Warnings: Incest.

And that means real incest. They are not cursed in this story.

AN: There is a lot of Snowing references. This takes place in season 2, after Snow and Emma come back from FTL. Cora never comes with them, and everything just kind of settles down afterwards. So this is going to be a trilogy, because I love to never end anything that I write. Just prolong my misery. Emma's POV for the limited perspective. Also Snow's quite a bit more manipulative and darker than I usually write her as. So that was really fun. Enjoy! And please let me know what you guys think.

Part I. The Wound

"It's a wound. It keeps starting to heal and then she pulls it open again. Makes it bleed and sore, and makes the scar more noticeable. That's what loving her is like."

"What did you do?"

We were cursed.

And then the curse breaks and Mary Margaret, the school teacher and hospital volunteer, turns into my mom and holding my face like I'm some kind of baby Jesus sent back to earth to save them all. And the way she looks at me;

Like it never even happened;

Like, she traded one set of memories for another;

And it's almost convincing.

"Emma, honey, can you grab the sugar?" She asks in that sing-song voice, like she's trying to call some birds to come help her make cookies. Instead, it's just a veiled attempt to get me to stop watching her as I sit at the kitchen counter. I may be sulking, or brooding, or something—and she's side eyed me a few times, asked a few times, all innocent 'what's bothering you' sort of questions. I can't tell her though. God, knows I can't, because she's not that person anymore.

Lucky her.

I sigh like the petulant teenager that I've been acting like all afternoon. It's only because I'm stuck alone in the house with her, David taking Henry off for 'guy time'. Oh, and Mary Margaret just beamed because that meant her and I could bond. Lack of bonding wasn't our problem though. It was just that we didn't bond in the right way. My feet drag as I move into the kitchen, taking the sugar out of a high cabinet and putting it down next to her.

"Didn't Granny ban you from participating in the bake sale?"

She stops and turns towards me, eyes narrowing at my small smirk.

"My baking isn't that bad."

"Yes, it is." My smirk grows, because it makes her scowl, and it reminds me how much I like teasing her.

And that reminds me how much I miss kissing her.

My smirk fades quickly, and I'm back to sulking, or brooding, or something. But Mary Margaret is turned back around focused back on perfecting her terrible baking skills. I don't even cook and I already know she put in too much sugar.

"Brat." She murmurs, then fiddles a little more. "These are going to be great." Her enthusiasm is like a stabbing in my heart.

Mary Margaret turns towards me, holding a finger up that has a bit of cookie dough on the end. "Here, taste it, and tell me if I put too much sugar in it." I know she's put too much sugar in it, but everything kind of blurs and buzzes, because she's closing the space between us, and she wants me to suck on her finger. Didn't even bother with a spoon. Now, I'm not sure if she's an idiot, or just cruel. Maybe she really doesn't remember. Maybe it never happened.

Maybe I'm just sick and broken, and there's something wrong with my head—

But then I see it click in her mind, her eyes shifting, and looking between us, realizing the suggestiveness of what she's asking.

Damned if I let her turn away, because I can see her starting, and I may never have this chance again. To at least open a dialogue about what happened.

At the very least.

I grab her wrist gently, keeping her close and facing me, as I dip my head down to her hand. My mouth opens, lips moving down over her knuckle, tasting sugar and the salt of her skin. I barely suck, mostly just move my tongue around the digit, wanting past the batter and to the skin. Her finger flexes once I do, curving just a little—pressing against my tongue.

My sight stay on her face the whole time, so I see her eyes flutter. She can't deny that. Or the gasp I hear as my tongue flicks at the tip of her finger.

The moment goes too fast, and I don't want to let her go, just to be replaced by an awkward tension, but I can't keep her finger in my mouth forever either. She's still looking at me though, still expecting.

So I start gently sucking on it like it's my thumb and I'm still five years old, and something about that spurs Mary Margaret on. Because I recognize the dark lust clouding up the green in her eyes, and that's turning me on in kind, making my eyes roll back in my head. I moan, and bite her finger, just as she starts to close the space between us.

But as soon as it happens, it gets taken away, her finger gives a soft pop as the former school teacher pulls away and I'm whimpering a 'why', but she's shushing me and putting some distance between our bodies. My eyes don't even have time to focus completely when I hear the bolt on the door start to unlock.

Damn it.

I don't even wait, don't even try to face David when he comes in with Henry, I just bolt it for the bathroom.

It was brief, like a flash of light, but that light was blinding. A blinding night and morning after, memorizing every inch of her. Claiming it as my own, while she did the same. And I ate a terrible breakfast because she cooked it for me, her eyes shining like sunshine at me when I told her how much I loved her pancakes. They were raw in the middle, but damn it if her smile wasn't worth all the raw pancakes in the world.

It was brief, right after she was released from jail, and David was a just a bad mistake she made. So I got to be her new mistake, a regret that would last a lifetime.

We made out next to a half-eaten breakfast, and it didn't feel wrong. It felt like everything I've been lacking was suddenly clicking back in place.

But I am who I am, so her confessing the same things that I was thinking, in post orgasmic bliss on her couch—it made me lose my mind for a minute. Made me try to run away and steal Henry, and the next thing I knew, she was my mother. Fairy tales are real. And I'm supposed to just forget about everything before. Our camping trip from hell in the Enchanted Forest helped distract me, but now everything's still and quiet. And she's in my line of sight every moment, even when she's nowhere near me. It's like torture because I love her.

Which is what's supposed to happen, because of instincts—because I'm supposed to love her, just not like this.

It's the middle of the night and I can't sleep. I creep around the house a bit, knowing which boards make noise, stepping and side stepping just to be sure—just to get a bottle of water from the fridge. And I hear them. The noise of the bed shifting with their rhythm, it sets my face on fire and I sway on my feet—suddenly unsteady because of it.

I hear her whisper something, in that soft bedroom voice she uses.

Probably some direction or praise.

He moans, and I think I'm going to be sick.

My stomach is flipping at least. Maybe it's not nausea.

Before I can stop myself, I'm moving closer, finding a slit in the curtains, and this is sick—it's wrong…

It is.

I watch him fuck her anyway.

It's late in the morning, and I'm rushing to get to work on time. Scolding my throat on hot coffee that Mary Margaret makes for me, after she made a pot for David an hour earlier. He's already gone, but I'm still so exhausted from the night before. After my voyeuristic behavior when it came to their marital bed, I couldn't go back to sleep, just sort of drifting in and out, but nothing lasting. It was like torture, but speaking of watching, my new 'mother' is barely saying anything and just sort of sullen and to herself this morning. I'm rushing, but I still notice her eyes on me, until suddenly;

"How did you sleep last night?" She asks, and I feel a flush of heat burn at my ears. I go to grab my coat that's hanging by the door, patting my pockets to find my keys while I distractedly answer.

