Work Text:
They’re sitting on the floor in Regina’s study when Emma thinks of it, and the realization is so stark it makes her laugh.
Regina, startled, looks up from the book she’s translating. “What?”
Emma puts her pen down. “This,” she says. “I just realized what we’re doing here.”
Regina tilts her head to one side, her brow furrowing slightly. She’d let her hair down from its ponytail a few hours ago, and it’s soft and wavy as it frames her face. “We’re looking for the author of the book,” she says, uncertainly.
“To find you a happy ending,” Emma says. Right, I know. But, Regina--look around you.”
She gestures around the room, and watches, unable to keep the grin off her face, as Regina takes in the same vision that had made her own brain click just a few moments ago. Regina’s usually neat study has transformed in the last few weeks that they’ve been working. Empty take-out containers cover almost every surface, Chinese and Indian and Thai. Emma’s boots a Regina’s high heels lie abandoned on the floor, Regina’s black blazer long replaced by Emma’s oversized, fluffy white cardigan. There are pages of notes and translations scattered across the floor and tables, interspersed with toys and blankets from baby Neal’s visit earlier that afternoon.
Completing the picture--completing any picture of them, because how could he not?--is henry, curled up on the couch opposite them, fast asleep under a large, colorful quilt Regina ad dug out of a closet earlier that evening. The quilt has a twin, currently draped over both of their legs as they share the second couch. It’s large and comfortable, and their feet have tangled together beneath it.
It’s quiet, and cozy, and Emma has never felt so comfortable, so content, in her entire life.
he sees the moment that the recognition and realization dawn on Regina. The wonder that comes next transforms her face, brings a softness and awe that makes Emma catch her breath. Her lips part, and she swallows. “Emma,” she say, and it sounds like a benediction. “How did this happen?”
“Work,” Emma says. “A lot of it.” She gives Regina asmle, feel it come out crooked. “And practice.”
“And patience,” Regina says. She holds Emma’s gaze. “And determination.” She leans forward. “You never gave up on me, Emma,” she says quietly. “Did you?”
Her eyes are like the night sky, dark and starry, and Emma feels like she could drown in them and never bother coming up for air. “I never could,” she says, and means it. “Every time I wanted to, something pulled me back.”
Regina tilts her head. “Henry.”
“No.” Emma shakes her head. “No. You.” She leans forward. “You have so many layers, Regina. So many parts. And it seems like every day I spend with you, I see new ones.”
“They’re not always good,” Regina says, and Emma sees anguish in her eyes. She puts a hand against her heart, pressing so hard Emma worries she’ll leave bruises. “Murderer. Tyrant. Witch.” She swallows, face twisting. “Whore.”
“No,” Emma says, snarling the word. She kicks off the quilt to better face Regina, touching her own chest. “You want to play that game? Orphan. Thief. Runaway.” The last word makes her eyes sting. “I run away. From everything that might hurt.”
Regina shakes her head. “You don’t,” she says. She lays her hand over Emma’s, her skin smooth and cool. “Brave. Noble. Survivor.” Her lips twist in a wry smile, not insincere. “Savior.”
Emma snorts at that and reaches forward, cupping Regina’s face in her hands. “Survivor,” she echoes. “Mother. Friend. Teacher. Fighter.” She runs her thumb over Regina’s cheekbone, and Regina is still under her touch, her expression uncertain, cautious. “You’ve come through so much,” Emma says. “How could I ever give up on you?”
Regina parts her lips. “Emma,” she says, like a prayer, and Emma kisses her.
It’s as gentle as breathing, as soft as a whisper. Regina’s lips are soft under hers, and Emma could savor this moment forever.
There are no curses to break today, but Emma knows, deep in her bones, that this kiss could break one. Something sings in her veins, in her very cells, and she realizes that it’s her magic, straining for Regina’s.
The kiss ends as gently as it starts, and Emma leans her forehead against Regina’s, breathing her air. “Say it?” Regina whispers, and it’s almost a plea. “Emma, will you say it?”
Her lips are red, her cheeks flushes, her eyes bright with hope. She is the most beautiful sight Emma has ever seen. “I love you,” she says, words she has said to only two others in her lifetime, words she has been guarding; saving, she realizes, for this moment. They roll off her tongue like fine wine, rich and full, and she laughs to hear them in her own voice. “I love you.”
Regina’s smile transforms her face like a beacon, and Emma kisses her again, just because she knows she can. She thinks of the Regina of four years ago and the Emma of four years ago and the Emma and Regina of today, and knows every moment, every fight,every curse, every trial led them to this moment, here on this couch, surrounded by takeout and blankets, their son sleeping soundly beside them, and thanks every deity she knows for the day Henry knocked on her door.
She feels a tingle of magic and a sudden weight on her legs and tears herself away from Regina’s lips long enough to look down at the book that has appeared between them. It’s thick and long like all the others they’ve found, but this one is full, the words ONCE UPON A TIME printed in heavy type on its cover.
Regina touches it with reverent fingers, and then opens it. Emma tugs her closer, resting her chin on Regina’s shoulder. The first page is a moment that Emma replays in her head more often than she’s willing to admit: the first time she saw Regina, framed in the light of the doorway of the house they sit in now, her composed appearance at odds with her frantic worry for her child, the confusion and barely-veiled fear and gratitude as she looked at Emma. The emma in this picture is so young to her eyes now, so brash and empty, and Henry is small and childlike, torn between them.
Once upon a time, says the book, there was a family. Though they didn’t know it, then.
“This is our story,” Regina says, her voice soft with wonder.
“Ours,” Emma says, thinking of a different book, where she is an infant in a blanket, powerless and alone, and still another, where Regina is a lost, lonely bride, angry and hurt. In this book, Emma knows without looking past this page, they will be women, equals, mothers, fighters. She reaches out to turn the page, but Regina puts a hand over hers.
“Don’t,” she says. “I’m not ready to read it.”
Her fingers curl around Emma’s, and Emma can’t help a smile. “I thought you wanted your happy ending?”
“Yes.” Regina looks up at her, eyes sparkling. “But not to read. To live.”
Emma can’t help but grin at that, and she leans forward to kiss her. Regina melts against her and the book slips to the floor, landing with a thump, open to the last page. Emma closes her eyes, but not before she reads the last words of the story--and she smiles.