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The first time Emma sees Regina in anything less than tailored, done-up, mayoral perfection – save for that stint in Neverland, or extravagant lace and leather in the Enchanted Forest – her first thought is that there must be a new curse. They’re in the grocery store of all places, and Emma had nearly run head first into her in her shocked state. There’s no way that’s just something that she wears . Regina probably doesn’t remember who she is – fuck, where’s Henry? Is he affected too? Does he even remember her?
But then Regina is staring at her with her brows raised in that signature kind of disdain that she saves just for Emma, like she’s an impatient child that she’s been saddled with entertaining, and Emma realizes that’s ridiculous. Just because it’s Storybrooke doesn’t mean every wardrobe change is due to nefarious magic.
Still.
Regina’s in leggings .
It’s a nice pair of leggings. Fancy. Lululemon or something equally expensive, Emma’s sure. She’s wearing a matching tank top that stops just shy of the high waistband of her leggings, leaving the barest inch of her stomach exposed, and Emma has to fight not to let her eyes linger. The set is a dark red, the color of wine – and it suits her perfectly. If not for her personality, then for the way it plays off of the warm amber of her skin and the rich darkness of her hair, which is currently pulled back into a neat ponytail – a ponytail , on Regina –
“Can I help you with something, Emma?”
Emma blinks.
The disdain in Regina’s expression has shifted towards amusement now. The corners of her lips are turned up, brows still raised, eyes a little wider, and oops . Emma’s been staring.
“Nope,” She squeaks out, and Regina’s mocking little smile only grows. And, okay, maybe it’s not quite mocking , but. Regina’s definitely enjoying her embarrassment. “Nice outfit. Did you go out for a run?”
“Pilates,” Regina answers.
“Oh.” It’s all Emma can think to say. She’s never really thought to hard about it – of course Regina works out, with the way she looks. Emma had just assumed that she’d created herself a whole home gym with the rest of the curse. She’d figured Regina had a whole treadmill and weights kind of setup hidden away in the mansion, lest any of the Storybrooke natives see her get a little bit sweaty. “Did you have a good class?” She asks lamely.
“Yes.” Regina shifts the basket in her hand, and desperate for a topic of conversation, Emma notes the bottle of wine and little chocolates she’s got inside.
“I always get myself something sweet after a good workout, too.” Regina nods along indulgently and Emma continues, “It’s like a reward, you know?”
“Sure.”
They stand there for another moment, Emma with still-wide eyes as she shifts back and forth on her feet, and Regina looking like she’s been given a damn gift with the way Emma can’t keep her eyes off her stomach.
“Well, Henry’s waiting for me. I’ll see you around, Sheriff.”
With that Regina pushes past her. She’s in nice sneakers too, untouched like they’d only ever seen true wear on the safety of gym equipment and hardwood floors.
And now that she’s not in heels, Emma notes, for the first time, that Regina’s about an inch shorter than her.
The second thing she notes is the little lululemon logo on the back of her leggings, floating like a taunting little flag at the base of Regina’s spine.
Emma watches it sway for probably ten seconds too many, and then tears her eyes away with cheeks blazing.
It takes Emma approximately three business days to recover from that one. Ruby laughs right in her face when she tells her and insists that Emma’s got it bad, and she does not, thank you very fucking much. Regina’s just hot. Emma likes women. She’s allowed to appreciate her son’s hot other mother without that being equated to love, and why are you laughing, Ruby, this is serious, she was in sneakers, I thought we were cursed! –
Ruby’s teasing aside, Emma is left a little bit more shaken than she should be by the whole outfit. She sees Regina only once during the following week, when she’s picking Henry up for her alternating weekdays, and all seems normal on her end, at least.
The second time Emma sees her in something so casual, it’s when Regina comes to pick him up on Friday evening.
He’s fifteen now, and he really doesn’t need to be driven back and forth. Storybrooke isn’t that big. He could walk easily, but Regina and herself still insist on shuttling him back and forth. Emma won’t admit it to herself, but she kind of just likes the chance to connect. She’s got the feeling she’d only see Regina during magical emergencies otherwise.
She hears Regina’s knock at the door, three sharp raps that couldn’t be mistaken for anyone else. She greets her the moment she unlatches it, before she’s even swung it open all the way. “Hey, Regina, Henry’s almost – you’re wearing jeans.”
It’s a dumb thing to say. It’s also a dumbfounding thing to see, so Emma cuts herself some slack and hopes that Regina will do the same. After all, it’s not just the jeans. Regina’s in a t-shirt. It’s perfectly ironed, not wrinkle or a stain in sight, but still.
No such luck, of course.
“And you’re wearing…teenage mutant ninja turtle pajamas,” Regina says, a little bit disdainfully as she takes in Emma’s lower half.
“And they make my ass look amazing,” Emma fires back.
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t ask you to turn around and show me,” She says drily.
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“I think I’ll live.” Regina shoulders past her then, stepping into the loft without waiting to be invited. Emma supposes at this point she doesn’t have to, not after everything they’ve been through, and steps aside without protest. She does, however, allow herself one quick glance at Regina’s ass in that tight dark wash denim. Regina might deny herself simple pleasures – that doesn’t mean that Emma has to, too. “You’re not very subtle, Emma.”
Ah. Karma.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Emma says, attempting to play it cool.
Regina clearly doesn’t buy it. She only rolls her eyes and calls out into the loft, “Henry? Let’s go, I’ve got dinner in the oven.”
