Emma
You're in Granny's, leaning idly on the counter while Ruby fixes you a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream.
It's been nearly six weeks since Regina was sprung from jail. Since you walked her home and said an awkward good-bye on her front step. Since she looked at you with a confused mix of vulnerability and determination before ushering Henry inside and shutting the door gently behind her.
Since that day you've formed a tentative sort of truce with the dark woman.
She can still be a real bitch to work with at times, demanding perfection and almost impossible results.
But the to-do notes have continued, bringing with them a lighter side to your working relationship with the mercurial woman. Sometimes the notes even come with something attached. A bar of the darkest chocolate. A copy of Henry's school essay on cultures of the world. An invitation to dinner.
You blush, remembering that dinner. Or more accurately, what came after dinner. You and Henry had giggled through the entire meal, telling silly stories and cracking jokes. The stern, disapproving expression on the mayor's face had been belied by the faint warmth in her eyes and the slight twitch on the corner of her lips.
After dinner she had sent Henry upstairs to start on his homework, and then she'd walked you out to the garage on the pretense of getting your advice on a project. As if Regina Mills ever did any sort of projects in her garage.
She'd taken you on the hood of her black Mercedes. Hard, fast and wet.
Granny deposits two plates of eggs and toast on the counter for a couple of construction workers about to start their night shifts. She runs her eyes run up and down your torso before shooting you a strange look. She's caught you daydreaming, and you smile sheepishly as she bustles back to the kitchen.
The bell over the door chimes and you turn automatically to see who just walked in. You feel your heart start to beat a little faster as the object of your thoughts strides up to the cash register, a gust of cold night air following in her wake.
She's wearing a steel grey dress under a black jacket, and her shiny black heels click loudly on the cheap linoleum floor. Her eyes are dark and intense, focused solely on Ruby. She pays no attention to you or to anyone else in the room.
She leans against the counter in a confident manner and places a to-go order, dropping a crisp five dollar bill by the cash register.
Ruby nods, acknowledging the order, but takes the time to finish spooning the whipped cream on your hot chocolate. She adds a sprinkle of cinnamon and presents the white coffee mug to you with a flourish. You smile at her in thanks and lift the mug to your lips, blowing gently on the steaming beverage.
As Ruby turns back to the coffee machine to start the mayor's order, deep brown eyes finally turn your way. The mayor pushes off the counter and straightens up, managing to match your height in her incredible heels. She looks down her nose at your mug, the disgust clear in her face.
"Really Sheriff," she chastises, "You're going to be up all night with the amount of sugar in that drink."
Her words are sharp, condescending, but you notice a slight twinkle in her eyes, a curl on the corner of her lips. You wonder when you got so good at reading her expressions.
"Like you should talk," you scoff back at her, waving a hand dismissively. "I didn't even know Ruby made caramel macchiatos."
The whole room falls quiet. Ruby shoots you a desperate look from above the brewing coffee. Her glare speaks for itself. Shut up, Emma!
The mayor quirks an eyebrow, and then she snorts in amusement. Ruby's eyes are wide.
The woman in front of you takes a step forward, her eyes level with yours, her gaze electric. Your pulse flutters.
"Well then," she speaks clearly, loud enough for the whole diner to overhear. "Since we're both going to be up all night, perhaps you would care to return to the office to review the upcoming budget with me?"
"I have plans," you blurt out, momentarily flustered. You had only been planning on chatting with Ruby over a hot chocolate and then heading home to bed. Nothing monumental really, but it's not in you to be at anyone's beck and call.
She smirks again. Her words are dry. "Cancel them. This is part of your job, Sheriff. I require your input."
"On a Friday night?"
"Law enforcement is always on duty," she informs you. "If that's not your thing, you should never have taken the job."
She steps forward again. She's right in your space, her nose almost touching yours, her eyes boring into your own, unblinking.
"Henry…?" you stutter, slightly breathless.
"Henry is back at the Jones boy's house tonight," she informs you. Her breath is warm on your face. "Seems they've found common ground. They're building a computer. Or something."
She shrugs, an almost sheepish expression flashing quickly across her face. Then she pulls back slightly and flicks her eyes up and down your body, all business again.
Ruby clears her throat softly and places a plastic-lidded beverage on the counter.
The mayor reaches out with elegant fingers to claim her coffee. "So Sheriff," she continues. "You up for it?" Her voice is challenging, the double-innuendo in her question clear.
