No, Emma thought as he ran along the pathway, lined by CHUs where soldiers were congregated trying to keep them back. No. One look at the bomber and they all ran. That's all they could do. Them or us.

"No," Emma said aloud as she took a step forward, lowering her gun and taking another step.

"Swan!" Neal yelled as he yanked her back.

"He's gonna die!"

Neal didn't respond. He tucked Emma's head into his chest and dragged her out of the pathway behind the units and ducked behind the sandbag encasing.

The bomb went off. Emma's ears rang. The units shook. Shots fired. Debris rained. The sky lit up in a slash of red.

Neal was moving his lips, but all Emma heard was ringing in her ears so loudly she swore she would never hear again. She didn't need her ears though. She was trained for this. She knew what to do. Just like everyone else here. The allies were threatened. Take out the enemy. They moved back to the path to find another unit closer to them destroyed to rubble. There was yelling to put out the fire. Apparently none hurt. So far.

The four men in black were scattered. One ran. Took a bullet to the shoulder and lay writhing in his own blood. Two shot back. The fourth – he ran. He ran toward them. Toward the rest of the units so fiercely he must have had a death wish. Toward Emma who was trained to grant that if she absolutely had to. Vengeance in his eyes, a weapon in his hand, and a mission in his heart, he levelled his gun. Emma shot. Square between the eyes. He fell just like the other, but this time he was limp.

The damage was done. Johnson badly burned. Woodbridge coughing up a lung. Avery and Dominique – their fate like the bomber's.

Emma stared at the man she shot, less than thirty feet from her. No hesitation. No second guessing. Take out the enemy by any means possible. She had done that. It was him or her. Jesus, it was him or her. She had to.

"Come on, Swan," Neal tugged her away, vigilant for the both of them as the two remaining men were captured and pulled to the northern end of the camp that was still intact.

But the man's eyes continue to bore into hers. The raw hatred disappeared in an instant when she had raised her gun. His eyes widened, dark brown realizing it was too late. She pulled the trigger. The pain in his eyes was brief. Faster than lightspeed and it was gone. Nothing left. No light. No life.

It was him or her. Her ears rang.

Then suddenly a swarm of people ran towards her, bombs strapped to their chests, guns, knives, and she stood there. They came from all sides and it was just her. Alone in the middle of the camp as they surrounded. The fires burning hotter, the shots sounding closer. She had to take them out. Them or her. Them or her.

Them or her.

Her ears rang when she woke up. Her palms shook. Her shirt drenched with sweat.

It was just a dream. Mostly. Emma shut her eyes to catch her breath, but the lifeless eyes swarming around her brain pushed against the inside of her skull, and she couldn't close them anymore. No, she was safe. She was . . .not home. But safe.

God, she couldn't breathe. She felt like the room was on fire. Jesus, the ringing wouldn't stop.

She sat up quickly, her gaze focused solely on the trunk by the foot of her bed. Reaching around the front, she unclasped it and grabbed the sweater on top. Storybrooke Knights. She slipped it over her head despite the humid July heat and moved the neck up to cover her face, breathing in deeply and counting to ten. She needed the sweater. Needed it more than air. And as she continued to inhale and exhale, the only thing she was breathing in was the soft cotton of the sweater, a hint of the fabric softener Regina used.

Her heart continued beating rapidly and the ringing never quite died down, but Emma felt that she could manage in the real world for just a little bit. So she removed her face from her cocoon and let her eyes adjust to the darkness of the room. Bringing her knees up to her chest, Emma cradled her arms around them, tucking her face into her knees and sighed.

It's just a dream, she kept reminding herself. It's over. It can't touch you.

Not physically, Emma's pessimistic side reminded her as she felt the trigger pull beneath her finger. She had gotten commended for her work that night. God, commended for her work. Work. That's a funny word to use for it.

Reaching blindly behind her, Emma found Rex tucked underneath the sheets and brought him into the small space between her face and knees.

Rex is really good at giving hugs, and he makes the bad dreams go away, Henry had promised that morning in the airport.

Jesus, that felt like a lifetime ago. Hell, being in the sleepy town was like a dream. A blessed dream she never wanted to wake from. When she went to Storybrooke, she had no idea what she was expecting to find – her penpal, a friend – but she found more, and right now she'd kill to be– No, she just really wanted to be home right now. So she hugged Rex.

