Closing the bathroom door behind her, Emma lets out a heavy sigh of relief. She has always been fairly good at keeping her cool- opting for ice over fire unless pushed- and she'd say she's been doing a pretty admirable job of handling her current situation.
Well, I haven't attempted amputation or murder, anyway...
Still, what had started as a naïve blend of irritation and amusement has now become a very real sense of disquiet, and she swallows nervously as she turns to assess herself in the mirror above the sink. It's a grand slab of glass, elegantly detailed and framed, and it had been here when she'd moved in. She'd prefer a cabinet so as to hide the paraphernalia currently stashed in a shoebox on the windowsill, but as with so many things in the house, she hasn't had a spare moment in which to start redecorating just yet. The glass is slightly misted with age, but not so much so that she can't make out a series of red marks colouring her throat.
"You've got to get out of here..."
She tells her reflection, but she wills herself not to resort to panic. This is actually fairly easy in spite of the current circumstances. She's well aware after her unpleasant encounter with the Queen that she has more to fear than an overture of caustic sass and dramatic outfits, but there is still a part of her- perhaps foolish, but also comforting- that is unable to meet her unfortunate predicament with pure angst or terror. It's still Regina down there; the worst parts of the brunette, but still Regina. The situation reminds her of when she'd first noticed something was amiss with David before realising that she was faced with his brother James; she'd been wary and cautious- not to mention grossed out!- but it had been hard to hate the masquerading idiot entirely because of her love for her father. The woman downstairs is despicable and renowned for her cruelty, but the strength of the camaraderie built up between Regina and herself over the last couple of years offers some sense of relief.
Don't let her fool you...
No. She won't. She's not going to let familiar features and pretty eyes lull her into any false sense of security, but it does make this whole situation complicated rather than just a complete nightmare.
"Madame Mayor best believe I'm going to make her suffer for this once I get out, though..."
She murmurs as she wrestles with the tight knot of the apron, and her resultant grin soon fades as she recalls her confusion downstairs at the table. She tries to tell herself that any hints and tricks played by the Queen are just that, but she's not entirely convinced. Studying her reflection pensively, she runs through several recent scenarios in her head that lend the Queen's insinuations just a touch of evidence, before turning swiftly away.
She's messing with you, Swan.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
"It doesn't matter right now. That's something you can talk to Regina about- your Regina- when not faced with her malicious alter-ego."
True. Sensible, even! But, of course, she knows she won't.
Finally succeeding in ridding herself of the apron, she throws the stained fabric into the corner before working her way out of sodden jeans. As she does so, her attention turns over to the window above the cistern and she pads over after kicking herself free of ruined denim. The bathroom window is high and narrow, but she's fairly certain that she might be able to fit through if she gets inventive.
Yeah? Then what?
A good question. If she were able to clamber through, she'd end up on the roof covering the kitchen and part of the living room, and that would be after a considerable leap. She doesn't imagine that right now is a good time to find out if the tiles would take her weight, and, even if they were to do so- which she thinks they probably would- what good would it do? The ceilings of the house are high; attractive from the inside, but a far less appealing feature from the roof. She'd guess that from the gutter to the ground might be a good ten to twelve feet, and it would land her right in view of where her captor currently sits, so whether she were to break a leg or not would hardly matter.
"Fuck."
She mutters irritably, unzipping her jacket before pulling her sweater and shirt over her head. The sudden, hopeful thought flashes through her mind that it would be unlike Henry not to come by in hope of scoring dessert- her freezer not exactly better stocked than the Mayor's, but definitely less healthily- before she remembers that it's a Saturday and that he and Violet will most likely be helping Hook out by the docks as they have made a habit of doing as it provides them plenty of nooks and crannies to steal some privacy in.
Like I don't know...
The pirate himself is unlikely to come by tonight until much later, if at all, and she supposes she has herself and her temper to thank for that. A conversation between them this morning fairly similar to the one the Queen had attempted to instigate about their living arrangements had ended up in her snapping at him irritably, and she knows that he probably thinks he's being the good guy by giving her some space, but damn it, right now really isn't the time!
"Me and my mouth."
She huffs, but she knows that the next time the conversation gets broached- provided she hasn't been picked off by a long-ago ruler clad in leather and lace- she'll react in exactly the same way. Because she doesn't want to talk about him moving in with her. She doesn't want to talk about any of it.
"Ugh."
Grumbling as she massages her temples, she pulls herself together and shakes out her hair, before stripping herself of her underwear and stepping into the shower.
Sipping at her wine, the Queen glances up at the ceiling as she catches the low drone of the pipes humming to life. She'd been curious- not quite concerned- about what the blonde might be up to upstairs left unsupervised, but she doesn't imagine it will have been anything interesting. She'd placed a protection spell over the Saviour's house upon their arrival; keeping both unwanted intruders out unless permitted of her own volition, and keeping the younger woman in. She's fairly certain that Emma won't have tried to find a means of escape, however. Not because it isn't in the blonde's nature, but rather because it is. She knows Emma well after spending so long forced to coexist alongside her, and she will hand it to the younger woman that she's usually pretty smart when it comes to looking out for herself. The Saviour is remarkably flakey and quick to run from situations where she feels uncomfortable or threatened, but she has learnt from her time spent wandering the world clueless and alone to be cautious and rely on her common sense.
Something which her mother so often lacked; preferring to play the hero or the martyr over saving her own hide.
