A/N: Another story I'm moving over from AO3... This story is probably my favourite thing I've written since joining the Swan Queen fandom, but it's the kind of story that a few people love, some people hate, and probably a lot of people read and think, "WTF did I just read?" It's packed to overflowing with a whole bunch of my favourite tropes, occasional nods to fandom, parodies of aspects of OUAT, and occasional references to other shows.

I wrote it a couple of months ago in the middle of studying for exams, so I was procrastinating, stressed out, sleep-deprived, and not entirely in my right mind. This is part 1 of 2.

Part 1: A swan, a witch and a wardrobe (closet)

There was something so exhilarating about wielding power tools. Emma was in her happy place as she attacked the apple tree with the chainsaw. The sound of metal tearing through wood, the vibration of the motor, the feeling of strength as the chainsaw bucked and surged against her grip, the idea of subjugating something so powerful and dangerous, bending it to her will... She was so lost in the sensation that she barely noticed when Regina had appeared at the edge of the garden, almost forgetting the purpose of this whole activity. She killed the motor and set the chainsaw down as Regina advanced on her from across the garden, moving surprisingly quickly across the soft turf for someone wearing shoes with a four-inch stiletto heel.

As Regina berated her, Emma felt a strange and irresistible impulse driving her forward. Suddenly, she was toe-to-toe with Regina, could feel her hot breath hitting her face, could see the heat and rage flashing in her eyes. And then, her lips were pressed against Regina's soft, soft lips. It took Emma a moment to realise what she was doing. What the actual fuck? She pushed Regina away and stood there, confused and breathing heavily.

Regina angrily wiped her mouth. "Miss Swan! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I have no fucking idea." Emma curled her lip in horror at the thought of what she'd just done. "I think I might have a concussion." That must be it. "I tripped and hit my head earlier today. I clearly can't be held responsible for my actions."

Regina was torn between rage and, well frankly, more rage, but there was a glimmer of concern peeping through the red haze of her anger. Mostly it was concern about the possibility that the irritating woman in front of her might just collapse and die of a possible brain injury on her lawn, and then she'd have to find an appropriate place to dispose of the body. But did it really matter exactly where that concern originated from?

She did recall the incident that Emma was alluding to. She'd been walking down the main street this morning, when Emma had suddenly come hurtling past her and crashed into a lamp post. Regina had managed to step out of the way just in time, or she was certain that she'd have ended up in traction at Storybrooke General. Emma Swan, she'd observed over the past few days, had all the grace of a hippopotamus on roller skates, and none of the subtlety. She wanted this walking disaster out of her town right now, away from her son.

She sighed. "Come, Miss Swan. I'll drive you to the hospital on my way to the Sheriff's station to report you for destruction of property."

Worst fucking nightmare. She was trapped in an elevator with Regina Mills, who was currently sitting on the floor observing her with cool detachment.

Emma pressed the Emergency Call button for the fifty-seventh time to no response, before hammering at the doors and then checking her cell phone for a signal. Nothing. Fucking fuck.

"Why is there even an elevator here? I mean, the building's only two stories high."

"That may be, Miss Swan, but you are the one who chose to take the elevator."

Emma pulled a face. "Normally I'd take the stairs, but my ankle's still really sore from when you knocked me over yesterday."

Emma still couldn't believe it. Regina, who normally glided along with all the deadly intent of a panther had suddenly developed the coordination of a baby giraffe on stilts. Heels that Emma had watched Regina walk in a dozen times suddenly made her look like one of those underfed catwalk models walking in shoes three sizes too big. She'd been stifling a laugh as she watched Regina stagger, up until the point when Regina had completely lost her balance, taking Emma with her.

"I hardly think it's fair that you're blaming me for our current predicament."

Emma paused in her obsessive survey of possible escape routes. "Yeah? Well you seem to make it a habit to blame me for all sorts of things that I had nothing to do with." Another thought occurred to her. "Anyway, you're the Mayor, so maintenance of city facilities is ultimately your responsibility, isn't it?"

