BROOKLYN, NEW YORK CITY, 2023.
Two years after Emma's death.
Six months later...
If Henry searched his memory until the velvety black sky void of stars was bright blue once again, and if he tried hard enough, exhausting himself to the point of crying every tear left in him, he couldn't have found an answer to the burning question numbing his brain.
What got him to this point?
There's not an exact moment that he can lay his finger on. Surely it had something to with his mother's untimely death, his depressing, lonely apartment miles and miles away from his home, his tendency to spend every penny he can scrape up on alcohol, his addiction to heroin, and the fact that his girlfriend had basically dumped him less than seven hours ago. Just a few wild stabs. Maybe it was a mutant, stinking mix of it all.
Well, she hadn't exactly broken up with him, though she may as well have, and Lord knows she'd be far better off without him. This is how it played out.
He's late.
He knows he is; just as he always is these days, and he'd booked a reservation a week ago for this all-hell expensive suit-and-tie restaurant he could barely afford for their "half-anniversary," and he's late.
Last night, he'd relapsed; particularly badly, and he'd gotten so fucking high that he was aware of it, like an out-of-body experience, genuinely scared for his own life. Then the skyscraper high of it collapsed on him like a three-thousand pound weight, suddenly and suffocating. He'd spent the entire night screaming until he was hoarse, hot and cold, and he's sporting a 100.3 F fever right now, and it's 8 PM the next day, and their reservation was at 7:15. He throws on the only suit he owns and a tie that doesn't match, two different socks showing under the too-short hem of his pants, and then he's tearing down the busy streets of Brooklyn.
It's 8:15 when he bangs down the doors of the Italian place whose name he can't pronounce, a solid hour after he'd promised he'd be there. He's breathless, eyes wide and bloodshot as he shouts at the girl at the front desk that he's part of the Mills party. He hadn't been able to tell whether his voice was too loud or too quiet to be heard due to the deafening rushing deep in his ears that's beginning to be normal for him.
The girl's eyebrows raise about three inches higher than they should, a quiet squeak floating out of her mouth--and oh, okay, so his voice was too loud, good to know--and after a moment's recovery, instructs him to follow her as she snakes around circular tables covered with white cloth.
That's when he sees her.
There's Anya Chen, his beautiful, perfect, amazing girlfriend of six months sitting alone at a table for two, legs crossed under her skintight fancy dress she only pulls out of the back of her closet for special occasions, the candle on the table long since gone out.
There's pounding, sickening guilt in his chest, and he thinks he feels tears in the back of his eyes. "Anya--" he begins, sitting down hurriedly. The hostess makes herself scarce so quickly he doesn't even see her go, seeming to understand how much trouble he's in. And he's a douchebag.
"Nice of you to show up." Anya tells him shortly, not meeting his eyes. Her hair is curled. She has red lipstick on.
"Honey, I just--" he reaches across the table for her, the space between them thick and heavy enough that he thinks he could cut it with a knife. His hand makes contact with hers, and she flinches.
She finally meets his bloodshot, wild eyes, takes in his damp hair sticking to his clammy skin, sees the heavy stubble on his jaw, sees the green tinge under the paper-white of his skin. "Bǎobèi, what's wrong with you?" She asks, horrified, taking his hand in hers, squeezing it repeatedly, trying in vain to bring warmth back to it.
The saliva in his mouth grows thick. The waitress comes, and he orders the cheapest red wine on the menu without thinking. The moment she leaves, he rubs his free hand over his face. "I had a.....bad night." He tells her, watching the light leave her eyes.
Because she knows exactly what that means, and she squeezes her eyes shut before recoiling from his touch. "You--" she begins, then opens her eyelids and he sees a sheen above her pretty irises. "Let me see your arm."
"Honey," he begins, but her gaze is fierce and unwavering, and he thinks he's never felt more ashamed of himself than in this moment. Numbly, he pulls his left shirtsleeve up, almost unable to look at her. Almost.
She grasps the skin below his elbow, eyes narrowing at the three fresh puncture wounds on the inside of his forearm, still bright red and sensitive. "You relapsed. I knew it. God, Henry, I KNEW it."
The waitress comes back with the bottle and Henry rips his arm out of her grip and gives the waitress a weak smile as he fumbles to shove the fabric down over the evidence. He picks up the uncorked bottle and pours them two generous glasses.
"Anya," He says finally, taking a long sip and doing his best to meet her eyes. "I don't even know what to do anymore. I thought I was getting better, thought I was finding my way out of this crap, but it was so, so bad last night. I just--I just needed it. I can't explain it."
