A/N: Before you start killing me and everything, let me just tell you that this writer's block wasn't as bad as it could've been - I've read a whole book about the Vatican! Granted, it wasn't exactly what I've been looking for but hey, there was a chapter about priests and sex. Or something along those lines.

Enjoy!

Chapter 7: Ex Malo Bonum

"Repent ye therefore, and be converted, that your sins may be blotted out, when the times of refreshing shall come from the presence of the Lord."

(Acts 3:19)

Killian:

He cursed his overactive imagination as he ran towards the transept, barely avoiding bumping into one of the pews in the process - falling down right now would've been just the icing on this horrendously smelling cake.

When he reached his destination, the sight that greeted him almost made him curse. The flames enveloped the better part of the ceiling and the fire was currently spreading lower, claiming the modest altar in the process. He stood there, as if in a daze, hardly believing his eyes that such a thing was possible. His church was on fire. The whole scene seemed rather ominous to him and the priest had to get a grip on himself and actually remember that if he didn't do something soon, the transept wouldn't be the only thing to get destroyed in this fiery hell.

He started to turn back, hoping to reach the sacristy in time and call 911 when his gaze fell on a little statuette of Madonna that stood beneath the huge painting of Archangel Michael - obviously not the Guido Reni original one, but still imposing and awe-inspiring enough. Killian stood frozen on the spot, locked in a fierce battle within himself – whether to save the graceful figurine from an almost certain destruction or to not be an idiot for once and do the right thing: call for help. As he stood, still debating, a sudden vision flashed before his eyes - two slight hands gently cradling this little Our Lady of Lourdes and whispering: "She will keep you safe, Killian, I know it." He almost cursed for the second time that day and lunged forward to save the last piece of Milah that still remained in his life.

He got to it in no time, swiftly run the steps and grabbed it, already congratulating himself on its successful rescue when he suddenly heard a loud creak from above. Lifting his eyes, he immediately felt chilled to the bone despite the fiery inferno that was currently descending on the altar and the walls of the transept with frightening pace - the incredibly intricate and as heavy as it was beautiful framework was giving in, and Killian suddenly found himself watching, spellbound, as the great painting with the victorious Archangel defeating the fallen Lucifer himself was leaning forward at a torturously slow pace, dangerously close to falling on Killian and burying him underneath all its terrifying splendor. It seemed as if the Archangel's face was slowly turning into a gruesome mask that was meant to inspire horror and revulsion instead of reverence and obedience. God's own judgement was about to reach the priest and make him pay for his weaknesses.

Killian ran.

But he wasn't fast enough. He stumbled on the last step and sprawled on the floor, his poorly judged attempt at catching his fall making him roll a bit on his left side. Sudden pain shot through his left arm and he gasped, which made him start choking - but he was still clutching the statuette with all his might with his right hand, though, afraid to let it go no matter the circumstances - and then, just as he was trying to get up, he heard another terrifying creak. He looked up and finally saw the painting about to fall, almost suspended in mid-air. Killian just had enough time to try to curl into a ball (when a second later it hit him with a sickening crack and all its magnificent framework, its promises of judgement that were to come and its final punishment. He felt his ribs and left arm cry out in pain, but then his world was already turning black for him to actually notice anything.

And then there was nothing.

Emma:

She called 911 on her way to the church, barely getting her words out and begging them to come urgently because the church was on fire and he might be in it and he might be dying and somehow it felt like it was her fault for some strange, twisted reason.

She ran and ran and ran through the smoke until it felt like centuries had passed when in reality it only had been several seconds - and she could barely see anything, smoke stinging her eyes and nostrils, causing her to cough painfully once in awhile. The more time she spent yelling his name into the never ending expanse of the church, the harder it was getting for her to breathe. For a second it felt useless - what if he wasn't even in there and she was torturing her lungs for no reason? - but something didn't feel right. Somehow she knew he was there, somewhere, as if they were connected; and she might've scoffed at this if she weren't in such a predicament.

Even the possibility of death put everything into perspective.

Emma charged forward with a new-found resolve.

"Killian!"

She was making her way to the front of the pews to get a better look when she heard a faint moan coming from the transept on her right. She could barely discern anything in there - it was obviously the epicenter of the fire that was currently fighting its way to the ceiling like a rebelling prophet intent on cleansing the church from all the evils that was slowly poisoning it from the inside. Cleansing or not, it was about to destroy everything, leaving no actual church in it's wake.

And no priest.

