"It wasn't a grunt," he insisted, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief moment before placing his lip between his teeth and shooting the rest of the way up. His momentum overshot, and he ended up losing his footing and collapsing against the foyer's side table.

"God!" August yelled out as Regina rushed to his aid, grasping his forearm in her hands and moved to right him, but he shook out of her hold with a curt, "I'm fine."

Regina took a step back and raised an eyebrow at the hunched over man who had the decency to look a little sheepish.

"I'm fine," he amended more calmly then placed a hand over his stumped knee and straightened up. "It's just tight."

"Get that checked," she ordered.

"You may have Emma whipped but not me." The brunette rolled her eyes as August took tentative than surer steps toward the kitchen where the clattering of bowls sounded, but neither were blind to the way he was limping cautiously. "See? Good as new."

"You're as stubborn as your sister," Regina scoffed, finally shedding her coat and picking up the trail of garments Henry had left in his wake.

"Better looking too."

She snorted. "I think not."

"Hen, break out the bananas and chocolate sauce!" August called out as he limped to the kitchen.

"'Kay!"

Regina groaned, rubbing her forehead to stave off the impending headache. "Why did I invite you over?"

"Because I got Henry a great Christmas gift?"

"You got him a solar surfer. Now he thinks he's Jim Hawkins and will never cut his hair."

"It's a scooter with a creative mast attached to the handle. Hardly anything to worry about," he argued as they walked into the kitchen to the see the freezer door left open and Henry pouring nearly a quarter of the bottle of chocolate sauce into the entire container of ice cream.

"Oh dear god." Regina froze and just stared dumbstruck as Henry looked up from his task and smiled widely.

"Uh. . ." August scratched his head. "I'll eat that."

"And you'll clean it up," Regina growled as she backhanded his bicep.

"Ow!" He said mostly from shock but rubbed the spot nonetheless. "Geez, the Mills are violent today."


January 1, 2005 – Storybrooke, Maine



Aside from Emma's birthday/going away party, Regina couldn't remember when she had hosted a get together that didn't involve Henry's birthdays or meeting with the city council men at a working lunch to discuss upcoming changes in the town's policy, but as it was, last night Regina had found herself host to a New Year's Eve party with the same folk who had come out to celebrate Emma's birthday. It may have been due to August's presence or maybe Regina was finally applying social skills outside of the workplace, but the last minute invitations had her usual go-to people, Kathryn and Granny included, at the ready to enjoy ringing in the new year at the mayoral mansion.

There had been music and drinking and mingling right there on Regina's lower level with the TV permanently on New Year's Eve in Times Square. Though at first the idea of such an event made Regina's skin crawl with nervous goosebumps only she knew were there when August had hoped to celebrate with Ruby and suggested inviting her over, but as the night went on and one glass of wine turned into two, Regina started to see these people as more than just her town's citizens. They were an odd bunch: a Mayor, a preschool teacher, restaurant owners, a therapist and his dog, and the wounded brother of her lover, but Regina realized their company made the holiday seasons bearable. They were her friends.

Friends. Regina chuckled at the word as she sat in her living room nursing a cup of coffee while the remnants of the party still littered the area. It could be done later on that day, she argued. Another thing she would never have let slide in any other circumstance, but she felt different now. The buzz of the party still seemed to be simmering through her, but she felt happier. More alive, perhaps. Different, for sure.

Emma would be proud of her for accepting the friendships that have seemingly been in front of her the entire time. When she woke in the new year, her head stinging slightly and the other side of her bed still empty, Regina felt a longing for the blonde who was still physically vacant from her life. She withdrew Emma's letters from her bedside table and made her way down the stairs where she sat now, bringing in the new year with her girlfriend in her own special way.

She smiled fondly as she read some of Emma's older letters where the younger woman had shared her dream of driving across country, visiting every state, sleeping in her car, and collecting keychains from everywhere she went. There was a quiet irony to the blonde that Regina found endearing. Emma was a dreamer, but more importantly, she couldn't sit still no matter how badly she wanted to, and Regina knew Emma wanted to. Despite the adventures the blonde promised herself she'd have, the countries she would visit, the people she would meet, at the end of the day, all Emma really wanted was a place to come home to. Whether Emma knew or not, Emma had long been accepted into the Storybrooke community, into the Mills household, since they had started writing to each other years ago. It was insane, and too fast, and too much too soon.

And Regina missed her something fierce.

"Why are you awake so early?" A sleepy-eyed August in a big MIT hoodie Regina had no idea how he had acquired stood in the entrance of the living room, leaning heavily on a crutch. The crutch was curious until Regina followed the length of his torso downwards, trailing down his boxer shorts to see that he had removed his prosthetic leg for the night. "Gotta let it breathe," he explained and moved further into the room to prop down beside her. "Again, I ask, why are you awake?"

"Not everyone hangs over," Regina retorted taking a sip of her coffee and tucking Emma's letter further into her lap.

"Geez, you are perfect, aren't you?"

Regina smirked at the man, no doubt quoting Emma's words, as a pleased blush rose to her cheeks.

"You know, I never got to give you the protective big brother speech," August noted, leaning into the corner of the couch, wincing covertly as he moved his limb onto the cushion.

