Warning for a brief reference to a racist comment.
Emma comes up to her at the start of the next dance lesson with a casual, "Hey," and when she turns around the other woman is standing there with her hands in her pockets as usual. She doesn't look upset, but her expression is neutral, perhaps a bit guarded.
Slowly, Regina nods. "Hey," she says, and it's mostly surprise (and perhaps a bit of mockery).
"So, we good to be partners still, or are you afraid someone will mistake us for friends?" Regina's brows jump at Emma's bluntness, and her words. "Look," Emma holds a hand out low, and steps closer so she can talk quietly. "I know a lot of people way more messed up than you, myself included," she offers a self-deprecating smile. "So I get the whole pushing people away thing, alright?"
She's waiting for Regina to respond, but she's a bit speechless in the moment at being called on her behavior. Something that not even Kathryn or Marian have the stomach to do.
"We good?" Emma asks again, and this time Regina clears her throat and nods.
"Fine."
"Good," Emma nods sharply, and drops her hand to her side. She's wearing her usual skinny jeans, but has forgone the flat boots for heeled booties, and the height it puts her a bit taller than Regina. "So, if I let you lead are you gonna talk to me without freaking out?"
In less than a month Emma Swan has managed to pinpoint far, far too many of the things about herself she doesn't examine.
But two can play at that game, and gesturing toward the door to the studio, Regina crosses her arms over her chest. "I suppose that depends. If I do, are you going to run again?"
Emma purses her lips to suppress a smile, and slides one hand out of her back pocket. "Truce?" she asks, and Regina takes it slowly.
"Mmm," Regina hums in confirmation, and tries not to think about how different it feels to take Emma's hand like this, to hold it for a moment with that as the sole purpose of the contact.
Mary Margaret starts the class, and Regina drops Emma's hand, putting a bit of space between them as they spread out for instructions. She gives a refresher on the foxtrot with David, and Regina does her best to focus, even though she can feel Emma sneaking a few looks her way.
When Mary Margaret directs them to get into their pairs, Regina turns and holds up her arms for Emma to step into her space, and follow.
It's a bit shocking, how quickly calling the other out seems to put them on solid ground. In another relationship, Regina could imagine pinpointing a person's faults would serve to distance people; not serve to make them more comfortable.
And yet their exchange seems to have done just that. Once Emma settles her hand on Regina's arm and they begin to move in time with the music, they manage to fall right back into an easy sort of rhythm. Though this time they keep their conversation to a minimum.
The room seems warmer than usual and by the time they complete the feather finish they've just learned, Regina's face is warm from exertion.
"So," Emma starts as her arms fall to her side, and Regina brushes her hair away from her neck. "Next week is the tango."
Regina catches her eye as she begins to move toward her things, Emma following silently. "Now, Miss Swan, it hardly seems fair for you to share such secret information just because we're partners," she raises a brow in gentle mockery, and picks up her jacket and purse before stepping back from the table.
Emma rolls her eyes. "I'm just saying, you might want to consider the pants thing. Or a looser skirt." Before she can respond, Emma pulls her long-sleeved shirt over her head, leaving her in a plain white tank top. And leaving her arms very, very bare. Regina had noticed that Emma seemed to have a bit of muscle there, could feel it when they danced. But the sight is unexpected, and—she's loathe to realize—not unpleasant in the least.
"I'll keep that in mind," she manages to say evenly, and when she looks up to Emma's face the other woman doesn't seem to have noticed a thing. Good.
"A few of us are going to get a bite down the street again. Any chance you wanna come with this time?" Emma pulls her own messenger bag from the table, and slips it over her head, stuffing her shirt in the main pocket.
Draping her coat over her arm as she puts her purse on her shoulder, Regina raises her brows a bit in surprise. "After last week I'd assumed your invitation had been rescinded for good."
"Let me be clear," Emma holds up a hand. "I'm asking you as my partner, not as a friend," she teases, and Regina presses her lips together to stop a smile. "And I'm prepared to let everyone know it if they so much as look at us like we're anything more than acquaintances."
She breathes out in exasperation at Emma's overzealous behavior. "Yes, well as tempting as that offer is," she pulls her phone out of her purse to check the time, "I really must be going."
"Is someone giving you hell about our non-existent friendship? Put me on the phone, I'll set them straight."
"Good night, Miss Swan," she bites out as she heads for the doorway, the sight of Emma's proud smile lingering in her mind.
Marian and Kathryn have been blissfully quiet about her dance classes since their ambush in Marian's kitchen. Their friendship had recovered by the Monday following, both women having stopped by her office with coffee and made one last brief comment—"Whatever makes you happy, Regina," from Marian while Kathryn had smiled her patient smile—before they'd promptly redirected the conversation to a new client and let the matter drop.
And let it rest for nearly three weeks with little more than acknowledgement of her class to deal with the logistics.
Now it's the Tuesday before her fifth class—the tango, as Emma had reminded her—and when Marian asks about picking Henry up again, she can't help but think about the upcoming lesson.
"Yes, thank you," Regina nods, and lifts her sandwich off of her plate. "This should be his last week of fencing before it's finished for the school year," she adds, and takes a bite.
"Don't remind me," Marian winces. "Once Roland's out for the year Robin and I are supposed to take him camping. He's already counting down the days."
"I thought you enjoyed camping?" Kathryn asks from her spot, shifting to cross her legs beneath the table.
"I do, but the new hire is nowhere near ready to take my ad campaigns while I'm out which just makes it all a mess." She breathes out in exasperation, her lips puffing out with the effort. "I'm going to come back to at least five voicemails demanding an update, I just know it." Marian picks up a spoonful of her soup and lowers her voice as she adds, "And we all know who one of them will be from," before she takes a bite, trying to hide a smile.
Kathryn covers her mouth a bit to hide her own smile, and looks to Regina. "I think we do," she teases, and Regina makes a small frown, unamused.
"And I suppose I should take the blame for that?"
"Well you were the one that stepped on his toes," Kathryn murmurs into her own food.
"After he stepped on mine, you might recall," Regina raises a brow, but her cheeks warm a bit at the memory.
"Speaking of," Marian interjects, "how are the classes going?" Her question is earnest and a bit tentative as though she's trying to make it clear she doesn't mean to pry.
Kathryn watches Regina at the question, and Regina nods, setting her sandwich down. "They're going well. We finished the foxtrot last week."
"We? As in the class or—" Marian gives Kathryn a hard look, cutting off her question.
"It's alright. The class, I meant." Clearing her throat, she picks a carrot stick up, and holds it. "But Emma is still my partner, if that's what you've been wondering."
"We have," Kathryn leans forward a little, and Marian does the same, a bit more reluctantly. "And?"
"And that's still it." A part of her would like to tell them about Emma coming back after she'd snapped, but it feels oddly private, not to mention the fact that they would likely take it as an admission that she was, in fact, developing some sort of feelings for the other woman. That things were not as clinical as she had claimed.
"Our next class is the tango," she offers instead, and Kathryn breaks into a wide grin, joined by Marian a moment later.
"You mean the dance of love?" Marian gets out through a big grin, her soup promptly ignored in favor of the new conversation.
Regina's eyes flutter in irritation, and she rests her forearms on the table, dropping her carrot back to the plate. "Yes, you've caught me; I'm in love with Emma Swan." Both women laugh, and Regina can't help but crack a smile in response.
Kathryn leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. "Well, love or not, it's also a dance of passion and control," her eyes glint mischievously in the soft light of the restaurant.
"You need to stop purchasing grocery store romance novels, dear," Regina says with a plastic smile.
"I'm just saying, if you're not interested in anything serious," Regina narrows her eyes in warning, "then it wouldn't hurt for you to have some fun." She lifts her glass of water, and rests one elbow on the table. "Right, Marian?" she asks, looking for backup.
"What are you going to wear?" Marian asks instead.
"Why is there such an obsession with my clothing for this dance? First Emma and now you." Pushing her plate away from her, she reaches for the check left on the edge of the table during their conversation and murmurs, "It's as though you've all forgotten I'm taking these classes to learn."
"Emma has an obsession with your clothes?" Marian smirks.
