Five or six years later...
Emma Swan is not a morning person. Unfortunately, she lives in a fucking neighborhood of morning people. Morning people with morning routines and morning hellos from across the street. And all Emma wants is the darkness of the newly renovated master bedroom and the warmth of the new down comforter Regina bought last week.
It's a dismal fall morning, still wet from the October rain, and Emma stands at the edge of the front walk. One hand is clenched around a fresh cup of coffee, and the other hangs limply at her side, uninspired. The newspaper sits at her slipper-clad feet, bunny slippers. A gift from August and Neal last year, "Happy Anniversary. You're going soft on us, Swan." She wears them because they're warm. And because Regina hates them.
Elias Gold is at the edge of his front walk, in his black silk pajamas and a deep navy robe. He nods his head once in greeting and watches as Emma bends to pick up the paper.
Living across the street from Neal's father is only a little bit awkward. Mainly because Neal calls himself "a free bird" and much prefers rooming with August and August's father because, well one, August has a sick dealer and Marco doesn't even realize they're hotboxing the downstairs bathroom 80% of the time, and his own father, "Is a good-for-nothing absentee cheating suburbanite bastard. And oh, wait, did I mention his girlfriend is younger than me?"
They just don't talk about it.
"What did you think of Doctor Hopper?" Regina has a plate on the counter for Emma. Bacon, two eggs, two slices of toast. Regina is a morning person, up with the sun every morning, and breakfast is on the table by eight. She leans against the counter, a cup of coffee in one hand, and she accepts the paper from Emma's outstretched hand. "His questions were a bit wishy-washy."
Emma nods and speaks around a mouthful of eggs, "Yeah. Not the most insightful. What was that thing even, 'on a scale of one to ten.' I don't get it."
Regina rolls her eyes and spreads the paper out on the counter. She sips her coffee daintily and casually and Emma's eyes are drawn to her lips. "And his office is clear across town." Emma isn't entirely aware that Regina has spoken again until she clears her throat.
"What was that?"
"Doctor Hopper's office is clear across town, dear." Regina glances down at the paper before she sets down her coffee cup. "I believe I'll go take my shower."
"Right," Emma nods and watches Regina head upstairs. The roman silver silk of Regina's pajamas clings in all the right places and she thinks of how cool and smooth it feels bunched in her fist. And then she's groaning in frustration because the last time Regina let Emma bunch any silk in her fists was three months ago.
Regina is still in her towel, hair wet, but fully made-up by the time Emma gets upstairs. Her hair smells faintly of lilacs and Emma gets a little tingly because it makes her think of June in East Hampton and Regina's smiles. But this is October in Westchester County and Regina is not smiling. She's got one hand on her hip and she's watching Emma with an expression of vague confusion and exasperation.
"You know, the four o'clock means we hit rush hour. Not crazy about that," Emma brushes past, her shoulder bumping Regina's on the way to the double sinks. She catches sight of Regina in the mirror, up on tiptoe to reach a sweater on the top shelf of her closet. She looks and looks because these moments are really all she has, and she wonders when everything changed, really changed.
"So that's settled then?" Regina turns to look at her again, red lace hanging from one hand and a black cashmere sweater in the other.
"Yeah, sure, okay," Emma shrugs and reaches for the toothpaste. She tries to pinpoint the moment being together started to feel like being wedged apart.
"Great," Regina slips into their room and Emma knows by the time she steps out of the shower, Regina will be dressed and blown-out and made-up and they will not kiss goodbye.
"Dinner is at seven," Regina slings her purse and her briefcase up onto her shoulder and reaches for her car keys. She's switched out her platform pumps in favor of a pair of single-soled pumps with a pointed toe. Emma takes the time to stare, dragging her eyes up slowly over Regina's muscled calves to where her knees disappear beneath her trench coat. "Emma?"
"Yup. Dinner is at seven," Emma repeats, meeting Regina's eyes as she reaches for her coat. Her arm brushes against Regina's when she stretches just a little further for her scarf and she smiles. Sort of. "I'll be there. Here."
