I wash the dishes with speed and precision. Even Regina, cleanliness perfectionist, is impressed. She's been putting Henry to bed, in his own bed, and now she has a huge smile on her tanned face. She picks up a towel to dry things before putting them away, and we complete the task in companionable silence.

I dry off my hands on my shirt. She chuckles.

"I would have given you the towel in a few seconds."

I blush, just a little. She strokes my cheek.

"You have freckles," she says.

"They come out when I've been in the sun." I wrinkle up my nose, self conscious. I know I have an attractive body, I know that people like to look at it, but it'll be a long time before I truly enjoy being drawn attention to.

"They're cute." She can see my discomfort, though she's uncertain of the cause.

"They make me look young." I say this as if it's a rebuttal, even though young and cute are hardly mutually exclusive.

"You are young," she replies, stating the obvious, waiting for me to say more.

The truth slips out before I can stop it. "Not on the inside."

She brushes her lips against mine, a whisper of touch and apology as she breathes, "I'm sorry."

I open my eyes, wide, staring into hers. "Why? You don't have anything to be sorry for."

"I'm sorry that you didn't get the childhood you deserved."

"Does anyone?" I say pointedly, thinking of her, and even Henry.

"I had… I had everything. Everything that could be paid for."

I hum the Beatles song. Can't buy me love... She rolls her eyes, but nods.

"The thing is, Emma," she says, looking at the floor, at the ceiling, out of the window, anywhere but me, "you… You make me feel… That game we played in the hospital. Throwing wet sponges. Dancing in the rain… It's what I always dreamed it would be like. Except so much better. And so much worse."

"Worse?" I ask in a small voice.

"I…" She smiles ruefully. "You still have to make up that credit."

I could take off my shirt, I could kiss her, I could smile salaciously and suggest she let me make it up in a way that'll make her moan. But then I look at her face, so smart and human and loving, and I know that neither of us want that. We want each other, but we don't want games. It's never been a game, not even at the beginning when we teased each other in her class.

"I actually have an idea," I admit. She waits for me to tell her what it is, but I don't. I'm afraid she'll think it's silly, or even presumptuous.

Regina gives herself a visible shake.

"We probably won't do anything much tomorrow. Henry and me, that is. I don't want to tire him out too much. I can give you a lift home in the morning if you like, it's going to be very boring here."

I wonder if she sees my face fall. I tell myself over and over, it's not that they don't want me around, it's just that the kid's sick, it's just that they're tired, it's not that they don't like me-

There's a hand gripping mine.

"I'm an idiot," Regina says.

"What?"

"I, we, would love for you to stay. I just thought it might be a bit dull, especially since we spent most of the afternoon doing nothing, too."

"You really want me to stay?" I ask quietly.

Her fingers play with mine. "With all my heart," she says softly.

I let out the tension that's been coiling in my lungs in a long breath. "I want to stay, too."

We sit on the couch, drinking tea. We decided against a movie, and I've been waiting for a lull in the conversation to be my blunt, daring self, and suggest a game I know Regina won't like. From the way her eyebrow raises incredulously before I even explain it, I can tell this is not going to go down well.

"So, it's a version of truth or dare, except my two favorite elements of the game, the dares and the alcohol, aren't possible because of the sleeping kid upstairs. I thought, instead, we could have five passes. And the first one to run out of passes loses."

Regina puts on her thinking face. I'm pretty sure she's just working out an elaborate way of saying "hell no" but to my surprise, she grins wickedly.

"The loser should have a forfeit of some kind."

"Well, yeah, but Henry's here…" I trail off. All my good dares are too raucous or dangerous to be performed while responsible for a sleeping minor.

"How about…" she whispers in my ear. I gasp, my cheeks reddening.

"Really?"

She has the decency to look a little embarrassed by her suggestion, but she's still grinning.

"My, you really are young. What do you think?"

I consider the odds.

