Chapter Text
“I didn’t get you a present.”
It’s ten thirty, maybe eleven at night. It’s December the 25th. It’s Christmas Day.
Emma Swan is standing on her front porch. Clearly disheveled, an arm around her middle, another to her chest. Her nose is reddened by the cold. Emma’s usually vibrant, maybe even defiant eyes are soft and sad. It’s a look Regina knows. She’s seen it before time and again. She’s put it there herself.
She’s been working at not doing that again.
At least Emma is wearing her gloves. The cashmere lined, red leather gloves she gifted her that very morning. The gloves, scarf and beanie hat, all of the same ivory cashmere which she had tailor-made. At least they leave Emma warm and impervious to wind and rain.
“You got me a phone. And you covered Henry with presents, Emma. That’s what matters,” she says, because it’s true. Henry loves the presents Emma got him. She spoiled him. Video games, sled, clothes, even an iPhone. Emma was thoughtful enough to ask first if it was an appropriate present and if it would be agreeable for Emma to pick up the monthly fee. Apparently, Emma had taken Regina’s acceptance as an opportunity to buy her an iPhone as well.
It’s only that Emma should be with Henry right this instant. Not on her front porch while he’s at his grandparents. Their hoarding of her son when she has just only gotten him back to her folds isn’t particularly pleasing, but she’s coping.
Idiots.
“I wanted to get you one,” Emma insists.
They’ve been doing this. Picking up conversations they haven’t started before.
“That matters, too,” Regina says. Because it does. “And by all means, you have.” That it wasn’t wrapped in shiny paper with a bow doesn’t make it any less. Like any other of Emma’s quiet gestures.
Emma looks cold. Cold and erratic. There’s this misery in her usually vibrant, maybe even defiant eyes.
“It does?” Emma asks.
Yes, it does. Regina thought that she had been forgotten. She thought that she wasn’t worth the effort. She thought she didn’t deserve Emma’s attention. She thought this emotional, conflicting amalgam of feelings unrequited. Disarmed. Unwanted. Weak.
“Yes, it does.” Regina almost smiles as she extends a hand to Emma. It’s of no consequence that the one taking hers is gloved. Emma accepts her.
They do that with each other now. Since Neverland.
She feels the tremors rocking her. “Now come in, you look frozen. How—Emma, did you walk here?”
“I did.” Emma nods.
She’s much closer to her now. Regina inhales Emma’s crisp scent, enjoying the faint trace of the soft and sweet ambery perfume she sprayed on the scarf before gifting it to her. A perfume she chose, but has yet to give Emma. It bites her unexpectedly, this impulse to simply wrap Emma in her embrace. Maybe it could chase the ugly away.
“I walked,” Emma says, and she’s brought back to the present situation.
“What would possess you to walk in so much snow?! It’s probably the coldest winter we’ve had in these past thirty years,” Regina exclaims. She tugs gently on the gloved hand to pull Emma past the mansion’s threshold. She doesn’t want to spook the deer. Emma seems more than a little upset. Vulnerable.
“The Bug wouldn’t start.” Emma shrugs. As if that’s an explanation in and of itself.
Regina rolls her eyes. Of course. But she catches Emma’s eye and offers a smile she wills to be soft. “Just come in. I’ll make you some hot chocolate and we’ll talk.”
“I’m not alone,” Emma says. Body immovable.
Regina surveys past Emma’s shoulders. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else around. Sourly, she assumes Emma has brought Baelfire—Neal Cassidy, a name from an old western movie—to air whatever grievances he might have against her, the Evil Queen, mother of the son he claims his after all but five minutes.
All but five minutes now or when Henry was conceived.
The Evil Queen. Always and ever. To all of them but Emma.
“This is hardly the time for a talk with your ex. Henry wanted to see him today and he did, thanks to your mother, so I fail to see—” She can’t help but be defensive, although Emma interrupts her.
“What? No. God, no.” Emma’s hand slips out of hers much to Regina’s jolting chagrin. Emma sighs as she opens her black woollen coat that—thank the universe—she chose to wear instead of any of her leather jackets which all lack insulation.
Emma takes a step closer, much closer to Regina. “Look,” she whispers.
Regina looks. There, against Emma’s heart, tucked in some expanse of the scarf, rests a sleeping and tiny ball of white fur. It’s a small, very small kitten.
“Oh, Emma…” Yes, she coos. It happens to the best of people. And she’s not just people.
“She’s lost,” Emma states, then sniffs once. Her eyes are full of tears she’s trying to swallow. “I found her in the snow, I almost missed her.”