She almost made her way to the centre of the transept, blindly, when she hit her leg against something wooden, stumbled and then froze, noticing a faint outline of a figure lying beneath something that resembled a huge painting lying upside down that was slowly coming into view. She gasped, recognizing his black cassock, now soiled with ashes. She fell on her knees near his shape and started to push the painting away, silently cursing the person who thought it was a good idea to make such an elaborate and heavy framework for such a huge-ass painting - had nobody even thought that it might fall on someone someday and actually hurt the poor unfortunate soul? What had they been thinking? Slowly, she finally freed him from his cage. He wasn't moving - he wasn't even making a sound, as if that faint moan was purely a product of her own imagination. He was lying on his side, so she tried to roll him over, gently, to try and assess the damage. He still wasn't making a sound. His face looked so serene and yet resigned at the same time - as if he'd already accepted the punishment that he thought had awaited him. A sudden fierce desire to protect him from whatever was after him seized her heart.

Emma leaned in to touch his neck with her fingers, checking his pulse - it felt strong enough and she let out a sigh of relief. He was probably just unconscious, she hoped, and - what was he clutching so desperately with his right hand even in his sorry state? A little statuette could be seen underneath his sleeve; it seemed small and so slight and it looked as if it were the most precious treasure of his. She started to reach for it, getting exceedingly curious by the minute, but then a sudden coughing fit reminded her of her surroundings and the dire situation they were both in - 'get a grip on yourself, Swan!' - and she started hurriedly checking the priest for injuries. After a few moments she almost deemed him healthy enough but when she moved to inspect his left arm he let out a groan that alarmed and relieved her at the same time. It was probably broken, but at least he felt it, which looked as promising as it would get. The smoke was getting worse by the minute and the stinging in her eyes was becoming almost unbearable - she had to move him out right now.

Time to wake up to the real world, Killian.

Killian:

"Killian, Killian!"

"Can you hear me? Answer me!"

"Killian!"

For a moment there, he thought he glimpsed a halo of raven hair through the haze that seemed to swallow everything around him - he couldn't discern it in all the smoke and blackness and - why was there so much smoke? - but this raven hair, so hauntingly familiar - and he felt something tug at his heart, equal part hope and fear - why would she be there? And then he blinked a few times and black turned into gold and it wasn't dull, not for him - it was as shiny as some famed pirate's golden treasure, as an angel would look in their full glory, awe-inspiring and ready to battle all the evil in the world - but this one wasn't a warrior right then... This one was desperately yelling his name and the sound itself seemed to slow down, reaching his ears in small doses, like echo in a most magnificent cathedral. And then his angel's face came into view and it felt so inexplicably right that it should be her and no one else - his savior, his everything, sent by God himself to save him from this raging, destructive fire for some reason he couldn't even begin to fathom. He'd almost fallen, after all, and it hurt like nothing else.

Then the angel called his name again and his soul followed it, blindly.

It was unbearably cold and yet he was burning up inside, as if he was swallowing blazing coals down his throat. It felt like he was suspended in time and space with blackness surrounding him everywhere he looked, with no beginning and no end - was it... purgatory? Certainly not something that resembled even remotely anything from Dante. No sound reached him and no smell, apart from his own burning flesh.

After a while, though, he heard a faint voice calling his name. At first he mistook it for the sudden appearance of wind in this space devoid of anything that could resemble the outside world - and yet it was real, growing stronger by the second - or the minute? It was hard to tell. The place felt timeless but somehow the voice got through in here.

It sounded like church bells on a Sunday morning, waves crashing on the beach on a clear day and warbling of the nightingale on a June night. He felt his insides cooling down and finally he took a deep breath, tasting raindrops on his tongue – when had it started raining, anyway? - and suddenly it wasn't black anymore, but instead it was bright, bright, horribly bright - the sunlight was shining cruelly into his eyes and he couldn't even move to hide from it. A moment later a tall figure appeared, shielding him from the sun. Grateful, Killian wanted to mumble a simple 'thank you', but nothing came out of his mouth.

"Killian?" A strong yet feminine voice addressed him. "Why are you sprawled on the deck like that? Get up, sweetheart!" She was clearly laughing but he still couldn't see her clearly, including her face - although, to his astonishment, he recognizedher raven hair. The ghost woman was here. And she wasn't dying for once.

"Are you alright, Killian?" The woman's voice grew concerned as he failed to answer her and she moved closer and then, as his eyes adjusted, he finally caught a glimpse of her face and then he let out a horrified gasp: "Milah?"

