Functions on the fantasy that Henry's characterization in "The Outsider" spontaneously became consistent and rational.

Title from "Longing to Belong" by Eddie Vedder.

She does the best she can, which means she bundles Henry into the Bug and drives straight to Mifflin. Immediately. Because fuck. She's a fucking idiot. And Cora's here, and fucking shit, she's a huge, colossal idiot.

The kid doesn't say anything on the drive, but she sees how his little fingers are curling into the edge of the seat like she isn't flooring it already. Right when she hooks the left onto his street—and yeah, it's still his street, thirty years from now it will still be his street, she already knows that—he speaks, softly and with a waver in his voice that she's never heard before. "What if she's not okay, Emma?"

Her stomach turns. What if she's not okay. "She's okay, Henry."

"What if—"

"Kid, if anybody in this world knows how to keep standing, it's your mom."

He stays quiet as she parks across the street from the house; they both just sit, looking at the front door. "Now what?"

She lifts her hips slightly, slides her phone out of her back pocket. Regina's been speed dial three since that day at the mine and if this doesn't work, if she doesn't pick up—Emma doesn't know what comes next. It's starting to feel like the moral of her story.

The phone rings three times before there's a slight crackle, and then silence. Regina's phone rings five times. She knows that, knows that she has enough time to take three sips of coffee before the voicemail recording starts. But it's silent—not a dial tone, not a voicemail beep—and she takes a deep breath. "Regina?"

The sudden pressure on her hand makes her look at Henry. His eyes are wide, worried, in so much pain; he mouths "Cora" and her stomach drops.

"Regina, are you there?" Still nothing, but she thinks she hears a breath, a tiny ragged thing. "Regina, if it's you, hit a button."

There's nothing for just long enough that she feels the sting of bile rising in her throat, and Henry's grip on her hand gets tighter. And then, quickly, a key beep, and she exhales hard, smiles at Henry. "Okay. Good. Good. Are you safe? Are you alone?"

Another ragged breath, and then a sigh. "What do you want, Emma?"

It's a full sentence and it feels like the greatest gift she's ever gotten. "I believe you," she says, and Henry finally smiles back, nods at her. "I believe you."

Regina laughs at her. "No, you don't."

She nods to Henry, opens the car door. "I believe you," she says again, and again, and again. "Come outside."

Henry's already halfway up the walk, so Emma hangs back at the gate, scans the windows of the house. "Emma," and it's so broken, so soft, so sad. "You were kinder about the last ambush."

"No ambush," she promises. "I believe you. Come outside." There's no movement at any of the windows. "Come outside."

The line goes silent again, and for a moment Emma thinks she heard a click, but then she hears a sigh. "Will it be quick?"

She isn't prepared for the way that question stings at the bridge of her nose. "I'm not here to kill you, Regina."

That soft, sardonic laugh—she knows it so well—and a final sigh. "Lies until the bitter end, then." And then the line clicks, and Henry's bouncing on his toes on the stoop and Emma thinks who you will always be and she just prays, prays, prays.

The front door swings open and Henry barrels straight into Regina, wraps his arms around her waist and he's babbling "I knew you didn't do it, I knew it!" and Regina—oh, fuck. Regina stands frozen in the doorway, one hand on the top of Henry's head and the other on his shoulder and she looks like she can't breathe.

Emma has to close her eyes, because the last time she saw Regina standing in front of the house in that same gray dress, Henry was shouting "I found my real mom" and Regina had that same wounded darkness to her eyes. So Emma has to close her eyes and keep them closed, until she hears something besides Henry's happy babble, until she hears Regina choke out a sob. Then she can't stop looking, can't stop looking at Regina on her knees and holding Henry close to her, just hugging him close and saying nothing except I love you, I love you, I love you.

Emma stays back, because she's taken enough from Regina. She stays back and waits for Regina to open her eyes, and when she does, when Emma can look at those dark, dark eyes, she doesn't even get to say what she wants to say because Regina mouths Thank you and Emma can't do anything but smile, wanly, and shake her head.

I'm sorry, she mouths back, but it's not nearly enough.