"She told me to wear pants. Or a looser skirt. It wasn't a come-on."
"Uh huh," Kathryn says, unconvincingly. "You should wear that red dress."
"Yes," Marian agrees, eyes wide. She stands up from the table and slips her purse over her shoulder. "The chiffon."
"If Emma doesn't have a fixation now, that one would do it." Kathryn stands up and follows Marian toward the door, Regina behind her.
"We'll be taking separate cabs back to the office," she says, flatly.
"So, when I said you should wear pants, I meant something a bit easier to move in," Emma whispers as Mary Margaret runs over some of the basics.
"My movement will be fine, Miss Swan. Assuming you let me learn the steps," she hisses back, and runs her hands self-consciously over the brown skinny trousers. She tries to tune back in to what Mary Margaret is demonstrating.
Eyeing Emma out of the corner of her eye, she scoffs, "Besides, if you can manage to bend your knees in those leggings, I think I can manage."
Emma laughs before pressing her lips together to quiet herself. "I just mean, sweat pants would be a lot more comfortable, I bet."
Turning to look at Emma, Regina narrows her eyes. "Have you placed some sort of bet on if you could get me into exercise pants?"
"Emma?" Mary Margaret calls from the front, and the rest of the students turn to look their way. "Do you or Regina have a question?"
Regina's jaw clenches at being called out, and Emma shifts away from her a bit like she's been caught. "We're good," she holds up a hand as she gives Mary Margaret a bashful smile, and drops her shoulders when the lesson continues.
"You got me into trouble," Emma says after a moment, leaning over and being sure to keep her voice low.
Indignation flares in Regina's chest at the blatantly inaccurate description of events, but when she turns her head sharply Emma is smirking as she keeps her eyes focused on the front of the room. Eyes narrowing a bit dangerously as she catches on to Emma's teasing, Regina clasps her hands in front of her and redoubles her focus on Mary Margaret.
"So we're going to go slow, slow, quick-quick, slow," she explains, David walking her back, back, back, to the side, and back as she speaks. "OK, and now with our partners."
The class begins to pair up, and Emma steps toward her, taking Regina into her arms with none of the hesitancy of the previous classes. Her movements are sure and smooth, and when Emma's fingers settle on her shoulder blade she breathes out through her nose, slowly.
Mary Margaret starts the music, and Emma clasps Regina's hand. "Ready?" she asks, and when Regina nods she takes a step forward, Regina following as she leads them back.
And back, and back. They're moving swiftly, and for the first time in a month they don't take these first steps slowly. Instead their steps are sure and so naturally in time from the first that it makes Regina swallow hard, her mouth feeling a bit dry.
Emma's palm feels hot on her back through her thin silk shell, and when her fingers curl over her shoulder blade to redirect her, she feels the warmth sinking into her skin. When their steps begin to turn them, Regina can feel the muscles beneath Emma's skin shift and tighten, guiding her as much with her arm as her hand.
They're closer than they've been for the other dances, too; Regina can feel the way their chests almost brush, and their hips start to move in sync.
"Looking great!" Mary Margaret's high voice cuts over the music, and Regina snaps out of her thoughts with a start. Dropping Emma's hand, she steps away from her partner to listen, trying not to acknowledge the way her skin still tingles.
"Now for the promenade step," Mary Margaret begins, "we're going to be stepping side-by-side with our partner. Gentlemen, you're going to lead your ladies into this move by turning them with your right hand on their shoulder blade.
"You'll take two side-by-side steps," David moves with her, once again at her side to demonstrate. "Then men, you're going to pivot your partner back to face you, and take a quick step back and to the side, and then a tango close with your feet together." She turns to face the class, and David moves back to his partner. "Alright, let's try it."
Again, Emma steps back into Regina's space, taking her into her arms and tugging her close. Extending her arm a bit she puts pressure on Regina's hand as she leads them into the beginning of the promenade step once, twice, and then her fingers are insistent as they put pressure on her back, pivoting her.
Emma's pressure is firm but not demanding, and Regina can't help but think of the way Kathryn's eyes had lit up as she'd told her the dance was about control. It's a word that echoes in her head as Emma directs her back and to the side, and then starts the steps again.
She leads Regina smoothly, powerfully, and when her foot lands just a bit unsteady on the close, her dress pants aren't to blame.
"Again?" Emma's voice is low and rich when she whispers the question in Regina's ear. She hasn't realized how close their faces are, that Emma's cheek is just a breath shy of her own.
"Yes," she nods in response, her fingers pressing hard into the back of Emma's hand as she realizes she can smell Emma's shampoo, they're so close.
They continue to move together, not even breaking apart when Mary Margaret explains new steps, just pausing in their movement.
And Regina is caught in a slew of half-formed thoughts and concerns, floating in until Emma tugs her closer and pivots her. Emma's ankle brushes against Regina's, catching it playfully as her hand drifts from Regina's shoulder to the center of her back.
This isn't what she's here for, Regina tries to remind herself, even as she gets caught up in the rhythm, in the feel of Emma all around her. Because Emma is so surprisingly, unexpectedly comforting and challenging all at once.
She's her partner and feels like her partner in a way Regina hasn't experienced since Daniel. And it's such a heavy, unwelcome thought. What's developing between them is physical on the surface—they've barely had a half-dozen conversations—but there's a dangerous feeling of potential in their interactions.
"Should I even bother inviting you out after class?" Emma murmurs, the time on the wall clock nearly showing 8. They're still dancing, though, Emma's hand still clasped tight around hers.
Regina swallows, and tries not to think about her meddling friends encouraging her to have fun, to be happy. She is already, as much as she thinks she can be, with her son that has finally returned to her and her friends that push but don't push too hard when it matters.
That rich sense of potential is what spooks her. Because even if she was perhaps starting to consider the sort of physical fun Kathryn has been urging—and the heat racing up Regina's spine and the way Emma's sure steps had left her growing slick between her thighs says that she is—she can't. Because she has a growing suspicion that fun might become something more, something deeper. And she still doesn't know how her son would react to her dating. She can't—won't—risk her relationship with Henry.
"No," Regina murmurs, and she can feel Emma laugh against her temple.
"As partners, remember? To preserve that whole ice queen thing you seem to prefer."
Regina bites back a smirk, before licking her lips and pulling back. Once they've stopped dancing, she meets Emma's eyes and says evenly, shoulders squared, "I have a teenage son at home."
"Oh," Emma replies, surprise plain on her face. They're still in their dance frame, hands clasped together, and she can feel when Emma flexes her hand.
"Oh?" Regina prompts.
Shrugging, Emma takes a step forward, restarting their dance. "I'm just surprised, is all. You don't seem old enough to have a kid, let alone a teenager."
Brow raised, Regina tilts her head back to look at Emma. "And I suppose you intended that as a compliment?"
"Guess it wasn't a very good one," she smiles. They continue to dance, finishing out a combination before Emma's eyes fall to the floor and she asks—in what Regina assumes to be an attempt at nonchalance—"So does your partner not like to dance? 'Cause most people that aren't single come here with someone else."
"I don't believe I said I wasn't single," she says carefully, and watches as Emma's gaze meets hers again. Emma doesn't push at that, though Regina hasn't exactly answered the unasked question. But Daniel's ring burns hot against her sternum, tucked under her shirt, and she has no interest in baring herself further to this woman who is neither her friend nor anything else that would qualify for personal information. Or, perhaps Emma will think she's not available and quash that dangerous potential before it grows.
Nodding sharply, Emma tugs her closer again, until they are back where they'd been, with Emma's cheek almost brushing hers. "Guess you didn't," Emma whispers, and her breath ghosts over Regina's ear.
Perhaps not.
Regina barely makes it through the second tango class. For as close as they'd been the first time, Regina thinks they're somehow closer now. And, quite frankly, she's not sure she means solely in a physical sense.
Emma is following this time, her hand resting on Regina's shoulder and her fingers wrapped around Regina's hand. Her shoulder blade feels sharp beneath Regina's palm and when her fingers ghost over the dip of her back—turnabout's fair play, after all—she thinks she can feel the notches of Emma's spine. For all of Emma's lean muscle and length, she does somehow feel small against Regina as they dance.