"Why?"

"I'm just asking." Mary Margaret shrugs and starts walking towards me, making me notice that she has my keys in her hand. "You look tired."

"So do you…" I mention, because she does, because maybe it's driving her crazy too. Then as she holds my keys out, my hand closes over them, and I say something very stupid. "Something keep you up last night?"

I try to pull the keys out of her grip, but she holds them tighter, forcing me to meet her eyes.

Searching eyes, looking for something on my face—and finding it.

"Just creaky floorboards."

Then she lets go of my keys and turns away. And I want to put my fist through a fucking wall.

It's just past noon at the station, I'm immersed in paper work, and I assume she's David when I hear her walk in. Until I finally look up and see her watching me. Just like always, my stomach clenches painfully—my heart aching.

"I brought you guys' lunch." Holding up two plain paper bags, and she used to do this before, during the curse. We'd eat lunches together either at her classroom or at the station, flirt a bit over sandwiches, my heart fluttering and her face blushing.

The memory almost makes me smile, until it doesn't, so I look back down and start scribbling away at my paperwork.

"David's out on a call." Is my mumbled response, causing Mary Margaret to sigh and walk further into the office.

"Well, then he can eat his later…" Then my bag is dropped down on top of the papers I'm working on, her tone noticeably snippy. "Here."

"Did you make it?" I finally ask, not really looking at her, but lifting my head at least.

"No, I got it from Granny's." As soon as the words come out, so do my hands, opening the bag and starting to spread out its contents on the desk in front of me. "You used to like my cooking." She says, making herself at home, sitting up on the end of my desk, close to wear I spread out my food. So hunger takes a back seat to how my stomach is suddenly flipping. Her affect on me—it gets worse every day.

"That was different." My eyes catch on her shifting to get more comfortable, adjusting the long and flowing beige skirt she wore today.

"How?"

Was this really what she wanted to do? Did she really want to talk about it now? Like this? It's like we're both trying to avoid the subject, avoid being an adult about this, because we both sort of never grew up in a lot of ways.

"It was flirting." My face flares red when I say it, my eyes not meeting hers. There's so much shame and guilt just tied into the simplest confession.

"So…you don't really like my pancakes?" Mary Margaret asks with a coy tone, playing innocent and pulling my sight to meet hers.

"I like your pancakes." It's sort of mumbled under my breath, a sheepish smirk playing my lips, and growing when her smile of sunshine and bright eyes reflect back at me. Her hand cups my cheek, thumb gently stroking my face.

"There's that smile."

I lean into her touch, and move my chair closer to her, from her subtle urging. Like I'm one of those birds she puts her hand out to, and it's instinct or love—or something, because they always flock to her.

"I was so happy to have found you…my daughter." She finishes, in a pained whisper, and my face falls a bit, my head lifts away from her, because it's becoming clear that this is all she's going to see me as. With a quick move, her fingers grip my retreating chin, holding gentle but firm, and keeping me in place. "Don't think this is easy for me."

We don't say anything for a while, and I feel like a scolded pet, even though she loves me, and I know it—but it's my fault. I keep making messes everywhere I go. I can't just be good for her. The thought breaks my mind apart for a moment, causing me to move closer to her in my chair, not wanting to see the pain in her eyes, but not wanting to give up this contact either. The only intimacy I'm allowed. So my head rests on her lap, her hands shifting to run fingers through my hair.

"I just…" I say weakly, my breath against the material of her skirt. "I miss you."

"I miss you too." Mary Margaret is all maternal comfort in her voice, taking in a ragged breath. "So badly, Emma."

There's such a big part of me that wants this to be enough. That wishes, more than anything, for just this. Just comfort and support and love, but the feel of her hands touching me only reminds me of things it shouldn't.

It reminds me that we used to eat lunches together, and we used to flirt. One time at the police station, she sat opposite of me at my desk, and I was laying the charm on a bit thick, but she was just receptive to it. So affected. Even though she was seeing David at the time, she still acted single around me. Even though I could tell she loved him, I pretended she didn't.

I almost choked on my sandwich that day, when she asked me so coyly;

"Do you think about me?" I whisper against her thighs, but she hears me. Her hands that are running through my hair stop.

That day, I told her 'maybe', and blushed.

Now Mary Margaret isn't saying anything, her grip on me gains strength and I feel her hips shift so slightly against my head. So receptive. So affected. I continue the script from my memory, and repeat the words she said to me months ago.

"What am I doing? When you think about me?"

It was such a brazen question at the time, especially coming from the school teacher's mouth. It made mine hang open and face flare up. Now my whole body is on fire, and my hands move down her thighs slowly, moving along the material of her skirt. I feel her nails start to dig into my scalp.

'You're here…' I told her, and she looked around the station.

My hands find the hem of the flowy material, bunching it up in my hands.

'No, Mary Margaret. Here.' I pointed to the top of my desk.

That day, I pointed to where she's sitting right at this moment. That memory makes me think—she could be doing it on purpose…because she knows I'm weak. I'm so weak for her.

I never had the guts to finish talking about my fantasy to her, but from the look on her face, I could tell she knew exactly what she does when I thought of her. As for now, my eyes roll back a bit when I feel the soft skin of her calves, my fingers tracing the contours of her legs, and when she shifts again—when her hips move—it's because she's spreading her legs. Nails in my hair, and my head turns against her to breath in her scent.

It's intoxicating.

A loud bang jolts us both suddenly, my head snapping up and I push my chair away from her with my hands up—instincts for getting caught doing something I know I'm not supposed to be doing. I realize what the sound is when I look up and around the station. David is coming through the front doors, quite loudly and half dragging a drunk and disorderly behind him. I'm standing because Mary Margaret is already on her feet and halfway out my office door, without a single glance back at me.

And I feel like it's a wound. It keeps starting to heal and then she pulls it open again. Makes it bleed and sore, and makes the scar more noticeable. That's what loving her is like.

I'm watching them have sex again, and realizing that this isn't her torturing me. I'm the one opening wounds and torturing myself. Destroying myself, just like always, because I don't deserve the things I want. So I just find ways to kill it.

She would be a good mother, I think while I watch the barely visible shadowed outline of their rhythm. I see one of her hands gripping roughly into his shoulder. It's too bad she never got a chance to be a mother with me. We were never supposed to have that, but maybe she could have another baby. A random question hits my brain, wondering if he's using a condom.