“You found her?” Regina has her arms around Emma’s waist and back before she can think to stop herself. Gently, ever so gently, she inches Emma inside.
Emma shakes her head. “If I come in with her… I came here with her because… Would you… Please?”
Regina considers Emma for a short moment. Emma and her lost girl. Lost like Emma.
“Yes,” Regina says, warm and rich. She brushes a tear rolling on Emma’s cheek. She caresses the jaw, featherlight, down to Emma’s chin. Softly, she invites Emma to face her. “I will,” she confirms.
She’s adopting the kitten, because she’s adopted Emma Swan. It doesn’t matter if the kitten is hers to adopt. It is what Emma needs to trust that she’s wanted and welcome. That she’s never going to be lost and alone in the cold of the world again.
“You promise?” Emma is begging. Regina’s heart breaks once. Once more. Emma is begging with the heart of an abandoned child, parched for love, freedom and life, in the body of a grown woman. She will never have to beg for love. Not with her. Not ever.
Regina’s fingertips linger, stroking soft but cold skin. Emma leans into her hand.
“Yes, Emma, I promise,” Regina smiles. Reassurance.
They do that with each other now. Since Neverland.
“Will you come in so you can both recover from your emotions and tell me all about what has happened?” She inclines her head toward the warmth of the house.
“‘kay,” Emma says.
It begins with trust.
It’s not that unusual for Emma to stop by Regina’s office at lunch time anymore.
They do that with each other now. Since Neverland.
They also work in the same building.
It’s Monday after Thanksgiving. The air was crisp and the sky low when she left for work. Dawn has been leaving traces of pink on the pale morning lights every day for a week. Snow is going to fall, heavy, steady. A white Yule season. A white Christmas.
She wants it. A white Christmas with Henry. The two of them. Their tree, their lights, their music. The cookies, the hot chocolate, the movies. Them.
“Hey,” Emma says, effectively tearing her away from her intense surge of motherly urge to reconnect with her son. “Mrs. Cloverfield said I could come in. Brought you lunch.”
Emma only approaches the desk to deposit her cargo on the only corner that isn’t littered with folders and papers. She retreats a couple of steps, though. They might be doing lunch often, but usually Emma brings something to eat for herself. Today she hasn’t. Which means she doesn’t intend to stay.
“Thank you, Miss Swan. How considerate of you.” She tries not to sound unsettled that Emma doesn’t wish for her company. “You didn’t have to.” She inclines her head to the paper bag. “Especially if you didn’t bring your own.”
Emma scratches the back of her neck, a gesture Regina has come to associate with doubt and embarrassment.
“I wanted to say thank you for putting up with my parents and the whole Thanksgiving stuff last week, actually,” she says, throwing her hand in front of her in a circling motion to gesture the ‘stuff_’_ she’s referring to.
Thanksgiving was made a huge affair by Snow, who insisted on having half the town over at the new Charmings’ residence—a spacious three-storey mansion, now that Snow has been made the school Principal and David works at the vet’s clinic. It’s not that far off from Mifflin, actually, and ready to accommodate the sure-to-be-birthed flock of White children Snow and her shepherd have predictively always dreamed about.
It was made an even bigger ordeal when Snow and her legendary tactful mouth could barely hold in their wonderful news. They are pregnant—how modern of them—and isn’t it marvellous that Emma is to be a sister and Henry an uncle?
Given the look on both their faces, Regina had concluded that no, it was nothing marvellous for either of them. Far from a crowd cheering for their royal couple, Emma had barely been able to smile politely and congratulate her parents. Parents who couldn’t find it in their heroic hearts to give their freshly found daughter six months of an as-close-to-normal life in Storybrooke as decently possible before turning her entire world upside down all over again.
Idiots.
Suffice to say, Emma had been even more uncomfortable at the Charmings’ after that than Regina herself, but it doesn’t mean she was at all comfortable beforehand. Emma had seemed lost and out of place, as if she didn’t have a clear idea of how to be. In public, with her family, or specifically around the event. Emma had appeared as if a misplaced toy, heavy with dust, on the wrong shelf of an old and forgotten pawn shop. Not unlike one of Geppetto’s creations he kept in the back of his garage. Not unlike one of the trinkets hidden somewhere in Gold’s shop.
Emma had appeared as if she could have had a dire need of a user guide on how to celebrate the holiday. Maybe even on how to celebrate all of them, including her own birthday. Or Christmas.
“You have nothing to thank me for,” Regina says.