Regina stares at her for a moment, just stares blankly at her, and Emma wants to kiss her. Kiss her until she smiles and moans and loves her again. But by the time Emma's body catches up with her brain, Regina's already on her way to the garage, sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose. So she sighs and follows, watches her wife slide into her car, all legs and black stiletto pumps, god damn it, and yanks open the door of her newly purchased sedan. She pauses to look longingly at her yellow bug, stashed in the back of the garage for safekeeping, and she glares at the silver BMW she's about to get into. She can hear Regina scoffing before the black Mercedes door slams shut and she does not bother to look over at her wife before she starts down the driveway.
"Anybody calls, I'm in with the boss, okay?" Mary Margaret pushes her way through the bustling office, all business in her new cardigan. She pauses at Leroy's desk, "Got a call from the man. Big highline assignment, Leroy. You know how it is."
Leroy looks up from a stack of paperwork and glares, no, Leroy does not know how it is. The new girl, the boss's kid, thinks she can get away with murder. Leroy, on the other hand, has been working this stupid desk job for over five years. He thought he would be out in the field, super high tech weaponry at his hip, Astrid on his arm. But he's here, in this stupid short-sleeved dress shirt, with this stupid Windows operating system, with this child.
"Actually, you probably don't," she lets out a tittering laugh and Leroy shoves himself away from his desk, ready to give her a piece of his mind.
"Listen, sister, you-"
"Sweetie?" she has officially become Leroy's least favorite co-worker. She's pointing to Astrid, addressing her, "Could you grab me a coffee? I like it with lots of sugar. Thanks a lot." And then she's off again, breezing through their space. Their space.
"Hey there," Leopold is on it, he heard some sort of upset on his way past, and he stands between the elevator and his simpleton child. "Mary Margaret, where do you think you're going?"
"Well, Daddy, I was," she pauses, looks up at her father with petulance. "The boss wants to see me."
Leroy is terrified she's going to start crying on the spot. Right here, right now. At her father's feet. Shit.
"Well, he sees you."
Leroy registers shock, anger, and loud defiance cross the girl's pale pale face.
"Look, Mary Margaret, people who've been working here for twenty five years have never seen the inside of that elevator. I have never seen the inside of that elevator."
"But you're his most trusted!" the girl actually stomps her foot. Stomps. Her. Foot.
"Here," Leopold hands her a manila folder and a fucking Hershey's Kiss.
"This is the assignment?"
"Now get to work," Leopold nods solemnly and heads back toward the receiving hall. "I expect your assignment to be completed with little incident."
"Yes, sir," Mary Margaret grumbles and drags her feet all the way back to her desk.
"Highline assignment, huh?" Leroy snorts as she passes.
It's dark when Emma gets home, just a minute to seven, and she curses under her breath as she pulls into the garage. Regina hates lateness, Regina hates a lot of things. Emma happens to be a lot of the things Regina hates.
The garage door hums as it closes and Emma feels blindly for her ring in the door pocket. She feels cold metal at her fingertips and pulls the band from its hiding spot. She slips it back onto her finger with little incident and reaches up to adjust the rearview mirror.
"Ah, fuck," Emma's got a tear in the leather of her old red jacket. Things had not gone smoothly, and to be perfectly honest, she's surprised she doesn't have a broken hand. She wipes a red smudge off the collar and mutters a few more choice words. It's raining when she steps out of the garage and she tries to remember why they didn't buy a house with a connecting garage. Because by the time Emma reaches the door, she'll be soaked.
She can see Regina at the stove, still in her skirt and heels. She looks like she might be humming and Emma catches herself smiling despite the rain and the cold and how much Regina hates her.
"Hey babe," she shoulders open the back door and nods at Regina. The kitchen smells like garlic and pork roast and Emma's stomach rumbles. "Smells good."
"Perfect timing," Regina almost smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. She nods at Emma before turning to the oven to check the roast.
"It's pissing rain out there," Emma hangs her jacket over an empty chair and moves to kiss Regina's cheek. The warmth from the open oven is immediate and she presses a gentle kiss below Regina's ear, "I brought butter though." She holds the offering in front of the oven so Regina can see. Her other hand slips around Regina's middle and just holds on for a minute.
"Thank you," Regina turns her head and it's the fucking stuff of miracles when she smiles and presses her lips to Emma's for the briefest of moments. "Hi."
