As she stands with her back to the Queen, Emma seethes. To her right, a glass of red wine remains so far untouched, having appeared as if out of nowhere, much like the apron now tied around her waist. At first, she had just slung the hateful garment over her head and let the yellowing ribbons hang down by her sides, but the brunette had swiftly come and rectified her mistake- stood behind her much too close, much too intimate- tying up the loose ends with a purposeful roughness and finishing off her torment with a bow. The knot beneath is tight, almost uncomfortably so, but the blonde refuses to let this show.
"Come on, you can work faster than that."
The hateful being wearing her friend's face goads silkily, and she clenches her jaw to keep from offering the brunette just a small portion of her opinion, gripping the knife in her hand so tightly that the little ridge where the plastic has been melded bites into her palm.
Not if you don't want some of my blood for seasoning, I can't...
She almost says as much to the Queen, but she's not sure she'd appreciate the response.
Looking back down at the shallots unevenly diced on the chopping board, she supposes she's all but decimated the last of the bunch with angry, short stabs of her knife. It's a large one; too big for cutting up vegetables, but she'd only come to this realisation after selecting it, and she refuses to give away any hint of regret or foolishness. She watches the blade as it turns small chunks to slivers, catching the glare of the kitchen overheads when she turns her wrist. Two thoughts go through her mind at the same time, and she discounts both of them with an infuriated roll of her eyes.
The first is more of a memory than it is a thought. The memory of what Zelena had done when bound by the cuff she now wears. The witch had cut off her own hand in order to be rid of the wretched thing, before swiftly healing herself when once more in command of her magic.
You've got more guts than that green nightmare...
Possibly, but she knows she has a tendency to act rashly and refuse the very idea that she's not got the courage to do what another has before her, sometimes to her detriment. Looking from the blade to the pale expanse of her wrist, she nibbles her lip thoughtfully but rejects what might well prove to be a fatal plan. She is still learning when it comes to magic, and healing- thankfully- is something she has little practice in. The last thing she needs right now is to wind up bleeding profusely in front of the Evil Fucking Queen.
Yeah, and that's if you even manage to properly lop it off. Knowing your luck, you'd just wind up with a knife stuck halfway through your wrist.
The second thought also derives from memory; both a memory of Regina accusing her of a great number of imagined acts while she'd been in jail, and her actual time spent there. It had hurt her- which she supposes had been the point!- when the Mayor had implied she'd cut Henry's cord with a shiv, but they'd never gotten much further in that line of conversation before it had rerouted onto another point of contention. In reality, she'd never fashioned herself anything even close to a shiv until a couple of months after getting out, and the deadly point at the end of her candy cane hadn't been good for much more than a couple of jabs. She's seen them made, though. Seen them made and seen them used. Seen the effect of even a little blade crudely fashioned after dark. The knife in her hand is big and sturdy, and she wonders if she might be able to hurt the brunette badly enough to keep her from using her magic, if only for so long as it might take her to escape.
You can't seriously be thinking about stabbing Regina, Swan!
It's not Regina! That is not Regina!
Her will battles with her common sense, but she knows it doesn't really matter who it is sat behind her smirking; she's not stabbing anyone.
"Honestly, what are you actually doing over there?"
The Queen hisses, but there is no hint of any suspicion in her tone that would suggest she's concerned that her unwilling captive stands debating her demise.
"Almost done."
Emma mutters, looking at the slivers littering the chopping board that are really just goop now. She swallows, the sharp burn of the shallot irritating her throat, but thankfully not causing her eyes to water as she's wearing contacts.
Igniting the heat and selecting one of the bottles of oil on the counter at random, she adds the chopped mush to a pan along with some spring greens and one of the fish fillets. She's not sure if she's doing any of this in the right order, but she's also not too bothered about it. She's hungry, but she doubts she could eat much with the adrenalin currently coursing through her blood, and the tight bind of the apron has given her a stomach ache. She'll feed the damned Queen as she has no other option so far as she can see it, but she doesn't give a fuck- flying or otherwise- whether the brunette enjoys what she serves her or not.
I think she's enjoying it plenty as it is...
Yes, and when she looks around, the smug smirk painted on scarlet lips affirms this thought. The Queen shows just a few more teeth- sharp, white and cruel- as she widens her smile, before flashing the velvet tip of her tongue. It's a coy act- uncomfortably flirtatious- and the blonde turns back to the stove and reaches for her wine after all. She takes several big gulps before spluttering as she chokes on the heady claret.
"Oh my. That wasn't even my doing!"
The Queen laughs in amusement, watching keenly as the younger woman stands bent over at the waist with her hands on her hips trying to catch her breath. Finally, the blonde flashes her a look of pure murder, and she titters as a warm finger of lust shoots pleasantly through her abdomen.
"Are you alright?"
She simpers with false concern, and the Sheriff offers her a gesture well known in this land, and not one her mother would approve of.
"Hmm... It would appear you'll live, at least for now... So why the delay?"
"You want me to serve you raw fish? I'll serve you raw fish."
"Is that so?"
"Hey, I mean, if it's what you want, Your Majesty..."
Emma snaps, and the brunette smirks before giving a flick of her wrist and transforming the younger woman's mediocre cooking into something more palatable.
"I think not."
She sighs, amused by the small gasp of surprise that escapes the Sheriff's lips even after all this time.
"So, come on then, Saviour."
"Huh?"
Emma grunts, eyeing up the brazed sea bass now beautifully presented in the pan with a hint of jealousy.
"Serve me..."