Her brow furrowed in confusion and she opened her mouth to answer him when suddenly the deck he was lying on started to shake violently and (then) she was growing more and more distant and blurry and he was losing her and it hurt all over again and damn his arm! - he needed to reach her, for what she was doing here, why was she the ghost woman; or maybe it was some horrible joke conjured by his subconscious, or maybe it was real and he was just losing it...

"Killian, wake up!"

"Is he going to be alright, doctor?"

"Killian!"

A few hours later, he had almost forgotten about Milah. His arm and ribs hurt like hell but his throat hurt even more - indeed, as if he was swallowing blazing coal - and yet the only thing he could think about now was that blasted fire.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, he desperately tried to reason with himself - it couldn't be his fault that the fire started - it was probably the faulty wiring that was to blame - and he should stop with those ridiculous notions! God's punishments manifested in other ways, not in such blatant manner. But still, something inside him - which bore a very suspicious resemblance to his usual monster - continued to whisper evilly that why else would it all happen if not because of him? It pained him just as badly as his arm did.

One thing he now knew for certain - she was no temptation for him anymore. She was a godsend, his own personal savior, an angel that would fight for him and his soul till the very end - so now he realized that his burgeoning love for her was not the same as that sick, twisted version that he thought it was - he loved her as his guardian angel; a being above reproach, as celestial and true as the real ones were. He felt a sigh of relief escape his lips.

He was free to love her as much as he'd craved before. The fire that almost doomed him made his wildest dream come true.

Suddenly, the Archangel's face didn't seem so frightening anymore.

Emma:

He was admitted with a mild concussion, heavily bruised ribs and a broken arm. Dr. Whale and all the nurses kept constantly reassuring her that it wasn't anything serious; on the contrary, he was rather lucky that she arrived in time, and yet she couldn't help but feel that she hadsomehow failed him. She hadn't arrived sooner. She hadn't prevented the painting from falling. She hadn't stopped the fire in time. Logically it made no sense, this line of thinking, but Emma couldn't help but feel in some twisted way it was her fault.

Stupid, stupid town - it was now playing with her ability to think straight on top of everything else. She had almost lost another friend here. Emma felt as if something sinister was lurking in the corners, ready to pounce on her and those dear to her at a moment's notice if she wasn't accurate enough. Why was she even here.

The reason for it all was currently sitting beside her and munching on a chocolate bar, trying to distract himself from asking too many questions after Emma not-so-subtly warned him that "one more and I'm so taking you home, kid." He couldn't keep himself from fidgeting, though, and it was too starting to get on Emma's nerves. It wasn't exactly fair to Henry, but for some reason known only to her subconscious she felt a bit selfish - she was worried about Killian too! And yet she wasn't allowed to be that nervous or constantly ask the doctors and the nurses for more information - "Miss Swan, no, there are no new developments, he's fine, just unconscious; no, his vitals are all in order, no need to worry... Miss Swan, can you please leave the room? Father Jones needs his sleep." She was being childish and it started to annoy even herself. He was alright.

Emma let out a sigh, got up from her chair and went to the coffee machine. It was her third cup and the coffee was asatrocious as expected - and yet she couldn't help herself: she had to do something or else she would go mad. Why wouldn't he wake up? Just one word and then she might be able to actually leave the building and proceed with her work, but because of his stubbornness she was now reduced to an incredibly unstable bundle of nerves with a high chance of a nuclear explosion in the near future if he didn't wake up - why wouldn't he wake up...

Suddenly she noticed a nurse hurriedly come up to his room and walk in, quietly closing the door behind her. Emma knew without looking that Henry was about to ask her what was going on, but heard nothing. Turning her head, she noticed him struggling with himself, trying desperately not to upset her. She couldn't help but smile faintly at this.

"It's okay, kid. It looks like you're about to burst, so shoot."

Henry took a huge breath and plunged right in.

"Does it mean that something happened to him?"

"No, the nurse is probably just checking up on him."

"But she looked a bit worried... didn't she?"

"Now that's just your overactive imagination, Henry, so stop worrying that little head of yours." She reached out and ruffled his hair. "He's gonna be okay, kid. I promise."

She very much hoped she wasn't lying to him.

A few minutes later the nurse came out with a tired smile on her face. Emma opened her mouth to ask her about Killian when the woman just nodded and said: "You can come in now."