In addition, it's another hour of being pressed against one another—of Emma's breath on her skin and her smell in her senses and her slightly-rough-when-she's-whispering voice in her ear.
And it somehow feels even deeper, now that Emma knows about Henry, knows she's a mother. A fact that can usually deter those looking for a more stringless sort of fun. Not that Emma has indicated she is, exactly. There's been flirting between them for weeks, but Emma hasn't made any sort of intentions known, which is probably for the best.
"Your kid could come, too, you know," Emma offers as they pick up their things following the class.
"He's thirteen, and it's a school night," Regina raises her brow, pushing her hair away from her neck and trying not to shiver when she thinks of Emma's fingers brushing against her skin.
"He could be sick tomorrow," Emma grins obnoxiously, and Regina rolls her eyes.
"I'm not going to let him skip school to take him out to a run-down diner with a bunch of strangers. Besides, he's already had dinner," she slides her purse onto her shoulder and stands in front of Emma.
"What about a milkshake?" Emma teases, but relents at Regina's expression. "I guess you're one of those responsible moms," she gives an exaggerated sigh, but if Regina's not mistaken there's a bit of a frown on her lips when she says it. "He uh, he cooks? 'Cause I sure as hell couldn't at his age."
"He's at my friend's house." Emma's watching her carefully, and she begins to grow a bit uncomfortable under the scrutiny. "And I should be picking him up soon."
"Yeah, OK," Emma bobs her head and slips her hands into her back pockets. "I'll see you next week?"
"Of course, dear."
"You know, Marian and Robin said I can stay over whenever I want," Henry says from his spot in the passenger seat.
Looking over at her son, Regina smiles. "That was kind of them."
"Yeah." She can feel Henry's eyes on her, watching her closely.
Music plays softly from the radio, filling the car, but Henry's focus is making her a bit nervous. At a stoplight, she settles her foot on the brake and looks over at him. "Henry?" she prompts.
"I just thought you should know. Like if you ever wanna go out after your dance class with your friends." At Regina's confused expression, he shrugs. "I heard you telling Marian that your partner keeps asking you to join them.
"And," he shifts in his seat like he doesn't enjoy having a serious conversation with his mother. Which, to be fair, he likely doesn't. "You know you don't have to be with me all the time, right?"
The hurt stings sharply, before settling in her chest like a weight. "Oh," she says, and is grateful when the light changes so she can look away from her little boy. "Alright, Henry," she concedes, and hopes he can't hear the way her voice wavers just a bit at the rejection.
"Mom," he breathes out, "that's not what I mean. I don't want you to leave me alone." Regina glances at him out of the corner of her eye, and his head is downcast, his eyes on his hands in his lap. "I know that it hurt you when I ran away," he says carefully. It's a simplistic description of what he'd done—running away after finding out he'd been adopted had just been the start of him hating and distrusting her for two years—but she knows what he means. "I just mean, if you want to do other things sometimes, you won't lose me, OK?"
They're still blocks away from their house, but Regina's hands begin to shake a bit on the steering wheel. She turns down a side street and pulls over, and as soon as she has the car in park she turns to face her brave little boy. "I know, Henry," she says softly, and her smile is watery when she reaches across the console to cup his cheeks.
The truth is, she doesn't know, not really. Henry can't really know, either, but she appreciates the sentiment deeply.
And, truth be told, even if neither of them can know that things will stay the same between them—that they won't break again—she realizes how badly she needed to hear him say that it will. Smiling softly, she whispers, "Thank you, my little prince," before pressing a kiss to his forehead.
For a few days, she's allowed to think the worst is over, now that the class will be moving on from the tango. But when she checks the class schedule, the next lesson listed is the rumba, and bit of googling is enough to set her right back on edge.
"So this morning I got stuck in a bit of a YouTube loop," Kathryn says, walking through her office door with her phone in her hand.
Not looking up from her laptop, Regina murmurs, "A wonderful use of billable hours, to be sure."
Ignoring her, Kathryn continues, and pulls out the chair in front of Regina's desk. "Have you watched any of the rumba videos on there?"
At that Regina does glance up, and slips her glasses off of her nose. Clearly, telling Kathryn about the lesson topic was a mistake. "I can't say that I have," she says carefully.
With a wolfish grin, she hits the play button in the center of the screen and holds up the phone for her to see. "You do realize this is a beginner lesson," she says slowly, eyes not moving off of the video, as the dancers—well, grind is the only word that comes to mind.
"Oh, they're not any better," Kathryn raises a brow, before pulling the phone back.
Regina clears her throat, the thought of Emma pressed behind her tightly, hands on her hips as they gyrate like a couple of teenagers both off-putting and very, very enticing. "Yes, well you haven't met our instructor," she settles on, and puts her glasses back on her nose. "She's essentially a schoolmarm. I doubt our steps will be anything like that."
"Well I could meet her if Frederick and I—"
"Don't even think about signing up for this class until I'm finished." She levels Kathryn with a warning look. "It's bad enough you know that I need lessons, I don't need you to witness the humiliation."
Kathryn offers her a gentle smile, and sets her phone down in her lap, the video over. "For the record, you're a wonderful dancer and you didn't need to take lessons." Standing, she pushes the chair back into its place. "But since you are, and since Thursday is," she gestures to her phone, "you should wear the red dress."
"I'll see you at lunch," Regina ignores the advice, and Kathryn begins to head toward the door, smiling. "If you don't get fired before then for abuse of company resources."
While the lesson topic had been enough to set her on edge, Kathryn's video sharing had done an effective job of pushing her over. She's always been a bit of an over-researcher, but once she starts to watch a few clips on YouTube she—as Kathryn had put it—falls into the YouTube loop.
By the start of class on Thursday, she's not sure if she's excited for, or terrified of, what's to come.
As she's taking off the blazer she'd worn over her blue dress, she hears her cell phone beep with a new message. Red dress? is the short message from Kathryn. Pursing her lips a bit at her friend's persistence, she sends a short You saw me today. before setting her purse down on the table and draping her jacket beside it.
Her phone beeps again, and when she opens it there's a crying emoji. And then a second text comes with the same. Followed by a third text that reads: (The second is Marian.)
Before she can respond, she hears a familiar, "Hey," beside her. Sliding her phone into the pocket of her purse, Regina turns to face Emma, and can't stop her eyes from scanning her length when she sees her.
"Hello," she manages to husk out, and she hopes it sounds more mocking than awed. "That's quite a far cry from the jeans you're usually wearing," she comments on the dark pink—skin tight—dress Emma wears.
"Yeah," Emma agrees, and runs her hands over her thighs to smooth out the material. Her hair is curled more than usual, and when she looks down thick strands slip over her shoulders. "I had to come here from work," she explains.
Regina's brows creep up. "Really," Regina murmurs. Because the dress is form-fitting and a bit revealing, and Regina can only imagine what kind of career would force her to wear such an outfit.
"I'm a bailbondsperson," Emma smirks, and drops a slightly greasy bag on the table before reaching in. "Sometimes it's fastest to trick bail jumpers with a fake date. Donut?" she pulls one out of the bag and offers it to Regina.
"No thank you, dear. And yet I seemed like the spy to you? I believe you're describing a honeypot." Emma smirks at the term around a mouthful of donut, and Regina clears her throat a bit as the word charming springs to mind so inappropriately. There is powdered sugar falling to the neckline of Emma's dress, and Regina glances at it before she shifts on her feet. "How old was this date that he took you to a donut shop?"
Mary Margaret calls them to circle up, and Emma scarfs down the last of her food as they move to stand in their spots. Brushing her hands together before running them over the front of her dress and getting rid of the powder there, Emma smiles obnoxiously. "How do you know I didn't pick the place?"
Before they can continue the conversation, Mary Margaret starts the class, giving a bit of history of the rumba and then having David demonstrate with her.
And—schoolmarm or not—the choreography is every bit as intimate as the videos she'd watched online.
Regina's pretty sure she manages to keep a straight face—she has the mask of indifference perfected, after all—even as she swallows hard, all too conscious of Emma beside her. Close beside her. Close enough that she can feel her heat, and when she looks around she sees the rest of the room spaced in a much more reasonable distance.
