Title: Butterfly Effect

Author: misscanteloupe

Rating: M

Summary: In her final year of college, Emma finds she has more to account for than the extra credits she needs in order to graduate. Only... she doesn't expect it to come in the form of her newest instructor, Professor Regina Mills. AU Swan Queen

A/N: I'm very sorry it took this long to update. I got stuck on one particular scene and this entire chapter just came out much longer than I anticipated. I didn't know where to stop and so I ended it where I had originally planned, which sort of sets up for a bit more drama. But it'll get there. Meh

Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far :) It's greatly appreciated. Also, if you haven't already gotten caught up in the ship wars on tumblr (and god, lucky you, it's a complete clusterfuck) you should probably vote for Swan Queen over on zimbio if you haven't already. Just saying haha

You can find the link by googling 'Zimbio March Madness 2014'

I haven't read this over yet, so there will probably be mistakes. Sorry.

Emma has a half a mind to charge into the Registrar's office and demand a schedule change.

But then again, it's not an easy task to accomplish when dropping classes is the common 'go-to' during the first week of the semester, and she can't remember a time when the school's computer system hadn't shut down as a result. That, and she's a little too lazy to figure it all out when her mind's muddled with thoughts of her debate class.

And consequently, Professor Mills.

Emma wishes she could say any preconceived notions she's had of her evil professor are just that: preconceived. She had let Ruby's words and the idea of a slight attraction mold into something bigger and outrageous, and just plain out stupid. And even now as it invades her mind, it feels more like a parasite than anything else, clawing at her brain with frequent thoughts of pencil skirts and lip scars and –

Jesus. Can she get any more pathetic?

Emma's answering scowl encroaches over her face as she unlocks the door to her apartment. It's just past seven on a Friday night, and she can barely walk when her limbs are so sore and she's practically wobbling on dead feet. In her defense, she'd been running back and forth across campus the entire day.

Also in her defense… it's been a shit first week.

She can already feel the anticipation for a nice, stiff drink prickling at her nerves. Once inside, she places her bag by the doorway and shuffles into the kitchen, where she could hear the faint shrill of her roommate's voice blare in from her room.

"Emma, is that you?" Mary Margaret calls, and Emma simply grunts in return before scouring the cabinets.

Mary Margaret appears at the entrance seconds later, regarding the blonde with a puzzled crease over her brow as Emma continues to search the kitchen and completely ignores anything that doesn't resemble a Jack Daniel's-shaped glass bottle. Comprehension then dawns on Emma when she turns around and finds her roommate holding said bottle in her hand, grim look in place.

"Looking for this?" she prompts in all seriousness, and doesn't bat a lash when Emma pins her with a death glare.

"MM," Emma begins with a sigh, sweeping a hand for the bottle before it's concealed from her view. "Don't start."

"I'm not starting anything," Mary Margaret responds sternly. "You promised you'd cut back on the drinking. Really, Emma?"

"This is me cutting back. I haven't had a drink since you and Rubes forced me out of the house to 'meet people.' Remember that?" Emma grits out, her patience running low and deep as she holds her palm out in expectance and says, "Now, can I have that back, please?"

Mary Margaret's mimicking glare is weak and looks more like an upset puppy's, but it's the angriest Emma had seen her in a while, and she can't help the guilty pang in her gut when the bottle is shoved into her hands.

"Thank you," Emma murmurs, even though she doesn't feel very grateful at all. Wary eyes are still drilling holes into her face as she clumsily balances the bottle underneath her arm and tries to brush past her roommate without a second glance.

The attempt is futile, of course. Mary Margaret's nothing if not persistent.

"Emma," she repeats in that tone she only ever uses when they're about to have a serious conversation. Emma dreads it for many reasons, mostly because she can never hold one without feeling the confliction bearing down on her chest. She isn't the type to speak on serious terms, and definitely not one to have a heart to heart.

Maybe that's why she and Mary Margaret had always gotten along. While her roommate's a firm believer in happy endings, she's also conscious of Emma's need for space when the time calls for it.

Except now, apparently.

A hand encircles Emma's wrist as she drops her guise and reluctantly peers up into Mary Margaret's concerned eyes. "You know you can come talk to me about anything, right?"

Emma bites her tongue and follows with, "I appreciate it, but… there's nothing to talk about."

"Somehow I don't believe you," she declares gently, but her lip twitches upward momentarily before she shakes it off. "You've just been… withdrawn this whole week. At first I thought it was the whole graduation thing, but I know you. You would've gotten over it by now. So now I'm starting to think it's something else."

"It's nothing," Emma affirms briskly, tugging her wrist from her roommate's grip. "Seriously, MM. I've just been stressed lately. That's it."

