#if anything in this ficlet has left you full of Questions....my inbox is open ;)

[thelastspeecher]

Curing a Curse?

Here it is, the third part in my ongoing Nixie Scenario that has honestly turned into its own separate AU at this point.  And in keeping in line with the cliffhanger that the first part ended on, this one ends on one as well.  Anyways, enjoy.

(By the way, here’s the first part, and here’s the second part.)

——————————————————————————————

              “I’d like to see the actual process of your transformation,” Ford said.  Angie groaned loudly, kneading her forehead.  After spending two days hiding in the lake, she had shown up at the house out of the blue to answer questions from the nerds.  Only five questions in, Stan could tell she was regretting leaving the lake.

              Can’t blame her. Ford’s gone full scientist mode and Fiddlenerd’s even more overprotective than when he found out I was seeing Angie.  

              “Look,” Angie sighed, “I learned the hard way not to be in frog form with clothes on.  The slime ain’t easy to clean off.”

              “Slime?” Fiddleford squeaked.

              “Have you ever held a frog in your life?” Stan asked. “They’re slimy.”  Fiddlenerd frowned at him, but before he could scold Stan for being a smartass, Angie spoke again.

              “I transform while nude to avoid destroyin’ my clothes.  Bein’ unclothed in front of folks while I’m in frog form ain’t a problem, but I won’t let ya see me naked and human, Stanford.”

              “It’s purely for scientific-” Ford tried. Angie glared at him.

              “No.”

              “Fine,” Ford muttered.  Angie got up from her chair.

              “I’ll go transform ‘n come back.”  She left the living room.

              “This is thrilling,” Ford said excitedly. “Finally, a chance to see a nixie up close!  Granted, she’s not a full-blooded nixie, but morphologically, there should be few differences.  Well, other than the fact that she can switch between nixie and human forms.”

              “What do you mean by ‘full-blooded nixie’?” Stan asked.

              “Angie was born human, only turned into a nixie upon exposure to nixie venom, and can switch between two different forms.  A full-blooded nixie would have been born one and stuck in that form.”  He paused. “I wonder if certain people are more likely to become a nixie when exposed to nixie venom.”  Ford looked at Fiddlenerd.  “Fiddleford, do you know if there are any fae in your family tree?”

              “I don’t know of any, but I wouldn’t be surprised,” Fiddlenerd said after a moment.  “We were told ‘bout the fair folk from a pretty young age.  And in Ireland, where my Pa’s fam’ly came from, the fair folk do tend to interact with mortals.”

              “Interesting,” Ford said quietly.  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  “If fae blood runs in your veins, that could explain why Angie transformed into a nixie with a kiss, but Stan didn’t.”

              “I think the more likely reason is that, like ya said, she ain’t a full-blooded nixie,” Fiddlenerd said.  “Maybe she has less potent venom or even less venom overall.”

              “Good point.  Once I’ve collected some venom to study, I can determine whether that is the case,” Ford said.  Slapping footsteps, like someone wearing flipflops too large for their feet, sounded. Angie came back into living room, in her full nixie form.

              “What’s this about venom?” she asked.  Like it always did when she was in nixie form, her voice had changed, becoming cooler and more melodic, as well as losing her thick southern accent.

              “I’m going to collect some from you.  If you don’t mind,” Ford said, getting up from his chair.  Angie shrugged.

              “Sure.  That would be the easiest way to come up with an antivenin for the next time I kiss Stan.”

              “Yes, but I feel that finding a cure for your situation will go much faster if I can study your venom,” Ford said.  An uncomfortable look settled on Angie’s face.

              “Uh.  Sure.”

              “I’ll go get a jar to collect your venom in,” Ford said eagerly.  He rushed out of the room.  Fiddlenerd got up and walked over to Angie, looking her up and down.

              “This is the first time I’m properly seein’ ya like this,” he said idly.  He smiled. “Hopefully, it ain’t the first of many. I suspect that Stanford will be able to cure ya pretty easily.”  Angie’s uncomfortable look worsened.  She looked down at her elongated, webbed feet.

              “Yeah,” she mumbled.

              “I’m surprised by how tall ya are,” Fiddlenerd continued, apparently not noticing Angie’s discomfort.  Angie grinned, quickly wiping away her tense body language.

              “It’s the frog legs,” she said.  Fiddlenerd chuckled.  Ford ran into the room, carrying a glass jar.  He handed it to Angie.  Angie looked at him, confused.  “Do you want me to spit in this or something?”