Regina glared at her, and Emma was pretty sure from her expression that Regina was thinking about setting her head on fire. In the interests of not being beaten to death with one of Regina's Louboutins, Emma abandoned the abortive attempt at conversation, and they sat there in silence, mostly ignoring each other. Periodically, Regina would look over at her and glare, and Emma made a point of summoning up her most beatific smile.

Minutes ticked by slowly; eventually, Emma got bored and tried to start another conversation. "Can we, I don't know, maybe play I-Spy or something to pass the time?"

Regina smirked. "I find that meditation really helps. You should try it, although I doubt you'd have the mental fortitude for it."

Emma couldn't suppress her laughter. "Yeah, right. I can definitely tell that you meditate. You seem so calm and centred all the time."

Regina ignored her insult. "Fine. I-Spy it is then. I'm going first." Regina surveyed the limited surroundings intently, before arriving at the perfect answer. "I-Spy with my little eye something beginning with I."

Emma frowned as she mentally catalogued all of the fixtures in the elevator, the few possessions they had with them and then tried to think of synonyms for them all. There was nothing she could think of that started with 'I'. She looked over at Regina, trying to find some clue in her expression, in the direction of her gaze, but nothing came to her. Regina was looking directly at her, not even pretending to be anything other than smug.

Eventually, Emma had to admit that she was stumped. "You've got me. I can't think of anything in here that starts with I."

Regina started to laugh, and Emma idly noted that it was a sound not unlike the peal of bells mashed up with a chainsaw massacre.

"Idiot."

Emma frowned. "No need to insult me because I couldn't think of the answer."

"No, the answer is idiot. As in, I'm staring at one right now." Regina collapsed into a fresh bout of laughter.

Emma folded her arms and sulked in her corner of the elevator. She really doesn't get any less awful when you get to know her. Regina Mills, Emma had decided, probably entertained herself by torturing kittens and then posting the videos on the Internet.

It was three hours later when someone finally found them. The confined space had become increasingly hot and airless, and Emma was down to a tank top and panties by that stage. Regina had stubbornly resisted as long as she could, but even she'd had to concede defeat and had removed her nylons, rolled up her sleeves and undone a couple of extra buttons. Emma couldn't help but notice that even under these circumstances, Regina still looked irritatingly perfect. Must be fucking witchcraft. She also couldn't help but notice the single droplet of sweat negotiating a tortuous path down the column of Regina's throat, across the sharp point of her collarbone, eventually disappearing into a valley concealed by black lace. Emma caught herself thinking about how she'd like to trace the same path that sweat drop had followed with her tongue. Fuck. I must be delirious. I think dehydration can do that.

The doors opened, and Emma almost knocked over Graham in her haste to get to the bathroom. There were some things that you really didn't want to share with your arch-nemesis; emptying your bladder was definitely one of those.

Graham had teased her later, asking if he should maybe have left the doors closed for a little bit longer. She'd threatened to stab him with a pencil if he ever mentioned it again.

Regina was breathing heavily as Emma shoved her up against the wall of the mausoleum. She could feel the insistent throb of her lip and the coppery taste of blood on her tongue. It was exhilarating. She smiled as Emma cocked a fist, and from the look in her eyes, she couldn't quite decide if Emma was going to throw the punch, or thrust her harder against the wall and do far more interesting and enjoyable things. Either was fine with her if she was honest; she hadn't felt her heart race and her blood pump like this in what seemed like an eternity.

She was dimly aware of Graham wittering away in the background, but ignored him to focus on the fascinating and irritating woman in front of her. Emma Swan had brought motion and colour back to this sepia-toned still-life, and Regina couldn't quite decide if she wanted to kill her or kiss her for that.

She was roused from her intent contemplation of the virtues and evils of Emma Swan by a sudden tremor in the earth. Emma released her and they both turned to watch in horror as a sinkhole opened up and swallowed Graham into the earth. They stood there looking at each other in shock, before they inched their way towards the edge, carefully peering into the dark. It was useless – there was simply no way to see anything down there.

