The year in sport has been one of tumult and change but for one woman it has been an unbroken story of excellence.
For the many players who play in non-League teams, Hua Mulan is living proof that their dreams can come true. For those players who put up with the muddy grounds and the ramshackle broomsticks, with peanuts for salary and the constant juggling of a passion named Quidditch with a day job, Mulan's incredible rise to the top is a real inspiration.
This is a fairytale where new chapters keep being written.
- The Remarkable Rise of Hua Mulan, American Quidditch, December 2017
"Why do you keep asking this stupid question? Gwen and I are just friends."
- Hua Mulan, Seeker, Storybrooke Sirens
Mulan takes to professional Quidditch like a duck takes to water, blending in seamlessly with the team within a week or so of practice.
She's self-assured and disciplined in a way that Emma never quite managed in her own time. Not at her age, when Emma was still finding her footing in pro Quidditch and foolishly, recklessly picking fights with teammates who looked wrong at her or cracked a joke she didn't like. Not later, not even after the national team and the world cup, and all the recognition that came with it.
Emma Swan was always temperamental — or so the press liked to call her — chafing against authority and perpetually out of step with everyone else.
You're lucky you look the way you do, and fly the way you do , she remembers being told. At twenty, it was another affront, another excuse to pick a fight with a teammate.
She's had a lot of time to think about Ursula's words over the years.
Emma was lucky that she lasted as long as she did. And when her luck ran out, when her story ( angry blonde misfit with princess curls, can't follow orders to save her life ) grew so dull and stale that even the gossip rags lost interest, she crashed and burned and disappeared into oblivion. It was no more than what she deserved, Emma knows now. If you can't stand the heat, don't poke the dragon.
Somehow, she doesn't think Mulan will ever walk down that route. This girl is a diamond in the rough, and Regina and Marian have their job cut out for them if they want to hold on to her for more than a couple of years.
Meanwhile, Billy sulks with the certainty of a man who knows he's been replaced and frankly outclassed. Young Rapunzel, still a few years away from playing the first team, takes to following her around with stars in her eyes. Emma watches Mulan practice with the rest of the team and tries not to gloat.
There's no room for complacency here.
There's no room for complacency here, no, but Emma does preen a little bit when she's out drinking with Lancelot. They do that sometimes, now.
Lancelot's good company, closer to her in age than the rest of the players. Perhaps it's the fact that he's here at the tail-end of a long, illustrious career in Europe, looking to walk into the sunset after a few years in a less demanding league. He's got a point to prove to himself, pushing his ageing body forward when so many of his contemporaries have moved on to other things.
Emma's not one for companionship most of the time, but this is all right, this suits her just fine.
"I'm glad we got her," he tells her, more talkative than ever thanks to the good, strong Firewhisky they've been downing. They've got their own corner at the Rabbit Hole, and they get a special Storybrooke Sirens discount that they try not to abuse too much. "Seekers like that, they win matches."
"She's going places," Emma agrees, proud as a mother hen. It's a new feeling, having a protégé of sorts.
Ashley, their waitress, shows up with a round of drinks they didn't order, pointing to a group of elderly men in red-gold robes. "It's on those gentlemen over there," Ashley says, smiling wide. "They wanted to show some love for our coach and captain." It's possible she is somewhat taken with Lancelot. But then, who isn't ?
"Go Lionhearts!" Lancelot yells, earning himself a round of explosive applause.
It's the sort of thing he does all the time, calling the fans by their nickname, shaking hands and posing with small children like he was born for it. He's used to this, Emma supposes. The Storybrooke community, however passionate, is hardly a match for the legions of fans he's had to deal with in London and Madrid over the years. Some of them have followed him here, hovering around the Sirens' practice sessions and contributing to the local economy, a fact very much appreciated by the small business owners in Storybrooke. The Sirens' official merchandise sells out faster than ever, apparently. Marian has been very pleased about that development.
Emma was never much for engaging with fans. Though, of course, she would lying if she said she didn't enjoy the attention of the beautiful women who sometimes made their appreciation known to her.
