A/N- Short fluffy one shot same universe as 'Counting Coffee Cups' and 'St. Baldrick's Day'. Enjoy with a smile and a cup of cocoa.
Long slim fingers move with certainty through the gooey paste. Regina is just finishing incorporating the hot oil so the smallest chef in the kitchen can take a turn mixing (more like playing with) the masa, when you sneak up behind her. Wrapping your arms around her slim waist, you nestle your face into her neck and give her a small kiss.
"How're the tamales coming?" You ask directly into her ear.
"Great as always." She replies smiling as you continue kissing up her neck to the underside of her jaw- you know from experience that neck kisses are her weakness, they're how you got her to agree to letting you keep your Bug, "No amount of attempted seduction will buy you a ticket into my kitchen." She warns.
You groan and halt your kissing. You've been married for twelve years, dated for four before that, and in all sixteen of those Christmases, she has never let you anywhere near the preparation of the sacred tamales. Now your son is about to usurp you in being allowed to touch the tamales before they've been cooked through.
"Ok Henry! You're up, just mix this masa for me so I can measure the salt." Regina says, wiping her hands on a towel and sliding the bowl across the counter to Henry. He is perched upon a stool and doesn't hesitate to dive in and begin running his fingers through the paste.
Regina spins in your arms and gives you her look. Your wife has many looks, and while you've become an expert in all of them, this one is by far your favorite and the one you get most often. It's her, 'stop messing around, there's serious work to be done' look and it can generally be combated with attacking her with tickles or kisses. Because of the presence of your son, you chose the former.
Sneaking the fingers of one hand up the back of her shirt, you ghost your nails over her perfect back until the look melts into a barely contained grin and Regina is trying to push away your teasing hand.
"Emma! Stop it, I have to measure the salt and baking powder." She complains, giggling.
You relent and extricate your hand- it's a rare occasion the powerful brunette is reduced to giggling- but don't remove your arms from trapping your wife.
"You forgot the magic word." You chide playfully.
Ever quick, Regina's comeback takes no hesitation, "You mean celibacy?" She asks with a teasing glint in her deep brown eyes.
Your jaw nearly drops to the floor as both of you shoot a quick glance at your son. Thankfully, the six year old seems more preoccupied with the job of mixing he's been entrusted with than whatever his mothers are doing a few feet away.
"That's just mean." You shoot back, "I was going for something more like please."
"Please don't give me reason to become celibate?" She teases.
"Like you could resist all of this." You smirk and look down at yourself.
"Want to bet?"
"Fine." You finally relented and allowed your wife to slip past her on her way to the pantry.
You watch her as she rocks forward on her toes to rummage around the top shelf for the supplies she needs. Just as you were getting lost in the perfect curve of her calves, a tornado of curls collides with you own and nearly topples you to the ground.
"Peanut!" You call excitedly, reaching down to swing the little girl up and into the air. You throw her up before catching her again, reveling in her squeal of delight and your wife's resulting glare of caution.
She communicated her entire 'be careful, the kids aren't shatter-proof' speech in one raised eyebrow as she returned to the island to sprinkle a bit of salt into the mix.
You rest your daughter down on the island, finger combing her soft curls that are growing at an alarming rate. She's a miniature of Regina, and she's had you wrapped around her little finger since she was born three years ago.
Once the salt has all been added, Regina addresses your daughter, "Do you want to help with the tamales, Charlotte?"
The girl nods happily, and Regina picks her up and sets her up on a stool beside her brother.
"Oh come on, she gets to help and I don't?" You whine jokingly.
Regina makes sure that Charlotte isn't going to slip off her stool before crossing the kitchen to step back into your hold. She wraps her arms around your waist and nestles her head onto your shoulder.
You breathe in her shampoo, missing the familiar scent. Regina had been on the campaign trail for a while, trying to raise support for her run for Senate, and she was on a rare break. Granted, you had seen her more recently, but not like this.
Never like this, wearing simple black yoga pants, and an old, ratty Dartmouth shirt, her contacts swapped for her thick framed glasses, her hair thrown up haphazardly in a bun with bits escaping, completely barefoot so she's finally the proper half a foot shorter than you and you can rest your chin on top of her head.
This is how you like her best.
Not that you aren't also, completely and helplessly in love with the other her. The powerful circut judge who soon became one of the youngest women ever to run for federal office. The her that wears power suits and has an icy glare strong enough to scare any seasoned politician.
While you've been watching her, she's been watching your kids.
Charlotte has abandoned the masa entirely and has instead made it her mission to dab tiny splotches of the mix on Henry's face when he's not paying attention. Henry's playing along and letting his sister paint him with the squishy masa and they're both giggling adorably.
"Our kids are perfect." Regina sighs, turning her head to press a kiss into your neck.
"You're perfect."
"You're not too bad yourself."
It's moments like this that make everything else worth it. The long days on the campaign trail, being her arm candy at various political rallies, late nights waiting for her to return from speaking engagements, and getting used to playing the role of the single parent during countless bedtime routines.
"I love you." You whisper in her ear.
"I love you too, baby."
You love this nickname, because she saves it for the most perfect of moments. It's moments like this what makes you want to write the poetry you've become known for.
You're drawn from your reveire by a high pitched squeal from the island, you whip around ready to charge to the rescue. But to your relief, you see Charlotte, perched high on her stool with a wide dimpling grin on her face, Henry beside her, has a large glop of masa on his nose and a matching grin.
Wordlessly, you release Regina and she moves to wet a paper towel to wipe off Henry, and you round the island to lift a still giggling Charlotte onto your hip and carry her to the sink so you can rinse off her hands.
It's a well rehearsed dance that you two have perfected over the years, and one you anticipate continuing for years to come. You're struck in moments like this with the love you've managed to build here. It's a love you had never anticipated knowing and now can't imagine your life without.