Henry hugs her goodbye and then scurries out the door with a “Love you, Ma,” And Emma briefly forgets her fumble. The memory’s back as soon as Regina drifts past her, though, and actually rests her hand on Emma’s elbow as she passes.
“Goodnight, Emma,” She says, and closes the door behind her when she leaves.
Emma actually looks up the current phase of the moon after that one. It is, in fact, a full one that night, and she wonders if it really has any effect on behavior. She’d never believed it before. Her life has been so full of curses and magic the past few years, though, and Regina had just touched her without being forced to.
She just might believe it now.
She contemplates texting Ruby about it, figuring that if anyone would know it’d be her. But then Ruby would want to know why she was asking, and Emma would have to relay the whole embarrassing interaction, and that would only lead to a repeat of their last conversation.
If Emma’s consistent about one thing in her life, it’s denial.
“What are you wearing to lunch tomorrow?” Mary Margaret asks, her voice tearing Emma out of the thoughts she’d had on loop for the past twelve hours.
“What?”
“Brunch,” Mary Margaret echoes plainly, like Emma should know what the hell she’s talking about. She blinks when Emma doesn’t immediately catch on and adds, “At Regina’s?”
Emma’s heart stops. “What?”
“Emma, sweetheart, did you forget?”
Emma, who is quite certain she never knew in the first place, says, “I don’t…what?”
“Is that the only word you’ve got on deck today?” Mary Margaret teases, raising her coffee to her lips and pulling a long sip. “Regina invited us over for brunch tomorrow. And your father, of course.” She leans back in her chair, hugging her mug to her chest as if it’s an everyday occurrence and not the first time Regina’s actually asked for them to spend any sort of time with her outside of disasters. “I’m not sure what to wear, though. It’s going to be so hot outside, and I think Regina’s probably the type to host out on her patio, don’t you?” She pauses, pursing her lips thoughtfully, and continues without waiting for Emma’s response. “I was thinking maybe I could wear my white dress? You know, the one that’s got those flowy short sleeves? I know it’s only going to be family, but it hides those stretch marks that I have on my arms from your brother –”
Emma zones out. She feels a little bit bad about it, but all she’d really taken note of was spending time at Regina’s.
“I think that sounds great,” She says halfheartedly, when she realizes that Mary Margaret’s staring at her expectantly. “You’ll look beautiful.”
“In which one?”
Uh.
“Uh,” Emma says dumbly. “The white?”
“Dress or shorts?” Mary Margaret asks, a smile at her lips, and Emma blinks. She’s about to say shorts, just to prove that she had been listening (she hadn’t), when her mother’s smile softens and she shakes her head. “Honestly, Emma.” She taps her fingernails against her mug and then she adds, “Wear that sheer blue shirt you have. It’ll keep you from getting sunburnt.”
Emma nods.
“Besides,” Mary Margaret continues mischievously, “Regina likes blue on blondes.”
Emma blinks. She can’t see herself, but she’s pretty sure her expression could best be described as deer in headlights. “What? How did you – how do you know that?”
Mary Margaret shrugs. “She told me once. She thinks it makes them look sophisticated.” And, well, that’s not what Emma had meant, but if her mother’s going that route she’s not going to push it. “Also,” She adds, and Emma feels her stomach flip, “You’re not that subtle.”
“I…” Emma trails off, unsure what to say to that. She contemplates denial, as usual, but she’s got the feeling she’s well past the point of feasibility with that one.
“I’m going to go try on a few things. Feel free to join me,” Mary Margaret says, a kind smile on her lips. With that she stands, squeezes Emma’s shoulder as she walks by, and leaves her to ruminate.
Emma’s usually not one to fixate too hard on clothing, but fuck .
She’s standing on Regina’s doorstep with a huge container of sliced fruit in her hands, flanked on either side by her parents, who are toting dishes of their own. Mary Margaret had gone with the dress after all, and Emma had, in fact, worn the sheer royal blue.
David, of course, had thrown on a nice t-shirt and told them both they were overdressed.
Henry’s the one to open the door. He shares a look with David as they all filter inside, and Emma sticks her tongue out at him as she passes. That, of course, only earns her a grin.
“Mom said she wants you guys to go to the patio. I’m supposed to get you all drinks. Mimosas?” Henry raises a champagne flute that’s filled to the brim, and proceeds to chug the whole thing at his grandparents’ look of horror.
“You’re fifteen!” Mary Margaret bursts out.
Emma, at least, remembers that it’s Regina and she’d never give the kid wine. Although, she’s never really asked what the attitude towards drinking was in the Enchanted Forest, and maybe Regina had started as a teen –
“Duh. It’s orange juice.”
“Nice,” Emma says, tone flat so as not to encourage him, even though it had been pretty funny. “Where’s your mom, kid?”
Mary Margaret shares a meaningful glance with David at that one, and if it hadn’t been for the food in all their hands, Emma might have stepped on her toes.
“On the patio ,” Henry says slowly, like Emma might be slower than he’d originally thought. “Where I’m supposed to send you.” Emma scowls, and he adds, “I’ll get you a mimosa, ma. You look like you need it.”
Emma watches him disappear into the kitchen before she turns and opens her mouth to say something to her parents. David cuts her off, though, saying, “Don’t even. The sass comes from you.” She closes her mouth just as quickly, and then trudges forward through the kitchen to the patio door.