              “Yes.  Technically, you should secrete your venom from your skin as well as your salivary glands, but that only happens when you’re under stress.  So a saliva specimen would be best.”

              “Do you really think I’m not stressed right now?” Angie mumbled.  Ford’s eyes widened.

              “Do you think you might be secreting venom from your skin at the moment?” he asked.  Angie held the jar next to her shoulder.  Ooze slowly seeped into the jar.  Ford’s eyes widened even further.  “Remarkable.  Would you mind spitting into this one, so that I can compare the two samples?” Ford held out another jar.  Angie rolled her eyes, but spat into it.  “Thank you.”

              “Yeah.”  Angie handed him the jar with her skin venom in it.  “By the way, I had an idea.  Now that you all know my secret, I was hoping that I could move again.”

              “What do ya mean?” Fiddlenerd asked.

              “I don’t really like living in a human house. I mean, I have to keep leaving it to go to the lake.  So, I want to live in the lake full time.”

              “Wh- Angie-” Fiddlenerd started.  Angie held up one of her large, webbed hands.

              “Let me finish.  I’d like to live there, but keep my human stuff here, since I’ve got a lot of things that I want to hold onto.”

              “I’m fine with that,” Stan said, shrugging. Fiddlenerd nodded.  “Ford, it’s your place.”

              “Hmm?”  Ford looked up from the jar of ooze, which he had been staring at intently.  “Oh, yes, feel free to store your belongings here until you are cured.”  Angie abruptly became uncomfortable again, shifting her feet anxiously, her eyes darting around.

              “Sounds- sounds good,” she mumbled.  She cleared her throat.  “Stanford, did you want to sketch me?”

              “Oh, yes, that would be excellent!” Ford enthused. He handed the jar of slime and jar of spit to Stan.  “Come outside, please, the lighting will be better.”  Angie followed Ford out of the house to the backyard.  Stan set down the jars.  He looked at Fiddlenerd.

              “Angie seemed a bit nervous,” he commented. Fiddlenerd shrugged.

              “Given Stanford is lookin’ at her the same way he looks at them gnomes, I don’t blame her.”  He got up from his seat.  “Now, if ya don’t mind, I’ve got an idea fer a way Angie can stay here instead of in a dirty lake.  I’m goin’ to work on some blueprints.”  He left.

              Maybe he’s right.  Maybe Angie just seemed upset ‘cause Ford was looking at her like that.  Stan sighed. Who knew falling for a frog-lady would cause so many problems?

-----

              Stan sped all the way to the lake, praying that he had properly secured the babies in the back seat.

              Maybe Fiddlenerd was right.  Maybe Angie should start staying at the house and sleep in that tank he made for her.  Having her close when the lab exploded woulda been nice.  The Stanleymobile peeled into the lake parking lot.  Stan parked it right next to the water.  Thankfully, the unseasonably cold day had scared people away; the lake was deserted.  Stan slammed the car door open.

              “Angie!” he shouted before even taking a step out of the car.  There was a splash.  In nixie form, Angie’s head popped up by the pier.

              “Stan?” she called.

              “Get your gorgeous ass over here!”  Angie blinked in surprise, then disappeared back underwater.  After a few moments, she resurfaced in shallower water and walked ashore.

              “Next time, a ‘please’ would be nice,” she scolded, coming over to the Stanleymobile.  “Now, what’s…”  Her gaze landed on the babies in the back seat of the Stanleymobile.  “Oh, Lord.”  She kneaded her forehead with her webbed hands.  “Stanley.  Please tell me that you didn’t steal these children.”

              “No.  They’re our brothers,” Stan said.  Angie stared at him.

              “Pardon?”

              “There was some sort of explosion in the lab.  I went to check it out just in case it was some spookum again.”  Stan gestured hopelessly at the babies.  “I found them like this.”

              “How did this happen?” Angie whispered.

              “Hell if I know.  I tried to look at their notes, but I don’t speak science.  I also know jack shit about taking care of babies.”

              “Luckily, I know plenty.”

              “Wanna grab your clothes and we can head to the house?” Stan suggested.  Angie sighed.

              “Just give me your shirt for now.  My clothes can wait.”

