Emma gets turned around in the building a few times before finding her way out of the
complex and making her way to her parked yellow bug. She fishes for a prolonged amount of time for her keys in her left jacket pocket before even thinking of checking the right one, which, of course, had been home to the keys all along. She yanks open the car door, sits in the driver's seat, thinks a bit, then begins to cry. Emma's an emotional drunk; always has been, but she's not particularly proud of herself in this moment. It's right about now when she makes the realization that there's no way in hell she'll be able to drive like this. But, Emma Swan had been born with no small amount of stubborn pride in her veins, so there's even less of a way that she'll be crawling back to Regina just because she can't very well camp out here until she's semi-sober. With that established, she knows she has only one choice. A humiliating, face-burning-with-shame kind of choice, but one all the same. Still a drunken mess, she slides her phone out of her pocket and dials Henry.

Not two rings pass before he picks up. "Ma?"

Emma hadn't realized until now that tears are still in her eyes from her previous breakdown, and in the state she's in, she can't manipulate her tone to hide it. "Henry...."

Casualness that had previously coated his comforting, deep voice shifts into panic. "Ma, what's wrong?"

Emma can't remember what she'd wanted to say. She can only think about what had happened inside, and she feels another warm tear burn down her cheek. "Regina kicked me out, and I keep losing my keys......"

There's silence on the other line for a straight seventeen seconds before Henry lets out a guttural sigh. "Jesus Christ, you're drunk. Where are you, the parking lot? Don't go anywhere. I'm picking you up." The scraping of keys being slid across a wooden surface and a door slam is heard, before the sound of an engine revving to life. "I swear, Ma, don't even start your car, just stay put. I'll be there in ten."

Henry waits for her distracted agreement before stepping on it and letting loose a short line of cursing. He runs his hand straight down his face, rubbing a few eyebrow hairs the wrong way in the process. This woman, this Regina, is causing a lot more problems in their lives than he'd bargained for when he'd cockily congratulated his mom for finding a date.

---

Regina watches deep red drops of wine travel their way down her previously impeccable wall, then carries her gaze to the hundred glass shards of what used to be her wine glass decorating her hardwood floor. Dammit. She stumbles over to the couch she and Emma had been sharing only a minute ago and reclines on it, mind racing over what had just happened. She closes her stinging eyes, inwardly cursing herself and squeezing her fist, yearning for her magic, for the intoxicating feel of it coursing through her veins. Unfortunately, the relaxation from no longer having to keep her eyes open causes her to completely zone out and only hear the blood rushing in her ears, and within less than a minute, she falls fast asleep.

Hours later, she awakens, and instantly knows something is off. Her eyelids flutter open, and she blinks to adjust to the light, when she realizes there isn't any. She sits up fully and stares out the window in her living room, seeing that it's the dead of night. The previous sudden movement awakens the pounding in her skull, and a small amount of bile rises in her throat. She curses, puts a palm to her forehead, and rises, using the flashlight on her phone to maneuver around her clean apartment. She makes her way to the bathroom, and waits for the inevitable to come. As she does so, she studies her reflection in the drip-splattered mirror. Black eyeliner smudged underneath her eyes only accentuate the bags sitting there, and half of her lipstick is smudged around her mouth. Her face is paler than normal, and Regina takes that as a sign to move to the toilet. Saliva fills her mouth, and stomach acid surges up into her throat. She heaves a few times until she feels empty but lightheaded, then stumbles back to the sink where she downs a few aspirin and a large glass of water. Undeniably dizzy and not perfectly sober just yet, she steps back against the wall and slides down to sit heavily on the cold, hard tile. With an absent mind, she raises her manicured fingers to rest on her lips, almost expecting them to still tingle and be numb to the touch. They're nowhere near swollen now, but she feels the effects of Emma like a bittersweet aftertaste on her tongue, and has the disrupted lipstick to prove it.

Hours ago, Regina had been slammed and slap-happy sitting on that couch next to her amnesiac former-enemy, but Regina still can recall exactly what happened as soon as the mood quickly turned from embarrassingly hysterical to sultry. Looking back, Regina can blame the alcohol all she wants, but she is fully aware that she initiated that kiss. And, if Regina is being completely honest with herself, she is forced to admit that she'd definitely known what she was doing when she'd leaned forward and began that make-out session. Not only did she intentionally kiss Emma Swan first, but there was something else much, much worse. Something that is causing the woman who'd been a queen only mere months ago to hunch on bathroom tiles with hot tears welling in her eyes.

She'd enjoyed it.

She'd enjoyed it, and it had nothing to do with that fact that she'd been needing sexual release for years. It had nothing to do with her plan of bringing her son back home, either. It's been a moment where she'd felt the raw, hell-sent, burning desire to kiss Emma like she'd never been before, one to wipe her off her feet and bow her knees before her, one to break down every barrier the blonde had ever known, one to show Emma Swan what a kiss really is what it deserves to be. And dammit, if she hadn't enjoyed every last second of it before the option to go further became much too apparent and shook Regina from her fantasies and gave her a stinging slap back into desolate reality.

So there she sits, a rusted nail digging into her back and shooting pains from sitting on the hard tiles making their way up her tailbone, with tears swimming in her eyes. She feels so entirely, completely alone, even more so than she did in the Enchanted Forest only moths ago--there, though she had no hope of seeing her son, was almost better than having him just out of her grasp, and her completely unable to take hold of him. She'd waited years for this sort of opportunity, and when she finally secured it, she realizes with every ounce of disgust that it's a lost cause. She can't very well build a fake romantic relationship with her former enemy who has not the slightest recollection of their past. But what scares Regina the very most about this whole mess is the fact that this might not be entirely 'fake' anymore. She's terrified; every next moment she spends with Emma in this state is one more moment falling in love.