And nearly drops the fruit platter. She’s glad she didn’t – Mary Margaret would’ve had a fit. Probably wouldn’t ever let her live it down, either, because the reason is Regina.
Regina, in a pair of tiny denim shorts and a very tight tank top.
Fuck.
“Hi, Emma,” She says, and gestures to the patio table. “You can put that down there. Thank you for coming.”
Emma stands there for a moment with her jaw agape before she finally collects herself. She hears her parents coming through the door behind her, though, and so she steps out of the way and places the fruit down on the table. “Uh, hey, Regina. Thanks for having us.”
The smile that Regina flashes her is far friendlier than anything Emma’s used to from her. It’s dazzling, and she feels her heart jump into her throat immediately.
“Yeah, thank you, mom,” Henry echoes from behind her, a little bit mocking, and Emma resists the urge to pluck a grape from the platter and toss it at his head. “It’s so lovely to be here with you.”
“Henry,” Regina says in warning, but there’s no real threat behind it. She meets Emma’s eyes for a half a second before Emma’s parents break the spell, surging forward to deposit food and Baby Neal in turn.
Brunch goes…surprisingly well. This is the first time they’ve done something like this, and Emma hadn’t been sure how it would go. But Regina serves up french toast with little swirls of cinnamon butter and bacon and thick slices of salty ham that she spreads cranberry jam on top of – “What? It’s delicious. Try it, Emma –”, and soon they all get enough sparkling champagne in them that they loosen up anyway.
And so after everyone’s finished eating she takes a third slice of crusty bread and spreads garlic and herb cheese on top, tops off her drink, and leans back in her chair. The rest of the family’s pushed theirs out by now, relocated to the soft cushioned benches beneath the awning, but Emma’s comfortable here in the summer sun. She’s lived a lot of places, and Storybrooke is one of the coldest. She’s gotta soak it up while she can.
Regina comes and sits in the chair next to her after a few minutes. She doesn’t say anything at first, and Emma doesn’t either, content to just bask in her presence. But eventually Regina says, “You’re all on your own over here. Why?”
Emma shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know.”
The truth is that she’d just been basking in it – this… family time. She casts a glance over at Mary Margaret, who’s halfway through her third mimosa. Her cheeks are flushed red as the apples that Regina still insists on keeping around and she’s got one of David’s hands curled in her own, and she tosses them back and forth as she chats animatedly with Henry, who’s bouncing baby Neal on his leg.
All of this, on Regina’s deck. Regina, who had hated her not three years ago. Regina, who had been out to kill her mother – and who had just topped up her drink with a gentle hand on her shoulder and a smile for David that could only be described as warm.
Sometimes it’s still bizarre.
“I never really thought that we’d all get along like this, you know,” Emma says abruptly. “Back when I first came to town. You hated me so much.” She doesn’t know what she expects Regina to say to that, how she expects her to react – maybe a laugh. Maybe to tell Emma she still hates her, in fact, and this is all just an act for Henry’s sake. But whatever it’d been, it’s not what she gets.
Regina runs her finger over the lip of her champagne flute. “I never hated you,” She confesses after several moments. “Not really. I was afraid of what you represented, that’s all. But I never hated you.” She casts a sly glance in Emma’s direction. “In fact, I really liked you back then, in a lot of ways. You were so determined to get what you wanted. I admired it. You were also the most interesting thing to happen to me in a long time. Terrifying, but interesting.”
“Is that why you demanded that I leave town and then immediately put a boot on my car?”
Regina glances at her, startled, and then she just looks like she’s been caught. “Well. Perhaps,” She admits. She leans forward and sets her empty glass on the outdoor coffee table in front of them, and Emma allows herself just a moment to appreciate the ripple of her arms, the curve of her collarbone beneath the straps of that tank top. It’s the least amount of clothing she’s ever seen on her, and well, she’s a bit mesmerized. She’s big enough to admit that.
“Knew it,” Emma hums. And then, a little more tentatively: “Still want me around?”
This time, the surprise is the only thing Emma reads on her expression. “What? Of course.” Regina blinks, looking a little bewildered. “Emma, after everything we’ve been through, you have to know that I enjoy your company.”
Oh. Emma… hadn’t, actually.
Regina seems to see that somehow, read it in her face maybe, and she shakes her head and continues, “Emma. You’re my closest – I’d like to consider you a friend, that is.” She purses her lips and then adds, “If that’s alright with you, of course.”
“What? Yeah – of course it is. Of course I want to be your friend, Regina.”
Emma’s heart is in her throat. Regina’s still looking at her, dark brown eyes wide and a little bit pleading, and god.
Emma wants so much more than that.
For a moment, she feels the words press at the back of her lips, tip of her tongue – I want more. She could say it, right now, and maybe it would ruin everything but maybe it wouldn’t –
But clear, unadulterated relief washes over Regina’s face and she says, “Good. You had me worried for a moment,” and the moment is gone. Emma sets her empty mimosa down next to Regina’s and realizes that her hands are shaking. Regina eyes them and asks, “Do you want a refill?”
That’s…probably a bad idea, Emma thinks.
“Please,” She says.
It’s not until the following Saturday that Emma sees Regina again. Henry had just gone back to the loft with Mary Margaret after school on Wednesday evening. It had been convenient, because Emma had had a shift at the station that night, but also not, because every time Regina saunters into that building Emma’s reminded of her perching on her desk five years prior.