Mary Margaret has them space out and go through the steps individually first—slow to the right, quick forward, quick back, slow to the left, quick forward quick back—and Regina is all too conscious of how her hips roll with the movement.
"OK, let's try in our pairs," Mary Margaret announces, and it feels like she's barely finished speaking before Emma's clasping her hands and tugging Regina into her space.
They're doing a different hold this time, Emma's hands are in each of her own—no shoulder, no back—and only at waist height. Emma's grip is firm but gentle, and when she takes her first step forward, Regina's eyes meet hers as she steps back to match the movement.
Where their tango the previous weeks had felt natural, this feels personal. There's less physical contact between them, but with the distance Regina finds herself watching Emma's face more, catching the way her eyes dip down to her lips, to her chest, to her hips, and back.
They continue the simple steps for a minute, maybe two, maybe five, before Emma lets go of one hand and spins her once before she holds her again. Mary Margaret hasn't taught this part yet, the spins, or the New Yorker that Emma leads her into before she pivots them and turns Regina out until they're side-by-side and Emma's hand is burning hot on her back.
She presses lightly, guiding Regina to take a step forward before she brings her back to their original position, hand in hand. Regina's eyes meet Emma's and they seem darker than usual. Regina can't look away and break their contact, she realizes, almost desperately. There is something almost urgent in the way Emma is looking at her, and her breath starts to come just a bit faster at the realization.
Emma's eyes drop to her lips again and then she's spinning Regina around, and they're pressed front-to-back. Emma's breasts are tight against her as her hips continue the figure-8 pattern with the basic steps, falling into sync with one another.
And oh, there is nothing juvenile about this. Logically, yes, she's knows that they are—still lacking a better term—grinding. But the hard press of Emma's hips against hers, the way her hands are wrapped around Regina's, the way Emma's breath ruffles her hair—it feels like so much more.
She knows now, without a doubt, that Emma is interested in her, too.
It's a long, slow moment of them wrapped in each other in every sense of the phrase, and then Emma steps back and away, and Regina's back stiffens with the absence as the music ends.
Regina feels a little breathless, heat settling low in her belly as she licks her lips and turns to face Emma, only then noticing the rest of the class. And the fact that they've all stopped their own choreography to watch them—Mary Margaret included.
"Emma," Mary Margaret breathes out, and she's smiling like a proud parent. "That was wonderful. Both of you," she adds, looking to Regina with an unusual sense of awe.
Regina drops Emma's hands, and stands up straighter, uncomfortable under so many watchful eyes. "I apologize for the disruption, please continue," she says coolly, as if she hadn't just lost herself in a moment with Emma a few seconds before. "I'm going to step out for a moment," she says lower, and steps through the double doors and into the hallway.
Once the metal click signals that the door has shut she breathes out a harsh breath, the sound a little jagged in the quiet, the muted sounds from the studio behind her the only other noise. She pushes her hair back from her face and shuts her eyes for a moment.
Whatever just happened with Emma was—is—a mistake. This isn't what she came here for, she reminds herself again, and it certainly isn't a fantasy she can indulge. Even if she isn't quite sure what that fantasy is. She just knows that it's dangerous, that it involves the potential for major disruption to her life.
And, perhaps, a vulnerability she never wants to experience again.
The doors open, and she knows that it's Emma even before the hey she whispers. Dropping her hands from her face, she opens her eyes but doesn't turn around. "Emma," she begins, and she's almost certain her eyes are red-rimmed from stress in this moment.
"Do you wanna blow off the rest of class?"
Regina's back straightens, and now she does look over her shoulder a little, confused. "Excuse me?"
Emma's arms are at her sides but her fingers are flexing like she's out of her depth in this moment. "We obviously have this one covered, right? We could go somewhere else," she kind of trails off, and Regina grits her teeth.
Because the temptation to leave with Emma is achingly strong. There is a large part of her that would love to listen to Marian and Kathryn, and let her indulge the chemistry between them.
And after that rumba she knows it would be so, so good.
But that hideous word potential still lingers over them—in the way that she thinks about Emma's touch and voice and smell of course, but her laugh and brashness and ability to see right through her, too.
Finally she shakes her head, her voice thick as she says, "I'm not sure that's the best idea."
Emma takes a few steps closer to her, her shadow long in the dim hallway, and settles her hands into fists at her sides. "Look, you're doing this to impress some clients, right?" Regina narrows her eyes, unsure where Emma is going with this. "If you're trying to woo them," she says pointedly, "they you're going to be far more successful if you look like you're actually enjoying yourself."
"Please make your point, Miss Swan."
"I think you need some real-world experience where we can do what we just did in there," she gestures with her thumb to the door behind her, "without a dozen people staring at us."
It's a dangerous concession, to agree to Emma's point, even if it's valid. Clenching her jaw in deliberation, Regina narrows her eyes as she looks at Emma. "I need to get home to my son," she says instead, ignoring Emma's argument for the moment.
"Saturday, then," she fires back, and smiles in a way that reminds Regina far too much of a golden retriever.
Slowly, Regina drops her arms and flexes her right wrist. There are so many reasons for her to say no, to protect herself and her life and say no to whatever this possibility is between them. It's the logical, responsible thing to do.
"There's a small club close to here, pretty low key."
"Ballroom?" Regina asks skeptically, not that she's actually considering Emma's suggestion.
Emma shrugs. "Salsa, ballroom. It's kind of a free-for-all."
"How appealing," Regina says dryly. The ballroom classes are enough to give her a comfortable foundation for future work events. It's why she'd signed up in the first place, and what she'll do to continue to learn. She doesn't need outside practice, even if it would be nice to have a dance floor a bit more accommodating. As well as a break from the fluorescent lighting and wall-wide dance mirror. And, perhaps, there was something to Emma's suggestion of dancing without an audience, especially after their display; she was already dreading going back into the room.
"Look, think of it like—like a field trip."
Regina can't help the scoff as she repeats, "Field trip?"
"Yeah," Emma takes a step closer, and the dimming hallway light casts a shadow over her face as she moves. "A field trip. To get you out in the right environment. You know, without Mary Margaret whispering how wonderfully we're doing every five minutes."
Regina purses her lips at the last comment, and Emma breathes out a small laugh to break the silence that falls between them. But she doesn't say anything more, doesn't push her further; she just stands there, waiting, with a sheepish smile on her face.
And despite all of that logic that tells Regina this isn't a good idea, she finds herself saying, "Alright," with a small nod of her head. "Assuming I can make arrangements for my son to stay with a friend."
"Of course," Emma bobs her head, and she smiles a bit softer. "So, uh, I guess we should get back in there?"
"I suppose so," Regina agrees, and takes slow steps toward the door. She can feel Emma fall into step behind her as they near, and when she pulls the door open she's positive Emma's hand glances her lower back for a brief moment.
"Henry, are you certain you're alright with this?" she asks, brows furrowed as she parks in front of Marian's house.
"I meant what I said, Mom," he smiles sweetly, and she is nothing but mixed feelings on her child growing up; she'd love nothing more than to keep him her baby forever, but she's more and more delighted to meet the man he's becoming. "You deserve to have fun with your friends."
She feels her face warm at the simple word and the memory of Kathryn urging her to a very specific sort of fun, and she gives Henry a weak smile. Then, bigger as she runs her hand over his hair gently. "You're my friend."
Henry laughs. "Yeah, and that's kind of sad." Before Regina can't respond he opens his door and steps out, swinging his backpack over his shoulder before he leans back down into the door frame. "Have fun," he smiles.
"I love you," she says before he can turn toward the house.
"Yeah," he nods, "I know. I love you too, Mom," and then he's slamming the car door and walking up toward Marian's door.
Regina watches to make sure he gets inside, but before he can knock the door opens, and Marian reaches out to squeeze his shoulder before she starts toward her car.
Sighing, Regina starts to roll the passenger window down as she approaches, and when she's close enough she leans on the frame as she ducks her head into the car. "So," she trails off, a knowing grin plastered on her face.
