Chapter Text
They haven’t spoken in three days.
Not that clashing is a rare occurrence, of course; between them, it is a frequent, almost necessary ritual. Whenever she and Emma collide, the world tends to splinter, dragging them both into either the depths of a personal hell or the heights of an absolute paradise. And usually, Regina secretly relishes their verbal sparring… addicted to the sharp, electric jolt that always makes her feel fiercely alive.
But this time? This time, the silence is just tedious. And completely unjustified.
Regina stares at the paperwork on her desk, the words blurring into meaningless black lines. She refuses to admit, even to herself, the heavy stone settling in her stomach. It’s ridiculous. Usually, Emma’s bottomless capacity for understanding kicks in by hour twenty-four. Emma always finds her way back, bypassing Regina's barricades with that stubborn, exasperating smile, regardless of who started the fight. Emma is the one who yields. That is their dynamic.
So, what the hell is she doing now? Testing her?
A flare of irritation burns hot in Regina’s chest, a welcome distraction from the hollow ache trying to take root. She pulls a tight, restless palm over the tense column of her neck, her gaze darting sharply toward the clock on the wall. It is past lunchtime.
Under normal circumstances, this is their sacred, unwritten hour. Emma is supposed to slide into her office, bringing a greasy takeout bag because she routinely complains that Regina forgets to eat.
But today, the office remains aggravatingly empty.
Regina scoffs under her breath, tossing her pen onto the desk with a sharp click. She refuses to pace. She refuses to check her phone. If Emma wants to play a childish game of chicken to see who breaks first, fine. Regina has survived ruling kingdoms. She can survive a silent treatment.
Yet, when a familiar murmur of voices echoes in the hallway, her heart executes a violent, betraying kick against her ribs. Hope, sharp and pathetic, blurs her vision for a fleeting second. She doesn't think. She straightens her spine, channels every ounce of the Mayor, and steps out into the corridor.
"Is there someone here to see me?" she asks, forcing her voice into a register of cool, detached indifference, though her eyes scan the empty corridor with a desperate, hidden hunger.
The secretary looks up, a flicker of pity crossing her face that makes Regina’s stomach turn. "No, Madam Mayor. But... the Sheriff stopped by earlier. She apologized for missing lunch, and she left this for… "
Regina doesn't wait for an explanation; she snatches the folded piece of paper directly from the woman's hands. Without a word, she retreats into the sanctuary of her office, shutting behind her back. With trembling hands, she unfolds the note. Emma's messy, erratic handwriting stares back at her.
Can’t come to lunch. I’m busy. Don’t expect me home for the next few days. I’ll stay at my place for a… while.
Regina stares at the ink until the words burn into her retinas. A sharp, bitter laugh bubbles up in her chest. A while? A while? It is a pathetic, cowardly excuse to avoid looking her in the eyes.
A sharp, bitter laugh bubbles up in her chest, but it dies before it can make a sound, twisting instead into a knot that claws at her throat. With a sudden, desperate surge of fury, she crumples the note into a tight ball, her knuckles turning white, and hurls it against the opposite wall. It hits the plaster with a pathetic, hollow thud and rolls onto the carpet.
The adrenaline recedes as quickly as it came, leaving her entirely hollow. For a terrifying second, the room tilts dangerously. Her head spins, the edges of her vision darkening as she sways on her heels, forcing her to grip the edge of her desk until her fingers ache. She realizes, with a jolt of grim clarity, that her body is finally giving out. It has been three days since she last had a proper meal. The lack of sustenance, paired with the suffocating weight of Emma’s absence, and the knowing she can never let her guard down around anyone who is not Emma is pulling her under.
Breathing through the dizziness, Regina straightens her spine and retrieves her handbag from the desk, smooths down the flawless fabric of her skirt, and grips her keys into her palm. She needs to eat. She needs a distraction. Gritting her teeth against the violent chill settling deep beneath her skin, she steps out of the office and heads toward Granny's Diner, determined to prove she is perfectly fine on her own.
That resolve lasts exactly until she crosses the threshold, because Emma is there. Of course, Emma is there. Storybrooke is too small for any other outcome. Yet, the moment Regina catches sight of that familiar blonde head in their usual booth, her breath catches anyway. A mug of coffee clutched between her hands, that irritating red leather jacket hugging her shoulders, Emma’s gaze lifts the exact second Regina enters, as if tethered to her by some invisible cord.
For a fraction of a second, the raw, bleeding sorrow in Emma’s green eyes mirrors Regina’s own. But just as quickly, the shutter falls. Emma looks away, deliberately staring down into her mug, forcing an agonizing distance between them despite being only a few feet away. It makes Regina want to cry. Fuck, she wants to cry so badly. She can feel her chest cracking from the inside out.
