Downpour
On her hands and knees, Emma reached underneath the bed, swiping blindly at the darkness until her fingers struck cardboard. She pulled the small shoebox towards her. A folded piece of thick paper was dragged out with the box, along with a light could of disturbed dust. Emma unfolded the strange brown paper in a sneezing fit. She knew the curved, slanted script well enough to identify the language, but not well enough to read the passage inscribed on the grainy page. She opened the box and slipped it inside, making a mental note to ask Regina or Belle about it later.
When she returned to the couch she found Killian quietly snoring, his head lolled to one side and mouth slightly agape. She sat beside him and shook his shoulder. "Maybe I should drive you home."
Killian shot up, wiping his eyes quickly. "No, I'm awake," he insisted.
"Oh yeah? Why do you sound like a four year who's up past his bedtime," she sniggered.
"Can I look?" Killian motioned towards the box.
Emma handed the box over reluctantly. He opened the lid with the biggest grin, staring in wonder at the precious mementos that lay within. Polaroids from another life, lists of schools and addresses, a blue stoned ring, a birthday card, used stickers that had been pried off bedposts, he extracted them all individually. She felt oddly exposed as he riffled though the box's contents, like he was reaching into her childhood itself, tugging open recollections she had worked so hard to sew shut.
"What's this," Killian asked, curiously shaking a large, black cassette.
Emma pulled the tape from his hands. "That is a VHS."
At the end of the tape, Emma found herself blinking away shallow wells of tears. She stared at the pixelated black and white static on the screen. She had been completely unprepared for the Snow Queen's appearance in the shakily shot home video. To survive was to forget. That was her motto and it had served her well until now. It was not being able to remember that disturbed her most. Seeing the video now and not being able to identify the house or even the faces of the other children, brought hot, heavy tears to the surface. Emma tried to wipe them away discretely.
"You alright love?" Killian questioned, rubbing a hand on her knee.
"Yeah. Fine," Emma sniffed, glancing at the clock, "It's getting late."
The couch squelched loudly as Killian moved closer. He put his arm around her, trying his best to comfort her. "You don't want to talk about what we just saw? About the Snow Witch being your foster mother?"
"I'm tired. Can we talk about it tomorrow?" Emma said with a long sigh. She didn't want to be alone but she didn't feel like being touched either. In an effort to ease the rejection, Emma tilted her head down and kissed the hand that rested on her shoulder before she physically removed it. "I'll drive you home now."
Killian looked like he had more to say, but seemed to read her emotions with great accuracy and didn't push the topic further. "Alright, tomorrow then," he smiled softly, getting up from the couch.
While his reaction was one she had desired, Emma felt an irrational surge of anger toward him. Why did he have to be so understanding. Emma donned a leather jacket over her dress, watching Killian as he ejected the cassette from the player and carefully returned it, along with the rest of the items, to the shoebox.
"I know you're too old for this," Regina mumbled from her perched position on the edge of Henry's bed, slowly raking her fingers through his thick hair.
"I don't mind," Henry yawned widely, his eyes already beginning to droop.
Regina smiled down at him, gently massaging her fingertips into his scalp. She remembered doing this every night when Henry was a toddler, singing lullabies and stroking his hair until the inevitable rumblings of pintsized snores began.
"Night Mom," he exhaled sleepily.
"Good night sweet boy," she whispered back, bending to plant a kiss on his forehead. She tucked the covers snugly around his shoulders and retreated quietly to the door. She took one last look at Henry's peaceful face before switching the light off. His lanky form was spread like a star fish under the thick duvet, his socked feet sticking out peculiarly. Even in sleep, he reminded her of Emma.
The rain had begun innocently. The first few uncertain drops speckled the windshield as lightning flashed inthe distance. By the time Emma pulled up outside Killian's place, it had morphed into a downpour of torrential proportions, hammering down on the Bug's metal roof with ferocious intent. Booming thunder crackled so loudly over the storm, she could no longer hear the familiar rattle of the old engine.
They had barely spoken for the duration of the short drive and Emma felt as though she was to blame for the silence. She was also slightly relieved - she didn't want to talk over the storm anyway. Killian unclicked his seatbelt as Emma reached behind and under the passenger seat to retrieve her umbrella. When she came back up, Killian was leaning toward hers. His distinctive scent, of salty molasses mixed with mild, rubbery cologne, invaded her nose. She turned her head at the last second so his lips landed on her cheek.