My arms wrap around my stomach, because the nausea is back. Except that's not what it is. I know what it is.

And I get light headed when I focus my senses enough to hear her heavy breathing, because mine is so shallow, I'm barely breathing at all.

I can't let her know that I'm watching her, even though she already knows.

She looks at me the next morning, and I can tell she knows.

She would be a good mother, just not to me.

It's late, and I don't need her to tell me that. But it's the first thing that comes out of her mouth once I answer my phone.

"Emma, it's late." She sounds concerned but it could just be controlling, so I roll my eyes, not in any kind of mood for this.

"My shift's not over." I reply, adjusting the knobs of my squad car radio, which has remained annoyingly silent for the last hour.

"You're the boss, ask yourself if you can come home early." Because she knows I don't need to be out here, but I don't need to be home either. Sometimes it's suffocating, in that small apartment with the four of us, and she makes it so hard just to exist with her. She stands too close, she smells so good, and I just need a little space. Mary Margaret isn't fond of giving me space though.

"I'm be back soon." I try to appease, or compromise, because as it stands I'm not wanting to even talk to her, let alone argue with her. "Just go to sleep…" But I have a big mouth and a tendency to put my foot in it. "Or, take advantage of me being out." My voice is full of childish indignation.

"David's asleep, if that's what you're asking." She says with a tight tone, and I can tell she's getting annoyed.

"That wasn't what I was asking." I snapped a bit. "I don't even think I said anything in the form of a question."

The sound of her sighing sounds loud in the phone.

"So, more of the cold shoulder? Is that why you're parked on the side of the road with the squad car, pretending that you're working?" My body goes alert at that perfect description of what I'm currently doing, sitting up and looking around for any sign of her.

"Are you…?"

"I just know you." She says, a little too sure and proud of herself.

"I'm on a stakeout." My voice sounds just as childish and stubborn as my pout does while I settle back into the seat.

"Come home." Mary Margaret all but orders, and I roll my eyes.

"What do I get if I do?" There's a pause at that, and for a second I think that she might be in more of a playful mood than she's letting on, but it only lasts a second.

"A warm bed to sleep in." Her snips, and I imagine her pacing the apartment in some conservative blouse buttoned all the up to her nose, biting her nails and worrying about grown adults that can take care of themselves.

"What do I get if I don't?"

"Punished." She replies so matter-of-factly, and I feel my mind blank and my stomach tighten. It's just a word. It doesn't mean anything. It shouldn't affect me so much.

"Oh, you're going to ground me?" I'm trying to play it off, seem unaffected but I can feel myself stumbling over my words.

"What would you consider punishment?" Her question actually sounds sincere and curious, so without even thinking I say;

"You."

And then there's a heavy silence. And I'm torn between guilt and regret, getting pulled by my anger at her for never talking about this, and by the anger I have at myself for not being able to let her go. I can't help it though, I love her. Just not in the way that I should.

"Okay." Mary Margaret finally says, not hurt or dejected like I thought, but more final. Like she just came to a decision. I feel my features scrunch up in confusion.

"What?"

There's a pause, and I hear sounds of her walking in the background. Creaking floorboards.

"Are you coming home?"'

Another pause, and I consider if she's bluffing with her vague threats.

"No." It's challenging, as much as I can make it be at least.

Then there's more sounds of her moving, and I can't place them exactly, but I hear them because she's not talking anymore. I almost think she's waiting for me to hang up, but I hear what I think is the couch as she sits on it.

Then there's breathing.

Heavier than it should be, and something about it—…it makes my stomach start to flip.

"Mary Margaret?" Then I hear another breath, shakier than the last. And it makes me stop breathing all together. I know that breathing. I've listened to it from a room away. I've listened to it when it was against my ear in her bed.

My throat goes dry but I can manage a strangled;

"What are you doing?"

She doesn't answer, but now I'm imagining her half lying on the couch, an abandoned book on the coffee table, dressed in one of my oversized shirts and nothing but a pair of panties underneath it.

It's easy to imagine because I've come home a few times in the last year seeing her wearing just that. She makes some excuse, like it's laundry day or something, but I know it's because she's been thinking of me.

"Are you touching yourself?" I ask, voice strained and quiet, not wanting to miss even the slightest of sounds. She doesn't respond, not with words, but I hear the familiar creak of couch cushions in the background of her breathing—her breathing right into the phone, and I swear I feel it on my cheek.

My imagination pictures her knees bent, and heels digging into the couch cushions. One hand moving under the thin cotton of her underwear—and it's so wet. I remember, I was surprised at how wet she was for me that night. And she still is, wet and tight. Her body moving with the rhythm of her fingers, sweat beading on the back of her neck, and her bangs falling in her eyes a bit.

I shift in my car seat, getting more and more aroused, and not wanting to take care of that while I'm at work on the side of a dirt road by myself. So my hand grips the steering wheel, tighter and tighter as her breath hitches, and I hear her moan quietly.

It feels like time stops, only keeping count by the sound of her breathing as I close my eyes. I can tell she's getting close, and I want to help her over the edge. I want to stop being frozen by her power over me and take control, make her come for me.

"Are you coming?" Mary Margaret asks says suddenly, raspy but authoritative. My eyes open, getting jolted out of my fantasy.

"Am I…what?" I croak, another subtle wave of arousal goes through me at her words.

"Home." She clarifies, sounding more clear minded. "Are you coming home?"

Oh God. She's wants me home, she hasn't even finished yet, and I can't get my car started fast enough.

"Yes. Yes, right now. I swear."

"Good. Make sure you're quiet when you do," Her voice has a scolding tone, and it makes my body freeze before I shift into gear. "I have an early morning and I don't want you waking me up." Her voice feels like a bucket of ice water dumped on my head, and she hangs up immediately after.

Staring at my phone for a moment, with a dumb and blank expression on my face, and then I curse and slam my palm against the steering wheel. Even as I'm fuming, I still put my car into drive, and head back home.

I was right when I said it. She is my punishment.

She's practically throwing it in my face tonight. She's all over him, cuddling on the couch, kissing in the kitchen, long and slow kisses that she's so good at doing. The kind that make you lose track of time and all you focus on is the pressure in you, building and burning. Henry is off on a school camping trip, because otherwise they're not this bad—at least, David's usually not this bad. But they come home from a late dinner half drunk, so she eggs him on more than usual. Looking at me the whole time.

She's trying to torture me.