She recognizes Marco in the crowd, the elderly carpenter who'd practically worked for free — much to Emma's consternation — when she was setting up her little place.
"It's been years since Henry Mills brought the trophy home, coach," Marco had said, waving away Emma's attempts to pay him a reasonable amount of money. "I'd like to see it happen once more before I die."
This is the part that unnerves Emma: the burden, the palpable weight of expectations.
She doesn't know how someone like Regina does it day in and day out.
"Think we stand a chance?" she blurts, more open than she'd intended to be. It's the drink talking. "I want your honest opinion, Lance. You don't have to sugarcoat it for me." It's easier to be cocksure when she's facing Regina Mills.
"To be honest, I don't know what I expected when I came here," Lancelot says, tapping a finger on his chin, thoughtful. "I mean, I didn't really follow the American league. Not many people did."
"Ouch ," Emma says in mock-outrage, though it's hardly a surprise. Most people think of Quodpot when they think of wizarding sports in America.
"I don't know what I expected even when I signed the contract," Lancelot says. "But we've got a good thing going, I think." He throws back the last of his drink and knocks on the wooden table. "I don't want to jinx it."
"I'll drink to that," Emma says.
There's no faux pas in the rest of their friendlies, no other Mulan showing up to steal the show (thankfully!).
The Sirens beat the Salem Phoenix in a nail-biting finish, the entire team coming together in extraordinary precision. Emma won't say she's proud, not yet, but it's a beginning. A good one. She's almost ready to say that they're up for this challenge. Almost .
Emma sets them a small target, something that'll get them going in the crucial early games. "I need you to win me five matches. Just five, guys. Forget anything else. I want you to focus just on this," she tells them in a team meeting, Lancelot standing steady next to her. "Can we do that?"
Perhaps she needs to be more ambitious, to think like champions — a voice at the back of her mind that sounds like Regina Mills tells her exactly that — but this is no time to second guess her strategy.
And well, this is a team that stood eleventh the last time around, and the year before that, escaping relegation to the second tier by a whisker. Their star, the player Emma is banking on to make a difference, is a rookie. They need a steady start, not some insane scheme that'll get them nowhere.
"Do we get pizza afterwards?" Ali says, eyes sparkling with mischief. They've had a few disagreements on Ali's usual diet, to put it mildly.
"Absolutely," Emma agrees. "We all get pizza."
"Will you be buying, boss?" Tamara's smile is oh-so-innocent.
"You can't say no, coach," Yasmin chimes in. "We win you five matches and you buy us pizza. Is that a deal?"
"Deal," Emma says. She is not above bribery if it gets the job done.
Emma's days now begin at dawn, and stretch all the way into the night with only the portraits and night watchmen for company as she pores over strategy. Most days are a blur of formations and flying exercises, passes and feints, blocking and dodging and physical conditioning. She pops into Granny's for a quick bite when she's hungry. Some nights, she doesn't go home at all — if her mostly-bare apartment here can even be called home — and stretches out on the couch in her office.
One evening, when she's staring at the numbers for the Camelot Knights match — their first away match — she finds herself in the company of an unexpected visitor. It's none other than Henry Mills (junior), his smile wide and joyous.
"You sure you're allowed to be here, kiddo?" Emma says, anxious. "Where's your mom? If she finds out you're here, she's gonna kill me, and then you, and then me again."
It's not that she isn't happy to see Henry, who, let's face it, is her first and probably only friend in Storybrooke, standing drinks with Lancelot notwithstanding. But the fact is that he's a ten year old who got in trouble because of her is, and that is pathetic even by Emma's already abysmal standards. She doesn't want to pick another fight with Regina.
"Don't worry," Henry says, "I got this. She sent me."
"Really ?" The kid doesn't sound like he's lying.
"Aunt Marian said you've been working very late and I was worried grandma's ghost would get you so Mom said I could go see you. And she sent this," he says, placing a still-warm container in front of her. "We had leftovers from yesterday."
"Wait," Emma says, raising her hand. "Did you say your grandma's ghost?"
