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This has been a long time coming, Emma’s sure. There were plenty of signs and she should’ve known where the road she was on was leading her, but she ignored it all in favor of denial. Because that has worked so well for her all the other times before.
So now she is here. On her couch, alone in the dark, because she hasn’t moved in what feels like over an hour since arriving home from work, and the sun has long set, the sky fully dimmed now save for the orange glow of street lamps. Because somehow it’s November already, and the darkness descends earlier now. It’s kind of, like, a metaphor for her life or something, she thinks. She knows the analogy is there, she just doesn’t have the presence of mind to find it.
She has no idea where the time has gone. Both right now and in general. It feels like just last month it had been last December, and they were all having christmas dinner together and exchanging gifts. And now she will have to go shopping for presents again.
It’s silent, much too silent, because the tv is off, too — but she left the remote on the breakfast bar, and the mere thought of getting up to get it fills her with much more despair than is appropriate.
Right. This is what she gets for letting herself follow the familiar magnetic pull. But in her defense, it is just… irresistible sometimes. Most times.
And it’s not all bad, not at all. She’s been here before, she’ll be here again, but she knows it won’t last forever. All she has to do is distract herself and wait it out. And it shouldn’t be long, either, judging from her past… excursions into the abyss.
But the matter of distraction is a little more complicated now than it has been in her life pre-Storybrooke. In Boston there was alcohol, there were drugs, one-night stands, and dangerous, violent marks for her to track down as a bail bondsperson. There also wasn’t a family to disappoint. There wasn’t Henry.
Now she is stuck in the limbo between trying to do right by them and self-destructing. She can’t do it to them— him. She won’t. She doesn’t want to. But the temptation is there, as is the little whisper in the back of her head. This will last forever.
Shut up, you idiot, she always responds — but it feels like self-destruction, too, when that whispering voice in her head sounds just like her own.
But maybe that’s just it — she has friends now. Family, too, although talking about her problems with her parents is the last thing she needs right now. Not now, not with everyone being high on love for her new baby brother. Not now, not when when the comparison between an underachieving fuck-up and a tiny cute child would be so glaring.
Friends, though. It’s complicated, but she has Ruby, and she has… Regina. But Ruby is gone now, away following her own life path, and Regina…
It’s weird, their relationship. Weird, but it happened, somehow. It’s still unclear to Emma exactly how they went from being at each other’s throats to this… kindness and understanding. Well. She knows how she got there, because the journey involved a lot of lonely nights spent yearning as her imagination ran wild. And it wasn’t all filthy — the first time she fantasized about cuddling with Regina was worlds more shocking to her than the first time she imagined her naked.
So she’s not at all confused about how she got there. But she’s still in disbelief that somehow Regina reciprocated enough feelings for them to have this little friendship now.
And it still feels a little tentative, a little unreal — but good. Like maybe it could become real in time.
And anyways, it just might be the most real relationship she has right now. Maybe that she’s ever had. Besides Henry, of course. But she’s not exactly going to saddle her teenage son with her problems.
Her stomach growls. She hasn’t eaten since breakfast — she was too busy for lunch, and too nauseous to eat dinner when she got home, and now suddenly she’s starving. She thinks about getting takeout from Granny’s and her brain responds with a resounding yes.
She gets up from the couch — who knew all it would take to get her moving was a fleeting thought of some greasy food — and only slows down enough to grab her keys on her way out the door.
It’s dark. Dark and brisk and the air smells like cold soil and wet leaves, and Emma loves it. Most of the homes still have their halloween decorations on, spiderwebs and carved pumpkins on every stoop, and not for the first time Emma wishes she lived in a house instead of an apartment.
Houses never have been her style — not when she was younger and she kept moving around, unmoored and untethered, and not when she lived in Boston, fast and anonymous. She’s never even considered moving into a house here; she assumed she’d hate it. Regina’s house, though… It’s nice. A little too big for a family of two, if anyone asked her, but it feels— homey. She’s sure there’s some irony to that thought.
