It isn't the underbelly, but the streets don't exactly gleam with the condensation from iced coffee cups. Just 30 blocks from the nearest coffeehouse chain the town isn't bustling either. If it is a sin to rebel against the over-commercialized, political correctness of society, then finding oneself in this part of slum city should send one straight to hell.
But not before getting mugged in plain sight.
It never escaped Regina's notice that Emma Swan totted herself as a nonconformist, but to dig her heels here of all places? Taking a stand in a personal belief ranked high in Regina's book, but this is pushing it. She surmises that perhaps there is no choice in the matter. There remain few livable options to a struggling, debt swimming artist these days. At least this neighborhood has a decent trash collecting policy.
The dismal landmark is a pit of creativity which cares little for gallery exhibitions or the sought after slot in a renowned publication of contemporary art. The voices that echo here are heard only by those of which they belong to. A generation of artists who really don't give a damn how they smell to the general population.
According to the abundant illicit displays sprayed on brick walls, the town can hardly be sanctified as artless. In fact, the blocks this town encompasses symbolize the same underground that Regina's world so contemptuously rejects. The locals seem to hang tight to their individualistic hole-in-the-wall businesses whist simultaneously casting off the trends, the high rises, the whorish credit card methodology.
Flat wooden fences and alley walls are decorated with paintings and murals as well as original tag lines and snippets of philosophy, poetry, and absolute certainties. Among them: "Innovation is the cultural backbeat to the human condition." An inconsequential line that tugs at the beatnik's heartstrings.
Then, grounding to a halt before a block wide, white spray-painted wall, Regina is caught by something.
"Where you stand is where we began."
And it occurs to Regina that standing there, reading this message she is contributing to a growing number of people who believe in the expression of free art – that all creativity is meant to be shared, not exploited or monopolized by the famous and fortunate. Where is it written that we need to pay to keep art alive?
Or so the saying goes.
Dagger-edged heels jump from crack to crack in their strict navigation of the pavement. There's no avoiding them, the imperfections, because if she looks close enough their supposedly aimless lines and curves create a dreamlike arrangement similar to the clouds in sky. And who wants to avoid walking on clouds? If they're there, it's a wonder to feel that sense of imagination and luminous perspective beneath your feet.
It's not Regina's premier tour through this sliver of the city. She's had to visit many an atrocious studio in her goal to set blooming young talent on their path to success. Despite the seemingly worthless quality of the neighborhood, a person from these streets could enact more change in the world than someone of Regina's privilege. She has seen it happen. She has had a hand in turning the impossible into certainty.
And that is why she waits at the nicked and paint crackling door to Emma's home. She is there for purely professional reasons. Nothing more, nothing less.
A fist poises to knock, but hesitates at the last minute. Regina stares vaguely at the tarnished gold plate that numbers its occupant. She has brought nothing but her purse. Should she have taken something with her? She forgets. After dozens of these house calls to critique whether or not an artists has "the stuff" Regina can't recall for the life of her what she normally brings in these cases.
But this is no normal case. It has been weeks since Regina and Emma parted from their passionate one night affair. They hadn't seen or spoken to each other and why should they? Neither seemed keen on turning intimacy into a serious routine. And although their worlds revolved around contemporary art, they were worlds of vastly different rank.
The hard-headed part of Regina demanded a justification for how rashly she acted that night. She dragged a stranger into her sacred, private bedroom (where no one has been invited) and subsequently allowed that stranger to have her way with her (and vice versa, lest she forgets). Some time later a motivation for such foolishness was scrounged up. This fascination with Emma Swan primarily encompassed her artistic talent (among other things). Discovering and helping along this nonexistent career of hers remains the bold printed headline of Regina's excuse.
Pam was directly sent on a mission to investigate Miss Swan's credentials and other necessary data which included contact information. It has occurred to Regina that Emma might not remember her when opportunity came knocking. The 'some time' since they had last laid eyes on each other totaled four weeks and four weeks is an unusually long time to dawdle, especially for a woman who takes her job seriously.