"I'm so glad you haven't met her yet," Henry says with a grimace. "She's scary."
Emma does not think she'd like to meet Regina's mother's ghost. By all accounts, she was a formidable woman who terrorized everyone she met in her lifetime. Clearly, she hasn't allowed a little thing like death get in the way of that.
It's a lot to take in, but Emma's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when it comes bearing food. Which she hopes isn't poisoned.
"I don't know why you haven't met her yet," Henry muses. "She used to haunt Robin Hood all the time."
Emma forgets all about Henry's grandma's ghost and the undoubtedly complex reasoning behind Regina allowing Henry to hang out with her after explicitly telling her to stay away from him when she finally opens the container and smells the food in front of her. Some sort of a quiche — chicken? And some green bits in it.
"Oh my god, kid," she says when she's able to speak again. "Do you eat like this everyday at home?"
Henry shrugs with the disinterest of a child who has never known hunger. "I guess. Mom doesn't bake everyday, though. And you shouldn't talk with your mouth full."
"Your mom is a goddess," Emma says in all earnestness. "But don't tell her I said that," she adds hurriedly. Because that would be inappropriate.
Henry shrugs again, turning his attention to his feet.
A part of Emma wants to pry: to learn the secrets behind the shadows in his face every time his mother comes up, if only because she wants to chase those shadows away.
"Are there any other ghosts in Storybrooke?" she asks instead, watching the way his face brightens.
Emma definitely does not spend considerable time lying awake at night and thinking about the unexpected kindness of Regina's gesture.
Perhaps it's just a little something to pacify her son — there's no way she would send Henry over on her own to Emma's office without some pleading or emotional blackmail on the kid's part. Perhaps it's a peace offering, Regina deciding that Emma is not so terrible at her job. Mulan has been making her presence felt, after all. It's a nice thought.
It's just that Regina sent her food. Warm, home-cooked food that she personally made, no doubt full of all the nutritious stuff that she wants Henry to eat.
Emma, who still can't believe sometimes that she has enough to eat or that she can eat whatever the hell she pleases, can't help but be touched.
It becomes a pattern: Henry drops by at Emma's office after school, doodling who knows what in his notebooks and doing his homework like a good little nerd. He cheers the team along during practice sessions, adored and spoilt by all, and no one brings up flying carpets or further misadventures.
Regina doesn't seem to mind, judging by the leftovers that often seem to make their way to Emma by the way of Henry.
Winning four straight matches will do that, Emma thinks, allowing herself to be smug for a moment. It's the best start to the League the Sirens have had in a longtime, that's for sure. Sidney Glass is running a shrill, breathless campaign titled BLEED RED AND GOLD . It's supposed to encourage every citizen of Storybrooke to drape themselves and their households in the Sirens' colors in a show of support, but all it has done so far is sell a few more robes and mini-Lancelot figures. Marian has had a few meetings with Regina's sister — Emma had the shock of her life when she wandered into Marian's office, only to have the disembodied head of Zelena Mills in the fireplace call out, "Oh, so you're Regina's latest !" — over the possible production of a new line of mini-figures.
As the next match approaches, Emma can sense a tension settle all over Storybrooke. It has little to do with the Sirens themselves — who are in fine form, if Emma may say so herself — and everything to do with who their opponent is.
The Misthaven Wanderers do not have a very good record against the Sirens as such. The two teams have been more or less even the few times they've played each other in the League Championship. There's no historical rivalry here — Storybrooke vs Misthaven is nothing like the legendary rivalry between the Sweetwater All-Stars and the Fitchburg Finches, dating back to more than a century. It isn't anything like the bitterly-fought derbies between the New York Pirates and the New York Dragons. Lives have been lost over that rivalry. The fans still sing songs remembering their fallen.
There is, of course, that one thing: there's Regina Mills herself, and the weight of her history with the Misthaven Wanderers.