While she’d enjoyed the time spent with her son, Emma would be lying if she said she hadn’t been itching for Regina to pick him up so that she could see her again. And now it’s Saturday morning, and Regina’s on her way.
She knows the interaction will be all too quick. She even contemplates wearing her TMNT pajamas, or one of her other pairs with a ridiculous pattern just to get a conversation started, but by the time she scolds herself for acting like a lovesick teenager and decides to go for it all over again, Regina’s knocking at the door.
“Hey, Regina,” Emma breathes.
“Hi, Emma,” Is all she gets in response, but there’s something of a glimmer in her eyes. It doesn’t last long, though, because then she’s peering around Emma’s shoulder and saying, “Are you ready, Henry?”
It’s not necessary, though. Henry had been prepared this time. The moment Regina speaks he hauls himself off the couch, backpack in tow, gives Emma her customary hug and I love you, and breezes out into the hall.
Regina watches their son out of the corner of her eye as he blows past them, and Emma’s not entirely sure if she’s keeping an eye on him or avoiding Emma. The latter, Emma decides, when Henry’s thudding down the stairs and Regina shifts awkwardly on her feet before clasping her hands in front of her and finally looking directly at Emma.
“Come over tonight,” She asks. More like demands, but – she clears her throat. “Please. I’m sorry. What I mean to say is, Henry and I would like to have you over for dinner. Tonight.”
“Oh,” Emma says, and feels like it might be becoming her favorite word. “Yeah. Uh, yes, I mean – absolutely.” Her grip tightens on the door as she amends, “That would be really nice. Thank you.”
Regina nods, eyes sparkling. “Okay, then. We’ll see you at five?”
“Sure,” Emma says, and resists the urge to tease her about the early bird special. “Should I bring anything?”
“I suppose a bottle of wine is customary, but it’s not necessary. Only if you’d like to.”
“Got it. What do you like?” The moment the sentence leaves Emma’s lips she’s aware of how it sounds, and – well.
Regina just raises a brow and says, “Surprise me, Emma.” With that she nods. “I’ll see you in a few hours, then.”
“Right. See you then.”
And then Regina’s gone, descending the stairs in a much more dignified manner than their son had. Emma shuts the door quietly, trying to disguise the fact that her limbs feel like a livewire. She spins and presses her back directly to the wood, nearly jumping out of her skin when she sees her mother leaning over the bar and watching her.
“Fuck! You scared me – how long have you been there?!”
Mary Margaret gives her a wry smile, clearly not feeling any guilt about almost giving her only daughter a heart attack. “Long enough to know you’re going on a date tonight.”
“Not a date,” Emma says pointedly. “Henry’s going to be there. It’s a family thing. A – parent-son thing,” She amends awkwardly, trying not to make her mother feel left out, and Mary Margaret’s smile grows into a grin.
“It’s alright Emma, I know what you meant.”
Emma blows out a breath, deflating against the door. She stares at the floor for a moment before her eyes lock with her mother’s once more. “Fuck – what the hell kind of wine does Regina drink?”
“Oh, Emma,” Mary Margaret sighs. “Red, of course. Intense and complex, just like her. Maybe a little bitter, if we’re being honest.”
“Well. That’s,” Emma begins,”...an interesting way to put it.”
“Am I wrong?”
“No,” Emma says. “I suppose you’re not.”
It takes Emma a solid twenty minutes in front of the wine section, but eventually she finds what she thinks is the bottle Regina had been toting around in her basket the day Emma had run into her at the grocery store. The label looks about right – at least, she hopes. She hadn’t exactly been paying attention to the groceries, after all.
The memory of that tiny little lululemon logo comes to mind, swaying like a beacon as Regina had sauntered off.
Emma swallows and shrugs the memory off. Not the time, not the place.
She wears blue to dinner.
It’s summer, but it’s still Storybrooke after all, and today’s only in the sixties. Emma’s a bit relieved that she can get away with wearing her signature dark wash jeans, and she pairs it with a sheer, dark blue button up that she thinks emphasizes the curves of her biceps.
Not that Regina’s likely to look. Emma realizes with a sinking heart that Regina had probably been talking about blond men.
Whatever. She’s got to dream, if she wants to get through this. This being…well. Life.
Regina takes the bottle from her at the door and regards it in silence, only the arch of her brow and the curve of her lips telling Emma she knows exactly where Emma had seen it before. “Thank you,” She says, voice maybe a little darker than normal. “This will do nicely.”
“Good,” Emma says, and follows Regina inside to her kitchen.
Regina pours heavy, at least, and Emma hopes that maybe she’ll be able to disguise the flush at her cheeks as warmth from the alcohol. Regina doesn’t bring out the glasses, though, just sets Emma on vegetable prep. Emma realizes then that dinner had actually meant cook with me, and somehow that feels far more intimate than simply showing up to eat and run.
And so Emma’s left, sober and alone with Regina in her kitchen, wracking her brain for something to break tension she’s sure she’s only imagining.
“So was this your idea?” Emma asks, desperate to break the silence and choosing perhaps the most awkward possible question she could do it with. “Dinner, I mean. With me.”
Regina’s mixing falters visibly. There’s a pause before she responds. “Ah, it was…a joint idea, I suppose. Henry suggested doing something, just the three of us. Dinner was my idea.”