The question remains: will Emma Swan prove to be a someone or a no one? Regina's unwillingness to let this opportunity go pestered her day and night since that damned gala. The common sense of it didn't match/compare to the thudding in her chest as she stood frozen on the woman's threshold.
The meager three knocks sound like a jackhammer in Regina's ears. She winces and inches back her loosely fisted hand.
"Oh…"
Regina jumps, having not noticed the door has been answered. Her eyes widen at the woman while her hand tightens around the handles of her purse. She shrugs the bag further on her shoulder and copes with the air. Her eyes flutter as she inhales deeply.
"Oh," Emma says again like she has to prove to herself that her voice still works. "Hey… Regina." Her features scrunch at how odd the name sounds from her mouth. It's been four weeks, she thinks. It's like a mantra going round and round her head like a nightmare carousel. It's been four weeks. "I, ah, wasn't expecting you."
The knob rattles in its age-crusted socket. Emma's sweaty hand brawls it in various grips to find which one works best. A severe grappling of all five fingers manages to make the cut in supporting her upright.
"No, of course not. I didn't mean to disturb you," Regina says as she glances at the variegated splattering on a tank and shorts. The company of bare feet barely throws her off as this is not the first time Emma has gone shoe-less in her presence. "You are painting." Her voice rose with scarcely concealed curiosity.
"Trying to."
"I apologize… for intruding. I –"
"No," Emma cuts in quickly, "it's not you. I just haven't been inspired as of late. All the colors seem to be coming out in various shades of grey. You know what I mean?"
"No color, no life."
"No color, no life." Emma nods sullenly and adds, "No paintings, no income, no place to call home." She frowns then. "Oh, I hope that didn't seem as tragic as it sounded."
Smiling, Regina cocks her head. "No pity, just understanding." Her eyebrows surge expectantly. "I'd like to help. It's my reason for showing up here."
"Unexpectedly," Emma interprets. She then smirks and throws in cheekily, "But welcomed."
"Thank you." Regina bows her head as she follows the flourishing hand of invitation.
"Hey, I should be thanking you," Emma says, shutting the door blindly behind them. "At first I thought I'd never see you again. I mean… I didn't think I'd be hearing from you… about my work – my paintings."
Eventually the rambling is cut off with a loud cough and a mental head slap Regina is sure she can hear. She turns her head to keep her amusement from prying eyes. The girl with the flaxen hair is a quick wit, pretty, and entirely charismatic in a way that keeps it hard for Regina to wipe the grin off her face.
She could still taste Emma in her mouth and feel her on her skin like she lives there. It's an all-too veritable sense memory, the kind that stays with you like pine needles and hot cocoa from a childhood Christmas or the last taste of your favorite aunt's pie before her passing. Those are the things you miss to the point of shedding tears. Regina rarely cries, but she does feel the absence of something great. No more than a few minutes ago she strut along the sidewalk of the street associated with Emma's neighborhood and swore up and down to herself that the Rolling Stones' "Miss You" was not playing in her head on an endless loop – Or now as Regina tries in vain to wipe the dreamy look across her face.
"So…"
Regina blinks, picking her jaw from where it dropped to the floor. "The paintings," she gathers. "Yes."
Emma laugh is musical and it actually manages to echo in the small studio apartment. She turns to lead her guest over to a corner where her workstation takes up the majority of the place. Canvases are scattered and leaning against the wall in various layers. She riffles through them with delicate hands, biting her lip in search for the appropriate series to impress Regina.
While the artist mumbles various "yays" and "nays" to herself, Regina waits in total rapture of the premier attribute that first caught her eye: Emma's ass. It takes a moment for her to realize what she's doing before she's inhaling sharply through her nose and taking pains to divert her gaze. The apartment isn't as seductive as the previous view, but it manages to level her heart rate.
Something soft and furry caresses the skin above her leather heel and Regina is startled into a squeal. The mystery is identified as an ash gray cat which slinks past her Gucci stilettos without as much as an "excuse me."
Her hand draws from her chest as it settles from the jolt of surprise. "This must be Oscar?" she asks.
Emma chuckles from her corner. "For now."
"Still undecided on his name? I actually think Freddy suits him better. The way he's looking at me now I'd think he is planning my gruesome demise."