"I guess I'll just have to win, then," I say, finding a smirk of my own. I hope I've made the right call. I feel as if Regina's ready to talk, but it's too awkward. I want to add an element of fun to it, to make it a little lighter. I don't want to make light of her demons, exactly, but maybe by lightening the mood that they're shared in, they'll be easier to handle. Like the boggart in Harry Potter. I explain this to her in a rather haphazard way. She laughs.

"Okay, boggart girl. I'll ask first. When did you read the Harry Potter books?"

"Why?"

"Don't question the questions, answer them!"

I roll my eyes, leaning back into the couch. "One of my foster homes had the full set, I think there were five at this point, and I started to read them. I moved before I got through all five, but after I got my glasses, I read all the time, whatever I could, and I had ways of getting books. I stole the last one out of a kid's locker in school, I was so desperate to read it, I couldn't wait for the library. I gave it back!" I add when I see her critical expression.

"I hope Henry reads them. I read them too, I was older, but I always identified with them."

"How come? That's not your question, though."

She chuckles. "Because Harry overcomes a crappy family to make one of his own, among friends. And because they say that anyone can be a hero, even if they're a bit scrawny and awkward."

"You don't have to worry about that," I say. Regina smiles.

"Thank you, dear. I'm glad you think so."

"Right. Your turn for a question." I muse over my options, deciding not to be too brutal to start with. "Best childhood memory?"

We each have a stack of five quarters, and there's a cup between us to toss them into. She bites her lip, then reaches for her stack.

"Oh, come on, that was supposed to be a nice question. Why waste your skip?"

She doesn't speak, but she leans back, picking at her nails. I hear her take several deep breaths.

"Riding with my father," she says carefully. "I had very little free time as a child, I had a lot to learn, there were many accomplishments I had to acquire. But riding was my father's hobby, and he persuaded my mother, on occasion, that it was an acceptable pursuit for me, too."

"Why didn't you want to tell me that?"

She picks up a quarter, fiddling with it. "I'm not altogether sure… I suppose… I treasure them so much. I have so few good memories, I fear that voicing them might sully them somehow. You must have made assumptions about my parents; I'm sure you're already confused as to why I took such pleasure in my father's company, when he failed to give me a happy childhood."

I have to admit, the thought has crossed my mind, but I assure her I'm not judging. "I know your story's complicated, Regina. I think… Even when you talked about your mother, it didn't sound like you didn't love her."

"Perhaps. But perhaps loving my mother is my greatest weakness of all."

"How do you mean?"

"I believe it is my turn to ask you a question, Miss Swan." She's stiffening up, and I don't push her further. It's hard, trying to piece together her background from the little she's shared so far, but despite the lack of information, I feel as if I know her completely. There's more for me to understand, but I don't need it. I brace myself for the question. If we were easy on each other, none of this would work. And I know she wants my quarters. She definitely wants to win.

"How many different foster homes have you lived in?"

"Eight," I say quickly, like ripping off a band aid. "But I've also lived in five different group homes."

"Were any of them-"

"It's my turn," I cut her off. She pouts. I stick my tongue out.

"I want to know about Henry's dad," I admit.

"That's not a question."

"I know. I'm thinking… Did you love him?"

"No. And no, I will not elaborate. If you wanted a longer answer you should have asked a better question. It seems this game allows for education, too."

I make a face. "You're such a teacher sometimes. I can't believe this wasn't always your job."

"If I'd had more control, it might have been. I think I would have liked to teach younger children, maybe even kindergarten. But I couldn't, with Henry. I need the more flexible schedule I get at the university. And the money."

"But your family's rich, right?"

"It's not your turn," she says, teasingly whiny. "But yes. When my father passed, he left me some money, but it's Henry's college fund. As for their estate, my mother is the sole owner now, and I am most definitely cut out of it."

"And she really wouldn't help you? Not even Henry?"