Mary Margaret doesn't look at all convinced, but the annoyance must've been plain as day on Emma's face as she nodded somewhat wistfully and stated, "Fine then. If you say so." She bobs her head once more as though to assure herself. "I mean it, though, Em. Whatever it is… I'm here if you want to talk."

"Will do," Emma lies. Because as much as she loves her friend, Mary Margaret has never been prone to keeping secrets.

Satisfied by that, Mary Margaret's gaze flickers to the bottle tucked underneath Emma's arm before pinning her with a hopeful look. "Do you want to come with us? David and I are heading to the new Italian restaurant that opened downtown."

Emma's nose scrunches up. "Go with you on a date?"

"Well… no," the brunette hastily declines, her cheeks garnering a pinkish hue. "I just meant –"

"I know what you meant," Emma insists cheekily. "Thanks for the offer, but I think I'm staying in tonight. Gotta work on –" Her mind deceptively conjures up an image of Regina before she can squelch it down. "Debate paper."

If Mary Margaret notices the furious blush staining her face – because, really, who wouldn't – she doesn't say anything. Emma takes her Jack Daniel's to her room, where she promptly gulps down a mouthful or two (or three) before she settles in for the night. She showers quickly and puts in her best effort to concentrate solely on the assignments she'd been given, namely her debate analysis, which is… dull. And she can't quite concentrate when her head is spinning and Professor Mills' handwriting is scrawled all over her last assignment in bright red ink.

Does she always curve her a's like that?

Groaning, Emma tosses the paper aside before taking another swig from the bottle.

She's definitely going to need another of these if she's going to last through the night.

Emma spends her Saturday working the night shift at Granny's to make up for the days she's missed since school started back up, and Sunday morning to help ease the breakfast crowd because… well, rent's due in a few days time, and she'll be damned if she has to be spotted another month when she already has enough on her plate. She was never one to owe people favors, especially when it comes to money, and it's for this reason that she finds herself working well past lunch hour to pick up the spare tips.

By two o' clock, the place has emptied enough for her to take a much needed break before the next rush, though Emma has the feeling she'll be long gone by then if she has any say in it.

"Not so easy, is it?" Ruby chimes in, wearing a smug grin on her face as she passes by with a tray of plates. "What was that about waitressing being a piece of cake?"

Emma groans into her hands, barely summoning the energy to glare up at her as she provides a muffled response from behind her fingers. "What do you want me to say? You were right?"

"It'd be a start."

"Alright then. How about this? I don't see how you can even stand it," Emma grunts, and tosses Ruby a disgruntled frown when the girl simply laughs. "I should've stayed at the bookstore. At least there I was making more than twenty dollars a shift."

"Sundays are slow, Em," Ruby tries to console. "You know that."

"That doesn't give anyone the excuse to leave a forty-six cent tip," Emma acknowledges bitterly, untangling the strings of her apron before tossing it on the table. "I appreciate you getting me this job, Rubes. But I think it's about time I start looking again."

An apologetic glance is tossed in her direction, but Emma ignores it in favor of staring sullenly at the table's surface as Ruby finishes cleaning up. She feels the brunette approaching rather than sees it, though she's still caught off guard when Ruby pulls up a chair slumps into the seat beside her.

"You can't keep it in forever, you know," Ruby tells her surely, as if Emma is supposed to know what she's talking about. "It's not healthy."

Emma cuts her a confused look. "What're you talking about?"

"This… thing you have going on," Ruby points out before gesturing towards Emma as a whole. "You can feed me whatever crap you want, Em, but I'm not stupid. We both know you're not stressing over classes."

Eyes narrowing, Emma sucks her cheeks in briefly before flatly stating, "You've been talking to Mary Margaret, haven't you?"

At least Ruby has the decency to look guilty as she admits, "Maybe." She leans forward then, gaze knowing and slightly mischievous when she says, "Can you blame us? Look, if this has anything to do with what I said about Professor Mills –"

"Don't."

"Everyone crushes on their teachers, Em," Ruby goes on to explain, completely ignoring Emma's look of wide-eyed horror. "I mean, seriously. What I wouldn't give to have gotten on Whale's good side when I had the chance."

"That's disgusting, Rubes," Emma remarks. "The guy's retired."

Ruby shrugs. "I can dream," she says offhandedly, but her voice holds a serious edge to it. "What I'm saying is… it's okay. There's nothing to be ashamed of. Hell, you can be into Gold and it'd still be okay. At least you have better taste in girls."

"That's not –" Emma starts to counter, her words falling short when she realizes there is no way to counter that. There's no point in lying when Ruby is already more adamant about Emma's love life than she is, not to mention her ability to lie is terrible enough as it is.

"It doesn't even matter," Emma firmly declares, deciding then to reveal at least a partial truth without admitting to anything. "I'm dropping the class Monday. I'll pick up an art class if I have to. It'll save me the humiliation."