"What?" Blonde locks sway with a turning head which follows where the woman is raising a brow to. She interprets her pet's glare with a roll of her eyes and offers Regina a reassuring smile. "Oh, that's just how he looks at everyone. Oscar wouldn't hurt a fly – maybe a rat, but nothing bigger than that. We've been together for three years and I've yet to be clawed to death in my dreams. I can vouch for him."
"If you insist," Regina settles, an unconvincing eye trailing after the little monster.
Emma moves from one end of the corner to the other, shuffling pieces around like they're a part of a jigsaw. "Okay…" she sighs, scratching an itch on her shoulder as the line of artwork presents before her. She hears the click of heels shifting on the wood floor behind her but continues to block Regna's view. It's all by design, of course. She wants to make it perfect before the big reveal. "Okay, so I've got a few samples here. I've included a few in-progress ones, too. I'm not really sure how this goes – if you want me to explain each piece or just kind of let you soak it up without distraction. Um, I should probably tell you I don't normally like conveying the themes or why I paint what I paint. I generally leave it to my art to speak for itself. If that's a problem for you... you know, we can work through that. Otherwise, you have complete freedom to look as long as you like. So I'm just gonna… I'll be over there." She points to the kitchen and makes a bee-line there.
It seems like a great opportunity to keep herself busy, so Emma dives for the first thing she sees: dish soap. Emma isn't much of a cleaner, as evidenced by the dirty dishes piling in her sink, but far be it from her to make a bad impression on the woman who's evaluating her. If she misses out on a chance of a lifetime because of a messy lifestyle it just might be the end of Emma Swan's Career before it even becomes Emma Swan's Career. Her last foster family won't let her live that one down until an onslaught of "told you so's" are slung forth.
The kitchen is not far, but from where Emma stands the only thing visible is the back of Regina's head. Elbows deep in dirty water, she leans back and forward to catch some sign from the woman's body language. Her attention is so spent on Regina's opinion that she doesn't realize what her hands are doing (or not doing). One of the plates, marred by three day old mozzarella cheese, slips from her anxious fingers and clatters in amongst its baked on, caked on friends. The sound rings out through the apartment as Emma fumbles for it, turning an apologetic smile on for the startled brunette.
When the plateware is sparkling Regina is still evaluating. It's been over ten minutes, more than enough time to come away with a sound conclusion. Emma knows all too well how critics like to study art with a bearing similar to statues. Like the works they view they are silent and brooding. Yet even the manner with which Regina takes in Emma's paintings leaves the artist in question a bit on edge.
Regina's silence and unmoving posture begins to worry Emma, so she creeps up from behind, careful to mind the known creaks in the floorboards. When she stops there is but a pace between them. Emma's eyes drop from her paintings and fall, inevitably, on the delicate curve of Regina's neck. She remembers things about that neck and all the little places around it which have been graced by the touch of her lips. Her hand aches to pull back the curtain of hair so her mouth can return pleasure to the column of olive-toned flesh which encouraged so vividly in her memory with a tremor of moans.
After four long weeks, Emma's lips are dry and cracked. She quenches them with the tip of her tongue, living the memory of how Regina last tasted.
Before Emma can retreat her presence is found out by the pair of brown eyes made damp with unshed tears. Regina has turned round during Emma's glorifying study and has met the darkened green eyes with an unreadable stare.
"Are you alright?" Emma asks around the heart lodged in her throat.
She can't interpret the stream of tears, fearing the worst of what they suggest. She swallows against the lump, nearly gagging despite herself. This is it, she thinks. It's taken her years to get here and this is how it's going to end: with tears and a "sorry I wasted your time." Emma was never good at schooling her features and this time is no exception, because the way Regina is looking at her can only mean one outcome. Emma stares blankly, dumbstruck and crestfallen that her work really is complete shit.
Overwhelmed by the flood of emotions, Regina plunges forth and clashes her mouth against Emma's. It's a hard kiss that would have knocked Emma on her ass if it wasn't for the arm cinched round her waist. It doesn't quite convey what Regina feels because she hardly recognizes her own actions. It's indescribable, this rush of emotions engulfing her. To think it through would take too much effort, like swimming in a current, arms and legs thrashing in order to keep her precious head above the ripples.
