"Ah! Crap! Watch it!"
The blonde holds the paper cups of hot chocolate quickly away from herself on instinct; warm, brown froth spattering up from the mouth pieces as she jumps in surprise. Henry removes his small hands sheepishly from the Sheriff's shoulders where he had grabbed her, unsuspectingly, from behind, having spotted her sat patiently on a fallen tree beside their swing.
"Sorry!"
He scrambles up to sit opposite her; straddling the mossy log with his sneakered feet dangling a good few inches off the ground on either side. She hands him one of the steaming cups and moves herself into a similar position to face him.
"It's ok, I'd just rather not be wearing it, that's all."
Henry grins and takes a sip of his drink, eyeing the blonde curiously. Being a ten year old boy, he has never before spent much time contemplating the Sheriff's use of makeup- other than having been informed by his mother, shortly after Emma's arrival, that her resultant look was 'cheap'- but seeing the pale woman completely barefaced now, he notices the difference instantly.
"That bad, huh?"
Emma gives him a knowing glance and he smiles brightly, shaking his head with all the genuine honesty of a small child. She chuckles huskily and takes a sip of her own hot chocolate; lamenting the way her current ill health allows her to feel the burn but not taste the sweetness.
"So, you managed to get out the house then? Is your mom working?"
"No, she doesn't have any meetings today, she'll probably just spend the day baking or something."
Emma raises an eyebrow; partly at the idea of the brunette arms deep in flour, and partly due to the fact that there is no way Regina's sharp, watchful eye would allow her son to leave the house undetected.
"...Does she know you're here?"
"Uhuh."
"And she was ok with that?"
Henry shrugs his shoulders, resting his chin thoughtfully on the lid of his cup.
"She didn't really say anything about it, apart from that I had to change into my jeans... Oh, and to give you this..."
He reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out the small manilla envelope, holding it out to the blonde who eyes it warily before taking it gingerly from his small hand.
Emma frowns when she feels the small object lightly weighting the envelope on one side. She glances up at Henry, whose eyes are fixed on the letter in her hand, before he realizes his nosiness isn't going unnoticed and looks away sheepishly; seeming suddenly absorbed in his hot chocolate. The blonde feels her own cheeks pinken; mystified at what the Mayor could possibly wish to send her, and unsure whether whatever the answer to that may be is suitable for the boy to see.
Henry's curiosity gets the better of him, and he looks back up at the Sheriff inquisitively.
"What do you think it is?"
"I don't know, kid. Knowing your mom, it could be anything from a dinner invitation to anthrax. In fact, the second is more likely..."
"What's anthrax?"
She looks up distractedly and realizes she has been musing aloud. She shakes her head, doubting that discussing methods of biological warfare is a good idea with a kid that already believes his mother to be the evil queen.
"Nothing... A band..."
She shrugs at Henry's perplexed expression and slides her finger deftly beneath the envelope's flap; sliding it open with a neat swipe of her finger. Peering curiously inside, a frown settles slowly across her brow.
"What is it?"
She pulls out the small item carefully and holds it up between them.
"A key?"
Henry's eyes flicker with recognition and a frown creases his forehead to match Emma's uncannily.
"That's one of my mom's skeleton keys..."
"Skeleton keys? To what?"
"I don't know... She has loads of them."
"What's this one for?"
"I don't know, they all look the same..."
Emma studies the key closely; not quite sure what to make of it. She checks the envelope for any sign of a clue but it is otherwise empty.
"...Weird"
Tipping back the rest of her hot chocolate, the blonde shoves the empty cup under her bag to be discarded later and pushes the small, silver key deep into her jeans pocket. She offers Henry a winning smile- an expression until recently saved only for the small boy and occasionally her housemate- and swings her legs up and around, jumping easily from the log.
"So, I figured our swing worked so well, we should try a treehouse."
Henry's eyes light up and widen comically, causing the Sheriff to laugh until she throws herself into a coughing fit. Henry thumps her companionably on the back and scrambles off the log.
"With what?"
"Well, it won't be anything fancy, but I used to make them as a kid just with sticks and branches and stuff I found lying around. We just need to find a tree with the right fork in its branches and then we can lay the sticks across to make a small shelter... It's quite fun..."