She's shaking her head, tears glistening in her eyes. "We talked about this."
"Anya, god, mi amor, I know, but I tried so hard, and I failed, and I'm so sorry," he's almost pleading with her, and he feels a sickness in his gut that lets him know that 'sorry' isn't enough this time.
She's openly crying now, the careful thin flicks of eyeliner on her monolids beginning to smudge. "God, Henry, one of these days you are going to KILL yourself. You're actually going to kill yourself, and in case you didn't know, there's people who LOVE you. I'm not going to sit around on my hands and wait for your lack of self-control to let that happen."
His stomach flip-flops, and his heart is beating in his ears. "What does that mean?" He asks slowly.
"I've told you this a hundred times, a thousand times. Get. Help. Go to rehab, do whatever you need to do, but this isn't okay anymore. It never was. When you've gotten your life figured out, what you really want, what's really important to you, then call me." She pushes back from the table and stands up. Her full wine glass contrasts Henry's nearly empty one.
"Anya, please," he stands up, crosses the short distance to her, puts his arms around her. She crumbles into his embrace, fingers gripping the fabric covering his broad back. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how do anything. I want to stop, but the nightmares are so, so bad..." he breaks off, choking back a sob.
"Henry," she silences him, small, dainty, tan fingers combing their way through his too-long, messy hair. "I love you. But you need some time to yourself. You need to figure out what's best for you."
"It's you," He tells her, stupidly; gets lost in her honey-gold, sad, sad eyes.
She closes them, breaking his trance. Then she leans in and kisses him, long and slow and gentle, then she's trailing the back of her hand over the roughness of his jaw, and draws away.
Then she's gone.
The memory leaves a bitter taste on his tongue and he doesn't realize he's crying until his nose begins to run. He's sitting on the porch in August at three A.M. in a winter coat due to his feverish shivering, and he really realizes he needs help.
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.
But for the first time in years, she feels almost...okay. Better.
She straightens her blazer and starts down the stairs. In the kitchen, Snow's pouring two generous cups of coffee, and the tea kettle whistles. Regina grabs a soft rag and removes it from the stovetop, taking in the spread of pancakes and bacon on the table. Hm. She hadn't noticed until now how hungry--perhaps even ravenous--she is.
She moves her gaze to Snow, who's setting two mugs down on the island counter top, her dark eyes soft, soft, soft. "You did this all...for me?" She asks very quietly, because she can't believe it. Doesn't know how to.
Snow looks up, almost surprised, but not nearly as much as she should be. "Regina," She says simply, swooping in and taking the forgotten tea kettle from Regina's cramped fingers. "Of course."
They leave it at that; Regina doesn't thank her, Snow doesn't ask for it. They understand each other. Snow knows without even thinking about it that that was Regina's version of a very warm 'thank you'. And she'd do it for her over and over again.
They sit across from each other, Regina munching as regally as she can on a piece of bacon, and Snow disappearing behind her coffee cup. Then she lowers the mug, finally speaking. "How--" she begins, and Regina's closing her eyes.
Here it comes. Here's the dreaded how are you question she'd received what feels like a thousand times from hundreds of people who can't think of anything else to say. Here comes Regina having to put on a front, saying she's fine--why wouldn't she be?--and the needless conversation that follows that neither of them want. Then she surprises Regina, not for the first time that morning.
"How is Henry?"
Regina opens her eyes again, looks at the woman across the table, and really, truly thinks that she's never been more thankful for Snow than in this moment. Heart calmed, she opens her mouth to answer--then shuts it. She feels a dull, thumping pain in her chest when she realizes that she doesn't know. "I--" She croaks out, then guzzles her still-scalding coffee to give herself more time to think. "He's--"
Snow's face is soft and nice and understanding and it would sicken Regina if it didn't make her so damned grateful that she isn't forced to explain herself or voice terrible truths aloud. Then Snow shifts her gaze once more and looks at a far wall, expression thoughtful. "David and I haven't heard from him in ages. Not a single phone call in over a year." Her tone isn't angry or even particularly hurt; just stating facts.
Regina swallows a few times, finding that she's not nearly as surprised with that information that she should be. "He's....a complicated boy." Then, frowning, she corrects herself. "Man." Her voice is far less strong than she would like it to be. Then, looking down, she speaks not only for her son. "It's not....easy to get over." The subject of the it is unspoken; unneeded.
Emma hasn't been brought up once this morning; her name unuttered, but she's the subject of every conversation, and she hangs between the two women at the breakfast table. She's there.