"Whatever you say," Ruby hums in response, her smile indicating she doesn't believe Emma for a second. Her eyes flicker to a spot above Emma's head where, suddenly, they widen in a sort of humorous spectacle that quickly glaze over in mirth. "And speak of the devil…"

Emma's instantly overcome by suspicion, but follows Ruby line of sight to the entrance door just as it opens. The bell above jingles in time with the newcomer's arrival, her eyes landing first on the heeled boots stepping into the diner, followed by the head of perfectly coiffed hair before Emma realizes the stylish ensemble belongs to none other than Regina.

And it takes only a split second for the panic to set in.

Shit shit shit.

"Shit," Emma murmurs in a rush, ducking below the table before she can think better of it. Her first instinct is to hide, of course, and maybe sneak off into the kitchens in the unlikely case that she isn't seen. But her feet remain planted on the ground, paralyzed even as Ruby crouches low and pins her with a wicked grin.

"You have it bad," she teases with a laugh, making to stand. Emma hastily lurches forward to grab her wrist.

"Cover me."

"Oh, no. This is all on you," Ruby murmurs happily, and it's clear to Emma that she's enjoying this far too much to be considered safe. "You're clocked in until three, remember? Besides, I'm on dish duty."

The grip on Ruby's wrist tightens as Emma digs her fingers further into the skin. "Ruby!" she hisses.

"Relax, Em," Ruby soothes quietly, bringing her voice to a near whisper as she peers over the table and curls her lips into another smile. "She's sitting down. Just be yourself. You got this."

"Easy for you to say," Emma grumbles.

"Just don't forget the menu."

And with that, Ruby tugs back on her arm, meeting resistance in Emma's reluctant grasp before she steps aside and strolls back into the kitchens. The silence that ensues is deafening, Emma thinks, although if she listens closely, she can hear the faintest flutter of pages turning and the occasional sigh.

Gathering her nerves, Emma sucks in a slow, haggard breath before rising from the safe confines of the floor. Her legs have a jelly-like feel to them as she all but stumbles across the diner to the booths by the doorway, where Regina's form can be seen hunched over a stack of papers. Emma barely remembers Ruby's advice as she scrambles for a menu.

"Professor Mills," Emma greets, all chirpy and hoarse and undeniably nervous. She almost breathes a sigh of relief when Regina spares her a glance, somehow managing to appear both impassive and superior.

"Miss Swan," she acknowledges with a curt nod. Emma thinks she sees the briefest flicker of surprise pass over the otherwise indifferent features, but it's gone before she can study it further. "I was under the impression that Miss Lucas was this establishment's sole waitress."

"She was," Emma concedes anxiously, shuffling her feet. "She offered me the job since school started back up. It gets busy, you know?"

"Indeed," Regina drawls, and Emma wants nothing more than to pound her head against the wall from the way it sends a shiver down her spine. The brunette cocks an eyebrow in question, presumably in reference to the now desolated diner.

"Sundays are slow," Emma offers meekly, clearing her throat. Her face is burning as she finally asks, "So… uh. What can I get for you?"

"Just a coffee will do," she responds simply and turns back to the paperwork planted on the table. "Black, if you will."

Like your soul.

Emma bites back the bitter remark toppling over the tip of her tongue and carefully replaces the silent words with a nod. "Coming right up."

She's all stiff limbs and nerves by the time she returns to the booth five minutes later, a mug of coffee in one and a slice of apple pie in the other, courtesy of Ruby. It had taken four of those five minutes to resist the offering, and an entire three seconds to be shoved right back into the fire again without the chance to complain.

So as she stands over the table, serving both dishes with every intention of not making eye contact, Emma veers back and accidently meets Regina's fierce gaze. "The pie's on the house," she murmurs awkwardly. "Ruby says it's your favorite."

"Very well. Do give Miss Lucas my thanks," Professor Mills states, and all Emma can do is nod and back away. That is, until Regina latches onto her with an expectant look and says, "Miss Swan."

If there's ever a time where hearing her name from this lady doesn't send her heart plunging to her stomach, hell would definitely be freezing over.

"You're not currently busy, are you?" Regina inquires knowingly, and Emma has no other choice but to shake her head. "Good. Have a seat."

Emma blinks, her eyes practically bulging out of their sockets. "Uh… technically I'm still on the cl –"

"I insist," Regina contends, in a tone that definitely doesn't permit argument. If the diner wasn't so completely vacant, Emma might've found a viable excuse to reject the invitation. Instead she swallows the excess saliva in her throat and plops down in the seat across.

Emma refuses to back down when they make eye contact this time, holding it for however long she can handle the spotlight as Regina sips daintily at her coffee. And the moment is just so excruciatingly awkward that Emma forces herself to break it.