She tags this last part on dubiously, slowly realizing that what she had thought would be something Henry would enjoy immensely may actually seem rather lame in this day and age. She imagines he has seen a great many expertly crafted tree houses, and supposes a simple roof of ill-dispersed twigs may seem rather lacking in comparison. To her relief, Henry lets out a drawling 'Yeah, that sounds awesome!', which she suspects is her own influence- and she suspects this with a marginal sense of pride- and immediately goes about collecting suitable branches.
"Easy, kid, you got it?"
Henry glances down at the blonde with bright eyes that are slightly too wide for her liking, but experience over the past couple of hours has taught her not to keep pestering him on whether or not he is comfortable being up at the height they currently occupy. She imagines the answer is, in fact, no, but the small brunet seems determined to prove himself. She would scold him over his perceived necessity to do so, but knows she would do exactly the same. Instead, she smiles up at him encouragingly; keeping her grip on his skinny shin firm, but casual.
They currently reside a good eight feet clear of the forest floor; Emma with her boots planted squarely on a thick branch jutting out of an old maple tree, her hips steadied against the smaller branch on which Henry clings as he carefully pushes a handful of twigs amongst the branches they have already managed to lay across the highest fork of the tree. She has given up offering to do this herself, and so simply keeps herself, and by default Henry, steady as they work.
"Yeah... I got it."
He speaks through gritted teeth, the concentration written clearly across his face, but at the tightening of Emma's fingers he looks down at her briefly with an encouraging grin. His cheeks are flushed scarlet with the brisk winter air, and his hair sticks up in all the wrong places. She can't help but watch him humorously as he goes about each, meticulous movement; delighting in the fact that today is about them just having fun, and that for once the damn fairytale book has remained unopened in his rucksack.
It's not that she doesn't acknowledge the fact that without the book she would most likely be sat trawling through incriminating technical data in her apartment back in Boston; vodka in hand, Waits on the sound system... It's just, sometimes she worries that once Henry realises how fucking nuts this whole fairytale thing is, he won't have a use for her anymore.
She has found this thought to be more and more unsettling.
"Nice one. Ok, come back down and we'll get some more, I think it'll only take two more trips!"
"Wicked!"
Now that one's definitely on her... Thoroughly Boston.
Henry shimmies slowly back down the branch on which he perches so that his jean-clad butt pushes against Emma's hand, and she holds him steady as he swings his leg round to lower his feet onto the branch below.
She doesn't say anything, but he can see the cautious worry in the set of her jaw and he decides he doesn't want the blonde to think him babyish and so lowers himself down quickly to land with his small feet beside hers in one deft motion.
The achieving grin on his face is short-lived, as the weary branch they now both stand on gives an alarming crack reminiscent of a gunshot, and the two find themselves suddenly falling gracelessly to the ground. Enough goes through the Sheriff's head to grab Henry and pull him to her, leaning a little into the fall so that she is somewhat beneath him, but it is a vague and harried thought; instinctive.
"Ow..."
They land in a tangled heap, Henry with his arms flung- panicked- around the blonde's neck; his small frame cushioned clumsily by hers, but not enough to avoid his fair share of scrapes and duly blooming bruises. Emma blinks up at him through watering eyes, but can't help herself from letting out a small, shaken, laugh. He rolls himself off of her gingerly, allowing her to sit up with a wince and survey the damage.
They are surrounded by a litter of snapped twigs and foliage, while the guilty branch lies forlorn to their left. The sweatshirt she'd lent Henry now sports a healthy rip across its right sleeve and a small amount of blood wells up from a scrape along his forearm to match the bloodied grazes at his palms. She panics when she takes in a dark smear across his forehead, but a second glance reveals the mark to be nothing but mud.
The Sheriff hasn't faired any better; her own hands sporting scarlet swatches where the skin has been torn ruthlessly as a result of uselessly grabbed branches, and the knees of her jeans are ripped and bloodied. A thin laceration grazes her forehead before tapering off into her hairline.
"Holy crap... Are you alright, kid?"
She takes his arm gently in her hands and rolls up the ruined sleeve to assess the damage. He doesn't cry, for which she is grateful, and the cut is shallow; just a sporadic beading of blood as the damage is only to the very top layer of skin. Henry rubs at the muddy streak on his forehead tentatively, checking himself over before looking up at the Sheriff to give her a shaky nod.
"Wow... Well... At least the treehouse survived!"
She points up above them to where a perfect thatching of interwoven leaves and twigs creates a small shelter. Henry follows her gaze and lets out a breathy chuckle before glancing back at the blonde and suddenly noticing a small trickle of blood making its way lazily down her cheekbone.