I go to bed early, lying down and staring at the ceiling for a little while. At least, for as long as I need too, thirty, maybe forty minutes, and then come back out into the living room to see all the lights off.

I'm used to it now, maneuvering through the living room, knowing where to step and how to shift my weight. Other things though, I'll never get used to, like the sound of her moaning—that's like a punch in my gut, and I stumble on my steps because of it. The opening in the sheets that usually blocks my view is obvious, left open on purpose because of her. She wants me to watch them, and just that realization settling in my head reminds me all over again how sick this is. How something so sweet and innocent can be twisted so quick, because we were pure love once, for one night—and now it's just fucking. Fucking sick while she fucks him and fucks with my head, and maybe a part of me thinks—for just a second—that you're right. She has a darkness in her that no else sees, but I see it. I see him between her legs, taking her harder than usual, no doubt it's the alcohol in his system making him more bold, louder and faster—and it makes it hard to breathe. Because when I look at her, she's looking right back at me.

They're still both half clothed, not even bothering with things that require thought, and his large hands are gripping her hips fiercely, pulling her against him. And her breath catches every time.

Looking right at me.

I bolt towards the bathroom, not caring if he hears, though I doubt it what with how focused he seems. I feel like I'm going to be sick though—I feel nauseous, but a part of me knows that's not what it is. As I shut the door then lean my body against it, breathing heavy and my arms wrap around my stomach. Every time I close my eyes I see her watching me, with her hand wrapped around the back of his head, keeping him low and against her shoulder. There was so much need in her eyes, that desperate need for me.

For a moment I debate if I'm going to throw up or—

One hand moves under the waistband of my pajama pants, finding nothing but a wet desire. But it's still sick and wrong, so I really shouldn't be so ready for the touch, my legs shouldn't be shaking and I can barely keep in my own whimpered noises. I hear the door creak under my weight, as I push my fingers inside me, moving faster. I just need to finish quick, just to get it out of my system, then I'll be fine. Everything will be okay.

My mind pictures us back before the curse, back in her bed when it was only hers, and our hushed whispers of new love is all that's heard as my lips gently explore her. Her hands soft in my hair, and it's nothing but Mary Margaret blushing and nervous breaths. It's beautiful, but it's not enough, so my fantasy goes darker, with me between her legs—her hands tied to the headboard, begging for me. Because I'm the only one who can give her what she needs, and it's sick and wrong but there's nothing we can do about it. She'll come for me, over and over, until she can't take it anymore. After everything, all her teasing and denial and making me watch her—she deserves it. And when she's close, I'll whisper in her ear; Come for me, mommy.

And she does.

And so do I, hard against my fingers—my body shaking so much that I can barely stay upright. I come harder than I should have, with what my mind is filled with, and that alone fills me with shame immediately after. I just want to lay back down in bed, and maybe cry myself to sleep, because I haven't done that in a few days, so maybe it's long overdue.

No part of me wants to see myself in the mirror above the sink, so I wipe my hand on my pants quickly before turning and opening the door—which puts me face to face with Mary Margaret. She's leaning on the door frame with a dreamy look on her face. As if she's been there the entire time, and my whole body flares into a blush, because of course she has. Of course she listens to me, just like I watch her. There's a ghost of a smile on her face, like this is a game she's winning, and I look over her pink cheeks and glassy eyes, her rumpled outfit, and I wonder if he made her come. Or if she had to close her eyes and think about me still standing there to be able to reach that climax—

"What do you want?" I ask suddenly, voice rough.

"The bathroom." She says with a dreamy tone, probably still half drunk. "I was going to grab a shower before you stole all the hot water in the morning."

My head starts to unravel again, imagining her showering and wondering if David is asleep. Wondering if I can get away with it—

I stop my trail of thought though, shaking myself back into a guilt filled mindset, and I don't take her bait, instead opening the door more so that I can get out of here. When I walk past her though, our hands touching, my fingers that still feel wet from my need touches hers, and I swear I feel her lean into the touch. I swear I hear her sharp inhale.

And it's like torture.

I make the plans without telling anyone. Not Henry, or David, and most importantly, I don't tell Mary Margaret. So my stomach is heavy with dread, while David and I are getting ready for work one morning, both drinking coffee that Mary Margaret makes us. Henry is already on his way to school, and I can hear the rain pick up outside on this dreary morning.

"I was wondering if you could watch Henry tomorrow, I have a meeting with a realtor." I say into my coffee cup, and watch her freeze in her task of cleaning up the kitchen. David comes into my line of sight, a confused look on his face, so I sigh and put the cup down on the kitchen counter.

"Why?" Mary Margaret doesn't so much ask, but it's more like a warning.

"I'm moving." My strength is forced, clearing my throat to gain as much as I can. "I think it's time I get a house. One big enough for me and Henry." The reasoning is completely logical, and this would definitely happen eventually. There's nothing wrong with the words by themselves, and at least David seems to see that. Mary Margaret is fuming though.

"What brought this on?" He asks softly, and I look in his wide eyes and feel the understanding and warmth that's absent from his better half. I manage a small smile for him because of it.

"It's too cramped here, it's just too—…" I look back at her, and feel it like a weight on my chest. "Much. I need some space."

"I know what you needing space means." She responds tensely. "It means I'll barely ever get to see you."

"Maybe that's for the best."

She's quite and debating after that. Silent but heavy, and both me and David feel it—both of us wanting to bolt under the weight of her glare. We really are quite a lot alike. Part of me knows that's why most of this happened, and it's still happening. There's too many similarities between me and my father.

"David, give us a minute?"

"That's not necessary—" I try to interject even as he's making a mad dash to grab his coat. Still some of that cursed cowardice lingering in him, I think.

"Just one minute, is that too much to ask?" She snaps, and I'm quiet after that, rightfully scolded. This is going to be a lot harder without David as a buffer, I think as I hear the door shut behind me, signaling his exit.

Mary Margaret's face instantly softens, in a non-believable way, smiling and taking a few steps towards me.

"Baby…" She says softly, reaching out for my hand, but I pull away, her voice is luring and it's making a haze fall over me like always. I won't make it that easy for her though.

"Don't call me that." Her face falls, looking hurt and I take a step back, looking away. "I know you know…You know I watch you, and—" She never talks about it, she does it and then acts like nothing ever happened. "And it's driving me crazy. It's like torture, being this close to you, and never being able to…" We're both just so terrified to say it out loud, to give it a definition, like me being attracted to my mother, to give it a name like incest.

"To what?"

My hands run through my hair, resisting the urge to pull it out by the fistful.