"So…" she begins warily, watching the rim of the mug disappear between red tinted lips, and it's really kind of pathetic how mesmerizing the whole thing is. "Is there something you wanted to talk about?"

"Indeed there is," Regina confirms before she places the mug down. "I did explicitly state that I prefer to handle issues my own way. As you recall, dear, I have yet to issue a punishment for your actions this last week."

It takes a second to overlook the fancy wording to understand where this is going, and it's like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over her head.

"You're punishing me?" Emma asks incredulously, and if she wasn't so offended by the prospect she might've reconsidered her word choice.

The sad thing is… none of this is even all that surprising.

"You didn't think I would let it slide, did you, dear?" she announces, her smile wry and deliberate and Emma honestly can't decide whether she wants to wipe it off or smear it with a kiss. "It's entirely up to you, of course. I can very well let the school issue its own policy."

"And what exactly do your 'methods' entail?" Emma grinds out. "A twenty page paper? Public humiliation? Torture?"

"I see your impressions of me are most flattering," Regina dryly remarks. "But no, Miss Swan. I merely need help with filing."

Emma's forehead creases at that. "That's it?"

"Since Doctor Whale's departure I have been overloaded with work. So yes, dear. That would be it," she explains, rolling her eyes. "What, did you truly believe I'd have you succumb to bodily harm?"

"Actually, yeah."

Professor Mills remains unperturbed though. "How does once a week sound?" she offers instead, despite the accusation. "Until I manage to sustain the amount of paperwork that's been piling in my office."

"You make it seem like I don't have much of a choice."

"You always have a choice, dear," Regina points out, accompanied by an indiscernible expression that looks vaguely like a smile. "It's a matter of whether you make the right one."

Emma clenches her jaw. "Fine."

"Good."

She pulls her chair back just a tad as she fixes the brunette with a barely concealed scowl. "Will that be all, Professor Mills?" Emma stiffly asks, and it irks her that no matter how badly this woman manages to piss her off, it doesn't change the fact that she's still ridiculously attractive. "Or would you like to discuss the weather while we're at it?"

It's a cheap shot; definitely not one of her brightest ideas, but the searing frustration pooling in her chest seems to draw out her word vomit more than usual.

"Unless you'd like to engross me with specifics on the weather forecast," Regina says flippantly, "It's sunny outside, Miss Swan. Unlike your disposition, it would seem."

"Yeah, well, you're not all sunshine yourself," Emma fires back, pausing only to furrow her brow in confusion. "Did you just make a joke?"

"You sound surprised."

"No offense, professor, but you don't seem like the jolly type," Emma counters, straining to hold back a grin when one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches up at her in retaliation. "Actually, you don't even seem like the kind of teacher who converses with students outside of class."

"That's because I'm not," Regina sniffs, with no less superiority than her typical fashion. Sipping at her coffee once more, she keeps her eyes trained on Emma as she explains, "Students are disgustingly crude, and can by no means hold an intelligent conversation long enough to provide any appeal. It's also safe to say that most of them fear me."

"Can't imagine why," Emma remarks wryly.

At that, Regina considers her for a moment, eyeing her as though Emma were a science experiment that needs resolving, and it does nothing to alleviate the permanent swell she has wedged in her throat and gathered in her lower stomach.

"No," Regina says finally. "I don't suppose you would," she continues, leaning forward in her seat until her chest is pressed smack against the table; it would take an idiot not to notice the amount of cleavage protruding from the low cut blouse she's wearing, and Emma's no idiot.

The blonde swallows heavily at the bout of arousal shooting between her thighs before shakily asking, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It seems you're the exception to every rule," Regina elaborates, smiling in a way that has Emma believing the brunette knows exactly what Emma's thinking. "Are you usually this upfront with your superiors?"

"Depends," Emma mutters, rolling her shoulders back in a shrug. "I was raised in a bunch of foster homes. It's hard to respect people when they never took the time to respect me and… I mean, if it's one of life's greatest treasures, what does it all add up to if you don't have that?"

Emma almost misses it, but manages to catch the subtle shift in the mood when slightly bewildered eyes snag onto her hers from across the table. The look isn't probing or startled, much to Emma's relief, but politely curious.

"Wise words," Regina comments after a short while, the corner of her lip twitching upwards into something akin to a smile.

Emma feels her heart tug in her chest. "Thanks," she mutters, almost timidly, before she hastily adds, "I might've quoted Marilyn Monroe."

"I gathered that, dear," Regina says, red lips curling into a grander smile as she releases a hearty chuckle. "I am keenly familiar with her work."

It takes Emma a second to realize she had never heard the woman laugh before. Granted, it's only been a week, if that, but it's a sound she didn't know she needed until now. It's melodic in a way, husky and raw and it sends Emma's spine tingling with unwanted emotions.

And… God. She's just way in over her head.