              “Got it.”  Stan pulled his T-shirt over his head, obscuring his vision.  By the time he could see again, Angie was fully human and nude.  He handed the shirt over.  Angie slipped it on.  “Good thing you’re so tiny.  You look like you’re wearing a dress.”

              “Shut up,” Angie muttered.  She got into the back seat with the babies.  “Aw.  They’re cute.”  As if on cue, one of the babies started to cry.  Angie grimaced.  “Never mind.”

-----

              “Shh, shh, Little Sixer,” Stan whispered desperately, gently rocking the infant Ford.  After getting to the house, Angie had taken charge immediately, instructing Stan how to take care of the babies.  Only once they were both sleeping in makeshift cribs in the living room did she finally go into the lab to figure out what the nerds were doing. Unfortunately, Ford had started to fuss. Stan continued to rock Ford, praying that Fiddlenerd wouldn’t wake up, too.

              “Aw.”  Stan looked up.  At some point, Angie had come up from the basement.  She smiled.  “The two of ya are quite adorable right now.”

              “Yeah, yeah,” Stan said, rolling his eyes.  “Did you find the nerds’ notes?”  Angie’s smile vanished.

              “Yes, I did.  They should revert back to their proper ages before the day is over.”

              “That’s great!”  Stan frowned.  “Why do you seem so bummed about it?”

              “They were studyin’ my venom.  They turned into babies ‘cause they were lookin’ to cure me of my frogginess.”

              “Don’t feel guilty about it, Ang.  This isn’t the worst thing they’ve been turned into. It’s not even in the top five.”

              ���Yes, but…”  Angie walked over to the “crib” that Fiddlenerd was sleeping in.  She sighed.  “I don’t think I want a cure.”

              “I know.”  Angie’s head whipped up to stare at Stan.  “The second Ford and Fiddlenerd starte talking about curing you, you get nervous.”  Stan shrugged.  “I don’t really get the appeal of being a frog.  But if you like it, then don’t get cured.”

              “Fidds won’t be happy,” Angie said quietly.

              “So?  You’re the one who wants to stay a frog, not him.  His opinion doesn’t matter.”

              “I guess…”  Angie sighed again.  “I really do like bein’ a nixie.  It didn’t start out that great, but I’ve come to love it.  I feel so free and in tune with the world around me.”

              “Also, you have venom,” Stan pointed out.  Angie managed a small smile.

              “Yes.  I have venom.”  She looked down at Fiddlenerd.  “If I was always stuck in frog form, maybe I’d want a cure.  But I can turn human, too.”

              “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. It’s your life.”

              “Well, you are my boyfriend and get drunk every time I kiss ya in frog form.”

              “Cheaper than beer,” Stan said.  Angie snorted.  Ford squirmed in Stan’s arms, fussing again.  “Dammit, can’t you just sleep?”

              “Have you ever watched a real infant?” Angie asked.

              “You already know the answer is ‘no’.”  Ford’s squirming increased.  “Do you want me to drop you?  Stop wiggling around like one of Angie’s snacks!”  A faint glow began to emit from Ford.  “Uh.”  Then, in a split second, Ford was back to his proper age, still in Stan’s arms.  Ford looked up at Stan in confusion.

              “Stanley?”

              “Uh…”  Stan looked at Angie for help.  She shrugged.

              “I told ya the effects would wear off by the end of the day.  I’m goin’ to find myself some proper clothes so’s my brother don’t have an aneurysm when he’s back to normal.”  She glanced over at Fiddlenerd’s “crib”.  “Speakin’ of my brother, ya might want to let him out.  Sooner rather than later.”

-----

              Sitting on the couch in the living room, Stan idly paged through one of Angie’s guidebooks on amphibians.  Normally, he wouldn’t be interested in something so science-heavy, but he was missing Angie.  He hadn’t seen her for about a week.

              And I don’t know why.  Stan frowned at the page the book was open to, an entry on some kind of toad.  She told the nerds she wanted to stay a frog ages ago, and even after that blowup, she didn’t go AWOL.  He sighed. At least this book’s got pictures.

              “Stanley?”  Stan looked up.

              “What is it, Ford?” he asked.  Ford stood in front of him, his hands clasped behind his back.

              “Do you still kiss Angie when she’s in nixie form?” Ford asked.

              “Uh, yeah.  Why?”

              “I’d suspected as such,” Ford sighed.  He sat next to Stan.  “You do realize how dangerous it is, right?”