Emma called out, "Graham! Graham! Are you okay? Can you hear us?"

When there was no response, Regina picked up a stone and dropped it into the hole. She waited for the sound of the impact. More than two seconds. This hole is at least 20 metres deep.

"Miss Swan. I'm afraid that this is pointless. There simply is no possibility that he could have survived a fall that far."

Emma was sobbing uncontrollably and Regina awkwardly reached over to pat her shoulder. "There, there, dear."

She briefly thought about pushing Emma in after Graham, but it just didn't feel right. Too opportunistically brutish, and not enough opportunity for double entendre or gloating. After years of scrubbing bloodstains from her hands, she'd come to realise that she really did prefer the clean, elegant simplicity of sleeping curses, particularly with the ample opportunity they afforded for devising sexually suggestive metaphors relating to fruit.

When she had stopped thinking about all the possible ways she might ensure Emma Swan's demise, Regina felt something that she thought might have been sadness. Graham, you stupid, handsome piece of furniture. Why? The saddest thing was, she was going to have to invest in a new vibrator.

Regina was on the verge of sending her tailor an angry e-mail. This would be the third time she was having to send this particular shirt back to be fixed, and it wasn't the only one she'd had this problem with. The same button kept popping open at random times of the day, and she was sick of realising halfway through a conversation that yes, once again, the girls were out on display. She'd caught the Sheriff (both the former and current occupants of the role) staring at her chest on multiple occasions during meetings, and she'd frequently had to resist the urge to throw the immensely heavy paperweight that rested on her desk, particularly at that dreadful Swan woman. The ongoing lack of magic had been frustrating; there had been a time when with a mere wave of her hands, Emma Swan would have been charcoal.

She reflected that her biggest mistake when casting the curse had been a failure to build an element of competition into Storybrooke's business community; if she had her time again, this town would be a shining monument to capitalism and the power of market forces. Unfortunately, hindsight was 20/20. As it was, there were simply too many monopolies in this town, and thus, she was forced to keep going back to the same incompetent tailor who clearly had no idea how to fix a goddamned button-hole. She was in the middle of using Shift-F7 to find synonyms for "gobsmackingly inept" when the Sheriff walked into her office.

"Madam Mayor."

"Sheriff Swan. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Her tone made it clear that it was anything but.

"I've been meaning to talk to you about something." Emma took a step forward, intending to lean against the edge of the desk. Instead, she tripped over a rug that she could have sworn wasn't there last time she was in the office, and spilt her coffee all over Regina.

Emma tried to offer Regina a napkin, but her hand was quickly slapped away. She stood there unsure of what to do.

Regina's hands were shaking with fury as she undid the buttons of her blouse and shrugged out of the sleeves. She reached around to unhook her bra, which was also saturated with coffee that had been criminally adulterated with cream and sugar, and it was only when she heard Emma make a weird strangled noise that she realised she was in the process of stripping in front of the Sheriff. She tried to still her hands, but they continued to twitch towards the fastening of her bra. What am I doing?

She leaned down and grabbed the edge of her desk, trying to find a way to occupy her traitorous hands. Emma Swan, she noted, was staring at her chest yet again. "What the hell are you still doing here? Get out!"

Emma shook her head as she left the Mayor's office. That was the sixth time this week she'd tripped. She'd never been ballet-dancer graceful, but she also wasn't this accident-prone. However, since coming to Storybrooke, she'd come to sport the most incredible collection of bruises and scrapes, and to add to the indignity, Regina had witnessed every last incident. Her knees, in particular, were incredibly tender, like she'd played volleyball without knee pads, or spent the afternoon under the Mayor's desk servicing her every whim. Emma pulled a horrified face at that last thought. I must have hit my head. Maybe I should make an appointment to see Archie.

She was beginning to wonder if she had vertigo, or if this was something more sinister, something related to the seemingly unrelated series of bizarre things that always seemed to be happening to her and Regina. Since the curse had broken and magic had returned, she had started to wonder whether there might be some sort of spell affecting the two of them. Whatever the case, she had failed miserably at broaching the topic, and she was pretty sure it would be a few days before she could get within talking distance of Regina for more than a couple of minutes.