Snow's gaze flies back to the older woman, eyes wide and expression sorrowful. "Oh--god, no, of course not. I didn't mean that."
Regina looks down, a small smile on her lips that shows the younger woman that there's nothing to forgive. Looking back, Regina reflects momentarily, it's an ironic thought. She thinks of the decades spent seeking revenge on her and believing Snow had everything to apologize for. Staring at the woman across from her now, she finds that nothing of that remains. It's almost a startling thought, but she thinks she's let go of her anger for far longer than she has admitted to even herself.
Still, Snow seeks to explain herself. "I just...I can't help but miss him. He's not the same man he was--none of us are--but I worry about him."
Regina feels tears prick the back of her eyes. "Yes. I--he's struggling. But he--" she swallows, thickly, again. "He won't let me in. And I don't blame him, not for a moment--but.." she finds she can't finish, can't even begin to gather her thoughts. With Henry, she's always felt thousands of emotions, all at once, but now, she focuses as hard as she can on not sobbing in front of Snow White.
She feels the touch of skin against her hand, and looks up quickly, finding Snow's palm rubbing small circles there. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but she's cut off by a quiet knock at the door. "I'll get it." Snow tells her without missing a beat, and leaves the kitchen.
Regina's left in her seat, thinking about how this is the most action her front door has gotten in one day in a very, very long time.
Snow takes the time away from the kitchen to clear her head, wipe the beginning of tears from her eyes, and steady her heart. She'd known that she and Regina had come so very far, but today showed just how far. She'd never stop being thankful that Regina chose to let her in. This is the relationship she'd longed for with her young stepmother for decades.
Composed, she swings open the door.
And undos all of her hard work, because the sight she's met with instantly unsettles her once more.
A man stands on the other side of the door, and it takes Snow an entire second longer than it should for her to recognize him as her grandson. "Henry?"
To be fair, he looks surprised to see her as well. Seemingly suddenly conscious of his appearance, he rakes his hand through his hair and runs the other over his unkempt, heavy scruff that's nearly a beard. "Grams?" When he speaks, his voice is far gruffer than normal, and there's a strange, almost wild look to his bloodshot eyes darting around the inside of the mansion's foyer. Unhinged. "What are you doing here?" His right hand taps repeatedly on his right thigh, as if he's full to the brim with nervous energy. As he continues to talk, his voice doesn't soften a bit.
Snow finally realizes that she's standing in his way, and she steps quickly aside to let him inside of his childhood home. "I could ask the same of you," she remarks wryly, not-so-subtly referencing his gaping absence, and only feels a little bad when she watches guilt wash over his face. Okay, maybe more than a little.
She can't take it a second longer, then, and moves toward him quickly to bury her face in his chest. He wraps his ridiculously strong arms around her tightly, nearly crushing her, and for a second, she's his lifeline. If she closes her eyes, it nearly feels like one of David's hugs, but the smell gives it away. David smells like Old Spice and cotton and clean clothes, but she's shocked to discover that Henry reeks of booze and cigarette smoke, and something else that she can't quite place. It's this revelation that causes her arms to twitch, making him step away from her, mistaking her body language for no longer enjoying the contact.
They're further interrupted by Regina walking slowly out of the kitchen, moving towards her son like she can't quite allow herself to believe it's him. "Henry?" She asks, as if she's waiting for him to vanish from her sight once more.
Henry's hunched shoulders underneath the faded, worn leather of his jacket relax slightly when he sees his mother. "Mom," is all he says before he crosses the distance between them easily in a hurried step or two, curling his arms around her. Regina disappears almost completely from view surrounded by his larger frame, his hand reaching up and palming the back of her dark-haired head. "Mom," he mumbles again into her hair, running his other hand up and down her back in calming movements. It's almost ironic, Snow thinks, that he's the one giving her comfort when he's the one that so obviously needs help. Except maybe, maybe they're fixing each other.
Snow almost smiles at that, and she says softly, not knowing if either will hear her or even care, "It was great to see you two." It's all she says before slipping out the door.