"Thank you for watching Henry tonight."
"Uh huh," she continues smiling.
"I'll let you know what time I'll be back."
"Uh huh."
Regina rolls her eyes. "You've been spending too much time with Kathryn, dear."
Ignoring the jab, Marian offers, "He's welcome to spend the night."
"Yes, he told me you offered that a few weeks ago." Eyebrows rising in warning, she gestures to the house when Henry is now. "Must I remind you that he's thirteen now, and likely old enough to pick up on what you're implying? You will not use my son in your childish teasing," she huffs, but her heart isn't in it.
Truthfully, she's too nervous by the change in topic to really lay into Marian.
"What are you wearing?" Marian asks, and pulls her phone up to take a picture of Regina, despite the trench coat she's wearing that covers her clothes completely.
"Marian," she clucks her tongue. "Your husband is right inside."
"Regina," Marian starts, letting her phone dip as she rests her arms down. "Are you wearing the red dress?"
"Please don't let Henry sit on his video game all night, his eyes need to rest," she changes the subject, and starts to roll the window up, making Marian jerk back out of the car.
"Regina!" Marian shouts as the window nears the top of the car door, and Regina smirks as she eases the car forward smoothly, resisting the strong urge to screech away.
They've agreed—via text, per Emma's suggestion at the end of the last class—to meet in the parking lot at the studio, on Saturday. After all, Regina had written, this is not a date when Emma had offered to pick her up.
Regina pulls into the nearly empty lot just before 8, and Emma is already there, leaning against the front bumper of a hideously yellow Volkswagen beetle.
And wearing a decidedly less hideous white silk dress. It's knee-length, and the sleeves hit mid-forearm, the neckline shooting straight across her collarbone in a tight line. Emma's hair is pulled back into a stylish ponytail, tendrils framing her face, and she stands up straighter when Regina pulls up beside her.
Cutting the gas, Regina parks and unties the belt of her jacket, the night air warm enough to leave it there and not deal with it wherever they'll be headed. Shrugging out of it, she opens her car door and stands up slowly, before picking up her clutch and closing the door a bit as Emma watches her. "You're rather dressed up for a field trip, Miss Swan," she raises a brow, and Emma takes a few steps to meet her.
Her eyes drop from Regina's face to the red chiffon dress she wears, lingering for a moment too long on the deep cut of the V between her breasts. The dress isn't exactly inappropriate—with the right blazer she could even wear it to work, in theory—but her arms are bare and the skirt only falls to mid thigh. A thin white belt accents the curve of her waist, and her hand falls to rest there as Emma meets her eyes again.
"I guess the same could be said for you," Emma tosses back, and Regina gestures to the passenger seat of her Benz.
"Shall we?"
"You don't know where we're going," Emma points out. "I'll drive," she tosses over her shoulder, and when she turns Regina sees the deep cut of the dress, and where it finally comes to a close just above her lower back.
Her argument dies on her lips, and she turns to lock the car door before walking over to the bug. Emma's standing on the passenger side, door open, and Regina murmurs, "Thank you," as she settles inside.
Emma rounds the front of the car as Regina pulls her door shut, and once Emma is inside she starts up the car. It struggles for a moment, and Regina struggles to stem her comment.
"It's not too late for me to drive, dear," slips out anyway, but Emma just ignores her, and starts to pull out of the lot. It's silent in the car, and Regina looks out of her window to see the city lights bright against the already-dark sky. "Have you been to this club before?" Regina finally asks, and Emma looks over at her before refocusing on the road.
She shrugs, and says, "Once or twice. Mary Margaret took me there the first time. Don't worry," she adds, and smirks as she looks over at Regina for a moment. "She won't be there tonight."
"Small blessings," Regina murmurs, and then silence settles between them until Emma turns on the radio. It's low, on some Top 40 station, and her feet start tapping lightly on the floor. Catching movement out of the corner of her eye she looks over at Emma, who has a small smile on her face. "What?" Regina asks, shifting her knees together a little self-consciously.
"Nothing," Emma says, but her smile grows and her eyes dart down to Regina's feet before she refocuses on the road.
There is a line outside of the club as they pull up, but it's short and moving quickly, so Regina imagines Emma's right that it won't be overcrowded. She hasn't gone out somewhere like this in years, always managing some excuse—generally Henry—when Marian and Kathryn try to drag her out.
"The Poison Apple," she reads the name of the club with distaste, a neon apple dripping with green in place of the O.
"We're already here," Emma defends, and pulls into one of the street spots just a block up from the doors. Shutting the car off, she opens her door, and slips her car key into a pocket of her dress before closing it. Regina steps out of the car on her side, and shuts hers, too. Carefully.
"A miracle the door didn't fall off as it shut," she murmurs, loud enough that Emma can hear as she comes to Regina's side.
"Hilarious," Emma says dryly, and waits for Regina to fall into step with her as they walk down the sidewalk and into the club.
It's not as trendy as it looked from the outside, Regina realizes with relief, and the dance floor has several couples salsaing in the space. She starts to move toward the floor, but Emma's fingers hook around her elbow. "Whoa," she tilts her head toward the bar on the other side, and says, "let's get a drink, first."
"I thought this was a field trip, Miss Swan," she quirks a brow in challenge, but Emma doesn't drop her arm.
"Yeah, but an adult field trip," she tugs a bit, not enough pressure to feel demanding, and Regina starts to follow her to the bar. "And you can knock it off with the 'Miss Swan' stuff any time, you know. We've been partners for over a month."
"Mmm," Regina murmurs but doesn't commit, and slips onto a stool by the bar, waiting for Emma to do the same.
"So, tell me about yourself, I guess," Emma says as she takes her seat, nodding to the bartender that catches her eye.
Regina breathes out a harsh laugh. "My, how successful you must be with those honeypots," she flips her hair over her shoulder and sets her forearms on the bar.
"Whoa, again," Emma holds up a hand, her eyes wide with offence. "This," she gestures between them, "is not me seducing you, OK. Let's make that clear, because my A game," she lets out a low whistle, and Regina quirks a brow.
"What can I get you?" the bartender asks as he slides down to their end of the counter.
"I'll have a McCutcheon neat," Emma looks over to Regina. "You?"
"And I'll have the same," she nods to the bartender. He turns to pour their drinks, and Regina can feel Emma's eyes on her as they wait. "What?" she finally asks.
But the bartender returns, and Emma tells him to open a tab before he heads to another customer. "Here," Emma slides Regina one of the glasses over to Regina and holds hers up. "To our partnership," she shrugs, and Regina sighs before reluctantly tapping her glass to Emma's.
"Our partnership," she agrees, and watches Emma as she takes a drink, the whiskey burning on its way down. Emma doesn't continue what she was saying, nor does she answer Regina's question. It's a bad idea to prompt her, she knows, and yet she runs her finger over the rim of her glass as she says, "You were saying about your A game, dear?"
Emma smirks at her and Regina turns her head to meet her eyes. "Are you asking for a demonstration?"
"Hardly," Regina scoffs, and takes another sip of her drink. Setting the glass down, she looks over to Emma again. "How does someone end up a bailbondsperson? It doesn't exactly scream career day."
"Yeah, you kind of fall into it. I had a buddy a few years back, turned me on to the job." Emma shrugs, and holds onto her glass with a tighter grip. "It just kind of stuck, I guess." Eyeing Regina for a moment, she looks down at her drink and adds, "Besides, prospects aren't great for a highschool-dropout-ex-con," before taking another sip. When she sets the glass down, she looks over at Regina steadily, like she's gauging her reaction.
Curious—if a bit thrown by the change in conversation—Regina prompts, "Yes, your friend mentioned that you made it a habit of running away from the police."
"Will?" Emma asks, brows raised. At Regina's nod, she shrugs. "Yeah, I was young and stupid. But I only had to get caught by a cop once before that life kind of lost its appeal."
"And now you're a bailbondsperson." Emma nods down at her glass, her fingers tracing the curve of the cup. "The other side of the law, I suppose."
Emma laughs. "Still a hell of a lot of running, though."
Regina can't help but look Emma over. "Well, I suppose that would explain the muscles," she says evenly, even as her body heats at the memory of Emma's arm beneath her hand.