Regina raised an amused eyebrow. "If I hurt your baby sister you'll hurt me?"

"I have friends in high places," he shrugged nonchalantly.

"At ease, soldier." Regina leaned over and patted his leg reassuringly. "I have no intention of doing that."

"I know," he nodded. "That's why you two are good for each other."

She swallowed sharply, bringing her knees to her chest in a move that was uncharacteristic for the Mayor of Storybrooke, but for Regina whose emotions were once displayed clearly on her sleeve, it was a sign of anxiety yet self-comfort. "Is it terribly absurd for me to feel so deeply for her after only seeing her for a month?"

August snorted. "You don't need to physically be with someone in order to have a connection with them," he reminded her. "I'd say you two had formed something, romantic or not, the day you replied back to her."

Regina mulled over his words though it was a futile task since she knew it to be true already. Every day spent away from Emma had Regina analyzing their relationship because past experiences taught her to be cautious, use instead of be used, but all that made her do was miss the blonde soldier even more. Nuzzling her face in the space between her knees, she sighed and released her feet to the ground, composing her features but keeping that mayoral mask at bay. "I couldn't help but notice that you and Ruby were the last ones awake."


January 15, 2005 – Undisclosed Location, Iraq

Despite the snow that had finally found itself in Maine, the nights continued to remain warm in Iraq, specifically the makeshift tent Emma and her squad found themselves in for the past couple of weeks. The tent was nothing more elaborate than a few poles holding up a cloth tarp, a slit at its side for an entrance and within it, some sacks of supplies and crates and cinderblocks. Outside the tent in their makeshift courtyard guarded off by broken down mesh wire, however, was the reason Emma's team had been called to that location in the first place. Their Christmas break had only truly lasted no more than two days before they were off again at Spencer's beck and call. This time they were part-babysitters part-bodyguards as the General had singlehandedly, or so he claimed, caught two shooters taking practice shots at Spencer and his troop as they drove along the Sinjar region. They weren't talking, so that gave him all the more reason to deem them as threats, and Cabrera's men were meant to be there to stay on guard. Emma wondered if Spencer's interrogation tactics were even legal, but who was she to question someone who outranked her?

In the quiet of the night, the squad usually took shifts watching the prisoners in the courtyard, bound by zip ties at their wrists to keep them from doing any funny business. They took shifts keeping guard, a couple hours in pairs so the other three could rotate and get some sleep, then in the morning, Spencer would separate the prisoners, a thin lanky man with black curls and a scar on his right cheek, and another man, beefier with a beard nearly touching his collar. He'd scream and taunt and god knows what at them for hours, but for almost two weeks straight they never budged or said a word, only speaking with each other in the dead of the night in the softest of whispers in their native tongue. Emma thought she saw the beefier one console the lanky man one night, attempting to lift his spirits and encourage him to get through one more night. But then again they could easily be conspiring a revolt plan. Maybe they were just frightened citizens without a passport, doing what they had to do to get by and get out but found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time and definitely by the wrong person. Or maybe Spencer's gut feeling was right and they were the head of an underground operation, stealing access to military information in the hopes of exploiting their weaknesses. It made Emma sick to think that either was true, and all she could do was patrol and wait.

But tonight, Spencer's patience had worn thin. He had banished the squad to the tent, and the usually quiet night was privy to the sounds of frustrated yelling, bones breaking, and flesh tearing.

Where life was threatened outside the tent, inside, the squad gathered for an unceremonious toast. Water bottles clinked as they sat on crates and dirt, bottles raised to Neal Cassidy. It was just another day for any of the other men in the squad–most hadn't even realized it was a new year–but for Neal, it was nearly unbearable to be sent out so soon after hitting base. The upside of the military: they were very good at delivering news to their men faster than any post or courier service could.

Neal had gotten word today that his baby girl was born just three days ago.

"Congratulations." A collective cheer rang out from the squad as they toasted the man who grinned down at the picture in his palm of Tamara in the hospital bed, hair pulled into a bun and wayward wisps flying everywhere as she held up six pound ten ounce Alia Justine Cassidy. Alia's face was scrunched up, and her caramel tone was tinted red from what must surely have been tears, but she was perfect, and every time Neal looked at that picture, his smile matched his wife's, wide and proud and happy.

Emma clasped his shoulder and shook her head. "Can you believe it? You, a dad."

He moved to take a swig of his water bottle, but halfway to his lips he caught sight of the picture and grinned all over again, forgetting his thirst and just about everything else in the world. "Man, it's like it's not even real."

"It will be." Cabrera's deep voice sounded from the back of their tent. His eyes were closed and he was sitting on a cinderblock. If they hadn't just heard him speak, they were sure to bet that their Sergeant was sleeping. But then he opened his eyes, and for once deep brown eyes softened as he tugged on his collar and weaved out a silver chain with a locket strung through it. The floodlights from the courtyard were enough light to see the two kids, a boy and a girl no older than nine and six. In the other locket was an older woman, Cabrera's wife by the looks of it, holding up a baby less than a year old. As quick as he'd shown it, he replaced the locket back under his jacket and resumed his sleeping position, his eyes falling shut as he spoke. "When you hold that baby in your hands for the first time, every time, they become the only real thing you'll ever know."