“Oh.” That’s – there are no wrong answers to her question, she supposes. A part of her had been hoping, though, that Regina would jump forward and say it had been hers, after the time they’d spent together on her patio. Emma had felt something of a breakthrough between them there – but maybe not. “Well, that’s sweet of him.”
“Yes, it was.”
Regina resumes mixing her bowl of — well, Emma’s not actually sure what it is. Some kind of batter — and Emma tries to think of something more to say as she lines up another carrot beneath her knife.
“When you said five I kind of thought you were one of those people that eats super early. Like a grandma,” Emma confesses, and she can’t help the snicker that escapes when Regina turns a comically offended expression in her direction. “Sorry,” She adds through her laughter.
“Miss Swan,” Regina begins, and those two little words send a thrill right straight from the base of Emma’s skull all the way down her spine. There’s fire behind them, laughter, too – but fire like Emma hasn’t heard in years, and oh, god. “You really think of me as one of the elderly?”
Emma tries to tamp down the grin that that elicits. She really does. Tries – and fails, miserably. And she shouldn’t, she really shouldn’t, not if she values her life. But – “How old are you anyway, curse included?”
Flour, right in her face.
She sputters on it through her laughter. It’s ridiculous, really. One, that even with her arsenal of magic, Regina would choose to throw something at her, rather than just take away her voice or something. And two, that she would willingly make a mess in her own kitchen.
It’s all over Emma, all over the counter, all over the floor, and yet. Regina’s just regarding her with indignant amusement like Emma had deserved all that and more. It goes so strongly against everything Emma’s thought, every preconceived notion she’s ever had about Regina, that she can’t help but grin harder. That only sets Regina off more, and she reaches out and gives Emma’s bicep a little shove as she pushes past and tears a paper towel off the roll. She wets it under the tap and then practically tosses it into Emma’s hands, saying, “It’s all over you.”
Emma wipes herself down. Little pockets of laughter keep escaping, both from her and from Regina. After a particularly loud one, Regina pointedly pushes a fresh round of vegetables in front of her and says, “Shut up and chop.”
“...Sixty-three?”
That guess earns her a “Miss Swan,” that is halfway exasperated and halfway amused and one hundred percent fucking thrilling for said Miss Swan. Regina gestures roughly to the veggies next to Emma’s cutting board. “Chop.”
“I can do more than just cut vegetables, you know,” Emma says. It’s somewhat indignant, and that only grows when Regina gives her a disbelieving look. “I can,” She insists. “I’ll have you know I’m a pretty damn good cook.”
“Microwaving pizza rolls does not count as cooking, Emma.”
Emma’s jaw about drops. “Regina. I had to fend for myself most of my life. Do you really think I spent that entire time living off of hot pockets and ramen?”
Regina blinks, stares at her for a moment and then replies in the most nonchalant way possible, “Yes.” And it’s exactly that casual manner that tells Emma she means it. She actually thinks –
Oh. Emma’s going to prove that wrong right damn now.
“Regina,” She begins, and pushes her way past to the fridge. “I ate a lot of cheap food, I’ll give you that. It was all that I could afford.” She throws the door open and begins rummaging through the contents without asking. Regina doesn’t protest, at least. Emma thinks she’s probably just curious where this is going. Eventually Emma finds what she’s looking for – mayo and lemon, a hard white cheese, and even some fresh herbs. “Where’s your vinegar?” Regina nods towards a cabinet and Emma deposits her finds on the counter before heading directly for it. “But all that means is that I learned how to make anything delicious. And when I finally got stable, I taught myself how to cook. Bowl? Whisk? Spices?”
“Alright,” Regina says, and gestures to each location in turn. “Show me what you’ve got, then. What are you making?”
Emma glances at her. “Dressing for the salad, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Regina echoes. She watches Emma work, reaches for the wine that Emma had brought, and sets about uncorking it. She pours them each a small glass, dinner preparation on hold as she decides to instead regard Emma’s every movement.
Emma whisks together the dressing in record time, eager to impress Regina – or rather, to prove to her that she can . Eventually she sticks the tip of her tongue to the back of the spoon, and satisfied, pushes the bowl towards Regina and demands, “Taste.”
She expects Regina to pull another spoon from the cutlery drawer. Maybe even dip her finger in – they’re touching all the food as they’re preparing it, after all.
Instead, Regina reaches out and takes the spoon from her hand and pops it directly into her mouth, pulling it out clean.
After several heartbeats in which Emma is absolutely and totally fucking stunned and Regina (presumably) evaluates, she nods, sets the spoon in the sink and says, “I take it back. That’s delicious, Emma.”
Emma shakes herself out of her stupor. “Damn right it is. I can work wonders with a grill, too.” She covers the dressing she’s just mixed with a bit of plastic wrap and puts it inside of Reginas’ pristinely organized fridge. “Do you have any red wine you’d be okay with using for cooking? I can make a hell of a sauce for the meat.”
“I think you’ve proven yourself enough, Emma,” Regina says. “But yes. On the door.” Emma pulls out the bottle and sets it aside, figuring she might as well start it later, when Regina eyes her and adds wryly, “I hope you know this means you’ll be hosting next time.”
Emma scoffs. “You wanna spend the night in Mary Margaret’s loft?”
Regina’s lips quirk up in a smile. Emma knows that look – knows the way her eyes are glimmering, the danger in that slant of her mouth, and. Fuck. Regina pulls a sip of her wine before she speaks, leaving Emma to simmer in her dread.