So, to distract herself from the ever growing blush tinging her cheeks, she points to the apple pie sitting untouched by Regina's side and asks, "Are you gonna finish that?"

An eyebrow hikes up in response, quickly replaced by a smirk as Regina slides the plate over in a vaguely amused, "Be my guest."

Emma suppresses whatever it is she has the urge to say next, because, knowing her, she doesn't think twice about the responses that spur through her mind. And judging by this shameless attraction she's having, towards her professor of all people – her very female professor – it's probably best that she doesn't say anything at all.

"Charming as ever, I see," Regina reflects, causing Emma to pause short of taking a second bite and look up in time to find the brunette blatantly staring at her mouth. "Napkin, dear."

Emma's hand immediately flies to her mouth, where not even the frantic attempt to wipe whatever it is she has smeared over her lip can hide the sight of Regina rolling her eyes.

"Oh, honestly," Regina says with a huff, and then she's leaning forward, reaching across the table to swipe at the lingering crumb with the tip of her finger. "It's called proper etiquette, dear. Learn it."

She's in the process of sucking the crust off her thumb when Emma catches her eye, slightly glazed from the gesture, and has to keep her jaw from hanging when Regina freezes and just… stares at her. It's weirdly endearing, and maybe more than a little awkward if Emma can find a way to ignore her nerves being set ablaze.

"Uh…" Emma starts to say, except the bell jingles from above the doorway, signaling the midafternoon rush, and just like that the moment is gone.

Regina stiffens momentarily before resuming her air of indifference, an odd look passing over her face as she gathers her papers. "Well, I won't keep you from doing your job," she states, and reaches into her purse to take out a crisp bill before slapping it onto the table. "Class tomorrow. Don't forget the assignment."

Emma nods weakly. "Right."

"Good day, Miss Swan."

It happens so quick that Emma almost forgets to respond, but soon those high heeled boots are strolling out the door, disappearing from her vision until she's left completely dazed with nothing but the sounds of the newly arrived voices to distract her from her muddled thoughts.

Sighing, Emma reaches over to collect the plates from the table, her appetite gone now that she had managed to keep her food from rising back up. She stops once she sees the form of payment Professor Mills had left, and doesn't bother to conceal the little gasp that strings from her throat.

There, sitting beside a half-finished cup of coffee with a lipstick stain smeared around the rim, is a crumpled fifty dollar bill.

Emma sees her again before class Monday morning, which, come to think of it, most likely isn't a good thing after she had spent the entirety of the previous week thinking of ways to avoid her communications professor. But any notions of dropping the class altogether had disappeared in the span of twenty minutes, when it had dawned on her that she actually had a conversation with this woman without any extreme drawback.

And… it feels good. She can't remember the last time she's ever felt this light, this… giddy, and she guesses it has nothing to do with the olive branch Emma thinks they'd established between them, and probably everything to do with the wicked attraction that seems to have evolved over the course of the weekend.

It's a recipe for disaster, she knows, to give in to these feelings bubbling up inside of her. Emma isn't stupid; she's seen the movies, but she also knows that pursuing something without the expectation of it developing into something more can't hurt. It's less risky, that's for sure, and more believable when she'll be graduating by the end of summer anyway.

So when Emma turns into her favorite corner of the library and sees her professor hunched over a spread of papers, she sort of just… freezes, a familiar chill running down her spine.

She follows it up with a deep breath and takes the last few steps forward, her presence now noticed when Regina's head shoots up and drills her bespectacled gaze onto Emma's face.

Jesus, as if this lady couldn't get any hotter. She wears glasses, too.

"Miss Swan," Regina drones, nodding her head in lack of an actual greeting as her eyes narrow in on Emma stealing the spare seat beside her. "Surely you realize that one conversation outside of class does not suddenly make us 'friends.'

Emma fights the impulse to roll her eyes, and comes out unsuccessful as she plops herself into the chair. "Maybe I just had a question."

"I sincerely doubt that," Regina deadpans, but there's a slight upturn at the end of her lip that seeps through her otherwise stoic façade. It makes Emma breathe easier when Regina leans into her space again, and she's instantly washed with the image of yesterday's incident.

"If I didn't know any better, dear," she begins, filling the air with some type of floral scent, and a dash of what smells like apples, "I'd say you were stalking me."

Emma's heart springs right up to her throat as she tries to gather her bearings. If she doesn't know any better, she'd say that's a sure sign of flirtation in itself.

But that's ridiculous; her mind has to be playing tricks on her.

And yet…

"Or maybe you just happen to be at the right place at the right time," Emma quips back, to which Regina simply scoffs at despite the restrained smile pulling at her lips. "Besides, I usually sit here."

"And you decided to greet me with your presence because I stole your seat?"

