A/N: Taking a break from memorising genetic markers and respiratory pathologies in order to write *groans*. Just a quick one, but I found some notes I'd made for this on a scrap of paper on my desk, and while I couldn't remember what half of it meant, I've tried to include most of the random words/ ideas that I'm sure made sense at the time :p I hope you enjoy, and reviews would be lovely :)
When the spell of the poppies finally wears off, the Queen dances in and out of consciousness. She has no way of knowing how long she's been trussed up in the stable, only that the worst of the thunderstorm that had played the backdrop to her altercation with the Saviour has passed, leaving behind a frigid, windless chill. Her lashes feel heavy as she comes around, and she glances up at her wrists still trapped in their restraints to see that the blue tinge that had initially ravaged her fingertips has extended towards her palms; a deep purple semicircle surrounding her nailbeds.
"Bitch."
She hisses, the word coming out in a plume of fog, and she would guess that her lips are likely a similar colour to her fingers. Her lungs feel tight in her chest as the lingering cold is all-consuming, and it takes her a moment to realise that she no longer suffers the subtle buzz of noxious pollen.
"Ah!"
She growls as she experiments with a rage-fueled burst of power; securing her freedom, but stumbling on cobbled stones as her legs struggle to hold her weight; numb but for a cruel ache that seems located deep within each femur. She steadies herself carefully, stretching with a pained hiss, before throwing the bullwhip at her feet a disgusted glower and snatching it up in her fist.
Healing the cuts to her abdomen with a shaky hand, she dresses herself in thick furs and riding leathers before leaving the stables in a veil of purple smoke. She reappears a moment later in the grand entranceway of the palace, her dark eyes wide as she scans her surroundings distrustfully, but she catches no sign of the troublesome blonde. Suppressing a shiver despite now wearing several layers, she stalks in the direction of the kitchens; furious and shaken, but also famished having eaten nothing since forcing Emma to cook for her back in Stroybrooke.
To her displeasure, she finds that she's not alone in her quest for sustenance, and she enters the large hall once solely used by her servantry to find Emma perched on a long stone table originally used for preparing meat.
"You..."
She hisses, brandishing the whip she clutches in her fist; her fingers still discoloured from the cold. The blonde glances up, eyeing the Queen coolly, but she refrains from answering this vexed address as she licks a droplet of blood from the side of her mouth. The blood comes from the steak balanced on a plate on her lap; a cut so pink, the brunette is certain that it's raw.
"You do realise there are ways of getting these old ovens to work, Saviour?"
The Queen muses, wiggling her fingers pointedly while her lips thin with disgust as she watches the blonde saw through bloodied meat. The younger woman maintains her silence, raising her own hand to command swift ignition of all three of the large stoves lining the far wall, before closing her fist to snuff out their flames instantaneously.
"I see."
The brunette frowns; accepting that it appears the Saviour knows how to go about using her powers to conjure whatever she might find appetising, yet seems content with devouring the gore on her plate.
"...Is the bloody feast part of this new 'dark side' look you're trying to pull off, then?"
The Queen asks; flicking her wrist and taking a seat opposite the blonde as she tucks into pan-seared tuna complimented with a small tower of dauphinoise potatoes.
Silence.
"You realise uncooked meat is bad for you?"
The darker woman asks, undeterred, and Emma considers her pensively before finally growling
"I didn't realise you cared."
"I don't."
The brunette replies truthfully, considering her forkful appreciatively as her limbs finally begin to thaw. She sits with the whip resting beside her plate and catches the younger woman glancing at it as she finishes her meal and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand; leaving a bloodied smear ending in the shape of her lips.
"Still, I suppose it adds to the aesthetic."
The Queen goads further, and when the blonde simply glares at her- once more opting for silence- the darker woman continues silkily; knowing her audience is alert despite appearing unresponsive.
"Honestly though, dear, if you want my opinion, it's a little much. One might even call it overkill. I don't think torturing your digestive system is really worth trying to convince yourself that you're the new Big Bad out of the two of us."
She muses, although she remains privately shaken following her ordeal in the stables.
Not that I'd ever let it show.
Her words seem to have hit a nerve, however- at least so much as that she is offered more of a response than a silent, green stare- as the blonde hisses
"There's no convincing necessary, I know how we stand."
"Is that so?"
The Queen purrs, although internally she's seething, and when Emma simply raises her jaw, she continues in a low tone
"I'm not so sure."
"No?"
"No... Things have changed. As you said yourself, this is no longer a game."
"Isn't it?... The rules have changed and the stakes are higher, but it seems to me like we're still playing."