As it happened, it was much longer than that. Gold's fucking Wraith, and her own stupid goddamned Saviour complex meant she'd spent months marooned in a land without running water or even basic cable, and only a pack of weirdos (including her disturbingly young mother – I definitely should make an appointment with Archie) for company. She'd returned to Storybrooke with lank, knotted hair, an extreme distaste for Chimera meat and a ragingly bad case of athlete's foot, and had been followed a short time later by a needy, whiny, annoying pirate who seemed to think that telling rape jokes was a valid seduction method. She wasn't sure what was worse: the foot fungus or the pirate. All of that horror paled in comparison though to being spoilered by Leroy for the Red Wedding episode of Game of Thrones before she'd had a chance to catch up on her backlog of shows. So much rage.

Things continued to get weirder in Storybrooke. If the incident in the elevator last year hadn't been bad enough, she managed to get herself trapped in the supply closet at Town Hall with Regina. It had been worsened by the fact that she'd somehow managed to fall under the influence of some kind of truth-spell or truth potion. Emma wracked her brains for what might have happened and all she could think of was the cup of tea that Henry had so kindly made for her earlier that morning. Perhaps he accidentally used the wrong jar, or inadvertently mixed some teas that had a chemical reaction.

Regina, of course, had taken a great deal of delight in the fact that she had her arch-nemesis/occasional drinking buddy/co-parent at her mercy. Her mind was positively overflowing with questions. So many delicious possibilities.

"Let's start with an easy one. What's your favourite colour?"

"The colour of chocolate with 70% cocoa content. Kind of like your eyes, actually. Not too sweet and slightly bitter."

Regina raised an eyebrow. "You surprise me, Miss Swan. I was expecting a primary colour, given how simple your mind is. Next question. What is the first album you bought with your own money?"

Emma clamped a hand to her mouth, trying the hold back the sound she knew was going to come out. Regina regarded Emma with some alarm, as she began to turn a strange shade of purple. Finally, she answered.

"Celine Dion's Christmas album." Emma panted, trying to get her breath back. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I can't believe I just said that out loud. You have to promise never to tell anyone, ever."

Regina smiled the smile of a predator that sensed its prey was weak, vulnerable. This was proving to be even better than she expected. "How very embarrassing for you, dear. Next question: How old were you when you lost your virginity?"

"Fifteen."

"Is there anything that you're afraid of?"

"Being alone. Also, kohlrabi, because I once saw a horror movie with an alien that looked exactly like it. I shudder every time I see it at the greengrocer."

"Have you ever had a threesome?"

"Almost, but I kicked my boyfriend out and just hooked up with the girl instead."

Regina felt like gloating. I knew it. All that flannel, and those tank tops, and the way she hooks her thumbs in the pockets of her jeans.

"Would you rather have sex with Bill or Hillary?"

"Hillary." Regina smirked. I love being right.

"What really happened to Hook?"

"He drank some cursed rum he stole from Gold's shop and shrunk down until he was only an inch tall. I bought an aquarium and a little sailing boat for him, and now he just floats around trying to avoid being capsized by the cichlids. I find watching it all strangely relaxing."

"Now this I have to see, just as soon as we get out of this damned closet."

Emma crawled out of bed, still tired after working the late shift. They'd had 21 days of peace in Storybrooke and counting, and she hoped that today would continue that trend. David was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. He looked up and frowned at her as she sat down.

"Emma, I think we're going to have some trouble on our hands today." He handed her the newspaper. "Read this."

Emma squinted at the headline, and then read it again because she couldn't quite make sense of it. "Giant earthworm terrorises Storybrooke's ethnic communities." She frowned and rubbed her eyes. "What does this even mean?"

