A/N: As promised, my Halloween fic for this year :) I know I REALLY need to update THESE DARK PATHS, but I wanted to work on something seasonal and fun as time is a bit limited at the moment :) There's more to come with this in the next couple of days (before Halloween, I promise), and this is more just a little prequel/ lead-in to the main fic. I would be stoked if you wanted to comment on this part, just as I've missed you guys and the feedback! But I understand that the part you're probably waiting for is still to come ;)
"A word in the hallway please, Sheriff."
Regina orders, standing in the doorway to the office expectantly.
"Don't eat that."
Graham warns as he pushes himself up obediently, offering Emma a knowing look and pointing to what remains of his apple danish.
"Now, please, Sheriff."
Regina interrupts with an impatient sigh, cataloguing the box of pastries and paper cups from Granny's on the desk and concluding that she has interrupted Graham and his sorry excuse for a deputy indulging in a companionably cosy breakfast.
"Go on, march."
Emma mutters beneath her breath, earning herself a small tug to the Sherrif's lips as he steps past her, and a contemptful glower from dark eyes when she looks up at the brunette.
"Madame Mayor."
She acknowledges Regina coolly, doubting the darker woman plans on reciprocating with any form of nicety, false or otherwise.
"You have pastry in your hair."
The Mayor informs her in a clipped tone, before turning her back and stalking out into the hallway with the Sheriff at her heel. Looking down at herself distractedly, Emma sighs as she brushes crumbs and powdered sugar from her shirt and shakes out her curls. She does so irritably, feeling flustered and hating the fact. For one, it isn't in her nature to suffer embarrassment over something so stupid, but the main cause of her frustration is her knowledge that it is Regina and Regina alone that can make her feel flushed and foolish with a few simple words and a sneer of her lips.
At first, she had felt this way due to the undeniably uncomfortable nature of their unwilling relationship. Soon, she had simply found herself taken aback that the darker woman might be so callous while remaining immaculately composed; subtly calling out their stark differences in a manner suggesting she would rather fall down dead than bear any likeness to the woman she has openly called cheap, a waste of space, and a witless idiot.
And that's just to my face...
Emma rolls her eyes as she helps herself to Graham's pastry with little fear that she will be reprimanded. Licking her fingers clean, she slides down in her chair with a frown, knowing that just recently that hateful flustered feeling stems from somewhere a little deeper and a lot less comfortable.
"If only I were a betting man."
Graham interrupts her train of thought as he reenters the room, gesturing pointedly to the empty space beside his coffee.
"It wouldn't do you any good. We both knew the odds were I was going to eat it. I'd have bet against myself, too."
Emma shrugs, reaching for her hot chocolate.
"True. You're pretty predictable."
The Sheriff nods, and the blonde offers him a cold look as she points out
"You don't know me well enough to make that accusation."
"It wasn't an accusation."
Graham assures her swiftly, trying to ascertain whether Emma is winding him up or calling him out, but her expression remains unreadable and so he simply smiles in hopes of a truce.
"So... What did Madame Mayor want?"
The blonde asks finally, tiring of watching the Sheriff falter, and opting to make him hellishly uncomfortable instead as she adopts a sly smirk.
"She just wanted to check on a few things."
Graham replies vaguely, meeting the blonde's knowing grin with a bemused sigh.
"Mm. I'll bet she did."
"... How long are you planning to keep doing that?"
"Doing what?!"
Emma injects false innocence into her tone, before answering her own question.
"How long am I going to make fun of you for your terrible life choices and tease you for screwing the Mayor?"
"Yes. That."
Graham agrees irritably.
"Oh, for quite some time yet, I'd imagine."
The blonde confides, sipping from her cup with a brow cocked, challenging the Sheriff to snap back at her.
"Hm... I can't decide if you're annoyed that I lied to you about why I needed cover, or if you're just jealous."
Graham muses silkily as he pushes himself up from his seat in order to make them some fresh coffee in the small kitchen at the back of the Station. He grins as he walks past the blonde; Emma scoffing at his suggestion with a disgusted pull to her lips.
"Please! What the hell do I have to be jealous of?"
She growls, ignoring his pointed smirk with a roll of her eyes. Knocking back the last of her hot chocolate, she tosses the cup in the trash and crosses her arms over her chest while listening to the tortured whine of the faucet as the Sheriff fills the coffee pot. Looking up and watching through the dirty window as the Mayor crosses the parking lot and slips into her Benz, she bites the inside of her cheek uneasily.
Why the hell would I be jealous?
"Are you sure they won't ruin your teeth?"
Regina asks dubiously, reading the back of the cardboard packaging housing a set of plastic fangs.
"I'm sure, mom."
Henry sighs as though dealing with an imbecile, and she glowers at him warningly.
"All the other kids have them!"