But she won't. Not here.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she approaches the counter and asks Red for an order to go. Then she changes her mind. Her feet move before her pride can stop them. She closes the distance, her heels clicking sharply against the floor until she is standing right at the edge of the booth.
"Emma," Regina says, her voice a fragile blade. When Emma doesn't look up, Regina feels the familiar defense mechanism rising, masking her agony with venom. "I thought you were busy."
"Regina..." Emma finally looks at her, and the sheer exhaustion in her voice cuts deeper than any argument. She recognizes that tone instantly, the ironic, defensive armor Regina always puts on when she is terrified of being hurt.
"It’s been three days," Regina presses, her hands tightening around the strap of her handbag to keep them from shaking. "How much longer is this going to last?"
"You really don’t get it, do you, Regina?" Emma whispers, the words heavy with a quiet, desperate grief but her expression is drawn, cold, and utterly serious. "You just... you don't see what's happening here at all."
The defeat in Emma's eyes bleeds a plea that she refuses to articulate. Her shoulders remain slumped, her pride exhausted, waiting for a breakthrough Regina seems entirely unready to give.
"Emma, come on," Regina says, her voice cracking as the venom evaporates into pure, raw desperation, trembling with unshed tears. "What am I missing? We can't just pretend nothing happened. Don’t you miss being with…" The words die in her throat.
God, this hurts so much. Something raw screams inside Emma's chest, because of course…of course she misses being with Regina.
But then she looks at her, really looks at her, searching Regina’s eyes for the words Regina is too stubborn, or perhaps too terrified, to offer. For a fleeting second, Emma’s lips part, a desperate urge to bridge the gap and just give her the answers written all over her face. But the impulse dies. If Regina cannot figure it out on her own, if she cannot choose to be vulnerable first, then nothing will ever truly change.
With a heavy, final sigh, Emma stands up, abandoning her half-empty mug. "I’m… tired, Regina.
She simply walks past Regina, leaving the booth and the diner without another word. Regina stands frozen in the sudden silence, the phantom draft of Emma’s departure leaving her more hollow, cold, and heartbroken than she has ever been.
Washing, chopping, stirring. Regina’s efficient movements border on manic as she prepares Henry’s favorite dinner. Holding the glass with trembling hands, she swallows a massive gulp of wine, then immediately starts to chop again, focusing entirely on the rhythmic, aggressive thud of the blade against the wood. She keeps her hands occupied, anything to swallow down the hot, thick despair threatening to choke her. She knows that if she stops, she is done for. So, she tries to prolong the momentum for as long as possible, violently shoving her mind toward any mundane task every single time Emma’s face flashes behind her eyelids.
But with dinner ready and the table meticulously set for two, avoiding it becomes impossible; every encroaching thought grows heavier, louder than the last. She has managed to survive the initial impact of walking through the front door and not finding Emma there. Henry will be home soon, the clock ticking down the minutes. But then... then the moment comes to bid Henry goodnight. A moment usually followed by Emma offering her own goodnight in the quiet sanctuary of their room, sometimes slow and gentle, sometimes fast and sharp with lust, Emma whispering against her skin that she has been thinking about her all day, that she needs to have her right now.
She starves for that. She misses the simple intimacy of wearing lingerie for Emma, dressing up just for her, watching Emma’s eyes darken and fill with unadulterated desire. She misses the words Emma murmurs into the dark, reminding Regina that she loves her for her fierce mind and her full, fragile heart, even when the rest of the world refuses to look deep enough to find it. Emma kissing her, Emma touching her, Emma making her feel like life is actually worth living. It is a miracle only Emma has ever been able to perform.
Usually, they share a meal. Regina cooks, Emma helps out because she knows exactly where everything is, and then they simply sink into each other on the sofa. Regina would nuzzle into the hollow of Emma’s throat, shedding her regal spine to stretch and purr like a well-sated cat under the rhythmic, adoring drag of Emma's fingernails through her hair. They would talk about everything and nothing at all. Emma would probably take Regina's sore, aching feet into her lap, gently working the tension out of her ankles after a relentless day spent trapped in stilettos. In return, Regina would lose her fingers in those messy, golden curls, kneading the stubborn knots from Emma’s shoulders. Sometimes they would settle into the cushions to watch some dreadful television show Regina absolutely despises, an unspoken compromise she readily agrees to for the sole, priceless privilege of being tethered to Emma and Henry.