They're tongues meet in desperate reunion regardless of the purpose for which it must be done. Neither is sold on a why. Regina can't govern anything but the heat and raw need she lends to their kiss. Her arm wraps around Emma's waist as strong and protective as the hand which slides through golden strands to cradle and urge the head forward.
And Emma… it takes a while but the meaning in the kiss doesn't occur to her until later when they're in her bed and she's coming hard against Regina's open mouth. It crashes into her like her hand slams to the headboard in a resounding slap: her work isn't the complete load of horse shit she thought it might be perceived as. If the manner in which Regina is skidding a tongue through her sex and palming her breasts, Emma's paintings might just be the most impressive thing she's ever laid eyes on.
Emma's eyes slam shut as she cries out through her orgasm. She's overwhelmed – by unexpected luck, by a possibly successful career she's dreamt about since childhood. Most overwhelming above all is Regina, her svelte, glowing body covering hers, and the way she delivers final judgment in a kiss and so, so much more. And now – by the token of affection Emma receives in the soft eye contact; a thumb feathering over the tear patterned cheek; the timid, proud smile hovering over hers.
Emma has never known nor cared what people thought of her work. Not until her eyes fell on that beautiful woman in red from across a room.
The mid-day sun filters through aluminum crinkled blinds. Emma is lying sprawled out on the bed, an arm dangling over the edge and her head wedged between two pillows. She sleeps on a disaster area, sheets rumpled and twisted, but she doesn't care much. It's nice to feel the warmth of the day on her skin and not worry about decorum. Whatever isn't covered by the near torn sheet is naked and made glowing by the rapt attention it has received.
When she does stir from rest it occurs to her why there's so much room to spread out. The knuckle of her fist rubs the sleepiness from her eyes before she blinks them wide.
"Hey…" she mutters resentfully. Her brows knit in a full on pout as she does not see the fairness in this visual at all.
Emma wonders why Regina left her bed. Someone still needs to explain their behavior, hopefully using a mouth filled with words although Emma knows pleasure in the alternative. They have a lot of catching up to do and a few rolls in the sack aren't going to cut it. Emma is a realist not a masochist.
A throaty moan escapes as Emma takes pains to rise from the plush comfort of her bed. The sound reaches the ears of another who doesn't show a sign of Emma's rousing. Regina is sitting on a couch, legs curled under her, and an elbow perched on the back of the couch so her palm can support her head. She is staring, fixedly, at the paintings. Just how long she's been like that Emma can't guess and from the dazed look she's witnessing neither does Regina.
Skeptical of such overt brooding, Emma throws on clothes which were unceremoniously torn off not long ago and drops on the couch beside the woman.
"You have a gift, Emma."
Emma, who fails to catch a single glance during the confession, chuckles to herself. A single thumb scratches her brow as she stares at an indiscriminate spot of her couch. "You know… we already slept together," she says pointedly, "twice. You don't have to continue with flattery."
A scowl mars Regina's once contemplative face. "What? I would never…"
Emma tips her head and raises a brow like Regina knows exactly what that means.
"Okay," Regina mutters under her breath, casting a look elsewhere "maybe I would." But then her intense stare returns and her frown deepens further. Her arm drops from the back of the couch so she can turn and address Emma directly. "But I'm serious. You possess a gift I have never seen in any one of my artists. They are…" At a loss for the right word she turns back to the canvases for inspiration because from day one Emma has jumpstarted this creative force in Regina she can't be sure she wants to dampen. "They are magnificent. I don't understand how these paintings can be sitting here collecting dust while there are patrons out there who will pay top dollar for just one. Emma…" She shakes her head, utterly disbelieving it herself even as it rings true to her ears. "You. Are. Gifted."
"Am I?"
"Have you not heard a word I've said? This is no time for wisecracks!"