Regina's fingers curl into the thick leather covering her son's broad back and feels tears swim in her eyes, melting into the contact she'd so longed for. "My little prince," she sighs, and is slightly surprised by the giant sob that suddenly rips through him, shaking his entire torso. She looks up from the nook under his shoulder, finding tears dripping freely from his vivid, red eyes, dampening his beard. There's deep, purple, almost green bags under his eyes and his skin is pasty and thin. She finally notices his arms shaking around her, sees a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. "Henry?" She asks again, this time out of utter confusion and almost terror.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, so sorry, so sorry," He babbles, releasing her and placing both hands on her cheeks. "I'm never there for you, you don't deserve this. We should have fought through this together, should have grieved together, gotten through this together. I left you by yourself, left everyone just because I couldn't stand the sight of the fucking town, and I left you. God, you don't deserve this. You don't. You don't. You don't deserve any of this, I'm so, so sorry--" He babbles out in almost one breath, stopping only when she places a few fingers across his too-pale lips. His chest heaves, racks with another sob, and he sways on his feet.
"Henry, Henry, mi hijo, what is wrong?" She implores of him, eyebrows stitching together, her vision blurring. She's scared, god, she's not used to seeing him like this. He's never looked like this, and she hardly recognizes the boy she knows under this exterior, and she's terrified. She doesn't know what's wrong, doesn't know how to help, doesn't know what she would do if she lost him too--
He doesn't reply right away. He squeezes his eyes shut, hard, and Regina watches a few lines engrave themselves into his skin that shouldn't be there at his age. Finally, he takes a deep breath, then three of them, then opens them, and looks at her with wet, soft, telling eyes that don't hide a single thing from her. Then, "Mom--Mama, I need help." Then he shakes his head, another raw sob escaping his lips. "Please. Please, Mama."
Tears blind her vision, and for a few long moments, she sees her little boy, hears him, sees a mop of messy brown hair, wide, innocent green eyes full of fear after a nightmare. Mama, please. Mama, help me. Mama, the monsters are gonna get me.
Mama, the monsters already got me.
She reaches up, places her trembling hands on either side of his face, clearing her throat and doing her best to clear her vision. The broken man her little one has become comes back into focus, and he dips his head, allowing her to kiss his forehead. "Anything. Anything for you."
---
It's two A.M. and Regina puts down her book, finally giving up on the idea of sleeping that night. Not for the first time, she wonders about Henry, if he's sleeping. They'd stayed up until midnight just talking about nothing and everything, though not exactly what he needed her to help with, not exactly what he'd done to himself that she doesn't quite understand. She could tell without asking that he wasn't ready yet, and she respected that. Still, she's worried sick, and the curiosity eventually wins as she slips out of her bed and out into the hall. She pushes the door of the room of his boyhood, the hinges squeaking loudly in protest from lack of use. She curses under her breath at the noise, and opens it further, peering into the dark room illuminated by moonlight. The bed is empty.
For a moment, her heart slams in her chest, and she clutches onto the side of the doorframe, dizzy from lack of sleep. She consoles herself, hoping that he wouldn't just run off again, and moves downstairs slowly. The porch light is on, she notices with a frown, because she distinctly remembers shutting it off before going upstairs to bed. Aha.
She opens the sliding door to enter her back porch, finding the silhouette of a man sitting on the edge of the porch. He doesn't turn around. She smiles softly, priding herself in always knowing how to find him. Then, she inhales deeply, frowning once more at the unusual smell. Then her heart stills before thumping harshly in her chest because she knows exactly what that is.
She crosses the wooden porch, finally sitting down next to him, watching him, her dreading suspicion confirmed. Henry's hunched over, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his fist, smoking a cigarette. He obviously knows she's there, but neither acknowledges her, nor bothers to hide the cigarette.
Finally, she clears her throat, trying not to overreact. "I..." She begins, blowing on her hands, surprised by how cool the summer air has become. "I didn't know you smoked."
Henry shrugs, still not looking at her, and she's not sure whether it's because he's ashamed. He doesn't reply at first; just takes a long drag and stares out into the night. "Bad habit." He says finally, rather gruffly, the words blown out in a large cloud of smoke.
Regina bristles slightly, caught off guard by his mood change. She eyes the Camel pack next to him, noticing that there's only a few left inside. She chews on the inside of her cheek, trying not to cry. Some irrational part of her chastises herself for doing something wrong, for making it possible for this to happen. She shakes her head then; it's his choice. But god, if all these signs punching her in the face, needlessly reminding her of how much time has gone, how much losing Emma has put them through, doesn't hurt like hell.
She opens her mouth to speak, then decides against it, instead waiting for him to talk. He'll crack. He always does. She shivers when a particular harsh wind blows against them, and she's surprised by the feel of leather being draped over her shoulders. She looks over quickly, sees Henry left in his long-sleeved tee shirt, and she smiles, allowing the large coat to cover her bare arms. She moves closer to him, leaning her head against his shoulder. This close, the smoke is thick, and she can feel the constant tremble in his body. His arm snakes around her, he places the burning cigarette between his fingers on top of his knee, and presses a kiss to the top of her head.