She wasn’t able to do much more than enact a masquerade on behalf of Emma and Henry, to feint the necessary pleasantries. Not that Snow had noticed much of her daughter’s discomfort. David had, however. He had hugged her and she had gone as rigid as a plank. Which is when Regina had stepped in to congratulate him and provide cover for Emma’s desperate escape.
She had found Emma a little while later—after ensuring Henry could handle the news and be left on his own for a time—in the den at the back of the house with a beer, crossed-legged on a windowsill sofa. Regina had made her entrance with a well heaped plate of food and that had loosened a smile from Emma. They had talked about beer versus wine, about Regina’s cooking being better than Snow’s, maybe even Granny’s, but mostly, Emma had made certain not to utter a word of the elephant in the room.
“Yeah,” Emma insists, “I do.”
“It was only a plate of food and a little education in the more refined things of this world, dear.” Regina smiles, genuinely aware that Emma knows precisely what she’s referring to and willing the atmosphere to be warmer so maybe Emma won’t run from her just yet.
“It meant a great deal to me.” Emma’s tone is serious. “Enjoy your meal.”
She’s already turning on her heels when Regina stands from her desk chair and reaches an arm out to catch her. Suddenly aware of what she’s done and that she can’t reach Emma, she calls after her, “Why don’t you stay? I’m sure there’s enough for us to share.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Emma tells her. Shy. Her usually vibrant, maybe even defiant eyes, soft again from sorrow and a melancholy she fears is here to stay.
“Not at all.” Regina is already around the corner of her desk, picking up the to-go bag of food and the venti cup of what is certainly hot enough to be coffee which she knows will be doctored to her taste. “I have no doubt Granny has made more than enough for the both of us. Red seems to be under the ludicrous idea that I don’t eat enough.”
She walks over to the long conference table, putting the bag and coffee down before hurrying to her ensuite. She comes back carrying two plates, mugs and cutlery she keeps on hand. She sets the table for two, opening the container of a beautiful and still-warm Caesar Salad accompanied by a panini garnished with what smells very much like mozzarella, rosemary and this lovely cherry tomato tapenade Granny has taken a liking to and has added to some new items on her menu.
“See?” Regina says, as she cut the panini in two equal halves. She even pours half the coffee in the mug she’s reserved for Emma, and the rest in hers.
Emma eyes her hesitantly before taking in a short breath and answering with her usual, “‘kay.”
They sit at the conference table and begin eating their improvised lunch in a silence that isn’t at all comfortable. The food is good at least.
Regina puts her fork down. She observes Emma avoid her conscientiously. Things being awkward as they are now, she might as well come out with it. “Emma?”
“Yeah?” Emma answers, forced to look up from her plate.
“There’s something we need to discuss—” Regina starts, but is interrupted right away.
“I wanted to thank you for being cool at Thanksgiving, not talk about it.” Emma isn’t usually this direct. There’s anger pooling in her eyes like she’s getting ready to lash out.
They’ve played this game before.
That Emma would want to thank her for being kind means that she has to acknowledge that she was in fact kind. Regina has been kind before, it’s not like the sentiment is completely foreign to her. She’s kind to Kathryn. She’s kind to Red. She’s kind to Henry.
Being kind to Emma is not new.
They do that with each other now. Since Neverland.
Being kind to Emma is different than being kind to Red or Kathryn. It’s more tangled. It’s more convoluted. It’s more.
She sighs.
“That’s not what I meant,” Regina says, hoping to diffuse the time bomb she can feel in Emma’s demeanor. “I would like us to discuss arrangements regarding Henry and Christmas.”
“Oh,” is all Emma lets out.
“Henry and I have just reconciled, as you well know, and I was really hoping that he could spend Christmas Eve and at least Christmas morning with me.” There, she’s said it.
“Regina, it’s not even December yet, can we not do this right now?” Emma is pleading with her.
“It’s the week after Thanksgiving,” Regina explains. “Henry and I usually choose our tree come week’s end. It’s the first thing we do together regarding Christmas”
“For real?” Emma now sounds panicked. “Should I get one too? Now? For the loft I mean?”
“That’s for you and Henry to decide, dear.” Regina tries to give her somewhat of a reassuring smile. “But I wouldn’t wait too long if you wish to have one. Storybrooke residents are quite serious about their festivities.”
“I don’t even know where to get one,” Emma says dejected.
“I’m certain your father can help you with that,” Regina offers, curious to see Emma’s reaction. “If you want him to.”
“No,” Emma deadpans.
Obviously, time passing has done nothing to soothe Emma’s heart.