"You know what." I say through gritted teeth, glaring at her. Something on my face makes her recoil away from me slightly. "I'm in love with you, that's what." And god damn it, if she pretends like she doesn't even hear me.

"This is conflicting for me too…" She considers her words, swallowing hard. "I mean—Of course I love you." That makes me scoff at her convenient denial dressed as a confession. "But, you're my daughter."

I want to punch something. Keep punching until my hand is bloody and broken. I want to hurt myself, and the urge is terrible and impossible to ignore.

"No I'm not." I yell, and it stuns her, mouth open but no sound coming out. Looking at me like she doesn't even recognize me. Finally. "I'm not some child you raised, and you're nothing like a mother to me." I'm loud and my voice is cracking as all my anger and frustration pours out. "You're just some roommate that fucked up my entire life—and I hate you for it. I hate you so much."

And if I ever needed to know the worst thing I could say to her, then I just found it. I can practically hear her heart breaking as a strangled and quiet sob breaks out of her lungs, making tears spring to my eyes, matching hers.

"Don't say that." She whimpers, and I can't take it anymore, reaching out for her, only to have her turn around sharply. Her hand are fists, shoulders shaking, and back to me.

My anger's gone, but nothing good replaces it, and all I want to do is die so I don't have to feel it anymore.

"I can't do this another day." I finally say, and Mary Margaret sniffles a bit, and it sounds so pathetic that I can't abide her personal space anymore, moving my hands on her shoulders, and trailing down her arms. Turning her around to look at me with our hands interlocked.

"I can try harder." She half-whispers, trying to find a new hope speech, but it makes me feel empty inside. "I can, Emma." She insists, taking a step closer to me. "I'll try to be a better mother to you, and maybe, after a little bit of time—"

"Time won't make this go away." And I know deep down that moving to the other side of town won't make it go away either. Nothing will—Then the thought strikes me, something somebody said once. Maybe Gold, maybe just somebody in passing. "But I know what will."

So I leave, and I come here.

Because it's not fair. When I wanted parents and a family—this wasn't what I meant. This damned curse ruined everything. It broke, but we still didn't get our happy endings, so you have to help me.

You owe me that much, at least—

"I need help, Regina…" I plea, watching her stay emotionless and her line of sight staying on the glass of whiskey she's holding with both hands. It's her second glass and my clothes are almost dry from the rain that's picking up outside. Her mansion was where she stays most of every day now, so I know I'd be able to find her here. So utterly desperate to make my heart stop bleeding and breaking at every moment.

We're in her study, sitting on opposite sides of the couch, and she's been so quiet the entire time. As I pour out my guts, all my secrets and every shame I have, she just drinks and listens and stares into her glass. It makes me want to die.

Finally I hear Regina clear her throat, and finally she looks up at me.

"What would you have me do?" Her voice is rough as if she's the one who's been talking and rambling nonstop for the last thirty minutes. "My only specialty is killing Snow White, which isn't what you're asking for." Another drink from her glass is gone, and I glance at mine untouched on the coffee table. "Though the urge is becoming prevalent." I shake my head at her increasingly hostile tone.

"It's not all her fault, it's because of the curse breaking."

"So you keep saying." She murmurs sarcastically.

"I know you couldn't possibly understand—"

"Don't." Regina snaps in a tone sharp enough to jolt me, all ice running down my spine, and there's too much emotion in her eyes to decipher. "Just…don't." She repeats much softer, trailing off into an almost whisper.

"I need a spell." I finally say, revealing that my reasons for this impromptu visit wasn't simply for a therapy session. "A memory spell. I heard you knew about them."

"Of course, but…" Regina's face clears, becoming more professional and logical, talking about a subject she's more comfortable with. "It won't help you with your problem. You need to be wanting to erase something specific. A specific memory, or specific emotion—and I don't recommend the latter." Her hand waves absently in the space between us. "If you try to get too broad about what you're erasing, you end up giving yourself a magical lobotomy."

That made sense, as much sense as anything did since I came to this town. I consider her words and she's patient as I collect my thoughts. She's been cold and angry about my confession tonight, but she hasn't been cruel. I really thought she would be, at least a little. I don't really know what to make out of it.

"The night I spent with her, before the curse broke." Finally I say, a blush starting back up my neck as I feel her eyes on me. "That's when I fell in love with her. Take that away, and everything else will just feel like…" Tears start to sting my eyes, before I can stop it. "Nothing. Just a bad mistake."

Regina sighs and stands, taking both our glasses back to the bar.

"Are you sure?" She asks as she cleans up, giving me distance enough to compose myself.

"What other choice do I have?" A long pause settles after that, until I finally look over to her standing to the side, and our eyes meet.

"What will I get in return?" Regina asks seriously, but the words sound awkward and forced in my ears. Like she's trying to play Gold, but it doesn't suit her one bit. We both know what she wants though, so of course she is going to use this to get it. Can't even really blame her. Still a cold settles in my voice when I answer.

"You know what."

Henry. No one will let her take him permanently, but I haven't even been letting him come over to the house. Guess that has to change now, with the satisfied smile settling on her face, and there's a little gratefulness in there too.

"My crypt, tomorrow night at eight."

It's not until the late afternoon that I do come home. Taking a long time to think, and maybe making a stop at the Rabbit Hole to gain some liquid courage. As it stands, I'm too much of a coward to even face her alone, waiting until I know that David and Henry are home. Mary Margaret, on the other hand, is more strategic than I am, probably all those years leading armies or something. Because when I get home, she's the only one there to greet me. She must've convinced them that we need some alone time. Which is exactly what we don't need. A lack of bonding isn't our problem.

She's on the couch when I come through the door, and already I want to bolt, because she looks pissed that I made her wait so long. I'm regretting that I didn't drink more.

"Where were you?" Her voice sounds anxious and hurt, despite the stern features, and it gives her strength away. It makes it impossible to lie to her, when I see her worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Regina's." Mary Margaret's confused for a moment, until I avert eye contact with her and something about that clicks in her brain.

"No…" She whispers in shock and there's betrayal in her tone as well, and it feels like a punch in my chest.

"She's going to fix this." And maybe Regina wasn't the best choice, but she was the only choice. Gold would never do it, and Blue would never let her live it down.

"No." She demands, voice loud in the empty space of the living room, but if she would just give me a chance to explain—

"She'll take it away, poof, like it never happened." At least, never for me, and it could be for her too. If she drank it with me, we could both start over. It has to be done willingly though, Regina made that part clear. But Mary Margaret's eyes are as hard and stubborn as always.

