BROOKLYN, NEW YORK CITY, 2023.
One year after Emma's death.
Henry Mills sits uncomfortably on the thinly-carpeted floor of his apartment, feeling the vibration of the bass of his neighbor's much-too-loud music. He groans, annoyed; he reaches for his beer bottle beside him, accidentally pushing it over and soaking the few drops left into the already stained carpeting.
He curses venomously under his breath at the minor inconvenience, and wonders briefly when that had become his reflex response. He thinks he knows.
A loud, startling train horn blares just outside the window, worsening the slamming inside of his skull and making him twitch under his skin. It's far too small of a thing to startle him so badly; he knows this, but he has to take three calming breaths to slow his pounding heartbeat, and wonders when he'd become such a mess.
He runs a rough, dry palm over his face, pushing past his sleep-deprived eyes and rubbing at his so heavily-stubbled jaw, it's probably a beard by now. He doesn't know.
When was the last time he looked in a mirror, anyway?
This is ridiculous.
He finally brings himself to stand, watching his world swerve and spin at the movement. He almost feels sick for a moment, before placing a hand on the concrete wall beside him, closing his eyes to pause the merry-go-round. He's probably drunk. Or hungover. Or both.
When was the last time he wasn't either of those things?
Since she...
He shakes his head, trying to push the ever-present memory out of his mind. One with long, blonde hair, a shining smile and a contagious laugh. One who constantly cracks bad jokes and gives him noogies, and if he thinks hard enough and shuts his eyes, he can still feel her rub her fist vigorously on the top of his head. If he concentrates long enough, he can smell her flowery but slightly-spicy scent, can still see her bright green eyes that looked at him with nothing but love.
Emma.
God, freaking Emma, the woman who never leaves his mind and constantly haunts him. Because he can't unsee the blood--
He shakes his head again to clear his increasingly panicked mind, but it only makes him dizzier. He forces his tired eyelids open and walks towards the kitchen, where he swings open the door of his cheap, crappy fridge. Half of his takeout goes to shit in it because it barely goes cold enough to keep food, but he hasn't tossed it because he can't afford a better one. He squints against the flickering light in his fridge, scanning the shelves for another beer. He tosses two empty cardboard six-packs onto the floor, and shoves a jar of pickles aside--why does he have that?--to see one bottle left. He grabs that a box of Chinese takeout.
Thinks about how much Emma liked Chinese takeout.
The thought makes him sick and he finds he can't eat more than the first bite, and he's pretty sure the food's spoiled by now, anyway. The lo mein doesn't taste the same as it had several days ago, but he'd only had a few bites then, too. Lately, he can't bring himself to each much anymore.
Not for the first time, he reflects on how relieved he is that his mother--that Regina--can't see him like this. Christ, she'd be horrified. He's shocked by the tears that come so easily to his eyes when he thinks of her.
Every time he thinks of Regina, he's plagued with guilt; reminded of the countless promises he'd made her--promises that he'd broken, crushed and trampled into dust. A year ago, he'd held her hands in his own, looked into her eyes, vowing that he won't leave her; that Storybrooke is his home, and he has no plans of leaving her.
But he hasn't even seen her, barely contacted her for just a few months shy of a year. And now, he's the owner of a shitty one-man apartment in a shitty part of town miles and miles away from her. It's selfish, god, it's nothing but selfish, because he should be there, he should be, but he'd tried at first, but he'd failed and fled as fast as he could pack his bags.
The ghosts in Storybrooke are far worse than the ones in New York, and though he's haunted every day, he knows if he so much as looked near the clock tower--
A year ago, he'd promised her that he wouldn't disappoint her. A year ago, he'd told her absolutely truthfully that he barely drinks, that he'd never even gotten drunk once.
He almost wants to scoff and laugh at that memory, since it's almost ridiculous, because he can barely remember a time now that he was sober. And his heart aches just imagining his mother's face if she found out that her little prince is a goddamned alcoholic.
He absently licks the stickiness of his lips from the beer and throws out the entire container of Chinese food. He rubs harshly at his eyes, grabs his drink, and steps outside onto the balcony of his apartment, sitting heavily on an uncomfortable metal chair. He inhales deeply, breathing in diesel fumes, gasoline, and the faint strawberry scent from the guy vaping a few apartment doors down. He flexes his writer's hand, curling and straightening the fingers and breaking open scabs on his knuckles that he'd gotten from punching out the asshole from the bar last week.
For the thousandth time, he thinks of his author's pen, thinks about his magic that he hasn't practiced in half of a decade, thinks about how he just might be able to fix all the shit in his life with one single flourish of his hand. He thinks again about how Grandpa Gold had sat him down not long after Ma's death for two hours, warning him about the dangers of using his powers the wrong way--dangers, like in a wold-imploding sort of way.
