Regina frowns as she stares at herself in the mirror. Everything about her reflection is perfect... And there in lies the problem.
Olive skin glows smoothly in the flattering light of her bedside angle-poise lamp; the ornate silver device offering a subtle tone of illumination she finds greatly preferable to the clumsy white spill of the overheads. She sways slightly; drinking in the way her minute movements cause her soft flesh to flex and ripple.
She has always been proud of her body, and ponders curiously as she indulges in her reflective voyeurism how perfectly conflicting her own build is to that of the blonde's; a visual representation to their relationship. Where the Sheriff is hard and toned- long limbs sinewy yet lissom- she is soft and small. A perfect representation of femininity.
Such a shame then, to conceal herself beneath the prison of her wardrobe.
Smirking at herself in the mirror- full lips eagerly beseeching their owner for scarlet paint- she tosses back soft, glossy locks and supposes such annoyances will have to be put up with. For the time being.
Stalking over to the grand dresser beside the bay window, she pulls open its top drawer and selects a set of pure white lingerie; its daring cut and delicate lace a misleading contrast to the virginal hue. Inspecting the way the expensive material moulds lovingly to her slender frame, she frowns once more as her problem still remains.
What to wear.
She is unsure exactly what tonight 'is'. Her heart has been fluttering irksomely in her chest ever since the Sheriff had disconnected their peculiar conversation on the walkies, and, while she has spent an alarming amount of time in the blonde's presence over the past few weeks, this has done little to help her know what to expect.
You are an enigma, Miss Swan.
She is unable to say whether the troublesome younger woman will show up wearing her water-soiled shirt from earlier, a clean version of the same distasteful combination, or that beautiful black dress which had felt so pleasing beneath her finger tips...
She doubts Emma will wear the dress. Not after what happened last time.
Guilt.
Again with that horrible feeling of guilt.
Her words.
Her actions.
The blonde collapsed motionless on the dirt-ridden, flooded floor of the Sheriff's station.
Dead. Or as good as it.
Closing her eyes and pushing these thoughts away for what seems like the hundredth time since returning home, she pulls out the second drawer to her dresser and takes out a silken black shirt. The same shirt, she realizes, that Henry had bestowed upon Emma a couple of months ago.
"Of course it would be."
She sighs, but she pulls the delicate material over her supple frame gracefully, a sharp gleam present in her dark eyes as she muses that the shirt's fit supports her earlier thoughts as to the contrast between her figure and the blonde's perfectly; what had looked awkward and somehow wrong on the Sheriff, fits her own form in a most flattering fashion.
Selecting a pair of crisp, white tailored pants, she slips them on and tucks in her shirt neatly. Stepping into her favored pair of black heels- favored, but rarely worn; their higher and narrower heel making them impractical to wear out into town- she smiles at her reflection appreciatively.
Taking a seat at her strictly organized vanity, she begins the slow and methodical task of applying her makeup; deciding that she may as well put in a little extra effort for tonight.
Again with that! What is tonight? What do you want?
She sighs as she brushes delicate rouge over the apples of her cheeks. She has no answer to her own question. Not really.
To take the Sheriff to bed.
Well, yes, there's that.
Her turbulent thoughts since her near-fatal mistake and the troubling revelations that have come to light as a result have had the image churning in the back alley of her mind restlessly.
In the beginning, when they had gone their fevered, exhausted rounds in the darkening grandeur of her drawing room, their actions had held within them the bitter note of hate. That hate had turned into a feral display of sexual rivalry, which in turn had turned into a confused concoction of begrudging affection laced with hostility.
Then those damning papers.
And more hate.
Hate so deep it had been painful.
And now... Now the brunette muses she is a little unsure just how to feel about the Sheriff. The younger woman has plagued her thoughts relentlessly for the best part of two weeks, and she finds her heart growing fuller and beating faster because of it. She is not too stubborn to admit that she cares for the blonde; this being less an admission than it is a simple discovery. There had been no pretense- no ploy- behind the tears shed earlier today. True, many were the product of guilt, but she is wise enough to know that some were the simple consequence of finding Emma in her terrifying state.
Of viewing the younger woman hurt and alone.
Of strong, pale limbs seeming suddenly broken and fragile.
She cares for the troublesome Sheriff, however unwise this impulse may be, and she is beginning to imagine she may not just lust for her, but perhaps like her too.
"Let's not get carried away..."
Oh, but surely if this was a simple case of post-trauma shock causing her to care combined with the obvious lust she bestows on the blonde, she wouldn't find herself so frustrated at the way their meetings invariably begin and conclude with such carnal violence. Surely she wouldn't find herself accosted by images of long blonde hair fanning over her pillow, and of flesh- not wet, not needy- but vital and soft beneath her fingertips.
It has been a long time since she has simply shared a drink and made love.
Ironically, within the past twenty-eight years, the only two times this has come close to happening- and with none of the sensual romance one would hope for in such a setting, for which I am partially to blame- it has been with the young woman in question. Other than that... Not since...
"Daniel..."
The Mayor frowns as she touches up the final coat to her lipstick.
Can Daniel and Emma really be compared in such a way? In any way at all?
She banishes the thought. The fact that she is able to complete such musings without a tinge of anger or resentment tells her more than she wishes to know.
"Just one night. One night of not being at each other's throats."
One night to try and rid myself of the image of how she looked on the Station floor. To try and make up for thinking the worst, when... One night without hate. Without it being about Henry, Snow, Ruby, Charming, the fucking Savior... Just... Nice...
She sighs.
Of course the Sheriff might well have other ideas.