instinctively spread to re-establish her balance, as Regina's voice raced through her head before fading away. What the…?

She peeked, a quick glance at the iPod again. Off. And was it the Mayor, that… thought? It had that same smoky tenor, but there was something else,… Shaking? Fearful? Certainly not. It was

nothing. Nothing. Shutup. Run.

Emma kept climbing, climbing. Thud, thud, thud. On most days, she'd have had to stop a few times, but she saw the summit now, just ahead, and marveled at how distracted she must have been— hardly noticed the climb, the reach inside, lungs stretching and grabbing at the oxygen she'd needed to ascend so fast.

At the top, hands resting on her hips, Emma breathed deeply and walked the path around what Henry called the Tree Park. No built structures here, no slides, no swings, no mayor- made extravagance, just hundreds of soaring fir trees, so tall, so perfect, Emma couldn't help but be dazzled. She stopped and closed her eyes and let herself simply connect to her surroundings. God, she'd needed this.

"Turn around. Please!"

Emma's eyes opened again. Wide. Looking about her. But no one was here. No one but her and Henry ever came up here, it seemed. Certainly not Regina – too dusty, too wild. So what the hell WAS that?

Jesus. Enough with the day-dreaming, Swan. Leave it.

Walking to the edge of the mountain-side, Emma stared down at Storybrooke—it's tidy grid of quiet streets, the simple storefronts reminding Emma of a board game instead of a real town. It often felt strange, almost artificial, Storybrooke. To Emma, the town's bucolic vibe gave her the creeps nearly as often as she felt embraced and serene within its limits. As much as it presented this perfect little hamlet, there was something dark and stifling about the place. Emma chalked up her discomfort to the fact that she'd lived all her life in large, loud, in-your-face cities where you made it or you didn't. Here in Storybrooke, though, people just… were.

Except Regina. Regina was more. Much more.

"Well, you've once again proved your mettle, Sheriff. Thank God we none of us need an actual Champion around here." Regina snarked, glaring down at Emma, flat on her back and groaning. Regina stepped over her body, offering not even a hand up, and moved to her son. "Go inside, Henry. You can thank Miss Swan later."

Emma slowly righted herself. Though she'd fallen from the tree outside the Mayor's mansion, she had at least kept Henry from doing so in an effort to retrieve his backpack. Why his backpack had been flung into the tree in the first place was information Emma hadn't managed to ascertain before Regina drove up and took over.

"He was pretty upset when I got here, Regina. You might want to talk to him." Emma offered, dusting herself off.

"Oh, might I?" Regina stared into Emma's eyes and Emma bristled. Must it ALWAYS be like this? Sighing, she shook her head, turned, and started to move down the walk.

"Where are you going?" Regina asked.

"Away from you." Emma replied quietly, but loud enough to be heard.

"We aren't done, here, Sheriff." Emma could hear the clipped sharpness in that voice. God, she hated that fucking voice. Not least of all because of the flight of emotions she experienced every time she heard it. Regina's voice regularly sent chills coursing along Emma's skin, made her hair stand on end, and her stomach clench.

Emma was honest enough with herself to admit the unwieldy and inconvenient attraction to this impossible creature. While those chills regularly raised Emma's ire, there were times-she shuddered-when those chills made Emma's knees threaten collapse. The attraction might exist, she thought, but she didn't have to like it. And Emma didn't.

"Henry has his backpack. I'm finished. Have a good night, Madame Mayor." Emma called over her shoulder, ignoring whatever Regina was barking about behind her. Climbing into her cruiser, backing it up, Emma tried hard not to, but couldn't help taking a last look. Regina, the end of the walk, her perfect coif, stately shape, stormy eyes, glaring after her as she drove away.

Emma's mountain-top meandering had taken her to the far side of the Tree Park, and she stared out at the world beyond Storybrooke. She could hear the cars and the horns, the shouts of teeming cities, the hustle of a hundred pairs of feet on the sidewalks, the vendors, the stink… and all the possibilities for getting good and lost again, where no one would find her, not even sweet Henry—until she wanted to get found. Her frown was back. This time she knew she couldn't shake it off. Didn't want to. Deserve to. She was ashamed at how tempting it was to go. How much a part of her even, relied on this antagonism with Regina to keep her from completely succumbing to the pull of Henry, because Regina wanted her to leave as much as she did. Such a perfect excuse. Henry would, eventually, see that, too.

"EMMA! Help me!"

Emma turned and her feet were running, legs pumping to get her back across the park, down the mountain, back to Storybrooke.

She was sprinting, straight down the face of Mt. Diablo, precarious, navigating the rocks and twigs and uncertain terrain without hesitation, nearly flying, as Regina—undoubtedly Regina—had called to her again, clearly, unmistakably, agonizingly. SOMEhow. Calling her by first name, and with such desperation that Emma didn't stop or think. She ran.