"I just didn't think –"
"You're absolutely right," Regina snaps, rising from the couch and bearing over Emma with a touch of menace. "You don't think. But that's what makes you the artist you are today. You don't think – you paint. You let your hands do the talking. They feel the colors and the emotions. They bring life to dull white space. You paint like the brushes are an extension of your hands. And after all this time you come upon an opportunity to make your work known…" her eyes narrow then and she creeps her head forward to deliver, "… and you think now is the time to take the modest path?!"
Emma inches back, expression as wide as if she were inhaling steam from a fire-breathing dragon. At the moment, she's debating between fight or flight because she's pretty sure she's never seen Regina (or anybody) get this angry over a few paintings. And all she can muster is a vague, "Um..."
"This is not a game, Emma. Your career is at stake! Your life is at stake!"
"Can you please stop yelling at me?"
Regina blinks at the way Emma is shrinking into the couch and sinking enough to be consumed between the cushions. She shakes her head a bit at her fumbling grip on her emotions. This never happens to her. An upsurge of passion usually translates to some as anger and she has been mindful in the past to keep it in check. But there is something about how oblivious this woman is to her own talent that boils the blood under Regina's very skin.
One by one each finger uncurls from the two fists at her sides. She hardly remembers forming the lethal clubs in her furious state. Regina's temper diminishes before the flicker of distress in green eyes and soon the flush to her cheeks recedes.
"How can you be so indifferent?" she asks, more disciplined though still with eyes aflame
"I don't mean to be. I just never knew."
Regina's mouth drops open in a silent gasp. Her brows knit together and she certainly feels the pain of concern color her face. She returns to the couch albeit nearer to a pale stricken Emma. "How can you not know?" Her tone is barely audible for fear the answer is too awful to put to words. She watches the flicker of emotions that pass over Emma, trying and failing to interpret each one.
Emma's shoulders grow into a shrug. "No one told me."
"Ever? Regina gawks openly.
The fiddling of fingers to the tattered edge of her shorts is answer enough. Emma is consumed by the method of smoothing the frays down. She'd rather be reminded of how cheap her taste in clothing is than answer Regina's question. Based on the rigorous eye contact flitting over her, Emma knows that Regina is considering whether to venture down a total stranger's nightmare memory lane.
Emma is growing more anxious for activity so while her guest is ruminating she decides to roll a joint. It keeps her hands busy and her poor shorts free from tyranny. However, it does little to quiet her mind.
"My last foster home was one I spent the most time with. Of course by the time I got there I was fifteen and could disappear for hours at a time without anybody worrying about where I was or who hung out with me." Emma focuses on her work while she speaks. If she regards Regina's reaction she doubts she'd be able to finish. "They weren't bad folks. They just didn't care about people like Kandinsky or Gauguin much less art theory and history. I didn't have their blessing or their respect, so I took matters into my own hands and enrolled at the nearest community college, even though most of what I know today is from extracurricular research."
Regina looks from Emma to the finely rolled joint and back. "So you are a self-taught artist?"
"If that's what you want to call it, I guess."
It barely meets the minimum of an explanation, but then that is the point. The flesh of Regina's lips tightens into a line. She's unsure how to respond and, therefore, settles for a somber study of the woman sitting there, focused, beautiful, and amazing Regina with a power oblivious to her being.
Emma lights the joint, inhales, and offers it over.
Still perturbed by the litany of unanswered questions, Regina takes it without a thought. "Fuck, that's good," she sighs after a decent pull. She breathes out suddenly aware of how exhausted she is. It feels like 15 years of built up, mandatory tension and she lets it all go with one long exhale.
"What about you?" asks Emma after a brief intermission. "Do you paint?"
"I used to."
She waits and when the silence only grows Emma leans back on the couch and remarks brazenly, "Well, that has to be the shortest story I ever heard."
Regina reclines, too, despite how unbecoming the slouched posture might look to those individuals whose opinions she never gave a damn about. "You are one to talk," she shoots back, side-glancing Emma. A smirk tugs at her mouth.
"Now who's acting all coy and mysterious?"
"Just because I'm not forthcoming doesn't mean I am without an adequate explanation."
Emma simply challenges with a raised brow.