You sigh, rub your forehead in pained gesture. You wish this weren't turning into such a public scene.
Granny pokes her head out of the kitchen long enough to make a tch tch noise at the mayor's rudeness. Ruby's eyes are still as round as saucers as she watches the two of you intently, her eyes darting back and forth in fascination as they follow the conversation. Easily a dozen sets of ears in the diner are tuned your way, listening carefully.
You hesitate.
The dark-haired woman in front of you makes an impatient gesture. "Well? Are you coming? Or not."
You meet her eyes. Smirk. Like you'd turn that offer down. You make a noise of agreement.
The mayor nods, pleased, the triumph clear on her face. She turns back to Ruby and gestures to your mug of hot chocolate. "Put that in a paper cup, dear," she orders blithely.
Ruby gulps, looks to you for confirmation. You give her a faint nod.
She pours your drink carefully into a to-go cup, then adds some extra cinnamon as a consolation prize. The snap of the plastic lid is loud in the quiet diner.
You accept the warm beverage and nod at her in thanks. The heated whispers start up as soon as you turn to follow the mayor out the door.
Once outside, the cold, damp night air makes you shiver and you draw your jacket tightly around your body. You follow the mayor's slim back across the street, moving away from the glow from the diner.
Her footfalls slow as she draws close to her black Mercedes. She finally turns to face you, a look of pleased smugness on her face. You shake your head and sigh.
"Really Regina?" you mutter darkly. "Leave me a little dignity at least, won't you?"
She grins, a full smile that lights up her face and causes your heart to thump loudly in your chest.
"Now dear, I have a reputation to maintain, don't I?" she asks demurely, sliding closer to you. She places her coffee on the roof of her car and runs soft fingers down your arm to grasp your fingers.
You fight to keep your expression stern. "Next time you want to ask me out on a date, maybe you could do it a little more nicely?"
Her face registers shock and she hastily drops your hand.
You've never really talked about this thing that's going on. About the fact that you risked your career and your reputation to protect her, or the fact that you now spend at least two nights a week in her bed.
You've been hanging around an awful lot, and you're sure that Henry's noticed. But he hasn't said anything. Yet. You assume he's holding off because he's afraid to speak. Afraid to break the spell that has surrounded his house and his two mothers, leaving a quiet sort of peace. Afraid to startle a mom who is finally loosening up, supporting him instead of cutting him down.
Regina has continued her counseling sessions, this much you know. Lying entwined in bed one night, she had shared some of Archie Hopper's advice.
Henry is his own person. That person needs to be supported, allowed to grow. A parent's job is to help their child become independent. A child is not something that you produce solely to continue your legacy, but rather a being that you send out into the world with the skills to be his own person. A good person. A good man.
In an amazed and slightly embarrassed voice, she had admitted softly that this was a foreign concept. Something that she had never even considered as a possibility.
She's been extremely vague about her childhood, and you had wondered again about the old hurt. About who it may have been that left her so broken inside, who had only seen Regina as a product of their legacy, not as a living, breathing individual.
The next morning Regina had ordered a pile of computer parts on the internet. Hard drives, graphics cards, memory sticks, cables. When they had arrived exactly one week later she had bounced like a child, impatient for Henry get home and open his surprise.
The image of that moment remains burned in your memory. The incredulous joy on Henry's face. The way he'd flown into his mother's arms. Regina's genuine happiness, her pleasure and pride.
And as inconsistent and bitchy as this woman can be, you know that she can change. That she is changing.
And you're glad that you're around to see it.
But you've never talked about it. Never talked about your role in her life beyond that of the town's sheriff. Of Henry's birth mother.
And certainly never discussed a concept such as dating.
Dating is something that normally you would never consider. Ever. You're more of a one night stand kind of girl; relationships just aren't your thing. But you find, much to your own bewilderment, that you'll break even your own rules for this woman.
You smile at her.
She recovers quickly, reclaims your hand and draws you to her until your eyes are inches apart. Your breath mingles, damp clouds in the cold night air.
From this close you can see right through her smoldering eyes, all the way into her soul.
Those eyes slide shut and she kisses you. Softly, tenderly. She breaks away, glances around at the empty street, at the fogged windows of the diner.
She laughs softly, an amazed, delighted sound.
"Not here," she murmurs against your lips. "My place. Follow me home?"
