Regina frowns as she studies herself in the mirror. Everything about her reflection is perfect, and therein lies the problem.
Sunkissed skin glows in the flattering light of her bedside angle-poise lamp; its bulb offering a subtle tone of illumination she finds greatly preferable to the clumsy white spill of the overheads. She sways slightly; drinking in the way her movements cause her soft flesh to flex and ripple.
She has always been proud of her body and ponders curiously as she indulges in her reflective voyeurism how perfectly conflicting her own build is to that of the blonde's; a visual representation of their relationship as a whole. Where the Sheriff is hard and toned, she is soft and small. A perfect representation of femininity.
Such a shame then, to conceal herself beneath the prison of her wardrobe.
Smirking at herself in the mirror - her full lips eagerly beseeching their owner for scarlet paint - she tosses back glossy locks and supposes such annoyances will have to be put up with, at least for the time being.
Padding over to the dresser beside the window, she pulls open its top drawer and selects a set of pure white lingerie; the daring cut and delicate lace a misleading contrast to the virginal hue. Inspecting the way the expensive material moulds lovingly to her slender frame, she frowns once again as her problem still remains.
What to wear.
She's unsure exactly what tonight is. Her heart has been fluttering madly in her chest ever since the Sheriff had disconnected their peculiar conversation on the walkies, and, while she has spent an alarming amount of time in the blonde's presence over the past couple of weeks, this has done little to help her know what to expect.
You are an enigma, Miss Swan...
She's unable to say whether the troublesome woman will show up wearing her water-soiled shirt from earlier, a clean version of the same distasteful combination, or the beautiful black dress that had felt so pleasing beneath her fingertips.
No.
No. She doubts Emma will wear the dress. Not after what happened last time.
Guilt.
Again, that horrible feeling of guilt.
Her words.
Her actions.
The blonde collapsed on the flooded floor of the Sheriff's station.
Dead, or as good as it.
Closing her eyes and pushing troubling thoughts away for what seems like the hundredth time since returning home, she pulls out the second drawer of her dresser and takes out a silk black shirt. The same shirt, she realises, that Henry had lent to Emma a couple of months ago.
"Of course it would be."
She sighs, but she pulls the delicate material over her supple frame all the same, a sharp gleam present in her dark eyes as she muses that the shirt's fit supports her earlier thoughts as to the contrast between her figure and the blonde's, as what had looked awkward and somehow wrong on the Sheriff, fits her in a most flattering fashion.
Selecting a pair of white tailored pants, she slips them on and tucks in her shirt. Stepping into her favoured pair of black heels - favoured, but rarely worn; their higher and narrower heel making them impractical to wear out into town - she smiles at her reflection appreciatively.
Taking a seat at her strictly organised vanity table, she begins the slow and methodical task of applying her makeup; deciding that she may as well put in a little extra effort for tonight.
Again with that! What is tonight? What do you want?
She sighs as she brushes delicate rouge over the apples of her cheeks. She has no answer to her own question. Not really.
To take the Sheriff to bed.
Well, yes, there's that.
Her turbulent thoughts since her near-fatal mistake, and the alarming revelations that have come to light as a result, have had the image churning in the back alley of her mind.
In the beginning, when they had gone their fevered, exhausted rounds in the darkening grandeur of her drawing room, their actions had been tainted with a bitter note of hate. That hate had turned into a feral display of sexual rivalry, which in turn had turned into a confused concoction of begrudging affection laced with wary hostility.
Then those damning papers.
And more hate.
Hate so deep it had been painful.
And now... Now, Regina muses, she's a little unsure just how to feel about the Sheriff. The younger woman has plagued her thoughts relentlessly for the best part of two weeks, and she finds her heart growing fuller and beating faster because of it. She isn't too stubborn to admit that she cares for the blonde; this being less an admission than it had been a simple discovery. There had been no pretence - no ploy - behind the tears she'd shed earlier today. True, many were the product of guilt, but she's wise enough to know that some were simply a consequence of finding Emma in her terrifying state.
Of finding the younger woman hurt and alone.
She cares for the bothersome Sheriff, however unwise this impulse may be, and she's beginning to imagine she may not just lust for her, but perhaps actually like her, too.
"Let's not get carried away..."
Oh, but surely if this were simply a case of post-trauma shock causing her to care, combined with the obvious lust she feels for the blonde, she wouldn't find herself so frustrated by the way their meetings invariably begin and conclude with such carnal violence. Surely she wouldn't find herself accosted with images of messy curls fanning out over her pillow, and of flesh - not wet, not needy, but vital and soft - beneath her fingertips.
It's been a long time since she has simply shared a drink and made love.
Ironically, during the past twenty-eight years, the only time this has come close to happening - and with none of the sensual romance one would hope for in such a setting, for which I am partially to blame - has been with the woman in question. True, I shared an emotionless arrangement with Graham before his untimely demise, but other than that... Not since...
"Daniel."
The Mayor frowns as she touches up her lipstick.
Can Daniel and Emma really be compared in such a way? In any way at all?
She banishes the thought. The fact that she's able to even contemplate such a thing without a surge of anger or resentment tells her more than she wishes to know.
"Just one night. One night of not being at each other's throats. That's all that I'm asking for."
One night to try and rid myself of the image of how she looked on the station floor. To try and make up for thinking the worst, when-... One night without hate. Without it being about Henry, Snow, Ruby, Charming, the fucking Curse... Just... Nice...
She sighs.
Of course, she's aware the Sheriff might well have other ideas.