Killian withdrew slowly, a sad smile plastered across his handsome features. He looked over her shoulder to the backseat, where the shoebox lay. "You're going to her place, aren't you?" he uttered softly. The sound of pummelling rain was not enough to mask the undercurrent of hurt in his question.
Emma hadn't brought the box along with the intention of going to Regina, however, Killian's supposition seemed to illuminate a latent desire within her. She lifted his chin and pecked his lips; a consolation prize for his understanding. "Yes," she said finally, placing the umbrella in his hand.
"I get it, sometimes we just need a mate more," Killian said, bringing Emma's hand to his lips, "Goodnight love."
Shifting the faucet to maximum temperature and pressure, Regina shed her clothes and waited for the water to heat. When misty vapour began to fog the shower glass, she pressed play on speakers. She relished in the temporary relief of the searing spray as it seeped into the aching muscles of her neck and shoulders. The slow, lonely beginnings of a dramatic piano arrangement rang out, the rounded notes enriched by the acoustic space. For the length of one ballade, she would allow herself to feel.
Regina was sick of herself. Sick and exhausted. There was no excuse for what she had attempted with Emma. Like so many others before her, Emma had simply fallen into the line of sight of Regina's defence mechanism. Regina rested her head against the cool tile, slick with dewy condensation. She closed her eyes, sailing the wave of rage and regret, the same one she had charted all of her adult life. She wanted to scream, but couldn't, needed to cry, but wouldn't. Crying was for the weak. Regina drove her fist into the wall, punching the hard tile in frustration, one, two, three times. The forceful thwacks of impact were muted by the sound of falling water and the frantic climax of resounding notes.
The initial pain shot through her tender knuckles, radiating through her hand and, just as quickly as it appeared, the feeling dulled. Hearing the first of the final four bars of music was her cue to twist the faucet in the opposite direction. Regina held herself under the icy spray for a few numbing seconds before shutting off the flow completely. To her surprise, a thin trickle of blood ran down her hand. She observed the bulbous, crimson droplets form atop shallow cuts across her knuckles and watched as they fell, their red hue diluted by the residual pool of water at her feet.
A loud ringtone broke through her daze. After a moments uncertainty, she accepted the call, not knowing who was on the other side. She did her best to put on a menacing tone. "Someone's house better be on dragon fire."
Emma's voice chuckled half-heartedly through the speakers, "Dragon fire?"
Regina heard the weakness in Emma's amplified laugh. It echoed emptily around the confined area. "Inextinguishable flames," she replied, waving the thought away, "Are you alright?"
There was a pregnant pause before a quiet reply followed. "I'm outside."
"Give me a minute." The phone clicked and Regina realised she was cold. She stretched for a fresh towel and slipped on a night dress and matching silk gown. She washed her bloodied knuckles and briefly contemplated putting more clothes on. She decided against it; there was something in Emma's voice that begged for urgency.
"Come in." Regina swung the door open wide, standing on one side to let Emma into the foyer. Emma's hair had turned a dirty blonde from saturation. Long wisps stuck to her face around her eyes, which were smudged with dark makeup. Regina looked back at Emma's car and pushed the door shut, wondering how she'd managed to get so wet walking from the street to the entrance.
Emma was thankful for the rain. She had driven to the mansion in tears, which was no easy feat under heavily fogged glass and short glimpses of the road between overworked windscreen wipers. "I know, I must look like a drowned rat," she said, shaking her hair free from the loose bun.
"You're mascara is running so I was going to say wet raccoon," Regina teased lightly, holding her uninjured hand out for Emma's jacket.
Emma smiled faintly. "Hold this?" she asked, uncovering a sand coloured shoebox from beneath her jacket, which appeared to have shielded the top half of her dress from the brunt of the rain.
Regina nodded, grasping the box with both hands while Emma hung the wet leather on the door handle. Her nose wrinkled at the water that dripped from the sleeves onto the polished floors.
"Shit Regina, you're bleeding," Emma said in alarm, reaching forward, gently pulling Regina's injured hand into both of hers.
Regina registered a weak throb of pain at Emma's touch. "It's fine," she assured the blonde, pulling her hand away.
Emma didn't let go. She examined the raw knuckles and regarded Regina's damp hair, immediately recognising the injury as self-inflicted. She held Regina's hot fingers in her cold ones and looked into her eyes. "Can you teach me how to heal this?"