David regarded her seriously. "Someone has mapped out all of the unexplained sinkhole events over the past few years, and it seems that the victims have had one thing in common: they're not white. Sidney, Lancelot, Mulan, Tamara, the list goes on. There's a theory that it's the work of a giant white-supremacist earthworm, or perhaps a white-supremacist magic user controlling the earthworm."

"What about Graham? He fell into a sinkhole too."

David shrugged. "Exception that proves the rule?"

"That's not even a thing. An exception disproves the rule." Emma put her head in her hands and groaned. "Ugh. Today's going to be a disaster, isn't it?" Why did I jinx things with my stupid, misplaced optimism?

David nodded grimly. "Yep. If there's one thing Storybrooke does well, it's an angry mob. We'd better hit the streets."

They headed to the main street and started to patrol. Emma screwed up her nose in disgust as she walked past the hardware store. There were wooden torches and pitchforks prominently displayed in the front window, and a sign saying: "Want your torch to last longer? Ask us how." Fucking opportunists. She noticed a suspicious number of townsfolk milling around in the street. Something was definitely going down today. Further down the street, she noticed a new display in the window of Tom Clark's pharmacy. Skin-lightening creams? I fucking hate this town.

It was as if there was some sort of inaudible signal that only fairytale hillbillies could hear, because suddenly the disparate elements coalesced into a large, angry mob. Someone produced a 44-gallon drum seemingly out of thin air and set a fire in it. Is there some sort of angry mob by-law that requires at least one fire to be set in the middle of a road? Emma shook her head and ran to catch up to David. They tracked the mob's progress for a while, and what a surprise, they were heading in the direction of 108 Mifflin.

The mob came to a stop outside Regina's house, and as was the wont of mobs, they angrily started arguing with each other about what they should do next. Emma and David took that opportunity to take position directly in front of the door, which opened shortly afterwards to reveal the mistress of the house.

Regina surveyed the scene in front of her wearily. "What is it this time?"

Emma laughed nervously. "You wouldn't believe it if I told you. As far as I can tell, they think you conjured up a giant earthworm that's been creating the sinkholes all over town."

David helpfully added, "They think the earthworm has racist tendencies on the basis of its choice of victims."

Regina pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a sudden pressure building behind her eyes. Why did I curse myself to live in a town full of idiots? What on earth was I thinking?

"And why do they think I have anything to do with it?"

Emma shrugged. "Honestly, don't know. It's probably just because your front lawn is big enough for them all to assemble on."

The angry mob seemed to have reached a resolution and appointed a spokesperson. He stepped forward.

Emma whispered to Regina, "Who is that guy? Do you know him?"

Regina looked at Emma incredulously. "Do you think I've concerned myself with learning the names of every last peasant?"

The spokesperson raised his fist and started to speak, sensing his opportunity to finally make a name for himself. Possibly even two. "For too long, we have allowed injustice to flourish in this town unanswered. For too long we've allowed our brothers and sisters from the diverse nations of the Enchanted Forest to be sidelined and sucked into wormholes. To you, the ex-Mayor formerly known as the Evil Queen, I address our demand for satisfaction. We will not allow your racism to taint our town any longer."

Regina twisted her lips into a snarl. "I shouldn't even dignify this baseless accusation with a response, but I will. If you cast your minds back, you would all remember me as an equal opportunities tyrant. I can say hand on heart that I have never discriminated when choosing my victims." She paused, and swept the crowd with a withering glare. "Besides, you imbeciles, I'm a Latina."

Almost as one, the members of the mob cocked their heads to one side, like a group of particularly stupid Staffordshire Terriers, and looked at her in confusion.

The spokesman, not yet willing to relinquish his shot at fame (or at least, not complete obscurity) pressed on. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, you moron. I should incinerate you where you stand. Except…" Regina choked over this part. "Except, I'm reformed. I have a support group, a sponsor, the whole shebang, and I want you to know it's been 876 days, 1150 days or 8763 days depending on which timeline you use, since I last killed an innocent."

There was some muttering among the mob, before one-by-one, they lowered their torches and pitchforks.