"In my family a sure thing is better than an unsure thing," Regina starts. The account isn't as meticulously organized as her day planner, but she finds the words coming easier in Emma's presence. Just the warmth and patience of her company allows Regina to breathe with ease. "A liberal arts education was a risk my parents pleaded with me not to take. Career and image were everything to them. But I was the first in my family to break tradition – and the last," she adds enigmatically, eyes downcast. "Our past comes back to remind us of our place and at the most inopportune time. Art was my life's passion, then it became my hobby, and now…" Regina prepares two fingers and plucks an errant flake from her tongue and flicks it away. "Well," she ends on a note of finality and a wistfulness common in many cynics whose hopes have long expired.
A part of Emma – no, the whole part – breaks for the loss this woman has sustained. She doesn't want to venture a guess at how difficult that burden must be to bear. It's no casual fancy, art. You have to want it bad, so bad in fact that you have to force certain necessities to take a back seat, things like good food, clothing, shelter. And you must work hard enough to be not good, not great, but exceptional. Emma knows that life like the bristles of her paintbrush and it is no cushy lifestyle. Regina's situation is different (obviously because she came from a wealthy family) but the burden remains. Her passion, her reason for smiles, and that reassuring ache in her fingers from painting so long… it is all so near, but so out of reach.
Emma knows the ache. The blade that cuts like someone telling you "No, you can't," hurts more than words can describe. She understands the pain Regina is feeling as she divulges her troubles. No matter how masterful a manipulator in facial expressions and in forging that wall around the heartache, Regina cannot go unnoticed. The hands hugging her middle and the diverting eyes are too revealing of the things she won't say, the things that eviscerate her throat just by speaking them. It's vulnerability and Emma understands that more than she'd like to admit and it scares her to the point of stumbling.
"A-and what do they think now?"
"My parents? They're gone," Regina supplies pithily before the question can be asked. "I'm honoring their legacy by putting their money to good use."
Head rising, Emma gathers, "Discovering talent." Now she understands the plight of the overworked, misunderstood woman.
Regina nods without actually looking at Emma.
"But you've given up on your own talent."
"That's just the way things are." A palm shrugs to lend itself to the point. Regina shakes her head, eyes fluttering as she is at a loss for how else to explain it. "We can't always get everything we want, Emma. I've reconciled with the fact that some artists grow out of the phase and, instead, use their experience to help others. That's what I'm doing. I'm helping people and that suits me."
"Fuck that."
"Excuse me?"
"Fuck helping people!" Emma sputters, axing her hand down as if to put the notion out of its misery. "Christ, you're not a martyr, Regina! Try being a little selfish, why don't you? I know you have it in you."
While Emma is catching her breath Regina is gaping in disbelief. She tilts her heat to the side, trying to work out the angle behind 'insulting the person trying to boost your career.'
All of a sudden Emma lunges, passionately, and with a blaze of fire in her eyes, for the face blinking in surprise and cradles it between her hands. "This is undiscovered talent." She then takes the limp hands in hers and gives them a shake as if to shock some sense into them. "This is undiscovered talent." She knows it will take time to prove it, but the mining of that priceless, luminous piece of Regina will be worth it – for her, for Emma, for the world if only they just open their goddamned eyes to this pearl. "And this," Emma places her hand above Regina's breast, "this is too." Steely passion softens to something just as marked. The profound smoothness painting her face shows how precious she believes this heart to be.
The chances of being enchanted by this nostalgia are slim, yet the spell cast by Emma's vibrant green eyes is like a captive embrace. She feels imprisoned by the admissions because all her life she was trained to doubt them. But she is also faced with the breathtaking sense of freedom – to do as she pleases, to believe in whom she trusts.
After everything Emma has made her feel why should Regina declaim it? Isn't this what she wanted? Inspiration? A muse? A reason to drop the shackles of her present toils and pick up a paintbrush? Oh, how good it used to feel between her fingers. For hours she could spin it blindly in her hands, envisioning her masterpiece before ever having to make a single brush stroke. She misses that. She longs for those interminable hours, staring, wondering, and painting with her eyes.