"You could say that," Emma carefully hedges, taking the time to stifle the inevitable flush burning down her neck. She feels like a teenager again, trying to hide some doleful crush, except instead of the hot airhead with the common case of football frenzy and overall douchiness, it's her infinitely hotter female teacher with a sinful inclination to leave her blouse three buttons undone.

And she's got nothing to say about this except she's kind of pathetically screwed.

"For your sake, Miss Swan, I hope this question of yours is worthy of my time," Regina states after Emma fails to say anything else, probably because she's too busy not staring at the ungodly display of cleavage. "I don't have all day."

Emma swallows thickly, suddenly very nervous, but manages to assemble her thoughts enough to form a response. "Actually, I had a question about the debate assignment."

"Very well."

She doesn't – have one that is. But if there's anything she's good at, it's pulling words out of her ass, and she accomplishes that quite fairly when she makes up some bullshit inconsistency with her written argument. Their hands brush in the process of handing the paper over; if Emma isn't so dead set against revealing her raging hormones, she might've skyrocketed off her chair.

Or puked. Neither seems like an enthralling option right then.

"Your argument is strong," Regina muses thoughtfully as she skims over the words. "Your conclusion, on the other hand, could use some work. Dare I ask why you left one out?"

Emma fiddles with her pencil. "Uh… I thought it was a good idea at the time?"

"And therein lies your problem," Professor Mills surmises, handing back the paper. "It's important to leave an impression. And remember the elements that contribute to persuasiveness in debate. You're lacking in matter."

"Right," Emma mutters, feigning comprehension, when really she doesn't know what the hell the elements of debate even are. "Thanks."

Regina nods in response before returning to the stack of papers she has perched on the table, black frames sitting delicately over the bridge of her nose. Watching her for a moment, Emma settles her gaze over the red marks she hadn't noticed were being scrawled on her writing.

Silence descends over them after that, because Emma can't really think of anything else to say and she's sort of just lost in the smell of apples she can still detect in the air. It makes sitting this close to the other woman all the more anxiety inducing.

At one point her foot accidently collides with Regina's leg, and it's out of curiosity that she pretends not to notice, leaving her foot pressed up against the brunette's shin to see if she'd move it.

She doesn't.

Inwardly rejoicing, Emma attempts to focus on the assignment for the remainder of the time. Her next class, conveniently enough, is debate, and she wonders if this means she'll be walking Professor Mills over.

She's silently mulling over the possibility when Emma glances up out of habit, only to find Regina staring back at her in a sort of curious contemplation.

Emma's throat closes up. Has Regina been watching her the whole time?

Visibly tensing, Regina quickly lowers her eyes and fixes her gaze on her paperwork once more, and it has to be Emma's imagination when she thinks she sees Regina's cheeks garner a pinkish tint.

It's Emma's turn to look away, because she can hardly stand the spasmodic flutters already crowding her gut. Twirling her pencil between her fingers, she smiles.

The rest of the week passes by without further dilemma, and Emma guesses it has to do with how busy she's been adjusting to these new classes, and how little she'd been able to do anything on her own time. It's on a Thursday night, after she leaves the library for the third time this week, when her car decides to give up the ghost.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Emma groans as she turns the ignition, allowing the engine to sputter slightly before falling dead. "Come on, baby. Please don't do this to me."

Her car may be old, but it's been reliable enough ever since she's had it. And if that's not love then she doesn't know what is.

She tries the ignition again only to receive the same result, and it's with a bang of her head against the top of the steering wheel that she resigns herself to the inevitable. She opens the door and pops the hood open, moving to the front of her car to pry it further up. It's there, as she regards the contents underneath, that she realizes she knows absolutely nothing about cars.

"You couldn't have done this after I got home?" Emma grunts to herself.

"Car trouble?"

The voice seemingly comes out of nowhere and Emma suppresses a gasp when she whirls around to see Graham standing behind her. It's chilly out tonight – nearing forty degrees in mid January, and the first thing she notices is that he's wearing a campus security jacket.

"Are you always this sneaky around people?" Emma accuses in short of answering the question, or greeting him for that matter. Although she's relieved she doesn't have to deal with the situation alone, she can't say she's in the mood to catch up on old friendships. "What're you doing out here?"

Graham points to his badge. "Making my rounds," he explains as though it's obvious, and Emma immediately feels stupid for asking. "Good to see you, too, by the way."

Emma heaves a sigh before raking a hand through her hair, allowing the cool breeze to flitter past her thin sweater. She hadn't counted on her car breaking down just as she was about to leave for her apartment.

"I'm sorry," she mutters and gestures to the bug in defeat. "I just…"

She trails off when she's not really sure what to say, but Graham seems to understand as he nods wordlessly and brushes past her to duck beneath the hood, a flashlight conveniently in hand.

This catches Emma by surprise. "You know about cars?"