"Yeah?" Emma looks up, and Regina can feel the way her back grows less tense. "You should see my abs," she smirks, and it's disgustingly charming.
Pursing her lips, Regina pushes the thought of her charm back. "And I see we have the 'A game'. However could I resist," she deadpans.
Emma opens her mouth like she's going to respond, but after a moment she closes it, and the flirtatious smile she's been wearing softens. "OK, so, you're a mother, you work at business consulting firm—whatever that entails—and you've got a thing for my arms." Regina can't help the low laugh she gives at that. "That's not a lot to know about a person after more than a month," Emma says, prompting her to answer the question from earlier.
"I'm afraid I don't see the problem, Miss Swan. After all, this is a field trip, not a date, if you'll recall."
Emma turns on her stool a bit until she's facing Regina, her eyes dropping down to the length of Regina's thigh, quite exposed by the high cut of the skirt. "My mistake," she says simply, but the words are physical, a caress over bare skin.
Emma leans more weight on her forearm and she licks her lips, but her eyes grow softer, not darker. "What's your son's name?"
Regina considers not answering. But the motherly pride part of her is too strong, and so she finds herself smiling wide as she says, "Henry."
"That's a good name," she nods, and there is nothing calculated or seductive about the way she's looking at Regina now. "He a good kid?"
"Yes," Regina answers automatically, not a doubt in her mind even after the mess they'd gone through. Emma's still watching her, as if waiting for her to continue. Unable to ignore the opportunity, she adds, "He's incredible; bright, creative, caring. And brave." Her smile is wide enough to make her skin ache with the pull, but she can't help herself. "He pushes himself constantly. Henry's always been a bit of a bookworm, but this year he's been taking fencing classes after school."
"Yeah?" Emma smirks. "Sounds like an awesome kid, Regina."
"He is," she nods. She hesitates for a moment, and then: "He even encouraged me to come out tonight. He wants me to have fun with my friends." She says the last word pointedly.
"Well, he'll have to be disappointed, then, 'cause I only see a dance partner, right here," Emma crosses her legs, and rests her chin on her hand, disrupting her smirk. Face growing more serious, she tilts her head a bit. "That's pretty amazing, though. You must be a hell of a mom, Regina."
Tears sting behind her eyes suddenly at the comment, one she wants to badly to deserve, but questions every day. She loves her son more than anything in the world, but the two years they'd spent in and out of therapy—and the cold shoulders and I hate yous and You're not my real moms that had cut like knives—make her doubt that her love is enough.
"I love him more than anything," is all she can offer, before she takes a long drink to finish her glass.
"He's a lucky kid, then." Emma isn't looking at her, just trailing fingers over her glass, and the comment doesn't feel flirtatious, or romantic; it feels sad. Regina turns her head to watch Emma. She's slouching, her back in that terrible shrug she seems to wear constantly. Emma seems quieter in this moment than she has in weeks, even with the heavy beat of the music all around them.
"Is he?" she asks, not quite sure how to respond. What Emma's not saying is loud, far too loud for this early in the night, and this soon into their relationship, whatever it may be.
"I've been an orphan my whole life, so I just mean, love is pretty much the jackpot, right?" Emma gives a tight-lipped smile. "What more is there to ask for?" she asks rhetorically, and finishes off her glass, too.
Emma gestures to the bartender for refills, and Regina leans forward, rolling her shoulders. Emma's admission is heavy, and she runs her tongue over her teeth as they sit in silence for a moment. She can feel Emma looking over at her out of the corner of her eye, and her skin begins to heat as she considers her next words. "So," she starts, "you've told me you're a high school-dropout-ex-con-orphan." Emma's jaw clenches a bit at the description. "My, my," she breathes, lips curling into a smile, "Your A game pitch is unique, I must say."
Emma breathes out a laugh, and quirks a brow. "Disarming, right?" she teases, but her eyes search Regina's for a moment. It is, Regina realizes, and her chest is rising with each breath as she holds Emma's gaze.
The bartender sets their drinks down, and Regina catches her bottom lip between her teeth briefly, before she clears her throat, the moment gone. "So, how on earth did you end up rooming with Miss Blanchard?"
"Fate, I guess," she laughs. "I was at a laundromat shortly after I got into to town, looking in the newspaper for a place. Mary Margaret lived nearby, and her apartment complex was having work done in their laundry room, so she had to use the one I was at. And it was weird, she saw me looking at ads, and it just kind of fell into place."
"You took a room with a complete stranger that approached you in a laundromat?"
"Crazy, right?" Emma laughs self-deprecatingly, and gestures for the bartender again. "I've lived worse places. I move around a lot, and I'm not crazy about signing long leases. Or leases in general." Emma shrugs, "Harder to pick up and make a fresh start."
Regina glances up at Emma, watching her as she stares ahead. Her words are concerning, her desire to be rootless, to not be tied down. To be ready to leave tomorrow.
"I don't know, it worked out, I guess," Emma adds.
Regina's stuck on her words, her desire for escape. But what being stuck means is unpleasant, and settles like acid in her stomach. Shaking her hair back over her shoulders, she says, "Save for the fact that she forces you to go to her classes."
"There is that," Emma nods once. "But look, we're out now, so that'll earn me some not-a-slouch points." The bartender settles in front of them again, and Emma holds up two fingers. "Tequila."
Regina eyes the bartender as he pours, before looking back to Emma. "For reference, when I'm wooing these clients of mine, I will likely be required to be at least relatively sober."
"Doesn't mean you have to be now," Emma grins, and slides one of the shots to her once the bartender sets them down. "Drink, and then we'll go do what we came here for."
"Wonderful," she murmurs into her shot glass, before tipping it back.
Emma does the same, and once she sets the empty glass down she slips from the stool to stand beside Regina. "C'mon," Emma taps her forearm gently. Picking up Regina's purse she hands it to the bartender to be put behind the counter, and then starts to walk toward the center of the club. "Have you ever been salsa dancing?" Emma asks over her shoulder when Regina follows, yelling a bit to be heard over the loud music as they pass a speaker on the way to the dance floor.
"Not specifically, no," Regina answers once they slow, and Emma turns to face her. "But I'm familiar with the dance," she says, as Emma slides a hand over her waist and pulls her closer in a way that's becoming so familiar.
"Perfect," Emma says softly, and takes Regina's hand with her free one before she leads them into step.
It's surprisingly easy to fall into the rhythm here, picking up where they'd left off at class on Thursday, and the week before, and the week before. They're so in tune these days, their feet moving in sync and their hips fitting together when Emma steps in close before she dips Regina back the smallest bit.
Her hair falls back over her shoulders and down, and when Emma pulls her back up she shakes it away from her face as Emma spins her quickly.
And again, and again, before she pulls Regina back to her, and her hand falls to the center of her lower back. The pressure there is so unexpectedly heavy, even with Emma's thin fingers and soft skin.
"I gotta say," Emma starts, and spins her again before tugging her back, "I'm not entirely sure why you're taking these classes."
Regina quirks a brow, and when Emma's hands slide from her back to take a hand in each of her own she tries not to shiver at the memory of their rumba. Smiling playfully, she pulls back long enough to spin Emma in return. They rotate again and again, and when the song ends, Regina settles closer to Emma once more. "I mean, you're a great dancer even when we start the lesson."
"As are you, Miss Swan," Regina replies smoothly, and crosses her arms to spin Emma, before she returns and does the same. "Exactly how many times has Miss Blanchard made you come to her classes?"
Emma laughs, and they turn out, away from each other before they resettle in their original position. "Enough," she says, closing one eye in an exaggerated wince. "And you're deflecting. For the second time tonight."
"Bailbondsperson and psychologist, my what a resume." Emma just continues to dance, Regina following her steps effortlessly. When Emma doesn't respond, she sighs a little. "There was an incident at one of our courting-the-client dinners," she starts. "A very important prospective company was our goal, and their CEO," Emma spins her, "Albert Spencer, was dancing with me.
"There may have been a slight misstep, which caused him to stumble a bit and step on my foot." She holds her head up high, even as shame heats her face. "Which may have elicited a similar response on my part."