"If I asked, or begged perhaps, she probably would. But I will not do that. Having her in our lives is far too high a price to pay for financial support. We are far from desperate, and I have things like my car, clothes, jewellery, that were paid for before she cut me off."

"What did she do? I mean, I know she arranged your whole life, your marriage… But when you were a kid-"

"I understand your curiosity, Emma, but I… It's your turn."

I'm seriously lamenting the lack of alcohol. Especially since it's my turn. But I'm incredibly impressed by her bravery, by how much she's told me. We're still sitting on her couch; I look around the living room. She has horse sculptures on the mantelpiece, I've noticed them before but they mean more, now. I imagine them coming to life and leaping around the room.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks.

"That's not very inventive."

"Stop avoiding."

"Two things. One… I'm grateful, I'm so glad you're talking to me, I'm glad the game worked, sort of, and I think you're so, so brave. I want to know more but I don't want to force it out of you, you know? I just think that you need, like… I get the feeling you'd never say anything, that you'd be perfectly content, well sort of, to never share your feelings, to just help me, to stay strong, to bury all your hurt. You know it's not healthy, but you'd do it anyway, I think."

She picks at her nails some more. She takes a breath as if to speak, but then lets it out again, and when she does speak, I know she doesn't say what she'd been going to.

"What's the second thing?"

"Huh?" I'm taken by surprise, I know she's been thinking about something else.

"You said you were thinking two things. You told me one. What's the second thing?"

I feel my cheeks colour, but I try to be brazen about it. "I was thinking about the horse sculptures you have up there and imagining them coming to life and leaping around."

She's laughing; I smile. We both need it.

"Best sex you've ever had?" I say, my eyes glinting as they meet with dark chocolate desire in hers.

"A much appreciated topic change, Miss Swan," she says, tossing a quarter into the cup.

"Now I know it's me," I point out, grinning.

"Maybe I was just sparing your feelings."

"Were you?"

"Not your turn. What do you want most, right now?"

She's staring at me. The truth soars through my mind, open and honest and beautiful. I throw a quarter into the cup. She's surprised.

"Why can't you tell me?"

I ignore the question. "Now it's my turn. Am I a good kisser?"

"No." My bottom lip falls into a pout; I try not to be ashamed. "You're a great kisser."

From the way that she laughs, I must have lit up as much on the outside as I did on the inside.

"What is your favourite thing that I do to you?"

I think about her holding me, stroking my hair, letting me fall asleep in her arms, making me feel wanted. But she wants it to be sex, and I throw away a quarter before she can stop me.

"My, my, Emma. Where is your bravado now?"

"Will you really tie me up if you win?" I blurt out.

"Yes. But only if you want me to."

I know she can tell, even by the look on my face, that I definitely do.

"Why didn't you answer my last two questions?"

I hover over a third quarter, but she knows she's got me and I'm not ready to lose, yet.

"I didn't want to say something you didn't want to hear."

She pauses to consider this.

"How could you be sure I didn't want to hear it?"

I shrug, feeling small. I'm usually wrong. Maybe I'm wrong now, too. She bops me on the nose, like we would with Henry.

"Hey. You're playing by the rules. Go on. I know you know how to beat me."

I don't know why, exactly, but the word catches in my mind, and I can't stop myself. "Did she ever… Did she?"

We both know who I mean. The teasing mood disappears; the room is suddenly cold, and there's a clink as a fourth quarter falls into the cup. Her hand finds my hair; she plays with it, knowing it sooths us both.

"Do you hate her for it?" she asks quietly. "Do you think I should hate her?"

"I don't know how I feel, I don't know enough… But I don't think you should feel anything. I think you feel what you feel, whatever that is, and whatever it is, it's valid."

"You are very wise sometimes."

"Only sometimes?" I protest. She chuckles, moving a little closer. I have to play with her again. It's weird, jumping back and forth, but it keeps us from dwelling. And the way her hand is moving at the back of my neck…

"Did you ever get off thinking about me when I was still just your student?"