"Emma, it's never that easy. Magic has heavy consequences."

"I don't care!" I yell out, because it's like she isn't even listening to me. This whole time, she hasn't heard a word I said. "As long as I can stop thinking about you, than I don't care."

Her face falls from stern to just sad, taking a few steps towards me and close the space between us, but I turn my head to the side so I don't get lost in her eyes.

"You can't do this. You're hurting yourself, because of me, and I won't let you." Mary Margaret cranes her neck to try and gain eye contact back, her words sincere and painful.

"I can't keep going on like this though."

"Tell me what you need then. Tell me how I can fix this."

"I don't think you can." I whisper, making my wound open up like a flower of blood, all over again. The words are full of fear, and she shakes her head in denial of them. It hurts so much. There's so much I'm going to lose, so much I've already lost that can never be given back. There is no happy ending here. There's nothing but broken people trying to play house. It breaks my heart and it breaks hers in kind. "Mom." I practically sob, saying it for the first time, tearless but broken—desperately pleading.

It barely takes any time at all for her to come to a decision after that, reaching up and gripping the back of my neck, leading me to her. And then she kisses me.

"Please…" She whispers against my cheek, the quick passion of her kiss leaving me lightheaded, and her fingers move down, quickly trying to undo the buttons of my blouse.

And I should stop her, and I almost do, but when my body starts to pull away from her, she stops her task and grabs the collar of my shirt, jerking me back. Her hold is strong, and hard enough to hurt. But there's nothing but love in her eyes. Love and desperation.

"Emma, please I need all of you." I don't pull away again, her head dipping down and lips attach to my neck. A moan escapes my throat before I can stop it, and Mary Margaret pulls at my arms to get them wrapped around her waist. "I can't do this without all of you." Her voice is wet against my skin, and of course, it doesn't take more than this. My fight is given, with all I have left to fight with, and now she's begging me—she's begging for me, for all of me. Those soft green eyes that remind me of love and comfort, pleading and full of lust. How did I even wait this long? There's no one alive that's strong enough to say no to her.

My lips crash against hers, and it fits like the first time we ever kissed. Feels good like the first time. It's nothing like the first time though, because there's a built up tension being released between us, making us crash together. Her mouth is opening instantly, as she sets our pace, full of tongue and teeth and desperation.

The way she moans into my mouth when I bite at her bottom lip.

It's enough to bring me to my knees.

Not wanting to wait, or see if we'll be interrupted, we both work on finishing off the buttons of my blouse, and once it falls to the floor her hands are on me. They feel cold against my overheated skin and it makes me shudder in pleasure from the contrast. Walking back and pulling me with her, both of us moving closer to her bedroom, but our pace is slow because it's hard when her body is against mine, and her fingers move over my back and along my shoulders.

"I missed you so much." It's a half moan and half statement from me, while I revel in the warmth of her neck, more nuzzling than it is kissing. This is worth so much more than sex, worth so much more than just one night. It's a hole in me that's being filling to the brim and then some. It's me trying not to fall apart from the lightheadedness that's she's causing. Mary Margaret shushes me and runs her hands through my hair, an action so innate to both of us, I feel like she's done it a hundred times before. "Tell me." I plead kissing her jaw and moving us past the curtained sheets to her bed. "Do you think about me?" Even though it's a validation that should seem obvious without being said, I still need it. I need her to say it.

"Every moment." She whispers before I kiss her again, swallowing up her love and affection like a black hole swallowing stars. I feel her hands move down and work on the button of my jeans, and it reminds me that she's still clothed and I'm about to be naked. And that's a damn shame. So I break away to take a look down at her simple pink and floral sun dress she's wearing, and missing shoes that must have already been kicked off sometime during our struggle to get to the bedroom.

My hands reach around find the zipper on the back of her dress, which makes her pull away slightly.

"I need all of you too." I whisper, close to her ear, and watching the goose bumps rise on her neck. Finally, she softly nods, and I pull the zipper down with a shaky hand. The dress pools at her feet making her step out of it while my eyes scan over her curves and beautiful pale skin. The arousal that hits my lower stomach is enough to make my knees buckle, and I know I have to get her onto the bed if I want to go any farther without embarrassing myself. It's not like I haven't been with her before. But then I realize that I haven't. I was with Mary Margaret, and the women in front of me is Snow White. She's more than just fake memories or a kind roommate. She's more than just my mother. She's my everything. And at the moment, my everything is watching me with bright green eyes that I want to fall into. So, I kiss her, and then I fall into her, both of us softly landing on the bed.

It takes almost no time at all for my hands to reach behind her, snagging on the clasp of her bra, but she stops me this time with a mischievous smile and a glint in her eyes when she tells me that she wants to see me first. With a frustrated sigh I'm back on my feet, undressing fully and my modesty is pushed back while I keep my eyes on the prize of her body.

Once I'm hovering back over Mary Margaret, the feeling of skin on skin makes me groan. I pepper kisses along her jaw and down her neck, and I get no protest as I reach around and unhook the white cotton material. When her bra falls away I'm granted the beauty of her heaving chest and perfect breasts, hard and pointed pink nipples make my mouth water. All I can do is stare and think without forming words. I move my head down to take one nipple into my mouth, but she stops me again. Her hands cup my cheeks tilting my head up so that I'm looking at her, with a dumb struck and confused expression.

"You said you hated me." She whispers, eyes big and full of emotion. I don't know what she means, but I want to fix it—I want to make her happy.

"What? When?"

"This morning, you said you hated me."

"No, I didn't mean it. I swear." It doesn't seem to appease her so I move up to be face to face to her. "I love you. I'm so sorry, I'll never lie to you again. I love you so much." I'm pleading, and the more I do, the more her smile grows until it's as bright as the sun, and I want to go blind staring at it. Telling her over and over again, all the love in the world, just for her. Then her hands go to my shoulders, shifting us so that I'm on my back and she's straddling my hips. There's a whimper I give at the loss of her under me.

"I love you too…" She whispers, leaning down to kiss me again, soft and light enough to make me feel like I'm flying. Flying right into the sun, because I'm burning up because of her. My hands fist in the sheets under me when I feel her body move low, the feel of her lips ghosting over my breasts. "Emma, tell me again."

As soon as the shaky confession of love once again comes from my lips, her lips close over my nipple, sucking gently and causing me to arch my back against her. Moaning out for her, my hips shifting against her thigh in a rhythm she sets with the way her tongue starts to flick. Soon after my admission of love, a string of praise pours out from me, mixed like a melody with my heavy breathing and light whimpers.