“Gepetto is the one who helps Henry and I with our tree,” Regina indicates. “But Emma, what I’d like to get your attention on is that we need to decide what we are going to do with Henry about the holidays.”
“I got that,” Emma says, but doesn’t go on.
Regina hesitates. In the past, this would probably be the moment they start feeling threatened by each other. The moment they start fighting, screaming, neither of them ready to back down from their position. Emma must be feeling the tension as well for she’s completely abandoned her food and is thrumming with a tension Regina can feel from across the table.
She doesn’t want this to be a conflict. It’s odd to consciously admit it, but she doesn’t want to be in conflict with Emma Swan ever again. She wants them to be good with each other, even when they disagree. This is just a particular issue she can’t have them disagree on.
Regina must have Henry for Christmas.
She’s worked too hard to gain his trust back. She’s worked too hard to save his life and bring him home. Their home. He has come home and he’s happy about it. He’s her family. She is his. Before the Charmings, certainly before Baelfire. Before Emma even. Before anyone else in this forsaken town who would want to lay a claim to him.
They are their own family. First and foremost.
She’s reluctantly willing to let him spend time with the idiots and of course with Emma, if Henry wishes it, but he should be with her for Christmas Eve and Christmas Morning. She deserves it. They deserve it.
“It’s not that I want to keep him away from you, or other people that are his family, too,” Regina tries a diplomatic approach. She is a politician, after all. “I suppose we can arrange for him to visit over on Christmas Day, or even the day after Christmas, but I feel strongly that Henry and I should have the opportunity to spend Christmas together in our home, with our own traditions that we’ve had long before anyone else here knew him for who he is, or before you came along.”
She regrets her last words as they come out of her mouth.
“Before I came along?” Emma asks, almost jumping out of her chair and knocking it back, rhetoric evident in her tone of voice, her usually vibrant, maybe even defiant eyes blazing anew.
“I did not mean to insult you,” she tries, lifting a hand in a calming gesture.
“No, of course not.” Emma’s voice is dripping with sarcasm. The sound of their old demon reopening the freshly mended wound of their complicated history and tumultuous relationship.
Doubt and annoyance fill Regina quickly. Old habits die hard. Damn her. Impetuous.
And then she does something. Something spontaneous. Something much against her upbringing and conditioning.
“Forgive me,” she blurts.
Emma looks at her then, not that she hadn’t been, but the expression in her usually vibrant, maybe even defiant eyes isn’t anger anymore. There’s surprise. There’s nervousness. Maybe even a sort of—is it tenderness?
Emma doesn’t say a word. She closes her eyes as she inhales deeply and nods.
“I don’t want us to fight,” Regina tries again, standing up and taking a step to be close to Emma. She wants her sincerity to come across. “Not like we used to. I appreciate our bantering and the fact that we are both opinionated women with intense ways. I just don’t want us to hurt each other anymore.” She pauses. “It hurts Henry. It hurts both of us as well, if I dare say.”
No one shall have the gall to declare she isn’t being the bigger person here. The reasonable and honest adult.
Emma is now shifting from foot to foot. Uncomfortable.
“Yeah,” she says, eloquent as ever.
“This is really important to me,” Regina goes on, deciding that Christmas with her son is worth opening up. If she must. “I think we’ve done well with our attempt at co-parenting since, well, since Neverland, and I’d like it to remain that way.”
There, look at her admitting truths and weaknesses.
“Look,” Emma answers, “I hear you, okay? But I haven’t the first fucking clue of what things are gonna be like for Christmas on my side of things right now. Hell, I’m barely out of that Thanksgiving bullshit.” She pauses, seems to consider her next words for a moment. “Could I have, like, some time to sort it out and then get back to you about this?”
Regina loathes the dread that invades her in spades. For as nervous as Emma’s request makes her feel, it isn’t an unreasonable one.
“Very well,” she agrees.
“‘Kay,” Emma says, “I better get back now. Thanks for lunch.”
Emma takes the direction of the door, her head hanging low, leaving Regina behind. Regina can’t help the nagging feeling that she’s cornered Emma when she was only looking for a safe place to hang on to after the tactless and jabbing news she’s been given. That safe place was her. Instead, Emma fell into the trap of Regina’s insecurity.
She’s tainted something. It tastes foul. She might be wishing to have Henry for Christmas, but now she finds herself wishing for Emma to come back and finish their lunch. Pathetic, abandoned on the table. Regret.
And here they are. Walking on eggshells again.
And here she is. Resting in the palm of Emma Swan.
Vulnerable.