He argues, playing dirty as he knows this argument will force her to bend to his will as she's fully aware of how hard he finds it to fit in with his peers. He suffers a moment of guilt as he senses he's won his case, but consoles himself that he hadn't hit the brunette with his cruellest, most effective form of persuasion: Emma would let me.
"Don't you want to go as something else, then? Something different?"
The Mayor frowns, and Henry shakes his head, taking the plastic fangs from her and leading them towards the cash register.
"Nope. I want to be a vampire."
"Of course, you do."
She murmurs, following the boy over to the counter and paying for the fangs and a box of Tylenol.
She has a feeling she may soon need it.
"So, everyone else from your class is going on this playdate as well?"
She asks as they exit the chemists and tread cautiously down the icy steps with their heads bowed against the wind.
"It's not a playdate, mom, it's a party."
Henry corrects her irritably, and the brunette ignores his tone as she counters silkily
"I'm not sure any event hosted by the Sheriff can really be called a party, dear."
"There'll be pumpkin carving and candy... You could have organised something."
He points out, and the Mayor pulls her coat tightly to her slim frame with an arrogant sniff as she unlocks the car.
"I'll put an event together for Christmas, as usual. Halloween is a foolish holiday, I fail to see the appeal."
"Figures."
Henry mutters as he slips into the back seat behind her, and Regina purses her lips but refuses to rise to the bait, knowing that in another breath the boy will be asking her to help him fashion a cape to complete his look.
She'd bought a black pillowcase this morning preemptively upon overhearing his desired choice of costume.
Of course she had.
"I'm just surprised Graham decided to organise a Halloween event, let alone that he would do so at the school. I understand Mary Margaret is helping out, but he's never done anything like that before."
She muses out loud as she pulls out of her space and drives them home, and she glances up at the rearview mirror to meet Henry's gaze as the boy replies innocently enough
"Well, he never had Emma around to help him before. She likes Halloween."
"... I see."
Looking up from her pasta as a loud knock sounds at the front door, Regina glances at the clock and pushes herself from the table with an irritable sigh.
"It's six-fifty-eight."
She greets Sydney, the reporter standing on her doorstep bathed in the porch light with Henry at his side. The boy's white facepaint has run from his cheeks and smears the collar of his shirt, and he stands grinning up at her with a sizeable pumpkin clutched against his stomach.
"My apologies, Madame Mayor, the children were in the middle of a game."
Sydney explains, handing her a paper bag filled with candy, crayons and a slice of cake which she accepts with an expression as though he's offering her the bloated remains of vermin.
"I told you we were eating at six-thirty."
She frowns down at Henry, and he nods in agreement but assures her
"We had food at the party."
"How nice of Miss Swan and the Sheriff to tell me so."
She mutters, before dismissing the reporter with a curt expression of gratitude for his agreement to bring her son home. Closing the door and following Henry through into the kitchen, she sits back down to her dinner with the request that he join her. He does so obediently, bringing along his lumpy orange friend and placing it carefully on the table.
"Look."
Henry grins, turning the pumpkin around to show her a jagged set of teeth and lopsided eyeholes.
"There's a candle in the party bag to put inside."
He explains, and Regina nods, finding she has lost her appetite and pushing her plate away as she glances at the bag with a frown
"We have candles. Does the Sheriff think that in this big house I don't have a tealight I might offer?"
"This one's blue."
Henry replies, as though this makes all the difference in the world, and she rolls her eyes with a small smile as she murmurs
"Oh, well, in that case..."
Getting up to wash up her dinner things, she scrapes what remains on her plate into the pan containing Henry's portion and puts it in the fridge.
"Did you have a nice time?"
She asks finally, pouring herself a glass of sparkling water.
"Yep!"
Henry nods, yawning widely and she notes that he no longer wears the plastic fangs he'd favoured for most of the afternoon that had given him a heavy lisp.
"Good. It sounds as though you're ready for bed."
"It's seven!"
"It is. You can read, or we can play a hand of cards before you go to sleep, but go upstairs and get in the shower before you get paint all over the place."
"I can't."
"What do you mean, you can't?"
Regina frowns, and Henry reaches across the table to pick up the bag of party favours and pulls out a folded piece of paper.
"I won the pumpkin carving competition! The best pumpkin gets to be put out in front of the Station for a few nights! I need to bring it over."
The boy exclaims, his chest puffed out proudly, and the Mayor's brow furrows deeper as she takes the note from him with a shake of her head.
"Henry, you're not going to the Station now. If the Sheriff planned on displaying your pumpkin, he should have taken it with him!"
She states firmly, studying the paper slip with growing confusion. It appears to be some sort of certificate, crudely rendered on the computer and printed out. Several ill-matched jack-o-lanterns grin up at her from the page, and she muses that while she's unsure whether Graham or Emma is to blame, neither one of them should ever consider a career in graphic design. Beyond the questionable artwork, what strikes her is the strange request typed below where her son's name has been printed in orange ink.