"I love you, Mom," he mumbles through her hair.
"My prince, you'll never know how much I do," she tells him, softly. His chin is still on the top of her head.
"I want you to keep loving me. I want--I need--even after I tell you why I need help." He says, and it's so, so honest, and it's raw and it hurts.
"Henry," she begins, shifting so that her dark determined eyes are staring straight into his green ones. The moonlight bathes them both in a silver glow. "There is not a force in this world or any other that could take away my love for you."
The forgotten cigarette in his fingers fizzles out, the tip a faint orange glow. He lets it drop on the grass. His lip quivers. "I don't want to take away the way you look at me," he whispers finally, eyes glistening.
"Like how?" She asks quietly, her voice almost carried away by the wind.
"Like how you are now." He tells her, placing his palm against her cheek. "Like I'm still a child, like I could accomplish anything in this world, like I still know how to believe, like I've never disappointed you, like...like we haven't lived through hell, like I'm still your little prince." He shakes his head, tears escaping his eyes. "I don't want that to go away."
Regina doesn't respond; she's not even sure she knows how to. She's not sure how to tell him that there isn't a thing in this world that he could tell her that would stop him from being her stars, the reason she's still alive, her sun, her moon, the one good thing left in this world.
But then, he's continuing, and drawing away from her. His hand shakes violently as his grasps his left sleeve, and pulls the fabric up to his elbow. "But you deserve to know. And I swear to god, I can't do this by myself anymore."
Regina's confused at first, peering at him and then at his arm, then blinks repeatedly when she thinks she sees something. She leans in closer, seeing a horrifying collection of puncture wounds littering his forearm. "Henry--" she whispers, her voice giving out.
He shoves his sleeve back down, covering his eyes with his hands. As if he's a child, as if not looking at her reaction doesn't make it real.
"Henry, did you do this to yourself?" She asks slowly, feeling her heart sink even further in her chest as he nods silently. "Oh, Henry, why?"
He whips his head around, dropping his hands and facing her with such ferocity it almost unnerves her. "Because now I can barely live without it. Because the dreams, mom, the dreams fucking haunt me. Because beer didn't take them away, because scotch didn't either, or weed, or anything else. Because this was the only thing that made my mind blank, so I could forget, so I could lift my head above the water and breathe for five seconds before drowning all over again. So that I could actually get an hour of sleep, so I could feel like maybe I was alive again. But now I--but now, I don't know how to stop, and I--I'm scared."
Regina's sure she feels her heart get torn in two, and her vision is blurred once more as she shakes her head and wraps her arms around him, rocking gently. "Oh, my prince. I know. I know." She soothes as he begins to sob great hiccuping gasps. "Breathe, baby," she instructs, rubbing circles on his back, tears running down her own face as she reflects on where they are now.
How so very far they've fallen.
Emma, what have you done to us?
Emma, where are you?
Emma, how would you handle this?
Emma, help me.
"We'll call Doctor Whale in the morning, okay?" She asks, getting only another loud, agonizing cry in return. He turns his head towards her again, leaning against her and hunching down to bury his face in her shoulder, soaking her shirt. "We'll call Archie. We'll get through this, I swear on the gods' names." She adjusts her grip around him, cupping his head with her palm and squeezing his shoulder with her other hand. "I promise."
I promise.
---
And she continues her promises later that night when he's writhing on his bed, experiencing severe withdrawal symptoms. He's sweating and vomiting and shivering and gagging, his teeth chattering, yelling at shapes in front of his eyes that don't exist.
She continues promising the next nights that follow, fearing for his life in his hospital, ignoring Whale's irritating placating assurances that this is normal for quitting a heroin addiction. She's there, promising, loving him with every ounce of her being, placing cool washcloths against his skin and whispering sweet nothings in his ear as he sobs.
And as his screams cut through the night, they mirror her thoughts, her agony.
Emma, Emma, what do we do? Do you see what we are without you?
Emma, please come back home.
--
AN: Ah..that was long. And dark. And long. God, that was a little darker than even I go usually. There was that nice scene with Snow, though, so let's say cheers for that, huh?
Okay seriously, though, I promise the worst of the present is kind of over. I mean, yeah, it's still sad, but I promise that Henry is gonna get his shit together. I'm mean, but not that mean.
Next chapter will be another flashback, which means, yay, Emma!
Please vote and comment for 5532 words at 2:30 A.M. Show your girl some love. If you still love me after this chapter.