A random member of the mob-formerly-known-as-angry stepped forward. "So, Madam ex-Mayor, what should we do about these sinkholes if you didn't cause them."

Regina rolled her eyes. "Not that I have any obligation to assist you, but I suggest that you go talk to your precious Snow White and ask her to fund the geological survey that I sent out a request for tender for before you all so politely asked me to resign my office. In case you idiots hadn't noticed, this town is built on old mining land."

There were a few nods of agreement within the crowd. With that, the invisible chemical bonds that had held the mob together dissolved, and Regina breathed a sigh of relief as the townsfolk straggled their way out of her front garden. The relief was quickly replaced with anger when she noticed that the bastards had trampled her orchids again. It took months to get those established. I should have incinerated every last one of those imbeciles.

Regina was brought back to herself by the sensation of being clapped on the shoulder. She looked over at Emma and wrinkled her nose in distaste. Why am I surprised that her version of supportive is to behave like we're playing team sports?

"I just want to let you know that I'm proud of you. It took incredible strength not to blow them all up." Emma dropped her voice. "Between you and me though, I probably would have thrown at least one fireball. Seriously, why are there so many idiots in this town?"

Regina looked pointedly at Emma. "Well I did try to get rid of at least one of the idiots. Somehow, it just wouldn't stick."

Emma batted her eyelashes. "Aww… you're so sweet."

Emma was about to broach the topic of the series of weird events in Storybrooke, when she was distracted by an explosion and the sounds of distant screams. She called out a quick farewell as she ran off to investigate whatever the latest outbreak of trouble was.

The next time she'd tried to have a conversation with Regina about the weird stuff going on, that fucking douche-canoe, Robin Hood, had gone and gotten himself eaten by some weird panther-lizard thing that she'd accidentally unleashed from an artefact she'd found in Gold's pawn shop. Regina had refused to talk to her for weeks, which was probably fair enough if Emma was being honest. And then Mrs fucking Haagen-Dazs had come to town and tried to add Emma to her creepy harem of blonde girls. Thinking about it still gave Emma shivers.

At that point, Emma had given up on trying to have a conversation with Regina about anything. Ten failed dinner invitations, and eight undrunk shots of tequila later, Emma decided that she was going to have to go it alone on this one. It seemed that pretty much any time they were in danger of being in the same place at the same time for more than two minutes, some fire-breathing three-headed dragon-alien from Scandinavia would swoop in and the town would be in mortal peril again. Or one of them would be turned evil, or sent to another world, or sent to New York, which pretty much was an alternate reality anyway when measured against Storybrooke.

And so, Emma decided to do what the town was actually paying her to do and investigate the strange phenomena. After following several false leads, she'd eventually stumbled on something, completely by accident: a surveillance device. With this discovery, Emma was convinced that there really was something going on, that she wasn't just paranoid or crazy. She'd enlisted the help of an old contact from her bail bondsperson days, and he'd finally come up with the goods. Based on what he'd told her, she was certain that Regina would want to know about this.

In spite of their apparent inability to occupy the same approximate space-time coordinates, she and Regina actually seemed to be in a relatively good place right now. Neither of them had tried to kill the other in quite some time, and Henry occasionally brought home tasty baked treats, supposedly just for him, but there always seemed to be just enough for Emma to have some. And most of the time they seemed to be Emma's favourites rather than Henry's, although occasionally it would be something Emma hated (quite the achievement considering Emma's near-spiritual relationship with sugar). Emma kind of figured that it was some sort of cookie-related semaphore system in which Regina communicated her relative level of approval or disapproval through means of butter, flour, sugar and a dash of love or loathing. Based on the awesome triple-choc cookies that Henry had come home with yesterday, Emma figured she was safe to try to visit Regina today.

Emma drove carefully across town, walked up the path, checking for obstacles with each step, before arriving on the porch of 108 Mifflin curiously unscathed. She rang the doorbell and kept a wary eye out for flying donkeys, grenade-throwing unicorns and unexplained tectonic activity while she waited for Regina to answer.