He thinks of yet another promise he'd made to his mother--agreeing to never misuse his pen to bend the world's reality, to never blacken his heart and pollute his mind even if it meant the possibility of bringing Emma back.
He takes three long swings of his beer before setting it down a little too harshly, standing up quickly and letting out a frustrated, broken yell. Chest heaving and eyes glistening, he snaps his neck down, grabs two fistfuls of his hair, and curses so loud it's almost a scream.
Because to hell with it all; he'd break another set of promises, and damnit, he's willing to become the worst evil the world has ever seen, if it meant he could have Emma back and bring his mothers together once more.
Fuck it all.
It's then that he grabs his beer, spins on his heel, and storms back into his apartment. He makes it to his bedroom in five long strides, hauls a suitcase from under the bed, and begins pulling out drawers, throwing any and everything together. The suitcase barely zips and he doesn't bother to clean up at all before grabbing his keys and locking his apartment door behind him.
He reaches into his back pocket for his pack of Camels, sticks a cigarette between his teeth and chases the tip with a lighter for a few seconds. He takes four drags to calm his racing heart, blows the smoke into the evening city air, slams the door of his Mustang, and fires up the engine.
Because he's coming back home. And by god, he's going to do what he should've a year ago, and fix this.
---
The white-painted front door of 108 Mifflin is the same, the steps to the porch are the same, the bushes lining the mansion are the same, and yet all Henry feels is a world of difference as he stands, uncertain, in front of his childhood home, feet shuffling on the welcome mat. He raises his fist, knuckles inches away from rapping on the wood, then lowers his hand. He snakes his hand deep into his pocket, pulls out his long-unused home key, then puts it away. He trades off between contemplating the two methods of making his appearance known, heart pounding in his chest and a combination of nerves and shame causing bile to rise in his throat.
Because which is the best way to welcome himself back home after abandoning his mother in her most desperate time of need?
He briefly considers bailing out, needing time to think, maybe run by Moe's flower shop and buy her an extravagant bouquet. He closes his eyes tightly, and shakes his head, because while he's not entirely sober, even he knows that's an outrageous idea.
As if flowers could ever make up for what he'd done. Even implying it by handing a bouquet to her as he walks through the door would be an insult.
He curses under his breath, presses his clammy palms into his jeans, and raises his fist to the door once more, deciding that asking to be let in; an invitation, is better than barging in like he owns the place.
He stalls another minute, feet rooted to the ground and images of nearly a year ago flashing through his mind--his mother's heartbroken face when he'd taken off with a half-hearted goodbye, bags slung over his arms and a traumatized, hardened heart in his chest. He thinks of hundreds of texts and phone calls, thinks of countless times he'd declined; how the sight of "Mom" on his phone screen only heightened his throbbing guilt, thinks about how he'd promptly get blackout drunk to forget. But his memories were never wiped, and he'd noticed the moment the calls had fizzled out and then stopped a few months ago.
He shakes his head violently, which worsens his devil headache and momentarily throws off his balance, before cursing again and slams his knuckles against the wood exactly three times. His heart slams in his chest, waiting.
And waits.
Waits.
A full minute passes, then two, and he squeezes his hands into fists, and then releases them. God, he's so stupid, standing on the porch for over five minutes, psyching himself up to knock, and she's probably not even home.
That, or she'd seen him standing there through a window and chosen not to answer.
And why should she?
He's beginning to turn around, the start of tears pricking the back of his eyes, then freezes when he hears the sound of the scraping metal of the lock, and the slow turn of the knob. He turns around, almost in slow motion, and sees her.
She's there, hair in natural curls, face bare from her usual makeup, eyes rimmed with red, and much thinner than she should be. But she's his mother, and his heart plummets down a flight of stairs, the tears moving to the front of his eyes, glazing his vision.
"Mom."
Regina's heart pounds, staring up into the face of her son for the first time in nearly a year, jaw unhinged and her tongue sandpaper dry. Because he's home, but he's almost unrecognizable, and he looks like a damned mess, and she doesn't realize she's crying until he stretches out a large hand and wipes away her tears with his thumb.
"Henry," she breathes out, shakes her head, and moves clumsily aside to let him in. He steps inside, slowly drinking in all of the rooms he knows so well, eyes lingering on the closed curtains, shielding most rooms from natural lighting.
He walks in a slow, small circle, then drops his bag in the foyer, and struggles to meet her gaze. When he finally does, she finds unshed tears in his already extremely bloodshot eyes. He rubs his shaking hands together a few times, runs them across his face twice before shoving them into his jean pockets. "Mom, I--" he begins, before breaking off, and Regina shakes her head again.
"No. No, where were you? All this time? Why--" Finally, after the shock of seeing him had slightly worn off, the hurt and injustice and pain bubbles to the surface, and she sees the undisguised guilt deep in his eyes.