“You think you’ll be staying the night tonight?” She asks eventually, words dripping with suggestion and mirth, and Emma about has a fucking heart attack.
“Uh,” She says. It’s all she can get out.
And then Regina bursts out in a laugh, dark and rich and good natured, and Emma’s awash with something between relief and horror.
“I’m just giving you a hard time. I know what you meant.” She reaches out and tops off Emma’s glass of wine – which she hasn’t really touched anyway – and then follows with her own. “And no, I really don’t want to spend the night trying to dance around that tiny little kitchen and listening to your mother sing lullabies to baby Neal.” She slips the stem of Emma’s glass between her fingers, curling them around the base, and hands it to Emma. Emma takes it silently. “You, however, are always welcome here.”
Oh.
“Thanks, Regina,” Emma says, and she means it. The words come out quiet, maybe a little more emotional than she’d meant them to – and she’s not quite sure whether or not she hopes Regina will pick up on it.
Regina holds her gaze for a moment. They’re close now, Emma hadn’t realized – but Regina reaches out with her free hand and brushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and then rests her palm against the curve of her neck. Her skin feels hot against Emma’s.
“Of course, Emma.” Equally quiet. Equally soft.
She hovers there for another couple heartbeats, just long enough for Emma to study the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and the way the inside of her lips are already stained from the wine – no lipstick, Emma realizes with a start – and then she squeezes Emma’s shoulder, turns, and the spell is broken.
Dinner turns out beautifully, of course. Emma’s always known Regina to be a pretty good cook – and after all, she should be, given the twenty-eight years she’d had to perfect her skill. Henry drizzles a hell of a lot of Emma’s dressing over his salad, and while Regina does shoot Emma a look about the frankly concerning ratio, at least it gets him to eat a whole bowl of it.
It’s nice, eating as a family. It makes her feel kind of fuzzy inside.
Eventually Henry excuses himself to go do homework – which is totally code for playing video games, but Emma’s not going to tattle – and Emma helps Regina collect the plates and put up the leftovers.
She’s just depositing the last of the plates in the dishwasher, despite Regina’s protests that she doesn’t have to, she’s a guest, she can just leave it, when she clears her throat and says, “This was really nice, Regina. I haven’t had a night this nice in a long time. So…thank you.”
Regina pauses her wipe down of the counter. “You’re welcome, Emma. Thank you for coming.”
Emma smiles, drying her wet hands on the dish towel. She doesn’t know why – well, she does – she’s nervous all of the sudden, anxiety bouncing around in the hollow of her chest. “I guess I should get going now. But we should do this again sometime soon. I really did have a great time.”
Regina finishes wiping down the island and then steps into Emma’s space, right in front of the kitchen sink. She turns on the water and rinses the cloth beneath it, and as she’s wringing it out, turns to face her. The motion puts no more than a few inches between them. Emma’s fingers dig into the fabric in her hands.
“I thought you were staying the night?” Regina asks, her voice dipped low to the back of her throat. Sultry.
Emma can actually feel her cheeks burning.
And then Regina’s laughing, hanging the washcloth around the neck of the sink and rinsing her hands beneath the tap. With a sheepish smile at her lips she reaches for the towel in Emma’s hands, disentangling it from her death grip and using it to dry her own instead.
“Honestly, Emma, you’re too easy to rattle. But please, stay for another glass?” She tilts her head to the side, indicating their drained glasses of wine. “I’m enjoying your company.”
“I hate you,” Emma mutters, and she doesn’t mean it at all. Regina grins. “Pour heavy.”
She ends up staying a whole two hours – and two drinks – more. Henry wanders down the stairs at one point for a snack, finds them reclining on the couch with flushed cheeks and words too loud for indoors, and says wryly, “Glad to see you guys are having a good time.”
Emma sticks her tongue out at him. “Join us then, kid.”
He shakes his head though, says something about a round in whatever game he’s playing, and then disappears back up the stairs. Emma would be lying if she said she wasn’t relieved at the chance to spend some more one on one time with Regina.
She leaves well after the kid’s bed time – not that she thinks he’s actually observing it – and leaves her bug in the drive, opting instead to walk home with the balmy night air cool against her skin and the alcohol buzzing pleasantly in her blood.
And the next several days, she finds herself wondering how soon is too soon to ask for another dinner date.
She doesn’t want to just invite herself over, and though it had all been jokes, Mary Margaret’s loft really isn’t a great venue for hosting. But she hadn’t been lying when she’d said that dinner with Regina and Henry had been one of the most enjoyable nights she’d had in awhile, and she finds herself craving more.
Emma had barely come up with an adequate excuse to stop by. She’d largely digitized everything since the curse broke, and now that she could just email her paperwork over, she didn’t need to step foot in the building all that often. She’d counted each missed meeting with Regina as a blessing back in the day. Now, she wishes she could go back and put them all into the stone age again.
She’d come up with some dumb excuse about the copier not wanting to scan in her form just to buy her the time. It’s the end of her shift, the end of Regina’s, too, she knows – not that she’d timed it perfectly so that she could pass her paperwork off to Regina’s secretary and catch her just as she’s leaving the office, or anything.
That would be weird.
“Hey, Regina,” Emma says, and flags her down. Regina looks a little bit startled, but she relaxes immediately when she sees who’d called her.