You nod, still breathless. Release her hand. Begin to walk backwards in the direction of your yellow bug parked a block away.
Thankfully Storybrooke is a small town, virtually deserted at night, because you're not paying any attention to your surroundings. You back through the intersection against the light, your eyes fixed to the mayor's shapely figure.
Her gaze rests on you for a moment and there's a wistful look on her face, barely visible in the faint glow of the street lights. Then she shakes her head as if to clear it, retrieves her coffee from the roof of her car and slides into the driver's seat.
You watch her engine start and tail lights come on, and then finally you turn, scramble into your own vehicle. You start the engine and hastily pull the seatbelt around your body.
You park your car on the street outside her house. You've been careful these past weeks, arriving either on foot or else leaving your car parked several blocks away on a main road. But tonight you don't care.
The front door is cracked open, light from the foyer spilling out into the night. You trot up the front walk, half-finished hot chocolate in hand, and push open the door.
She's waiting for you. She's removed her coat and your eyes immediately fall to her bare shoulders. You move forward, intending to place a kiss on the soft skin, but she stops you with a perfectly manicured hand on your chest.
You meet her dark eyes in vague confusion. She points to the cup in your hand.
"Do you want to finish that?"
You look at her, incredulous. What?
The faint crinkle around her stormy eyes betrays the fact that she's teasing you yet again, and you wonder how much of the heated banter between the two of you in the past actually had something deeper beneath it.
You clear your throat, shake your head to answer in the negative. She removes the cup from your loose grip and strides into the kitchen where she deposits it on the counter near the sink.
As you trail after her you call out, "What about your coffee?"
She meets you in the doorway to the kitchen, smirks.
"I wasn't there for the coffee," she husks. She reaches around you to flick off the lights. Then she's gone, heading for the stairs.
"Oh," you reply, flustered. You give your head a half-shake and scramble after her retreating figure.
Upstairs you hover nervously just inside the door of her bedroom. You watch as she moves around the room, lighting candles and then clicking off the lamp. She tugs the comforter off the bed, leaving only the sheets.
It's not that you've never been in this room before, never been in that bed. Because you have. But it's never been so deliberate. It's always been a heated scramble, body pressed against naked body. Or else it's been a tired stumble, late in the night, collapsing into bed only to fall asleep in each other's arms.
This purposeful deliberation is new.
Finally running out of things to do, she turns to look at you. There's a shy expression on her face and you realize that she's just as nervous as you are. All of this prep work is just her way of managing it.
She looks much younger suddenly, sweet and tentative, and you have a glimpse of her as a young woman, a glimpse of what she must have looked like before life and circumstances wore her down, hardened her up.
You want to preserve this moment. Preserve her sweetness, her beauty. You step forward and reach gently to her face. You run wondrous fingers down her cheek, over her jawbone. Her eyes flutter shut and a soft hum escapes her throat.
Your fingertips trace her neck, feel the rapid pulsing of blood in her arteries. Brush a collar bone.
Her eyes blink open and gaze into yours, open and raw. She grasps your shoulders lightly for balance and steps out of her heels. She is shorter suddenly, and you dip your head to rest your cheek against hers. You inhale the scent of apples. Shampoo and laundry soap. Spicy perfume.
Her voice rumbles softly into your ear, sending a tingling through your body that lands straight between your legs. "Emma." It's gentle, softly pleading.
Four hands work together to remove first your clothing and then hers. And then she stands before you, naked, toes curling into the plush throw rug. The candle light casts a soft glow on her smooth skin and gentle curves.
You grasp her hipbones, pull her gently towards you. At the feel of her skin against yours you throw your head back in wonder. Will it always be like this? So intense, so amazing?
You guide her backwards until her knees hit the bed. She falls into the sheets and tugs you down clumsily on top of her. You finally get to kiss that shoulder that had been tempting you downstairs, and from there you trail your lips over her collarbone, up her throat. Over her jugular, along her jaw. Your tongue traces the path back down to the hollow in her neck and she tosses her head back, arches into you.
Your fingers trail down her side, swirl around her hip bone, and then trace a light pattern back up her stomach and around the curve of a soft breast. Then back down again to cup the wetness between her thighs.
Her eyes snap open. A hand comes down to hold yours firmly in place. She grins, showing teeth.
This is not the soft smile of a few minutes before, but rather a look that is mischievous and predatory in nature.
