Completing her exploration of the blonde's home with a peek into her bedroom, the Queen stands at the threshold with her glass of wine held elegantly in her hand. The house is still fairly bare- the Sheriff owning little, especially in terms of decor- but disorganised clutter adorns the stark rooms in a trail that pretty much narrates Emma's last couple of days. A pair of jeans- blue, rather than the black the blonde currently wears- lie crumpled beside the nightstand, pooling in a messy figure of eight where she's stepped out of them. Chunky black boots lie nearby, and a scant scarlet bra snags on the handle of the dresser. Two glasses stand empty but for a honeyed glaze of rum painting the bottoms on the nightstand, and she guesses the blonde and the pirate must have shared whatever had been in the bottle that rests beside the bedside lamp. The bottle is empty, and the sticky residue of the label that will have branded it forms an irregular, broken rectangle on the glass. Here and there a few scraps of the sticker remain visible, but for the most part, it has been ripped off. A habitual act she has witnessed as the Mayor several times when the blonde has been either agitated or anxious; pealing absentmindedly at the water bottles on her desk.
What does that say about your state of mind when sharing your bed with the pirate?
She smirks, but she supposes she hadn't needed a shredded bottle as evidence that Emma might yet have a few outstanding issues with intimacy. She's been stuck in a body where she's been forced to converse over such boring facts for months now.
Taking a seat on the younger woman's bed she sips at her wine thoughtfully, cocking her head as the blonde's angry knocking resumes downstairs.
Futile.
Emma seems soon to come to the same conclusion, as the furious pounding of her fists only goes on for a couple of seconds before once more falling silent.
What am I going to do with you?
A fair question. The fact that she has the Saviour held captive is delicious, but she's not yet decided on a further course of action. Locking Emma away had been a simple impulse, but it tickles her that the younger woman suffers a taste of the fate Snow had once handed down to herself. Locking her up. Keeping her prisoner. And for that, she plans to make the bitch pay. Delivering Snow her darling daughter's head seems like a wonderful place to start- a perfect way to celebrate her freedom- but the fact that nobody else knows of her whereabouts provides the luxury of time, and she's never been one to rush a good thing.
Licking her lips, she is certain she still tastes cinnamon.
She supposes it could simply be all in her head, but deems this to be an excellent cause for another taste to make sure.
The ghosted memories of her time spent trapped inside her own skin bring her fractured images of the blonde's insolence and goading. Challenging that lesser, weaker version of herself again and again. Defying her. Taunting her.
Teasing her.
Glancing down at scarlet lace, she allows a slow smile to find her lips, wondering just what that other version of herself might say if they still shared the same twisted mind.
If she only knew the thoughts that were beginning to form there...
Thoughts stemming from the shadows of so many subdued fancies and forbidden buds of suggestion now finally allowed to bloom. More than once, the notion that their bickering might be swiftly and satisfyingly settled with a rough, wet interruption had crossed her mind back when she'd been the Mayor, but such ideas had always resulted in a blush and an irritable haste to push them aside. Now... She lets those fantasies blossom and progress, dark eyes trained on sinful scarlet while deciding she might just be able to make herself perfectly comfortable in the blonde's bed.
Whoever knew we would be roommates, dear?
She laughs lightly, before pushing herself up from the bed and making her way back downstairs.
With the curious thoughts playing out in her mind, she finds she's suddenly famished.
Emma sits with her back against the wall, her pupils blown as she peers through the darkness. She sits at the top of the steep steps that lead down to the basement below; down where her fate had been decided in the depths of this strange house. She's not mentioned it to any of the others, but ever since relinquishing the dagger, she has kept well away from the peculiar cave beneath the floors she now walks every day. Since striving to let go of the darkness discovered beneath the house, only Hook has been down into the basement; once, with a flashlight to store a couple of boxes from the trunk of her car filled with memories she doesn't necessarily cherish but is also unable to part with. At one time, her baby blanket had been amongst these things, but ever since pulling it out to show Ava and Nicholas, she's kept it out of the trunk and in plain sight. It occurs to her suddenly that Regina still has the blanket after using it to track her when she'd been consumed by the darkness. She'd been mildly surprised when the brunette had later explained that she'd thought to use it. A little touched. Now, she is struggling to find any good thoughts about Regina, as the cold stone of the floor bites into her ass, and the metal circlet around her wrist digs in as though mocking her.
That's not Regina... Not any version you know, anyway.
She reminds herself, and she tugs at her hair nervously while trying to get her head around her current predicament.
She licks her lips, feeling the darker woman's kiss burning there.
What the fuck was that?
She tries to comprehend what in the hell the brunette had been playing at but fails.
What the hell was she thinking?!
But again, she lacks any answer. She has read Henry's book countless times and has been provided with further explanations of the past from her parents, her friends and from Regina herself. She knows that if the woman whose heels beat out a cruel rapport above her really is the Evil Queen, she's in trouble. Even though that version of Regina verges on ridiculous and harbours an air so similar to several of the drag acts she'd watched when travelling across the West Coast that it's hard to take her seriously.
That's a foolish way to look at this, Swan.
She reprimands herself, and she supposes that the way things have turned upside down in the last hour proves her point. The brunette had been dressed oddly- provocatively- but not with the same eccentric flamboyance she had favoured in the book and showcased during the blonde's own curious slip back in time. In the graveyard, she'd been poised. Predatory. And the fact that she's made it her first point of call to incapacitate her ability to retaliate worries Emma a great deal. She scours the darkness for anything that she might be able to use as a weapon but comes up empty. She is reluctant to go any deeper into the basement without a light source, remembering the cavernous void below well enough from when anger had consumed her.
It would be all too easy to get lost down there.
Would that be worse than dealing with the whims of Her Majesty?
She pulls a face in the shadows but knows deep down that she would do well not to make light of her situation. She's grown comfortable with the brunette over the last couple of years, and to think of her now as the terrible entity Henry had once warned her so vehemently about is a struggle.
Hell, we went halves on breakfast yesterday!
She-
-Footsteps. Descending. She blinks as small clouds of dust sprinkle down onto her curls as Regina- the Queen- makes her way down the stairs directly above where she sits.
She waits.
Her lips tingle.
The thin crack of light beneath the door becomes broken by elegant heels.
She pushes herself up, holding her breath.
Bracing herself, she makes a swift decision and watches as the door handle turns slowly to the right.