Regina pulls back from Henry just slightly, cups his face in her hands, kisses his forehead. "I love you," she whispers, again, and then stands up, smooths his hair back. She doesn't make a single movement to wipe the tears from her own face. "Come on, sweetheart," and she takes his hand in hers, smiles when he wraps his other hand over their intertwined fingers, leads him down the walk to Emma.

"I'm sorry," she says, as soon as Regina pauses in front of her, and Regina just looks at her shoulder, at her neck, but not at her eyes. Emma watches her throat, sees her swallow, but that's all she gets before Regina's free hand opens the gate and walks through with Henry.

Emma trails after them, can't quite follow along when Regina runs her fingers through Henry's hair twice more and then, so calmly and sweetly, says, "Get in the car, sweetheart. It's okay."

Henry holds her hand tighter, shakes his head. "You're coming with, right?"

Emma watches, because it's what she knows to do, so she gets to see the exact moment when Regina steps back from this wondrous, loving woman and into someone else. Someone far more familiar. "Bringing him here was incredibly stupid," she hisses, and all of that familiar is directed straight at Emma.

She takes it. She stands there and takes it, because it's not nearly enough. "I was wrong, and I'm sorry," she whispers.

Regina just closes her eyes, looks away. Emma doesn't know how she didn't see it a week ago, when Regina made the exact same movement and left the fight behind. "Coming with you would be just as stupid. Even more so."

Those dark, dark eyes dart back to the house, and her hand tightens on Henry's shoulder, and it's all clear. "We can take her. Come with us."

And Regina smiles, and it's so soft, so broken, so sad. "She will come for me."

"Come with us," Emma says, again, because she can't stomach the idea of turning away from her son's mother ever again.

"She will come for me," Regina repeats, and Emma gets it, then. What she's really done, in her weakness. "This… this was enough. Now go home, and keep him safe, and—" and Regina stops. "Please believe me," she whispers, looking Emma directly in the eye for the first time. "Whatever happens, please believe me."

Fuck.

Henry's gone and cried himself to sleep, and her parents—and fucking Christ, she has parents, it will never be familiar—can't do anything but sit and look at each other like they've never met before, and none of this is who she's ever been. She moves. That's what she does. She keeps moving, keeps changing, she never, ever just lets things lie. So she looks over at her parents, at her inherited chin and eyes and pig-headedness, and grabs her jacket and her keys and leaves without a word.

They let her go. She's grateful.

She takes the drive slow this time, thinks it through. She can't go to the door, can't just pull up and expect anything but extreme harm to everyone except Cora. So when she pulls onto Mifflin, she drives just past the house, stops under the streetlight immediately beyond the edge of the yard. She kills the engine and hesitates before hitting the button for the hazard lights.

It takes an hour and a half and she's about done with hitting her fingers against the steering wheel to make sure they still feel. But finally, finally, she hears the purr of another engine, sees taillights through the hedge and holds her breath while the Benz backs out of the driveway, turns in her direction. It slows down just long enough for her to see Regina nod at her before continuing down the street and idling at the stop sign.

There are so many things that separate Regina from Cora—and how could she forget, how could she forget—but it's the littlest things that Emma values most. Right now, it's knowing this world, this town, these people. It's knowing that no one would ever park within twenty yards of her house with hazards on. It's knowing how to drive, period.

The Bug takes three tries before restarting, but she pulls out and follows Regina, all the way down Mifflin and then left onto Winter. They wind around the outskirts of town and into the trees—to the playground, Emma realizes, and she relaxes. It's one more thing, one more sign.

Regina's already parked and sitting on one of the benches when Emma pulls over and gets out of the car. They sit, silent, for a good five minutes before Regina lifts her chin from the collar of her coat and glares at Emma. "What part of incredibly stupid was unclear to you?"

Emma grins, thinks thank you to whatever makes sense of this world. "Thought it only applied to Henry."

"It applies to everyone."

"She can't hurt me."

"Don't be naive. You're too jaded to pull it off." She keeps quiet, burrows into her jacket and lets Regina pace this. She owes her that much. "What do you want, Emma?"

"I wanted to get you out of there. Away from her."