              “Look, at first, yeah, it got me drunk or high or both.  But not anymore.”  Ford stared at him.  “Angie’s theory is that I’m building up an immunity. She said that sometimes if you expose yourself to a poison, it stops affecting you.”

              “You haven’t been feeling the effects of Angie’s nixie kisses as strongly?” Ford asked.

              “Nope.”

              “That makes me more worried, not less!” Ford burst out.  He pinched the bridge of his nose.  “There’s very little likelihood mithridatism applies to nixie venom.”

              “Mith-what?”

              “The process of gradually exposing yourself to a poison to become immune is referred to as mithridatism.”

              “Huh.  Weird.” Stan shrugged.  “Maybe you’re just wrong.”

              “The term is-”

              “Not about what it’s called.  Maybe you’re wrong about whether I can build up an immunity to Angie’s kisses.”

              “I highly doubt that,” Ford said firmly.  “Haven’t you noticed your skin becoming more sensitive lately?  Your voice changing?”

              “It’s allergy season.”

              “You’ve never had seasonal allergies!”

              “So?  Just ‘cause I’ve never had them before doesn’t mean I can’t get them later.”

              “Stanley, I’m concerned that you don’t realize the gravity of the situation.  You could be transforming into a creature like Angie!”

              “Stanford.”  Stan closed the amphibian book.  “It’s my life.  My decisions. Is it stupid to kiss a nixie? Maybe.  But that’s my stupid choice to make.  Not yours.”

              “If you go down this path, you might become a nixie yourself.  Is that what you want?”

              “I dunno.  It can’t be that bad.  I mean, Angie likes it enough to turn down a cure.”

              “I don’t think she actually does like it,” Ford said quietly.  Stan frowned at him.

              “What the hell does that mean?”

              “Think about it.  She was turned into a magical creature without her consent.  Yes, there are some characteristics of nixies that would be enjoyable, but it’s permanently changed her life trajectory.  I suspect that Angie has fooled herself into thinking she’s fine with her situation as a coping mechanism.”

              “Ford…” Stan started.  Ford became more agitated, gesticulating wildly.

              “Why would anyone choose to be- to be-”

              “A freak?” Stan asked quietly.  Ford froze.  “A weirdo?  Abnormal?”

              “I…”

              “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?  It’s about your own hang-ups with your extra fingers. Stanford, what happened when we were kids sucked.  But this is completely different.  For one thing, she’s a grown adult.  She can make her own decisions, just like me.  And like my dumb decisions, you need to respect her smart ones.  Got it?”

              “I just…”  Ford sighed.  “Fiddleford speaks very highly of her and her potential.  I don’t want it to go to waste.”

              “She’s helping you with your research.  How is that letting her potential go to waste, huh?” Stan asked, elbowing Ford.  Ford managed a small smile.  “By the way, even Fiddleford accepted that Angie wants to stay a frog.  If he can, you can.”  Ford raised an eyebrow.  “You didn’t know that he’s fine with it?”

              “No, I knew.  I’ve just never heard you say his name correctly.”

              “Eh.  He’s my girlfriend’s brother.  I should probably start using his real name.”

              “Hmm.”  Ford eyed Stan thoughtfully.  “Girlfriend for now, but something more serious later?  Potentially soon?”  Before Stan could come up with a response to Ford’s prying, the front door opened. Fiddleford stomped inside, slamming the door behind him.  “I’m assuming that your search in the woods was unsuccessful.”

              “Yer right,” Fiddleford choked out.  “I’ve looked everywhere!  She’s- she’s gone!”  He tugged on his hair.  “It’s been a week!  A full week since any of us have seen Angie.  How can somethin’ bad not have happened to her?”

              “Nixies are notoriously slippery,” Ford said in a soothing tone.  “Angie has immense strength and venom on her side.  I’m sure she just needed some time to herself again.”

              “But she didn’t warn us ‘fore goin’ radio silent!” Fiddleford argued.  “She’s-” There was a timid knock at the door. Everyone froze.

              “Hello?” Angie’s voice said nervously.  Fiddleford sprinted to the door and tore it open, revealing Angie on the doorstep.  “H-howdy,” she stammered.

              “Banjolina Quinn McGucket, where have ya been?!” Fiddleford demanded.  Angie drew back.  “Sorry. Sorry, my tone was a bit harsh.” Fiddleford took a deep breath. “Banjey, we’ve been worried sick about ya!  Ya disappeared fer a week!”