Emma sees it in the faces of the strangers who have turned up in Storybrooke just for this game, in far greater numbers than they normally do (much to the joy of the local businessmen). She hears it in the whispered conversations in the streets, in the pointed questions of the reporters who are suddenly everywhere, shoving their quills in her face and asking for her opinions on working with the Evil Queen.
"Are you guys actually interested in the game, or are you just here for the gossip?" she barks at the group hovering outside Granny's, disgusted, after yet anotherround of questions about the Evil Queen.
She imagines it will show up in the news the day after in some twisted form. Most of the gossip rags do not particularly care for Regina, especially after her blunt refusal to allow reporters within the Sirens' premises. The Storybrooke Mirror , ever so loyal to Regina, has been running a counter-campaign of outright flattery, hailing her as a visionary out to change the future of Quidditch in America. Sometimes Emma features in Sidney's fevered narratives as Regina's right-hand woman and trusted lieutenant, and she doesn't know if she's supposed to feel flattered or embarrassed.
The Sirens respect Regina — look up to her, even. But Emma knows they aren't immune to gossip, like that time she overheard Ali regale Yasmin and Mulan with the popular conspiracy theories about the circumstances of Leopold White's death.
"Poison, really?"
"She doesn't seem like the type to wait to kill anyone for six years."
"He was old enough to be her father."
"They used to call her the Evil Queen."
"That's a ridiculous name."
It's the whispers that Emma fears the most.
In the stories, Regina is the Evil Queen, poisoning poor Leopold White for years before killing him off for good, and then setting out to ruin his legacy by her evil designs until his daughter stepped in and ousted her. Regina has never spoken about that period, never clarified her side of the story, despite multiple offers to write her autobiography for good money.
It doesn't help that Snow White, the rightful heir to the Misthaven legacy, is the Quidditch fraternity's darling. The old men and women who still run most things adore her. Her autobiography, A powerful magic bright as the sun, was a Witch Weekly bestseller. Emma has a copy of it, even though she never did manage to read beyond the first couple of pages.
The truth, Emma suspects, is a lot more complicated either of them will say. The truth usually always is.
The Regina who runs the Sirens with such competence feels nothing like the Regina who allowed Misthaven to fall into utter financial disarray — selling off assets left, right, and center, firing staff and eventually promising to sell off their stadium in order to pay off debts. But then, Emma is nothing like the idiot girl who thought she was doing the world a favour by playing Quidditch, either.
Perhaps she and Regina are alike in some ways.
As the match draws near, Regina is an ominous presence in the stands in every practice session. She does not speak a word to any of the players, let alone Emma or the rest of the support staff, but spends most of her time glowering in their general direction.
Emma can feel the jitters set in as the days progress. One morning, two days before their match with the Misthaven Wanderers, the Sirens are in utter disarray. Yasmin lets the Quaffle slip on more than one occasion, and Merlin nearly breaks Guinevere's nose with his Bludger.
Even the normally impeccable Mulan fumbles with the Snitch, earning herself a stern talking to from Lancelot, who is visibly frustrated.
"What is wrong with you?" Emma can hear him screaming, even from her position on ground. "What is wrong with all of you? You play like this and you'll end up in the third division, which is where you belong."
Mulan, still unused to harsh words from her captain, spends the rest of the morning in a state of utter dejection. Emma has to eventually take her aside and give her a good pep talk until she smiles again.
She knows what she has to do if she wants to try and salvage this. It won't be pretty, but someone has to do it.
Regina scowls at Emma when she approaches her in the stands that evening.
This, this is exactly why Emma needs to do this, although all her courage seems to have deserted her at the sight of Regina Mills in flesh and blood. Perhaps she should've spoken with Marian instead.
"I, uh, wanted to speak with you," Emma says, trying not make a complete fool of herself. She is here to make a point, regardless of how stony Regina's expression might be right now. "It's about our next game." Their first and only conversation about the Misthaven Wanderers, however innocuous on Emma's part, did not go down well, to put it mildly.
Regina stiffens, her grip on the railing in front of her tightening until she's white-knuckled with the strain. "What about our next game, Coach Swan?"