Emma is defending a gift that has been so long locked up Regina has forgotten what it's like to project her imagination. Emma is defending a young Regina who would frown upon this relentless need to carry on a tradition that should have perished the day her parents had. To be upset with Emma is absurd when her only crime has been coaxing Regina's true desires out of her shell. Regina has never felt more like herself – her true self – when she is with Emma. She doesn't have to put on a performance. She does not require high heels, coiffed hair, or a memorized speech in order to get noticed. Emma just wants her as she is.
The truth behind Emma's words emanates like sunrays from her fingertips. It warms the skin under her splayed hand and Regina has to be sure it is no magic trick. She lifts her hand and covers the one on her chest and tangles their fingers together. It is done without ever having to break the powerful gaze they share. Regina's eyes fall closed around the moisture and she understands… it is no trick.
"It pisses me off," Emma mutters, "because her you are, a privileged, creative woman who sacrifices her own gift for the next person's. I never had that kind of opportunity and if I did I wouldn't squander it or take it for granted."
She ends on a resounding point, gripping the fingers around hers and pressing passion into Regina's heart with their tangled hands. Emma's eyes flit down to the response that squeezes back. It's captivating to watch and has the air in her lungs catching. She remembers these fingers making love to her not long ago; these fingers which had been pumping their length inside her and painting her walls with the color of her arousal.
If she can do that, I wonder what she can accomplish with an actual brush at her fingertips.
The warmth recedes with a fleeting hand. Turning, Regina uses it to wipe away at her cheeks. It's not her proudest moment, nor does it express what she truly feels, but maybe it's just her. She'll never know because she is who she is; the woman of one-night stands and momentary love affairs. For as unfulfilling as that life has become, she dares not ask if she's the only one.
In a spur of the moment, Regina asks for some tea, if only to be left unattended with the paintings again.
Later, a near disorienting series of clanks and clinks of porcelain follow Emma out of the kitchen and around the couch. She deposits the wooden breakfast tray on the coffee table. The spread laid before Regina is awarded with the gasp Emma anticipated.
"You taste in chinaware is…" Regina's mouth twists, uncertain how to deliver it without offense, "impressive. I always figured you for a mug person."
"Garage sale," Emma supplies. "I got them in a set. A real steal."
"I'm sure." Regina smirks. She has the sneaking suspicion that the woman couldn't distinguish between the correct usage of a tea spoon and a pair of tongs.
And sure enough Emma brandishes the spoon and dives into the sugar bowl. Four sparkling white sugar cubes are bulldozed into her cup with the finesse of a professional arm wrestler.
Brings a whole new meaning to bull in a china shop.
"Something funny?" Emma asks. She dabs at the spill before taking a liberal gulp from her drink.
Clearing her throat, Regina grins around the lip of her teacup before setting it down. The rim of its bottom meets the saucer with a dainty clink. "Not at all."
"You know, now that we're sharing first impressions I have to admit I didn't peg you for a stoner."
"Well, at the expense of your inappropriate vocabulary, I will have you know that I am not some…"
Emma tried to force back the smile, but it's so inevitable with the way Regina hedges. "Stoner?" The scowl she receives only manages to exacerbate her amusement.
"No," Regina grinds out, only partially offended, "but I was never the good, decent girl I have been portrayed as. I may have lived up to the brand in public, though not in private."
Draping an arm over the back of the couch, Emma reclines back and drawls, "Don't I know it."
"Your vulgarity ceases to charm, dear."
"Oh, I don't know about that. You seemed to appreciate my vulgar side quite a bit today… on my kitchen counter and in bed, if I'm not mistaken."
The corner of Regina's sealed mouth tugs up at the sight of wiggling eyebrows. "I'm sure I'm going to regret saying this, but there is something outrageously appealing in your lack of modesty."
"The key word there being appealing."
"Or the outrageous part," Regina defends with mock affront.
It doesn't escape them that the underlying subject raises quite a few questions. In fact, the significance of it strikes them at the same time with Emma ducking into her cup and Regina zeroing her stare in on the gray paws making their stealthy way under the coffee table.