Her fingers tighten briefly around yours, pushing you into her wetness, and then in a quick move she tosses your hand away. She wraps a leg around your thigh and suddenly you're on your back, looking up into smoldering eyes.
She sits up and straddles your belly.
You reach towards her but she bats your hand away again. "Uh uh, Sheriff. Unless you need me to tie you down?" Her voice is low and gravelly, teasing.
You swallow. Consider the options, the image of lying bound beneath this amazing creature. Perhaps another day, you decide. You concede to her will and put your hands behind your head.
She nods, pleased with your choice, and then spends several long heartbeats raking her gaze up and down your body. Trying to decide where to start.
She leans down, her hands coming to rest on either side of your head. The kiss is sweet, her mouth warm and minty fresh. You wonder when she found time to brush her teeth, wish you'd thought to do the same. But any self-consciousness is driven quickly from your mind as she reaches a hand between your bodies and tweaks your nipple.
She swallows your gasping moan.
Teasing fingers trace a path down your chest and circle your breast, drawing closer and closer to the peak. When she finally brushes your nipple again you gasp and push up into her, but her fingers are gone.
Then a gentle touch on your other breast, soft fingertips at first, then your breast cupped in her palm. She kisses you again, and you wonder if you've ever been kissed like this before in your life. She's kissing you as if she's trying to merge her soul with yours and you pour everything you have into her mouth.
You need to touch her. You ease your hands out from under your head and bring them tentatively to her thighs. A heartbeat, and then another, as you wait to see if she's going to push you away. But she doesn't, she allows your hands to remain and you tighten your grip, needing to feel grounded.
She breaks the kiss, trails her lips down to your nipple. Soft swipes of the tongue, and then slightly harder, nipping with gentle teeth.
She hasn't marked you since before the jail incident. The bruises and bites have faded, and you feel as if she's being extra careful with you. As if you're a doll that might break.
You cup the back of her head, pull her more firmly to you. She pushes your hand away and moves with purposeful gentleness to your other breast.
Determined, you reach out again. You run a hand through her hair, scratching gently across the scalp. Then suddenly you grab a gentle fistful of hair and pull, while your other hand reaches out to grab her nipple firmly. You twist, pinch hard, and release.
She bites down involuntarily in surprise and you surge up into her body with a groan. God yes, that's it.
She freezes. A long pause, and then you can feel her smiling against her chest.
Then she's on you. Teeth and tongue, fingers and nails. You arch up into her, hiss in pleasure as she scratches a line down your back. Sharp nails dig into your buttocks, pull your center up to meet her thigh.
She backs off, rearranges your bodies, and then without warning her fingers plunge deep inside of you. You cry out, pull her closer. She pulls out, hovers. Teases. You strain for more contact. And then without warning she's inside again, curling her fingers.
She continues to tease you, shallow, deep, shallow again. Your hands are on her back, urging her closer. Your teeth find purchase on her shoulder. When your eyes flutter open you see her burning eyes watching you. Pleased and intent.
Your eyes slam shut again as she drives back inside and sets up a steady rhythm, deep and fulfilling. You arch into her, demanding more, and she pushes two more fingers inside of you.
You snake a hand between your bodies blindly, searching for her wetness. You find it, dripping and scalding hot, and you moan as your fingers slide easily inside.
She establishes a rhythm, steady and hard. There is sweat beading on her back beneath your palm and you scramble for a grip on her slippery skin. Her breath is harsh in your ear, gasping.
You're on the edge, teetering, and you run your hand from her back to her face. Grip her jaw, pull her mouth to yours. Your tongues meet, hot and soft. Then her head snaps back and a keening cry flies from her throat as her body convulses around your fingers. She jerks, her hand twisting roughly inside of you and you follow her over the edge.
Oh god.
Her head comes to rest on your shoulder, her sweaty hair sticks to your face. She gasps for breath, her heart still beating hard against your own. After a moment she slides her fingers out of you and playfully paints a shaky stripe of wetness on your collar bone. You smile, exhausted.
She doesn't even drag you into the shower, just allows you to fall asleep, sticky and naked in her bed. As you're on the edge of slumber she tugs the sheet up over your bodies and settles against your back, sweeps your hair out the way. A puff of breath, a faint kiss to the back of your neck.
As you drift into a contented sleep, you think you hear her murmur into your shoulder. Sweet, gentle words.
"Thank-you, love."