"Part of my job," Graham replies with a shrug. "You'd be amazed how many cars break down all over campus. Can't say I expected to see you out here, though."

Emma mimics the shrug, failing to realize he wouldn't be able to see it anyway. "Yeah, well… neither did I."

Graham only hums in reply, preoccupied by the task in hand to formulate a verbal response. Emma gladly takes in stride though, instead using the silence to shuffle her feet awkwardly in her place as she struggles to think of something else to say.

"So," she begins not at all casually, "How's the officer life treating you?"

"Really, Emma?" Graham says in an amused tone. "If we're going to catch up, we'll do it over some beer and a game of darts. Not while your car's busted and I hadn't seen you in god knows how long."

"I saw you last week," Emma feels the need to point out, brow pinching upward as she adds, "In Professor Mills' office, remember? Before you took off."

Graham pauses momentarily before continuing his work, and says in a vaguely strained voice, "Yeah. I remember."

Emma doesn't fail to notice this. "What were you doing there, anyway?" she questions, finding her curiosity a little too overwhelming to resist. "Let me guess. She was on your ass about doing your job right."

At this, Graham goes very, very still, and it only heightens Emma's suspicions when he cryptically admits, "Not exactly." He ducks his head lower. "It's… complicated. Let's just say she's not the easiest person to deal with."

"You say that like you know her personally."

If Emma hadn't been brimming with unreserved curiosity, she might find it funny when Graham nearly hits his head as his body shoots up. She doesn't, though, because there's something niggling in the corner of her mind and she can't quite grasp what it's supposed to be.

"It should start up now," Graham declares finally and wipes his hand over the other, gesturing to the bug. "You should probably take it to a mechanic, though."

Emma's forehead creases in doubt. "You didn't answer my question."

Slowly, Graham sighs and closes the hood before pinning her with an inscrutable look. "I didn't know there was one."

"Alright. Cut the bullshit, Graham," Emma huffs out, crossing her arms over her chest. Graham's eyes follow the movement and she can't shake off the sense that he can see the goosebumps crawling over the length of her arms. "What aren't you telling me?"

Instead of responding verbally – or responding at all, really – he shrugs out of his jacket and holds it out to her. "Here."

Emma glares at it. "I don't want it."

"Don't be such a pain in the ass, Emma," Graham groans, practically shoving the item into Emma's hands. "Just take it. It's cold out, and you look like you need it."

"Only if you tell me what's going on," Emma insists.

"Fine."

Satisfied, Emma takes it and slips it on, and immediately notices the difference when wrapped in the warmer confines. She finds herself slightly relieved until she catches Graham's eye and stares at him expectantly.

This time his sigh is one of defeat. "Regina and I…" he begins uncertainly, and Emma can already feel the dread trickling in her veins just from the sense of familiarity in those few words. "We have history," he continues dumbly, before correcting himself, "Or had. I was there to cut off some loose ends. That's it."

The niggling in the back of her head grows tenfold until, suddenly, Ruby's words flash over her mind as her uncertainty lifts.

Apparently she had a thing with one of her students.

She feels her heart lurch before it plunges down to her stomach, bearing the weight of a cement block crushing her insides. It's painful and, if she's completely honest with herself, more akin to despair than she would ever feel comfortable admitting.

It was never proven, though. I wouldn't read too much into it.

"What kind of history?" she proceeds to ask, approaching the line with caution. But it's futile when all she can think about is Graham and Professor Mills – Graham and Regina – and the images that bombard her in countless levels of wrong.

"Does it really matter?"

"It does when you're implying you've been fucking a professor," Emma snaps with more bite than she intends, but the satisfaction she receives as Graham winces is tangible.

Not so much when he has the gall to look ashamed of himself, and it's that expression of deep rooted shame that Emma knows she's had enough. A hot blast of fury ignites in her stomach as she pushes past him and makes her way to her car.

"Wait, where're you going?" Graham calls out.

But Emma pays him no mind, just slides into the driver's seat and has a moment of respite when her car actually starts up this time. She just wants to go home and crash, and tomorrow… she would handle all of this tomorrow.

"Emma!"

"Goodnight, Graham," she bites out, before slamming the door with a harsh thud.

She doesn't bother knocking when she barges into Professor Mills' office the next day.

It's an act of total animosity that would gain her a penalty any other day, and most likely will, though she's far too resentful at the moment to care. The door swings open with ease, and the tinge of surprise from realizing it isn't locked vanishes when the first thing she sees is Regina's head snapping up from the seat behind her desk. The sight of those black framed glasses sitting delicately over the bridge of her nose sends another wave of nausea pooling at the base of Emma's stomach.

"Miss Swan," Regina greets, sounding less irritated by the intrusion than Emma had expected, and more inquisitive than anything else. "Is there something you needed? Or do you typically make it a habit to show up unannounced?"