Her cheeks go beet red and a quarter hits the cup. I punch the air with glee.

"Did you?"

"I sure did, Professor Mills." I try not to cackle as I contemplate my next question. "Ooh! What's the most embarrassing thing Henry's ever done?"

I'm delighted when another quarter lands in the cup.

"Now I have to know that story," I say. She makes a face that's somewhere between disgust and amusement.

"Maybe one day I'll tell you, or he will, but it would destroy the mood if we got into it now."

"You only have one quarter left."

She picks it up. "I know. Your question. Do you want to win, or lose?"

I picture both scenarios; I have been since she suggested the stakes. I think of her beneath me, of being completely in control, and I breathe in sharply.

"I want to try both," I mumble. "But… I want to win."

She takes my hand with hers, the one that isn't in my hair. "You don't have to be ashamed of that. I had a feeling you would. And I think… I think it might be good for both of us. Good for me to relinquish control, and good for you to have it."

The way she's looking at me… A question grows in my mind and suddenly my need for the answer is so desperate I can't hold it back. I can't do anything, I can hardly look at her, I just have to know. It's awkward and childish and incredibly unromantic and I hate myself for doing it like this but-

"Do you love me?"

It's as if the world goes into slow motion; her hands leave my body and she leans over to the coffee table to pick up her final quarter and drop it into the cup. I feel tears well up in my eyes and they fall before I can stop them. I'm mortified. I had it wrong all along, that was never what this was about, I've ruined everything by wanting more than she can give.

But she's not kicking me out of the house. She's not even leaving the room. Her hands are on my cheeks, wiping away my tears, and then she's holding my face and looking right into my eyes.

"I love you, Emma Swan. I just didn't want to tell you during some juvenile truth challenge."

"Oh," I whisper. And that's all. Say it back, you idiot. Say it back. You're the one that brought it up, look at her, she's waiting for you- Only she isn't. She's smiling, so wide, and then she's kissing me, kissing me with everything she has.

"Thank you," she breathes when we break apart for air.

"What for?"

"For letting me," she murmurs. "For letting me love you in a way that doesn't hurt."

BREAK

She's nervous. I can feel it. There's no teasing, no playing, just us, sitting naked on her bed, playing with two black silk scarves and trying to pretend we aren't both incredibly aroused.

"You have to tell me, right away, if you don't like it," I insist.

"I will," she promises. Then she grins and puts the scarves in my hands. "Now take control. Tell me what to do."

"But I don't know," I protest. It's a lie and we both know it. She kisses me softly on the cheek, then lies down on the bed.

I feel like I've been given the biggest, best gift in the entire world, but I have no idea what to do with it.

"When I am in your position," she says, low and sultry, "I tie their wrists, one to each bedpost, not too tight, but tight enough that they can't reach to touch me. Or themselves. I command them, to beg me, to worship me, or perhaps to be completely silent. I use their body, I see it as mine. They have given it willingly, so I take."

My hands are shaking with excitement as I tie her as suggested. I kiss her then, sweetly, to show her she can trust me. She pulls against the restraints, testing them. And then I know what I want, what I want first, at least. I couldn't tell her I loved her, but I can do this.

I kiss her everywhere, all over her face, her jaw, her neck.

"This is supposed to be for you," she says, a chuckle in her voice.

"I know. This is what I want. Now shut up and enjoy it. I mean, don't shut up if you're not enjoying it. But if you're enjoying it, stop thinking about me. Because I'm the boss."

"Right you are," she breathes as I kiss the sensitive spot at the base of her neck.

Worship is a good word. I worship her body, laid out for me, so open and trusting. I explore every inch of her, I find every spot that makes her squirm. I bring her to a slow, delicious climax, kissing her passionately as she arches off the bed. She mumbles something into my mouth; I push up on my arms, suspending myself over her.

"Yes?" I ask, attempting her perfected eyebrow quirk.

