Clock Chimes

Chapter Four (Part two)

Of course, he's known it for months. At first, he didn't take it at all seriously, but then he and Anya began dating, and after a month he confessed his addiction, and she'd pleaded with him to stop. Since then, he'd been using on and off, caving every few weeks because the withdrawal is too much to bear and he can't sleep without it anymore.

Tonight, however, was a wakeup call. A slap against his stupid, bleary face.

Jesus, I need help.

And he doesn't know how to do any of that without going back to the place where his downward spiral began.

Back home.

Again.

---

Faint, receptive knocking from downstairs brings Regina to consciousness from a fitful slumber. She eyes the clock beside her, groaning when she reads 8:30 AM. She presses her palms against her eyes, recalling that it had been half past five in the morning the last time she'd looked at her nightstand. That means she'd gotten a solid three-hours of shut-eye, at least, she muses, rising from her bed and ignoring the slamming in her skull. She might be a little hungover, though not much. She attributes most of her ailments to the nightmares that plague her each night without mercy.

The knocking grows louder.

Oh, right. She wraps a fluffy robe around herself, one of Emma's old ones, with faded yellow rubber ducks filling out the pattern. It was a half-joking gift from Henry for Mother's Day a decade ago, and she's still not sure why he picked this for his blonde mother. Still, it's comfortable, and she pads down the stairs, squinting at the harsh sunlight bathing the floors and white walls of her mansion.

There's another knock against wood, and Regina glares briefly at the white painted door, vaguely annoyed at whoever decided to bang down her door this early. Finally, she composes herself and swings the door open.

And frowns in confusion. "Snow?"

Because there she is: the pixie-haired girl in question, showered, dressed, and cosmetics applied at the early hour. Well, early for Regina at least, as of late. The porcelain-skinned woman gives her a small smile, paper bag in hand. "Good morning Regina," she greets matter-of-factly, ducking her head down in a instinctive, habitual form of a bow. "May I come in?"

Regina's too shocked to deny her, so she sidesteps to welcome her inside without a word. Finally, she crosses her arms (coloring slightly when she remembers what she's wearing) and cocks her head to one side. "What...are you doing here?"

Snow's tense shoulders relax, and both hands grip the folded over edge of the brown paper bag in front of her. "Face it, Regina; you're lonely. You're holed up inside here, I haven't seen you outside in ages, and--" she pauses here, reaching over with one hand to squeeze Regina's shoulder. If she notices the ridiculous robe, she doesn't say anything. "You need a friend."

Regina's breath escapes her throat, and she feels a pressure behind her ribcage and a pricking around her eyes. "Snow," is all she can manage; she'd die before she admits that the younger woman touched her, but she's here, no annoying, meaningless condolences on her lips, breakfast in tow, and it's smiling human contact. Which Regina desperately needs.

So she puts on an annoyed, dismissive front by waving her hand and raising an eyebrow. "Well. Seeing as you're so set on staying, just allow me to go up and change." She fixes Snow with a pointed look. "I wasn't expecting company."

Snow breaks out in a beaming smile then, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Regina knows she hasn't fooled either of them.

A good ten minutes later, Regina's hair is fixed and she's dressed in a navy pantsuit; there's mascara coating her eyelashes and plum paint on her lips. As she looks in the mirror, she sees a woman she'd almost forgotten. She sees herself as she used to be; strong, vicious, fearless, beautiful. For the first time in years, she almost feels like herself--but the same exact woman she once knew is gone. Maybe she can impersonate her, maybe she can try to even be her, but she's not coming back.