He removes one of his antsy hands from its pocket, rubbing roughly at the heavy scruff on his jaw that's just on the verge of a full beard, and Regina tries not to feel the stab in her chest of seeing her little prince with such unkempt facial hair. It ages him dramatically, and she can't look away as much as she wants to.
"I--" he runs a hand through his too-long hair, shuts his eyes tightly before blinking rapidly. "God, I'm such a dick. I just couldn't--I couldn't handle staying here, not after--not after Ma," he explains, tears dripping from his eyes. "She was--she is--everywhere I look; this house, the clock tower, the station--everywhere. I just--I had to get away, or I would go insane. But I think I did, anyway." He removes his other hand and presses his palms into his eyes, his whole body trembling now. "Because she went with me, and every time I even saw a damned yellow Bug on the road, I almost crashed my car, and she was there," he sobs, shoulders shaking. "And your calls--god, I don't know why I didn't pick up--I just--I already felt so damned guilty for leaving, I couldn't face you. I was weak, and if it makes you feel any better, I didn't have a single night where I got more than a few hours of sleep since I left. And this doesn't excuse a single thing I did to you, but I.....I'm a piece of shit."
Regina's heart pounds in her chest, and tears are splashing from her cheeks onto the floor, because while she'd spent the entire year in the deepest depression she's ever been in, and she's going through hell, she can't stand seeing her son like this, and she'll be damned if she doesn't do everything in her power to help him.
"Henry....." she breathes out, and stretches up to place her hands on his broad shoulders, squeezing them until he drops his hands away and she can move her palms to his cheeks. The hair on the sides of his face is coarse and rough and jarring under her skin, but he's still her little prince, and she slowly shakes her head. "I....I get it. I do."
"I'm so, I'm so sorry," he whispers, ridiculously red eyes completely sheen with tears.
She raises herself onto her toes, pulls at his face until he gets the hint and bends his neck until she can reach his forehead to press a tender kiss onto his skin. She pulls away, then laces her arms around his waist--much too thin--and holds him close to her.
After a moment, his extremely tense muscles relax slightly and he wraps his arms around her. She rests her head against his chest, hearing the too-fast pulsing of his heartbeat and inhales his scent--which instead of his unique, boyish scent she's used to, all she smells is a hint of cheap detergent, stale cologne, and strongest of all, he reeks of beer.
And while it makes her heart absolutely break, it's Henry, and he's here, and he's trying to the best of his abilities to fix what he'd broken, and it's enough.
So she holds on tighter and doesn't let go.
---
For her sake, Henry pretends not to notice things.
He pretends not to notice the curtains shielding the rooms from light, pretends not to notice her black, more conservative clothing, pretends not to notice harsh, dark eyebags resting beneath lower lash line. He acts like he didn't see several old, molding, uneaten casseroles in the fridge with cheap condolences notes attached hastily with scotch tape to the tin-foil coverings.
And god, he explicitly ignores the worst thing--the pillows and blankets littering the couch in her study, that tells him far too clearly where she's been sleeping. Not in her bed, not like she should, not without Emma--
And so, during their long talks with carefully chosen topics, he does what he'd nearly forgotten how to do and just smiles in his mother's company, and acts oblivious. And it almost works, almost, but when brown and green irises meet, rimmed with semi-permanent red, he knows she sees right through his facade. Because as much as she wants him to be, he's no longer a child, and he's no longer hopeful and blissfully naive.
Even so, and even with topics that only scratch the surface compared to what he'd confessed in the foyer, he feels far less despair than he has the rest of the year, and just sitting in his mother's study, laughing mildly and acting as though not much is wrong--it's healing. It's everything and not much at once, but when he looks at her and watches some of her hardened stressed lines on her face soften and sees her smile, he knows that she feels it too.
The sun has long since set by the time he climbs the familiar steps to the next level of his childhood home, and he presses the tips of his fingers against his bedroom door. The hinges squeak disagreeably and he surveys the room with a lump in his throat. Not a thing has been moved. Drawers from his thoughtless, hurried packing are still carelessly halfway open, his bed halfway-made, and dust has settled over almost every surface. His stomach tightens.
With difficulty, he pushes the constant, heavy guilt-ridden thoughts from his mind and focuses on much of why he'd come home. Focuses on something that almost feels like hope. Hope, for the first time since Emma....
He shakes his head, closes the door behind him, locks it, and crosses the small cluttered room to his desk drawer. He moves stacks of folders and papers out of the top layer until he can get to the hidden compartment beneath. He presses twice and the fake, wooden drawer bottom comes loose and he slides it off, revealing a simple, rectangular-shaped box holding his long-unused Author's pen.