Congratulations on winning the pumpkin carving contest! Please attend Storybrooke Sheriff's Station at 8.30 PM to present your entry and receive your prize.
Looking up from the note in her hand to the grizzly attempt at a face stabbed into the gaudy gourd on the table, she feels utterly perplexed. Until, that is, she realises that the note is likely for her, and not for her son at all. After all, it's an odd request to hand to a ten-year-old, but a compelling invitation when presented to his mother.
Might this be an attempt to smooth over any ill feelings you'd rightly anticipated in light of tonight's festivities, Sheriff?
She feels her stomach flutter a little; tricks and treats not something she'd expect from Graham, as their little arrangement has grown admittedly mundane in this land. Their time spent together when not entwined with one another is often dull and a little uncomfortable, largely due to how it came about in the first place; Graham doubtlessly willing, but understandably confused.
A shame, but what can you do?
This new ploy to get her attention intrigues her, as it strikes her as innovative and a little sneaky; traits she's no stranger to herself.
"Henry, it's late. I don't know what the Sheriff thinks he's playing at."
She shakes her head as she looks up from the note, privately imagining she knows exactly what the clueless hunter might be up to.
"But-"
"-No buts. You have school tomorrow."
"I know! But-"
"-But!... As this certificate says, you won a competition, and that must be commended, of course. Hop in the shower now, and get ready for bed, and I will call Mr Glass and ask him to come back over. I will take your pumpkin to the Station so that it can be displayed appropriately."
"But, mom, I-"
"-Hush now. We're not going to argue about this. It's long after dark, and the Sheriff should have realised as much."
"But, the prize! I-"
"-I will make sure that I receive it."
The brunette consoles, clearing her throat as she feels caught off guard in a good way for the first time since the dratted Swan woman showed up in town not long ago.
"Will you at least take a picture of it?"
Henry grumbles, and she ruffles his hair affectionately and promises sincerely
"Of course I will."
Returning Sydney's politely confused smile with one of her own that suggests she has no intention of elaborating on why he has found himself back on her doorstep so soon, Regina ties the belt of her coat tightly around her waist. Beneath, she has changed into a form-fitting black dress and lace-topped hold-ups while Henry was in the shower. She'd considered darkening her make-up in an attempt to honour the season, but had decided not to stoop to such uncharacteristic indulgence. After all, what she has to offer is more than enough, and the Sheriff knows it. She's told him so many a time.
"I don't know when I'll be back. There's something I need to see to, but I trust you're able to stay until things are taken care of?"
She asks as she slips into her heels; already knowing the answer. Looking up, she catches the reporter's throat ripple as he swallows, watching her, and she smirks; her inquiry merely a polite formality. She knows Sydney will do whatever she desires, and more. As would Graham. As would anyone in their right mind.
"I'll try not to be back too late."
She smiles, her lips painted dusky scarlet.
"Take all the time you need."
Sydney replies as he steps past her and heads for the kitchen with a book in his hand.
"Thank you, dear."
She replies, glancing up at the landing to spy Henry clad in his pyjamas.
"Are you all clean?"
She asks him.
"I think so."
He nods, and she beckons him down to scrutinise him up close, taking his chin in her hand and tilting his head to check that he's scrubbed the white paint from his neck.
"Good boy."
She smiles, placing a kiss on his crown and hoping that he hasn't noticed her change of clothes beneath the thick folds of her coat.
"You smell nice."
He informs her, although the wrinkle to his nose would suggest otherwise, and she laughs lightly as she pulls back and ushers him back upstairs.
"Thank you, dear, that's sweet of you. Go on upstairs and read a chapter of that new adventure book I bought you. Try not to give Mr Glass any trouble."
She smiles, knowing that Henry will likely read by the light of the torch she pretends she doesn't know he has long beyond his bedtime, but she takes his disobedience as a blessing this evening and says nothing more on the matter.
"Don't forget my pumpkin!"
The boy warns her, and she nods, collecting the carved gourd from the hallway table and tucking it under her arm.
"And don't forget my prize! I hope it's something good..."
Henry muses with a grin, and she hides a smirk behind a smile as she confides
"So do I, dear. Goodnight."
Pulling up outside the Station, Regina casts a cursory glance at the pumpkin strapped into the passenger seat, before stepping from the car into the cold light of the moon empty-handed. She's well aware that this has little to do with any carving contest, but she makes a mental note to herself to make sure that she takes a picture of the gourd on the stoop of the Station to appease Henry before she leaves.
Making her way up the path, her heels conducting a dangerous beat against the concrete, she rests her hand on the door and pushes.
It's open. Of course it is.
Stepping into the shadows of the hallway, she primps her hair and checks the fall of her coat, before slipping into the outer office in a promising flash of dark wool, sultry lipstick and Chanel.
Looking around expectantly, she stills in her tracks, before approaching an unlikely figure perched on one of the cot beds with a confused frown.
"What are you doing here?"