When the sensations feels like it's enough to kill me, she moves to my other breast, starting all over again.

I'm begging for her now.

Then I feel the cool air hit me, indicating her retreat and I watch her move up to be face to face with me, lips parted and panting, and pupils blown out from arousal.

"You're mine." She whispers, and my eyes are trained on her, so even though she says it almost too quiet to hear, I read her lips—I sense her words, and I answer her question that's meant as a statement.

"Yours."

Our eyes meet, both of us probably trying to gage each other's sincerity, but there's nothing but truth and love reflecting back. Mary Margaret's hand trails down while her eyes are trained on mine, I feel her nails scrape lightly at my stomach, and I feel her fingers moving against my folds. Her eyes flutter as she bites her lip from the abundant wet heat she finds, because I've never been so aroused before. Not with anyone—just her. And watching her be so affected by it is only making it worse. A single finger moves to circle my core, both of us feeling myself clench at the action.

So, I beg again. And I tell her I love her again. And I would do it again and again, for the rest of my life. I swear.

Mary Margaret sits up, to gain more sight and focus on her task, watching her mesmerized expression when I moan loudly as she pushes inside me. The rhythm starts out erratic and hard to gain focus on, along with her thumb that brushes lightly against my clit every other time she moves deeper. It's like torture. Then her hand pushes into my lower stomach, causing a pressure as she adds another finger to her thrust.

"God—" I gasp out, over whelmed by it all. And even by the lack of her, wanting more contact and intimacy, and still the bit she gives me is almost too much for me to bare.

"If you tell me to stop, I will." She whispers, an angelic reminder. As if I would ever want her to stop. Let it kill me, but I'll never turn away from her again. So she adds another finger, and a rush of stinging heat spreads out across my skin, feeling myself just gush for her. I hear her humming or singing or—no, it's humming. It's beautiful. "If I tell you to come, you will." I almost do when she says that, and as it stands I can barely keep my eyes open. I barely see her other hand move lower, but I certainly feel it, the way she pulls my clit between her knuckles. My body is tensing, coiling up tighter and tighter, so it's a bit of a surprise when she slows her thrusts to a near stop and tries for a fourth finger. I almost say stop. Mary Margaret doesn't force it though, only keeps the fingers one knuckle deep against my entrance. It feels like more, it feels like her entire fist, but I know it can't be, because I don't feel her inside me fully.

"Come for me." She says, as her other hand works against my clit, lighting me on fire. The order alone is having me see stars, and my whole body tightens and jerks, my hips thrusting in a rhythm while I come, pulsing against her fingers, and pushing them in deeper. Fucking myself on them. I think I come again because of it.

My back arches and thighs tremble, and I lose control of myself for a few moments, riding out the waves of the orgasm. When my mind finally comes to, I look up to see her with a finger in her mouth, cleaning up my mess. I whimper almost in pain, my body still too sensitive to be so aroused so quickly. She crawls up to me, letting me recover, but I don't need long if she keeps kissing me like this, giving me back lost strength and senses. Some of which I must be taking from her, because after I move her onto her back, she doesn't have a single protest or demand left in her.

It's later in the night, both of our energy's plateauing for the moment, letting a calm settle in the bedroom. Mary Margaret's body heat is still searing into me, pressed against my side and leaning up on one arm. She doesn't even let me pull the blankets back on the bed to cover with, saying she wants to soak in every inch. There's no first-time modesty from the school teacher like the last time we did this. All her intimate shyness is obviously something that was given with the curse. Even when she had a different persona though, I was still surprised, with all her blushing and such, she still had a skill and knowledge that I didn't expect. Maybe being with a woman isn't something that's new to her. My eyebrows knit slightly, thinking of the women from her land, and who she was close to. My mind lingers on Red, but then it just reminds me of Regina. And a wave of guilt flushes over me soon after, because I made a really bad decision by confiding in her, even if I don't see the consequences now, I know they'll come. It was rash and mostly done out of desperation and anger.

"What's wrong?" She asks me, noticing almost immediately that something is on my mind.

"I'm sorry for telling Regina." My voice is soft and shaky, waiting to be scolded for doing something so awful. "I shouldn't have done that—" Mary Margaret is quick to hush me though, soft noises that are reserved for things far more frivolous than this.

"It's okay, baby." Her voice is so soft and caring, it makes me turn a bit and curl up more against her body. I watch a look of consideration cross her features after a moment. "She does know though, and that's…going to be an issue."

"How can I fix it?" I ask, almost desperate sounding, because I have to fix this, to make this better—to make her happy. It's all that's in my head right now. After a long consideration, she looks at me directly.

"Let me take care of Regina." There's something in her tone. Something that sounds like a warning or a threat, but it's mild in its intent, and just leaves me sort of curious. "I know what's best in this situation, so you can't question me about it."

"What are you going to do?"

Mary Margaret sighs lightly, looking off into the distance, and I miss her sight on me already.

"Family has always been important to me." She's somewhere else when she speaks, I hear the distance in her voice. "It was the way I was raised, to protect that bond more than anything, and I treated Regina like blood. Even when I noticed her fading away from me, I still did whatever I had to do—…" She swallows hard and looks back at me with green eyes shining from the emotion. "She knows I'll do whatever I have to do to keep my family together." Her hand raises to run the back of her knuckles along my cheek. My body shivers pleasantly from the touch. The touch trails down, her eyes watching as fingers moved over the curve of my breasts. "I tried with her, I loved her like a mother…" Mary Margaret continues, voice still distant, mind still in the memory.

Then she snaps out of it, her face growing serious and she implores to me;

"Swear to me, Emma. Swear that you'll let me take care of our issue with Regina." Her hand moves lower still, over the soft muscles of my stomach. "Let me take care of everything." I try to focus on her words, her still serious tone and stern expressions, but her fingers—they move between my legs, to claim me as hers all over again. "You're the savior, and you did what you were meant to." It's almost a whisper, as my eyes flutter shut and I feel her lips against my ear. "Now you need to spend time just being mine…"

We spend the night alone together, in our own little bubble, talking and whispering, exploring each other. Making up rules and forming a whole new relationship. She tells me she isn't going to leave David, because this is about family. That it's bigger than just her and I. I understand, of course, because as long as I have her, I'm happy. It's funny, how I don't even realize that it's what I wanted all along. All the guilt and shame, all the wrongness of what we are, it just sort of melts away in her green eyes. They shine so bright and it's all love, all for me.

So when David comes back with Henry the next morning, I call him dad, and he tells me he loves me. That we're family.

