Chapter Text
The town hall was dark except for a few lamps on low, their light pooling over the long table. This wasn’t an official meeting. There was no sheriff’s notice, no agenda, nothing recorded. Technically, they weren’t supposed to be here at all. But when Snow asked, people came.
The dwarves arrived first, their boots loud on the wooden floor, chairs scraping as they settled in. Geppetto followed, the smell of sawdust still clinging to his jacket. Ruby leaned in the doorway, her arms folded tight across her chest. Granny couldn’t come, the diner couldn’t close without raising questions, but with Ruby standing watch, the room felt almost like Snow’s old war council again.
Snow stood at the head of the table, hands clasped tightly in front of her. For a moment, she looked less like a schoolteacher and more like the queen she once had been.
“I know some of you have heard,” she began softly, her voice pitched as if confiding in friends rather than commanding allies. “Regina has taken in a child. A baby.”
The word landed heavily. Grumpy muttered something under his breath. Bashful shifted, uneasy. Doc tugged at his collar. Even Happy didn’t smile.
Snow pressed on. “You all remember what she’s capable of. We fought too hard to break her curse, to free this town, to put an end to her reign. I can’t in good conscience stand by while she raises a helpless toddler under her roof. It’s too great a risk.”
“She says the child was abandoned,” Geppetto said, frowning, “but how do we know that’s true? How do we know this isn’t… another scheme?”
Grumpy grunted. “Wouldn’t put it past her. People don’t change.”
Snow’s chest tightened at the old refrain, but she nodded. “Exactly. A child isn’t a second chance. A child isn’t proof she’s better. That little girl’s safety has to come first.”
Her eyes swept the table. “Emma may be sheriff, but she’s still my daughter. She wants to believe in people. She wants to believe Regina can change. I love her for that, but it blinds her. We can’t gamble a child’s life on hope.”
One by one, the dwarves muttered their agreement. Geppetto gave a small nod. Ruby still hadn’t spoken.
Snow looked at her, just for a heartbeat, and then away again.
“I need your support,” Snow said, her voice gathering strength. “If enough of us speak up, Emma will have to see reason. This town needs to trust one another; we can rebuild it that way, by protecting each other. And Regina cannot be trusted with something this important.”
The others murmured assent. Chairs scraped. Boots thudded as they filed out into the night, voices low but firm with their decision.
Snow lingered behind, straightening papers that didn’t need straightening. Ruby stayed in the doorway, silent.
“You were quiet,” Snow said softly.
Ruby’s throat tightened. “Guess I didn’t know what to say.”
Snow lifted her eyes, earnest. “Ruby… you’ve always had a good heart. I know you want what’s best for everyone. But you saw what Regina’s done. You know how dangerous she can be. We can’t gamble a child’s life on her.”
Ruby bit the inside of her cheek. The words should have come easily: You’re right, Snow. But instead she found herself saying, “She’s… different, though. Since the curse broke.”
“Different?” Snow’s voice sharpened, then softened again. “Like when she used magic to take Henry from us? Please, Ruby. She hasn’t changed. Not where it counts.”
Ruby nodded slowly, but her chest ached. Snow had been her anchor, her friend, the one who had given her a place when she had none. But it was also true: this town was the first place she hadn’t woken each morning afraid of herself — and that had been Regina’s doing.
By the time Snow turned back to her papers, Ruby still hadn’t given an answer. Just silence.
~~~~
The bell on the counter of the sheriff’s station dinged for the third time that morning.
Emma didn’t even look up right away. She’d already learned the rhythm: one at a time, never in a crowd, always framed as “concern.”
A grey-haired dwarf shuffled forward; she wasn’t sure of this one's name, cap twisting in his hands. “Sheriff, children need stability. We’ve all seen what happens when Regina doesn’t get her way.”
Emma leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. Her voice was flat, tired but steady. “And I’ve seen what happens when kids get abandoned. You wanna talk stability? That kid’s found it.”
Ding!
The Blue Fairy had been the most insistent and long-winded; she had intoned in a voice as solemn as a judge, “This is about safety, not sentiment. If something dark should awaken in Regina, the child will be at risk.”
