Every night, it was exactly the same. Regina would roll over, body slicked with sweat, her once—immaculate hair sticking to her face. It was a wondrous sight, really, but Emma could never bring herself to fully enjoy it. Maybe it was because Regina always looked so irritated, or maybe it was because she never complimented Emma on her performance (feedback is important!) but either way, it made her feel dreadfully self-conscious.
"Regina," Communication was key in relationships, right? "can we...talk about something?"
Emma wasn't sure what reaction she was expecting, but it certainly wasn't a death glare and a condescending hairflip.
"What?"
Regina sounded exasperated, and Emma shrunk back immediately. Looking down, she toyed with the lace trim on the blanket, trying to work up the courage to actually talk about her feelings. She wanted to scoff at herself, because Emma Swan didn't talk about her feelings. She drowned them in alcohol and denial. That was better, safer, but she'd already walked into the issue and she couldn't back out now. Because if she did, Regina would find some roundabout way to call her a pussy, and that would bruise what little ego she had.
No, Emma couldn't have that. So she took a deep breath, looking up and trying to ignore the irritated look on Regina's face.
"It's just...I mean, I don't know. You just...never seem very satisfied."
The words hung in the air, and Regina merely raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
"What are you talking about? Dear, it would take more effort to fake it than to tell you what you were doing wrong."
Emma's eyes widened, and she was left speechless. Well, at least her technique was on point.
"No, I know. That's...that's not what I mean."
Emma trailed off, thoughts jumbled in the wake of Regina's...brutal honesty.
"Spit it out."
"You just seem...uninterested!"
Maybe that wasn't the right word, Emma thought, biting down hard on her lip and turning away. It was close enough, because Emma couldn't remember a time when she'd seen enthusiasm light up Regina's face. She came, of course (at least she wasn't faking it), but it almost seemed like she was doing it out of the sheer necessity for physical intimacy. The thought was enough to make her want to bolt out of the Mills mansion and never look back.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Swan."
Really? Emma raised her eyebrows in disbelief. Did she just call her Miss Swan? Like they were back to day one, when Emma was cutting branches off Regina's precious apple tree with a chainsaw. Like they hadn't been fucking for months, like they hadn't done a lot of things…
"I'm sorry, are we only on a first name basis when my head is between your legs, Madam Mayor?"
Regina's face became a canvas of emotions. Among them, Emma pinpointed anger, disbelief, and a trace of sadness that made her feel just a little bit guilty about bringing up the issue. Emma expected to be yelled at, or scolded, or something. Anything to break the silence was welcome, but instead of noise, all she got was a shrug.
A fucking shrug.
"That's it? That's all? You're not going to say anything?"
Regina made a show of sighing and throwing her hands up in defeat,
"What is there to say? You're insecure about your…" she waved her hands about, pretending to search for the right word, "abilities. But trust me, dear. You do just fine."
Emma knew she was being placated, and it almost hurt, almost, but then Regina smiled and moved closer. There was nothing incredibly sincere about her expression, and Emma opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by Regina's mouth on her own.
"Regina-"
"I said you're doing fine. I don't want to discuss this anymore. Go to sleep."
A harsh bite on her bottom lip, and Regina shoved her away. Rude, Emma thought, staring at her as she turned over onto her side. She was facing away from her, something she never did. Emma groaned, knowing she should have just slid out of bed and scoured the streets for a 24-hour liquor store.
"Fine. Have it your way," she grumbled, pulling the blankets up to her head.
Communicating fucking sucked.
Emma had made sure to be up and out of Regina's bed before the other woman could even open her eyes. It was a difficult task, because Regina was an unusually like sleeper. Emma had found that out the hard way (during the early days of their affair when Regina had referred to her as Miss Swan), when she managed to trip over her own clothes while getting out of bed. Regina had been terribly put-out when she'd woken up, and didn't hesitate to give Emma quite the earful.
"I'm not like your one-night stands, Miss Swan" she'd said, "at least say goodbye."
There had been a hint of desperation in her voice, and Emma felt so guilty afterwards that she actually spent money on flowers and had them delivered to Regina's office. In hindsight, she found her attempt at an apology pathetic, and so did the mayor, because she found the bouquet of roses stuffed in a trashcan outside of Granny's.
Ouch.
It was the last time Emma ever paid $40 for flowers.
With that painful memory in mind, Emma did her best to slip from the bed unnoticed. She was excessively conscious of the way the bed dipped when she shifted her weight, and she was sure she heard Regina stir-her heart raced for that split second, eyes shut tight, and she was sure she'd fucked up again-another second passed, and there was silence. Emma swallowed an exhale of relief, standing on unsteady legs.
Clothes, clothes, clothes, she thought, looking wildly, blindly around the room. She hated the blackout curtains Regina insisted on having, she hated not waking up to some fucking sunshine. Regina kept her room looking like a crypt, and with a glance over her shoulder in the woman's direction, she scowled openly. Miss Crypt Keeper, she quipped, chuckling mentally at her snark. Her eyes were wide, struggling to adjust to the darkness of the room. A part of her wished Regina's desire for order and neatness transferred over to their bedroom activities. She imagined the mayor slowly stripping Emma of her clothes, folding each article with practiced precision.
It would make sneaking out at the crack of dawn so much easier.
Instead of looking around, blind as a bat like an idiot, Emma decided to rely on touch instead. Bending down, she reached out and her fingertips brushed against fabric. A fucking pile of fabrics. Among them, she felt the soft silk of Regina's blouse, the cotton of her blazer, and finally at the very bottom, a pair of jeans. Yes, Emma thought, knowing it would only be a matter of time before Regina's alarm clock went off. Technically, Regina wasn't really considered mayor anymore, so technically she didn't have to be at her office so early. But she always did, a habit she couldn't really bring herself to break. It was a little sad, and Emma briefly thought of Regina cooped up in her office, sifting through papers that she'd already filed months ago.
Shit, Swan, don't bum yourself out.
She picked up her jeans with shaking fingers, and smoothed them out. One leg at a time, Emma struggled to balance. She cursed herself for wearing jeans so fucking tight, but somehow she managed to get her ass into them without falling flat on her face. Shirt, shirt, shirt, Emma can't find the damned white tank top among the pile of discarded pieces of Regina's powersuit. She wondered-fleetingly-if grabbing Regina's silk blouse would be a bad idea. It wouldn't be the first time she'd pilfered a garment from the mayor. She risked a glance at the digital clock on Regina's bedside table, and the obnoxiously bright red letters read 6:45 a.m. Fifteen minutes until the thing started screaming.
Think fast, Swan.
Throwing a glance at Regina over her shoulder, Emma picked up the garment and slid it on fast. The material felt like heaven, and she fastened the buttons as fast as her fingers would allow. Finding her boots was easier-those were by the door, mingling with Regina's stilettos. She pulled them on, and god, she knew how much Regina hated them. And her red pleather jacket, which was downstairs hanging off the coat rack.
She grabbed it, and was gone.