Emma won't have tried to escape, as to do so from any of the upstairs rooms would be suicide.
"And that's if she were lucky..."
The Queen murmurs with an amused smirk; somewhat relishing the idea of the younger woman screaming with the pain of a shattered vertebra. Looking back down at her wine, she smiles wistfully, before pulling a small compact mirror seemingly from nowhere.
Closing her eyes as she stands beneath a steady torrent of hot water, Emma frowns as she strives to come up with any semblance of a plan that doesn't involve likely injury or death. It is excruciatingly frustrating to be in such a dilemma posed by something so trivial as the walls of her own home, with those she knows and trusts less than a mile away; completely oblivious.
"Someone's going to start asking questions if you don't show up for a while..."
Right. For a while. Possibly even a couple of days, and again she knows this is something for which she has only herself to blame. She has always been reliable when shit hits the fan, but right now, to her knowledge, the 'shit' the town faces is currently sitting downstairs drinking wine. When the others don't require her immediate assistance, she acknowledges that she has a habit of keeping to herself. Sure, she's usually happy to see any of the close-knit group that has come together over the last year or so when they seek her out, and she's always pleased to see Henry when he shows up, even if only to loot her cupboards and call her out on her failures when they indulge in a two-player game on the Xbox. She appreciates that her parents seem to find it non-negotiable when it comes to stopping by a couple of times a week to re-stock said looted cupboards and cook something other than pasta or toast. She's told them a dozen times that she can cook, at least a few staples, but has openly admitted that she finds the whole practice of little interest. She has grown used to spending most of her spare evenings with Hook; usually argument-free, thus begging the question of why they even need to talk about any kind of 'next step', and she always looks forward to sharing a couple of drinks with the Mayor while Regina explains to her- with a blend of bemusement and patience- that she should really understand that that's not how relationships work by now.
They'll notice...
She tries to comfort herself, but while she is generally glad to receive company, she knows that the reality of the matter is that no one is going to find it strange if they don't see her for a day or two.
"I am not spending a couple of days holed up here with the Evil Queen."
She mutters irritably, but in the back of her mind, she's beginning to realise that she might have little choice.
I'll lose my damn mind!
Possibly... But she's uncomfortably aware that there may be more at stake than just her temper and mood. She may have trouble seeing the woman downstairs as entirely loathsome when she wears such an appealing and well-liked form, but she's read, seen and heard enough to know that she needs to get out of here as soon as possible.
"All those times we talked about the past and I made fun of her... I couldn't have spent that time discussing any potential weakness or bribe?!"
The blonde scolds herself as she works almond-scented soap into a lather between her hands; taking her time as she has no wish to find herself back in the Queen's company all too soon. She supposes they have discussed it, though. Or, rather, Regina has expressed several times that her evil side considered love to be a weakness. Not especially helpful, and also no longer relevant. The part of Regina that had finally let love win is probably sat in front of a fire reading a book with something tasteful playing softly in the background.
As for a bribe...
"You've got to let her keep playing this game."
She sighs, scrubbing at herself vigorously as though trying to unleash some of her building aggression. She's not even entirely sure just what game the Queen is playing. She understands that it involves a great amount of amusement in making her feel uncomfortable, but she's fairly certain that she's only had a taste of the rules.
"Fuck."
She reiterates, and she turns around to wash the suds from her slim frame with a sigh.
Before too long, the water begins to cool down, and she shuts it off before it can become properly cold. Stepping out of the shower, she stands naked on the bathmat that centres the room and watches a freshet of water trickle down her thigh to merge with another a little lower down. She's not washed her hair, but some of it has gotten wet, and it patters quietly behind her, splashing her heels. She studies herself in the mirror morosely before looking once more at the window.
Not an option, so let it be now. Come up with something else...
She would if she could, and she turns around angrily and punches the wall. She aims to her left and her fist catches her towel hung up on its hook; cushioning the blow to leave her with nothing more than a miserable ache and little relief. Glaring down irritably, she seethes as she studies the hateful metal cuff encircling her wrist and tugs at it uselessly. She does so until her arm aches; scratching at it and yanking at it to no avail. Snarling in her frustration, she leans over the sink- droplets falling onto the white enamel from her bare flesh which prickles with cold- and she pumps a generous pool of Irish Spring soap into her palm before slathering it over the cuff.
"Come on..."
She mutters, knowing deep down that the charm put on the cuff long ago means her attempts are futile, yet not knowing what else to do. The soap makes the cuff difficult to grip and find purchase- the metal and her wrist slippery with bubbles- and she bares her teeth in rage as she succeeds in doing little more than opening up a few superficial nicks with her nails that smart as they come in contact with jolly green suds.
"Come on!"
She snaps furiously, as though she might be able to bully the cuff into submission, and she glares up at herself reflected in the glass, aware that her cheeks have flushed red with anger, before stumbling back when the glass mists purple and she stands face to face with the Queen; her kitchen reflected back at her.
"That's not going to work."
The brunette smiles, almost singing in her glee, and the blonde throws her hand over herself protectively as she glowers back murderously.
"What the fuck!? How long have you been-"
"-Long enough."
The Queen smirks, before leaving the glass once more unoccupied and reflecting back the blonde's own shocked rage.
Grabbing her towel, Emma throws the door open and storms out onto the landing, standing undecided between her bedroom and the stairs with her fists clenched and her eyes glittering with fury
"Regina!"