Emma thinks she spots a faint hint of a tremble at the corner of Regina's lips, but that might just be because she's looking at her a little too closely. There's a scar just above Regina's lip that she's wanted to trace in odd moments.
"I just wanted to say that there's a lot of talk going on about this match," Emma tells her, blunt. "I can understand why, but I don't want the guys to be nervous or think that it's anything but another game."
"Are you suggesting that I'm making the team nervous, Miss Swan?" There's a dangerous fire in Regina's eyes, all-consuming.
Emma stands her ground, looking Regina in the eye. "You are," she says.
"Do not presume to speak on matters that you know nothing about," Regina says, taking a menacing step forward.
"You saw them today. You know what happens every time they step out of their homes, or walk into a freaking grocery store," Emma says, willing Regina to understand. "On top of that, they have you, glaring at them from the stands like you're planning some sort of serious suffering if they don't perform. They don't need this."
"It's my team, Coach Swan, and you would do well to remember that," Regina growls. "I do not appreciate the insinuation that I don't know what's best for my team."
"As long as I'm the coach, Madam President, this is my team," Emma fires back. "I'm trying to do the job you hired me to do."
They're nearly nose to nose again. Emma isn't sure how this happens every time they argue.
"I'm asking you to give them a breather, that's all," Emma says after a moment's silence. "I'm not trying to… throw you out of practice or anything."
"Aren't you?" Regina says, her lips stretching into a humorless smile.
Emma doesn't have a polite answer to that, because she kind of is.
Regina doesn't come to practice the next morning, and Emma can almost feel the collective sigh of relief on ground. Even Harry Jekyll seems to breath a little easy that morning.
Emma thinks she might actually miss the lone figure on the stands.
The Misthaven Wanderers arrive at Storybrooke with the kind of fanfare that should be reserved for a far better team. It's exactly the kind of drama Emma had anticipated.
The reporters are everywhere , popping up from behind the bushes to ambush unsuspecting passers by. Granny makes brisk business, overcharging every stranger in Misthaven's grey and white.
Sidney Glass runs a ridiculous two page spread with helpful pointers about Regina's not-so-glorious tenure at Misthaven, albeit in terms that are mostly positive. There's only so much spin that you can offer about a tenure that was defined by financial disaster and a bitter stand-off between the owner and the fans, leaving wounds that would take years to heal.
Emma, who has sworn to not read Regina-related gossip in the Mirror, is transfixed by one particular photo: a very young Regina Mills in the company of her ex-husband, a guy — she realises now — old enough to be her father. In the photograph, Leopold White waves at the camera, and Regina shrinks back, as though she wishes she had an Invisibility Cloak.
Emma knows that urge. Emma has felt that urge all her life.
The girl in the photograph is young and desperately sad.
Snow White arrives in Storybrooke in the company of another flock of reporters. Emma didn't think there were this many reporters interested in covering Quidditch in the first place. Isn't Quodpot supposed to be the most important wizarding sport in this nation?
Snow's somehow even prettier in person — her smile wide and warm, guileless. She walks in arm-in-arm with her equally pretty husband, David.
They're both color co-ordinated, Snow in white and David in gray, the colors of the Wanderers. They pose for the cameras, flashing blinding smiles as the media clamors for more. Looking at them, Emma can understand why they're so damn popular.
"It's good to finally meet you," Emma says when Marian introduces them, cordial. "I've always been a fan of the Misthaven Wanderers."
It's the truth, even if it will displease Regina.
"I've always been your fan, Emma!" Snow smiles, wide and delighted, entirely genuine. "I watched you play for the All-Stars, just a couple of matches of course, but you were absolutely wonderful." It's gratifying.
And Regina, because she's crazy, chooses to make a dramatic appearance at that very moment, apparating right behind Snow and making all of them nearly jump out of their skins in shock. Well, all of them except Marian, who seems unfazed by such behavior.
She has chosen to forego her robes for reasons Emma does not comprehend, considering how much grief she's given Emma for her awful, informal attire in the past. She's in a pant suit that fits her very well, accentuating her bust and snug in all the right places, and Emma is not to be blamed if she gapes just a little bit because Regain is that beautiful, damn her.