Emma laughs, pushing Regina away to spin her, and bringing her back. "He stepped on you, so you stepped on him, seems reasonable."
"My heel fractured one of the bones in his toe." This time Emma's laugh is explosive, and Regina can't help but laugh in return. "He signed a contract with our company, though there's a chance it was under duress, fearing his life."
"My kind of woman," Emma breathes out on a laugh, and she must not have caught her own words, because she continues to chuckle softly, and hold Regina in her arms. "All of this because of one mistake?"
"A mistake that my entire office learned about in a matter of days," she sneers.
"God, you're a perfectionist, oh that makes sense."
Regina's eyes narrow. "Excuse me?"
"You can't stand that you made one mistake, so you're taking a three-month course to avoid another one?" Emma's eyes widen and she whistles low. "That's commitment."
"It's natural to want to excel at things, Miss Swan," she says defensively.
"Yeah, but it's also natural to make mistakes."
"Well that certainly seems to be something you would know about, given your past." Emma's face darkens, but she continues to hold on to Regina. To grip her hands and pull her close and when she resettles her hand on Regina's back, almost her hip, she looks up into Emma's eyes. "I'm sorry," she murmurs softly, almost swallowed in the music.
Emma doesn't say anything for a moment, but spins Regina to face away from her, and crosses her hands over Regina's waist still grasping Regina's hands. Their hips are snug and Emma's hands squeeze then settle on her hands. Breath ghosting over Regina's ear, Emma whispers, "'s OK," and her eyes flutter shut in response.
Emma's pressed tight against her, and she feels warm, so comfortably warm. Regina's not sure if it's the position—the way she can't see Emma from here—or the alcohol that has left her lips a bit looser than usual, but she finds herself volunteering, "My father loved to dance," over her shoulder.
"Yeah?" Emma asks, a bit wary.
"Mmm," she murmurs. "When I was little he used to dance with me while he cooked." Emma doesn't say anything in response, but she pulls back to spin Regina around to face her. "He loved listening to Latin music in the kitchen," she looks into Emma's eyes, a smile growing on her lips. "Mother hated the noise," she quotes her mother dryly, "but she was so rarely anywhere near that part of our house."
"Not much of a cook?"
Regina laughs, a smile breaking over her face. "Not at all." Emma spins Regina around, and Regina does the same, back and forth a few times. When they resettle, Regina looks out over Emma's shoulder, and says softly, "I used to love to watch him cook, and dance. He was so full of joy so much of the time." Emma pulls her closer, and she slides her hands to rest on Emma's shoulders, her cheek resting against Emma's. "When I was really little, he'd put me on his feet, and spin me around."
"He sounds wonderful, Regina," Emma whispers into her hair, and she hums.
"He was."
"When did you lose him?" Emma's question is soft against her skin, but her voice cracks with the heaviness of the topic.
The word lose registers like a heavy rock in her stomach, and she grips on to Emma tighter. "When I was twenty."
"I'm sorry," she strokes her fingers over the bare part of Regina's lower back. "Do you still have your mother?"
The question is simple, and Regina registers the meaning, but she can't help the bitter laugh that slides past her teeth. Had she ever had her mother? "No, she passed a few years ago as well."
Emma doesn't apologize again, and Regina is grateful. Instead she continues to keep Regina tucked into her, moving softly even as the music beats heavy.
"Thanks for answering," Emma finally whispers, and when the music starts to fade out and change, Emma resettles her hands on Regina's waist. She pulls them together again and Emma's thighs land a bit off-center, on either side of her right leg.
Regina's breath catches as she recognizes the position, of Emma's intention with the heavier, richer song, and she's embarrassed at the little gasp that sounds from her.
For a moment they stay like that, not moving, not dancing. And then Emma starts to lean in, closer and closer until her forehead rests against Regina's. Putting just a of pressure on Regina's right hip, she starts to sway them, moving with the music as their hips slide together.
Eyes fluttering closed, Regina breathes out, and presses her fingers harder into Emma's shoulders. She can feel Emma's hot skin beneath a few of her fingertips, where they curl over the fabric of her dress to her bare back.
Their movement is hypnotic, and she's lost so quickly in the feel of Emma's hands on her hips, her lower back. The feel of their thighs pressed together, the way their skirts slip over each other with the silky fabrics for long, long minutes.
Emma's hand slides up from Regina's waist to her back, bared by the cut of the dress. And then she's dipping Regina, taking her time with it. Her eyes open at the movement, and her hands slide up to the back of Emma's neck. When Emma pulls her back up, she's wearing a dopey smile.
Emma leans in again, her cheek brushing against Regina's lightly. "For the record," she whispers, "this is my A game."
Regina wants to glare at her for the teasing, for the way she's made Regina feel so breathless. For the slick heat she can feel between her thighs. But instead she just murmurs, "I see," and Emma—infuriatingly arrogant Emma—smirks like she knows.
"Want to get another drink?" she asks. "Take a little break?"
Throat thick, Regina just nods, and lets Emma take her by the hand to lead her back through the crowd. The bar is full now, no spots left at the counter, and so Emma gestures to a small table tucked a bit back from the rest of the floor. "Want to grab a spot while I get us some drinks?" she asks, fingers still tangled with Regina's.
"Alright," Regina nods, and feels an odd chill when they finally part. The bar is stuffy, hot from all of the body heat, and Regina pushes her hair away from her neck, feeling the slight moisture on her skin from their efforts on the dance floor.
The table is small, relatively private, and dim without the powerful dance floor lights. It feels intimate, and as she slides into the booth against the wall, she tries not to focus on the butterflies she feels.
Tonight has been so unexpectedly fun in such an odd sort of way—she's shared and connected with Emma like she hasn't with anyone outside her family in years. And not only had she done it, but it had gotten easier and easier with each revelation to Emma. Like a weight was lifting as the night—perhaps even the past few weeks—progressed.
Regina leans forward, the cushion sticking to her thighs, and rests her forearms on the table. From where she sits she can see Emma ordering their drinks; one hand up as the bartender comes to the end of the counter to meet her. When she orders, she keeps her instructions short, her arms tucked into her side so she's not touching any of the patrons near her. But even from her distance, Regina can see the way she smiles when she takes the glasses, kind in an honest—if not exactly sunny—sort of way.
It's strange, really, how a self-deprecating somewhat-cynical woman like Emma can still seem like she's full of so much warmth, and hope. She makes Regina feel connected and understood, at the same time she also makes her feel open—makes her feel more.
She turns around from the bar and heads over toward Regina, a small smile on her face as she sets the glasses down before scooting into the booth next to her. "To dancing without an audience," Emma suggests, and Regina raises her glass to clink.
"Cheers," she murmurs, and they both take a drink. She's already warm from the bar, the dancing and the lights and the feel of Emma up against her over and over, but the alcohol warms her once more, settling in her belly.
Emma rests her glass on the table, and turns to angle toward Regina a bit, staring at her for a long moment. "What?" Regina finally asks, a bit uncomfortable under the scrutiny.
"Can I ask you a question?" Regina tenses at the request, and tucks her arms into her stomach.
Emma's eyes are looking a bit dilated, heavy and slightly lidded in the dark bar. She looks almost soft like this, and it's emphasized by the white dress and curled tendrils of hair that have fallen out of her ponytail with their activities.
Licking her lips slowly, Regina breathes, "I suppose."
"Why, uh—how come you're single?" Regina's lips part slightly, and her eyes narrow a bit at the unexpected question.
Her immediate reaction is to tell Emma that it's absolutely none of her business. Which it isn't, of course.
Before she can respond, Emma's jaw clenches, and she holds up a hand. "You know what, that's not—forget I asked." She takes a drink, and when she sets the glass back down, she doesn't look at Regina again.
"That's a rather loaded question, Miss Swan." She's nearing her limit on sharing and connecting and revealing, but there is a drink in front of her still, and the music is still pounding through her skin, and so she's not quite there yet.
"I'm in no rush," Emma shrugs casually, and leans back into her chair.