"So…" Emma breaks the awkward silence. She sets her cup down before the tremble can be detected. Her voice, however, cannot be stripped of its cowardice. "You may not own the traits of a high class Puritan, but… do you, uhmm, d-do you often –"
"As I implied before," Regina cuts in, half as resolute as Emma, "I have been caught in far more compromising positions than this. You can ask me..." her tongue blunders before it can be taken back, "anything."
Emma clears her throat. Her eyes are shifting from Regina's to the couch to the floor to her paintings and back to Regina in an obscure circle of nervousness. "Well, I was just wondering if you were going to see those two men from the party again, or if it was just a onetime thing – not that there's anything wrong with that. I mean, if you want to see them again that's okay, too. I'm sure it's of no consequence to you due to the fact that some weeks have passed." Emma utters a breathy 'ha' to clear the tension even though it just tightens the cords of anxiety around her gut. "It's just a meaningless curiosity."
Her eyes blink rapidly like she just poured a vat of acid into them. It's getting too difficult to focus on Regina's blank expression. Her refusal (or indifference) in shutting this rant down before something really embarrassing tumbles out is kind of pissing Emma off. That unreadable stare is so vicious when it burns into her, and it's kind of hurtful if she really thinks about it.
After a drained sigh, Regina finally puts the woman out of her misery with an "I don't know." The couch creaks with Emma's changing position (away from her occasional lover) and Regina realizes a vague certainty is not going to cut it. "I will be seeing Joshua and Kamal in a professional capacity, yes, but I make it an obligation not to engage in personal, long-term connections. It simply doesn't translate well with the stresses of my daily life: magazine editor, art dealer, professional image consultant. Not to mention the whole heiress to a fortune part has a tendency to intimidate." Regina wets her lips before knitting them into a tight line. She frowns down at her wringing hands and swallows hard before saying, "Relationships are not something I do often." Or well, she thinks bitterly.
In the midst of her stumbling confession Emma has risen from the couch and started wearing at the finish of her wood floor. She paces from one end of her small studio to the foot of her bed and back at a steady, constant speed that makes Regina dizzy. It's been a few minutes since she opened herself up to Emma, and it's unclear whether the decision is regretted. While tugging at her bottom lip, Regina watches her pace and silently begs her to stand still, say something, or sit back down for god's sake! The couch is starting to feel a bit lonely and Regina really doesn't want to beg. She feels cold and alone and desires what she knows cannot be taken without permission.
"Okay. Well. What does your version of a relationship entail?"
Regina blinks, looks up, and realizes that Emma has stopped pacing and is gesturing with her hands like charades is going to better explain it. Floundering for an answer, Regina casts her gaze down to Oscar who is regarding her with oddly similar anticipation as his owner. All eyes are on her and she opens her mouth… but nothing.
The couch dips with Emma's weight, successfully tearing Regina from the clouds.
"What is your ideal partnership?" Emma rephrases, pretty sold on the fact that it's never actually been asked of this woman. It only takes a look for her to understand how few people in Regina's life have offered her the freedom to choose. There's a whole other element to her question and there may be some baggage dragging behind it, but Emma can't help the springing hope in her eyes.
Regina sees the flash of enthusiasm before it is tamped down. The source of it is so easily identified because she is overwhelmed by the same effect. Her vision widens and she understands. It leads her to wonder… maybe she should stop shutting good things out; maybe her path needs a detour, one that isn't paved by her family.
And there Emma is looking so… Emma in her tattered, paint-stained shirt. It's so her and Regina can't keep that feeling beneath her chest from expanding. Her paintings continue to stand out in vivid display around the studio – here, there, over her left shoulder as a magnificent sunset background to a more magnificent flaxen-haired forefront. After an unlikely meeting at a dismal party, Regina is still bombarded with that same sense of marvel. It hasn't escaped her since that night her breath had been stolen away with a muttered curse and few fumbling strokes of hand to unruly hair. Emma never cared much for people like her, but something in the way she moves their hands together, intertwining in the space between them, convinces Regina that that rule has long been thrown out the window.
The proposal is unwavering and delivered with such intensive care that Regina has to dignify it with an answer.