Her family.
All of them, safe and together.
Compress and decompress. Dropping onto the sofa, Regina pulls her knees up to her chest, locking her arms around her shins and squeezing herself so hard her knuckles turn white. It does absolutely nothing to stop the shaking. Breathing in, breathing out. Even that fails her now. The first tear drops onto her bare knee, hot and jarring.
One for the solid, grounding heat of Emma in her bed at night, the secure parenthesis of being held in her arms. One for the quiet decompression of their post-work routine, the exquisite relief of finding the blonde waiting for her after a hellish day. On the familiar, phantom sensation of Emma stealing up behind her to wrap her arms around her waist, murmuring a soft inquiry about her day against her skin before pressing a lingering, reverent kiss to the crook of her neck, her vision simply blurs into a quiet, relentless torrent streaming down her face, the heavy, suffocating sobs catching so deep in her throat that they wrench her jaw open, twisting into exhausted, hollow yawns.
She misses Emma desperately. Nobody has ever taken care of her the way Emma does, filling every single minute with an unprompted, quiet devotion she has never known before. And nobody else has ever stayed. Not the way Emma stays, day after day.
And suddenly, Regina understands that maybe she pushed it too far, that she hasn't shown Emma how much she appreciates her. Not nearly enough. Not to her sweet, loving Emma. And now Emma has grown tired of her, just like everyone else.
When the cries stop, she sits there, staring at the wall, completely paralyzed, lacking even the basic energy to raise a hand and wipe her cheeks. Emma is right. Regina is just a cage of pride and old fears, an exhausting puzzle that nobody should be forced to solve anymore. She doesn't even want to fight the thought. She just stays curled on the cushions as the room grows darker, utterly incapable of reacting, watching herself ruin the only good thing she has ever had.
That is how sleep finds her.
“Mom… Mom,” Henry whispers, gently shaking her shoulder.
Regina jolts awake, the sudden movement sending a sharp pang through her stiff neck. She sits up quickly, her fingers instantly raking through her hair. She must have drifted off without even realizing it.
“Henry, what time is it? I’m so sorry I fell asleep,” Regina says, the words rushing out in a breathless, frantic blur as she tries to mask the raw weight in her chest.
“It’s okay, Mom, don’t worry,” Henry answers softly, his eyes lingering a fraction too long on her face, missing nothing, least of all the heavy, telltale redness rimming her eyes.
“Let me reheat your dinner, it will only take a minute,” Regina insists already bracing her hands against the cushion to push herself up, eager to lose herself in a practical task again.
“Mom…” Henry stops her, his hand firm and grounding as he presses it against her forearm. Regina freezes, her gaze snapping to his. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice carrying a maturity that cuts right through her defenses.
Regina forces a practiced smile onto her lips. “Nothing, sweetheart. Don’t worry about it.”
“Please, Mom, don’t lie to me,” Henry says, his grip tightening just enough to keep her from slipping away. “Tell me what happened. It’s about you and Ma, isn’t it? She hasn't been home in three days.”
Regina catches her breath, the air burning in her throat. She swallows hard, trying to project a calm she doesn't possess. “Don’t worry. Your mother will be back. It’s nothing serious, Henry. You know how we are. This is just… what we do.”
“Are you sure?” Henry asks, and Regina doesn't miss the sharp trace of genuine worry clouding her son’s eyes. It makes her stomach turn with guilt.
“What do you mean?” she asks, her voice dropping into a cautious, defensive quiet.
“Why don’t you two just apologize to each other? So, she can come back here, where she belongs. With us.”
“Henry… I wish. I wish it could be that easy,” she says, a heavy, bleeding sadness anchoring her voice.
“It is, Mom, please. Just apologize to her before it’s too late.” Henry’s tone grows strained, sharp with a sudden, suffocating worry.
Regina studies his face, her own protective instincts flaring as she tries to mask her rising anxiety. “Henry, why are you so worried about this?”
“I… I…” Henry stammers, his eyes darting away for a fraction of a second before forcing himself to look back at her. “I spoke to her.”
Regina’s eyes widen, her heart executing a violent, erratic kick against her ribs.
“She’s suffering a lot, Mom,” Henry whispers. The words are a vicious lash directly to Regina’s chest that leaves her breathless. “I’ve never seen her like this. I've seen her crying. And… and I…”
“Henry, sweetheart, calm down,” Regina interrupts, reaching out to cup his face, her fingers trembling against his skin as she tries to soothe the tremor in his voice.
“I saw her with Hook, Mom.”