Emma almost forgets. She wants Regina here and now, because sometimes she's there, wind-tousled hair and sweet seductive smiles, danger and safety all at once. But then Emma fucking remembers and the wedge is back, driving itself further and further into their space, and she feels Regina remember too. And then everything is fucking ruined because Regina tenses in her arms and sighs.
"How was work?" she turns back to the roast in the oven and shrugs Emma off.
"Ah," Emma shrugs and sets the butter down on the counter by the rest of the vegetables waiting for Regina's attention. She thinks about her ripped jacket and smudgy red stains, "So-so."
"This is salted," Regina is back at the counter, holding the butter in one hand, a chef's knife in the other. The point of the blade rests on the cutting board next to half of an onion, the metal catches the light and Emma stares.
"What?"
"The butter, it's salted," she bites out, her grip on the knife handle tightening.
Jesus Christ, this woman.
Emma leans back against the sink, the heels of her hands pressing down on the edge, "Is there any other kind?"
"Unsalted."
They stare at each other until the hot oil on the stove smells like it's burning, until Emma's insides feel like ice. Until Regina lets out an uncharacteristic and biting, "Shit." and dashes toward the offending pan.
"Idiot," Regina huffs under her breath, and Emma knows it's meant for her.
"So, part two. Here we are," Dr. Hopper adjusts his glasses. He's certainly less nervous without Regina around, but he's a fidgety man. "Only this time, you came back alone. Why did you come back?"
"Uh," Emma wrings her hands together for a minute and stares at her knees. "I'm not sure, really." She's sure. She's one hundred percent sure. She misses Regina like she misses Colombian rain. Like she misses sunlight and danger and purple flowers. Because she would do anything to not miss Regina. She would do anything to not resent the weird Stepford version of herself Regina has become. Because it's driving Emma fucking nuts.
"Let me clarify," Emma sighs and leans back in her chair. She rubs her hands down the thighs of her new jeans and closes her eyes. "I love my wife. I want her to be happy and I really do want good things for her, but there are times when I just..." she trails off, her hands in fists at her knees. "I just wanna," she brings her fists up and shakes them, imagines gripping Regina by the shoulders and shaking her until she snaps the fuck out of it. "Until she can hear me again, you know?"
"I see," Dr. Hopper nods, scribbles something on his legal pad.
"There's this huge space between us," Emma lets her hands drop, palms up. "And it just keeps getting bigger and bigger, and it fills up with everything that we're not saying to each other. What is that called?"
"Marriage."
"Good one, Doc," Emma chuckles and god damn it, she feels helpless.
"Oh," Regina's face lights up for a moment and it's really just beautiful. "I got new curtains."
That is most certainly not what Emma was expecting, and she turns from the sideboard and her freshly poured scotch to look at her wife. She hopes the Regina can hear the disappointment in her tone. "Did you."
"Well?" Regina's looking up at the thick green damask curtains, arms crossed over her chest. "What do you think?" Off of Emma's dumb stare, Regina continues. "There was a struggle over the material. This tea sandwich of a man got his hands on them first. But I won."
"Of course you did." Emma sips her drink slowly. Regina wins. Regina always wins. That used to make her insides mushy, now it just makes her angry. It makes her stomach churn and her skin feels hot and tight and why does it even matter.
"They're a bit green," Regina's still surveying the living room with a critical eye. "So, we'll have to reupholster the sofas and get a new rug. Maybe a Persian."
"Yeah," she draws out the A. "Or, how about we just keep the old curtains and then we don't have to change a thing."
"We talked about this. You remember?" Regina turns to face her and sometimes she looks so tiny in this big house with their big dreams and Emma sighs.
"I remember. I remember because we said we'd wait."
"If you don't like them, we can take them back," Regina shrugs and Emma knows it's for show.
"Okay. I don't like 'em."
"You'll get used to them," she turns on her heel and heads back into the kitchen.
Fuck.
Regina is all controlled chaos and she's measured and delicate and ferocious and Emma cringes when Regina drops a plate in front of her. Drops. Onto the $12,000 dining room table Regina had insisted upon.