"Snow," she says, flashing a tight smile at Snow White.
She does not appear to acknowledge David at all, who hangs back awkwardly.
"Regina," Snow White says. Her smile is tinged with wistfulness. "Always good to see you."
"I wish I could say the same," Regina says flatly.
"I'm looking forward to today's match," David chimes in, as if to somehow ward off the awkward silence that has set in. Regina and Snow keep looking at each other, with all the weight of a shared history that only they understand.
"Same here," Marian says, her smile wide. "Shall we?"
Emma breathes a sigh of relief as Marian leads Snow and David away to the Wanderers' dressing room. Away from Regina, who looks like she's itching to reach for her wand and blast Snow White out of the stadium.
Regina — who's full of surprises today — falls in step next to Emma without another word.
"You're, uh, not gonna be in your box today?" Emma says.
"Am I not allowed to sit on the bench, Miss Swan?" Regina tells her. "Are you going to throw me out again?"
As it turns out, Regina is a shouter, with an elaborate, colorful vocabulary.
It's probably a good thing she's down here with Emma and the rest of the crew, and not up in the good seats where Henry can hear her. In fact, that's probably why she's chosen this spot.
That, and the fact that she would have had to share the space with Snow White.
Misthaven is a formidable opposition, their trio of Chasers going neck-to-neck with Emma's at every opportunity. Ruby Lucas leads the pack, getting the Quaffle past Yasmin twice in the first five minutes.
They set up a brutal pace, allowing no relief to Merlin and Lancelot, who keep up a steady stream of hits in their direction.
Tamara and Guinevere keep the score even, and the game grows faster, dirtier as it progresses. Edward Hyde drives the Bludger straight at Mulan's head, missing her by a whisker. In response, Merlin sets his broom on fire, earning himself a stern warning and a penalty for the Wanderers.
It's beginning to look like a game that will be decided by the Seeker. And Aurora Rose, the Misthaven Seeker, is nothing if not a damned good one.
Their strategy was to contain Aurora, known for her sudden spurts of speed and deceptively simple feints. That strategy, Emma realizes, is beginning to fall apart as Merlin and Lancelot spend more time trying to contain the Misthaven Chasers instead, giving Aurora free reign.
"Get her, you fuckwit," Regina screams as Lucas shoots past Merlin with little effort, getting another shot past Yasmin and into the Sirens' goal.
It's the fact that her players are also losing their temper that truly concerns Emma, judging by the unnecessary fight Lancelot picks up with Ella. Another penalty in favor of Misthaven. Yasmin can only watch as Lucas gets the Quaffle past her with little effort.
Emma is praying for Mulan to pull through, despite Hyde sticking to her like her shadow. His tactic is to distract her, judging by the steady stream of chatter he keeps up directed at her.
It's working, because Mulan snaps at him — exactly what Emma was fearing. The referee warns them both, but Hyde is grinning, unconcerned.
The back-and-forth grows faster, faster. It's probably the best game the Sirens have played so far. The Chasers are keeping the score even, but it's the Snitch they need. There's a brief moment when Emma thinks Mulan's nearly got it, but Hyde, in what has to be one of the ugliest moves Emma has seen in a long time, restrains her by physically grabbing hold of the tail of her broom.
The crowd erupts in angry boos, and play stops in a moment of chaos, with Lancelot having to restrain a livid Merlin from beating Hyde with his bat.
"I'll kill him," Regina growls. "I'll rip his throat out with my bare hands."
Emma can't say she disagrees with the sentiment. "He's a fucking thug," she says, shaking her head.
It gets the Sirens a penalty, but the Snitch is long gone.
And then, the worst happens: Aurora Rose emerges from behind Lancelot in a sudden burst of speed, whizzing past Ali and Tamara as she moves towards the Misthaven goal. Mulan isn't far behind, no, but Edward Hyde — curse that man — aims a Bludger that hits her straight on the back, slowing her down for a brief moment, a heartbeat.