Regina simply turns her face away. "I told you already—"

"And I wanted to say I'm sorry."

"You already did."

"I have to keep saying it."

"Repetition irritates me."

"And I wanted—" and she stops, takes a deep breath. "I said horrible things to you, Regina."

Regina's turned back enough that Emma can see her roll her eyes. "And I tried to curse you to an eternal sleep."

She closes her eyes. "Stop." The silence sits heavy on both of them, and Emma can't find any words and she needs them so badly. She's not good at this, the talking part. She's good at the do. But that part's already done: Regina's out of the house, and safely. She needs words now, and she doesn't have any.

"I never expected you to hurt me like that," Regina finally lets out. Her voice is strangled and rough, and her eyes are glistening, but her shoulders are back and her chin is up, and this is a new woman. This is a woman Emma doesn't know.

That's the thought that pulls it all together, gives her words. "I believed you, in the station," she starts, clears her throat when her voice cracks. "They kept asking me why and I kept saying that I know you. And then… then the dreamcatcher happened, and then I thought, I do know you. So I told you that I know who you were and who you'll always be—"

The sound that comes from Regina isn't natural. Or—and Emma shakes her head, because she's done it again. "And it hit me. Why everything's so fucked up. Because I don't know you at all, Regina, and I keep acting like I do. No one does. No one knows a thing about you and we all keep acting like what we see is who you are."

She waits to see if she needs to stop, but Regina's turned her face away again. That perfect posture doesn't reveal anything, either, and Emma sighs, pulls her hands out of her pockets and reaches out for Regina's gloved fingers. "So I wanted to say I'm sorry, Regina. And, if you want to tell me who you really are, I want to listen."

It's a good sign, she tells herself, that Regina doesn't just walk away. Regina doesn't walk, doesn't pull her hands away, but she doesn't look at Emma, either. They just sit, again, and nearly two minutes go by before Regina releases one long breath. "I don't know," she murmurs, face still turned away.

Emma gets it. She does, and she won't hold anything against Regina. She doesn't deserve confidence like that, not yet, at least. "Okay. That's okay. When you make up your mind, either way—"

"No," Regina interrupts, and finally looks back, and Emma catches her breath because the pain, the pain in those dark, dark eyes—God, what has she done? "I don't know," she says, slowly, with whole worlds between each word. "I don't know who—"

They just look at each other, and Emma wishes for something to tell her what to do, someone to tell her how to do right by her son and his mother and this whole messed up town. She gets nothing, which is exactly what she expects by now. So she does what she always does: wings it, with a look and a prayer in the general direction of the sky. "Good," she says, and smiles when Regina's eyes widen, when the extra moisture in her eyes gathers on her lower lashes. "You can find out."

The wind picks up and Regina's hair whips into her face, makes her break eye contact; she pulls her hands back and Emma lets her resettle. "I should go," Regina finally says.

"No."

"I have to go back."

"Please don't go back." Emma reaches forward again, thinks of how Henry's curled in a ball on her bed. "Come with me."

"I have to go back," Regina repeats, and pulls her hands back again.

Emma sits back, chews her lower lip. "I could arrest you?"

Regina actually snorts at that, shakes her head at Emma. "I barely believe in your competence. You think my mother will?"

"She doesn't know enough about my magic."

"You can't save everyone, Emma."

It hits too hard, too close. "Fuck everyone," she growls out, leans forward and looks Regina square in the eye. "I'm not leaving you in there."

She gets that unique combination of a sigh and an eye roll, and Regina stands. "Go home, Miss Swan," she murmurs, and starts walking back to the Benz. But then she pauses, just slightly, turns back. "Don't trust Gold with your magic. Don't trust anyone, really, but especially not Gold. It's too… it's too precious for him to get his hands on it."

"Please don't go back," Emma asks, one more time.

Regina smiles again. "Take care of our son," she says, quietly.

"Do it yourself," Emma snaps back, because this is what they do.

And Regina smirks, just a little bit. "Make me," she taunts, but it's too bright to be anything but hopeful. So Emma just smiles at her, and nods, and watches her walk back to the Benz. She has something to do, now, something to move towards. She can do her best. She can make this right.