Henry almost fell in his haste to get out of his chair, and she would've laughed if her heart wasn't beating so loudly that blood roared in her ears. Keep calm. Get a grip on yourself. Stop acting like a fool. He's alright and you're about to see him. Emma. EMMA.

"Emma?"

She closed her eyes for a second, trying to clear her head.

"Yes, yes. Let's go."

They went in together and she half-expected Henry to actually hug Killian or something with the way the boy was buzzing so much with excitement. The nurse had clearly readied him for his visitors - he lay on a propped pillow to help him see better everyone who came in. He looked half-dazed, and yet managed to send her a small smile when his eyes landed on her. She croaked a 'hi' in return. Henry was already sitting on the side of Killian's bed, interrogation in full swing – how was Father Jones was feeling? Was the fire very scary? Did he know what was the cause of it? Did his hand hurt a lot? They were so worried!

After Henry proudly proclaimed that he missed two classes because of the incident, Emma felt the need to interfere, seeing that the priest was getting a little overwhelmed.

"Henry, give Father Jones a breather here, okay?" She smiled indulgently at her son, trying to soften the blow that was coming. She took out her phone to check the time and yes, there it was, 4.35 pm. Time to go.

"Okay, kid, it's half past four so I think you should get moving or else your Mom might get really angry at us. Father Jones is alright, aren't you, Father?" She turned for the first time to him and couldn't help but notice the strange expression that currently graced his face. Their eyes locked and he nodded.

"I really am fine, Henry. You should go, like your Mom said." Killian managed to wink at him and the boy in turn reluctantly slid from the bed to a standing position. "Fiiine, I'll go. But I'll come to check on you tomorrow, okay, Father?" Who could say no to this kid, really?

"Of course. See you tomorrow, Henry," said the priest softly. Henry turned to Emma to say goodbye but, to her surprise, instead of a quick hello he decided to go for a hug. It made her heart melt. She hugged him in return and then he was running out of the room, eager to escape his adoptive mother's wrath that was sure to befall him if he weren't fast enough.

Emma finally turned back to see Killian studying her curiously.

"What?"

He waited a few seconds to answer, as if gathering his thoughts.

"Thank you."

Emma felt herself starting to flush from embarrassment.

"It was nothing, really - "

"No. It wasn't nothing. You saved my life. If it weren't for you, my body would be ashes and myself... would be long gone, stuck in the Purgatory for a few centuries." He fell silent. She was silent too, her face flushed scarlet and her hands trembling a bit at her sides.

"I owe you my life, Emma Swan."

She shook her head furiously.

"You owe me nothing, Killian. Or have you forgotten that it was you who found me in my car near that sign after I'd crashed into it?" He started to protest but she swiftly cut him off. "No. No more 'debt' nonsense. No one owes anything to anyone." At this she felt a strange lump form in her throat, so she stopped talking, fearing some unwelcome emotional display coming on.

A strained silence filled the space between them. Finally, she broke it:

"Are you really... okay?" She felt stupid for asking such an obvious question, especially after Henry had peppered Killian with several variations of it just a few minutes earlier, but it somehow felt more... personal if he answered her directly. If he reassured her and her only.

He smiled slightly and shot a glance at his left arm. "Well, as you can probably see, I've had worse." Chuckling, he tried to move a bit higher but then hissed in pain. Emma dashed to him to help but he quickly waved her away. "I'm just not used to it being broken on top of everything else, is all. No need to worry."

"How are your ribs feeling, then?"

"Well, laughing properly is out of the question for now. But seriously, Emma, stop worrying. It'll be fine."

She shrugged at this apologetically. He was again staring at her with that curious expression on his face. What was he thinking? Was he remembering his fall? Or maybe the moment when she found him buried underneath that blasted painting? If she hadn't arrived there on time, she could've lost him. Suddenly this realization hit her fully, right in the chest and it was all she could do to keep herself from bursting into tears right there on the spot.

He must've noticed a change in her demeanor, though, somehow and extended his good hand to her:

"Hey, it really is fine. Here, sit."

She moved to his bed, reluctantly, and finally sat on it, very much uncomfortable. Probably noticing her expression, he chuckled, again: "As you can see, I'm quite indisposed so I can't really bite in this position. Humor me, Emma. Relax."

She couldn't help but laugh at this herself, albeit quietly. Here he was, injured and everything and yet comforting her, of all people. He was, once again, confusing the hell out of her.

She moved to sit more comfortably on the bed, exaggerating her movements for his benefit.

"See? A lot more comfortable."

"Thank you. Now I can really enjoy my stay in this room."