Regina nudges at her drink with her thumb, the glass scraping on the damaged wood with a dull scratch. "I'm not exactly sure where to start," she admits softly, and more than anything she's said already tonight, it leaves her feeling far too open.
"You don't have to, you know. We can just sit in silence and drink." Regina looks up and Emma's smiling at her, and holding her glass a few inches off of the table. "I was just wondering." Her face is neutral, interested but not pushy.
"I got married when I was really young," she starts, and leans forward so her elbows can rest on the table. "To a wonderful man, named Daniel. When we were ready to start a family, we adopted Henry."
Emma's face opens at the information, her eyes wider, brows raised. "You adopted?" Her voice cracks on the question.
"Yes," Regina says carefully, and watches how Emma's body tenses, how her fingers curl in toward her palm. I've been an orphan my whole life, Regina remembers suddenly, and her stomach drops as she thinks of Emma alone.
"That's," Emma starts, "really cool." Emma winces a little at her own words, and Regina directs a smile down into her lap. "So you got Henry," Emma prompts.
"We did. Everything was fine, until shortly after Henry turned three," hot tears sting behind her eyes, and she clears her throat. "Daniel had always had some problems with his heart, it happened very quickly."
Realization falls over Emma's features as she picks up what Regina hadn't said, and she swallows. "I'm sorry," she says sympathetically, but lets it rest at that.
Nodding once, Regina reaches for her glass to give her fingers something to do. "Yes, well, Henry was rather young, fortunately. I don't think he remembers much from that age." She does, of course. "Then, when he was ten, he found out about his adoption accidentally, and," she bares her teeth a little, unsure of her words. "Didn't take it well," she finishes, and takes a drink of the scotch.
"I can imagine," Emma murmurs a bit darkly, but there's no judgement in her eyes when she asks, "What happened?"
"He ran away from me. Literally and figuratively. And I, well, it was extremely difficult for me," shame rises in her chest. "I overcompensated by keeping him too close."
"Which made him pull away even more," Emma finishes, and Regina gives her a red-rimmed look in response. "But things are fine now?" she asks, tentatively.
"I think they are," Regina breathes out. "We started to see a," she hesitates over the word, "psychologist for family mediation."
"It takes a lot to admit something's wrong." Emma licks her lips, and her eyes search Regina's for a long moment before she looks back down. Breathes out: "I guess I know where Henry gets that bravery you mentioned."
Uncomfortable under Emma's acknowledgement, Regina leans back against the padded booth. "So, in answer to your question, I don't think it's wise for me to consider dating right now. I have no interest in upsetting my son further," she says evenly, and takes a slow drink.
"I get that," Emma nods. "Would uh," her knees bump into Regina's as she leans forward in her spot. "Do you think a friendship would upset him?"
Regina's back stiffens. "Excuse me?"
"I know back in class you said…," she trails off and waves her hand in acknowledgement of the previous conversation. "But hear me out. This is kind of nice, right?" she nods to the dance floor, her lip curling up into a lazy smile. "I mean, we could do this again, if you want; dancing, or maybe, I don't know get a bite sometime?"
Emma's question is, well, it's tempting. She is not wrong; it has been nice, surprisingly, to spend time like this with Emma. And truly what she is proposing is no different than Marian, or Kathryn: friendship.
But even the word starts to muddy the waters between them, no longer as simplistic and clean as "dance partners", and nothing more. (She doesn't dare factor in whatever this has been, this sharing, nothing more than an anomaly.) Regina considers the question, looks up at Emma and she is smiling so warmly, but there is something open and vulnerable about the look, too, like this isn't a question she ever asks.
"We're here right now," Regina finally says slowly, not answering her question, and slips out of the side of the booth to stand before taking a last sip of her drink. "Why don't we dance, then?" For a moment she doesn't move, and Emma starts to follow her off of the vinyl seat.
When she gets to the edge, Regina extends her arm, and opens her hand to help the other woman out of the seat and up. And Emma takes it, without hesitation, and lets Regina pull her up.
Their sudden proximity is startling, once they're in front of one another so quickly and without the excuse of the dance floor. Emma stumbles a bit on her heel, and when she recovers she bumps against the edge of their table. In the weeks that Regina has known her she has never seemed shy before this moment, but when her eyes slip from Regina's to her lips and back up it's the only word that seems to fit.
"Shall we?" Regina asks, voice huskier than normal, and when Emma nods they make their way back to the floor.
They fall back into step with one another quickly, spinning each other and slipping in and out of leader and follower until the roles are almost fluid. Regina's not sure how long they move, but her feet are starting to ache and every muscle feels stretched in such a pleasant, earned way.
When a slower song comes on, Emma lifts Regina's arms in the air and settles them on her shoulders before she wraps her arms around Regina's waist. Regina's chin brushes against her arm, and she smirks at the position, whispering, "We're not at a middle school dance, Emma," into her ear, even as she settles her hands on Emma's neck more comfortably.
Emma's fingers tighten on her back at her name, and she starts to sway them lightly, hips still moving with the softer beat. "So?" she laughs softly, and the heat of her breath warms Regina's cheek.
They stay like that through the song, and into the start of a second. Emma's hands have drifted, until they've settled on either side of her hips, one resting dangerously close to the curve of her ass. It doesn't feel intentional, the way they've ended up—Regina's own fingers are stroking softly at the nape of Emma's neck, their temples pressed together—but rather an easy sort of lazy, barely moving to the music.
Emma's hands spread a bit as they move to her back, and when the tips of her fingers dip below the material of her dress bared from the cross back cut-out, Regina shivers.
It feels good, easy and tender and so, so intimate all at once. And this is such a dangerous path, because Emma's touch is becoming almost addictive and she has just reminded them both that she is not looking for a relationship; she hasn't even committed to a friendship.
"I'm going to get some air," Regina swallows, and pulls out of Emma's arms quickly, heading for the exit.
It's late, and the night air is cool on her skin. A shiver runs up her back as she breathes out, heavy, and takes a few steps away from the door slamming shut behind her.
This is such a bad idea, she knows. Because she is certain now, that the word potential that hangs over their interactions is growing, is shifting and changing and bolding as they share and share and share.
But that sharing is starting to feel so important and so nice, and she isn't sure she's ready to stop, either.
"Regina?" Emma steps out of the door, and she's carrying Regina's clutch in her hand. "Hey are you OK?"
Her eyes are full of concern and she's moving closer but not too close—nowhere near what close tends to mean for them now—and waits.
"I'm fine," she shakes her head, and crosses her arms in front of herself.
"Would you like to go?" Emma offers, but her brows are furrowed like it's something she doesn't quite want to offer.
"I—" Regina starts, and takes a step toward her. "I think that might be for the best," she finishes, and Emma licks her lip as she shifts her stance.
"OK," she starts to hand Regina's purse over, stepping closer.
"It's getting late," Regina adds, because she's not sure if Emma can tell that she's not cutting her out, just stepping back. Rare for her, but it somehow feels like something she desperately needs to learn how to do. "As you said—" she starts again, but they are disturbed as a rowdy group leaves the club, crowding them.
Emma steps against the brick wall at their side, leans in close to hear over the noise of the others. "We could do this again, perhaps," Regina finishes, and her words are soft as she realizes they are—once again—so close.
"OK," Emma nods, and her eyes flicker down to Regina's lips, her hand coming to rest on the brick wall beside her. She knows what's about to happen, knows that she should stop it, but when Emma starts to dip forward, Regina's lips part as she sucks in a soft breath.
Eyes flickering closed, the last thing she sees is Emma's half-lidded eyes watching her so closely, her own lips glistening in the moonlight.
"Shit, I'm sorry," Emma breathes out against her face, and it isn't what Regina expects. Disappointment and rejection sting hot in her chest, and her eyes flicker open. "I didn't—" she cuts herself off and pulls back from the wall. "I'll drive you to your car," she says, and Regina can see the muscles of her jaw tense.
"No, I," Regina steps back, and gestures to a few cars sitting halfway down the block. "I think I'll take a cab." Her face is burning from what almost happened, from what didn't happen, from the night and the heat and the sharing. The potential. "Good night, Miss Swan," she says evenly, and turns toward the taxi a few feet away.