              “I needed some time to recollect myself,” Angie said softly.  “Somethin’ happened that- that threw me fer a loop.”

              “What happened?” Stan asked.  Angie bit her lip.  She looked down at what she was holding, a large glass jar with water in it. Water and…

              “The coloration is peculiar,” Ford remarked, “but other than that, the item floating in the jar looks like an abnormally large frog’s egg.”  Angie swallowed.

              “Egg, yes.  Frog’s, no,” she whispered.  Fiddleford’s jaw dropped.  Ford looked at Stan.  Stan met Angie’s eyes with a silent question.  She nodded mutely.

              Oh. Oh, no.

[shadowdianne]

Enough -SQ ficlet-

Have you written anything about Cora’s death? Maybe Regina talking to Emma about it? -Asked by @godandmonsters1996

[Pre relationship]

Set in: In some time pocket after “The Miller’s Daughter” [2X16]

As a side note here: No, I don’t like Cora. I also didn’t the cheap way in where they made her look good back at Storybrooke Hell arc. But I also think there is a LOT to unpack on Regina’s side about her. This scene tries to point that.

As another side note: Monsters asked me if I had ever written a scene like this one, apropos of an earlier conversation regarding the need to always find different approaches into a scene so I don’t get, you know, burn out of writing possible multiple variations of one single trope. The answer to the question is a resounding yes: I’ve written scenes with Regina talking about Cora’s death with Emma. But don’t ask me to find the links for that Xd I’m over 400 stories on A03. I have a good memory but not one that’s THAT good.

And that’s about it, I will shut up now and sit on the corner. As always: inbox open! I currently have a list of 20 prompts -thaaanks, I don’t know what has happened over the night, but my inbox is PACKED- so it may me take a while to reach yours but I’ll do my best.

Oh; final PS. I would want to redirect you all to the amazing one shot @stregaomega posted a few hours ago answering to a prompt @siakb sent to my inbox. It has the angst that will make you want to cry but in the best of ways.

Also, siakb. I will probably answer the prompt with my own version of it this weekend once I’m fully caught up with the series.

Ok, now I’m finished. On with the story!

                                                          Enough

If we lose this battle, we'll spend the rest of our short lives on our knees in front of them.

The words echoed on Regina’s mind as she walked outside the vault, Cora’s tomb a presence she could feel lurking on ever corner and wall as she exited to the cold exterior of the cemetery. Still, the disembodied voice of her mother was nothing but a whisper, a call to hate that felt hot on her chest as she wrapped her arms around her, eyes squinting at the golden light that filled the place with an eerie sense of calmness. The older woman had said the words with such conviction that she now could only close her eyes and breathe slowly; her newly returned magic sizzling inside of her in a way she was still becoming accustomed to.

Clutching her hands, turning them into fists before releasing them, lowering her arms at both sides of her body, the brunette opened her eyes once more, the sound of dead leaves crunching beneath her feet quickly becoming the only thing she focused on. A sound that grounded her for a moment, mere meters away from the body of her mother’s. The thought itself felt surreal. She, after all, had already seen Cora’s body once. Had already grieved her loss, the bittersweet victory she had felt in that moment now completely eradicated as she remembered the last look the older woman had given her; full of something that she had never seen on her eyes before. A look, a feeling, she had been vaguely aware she had tried to reach ever since she had been a little girl, unaware of the pain, the fear, the woman would later on impart her as soon as she begun to dream on a different life, a different path, than the one Cora had prewritten for her before she had been born.

Her musings were cut short by the sudden realization her steps had been suddenly doubled, a presence standing just an inch away from the corner of her eyes. A silhouette owning a similar and yet different magic, the power much more chaotic than hers; raw and untrained.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice rose like a gust of wind, her skin prickling with magic and the need for revenge. A feeling she knew well, far too well in fact.

The anger was, however, quickly replaced by tiredness and it was precisely that what didn’t make her react when Emma stepped into view, blonde locks framing her face, light brown leather jacket almost getting lost on the ochres and browns that peppered Regina’s vision. The blonde’s pale cheeks were slightly rosy-tinted, teeth peeking through slightly parted eyes and Regina realized that only once before she had seen her look so sheepish. Something she chided herself for noticing as she locked her shoulders, the fabric of the blazer she wore shifting just enough as jet another rush of power run through her veins, sparks breaking her skin.