Love? Alright, that's a little harsh, she tells herself, raking a hand through her tangles and purposely pulling on the dark strands. It was just a kiss. One that took every ounce of her self-control to put a stop to before it quickly became something much larger. But perhaps, it was already much more than a single kiss. It started long weeks ago, when they'd gone on a date. Emma isn't looking for a one night stand; she's looking for a lover. And bit by bit, Regina's giving her just that.

The last realization is what gives Regina the energy to push herself from her painful position and come to a swaying stand. She can't do this. She can't. After a bit of searching, she locates her suitcase and begins haphazardly throwing things inside. She's just going to pack up and go, before Emma even has a chance to miss her.

Then she stops cold, a satin blouse slipping through her fingers. What of Henry? What about the reason she'd really come here in the first place--Emma just being a side job (or at least that's what she'd told herself)? When she was back in her dark castle, she went through hell every single day because she knew that there wasn't the slightest chance she would lay her eyes on her son one last time, wouldn't even be able to see a single photograph of how he'd grown up without her. But after months of searching, she'd finally seen just that. She'd seen that he'd grown up into a beautiful young man, one with perfect posture, dark hair the same shade as she remembered, one with a loving mother and with absolutely no need for another one. She needed him, but he didn't need her, and maybe that's exactly what she'd needed. Now, she knows. Now, she doesn't have to wonder. She doesn't have to lay awake imagining how his voice deepened or if he'd surpassed in her height, whether he's happy or not. Maybe it's the comfort of knowing that can finally put her at rest.

She'd put Henry and Emma in paradise; a perfect life, with happy memories and absolutely no baggage as a result from a evil-tainted family tree and a nonexistent magical town. How on earth now could she rip them from the only life this version of themselves had ever known?

She doesn't feel herself crying until drops that'd rolled off her thin cheeks soil the satin of the shirt she'd picked back up. She can hardly believe that after so long, she's retreating from her happy ending--Henry, to be precise, not that she'd ever, ever thought of Emma fulfilling that role--but she has no other choice. Deep down, she knows she's doing the right thing. Everyone back home won't understand, but she can find a way, somehow, to stop them from coming here themselves. Abruptly, she decides to sleep away the rest of the dark night, and leave on a morning plane. She's suddenly so, so tired, and her eyelids droop before she even makes her way to her bed with a cheap mattress and even cheaper sheets. Her last thought is of Henry with a bittersweet slight smile resting on her lips before she blacks out.

---

STORYBROOKE, MAINE.

Charlie Nolan, with bright green eyes that strongly resemble his long-lost sister, growing quickly, admittedly likes to be the center of attention. In fact, when he's not, it's hard not to make a fuss. For example, when his parents are sleeping together in a much smaller bed in a much smaller room than he's used to at the castle, it's practically a crime to not jump on them to wake them up.

A prolonged guttural groan comes from David's side of the bed, and a gasp from Snow's as both are started awake by sudden pain in their thighs where a little body is using their legs as a trampoline at seven A.M.

"Well, good morning to you, my little grasshopper," Snow sits up and collects the bundle of energy into her arms.

David forces himself into a sitting position and pulls a hand over his face with another tired grumble. "What time is it?"

Snow glances at the clock and emits a small chuckle. "Very nearly seven. I suppose we should be getting up anyway."

David flops down on his back and throws his arm over his eyes. "Wake me up when it's actually seven."

His wife waits a few seconds before poking him in the ribs. "It's seven. And by the way, it's your fault you're so tired, it wasn't my idea to do round two on this rickety old bed."

This springs David up, fixing her with a disbelieving expression. "And you didn't want to? Is the bed your problem? Fine, bed shopping is officially prioritized on the to-do list."

Snow throws her head back and laughs, and Charlie joins in, though this part of the conversation is lost on him. "Hey, David, I was thinking. We haven't heard from Regina in months--do you think everything's okay over there?"

This definitely sobers the mood, and David pulls a shirt on before answering slowly. "I don't know. Do you think she even found them yet? I mean, we don't know what it's like over there in that big city...."

Snow sets Charlie down on the bed and stands, searching for clothes for the day. "What if we called her? I mean, just to check up. I know it'll probably piss her off, but..."

"Mommy, what's 'piss'?" This comes a bit muffled from the bed, where Charlie is hugging a pillow and tangled in the sheets. David shoots her a look before the corners of his mouth begin to twitch.

"Nothing, Honey." Snow tells him quickly, before looking back at her husband to gauge his reaction.

"It's not a bad idea; actually, I really don't know why we haven't yet." He admits, walking a few paces to the small kitchen where he takes a carton of eggs out of the fridge.

"I know why I haven't," Snow confines, joining him in the kitchen and starting the coffee. "I'm afraid of bad news. I mean, what if she hasn't found them? What if she has but one of them is deathly sick--"

David interrupts her by putting a few fingers over her mouth. "Don't panic unless we have a reason to. Why don't you call her? See if she even picks up at all."

Without straying her gaze of watching the pot slowly fill from a tiny, steady stream, she nods slightly. "Alright. Give me the phone?" She didn't even have to ask. The phone is placed in her palm within a second, and she's left to dial Regina's cell from memory with shaking fingers. She lifts the dialing phone to her ear and takes a seat at the counter. It stops ringing.

"Regina?" She asks, when she's gotten her breath back.

A long exhale sounds on the other line, before: "Snow."

AN: I'm so sorry for the wait! Here's a longer chapter to compensate. During the time between when I've published this chapter and the last one, I wrote a oneshot found in my prompts booklet. A prompt is always appreciated, and a welcome break for writing with a fresh plot.

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