"How long will they be keeping you here?"

"A few days at most. Like I said, I'm mostly fine. It's this blasted... arm." He smiled sheepishly at this.

"You will probably need a lot of help in the church when you get better. I'm sure Henry would love to help you out in this."

"There's no need - "

"Killian, you know I'm right."

"Fine, fine," it almost sounded like he was whining.

"Well, of one thing I can be certain now."

"And what is that?"

"While you claim to be fine, your broken arm is currently reducing you to a whiny kid."

He faked offense at this.

"I am not a whiny kid!"

"You might be."

"I refuse to tolerate such blatant falsehoods. Shame on you, Emma! I'm injured, after all!"

"See? A whiny kid. Just admit it."

"Not in a - "

At this they were interrupted by a nurse who came to let Emma know that someone was asking for her at the reception desk. She thanked the nurse and the other woman left the room.

"I have to go... but that reminded me of something. When they brought you in here, they started calling the woman that was listed as your emergency contact but they couldn't reach her so... I put myself on the list. Is it okay?"

To her surprise, Killian paled at this and she actually feared he had gotten angry at her for some reason.

She tried again.

"You're not... really against it, are you? They couldn't find her, so I thought it best..."

After a moment of indecision, he seemed to recover.

"It's okay. Thank you for doing this, Emma." He cleared his throat. "And thank you for coming to see me." He looked even more exhausted than it was possible all of a sudden. Anxious to not make him even more uncomfortable, Emma stood up quickly and said her goodbyes, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Killian:

It was getting dark in his room, yet again, but for now it seemed real enough, unlike most of his hallucinations. What on earth had they given him to make them so real? He would have to talk to Dr. Whale. Surely his injury wasn't that bad to require this amount of painkillers?

Sighing in frustration, Killian tried to prop himself up a bit to get a better look at the room - the corners cast in ominous shadows didn't exactly look reassuring to him - and promptly hissed at the pain that shoot up through his left arm. He'd forgotten it was broken. Again.

He gingerly lowered himself onto the hospital bed, cursing his impulsiveness along the way. This broken arm of his would take some getting used to, that much was certain.

Suddenly, the door burst open and he heard someone walk in. Killian was about to prop himself up again to take a better look at the visitor but, remembering his last attempt at such vigor, decided against it. Whoever it was would make themselves known soon enough. Emma, again? The priest tried his hand at the guessing game. So soon - and yet a faint smile was already playing on his lips in anticipation. He was, after all, once again allowed to be in her presence, no strings attached - no dream and no monster could claim there was something forbidden in his feelings towards her now.

Was it sin to love your own angel?

Startled by a not-so-subtle cough from his visitor, Killian once again focused on the right side of his hospital room. He almost let out a choked laughter when he recognized the Mayor herself standing in the shadows. He could barely make out her features in the darkness that enveloped them, but from what he could gather, her face was wearing one of her most pleasant and concerned expressions. Killian stilled, sensing that despite the look on the Mayor's face, the conversation they were about to have wasn't going to be one of the reassuring ones.

"Good evening, Father." Regina started first, trying to unsuccessfully break the invisible ice plateau that currently lay between them - deathly still with a hint of an oncoming storm. The air tasted like centuries-old bitterness had taken hold of it fully, slowly spread through his system like poison. His mind rebelled and yet his body grew weaker, exhausted by the events of the day. She knew she had him at his weakest.

He managed a half-hearted 'good evening' in return. There was a hint of a sardonic smile on her lips but she quickly hid it.

"How are you feeling, may I ask?" the fact that she persisted with the pleasantries only meant that the rest of the conversation was going to be very, very unpleasant for him. Killian winced at that moment as his bruised ribs suddenly reawakened with a newfound purpose - to make him hurt at the most inopportune moments - and it looked like the Mayor had her answer.

"I'm so sorry that the church received such a terrible blow today," She tried to fake a concerned expression but, apparently, wasn't exactly up for it for some reason - which was surprising, as the Mayor was the master of expressing emotions she didn't feel for she didn't... need them - so she flashed a small smile in return.

Regina knew him too well. His broken arm, his bruised ribs - everything paled in comparison to the damage that was done to the church itself. It hurt his heart to even think about the way the southern transept might look right now - bruised, battered; much like him, and probably half-way destroyed. Maybe the brick walls had survived the fire but the interior hadn't, of that he was sure. It would take months to restore the transept to its former glory. And, of course, a new painting would have to be bought for the altar. The archangel's face, righteous in its fury, flashed before his eyes and Killian shuddered internally. He struggled to keep his face composed, remembering that Regina was still standing at the foot of his bed (too close, too close, he thought) and presently regarding him with a curious expression on her face as a predator would regard its prey before starting to play with it to its heart's content.