Emma slammed her pen down. “Lady, I’ve been in actual unsafe homes. You wanna talk about dark? Try being locked in a cupboard because you ate your dinner too fast, or too slow.”
The fairy faltered, then vanished in a puff of light, disapproval lingering like a cloud of incense.
Ding!
“My boy says Henry’s already calling her his sister. That’s confusing. Kids shouldn’t be around liars—” Emma had no clue who this one was, but her purpose here was clear.
Emma cut her off with a glare sharp enough to silence. “Regina tells that girl she’s loved. That’s not a lie. That’s parenting.”
Ding!
Grumpy had walked in, bristling like he wanted an argument. “You really gonna trust the Evil Queen with a baby?”
Emma leaned forward, voice low. “I trust what I see. And what I see is a kid with full cheeks, clean clothes, and a mom who won’t let her out of arm’s reach. If that’s evil, maybe we need more of it.”
Grumpy had no comeback.
By late afternoon, Emma was rubbing her eyes, a stack of paperwork untouched beside her. Pongo gave a low whine from his place at Archie’s side. Archie, lingering by the door, quickly raised his arms in surrender when he saw Emma’s ‘Not you too’ look.
“You know what they’re doing, don’t you? It’s not about Regina. It’s about Snow.”
Emma huffed out a laugh, bitter and tired, and just the tiniest bit relieved that Archie isn’t speaking against this too. “Yeah. I know. But they picked the wrong person to wear down. I know what an unloved child looks like — and that’s not what’s in Regina’s house.”
The bell dinged again. Emma groaned. “Next,” she muttered sardonically
Emma didn’t even look away from Archie. “Let me guess. Concerned citizen?”
The older man cleared his throat and shuffled in front of her desk. “It just seems… irresponsible. Giving a child to Regina. After everything.”
Emma pressed her lips together. She’d heard the same opening line five times in the last two days. First from the fairies, then another dwarf, then one of the townsfolk whom Emma recognised only as someone who still bowed when Snow walked past. Now this one.
A slow drip, wearing at her patience.
She leaned back in her chair, fixing him with that Sheriff Swan look she’d perfected. “Do you see bruises? Neglect? Malnourishment?”
He faltered. “Well, no, but—”
“But nothing,” Emma cut in. “You know what I see? A baby who’s clean, fed, and glued to Regina’s hip like she’s afraid someone’s gonna take her away.”
She didn’t add that she knew the look in Dayana’s eyes. Emma had worn it herself as a kid, the wide, wary stare of a child always bracing for the rug to be pulled out. Except with Regina, it wasn’t fear she saw blooming now. It was trust.
The man muttered something under his breath about “Snow knows best” before leaving.
Emma rubbed at her temples. She wasn’t naïve. She knew exactly where this parade was coming from. Snow didn’t need to be the one filing complaints — she had half the town willing to do it for her.
But Emma had lived in unsafe homes. She knew what they felt like in her bones. And Regina’s house, with its neatly folded blankets and a baby’s laughter echoing through the halls, wasn’t one of them.
~~~~
Henry sat at the counter in Granny’s, his notebook open but untouched. Red and Snow were whispering nearby, not exactly hiding their conversation.
“I just think she’s trying,” Red said. “You can see it.”
Snow’s voice cut back, firm, sharp enough that it carried across the diner: “Trying doesn’t erase the past. A child’s life isn’t something we risk on a maybe. And if you can’t see that, Ruby, then maybe you’re too close to the situation.”
Henry froze. He had never heard Snow talk like that before. Not to Red. Not to anyone.
He thought back to Mary Margaret’s smile in the classroom, her voice soft as she’d leaned across a desk once and told him, ‘It’s okay to be wrong, Henry. Being wrong just means you don’t have all the information yet.’
That had made sense to him. That had sounded fair.
But this wasn’t that. Snow wasn’t listening. Snow wasn’t leaving room for anyone else to be right. She was… shutting people down.
And the worst part, she didn’t even notice she was doing it.
Henry’s stomach twisted. For the first time, it wasn’t just that Snow was wrong. It was that she was blind to it. And the way she spoke to Red, like Red was foolish or disloyal, it wasn’t kind. It wasn’t even fair.
It was cruel.