Emma, however, stupid, stupid Emma, didn’t seem all that worried about the magic Regina could feel tinting everything around her in a purple hue. Or the obvious anger that now colored her stance. Shrugging herself, walking closer to Regina while leaving the entrance to the mausoleum at her left, she tilted her head, hair obscuring her face for a moment before she rose her eyes once more. The green that beckoned Regina was darker than usual though and the brunette found herself blinking at the shift.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

The answer was said in a soft tone, not shy but cautious, doubtful even as if Emma couldn’t truly know why or how she had ended up there, in front of her. A thought that made Regina scoff, the phantom-like feeling of Emma’s arms around her back at Gold’s shop returning to her in full force.

“I guess I should be grateful then, that you want to grace me with your presence.”

It came out cold, bitter; a breach between the personality she had and the one she had honed over her years on the throne. A woman, she was quickly coming to realize, that she wasn’t anymore. Despite her wish sometimes to be her, to be as ruthless as she had been if that could mean that there would be no remorse coming from within her if she even dared to kill the woman in front of her, or the woman that was probably happily seated with her husband, not giving a second thought to the life she had stolen from her.

Emma flinched at the words but remained frozen as Regina scoffed a second time, a mirthless chuckle bubbling on her lips until she was unable to stop it anymore. The sound of her laughter echoed between the trees, curling around the tombs that could be distinguished from where they both were, the tombstones a dot of gray on the grass.

“If you have come to ensure I’m not about to come up with another curse tell your parents…”

“I didn’t come for that.”

This time the voice was less soft, surer, louder, and Regina froze mid-sentence, a memory of a nightmare returning to her. A nightmare in where Emma, the mental image she had of her, had looked at her with that blazing self-righteousness Regina wanted to strip Snow from. Little by little, inch by inch, muscle by muscle. Turning so instead of sideways she could address the blonde fully, Regina felt her anger brim under the surface once more, the scent of ozone filling her nostrils as her magic growled inside of her, demanding retribution in the only way she had been trained to.

“Then what did you come for?”

It was a stupid question, the answer obvious of course. As much as the blonde could say she hadn’t been sent to check if the Evil Queen wasn’t about to kill the woman who, despite all her speeches about hope and second chances, had plotted against the woman that now laid a few meters away from both of them, she knew the Charmings better than anyone else. She had spent her whole adult life being the one who plotted, who moved strings, who maimed, who destroyed.

Feeling tiredness beginning to creep up on her, crawling from her legs to her chest, the brunette could sense the momentary rage leaving her body just in the same way, leaving her defenseless, empty, as Emma sighed deeply before closing the distance that separated them in a few strides.

“To ask how you were.” Her reply burnt hot against Regina’s skin, who moved backwards, narrowing her eyes and gaping for a moment at the sheer audacity of the woman in front of her.

“You don’t get to ask that.” She bit back, and she could see the fire on Emma’s eyes burning hotter, shoulders tensing and muscles on her neck trembling. For a moment, a second, she almost seemed about to let that rage loose and Regina almost felt relieved at that, drunk on that, on the redirected rage. She could work with anger after all, she could let herself be drowned on it, let it consume her. For a moment she almost wanted the blonde to act on it, to hit her, try to, just like she had done a few weeks ago, Graham in the middle of something the poor man hadn’t even begun to comprehend. Ultimately, however, Emma’s fists remained on her pockets and Regina felt the sudden surge of strength leave her once more, leaving her feeling brittle in a way she truly didn’t comprehend.

Lowering her head, she almost -but not really- missed Emma’s next words, words that were said with such conviction that she wanted to fall for them, believe on them. Even if it wasn’t possible.

“I’m sorry.” The blonde said, and Regina needed to swallow back a sob, her usual perfect façade crackling under Emma’s gaze. “I’m sorry.” The blonde repeated, regaining the lost distance in a slower way. “I don’t understand….” She stopped herself, licking her lips before trying again. “I know there is a lot of things I still need to learn. But I’m sorry, I’m sorry of what happened.”

“You didn’t seem all that worried back at Gold’s.” It was a morose response, an easy one, and Regina knew it, but she didn’t have any more ire to inject on her words. Not now when she felt unsteady, open, in a way she didn’t know how to feel about. Feeling almost as if swaying, her head lightheaded, her magic coiled around her tired heart, she hugged her midsection once more. Her stupid, idiotic last protection. Mother would cackle at that, at the lack of magic, at the lack of anger, of magic, of pain. But she didn’t feel like inflicting pain, not when Cora’s last words had shaken her to the core, far too late.