"Emma, you're hurt!"
"Huh, where?"
She notes her grazed knees distractedly, but is surprised when Henry touches his small hand to her cheek; eyes wide with concern. She rubs her hand curiously over the side of her face and raises an eyebrow when her fingers come back red.
"Oh, I guess I got cut by a branch or something."
"Does it hurt?"
"Nah, I'll live... Well... Actually, if your mom finds out..."
She bites her lip nervously, but Henry gives her a burlesque wink- something she has been teaching him, and he is finally able to do without screwing up the entire side of his face- and points over to his rucksack.
"It's ok, I have my coat, she'll never notice."
Emma grins down at him, before licking her fingers childishly and rubbing at the dirt that still clings to his pale forehead.
"Eww!"
Henry pushes her away, laughing, wiping at his face with his sleeve.
"Don't you 'eww' me! I'm trying to help!"
"I don't want your gross spit on me!"
"Is that so?"
She leans menacingly over him and makes as if to spit while he shrieks giddily and scrambles away laughing.
"Emma!"
"What?"
He scoops up a handful of leaves and pours them over her in a flurry before sprinting away, only to have strong arms encircle him and tackle him, carefully, to the floor. He crows delightedly and follows suit when the blonde pushes herself up and stretches out so that she sits with her back to the log on which they had previously perched; breath coming out in misted pants and hair spilling everywhere in a spectacular mess. He peers up at her out of the corner of his eye mischievously, subconsciously rearranging his limbs so that his position mimics the Sheriff's exactly.
"Your head's bleeding, still."
"Yeah? I guess I'm just a poor, wounded survivor of the terrible treehouse accident of 2012... Tragic."
"Hey, I'm wounded too!"
He shows her his scraped arm, waving the limb around pointedly, and she sighs dramatically; eyes glittering impishly in the fading daylight.
"Yes, but not like I am... I don't know if I'll make it back... You might have to carry me."
"I can't carry you!"
"Then you'll have to go on without me, my injuries; they're too severe."
"Mine are, too! My injuries are totally severe! My hands are worse than yours are!"
"Oh? Well I've lost more blood than you have."
"I have more bruises!"
"Well, mine are deeper!"
"Mine hurt more!"
"Do they?"
"Uhuh... Way more than yours!"
She laughs and gives him a nudge as he pulls at her hands to display the palms; all the better to compare their war wounds.
"What the hell do you think you're playing at, Miss Swan?"
Regina snaps angrily as she storms through the irksome fortress of trees. She inwardly damns the fact that she had declined to change before heading out; her sharp heels sinking maddeningly into the packed dirt of the forest floor.
She has spent the day on edge with the knowledge of Henry being out with the blonde; hating the very fact itself, but knowing by now that her son will only strive harder to find ways around her rules if she forbids him from seeing the Sheriff altogether. She had paced her impressive kitchen irritably; failing to see what those two could possibly be doing in the woods all this time.
She wonders what Emma has made of her little gift.
She has been irate and ill-tempered since the moment Henry scampered out the door, but she had forced herself to keep busy. To keep herself in check. Until now. The cold steel of the winter sky is fast deepening to a bruised purple, and the temperature has dropped accordingly.
She had waited until half past five- half an hour past the time Henry knows he is expected home- before wrestling on her coat and driving her Benz down to the small turning point she knows to be closest to her son's new meeting place, fuming loudly the entire way.
Now, as she stumbles over a gnarled upturned root she wonders if, perhaps, this despicable insolence isn't simply another degree of punishment on the blonde's behalf.
"Go to hell!"
She glares at the accusatory root murderously; scarlet painted lips pursed in distaste. Why anyone would choose to spend their time out in this dump is beyond her... But then, she is aware of the Sheriff's poor choices by now.
Finally, as she stalks briskly up a remarkably steep incline- with more grace than anyone should be capable of when wearing Jimmy Choo's in a November Maine forest- she hears the telling murmur of voices. Cresting the hill, she can see her son and the blonde chatting away with their backs resting companionably against a filthy fallen tree; showing no intention of moving anytime soon despite the indigo haze of twilight settling merrily about them.
Her first instinct is to storm over from her secluded viewpoint and give the younger woman a piece of her mind; her anger at being left alone in her mansion to stew indefinitely still coursing hotly in her blood. She struggles to quell this urge however, not wishing to instigate a blowout in front of Henry- for fear of him instantly siding with Emma- as well as not being entirely sure as to her current situation with the blonde.