Emma replies coldly, and dark eyes glitter with rage as the brunette challenges venomously
"Do you really think I would still wish to keep you around to toy with you, Saviour?"
After what you did?
After what you did to me?
Your abhorrent behaviour.
Your filthy hand.
"No."
Emma shakes her head, her gaze falling once more to the whip the darker woman has deemed it necessary to bring to dinner with her before she meets the latter's dark gaze coolly and shrugs
"No, I shouldn't imagine you'd want anything to do with me save for serving out fatality, Your Highness... I also think you know I have the upper hand."
Silence, this time from the brunette as she considers her adversary with a blend of hate and unease; wishing to challenge the younger woman on her bold claim, but knowing- feeling- that the cards are currently stacked against her. She would never have dreamed the blonde would have taken things to the level she'd sunk to in the stable; she wouldn't have considered it genetically possible. She's furious, but she's also wary, and she damns the fact that she'd gone in so rough so soon. She has never been one to appreciate dealing with the consequences of her actions, and she bristles at the knowledge that if it weren't for her tricks and talent in biting where it hurts, she'd still be dealing with Storybrooke's pathetic Sheriff; forever quick to spit out a threat, but ultimately as soft on the inside as her lineage would suggest.
Especially when it comes to me.
Well, to Regina.
I was playing against an opponent struggling to inflict too much damage due to something so ludicrous as my guise and I couldn't help but overestimate my hand.
I got bold.
Ordinarily, that isn't a problem.
No, but this is no ordinary circumstance, nor is her antagonist an ordinary foe.
On cue, Emma takes her silence as an invitation to lay her own cards out on the table, and the blonde advises softly
"I mean to kill you, you know... And I mean to make it last."
As the Mayor lets herself into her mansion, she suffers a momentary surge of panic upon spying light coming from the kitchen; worried that Henry remains home alone having neglected to follow her instruction to get a lift over to the Charmings', but as she hurries towards that warm glow, she finds the room deserted save for a note on the kitchen table.
Mom,
Need to charge phone. Please call MM & D when you get this. What is going on?! x
Crumpling up messy scrawl with a sigh, she disposes of it in the trash with a glance at the clock. It's late; too late to call the others without waking them, and thus arousing some alarm. She remains unsure whether or not it's wise to get the blonde's parents involved, but suffers a hint of unease as she knows that her reasoning has switched from wanting to avoid pissing off the Sheriff to an altogether less pleasant feeling of embarrassment.
She doesn't want to tell them that she'd failed at vanquishing the Queen.
And she certainly doesn't want to discuss her fears over what her iniquitous counterpart might be doing to the Saviour.
Nor the darkness- Emma's darkness- I felt lingering in that cuff...
No, that too, and she supposes that if she does what needs to be done now, she should be back before the others even know that she's missing, with the blonde in tow who can fill in any gaps to the story as she sees fit.
Presuming everything goes to plan...
But she refuses to take that train of thought any further, as she sees no other option but to succeed.
As such, she puts herself to work before trepidation can wreak too much havoc with her nerves; washing up the plates Henry and Violet have left stacked beside the sink with a roll of her eyes, before making her way over to the knife rack beside the stove. She selects a boning knife after careful consideration of its sharp point and takes it over to the sink. Waiting for the water to run so hot that it creates a fog of steam, she douses the blade liberally with dish soap as well as a spritz of disinfectant and scrubs at it until she's satisfied it's completely clean, all the while trying to keep her mind off the task she plans to use it for.
"That should do it."
She murmurs, and she wraps the blade carefully in one of the white napkins she saves for special occasions before venturing into the drawing room. Here, she finds what she's looking for in the narrow drawer that lines the top of her liquor cabinet; a box of long, tapered candles, of which she selects just one. Pondering the obscure collection in her hands and the feat she's about to undertake, she is struck with sudden inspiration and heads into the corner where she finds a tall, decorative lantern on the window ledge. It is comprised of glass and wood that has been distressed to look weathered, and it should provide a protective shield around the flame of the candle she means to hex and ignite.
That, and of course, it serves as a touch ironic...
It does, given that the lantern had been gifted to her for Christmas by Emma herself. As such, it isn't really to her taste, but she had appreciated the gesture well enough to refrain from shutting the lantern out of sight in the cupboard under the stairs, as she had done with the well-meaning yet ultimately hideous decorative bowl presented to her by the Charmings.
Clutching the lantern and candle against her stomach while holding the knife in its safe padding carefully out to her side, she heads upstairs and shuts herself in her bedroom; laying her unusual array of items out in front of her mirror, before perching on the edge of her bed and lowering her head into her hands.
You best believe you're about to owe me royally, Miss Swan...