Shagging her shoulders, Emma bite down on her lip though, not truly taking an advantage that Regina knew she would have back in another realm. A place that felt so detached that it was more of a dream now, a hallucination, than the place that should have been calling for her, in the middle of a forest that was almost but not quite, a perfect copy of that other one.

“Gold is Henry’s grandfather.” She spoke, a weak smile lifting her lips in a crooked way before she let out a soft sigh, one that didn’t quite feel like something the Emma that had tried to chop her tree down by spite alone would do. “I wanted to keep him… safe. For Henry.”

Somehow it sounded like a cheap excuse, but Regina knew the blonde believed on that. She, however, was about to answer to that when Emma spoke once more. Her voice slow, still dubious, and Regina considered how difficult could be for her to admit what she was doing, how carefully she tried to construct words Regina knew would not assuage her own grief.

“But she was still your mother. And that matters. Always does.”

Her eyes were wiser now, the green back in full force, peppered with specs of blue and gray. Stormy almost in a way that called forth Regina’s power like a beacon. A feeling, the brunette found, that she wasn’t opposed to.

Their meaning, however, was much more difficult to swallow. It did, it did matter.

She had never truly considered how much of Cora was the persona she had one impersonated, she had transformed into. The ramifications of that far too painful for her to do so. The sheer fear of even looking at herself and consider how much of her she had inherited one she had become awfully familiar on her childhood days. A fear she had dragged well way into adulthood.

Which was maybe the reason why she felt herself stagger and swallow, eyes closing for a moment as she tried to reign on her all of a sudden convoluted thoughts. A flurry of sparks dropping from her fingers, thick and almost liquid as they dissolved back into nothingness. A detail that wasn’t lost on Emma’s. To her credit, however, the blonde didn’t move. Not an inch.

“Does it?” She finally asked, her voice no more than a drop of a weak breeze now, barely loud enough to travel between them both. Something that made Regina realize how awfully close they both were from each other. Something that had happened before, sure -flashes of her walking closer to the blonde in the mines flooding her mind in a second- but not like this. Clearing her throat, hot tears burning her tear ducts, Regina tried again, her voice at the brink of breaking in a million pieces. “Does then matter that I also feel relieved?”

Emma said nothing to that, her eyes far too knowing, far too soft. And Regina wanted to scream at her, to hit her, to punch her, so the mounting grief inside her chest could disappear, fizzle like the magic that kept escaping a hold she had been taught to never be weak. And oh, how weak she herself felt, how stupid, how idiotic, for having believed Snow when she had found her in that same vault, barely a few inches away from where now her mother would rest. Forever. A woman who had made her cry and run, who had shaped her, who had sold her, who had twisted her every thought. In who, at the end, she had ended up transforming into.

“It does.”

Emma’s voice startled her, so deep on her thoughts she was but she tried to school her features as the younger woman run a hand through her hair, the movement far too quick, a few rebel strands sticking out in odd angles.

“I’m also sorry for believing that you could have killed Archie. I told you once that I didn’t think you were the Queen. I should have…  I should have heard you. Listened to.”

The apology came, maybe, a little too late but Regina let out a chocked sob.  One Emma definitely heard even if she looked away, feigning to not have to.

“I’m… going to leave you alone.” She spoke again, pointing at the distant fence that separated the cemetery from the rest of the grounds. There, her car glimmered under the sun. “I only… wanted to check on you.”

She turned, hands back into her pockets, shoulders hunched and if Regina would have been different, would have been the woman she had loved and feared, that she had wanted dead and alive at the same time, she would have taken that opportunity to strike. She, however, wasn’t. And it was precisely because of that why she called, her voice high, pitch a poor reminiscent of a younger version of her own self. One Emma had never met. And would never do.

It was maybe the first time she mourned that other girl in a very long time.

“Thank you.” She said, and even if she couldn’t say no more she knew there, on her words, very much like on Emma’s, there was another conversation hiding between each vowel and consonant.

Emma merely nodded, back still turned, before she resumed her walking, slowly.

And Regina… Regina was left alone once more. To her thoughts, to her grief. To a gentle warmth that pushed the hot need for revenge to a dark corner of her mind.

“You would have been enough.”