He was soft. Just as soft as the sweater, and Emma was sure Regina used the same fabric softener on him. He smelled a little like the sun since Henry liked to play with him in the backyard, but his snout was plush, and he was worn in all the right places. He was familiar. Safe. The closest thing to comfort she could find right now. And dammit, Henry was right. He gave the best hugs in the state.

She breathed in the toy and pushed aside the darkness from her mind, replacing it with a humming she hadn't realized she knew. It was the same tune Regina had sung to Henry – that Spanish lullaby mother and son had sung together as they went riding at the stables.

Arrorró mi niño, arrorró mi amor, arrorró pedazo de mi corazón.

Regina's smooth, husky voice momentarily overrode the noise in her head, and with careful concentration, Emma was able to focus on Regina, sitting on a beast of a horse as she held her son to her body, helping him guide the reins. She had grinned when she sang as Henry struggled to roll his r's or get the accents just right, but she kissed his cheek nonetheless and kept singing, and it helped Emma just a little bit.

She needed more though. More than just a sweater, more than just the best hugging dinosaur ever, and more than just a pleasant memory.

Because that man she killed, that one whose life she had taken away, he was probably a father, a son, an uncle, a brother, he was something to someone and dammit, it was him or her, and she was doing what's right. He could have killed someone. Killed a lot of people. Killed someone else's son, father, brother, uncle. Killed someone's child. Their baby, their daughter, wife. But she stopped him. And she had to remember that.

Remember that it had been worth it because she saved lives. She was a hero like Henry says. A hero.



Her ears kept ringing.


July 15, 2004 - Storybrooke, Maine

"Cocoa powder?"

"Check."

"Powdered sugar?"

"Check."

"Powdered milk?"

"Why it like this?" Henry picked up the box and asked for the second time with a disgusted look on his face.

"We can't send Emma a jug of milk now, can we?" Regina explained, taking note that she had the ingredient.

"Where the straw go?" He asked genuinely confused, examining the top and looking for a straw hole like in his juice box.

Regina grinned and shuffled the grocery cart along as Henry continued staring at the box contemplatively. "It's a different type of milk. One that won't spoil quite as easily."

He furrowed his brows, still unsure of this contraption his mother called milk before dropping it in the cart behind him and reaching to grab his favourite pick up of the day. "And we gots these!"

A bag of mini multicoloured marshmallows was clutched firmly in tiny hands as Henry grinned widely at his mother, no doubt concocting ways to sneak a treat.

"Yes, that is a very important ingredient. Emma can't have her hot chocolate without some marshmallows."

He nodded quickly in agreement, though Regina was sure it was just to speed things along. "Can I have one?" He squinted one eye and held up a finger in hopeful persuasion.

Regina sighed, barely containing the urge to roll her eyes. "I've no idea where you get your sweet tooth from."

"I'm sweet," he grinned innocently though by now it bordered on mischievous.

This time she did roll her eyes with an affectionate shake of her head. "Sweet you may be, but you are still not allowed a marshmallow."

He pouted and crossed his arms over his chest and glared.

"Nice try," Regina acknowledged as she continued her way down the baking aisle, picking up a package of chocolate pudding mix, Nesquick, and powdered creamer.

Regina had received a letter from Emma that day, and though she was ecstatic to hear from the blonde since the last time they had spoken on the phone was during Emma's Independence Day celebration, she was upset by what Emma had told her. Her nightmares were back, and though Emma said nothing more than: I've been having trouble sleeping. I really miss talking with you; Regina knew that the blonde was haunted by something she wasn't ready to share.

It pained Regina to receive that letter partly because Emma had written it six days ago, so who knew what her condition was like or if she was over it. That was another in Regina's list of things that was difficult about snail mail. The distance between events made them over and done with as soon as the letter was put into the mailbox. But moreso, Regina felt utterly and totally useless. Before when erratic groaning and mumblings from her guest bedroom woke her up, she was able to check on Emma, sit on the edge of the bed and sooth her back to reality where they would sit and talk – sometimes of her dreams, but sometimes Emma begged for a distraction so Regina would lead the younger woman by the hand down the stairs and put on a pot, making hot cocoa just for Emma. By the second nightmare Regina was already pre-emptively putting whipped cream and cinnamon on the drink. But now, as she sat in Storybrooke reading about how Emma was losing sleep to her unforgiving mind, Regina didn't know what to do.