With violently shaking hands, he picks it up and pops it open, running his rough thumb over the velvet lining inside. Slowly, he curls his fingers around the pen, lifting it from the packaging, and rolls it across his fingertips. He closes his eyes, feeling the magic soak into his skin, and his anticipation rises. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, faster and faster, and a small smile curls on his lips that makes him feel only slightly insane. He takes five calming breaths, then opens the ink pot.
Reaching for the shelf above him, he slides his storybook out, and though he'd finished it nine years ago, there's one extra blank page at the very end. The scent of the book that holds a thousand memories further excites his senses, and with a trembling hand, he coats the tip of the sleek pen with the slightly shimmering ink. Legs weak underneath him, he moves to his desk and sits slowly, stretching the large storybook over the desktop.
He sits there with his eyes tightly closed for a full minute, feeling his nose tingle and his eyes prick as he wishes harder than he ever has in his life.
He wishes harder than he had when he was ten, when he'd begged that Emma would just get it, that she'd just believe and break the curse.
He wishes harder than he had when he was just barely twelve captured in Neverland, laying on the hard ground with the haunting whoops of the lost boys piercing his ears, hoping that his moms would find him.
He wishes harder than he had when he was looking into his mother's tearful face with the green, horrible thunderclouds of Pan's curse surrounding them, when he'd desperately waited for her say that she'd found another way to break the curse, and that they wouldn't have to be apart.
He wishes harder, even, than the worst moment of his life, when he'd stared at Emma's lifeless body in utter horror, just praying and screaming that she was still alive, that she wasn't dead.
Because now, he's ignoring every single doubt in the back of his mind, and wishing with every single fiber of his being that Emma didn't die.
And so he holds his breath, opens his eyes, holds the pen just slightly above the paper, and writes,
Emma Swan comes back to life.
The words stare back at him for a split second before glowing and shimmering with nearly blinding light. He squints against the rays coming up from the paper, mind racing because he's never gotten such a strong reaction any of the other times he'd used his powers. His heart slams far too quickly in his chest, his eyes water, and his mind and entire being shines with hope, pure, unbridled hope, and he grins, staring down at the beautiful words.
The glowing reaches an all-time high, then blinks out faster than a heartbeat, and Henry rubs at his eyes to adapt to the sudden change of lighting, and removes his hands just in time to see the ink disappear deep into the paper.
For a moment, he really believes that it worked.
For a moment, he places his pen down, smiles, and listens intently, waiting for the front door to slam and for his blonde mother's telltale heavy footsteps to pound through the mansion. For a moment, he expects to hear his other mother to scream, then laugh, then cry, then kiss her, because Henry brought her back.
But he waits for minutes--minutes--and not a damned thing happens.
Faster this time, he dips the pen into the ink, and writes the same words. They glow, but slightly less this time, and disappear quicker. Still, heart racing, he waits, and waits, and waits, and hears nothing.
Again, with wide, unblinking eyes and a twitching wrist, he write the words, over, and over, and over again, and each time it glows dimmer and dimmer, and the words slip through faster and faster.
And all he hears is deafening silence.
Nothing.
And finally, he realizes. He knows.
He slams the pen down, throws the book to the floor, and cries out in agony, because god, he'd really thought--
His last hope, his last resort, his willingness to give up the pureness that was left in his heart--
He'd failed. Failed. He'd gotten his hopes up, for nothing, for,
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing nothing...
"FUCK!!!" He screams, standing up, pulling at his hair before moving his hands to shield his face.
"FUCK! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck--" he yells out until his voice is hoarse, until he--
The next thing he feels is arms around him. He smells lavender perfume and feels arms digging into his waist, and hears whispered sweet nothings.
He lets out a strangled cry, and sobs until there's nothing left. He breaks down completely in his mother's arms, letting out every single damned feeling and hurt he'd experienced in the past year, everything he'd let bottle up, everything he'd hidden from her. And then he's out of breath, and he's leaning over and hugging her back, feeling her shake against him.
He hears, "Henry, Henry. My little prince. My little prince," and there's his mother's soft, soothing whispers, comforting him through her own tears.
And it's all too much, too much, and he starts to cry again even though he's exhausted, because he's so ashamed. "I'm so sorry, Mom, I'm so--" he breaks off, cupping her head in the back of his hand and gasping in a shuddering breath. "I tried, I tried--"
But then he feels slow, rubbing circles across his back, and it works like it always had when he was years younger and a completely different person, and she's shushing him lovingly. There's no possible way she knows what he's talking about, but then again--
Henry thinks she does. And it's a terrible and beautiful moment all at once, and he just clings to her as if his life depends on it.
And maybe it does.
AN: As an apology for the longer wait, here's a much longer chapter. I told you all it was going to get angsty, and here's a taste of that. Henry's a big mess. And yes, it was terrible of him to leave Regina at a time like this, which is why he's trying to make it right, so try not to hate him, lol.
Hope you enjoyed! I would be thrilled if you voted and commented to let me know your thoughts.