We're at the diner a few days later, just finishing a late breakfast, so I'm enjoying her company while we sit side by side at one of the back booths. She has the paper laid out on the counter to read, and I'm reading her face, with my head on her shoulder.

"I love you, mom." It's getting easier to call her that—I'm getting used to it. Besides, with the smile she gives when I do, it makes up for the awkwardness. She insisted this morning, as she picked out a shirt for me to wear, one that would cover all the marks she left. Love bites, she calls it, so I call her mom. It's just a word. The love is real.

"Emma…?" I hear Regina's voice and my stomach sinks. I almost forgot, because it's easy not to remember when the only thing around me is Mary Margaret. Like a sensory overdrive. I lift my head off of her, and look at the former queen that is just a step or two away from our booth. She looks worried, and suspicious, and just like that the guilt and shame starts to bubble back up to the surface. "You weren't answering your phone last night." Her tight voice gives nothing away, looking back between me and my mother. "What happened?" The memory hits me tenfold, how I just laid out everything to Henry's adoptive mother. All the wrong and terrible things I did. There was no going back from that. There was no fixing this—

Suddenly I feel my mom's hand on my thigh, like an anchor. Like comfort. I look over to her and see her head still down, seemingly unaffected and still reading, but her thumb is rubbing insistent circles into my leg.

"We—…We worked it all out," The words tumble away while my sight lands back on the former mayor. "And everything's okay now."

"Really?" Regina responds monotone, her eyebrow arching. She isn't looking at me when she says it. "Can I speak to you in private?" She finally focuses on me, eyes growing a little intense and narrowed. I feel anxiety start to swell up inside me.

"You interrupted our morning together," My mom finally announces coolly before I can say anything else, watching her slowly look up to her step-mother. "So I think anything you need to say to Emma, you can say in front of me."

There's a moment between them that's full of silent considering, before Regina relents and quickly sits down across from us after taking a quick glance around the diner.

"Why would you stop me from fixing this?" She whispers, but it sounds like more of a hiss.

"Nothing's broken, not nearly enough for me to let you hurt my daughter." Her hand's still on my thigh, and it keeps me calmer. I try to remember that I swore I'd let her handle this.

"I wasn't going to—" Regina implores, actually sounding genuine, but a sharp tone from Mary Margaret cuts her off.

"Your fingers in her brain, ripping things out…" Both Regina and I look a little taken back by the raw emotion in her voice, her words cracking against our ears. "Ripping out her love for me…" My mom's free hand is a fist on top of the counter now, while she takes some steadying breaths. "I know how magic works by your hand, Regina."

I see the other woman's features harden when she hits the brick wall of her step-daughter's stubborn sensibilities.

"And I know how manipulation works by yours, dear." The former mayor leans in, hisses quietly, and with purpose. A purpose that's lost on me, but not on my mother, her jaw tensing at what Regina's saying. "You can't control her this way forever, I should know—" The older woman's throat closes, as her cheeks flair at her own words, glancing at me briefly. As if trying to keep in mind that I'm still in the room. Though with their intense back and forth, I can't imagine it would make a difference. "Snow, why would you want to do this?" My mom looks away, as Regina practically pleads. It's not a very convincing plea, but coming from the other woman, it's more crow than I ever expected her to eat. "She's your daughter."

I feel her hand tighten lightly on my leg, almost possessively, and Mary Margaret's eyes flare a little at her step mother's words.

"She's my everything. My love for her will never be darkened by your judgements."

Once again Regina hits that wall, and it makes her angrier every time. But my mother is too strong willed, and she told me while we laid in bed together, that nothing can break the kind of bond we have. Stronger than anything maternal alone, or anything of a simple lover. But we both know that there's no way others will understand.

"I'll tell." Regina announces suddenly, grabbing my attention immediately. I can practically see the blood boiling right underneath the older woman's skin. "I'll tell Charming…" She swallows hard, looking both angry and nervous as her eyes go towards me. "Henry."

"Like hell you will—"

I practically growl, full of anger and defiance, because if she says a single damn word to my son—but once the outburst happens, my mother's hand on my thigh tightens its grip, enough to bruise. Enough where I can't stop the flinch that crosses my face. Now Regina notices the fact that her hand is on my leg.

Mary Margaret's leans over and looks at me, shushing me sweetly, as if nothing in the world is wrong. I start to fall a bit into her eyes.

"She's not going to do that," She starts to say, talking about Regina. "Because who would they believe? Snow White and the Savior?" My mom starts to smile bright, but her eyes are dark and wild, and it makes a chill run up my back. Quick enough though, she looks back over to her step mother. "Or the evil queen that cursed them all here to begin with?"

There's a long silence at that.

"Who do you think Henry would believe?" She finishes, driving her point home, and there's a rage building in Regina, her hands curling into fists and a prominent vein popping out of her forehead. Even I know that the only thing in this world she hates more than losing, is losing to Snow White.

I'm overcome with the urge to leave before she blows up Granny's with some fireballs.

"Don't be upset with me." My mom finally says, soft and careful, staring into Regina's eyes that are shining with emotion and rage. "I'm only doing what I have to in order to keep my family together, and in turn, you get exactly what you want." Mary Margaret uses her free hand to dig her cell phone out of her coat pocket. "Full visitation, every other week. I'm texting Henry now to get his things ready for his stay with you." My eyes scan over her face, trying to see if she's lying, but I look down and she's doing exactly that. A part of me thinks I should have some say in this, but then I'm reminded that I swore I'd let her take care of it. I'd never want to break a promise like this to her. When my mother finishes, she put the phone back and smiles a 100 watts at Regina. "I think he'll be excited, and you two will have a great time."

The former mayor, on the other hand, still looks angry, but there's a contemplation behind her eyes as well. One that Mary Margaret seems to be ignoring, as she starts to move and get up, the hand on my thigh curls fingers around my own, leading me to a standing position as well. She sets some money down for the bill and smiles encouragingly at me. I almost smile back but I hear Regina's low voice filled with a terrifying darkness.

"This isn't over."

It doesn't discourage my mother in the slightest though, only meeting the piercing glare of brown eyes with a soft and understanding smile.

"Enjoy the time you have with your son, Regina. You know, there's nothing more important than family." She squeezes my hand and I follow her away from the booth dumbly, looking back at to see Regina standing as well, dark features only growing.

And even though I'd have no way to know, the smile that starts to shadow across the older woman's face is one of an evil queen, if I've ever seen it. I have to trust that my mother knows what she's doing, because I know Regina isn't lying when she says that it isn't over.