“Emma. Hello,” She says as Emma catches up to her. She turns to face her, and Emma finally gets a full view of her outfit.
“Woah,” She says, before she can stop herself. “You’re all dressed up today, huh?”
Regina’s back in full mayoral glory. It’s been so long since Emma’s seen her in a tailored suit that it’s almost strange to see her like this, standing slightly taller than Emma in her heels, hair perfectly styled. She smiles wryly. “Some of us actually care about our appearance when we’re on the job,” She teases.
“Hey,” Emma whines, indignant. She glances down at her outfit: nice short sleeve shirt, jeans, sneakers. “It’s seventy degrees outside today. I look fine.”
To her utter shock, Regina steps back and lets her eyes drop over Emma’s form. Obviously, clearly – Emma’s heart launches into her throat as Regina’s tongue pokes out from between her teeth and she practically purrs, “Yes, you do.”
A heartbeat of silence passes. Regina’s eyes meet Emma’s again, amusement sparkling in them, and Emma just knows Regina knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Let’s do another night,” Emma hurries out, because she’s not sure what the hell to say to that.
Regina blinks. “Yeah?”
Emma nods, relief swelling in her chest at the simple fact that Regina hadn’t immediately shot her down on the idea. “Yeah. I had a good time. Let’s do it again.”
“When?”
“Whenever you’re free?”
Regina glances down at her keys. She’d just locked her office, and she gives the doorhandle a little jiggle, activating the magic barrier she keeps around it as well as the manual lock. It’s Storybrooke after all, and you can’t be too careful. Eventually she meets Emma’s eye again and says, “I’m free right now.”
Oh. “Oh,” Emma says, a little startled and more than a little thrilled. “Yeah, okay. Me too. I’ll cook this time, if you want?”
Regina grins. “Sure. We could stop by the store first? I’m afraid my fridge is looking a little barren at the moment.”
They drive separate to the store – Emma’s not too keen to leave her bug at the town hall overnight. Regina lets her take the lead on shopping, only wrinkling her nose when Emma puts a six pack of beer in the cart.
“Hey,” She says. “I drank wine all night for you. I’m buying beer this time.”
“Just don’t expect me to have any,” Regina says, and Emma flashes her a grin. “Emma, no .”
Emma tries to scan all of the groceries once they get to the self-check. It’s one of the many modern things that have been implemented since the curse broke: they still keep a couple cashiers on deck, but Emma, ever the fan of keeping to herself, steers them straight for the self-check stations.
Regina sets herself up on the one next to Emma, though, and keeps plucking items from the cart.
They drive separate to Regina’s – Emma makes a show of putting all the heaviest items in her own trunk, although the beer’s the only truly heavy thing – and if she loads all the bags from both their cars in her arms before Regina can snag so much as the one containing the lettuce, it’s definitely not because this shirt shows off her biceps.
Regina gets all the way up to the door, turns the lock, and then with her hand on the doorknob says, “Oh.” She hesitates, eyes flickering to Emma, and looks almost embarrassed when she says, “I’m sorry, Emma I should have said. Henry’s not here. He’s at a friend’s house for the evening. Sleeping over, actually. I hope that’s okay?”
Oh.
Alone. With Regina.
“Yeah, of course,” Emma says, and if her voice has jumped up an octave, it’s nothing to do with this. “That’ll be fine.”
“If it’s too strange without our son here, we could reschedule,” Regina says. Her words are uncharacteristically timid.
“No,” Emma answers, maybe a little too quickly. “No,” She repeats, calmer this time. “It’s fine. Really. We can have a girls night.”
“A girls night?” Regina echoes, some of that worry melting away with the smile at her lips. “Alright, then.”
Regina does, in fact, watch as Emma does all the cooking. Horror washes over her as Emma cracks open a beer – and then relief as Emma starts to pour it into her bowl of flour.
“Beer batter is the way to go,” Emma says, and Regina rolls her eyes.
Dinner’s delicious, and Emma rubs her face in it. After they’re both full, the dishes stacked unceremoniously next to the sink, Regina grasps her wrist and leads her to the couch. She puts on a movie – something that Emma’s not paying any attention to, because Regina’s curled up next to her on this surprisingly tiny sofa and their legs are brushing.
Regina breaks the silence only when the credits are rolling. “You know, you really could stay the night this time. If you want to.” It’s soft, under her breath, like she’s too afraid to lend the words real weight. As if they’re fragile.
“Okay,” Is all Emma says. She nods, and the smile that graces Regina’s lips is the most gentle she’s ever seen.
“I’m gonna need to borrow a toothbrush,” Emma says. They’re halfway through their second movie at this point, and Emma has no idea what’s going on. “And maybe some pajamas.”
“Right,” Regina says. She actually pauses the movie, takes Emma by her wrist again, and leads her upstairs. She takes her past Henry’s room, past the guest bedroom, and into her own. Emma stands there a bit awkwardly as Regina produces the aforementioned items from her dresser, and then from the medicine cabinet: toothbrush, pajamas, spare towel, face wash –
“You didn’t have to get all this,” Emma says, a little self conscious. “Although. I guess I should wash my face.”
Regina offers her a smile. “I’m going to change.” She steps into the bathroom and closes the door behind her.
Emma contemplates changing too, but in the end she only makes it through unbuttoning her shirt before the door starts to open again.
Jeans and a white tank top. Emma had worn this exact outfit to cut down Regina’s apple tree.