The room instantly tilts. Her mind blanks out for a terrifying second, a dark, primal panic clawing its way up her throat, threatening to choke her.
“What?” The single syllable slips from her lips, barely a breath, fragile and completely stripped of her usual authority.
“I saw him hugging her. He was comforting her,” Henry confesses, the raw panic in his voice laying bare his deepest, most terrifying fear: that the beautiful, fragile family they have just built is slipping through their fingers.
A violent spike of adrenaline floods Regina's veins, wiping out the exhaustion of the last three days in a single, agonizing heartbeat. Her vision narrows. The thought of Emma turning to someone else, to him… makes her entirely blind with terror. She cannot lose her. She cannot let her slip away. She has already almost lost her once.
“Henry,” Regina says, her voice dropping into a tight, urgent whisper as she grips his shoulders. “Are you sure?”
“I am, Mom. I’m sure.”
Regina doesn't hesitate. The pride that paralyzed her for three days evaporates into absolute nothingness, replaced by a desperate, driving necessity. She stands up, searching for her car keys.
“Henry…” she says seriously, “do you mind waiting for me here while I go talk to your mother?”
Henry nods vigorously.
“Please don’t go anywhere. Stay here.” She adds, kissing his forehead her mind already completely set on the exact moment she’s going to see Emma.
She pulls away without a backward glance. Her fingers wrap around her car keys, squeezing the sharp metal into her palm until it bites into her skin. There is no time to think, no time to let the dizziness of her three-day fast pull her under. The adrenaline is a wildfire in her veins, burning through her exhaustion, driving her toward the front door.
But the moment she steps out onto the threshold, the world outside seems to shatter.
“Fuck,” she curses under her breath, the front door of the mansion already shutting behind her back.
It’s raining, the night turning into a blurred slate of grey. The heavy droplets strike the asphalt, kicking up the sharp, bitter scent of a storm-soaked town.
“Fuck,” she whispers again, her voice cracking as she stares at the deluge for a single, furious millisecond.
She doesn’t even try to look for an umbrella. Regina takes a breath and sprints. By the time she reaches her car, the flawless, delicate silk of her blouse is completely soaked, clinging to her skin like a freezing shroud. But she doesn’t care.
She throws herself inside her car and slams the door. Instantly, the cabin becomes a claustrophobic box, saturated with the deafening roar of the rain hammering against the roof and the feverish heat of her own accelerated breathing.
The town outside the window blurs into a shapeless cluster of distorted lights, smeared across the glass. As the heavy droplets are violently dragged away by the wipers, a sudden, fierce shift takes place inside Regina. Her panic is systematically washed away, replaced by a cold, blinding determination.
She will not lose Emma. She cannot. Emma is her entire world, and she is going to prove it to her.
It will be enough to just get to her. It will be enough to look into those steady green eyes, to offer a profound, unvarnished apology, and finally pour out every hidden truth she has kept locked behind her pride. It is a simple, visceral math that obliterates the agony of the last three days. They have survived too much together, too many splinters, too many personal hells, to let it end like this. And above all else, she trusts Emma. She trusts Emma’s bottomless capacity for devotion, for love, a quiet certainty that has slowly anchored her entire life.
The simple, intoxicating thought of sleeping beside Emma tonight, of feeling that solid, grounding heat in her bed, and waking up tomorrow morning to share a quiet breakfast with her and Henry, fills her chest to the very brim. It is a warmth so intense it makes her heart ache, pushing her to wonder, with a bittersweet pang of regret, why she hadn't just spoken to her sooner. Why she had let her defense mechanisms cost them so much time.
If one could call it hope, this feverish, aching salvation is exactly what Regina carries under her skin when she kills the engine, throws open the door, and re-emerges into the punishing deluge.
Her hair is soaked, the icy wind driving the wet silk of her blouse against her ribs. Her heart is hammering at a wild, savage rhythm, the words of raw apology and total, unconditional capitulation pressed tight against her teeth.
Her knocks against the wood are urgent, sharp, and desperate. She holds her breath, bracing her trembling frame against the doorway as she listens to the muffled sound of footsteps approaching from inside. Every ticking second is a lifetime. She is ready to explode the very second that door opens, ready to finally murmur Emma’s name into the dark, to kiss her, to hold her, to ask her to finally come back to their home.
But the moment the lock clicks and the door swings wide open, the air instantly freezes inside her lungs, turning into jagged shards of ice.
Standing on the threshold of the loft, his clothes perfectly dry, his black shirt casually unbuttoned low at the collar to expose his chest and sleeves rolled up his forearms, grinning with a sickening, relaxed familiarity, is…
Hook.