Regina glanced down at their hands. "You already know how."
Emma looked down in astonishment, running her fingers over healed knuckles. "I didn't feel anything."
"Magic is inseparable from emotion," Regina said, unclasping their hands, "Emma, are you okay?"
"Shouldn't I be asking you that," Emma said jokingly, taking the box back from Regina.
"You're the one who showed up at my door," Regina said seriously, crossing her arms across her torso.
"Sorry, I wanted to show you this," Emma rambled, holding up the box, "But it can wait, I'll go."
Regina was exhausted. Her feet ached from hiking in heels and her mind felt drained from lack of sleep. She wanted nothing more than to collapse on her bed, but instead she rested a reassuring hand on Emma's arm and tried to keep out the drowsiness out of her reply. "Show me," Regina said, "but first we have to get you cleaned up - I can't take to you seriously with those raccoon eyes."
Emma waited patiently on a cream chaise lounge, nestled between a fireplace and a wide, bay window. The hollow wind whipped the glass behind her but Emma was too immersed in her own thoughts to pay it any attention. She studied the room, her bare feet grazing the thick rug below, welcoming the heat from the blazing fire upon them. Regina's bedroom was spacious, but not much larger than her own. For some reason she had expected it to be bigger and perhaps more like her office - magnificent and striking, leaving the visitor with the impression of cold authority.
Elements of the room were not dissimilar to her office. Like all the spaces Regina occupied, her bedroom exuded a degree of sophistication Emma could never dream of attaining. The dark mahogany of the bed frame and dresser contrasted perfectly with the complimentary shades of beige and white in the walls and furnishings. Taken as a whole, Regina's personal space communicated warmth. The feeling was only reinforced by the fire, which cast its soft yellow-orange flicker across all surfaces and coloured the cosy space with romantic inclination; it unnerved her.
Regina returned from the bathroom with makeup remover and wipes. She took a seat next to Emma, their knees touching as she reached forward to hold her face, her other hand raised with a wipe to her eyelid. Emma lent away slightly, as if the contact had startled her. Regina waited, until Emma shut her eyes and allowed her to clean her face.
"May I ask you a personal question?" Regina began cautiously, taking care when she pressed the wet cloth gently around darkened eyelids.
"Sure," Emma smiled.
"You moved in a while ago and the rest of your house is furnished," Regina said, feeling Emma's muscles tense underneath the cloth, "So why is your room so empty?"
It was a simple question, but to Emma, Regina might as well have asked why she was right handed. "Well, most of the valuable stuff – the cameras and records – all belonged to Neal and the other stuff is from the apartment we had in New York." Emma sighed. "As for my room, I guess I've never had a lot of stuff. It was easier that way. My homes have never been...permanent."
"Done," Regina stated with one final swipe of the cloth. She regarded her efforts, taking in the newly revealed, bare skin. Emma was the definition of natural beauty. Her fair skin was, for the most part, blemish free. There were a couple of small scars on her forehead: a small circular dot above her eyebrow and a long, thin line that ran into her hairline. Regina wondered of their origins.
She knew almost everything there was to know about the woman on paper. The information Sydney had gathered was very comprehensive. The details surrounding Emma's appearance in this world, the cities she had lived in, the length for her incarceration, Regina had read all the files. Except one. It contained a list so long its pages required staples. She had not read it, nor could she ever bring herself to do so.
"How many foster homes did you have?" Regina asked quietly. She held her breath, afraid to know the answer.
"That's more than one question," Emma said, her voice low. She opened her eyes, already missing the warm fingers on her neck. Regina's face was so close to her own she could see the reflection of animated flames in warm, chocolate eyes. "Between 50 and 60. A social worker once said it was the most that she'd ever seen," she admitted, her tone monotonous, as though she were talking about someone else, "But you don't really keep count after 30."
Regina tore her gaze away from hard, expressionless green eyes and cast it towards the bright embers of crackling tinder. She felt heaty bile rise in her throat doing the quick calculation in her head. An average of three homes a year.
"Okay, my turn," Emma said, more loudly than necessary given the distance between them. She held up a torn spell page. "I found this in my room. Do you know what it is?"
Regina's heart stopped. She reached for the page, feigning confusion. "You came at midnight to show me an old page?"
Emma face turned to stone and she pulled the page back, probing dark eyes. She repeated the question, more seriously this time. "Do you know what it is?"