Regina appears in the doorway, though, and Emma’s pulled out of her thoughts. Emma’s not entirely sure what she’d changed into for pajamas because she’s wearing a silky purple robe over it, and she’s tied it tight at her waist. Her eyes linger on Emma for a moment and then she waves her into the bathroom, saying, “You can come in and brush your teeth if you like.”
Emma nods and follows her inside.
There’s a vanity next to the sink, and Regina takes a seat in the small cushion, waving towards the sink for Emma.
“The Savior and the Evil Queen, having a sleepover,” Regina muses. She reaches for a cotton ball, pops open a bottle of something, and pumps it a couple times before bringing the cotton to her face. She swipes it over her eyes, murmuring, “Who would’ve thought.”
And Emma wants to reply, but.
She’s staring. She’s staring, and she knows it.
Regina gently pats at her face with a towel, and Emma realizes with a start that she’s never seen her like this before. She looks…softer somehow, without her makeup.
Beautiful.
Even more so than when she’s done up, Emma thinks. Her lashes are lighter, her eyes brighter, the planes of her face less severe without their contour — almost round. And Emma…she’s overcome with the urge to – well. To do something she really shouldn’t.
“What?” Regina asks, and Emma realizes she’s been caught. She feels a flush creep up her neck.
“Nothing. Sorry.” Regina continues to stare at her, though, and so Emma draws in a deep breath to steel herself and says: “You’re just really beautiful like that. Without makeup, I mean. In your robe.”
Regina doesn’t reply. She folds the towel absentmindedly in her lap and then sets it gently on the vanity.
She’s quiet for several moments. Each one feels like lead to Emma, heavy and thick and anxious, and she wonders if she’s said something wrong. Insulted her somehow. Maybe Regina’s touchy about her makeup skills and Emma’s just implied that she doesn’t like it –
And so Emma does what Emma does best: ramble.
“Not that you don’t look beautiful with your makeup on. That’s not what I mean at all. You look, like, sophisticated with it. A little bit terrifying. Hot, though. It’s just. Uh –” She stops abruptly, because now Regina is staring at her, those deep brown eyes locked to her own with the barest hint of a smile at her lips. Amusement, Emma thinks – and thank fuck. She offers a lopsided smile back and says, “You’re beautiful like this. That’s all.”
Regina’s smile grows at that. She actually ducks her chin down, stares at her lap for a moment like she’s trying to hide it – and then she meets Emma’s eyes again with pink at her cheeks and says, “Thank you, Emma.”
It’s quiet, and so Emma’s quiet too when she says, “You’re welcome.”
Regina’s smile falters slightly, and Emma watches it slowly fade as she worries at the hem of her robe’s sleeve. She’s just beginning to unravel the knit as she says, “Mother never thought so.”
Emma furrows her brow. “What do you mean?”
“She didn’t want me to leave the house without being done up,” Regina admits. “She said I looked…uncouth. Like a peasant.” She laughs, humorless. “What she really meant was dirty and unkempt. And…ugly.”
“Oh,” Emma says, because she’s not quite sure what to say.
She’d known what a piece of work Cora had been. How awful – she’d met the woman, after all.
“Yeah,” Regina says. She curls into herself a bit, in a way that seems almost unnatural for the firecracker of a woman that Emma’s come to know over the years.
“Regina,” She begins, and then pauses because she wants to make sure that she words this right. “I know…you and I both know that your mother wasn’t exactly a great person. I don’t know exactly what she put you through, but I do know she was wrong. For doing it, and about you the way you look.”
Regina gives her a soft little smile, one laced with the kind of resigned melancholy that Emma knows only comes from unhealed wounds. “Thank you, Emma. I appreciate that.”
“You’re the most stunning person I’ve ever met,” Emma hurdles on, anxious to make sure that Regina understands . “I nearly had a heart attack when you ran out of your house that first night.” She brushes her hair behind her ear, a bit embarrassed. “And that’s not even mentioning the way you try. I don’t — I’m not doing a very good job of explaining, but it makes you shine. And like this, Regina…I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful than you, just like this.”
Several heartbeats pass without either of them speaking.
Regina stands, a bit suddenly – the scrape of the vanity bench against the tile nearly makes Emma jump out of her skin, but then. Then Regina’s palms are at either side of her face, cupping her cheeks as she draws her in and kisses her.
Regina Mills is kissing her.
It takes Emma a solid thirty seconds just to come up to speed. When she does, she throws one arm out against the sink to support them – Regina’s leaning into her hard, and the other arm goes up around her waist to draw her in and ensure that she doesn’t stop.
She never wants her to stop.
It’s Regina who breaks the kiss. She pulls back only a hair, and leans her forehead against Emma’s, breathing deeply.
“Stay the night?” She says eventually, and Emma has to clear her throat and dredge up the ability to speak again.
“I thought we already agreed on that,” Emma teases. Her head is swimming.
Regina gives a breathy laugh, a smile at her lips as she concedes, “I suppose we did.” She steals another, far more chaste kiss before she amends, “Stay the night. With me.” Emma doesn’t say anything right away and she adds, “In my bed.”
“It would’ve clicked eventually,” Emma says, and it earns her another laugh. “Yes, Regina. Yes.”
And with that, Emma draws her close again, and kisses her with everything she’s got.
She sees Regina without makeup a hell of a lot more often after that.