"I only hope that there will be enough funds to finance the restoration, madame Mayor." He lifted an eyebrow at her, daring her to contradict him. Whatever their personal relationship was - barely agreeable at best - they both knew that she couldn't interfere with the restoration of the church. At least half of the town were churchgoers and Regina, for all her power, couldn't go against that many people. She was a smart woman and an even more formidable opponent, so she obviously knew her limits.

"I have to warn you, though, Father Jones, the repairs may take several months."

Or maybe not.

He remained silent, more than painfully aware that he was in no shape to argue with her at that moment. Inside, he was seething withsudden rage that almost overpowered him for a second there. How dare she. The Mayor could've said that the budget couldn't allow such expenses at the moment - it all would've meant the same thing. The church was his domain, his holy place - and it didn't matter that only one transept was damaged and everything else was mostly intact - she actually dared to threaten God's own home, his home and hers t-

At this turn of thoughts, he had to stop himself from going further. Such arguments were not fit for the man of his station and of his profession, too. All of this wasn't for his own comfort, but for the parishioners'. Yes. He took a deep breath. That's better.

Still deep in thought(s), he almost missed Regina reach into her briefcase and take out several papers. He quirked an eyebrow at her, again.

"Madame Mayor? I don't think I'm in any shape to sign - "

At that she raised her hand to silence him.

"Don't look so alarmed, Father. These papers concern another matter entirely that, if I remember correctly, had been quite close to your... heart." Her smile grew cold and it seemed as if the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees. He almost shivered as if the ice that surrounded them suddenly started to creep onto his own skin. Ah, here came the truly unpleasant part of their conversation, as he'd feared. But what did she have on him?

"Do you remember Milah Gold?"

He started at this and in his distraction tried to push himself up again, almost breaking his already broken arm in the process. His cry of pain sounded more like a sob. Something painful twisted in his gut at the mention of her name, brutally, as if it were a butcher's knife. Killian stilled, trying to calm himself. Several shallow breaths later, he croaked:

"I knew her once, yes."

Obviously pleased with his reaction, Regina opened her mouth to say something when he interrupted her:

"But she left the town ten years ago. Is there something wrong with her? Or is it about..."

At this, Regina perked up even more and almost pounced on him in her excitement.

"Yes?" she probed him further, eyes bright and yet with something sinister lurking underneath the surface.

"Never mind." He grimaced, lowering himself gently onto the bed again. He tried asking the question again, barely quelling the quiver in his voice: "Has something happened?"

She almost huffed in annoyance but quickly composed herself. The Mayor studied the priest for a moment and Killian had to keep himself from shivering again. Whatever it was, it must be bad.

"Milah Gold is still on your emergency contact list so naturally, after failing to reach her today after your accident, the hospital administration tried very hard to find her whereabouts. Eventually, they were able to track her down." She looked immensely pleased with herself, and Killian couldn't help but wonder if the hospital administration had had some help from the mayor herself. As to what her interest in the whole affair was... for now it eluded him completely. Either way, the priest highly disliked being left in the dark.

"And?" He was growing impatient. She was simply enjoying it.

"It turned out that she had lived in Boston until recently. Milah Gold..." and here she made a dramatic pause, "passed away two years ago."

No, no, no, no...

All those years that had passed with him being angry at her, mourning her love, her presence, her everything while she was already not in this world. She'd left it and he hadn't felt it and now he was angry at himself.

His face, though, hadn't betrayed a thing. Regina was watching him like a hawk for the slightest sign of weakness but in this hour of agony he more than ever couldn't give her the satisfaction of having the upper hand. It felt like something was squeezing his heart, painfully, cruelly, enjoying it - and yet no emotion betrayed his state.

Outside, he was paralyzed. Inside, ice spread through his veins, reaching his heart in the merest seconds. He was numb.

A rustling of papers brought him to the present again. Keeping her face carefully blank too, Regina moved to his bedside to leave the papers on the table near his bed. She turned and left the room without a backward glance at a leisurely pace. After all, she'd gotten what she'd come for. There was no need to flee the crime scene.

A/N: Thank you for reading, darlings! I'd love to hear your thoughts so please, if you can/want to, leave a review!