She finds that now she is actually within screaming distance of the Sheriff- and, incidentally, viewing distance- she is less inclined to do so.
Instead, she watches as Henry points to something in his hand and then appears to do the same to the blonde's hands. She can hear the jovial quip of their voices but fails to decipher any words. The tone of Emma and Henry's conversation is painfully obvious, however. They are simply 'assing around' as she has heard the blonde put it. Something that she herself and Henry haven't done in as long as she can remember.
The rage that this thought conjures depletes defeatedly as she continues to observe the way the Sheriff chats to the small boy. Emma has her head cocked to the side, regarding him with a dry smile. The body the brunette has come to know intimately well is swaddled in her parka- that fucking parka- and surprisingly baggy jeans which appear to have obnoxious rips at their muddied knees. The blonde nods attentively as Henry chatters away at a mile a minute, and, despite her loathing at her exclusion from this little scenario, Regina finds herself intrigued by the openness on the younger woman's face as she regards their son.
Mentally shaking herself, she gathers her thoughts and marches briskly out from her shadowed vantage point and into clear view.
"Henry! What time do you call this?!"
"Mom!... I-"
"-And you! You should have sent him home at least an hour ago!"
"Regina..."
Henry and Emma scramble quickly to their feet, facing the Mayor; Henry with his eyes cast down sheepishly and Emma with her hands on her hips, her expression suddenly hard. The brunette matches it easily, before dark eyes widen upon taking in her son's ripped sweater and grazed hands.
"Sheriff, why is my son bleeding!?"
"I'm fine! I just-"
"I didn't ask you, Henry."
"It's nothing, we just... We were climbing a tree and a branch broke... He's fine."
"Oh really? Bloodied and filthy is 'fine' in your book?"
"It's just a scrape!"
"And I suppose that's what you'll argue with the doctors if it becomes infected?"
"Oh for god's sake, Regina..."
Emma blows her hair back irritably and the brunette glimpses the thin laceration just above her temple. Running her eyes briskly over the Sheriff, the Mayor takes in her bloodied knees and palms and sighs. Turning her attention down to her son she beckons him sternly.
"Come on, Henry, it's time to go home."
He nods defeatedly, and collects his backpack before trudging off behind the brunette. Emma collects her own belongings and waits hesitantly, not wishing to endure an awkward trek back to the main path in the wake of the Mayor.
Regina looks back as she reaches the edge of the small clearing and studies the blonde who nibbles thoughtfully on her bottom lip; attention cast absently-mindedly downwards. Sighing, the brunette raises her voice and addresses the younger woman primly.
"Next time, Miss Swan, I expect him back unharmed and before dark. Goodnight."
Emma glances quickly back at the Mayor, holding her gaze momentarily.
Next time?
"Uh, yeah, sorry... Ummm... Night... Night, Henry!"
"Coming!"
Mary Margaret hurries over to the door; hobbling a little as she struggles to straighten out a wrinkle in her tights. She sighs distractedly, wondering who would be knocking at this time in the evening, and, of all nights, when she has somewhere to be. She briefly considers shouting for Emma to come down and play hostess, but decides that by the time she manages to coax the blonde out of her room, whoever stands on the other side of their front door may have died of old age.
Introverted, sure, but a better description would just be bone idle...
Running a hand through her dark hair distractedly, she pulls open the front door to apologise to her visitor that they may need to come back at a more suitable time. Unless it happens to be Ruby, who seems to be one of the few people the blonde doesn't mind traipsing down to see.
It's not.
"... Madame Mayor...?"
"Good evening, Miss Blanchard, were you going somewhere?"
Dark eyes roam distastefully over the schoolteacher's pastel toned outfit and shiny pink lips.
"I was, actually... Sorry, did you... What do you..."
"It matters not, I was actually hoping to speak to Miss Swan. Is she around?"
"Uh, she's in her room, I can call her-"
"-No need."
The schoolteacher steps back automatically as the brunette strides authoritatively into the living room and makes her way briskly to the wrought iron stairs she knows lead to Emma's bedroom. Eying the older woman warily, Mary Margaret watches her ascend the black steps with sharp taps of her heels and sighs, shrugging on her coat and making her way out of the apartment.
Well, I'm sure that will go down well.