"You always surprise me," she says. "But in a way… You're not surprising at all. That was very you."

"Is what I want next also very me? And, uhm, you can say no, we can just do it the other way, but I saw it once-"

"Emma, spit it out."

"I want to, uhm…" I shuffle forward a bit by way of weird and ineffectual demonstration. She smirks at me, but it's a kind smirk.

"Sorry," she says suddenly.

"Huh? Why?"

"I just told you what to do. You're supposed to be telling me."

"It was reasonable, I shouldn't be so awkward, it's not like…" I trail off, feeling even more awkward than I did a few seconds ago. She catches my eye.

"You will just have to decide how much you want it. If you want it enough, you'll do it."

"You know!" I exclaim. She's a mindreader.

She laughs. "I have made an educated guess."

"Can I? I mean, would you…"

"I would enjoy it very much."

I grin, but then I get worried again. "But what if you're not thinking of the same thing? What if I'm perverted and weird and you're thinking of something different?"

I can see her trying not to burst out laughing. "I'd suggest we both get a piece of paper and write down what we're thinking of, then exchange them and read them simultaneously, but I'm a little tied up right now." Her expression softens. "Emma, I would give you anything. Whatever you want. I'll tell you if I'm not enjoying something, I won't let you hurt me or even make me uncomfortable, but I trust you, and I want to please you. I want you to feel safe to try whatever you desire, and before that, I want you to feel safe to tell me. Earlier, you didn't tell me what you favourite thing I do is. I still don't know… Are you embarrassed?"

I shake my head. "Not really, I just…" I lean down to kiss her while I think. "I'm worried you won't like the answer."

"Maybe telling me would be a start?"

"I guess, but it's not really related."

"How do you mean?"

I rest on the bed, then get up again and untie her wrists. "So your arms don't get sore," I explain. She strokes my shoulder affectionately.

"And I mean, my favourite thing that you do to me isn't a sex thing, even though I know you thought you were asking a sex question."

She rolls onto her side, looking at me. I sigh, then squeeze my eyes shut and blurt out the confession as fast as I can.

"I like it when you hold me and stroke my hair and cuddle me until I fall asleep."

"That's… adorable."

"It's silly."

"It's amazing. And yet another reason to love you."

I open my eyes. "Are there really lots?"

"Don't fish for compliments," she teases gently.

"I'm not, I just… I don't think I'm easy to love at all."

"I can't speak for the rest of the world, but for me, loving you is… It's like breathing. It's how I live, it's natural, it's automatic. We both know it can be hard, even painful, but even when it hurts, when my chest is screaming, when my lungs burn, it's an unstoppable impulse. I couldn't not breathe, even if I wanted to. Just as I couldn't not love you."

"I…" I trail off, then slam my face into a pillow. She rubs my back.

"When you're ready. I don't mind."

"How can you be so patient?"

"Because I trust you."

I like it when our kisses start slow. It makes me feel like we'll last forever, like we don't have to hurry because we have the rest of our lives. Maybe that's a fantasy, but I enjoy it regardless.

"Now," she says the next time I have to catch my breath, teasing my breast and nipple with playful fingertips. "Will you tell me?"

I bite my lip.

"How about you whisper it? Then at least you can be sure that only I will know your sins."

She holds me close and I give her the answer through gritted teeth. She doesn't hold back her laughter this time, but it's loud and lustful and sends tingles through my abdomen. She kisses me, smiling, then leans back, pulling me with her, above her, helping me get where I need to be. I still hesitate, though.

"Do you want me to beg for it?"

I giggle, shaking my head.

"Are you sure? You seem like you do."

More giggles. She runs her hands up and down my thighs.

"Emma, darling, please will you get up here and ride my face?"

It's so dirty, so vulgar, so bizarrely erotic, that I partly get on with it just to shut her up.

BREAK

A/N: I think I feel even sillier about this than Emma does. Reviews are awesome; so are you!