A moment is all a Seeker like Aurora needs.
In the cacophony that ensues after Aurora's catch, Emma only has eyes for one person. Regina says nothing, does nothing except turn and walk away, her back held straight even in defeat.
Gloom hangs over the dressing room afterwards, with Emma doing her best to cheer them up. Mulan is inconsolable, placing most of the blame on herself despite the fact that she's just had to take three different potions for that Bludger injury of hers. It's her first major loss in a tournament like this. Emma can understand.
"Is the pizza thing still on?" Ali says, trying to lighten the air.
"It better be," Lancelot says, smiling. "The deal was five matches, not five consecutive matches, right?"
"The deal was winning five matches," Emma tells them, stern. "You lost."
"You drive a hard bargain, boss," Ali says.
"You win us the next match, and then we'll talk," says Emma.
She's not sure what takes her to Regina's office after she's sent everyone home. It's been a long day — a long week. Month. Emma should head home, because she's tired .
Perhaps it's the memory of Regina after the game, her back ramrod straight as she walked away. Perhaps it's the fact that Emma hates losing, hates the feeling that comes with every loss, no matter how much she tells herself that it's part of the game.
She isn't allowed to fall apart, no, isn't allowed to wallow and drown herself in self-pity like she once would. She's grown and moved beyond all that. She's betterthan that.
Regina doesn't look surprised to see her there. She has a glass in her hand, and a bottle of what looks like expensive red wine.
"Shouldn't you have gone home by now?" Emma says, even as she takes a seat on the chair that draws itself at the wave of Regina's wand.
"Yes," Regina says. "Drink, Coach Swan?"
Another wave of her wand, and a glass pours itself. Emma reaches for it without another word.
They drink in companionable silence. Perhaps Emma came here because she needed the quiet, too. Needed a place where she could sit and... process.
"The other day," Emma says eventually. "I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that we can't afford to look at any opponent as special, or different." Not that it made a bloody difference, but she's not going to tell Regina that.
"I'm well aware," Regina agrees, surprisingly docile.
"You're welcome to watch us practise anytime," Emma says. She feels the need to add that, though it might be somewhat redundant to invite Regina to watch her own team practise.
"I'll keep that in mind," Regina says, her lips curving up in a slight smile. Emma can't help but be transfixed by the smile. The wine has made her mellow, agreeable in a way she seldom is.
Emma can't help but be drawn to this side of her, can't help but say, "I… it's not my business to pry, either —"
"You've already made it your business, haven't you?" Regina says, turning the glass round and round on the table. She doesn't look at Emma.
"Anything that affects my team is something that I have to be involved in," Emma says defensively,
She expects Regina to brush her off, to respond with something characteristic and harsh. What she doesn't expect is the way Regina turns her gaze at Emma, sharp, and says, "I wish we didn't have to play them at all." There's nothing but honesty in her eyes, and a depth of feeling — of pain — Emma didn't quite expect. It blows her away, if she's perfectly honest.
They don't speak for a while after that.
Emma wishes she had the words to tell Regina that she understands what it's like to have a past that won't leave her behind, no matter how much she tries to outfly it.
They're in this together now, tied by bonds that are deeper than just the contract that Emma signed when she took this job.
Eventually, it's Regina who breaks the silence. "I have to head home," she says, sounding somewhat apologetic. "Henry is waiting for me."
"Yes, I —"
"You should have dinner with us tomorrow," Regina says, looking away from Emma. "Marian will be there as well."
"Wait, really?" Emma blurts. She doesn't understand what this is, why Regina would invite her to her home. Her home that she shares with her son. Just how drunk is Regina?
And because Emma's stomach often thinks ahead of her, she adds, "Will you be cooking?"
"Yes, Miss Swan," Regina says, "I'll be cooking." She does get a smile this time, even if it is distant, somewhat unfocused.
It's probably a pity invite, Emma later decides. But then, Regina Mills is an odd, mercurial woman. Call her a glutton, but there's no way Emma's going to miss out on an opportunity to eat more of her fantastic food, that's for sure.