Emma jerks out of her reverie in time to cast aside any lingering doubts, forcing her determination back into stride as she approaches the desk. Her mouth is set in a thin line as she holds out the form she has in her hand and places it before Professor Mills.

"Actually, there is," Emma says with false bravado, tucking her hands into her pockets. "Something I need."

"And what would that be?" Regina drawls, leaning over her desk behind a set of clasped hands. Her eyes flicker to the paper Emma had set down momentarily before she turns back to regard the blonde.

"Permission to drop from your class," Emma states, clenching her jaw. "I already have the approval I need from Professor Glass to switch over to his journalism class. He has the space."

Something distinct flashes over Regina's eyes, contorted between a mixture of confusion and scorn, and something else that makes the breath in Emma's throat clog up.

Disappointment.

"A peculiar decision you've made there," Regina drones skeptically, and Emma can't shake off the feeling that there's more to that statement than there should be. "You realize that the deadline to turn in your form was Wednesday."

"Which can be overridden by the corresponding head of department," Emma argues. "That would be you."

"And why, if I may ask, are you so eager to transfer?"

"I have my reasons," Emma stiffly responds, ignoring the shrewd look being sent her way. "All I need is your signature, and I'll be out of your way."

She watches as Regina tilts her head slightly, the usual scorn disappearing from her features, and the room seems to fill with static as the silence mounts.

Finally, the tension dissipates with Regina's next words. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline, dear."

And it catches Emma so off guard that any semblance of respect she's managed to converge in the last ten minutes wilts and dies. "What?" she rushes out. "Why?"

"Because as far as I'm aware, you have yet to fulfill your end of the bargain."

"Seriously?" Emma grits out between clenched teeth. "I don't even need to be in your class to hold up on my part. I already told you I would."

"And chase you across campus so you can show up whenever you wish?" Regina counters a bit more calmly, much to Emma's annoyance. "I don't think so."

Emma folds her arms over her chest. "That's not what this is about."

"Oh?" Regina supplies amusingly. "Then tell me, dear. What else would this be about?"

Emma feels her face grow hot upon noticing the suggestive undertones in the words, and it's the implication that has her insides churning in borderline rage. She's gripping the edge of the desk tightly between her fingers when she leans over and stares back with grim determination.

"I think you like to get under people's skin," Emma says in a hard tone, gaining no small amount of pleasure when the smirk vanishes, replaced by a stony mask. "And you're trying to put me down –"

"Believe it or not, Miss Swan," Professor Mills cuts in, "Not everything is about you."

"It still doesn't change the fact that you're mean and vindictive –"

"Enough," Regina hisses with rapid snap of her body, rising from her seat to match Emma's pose. They're inches away from one another now, close enough that Emma can see the thin scar just above Regina's lip, almost complementing the grave sneer carved into her face. Emma can't recall ever seeing the woman this angry, this… sinister in a way that might've been a major turn on if the frustration sizzling behind her eyes isn't so potent. Even with the emergency signal going off in her head, she refuses to back down.

"I will not stand for this insolence. I don't care what you have embedded in that thick skull of yours to think you have any right to speak to me this way. The fact of the matter is I am still your superior, and you will respect me," Regina fires with conviction. "Or so help me, Miss Swan, your little antics will not save you when there comes the time that I have you expelled."

Every word is accompanied with a puff of air hitting Emma's cheek. The smell of apples merges into the space between them, and it's nearly enough to filter out the sight of Regina's narrowed gaze drilling holes into her face.

"Now, you will see to it that you are here every Friday from here on out. Five o' clock on the dot," Regina finishes curtly, leaning back as Emma mimics the movement. "Do I make myself clear?"

Emma straightens her back defensively. "Yes," she says tersely.

"Yes, m'am."

"There's no reason to call me m'am, Professor," Emma rasps out.

Drawing in a sharp breath, Regina's jaw noticeably twitches as she reoccupies the seat behind her desk. Emma doesn't think the angry vibrations crawling up her spine can get any worst until the brunette deliberately slides the unsigned form over to Emma and resumes her paperwork.

"You're excused," is all she says, keeping her head bowed as she continues to work. Emma grits her teeth, but snatches the paper from the desk and whips around to leave, only to hear behind her back, "Don't let the door hit you on your way out."

Emma rolls her eyes. "Wouldn't dream of it," she grumbles, and closes the door with a signature thud that echoes down the hall.

The sad thing is, she realizes as she's stalking back to her car, is that there wasn't a second that went by during the whole confrontation that she hadn't thought of shutting the woman up with a searing kiss, or even taking her against that stupid desk.

And that –

If that isn't stupidly pathetic, then Emma doesn't know what is.

A hundred cookies to anyone who managed to catch the Harry Potter reference. Or a similar quote that was stated in the book.