"This looks nice," she tries, and the words taste bitter. And Regina is still glaring at her from across the table. "Did you do something new?"
"I added peas," and the look is withering and Emma wants to shrivel up and die.
"Peas," Emma repeats and looks down at her plate again. There are peas with the broccoli and the mushrooms and why is this happening. "Yeah, it's the green." She nods once and stabs a piece of pork with her fork. The sound of her knife against the plate causes Regina to wince, so she does it again. And maybe one more time for good measure. The meat is sweet, orange-glazed and tender, and Emma chews thoughtfully.
"Pass the salt?"
Regina looks up from her plate, eyes blazing. Another thing Regina hates: flavor changes to her meals. "It's in the middle of the table."
Emma's eyes scan the table for the shakers. They're too far to reach from her seat, "Is that the middle of the table?"
"Yes, it's between you and me," Regina takes a victorious sip of wine.
"Okay," Emma pushes back and gets to her feet, reaches for the shakers and knocks over her water glass in the process.
"Emma!"
She shrugs and falls back into her chair. Fuck it.
"How honest are you with her?" Dr. Hopper coughs awkwardly. The office smells like the Dunhill slowly turning to ash in the ashtray on the table. He's transfixed by the smoke, it's easier to look at than Regina.
"Pretty honest," Regina shrugs, clasps her hands tighter together. "I mean, it's not like I lie to her or anything. We just," she pauses, looking for the right words. She's not a liar. She's not. "I have little secrets. Everybody has secrets. Don't they? It just feels like we're... we're not like everyone else."
"It probably, if I may, feels like you're the only people going through this," Dr. Hopper's eyes meet Regina's again. She doesn't look like she's going to throttle him this time, so maybe, maybe it's okay. "But there are millions of couples that are experiencing the same problems."
Regina scoffs, "I'm not so sure."
Emma hates doing dishes. More than anything, really. So it's not surprise that she does a lot of them these days. Sloppily, lazily, and it drives Regina out of her mind. Good.
She can feel Regina's eyes on her but she ignores her, continues rinsing their dinner plates. Poorly. Regina sets their wineglasses next to the sink and glares as Emma sets the plate in the dishwasher. There are sauce smudges all over it and Regina plucks it back out with disdain. She nudges Emma aside with her hip and shoves the plate under the steady stream of water. Once it's been rinsed to Regina's satisfaction, she bends at the waist to place it back in the dishwasher.
Emma's pissed, more than pissed, really. But Regina's bent over in front of her and she can't help it. Because they used to sleep flush against each other, not at separate edges of their bed. Because Emma is still of the belief that Regina should be fucking worshipped. Even when she's being a complete bitch. Because Emma is still hopelessly in love with this beautiful creature. So her fingertips start at the small of Regina's back and press and stroke gently until she's got Regina's hips in her hands and she's bending down to press kisses at the base of Regina's neck. Until she can press her hips forward against Regina's ass and until Regina reaches up to grasp the edge of the counter with one hand.
"Emma."
Emma's lips follow the soft slope of Regina's shoulder, and she nudges cashmere out of the way with her nose. She feels Regina's breath catch and she smiles against soft soft skin. One hand wraps around Regina's middle and pulls her close and the other works at hiking up the front of Regina's skirt. Emma's fingertips rake up Regina's thighs until she meets skin at the tops of Regina's stockings and she lingers there.
"Emma."
She wants and wants and when she slips her hand up further, to where her fingertips meet lace and warmth and Regina, Regina moans. And it's the most beautiful sound Emma has ever heard. So she presses up through the lace and rubs until Regina is whimpering and moaning and close.
"Wanna make you come," Emma mumbles against Regina's shoulder as she pushes damp lace aside. It's three barely there strokes until Regina is gasping, gripping Emma's wrist tightly with her free hand.
"Emma!"
But then she's gone and Emma is stumbling forward, catching herself on the counter. "The fuck?"
Regina has that wild look in her eyes and she's backed up against the opposite counter. They stare at each other for god knows how long, breathing heavy and angry, and the air is thick and she wants to fucking break something. So she does. The angry shattering of porcelain nearly makes Regina jump out of her skin, and her hands clench into fists at her sides. And she stares her wife down because this is it, this is what they've become.