But there is something about houses that makes Emma feel like a grown up whenever she’s in one. Settled and content and loved — and it’s probably telling that Regina’s house is the only one she’s spent any considerable amount of time in, but Emma doesn’t care much about what that says. She knows it, she doesn’t deny it — well, not to herself — and there’s nothing she’s going to do about it. This is just how it’s going to be.
She turns left at the next corner, and finds herself on Mifflin Street, which is decidedly not on the way from her place to the diner, and— okay. She won’t pretend it’s a coincidence. She took the long way on purpose, just so she could—
Well. She just wanted to have a little look. She doesn’t even know what she’s looking for when she stands there at the front gate that she knows isn’t locked, just shut. She scans the windows — Henry’s lights are off because he’s away on a school trip, but the lights are still on in the living room and the study, and she realizes she has no idea what time it is.
She checks her phone, and— shit. It’s already way past eleven. Did she really sit at home in the dark that long? It feels too late to go to the diner now, she thinks. They’re probably closing up the kitchen already and Emma doesn’t want them to dirty everything up again just for her order.
So she stands here — and she’s not sure why. But she stands rooted to the spot, and imagines herself opening the gate. Walking up the path to the front door and knocking. Or better yet, just coming in. Like she belongs. Leaving her shoes by the door, and making her way to the kitchen, sliding her her socked feet over the polished wooden floors like she’s skating instead of actually walking, because why wouldn’t she? Regina’s floors are smooth and clean, finished with a glossy varnish — not like the floors in Emma’s rental. Scuffed and rough and decidedly un-slideable.
These images in her mind are so vivid that it jars her all the more when they’re replaced suddenly with visions of her knocking at the door that swings open violently. Regina would be there, greeting her with anger. Annoyance. Distaste at her presence. She would look Emma up and down, arch her eyebrow, and, with her best derisive snark, ask if Emma’s gotten lost.
And then Emma would burst into tears, she’s sure of it.
Best not to tempt the universe.
She takes one last look at the windows — she still has no idea what she is looking for, but she can see no movement from within, and that seems to be the final confirmation that she should leave. She turns to go back, but pauses for a second.
She’s not ready to go home just yet. The fresh air has done her well so far, but she’s still feeling dangerously fragile, and maybe a little walk will help more. It definitely can’t hurt, she thinks. Discounting any magical, fairytale creatures, Storybrooke is a very safe town, even at night. She knows the entrance to the cemetery is just a short while ahead, and decides to walk a lap around it — it might sound a little morbid, but, well. Emma’s not even sure if most of the graves are real or just a cosmetic choice of the curse’s fancy.
She turns on her heels and starts making her way toward the cemetery. The wind has picked up, and she stuffs her stiff hands in her jacket pockets as she hunches down. The sidewalks are completely cleared from fallen leaves — the Storybrooke citizens take these things very seriously, apparently — but the moment she steps through the cemetery gates, her feet slip slightly over the damp leaves, and she has to keep her steps short and measured to prevent any falls. Her coccyx still aches sometimes when she remembers the spectacular fall she had last year at the ice rink. She’s never heard Henry laugh louder, though, and the pain — and embarrassment — were worth just that sound alone.
She walks like this, slowly and carefully, following her usual path that will take her around the grounds, and she lets her mind wander. It’s been a while since she came here, but ever since she discovered it — all these years ago, while raiding Regina’s mausoleum with Graham — it became one of her favorite places to escape from everyone, since the cemetery barely ever gets any visitors.
It’s hard for her to unscramble her thoughts as they stray and tangle with each other, and she’s not entirely sure anymore if she actually feels any better now than she had before. She’s tense; she can feel it in the way her jaw is clenched and her stomach feels tight. She tries to shake it out, just relax repeating in her mind like a plea, but nothing’s working, and she picks up her pace until her breathing grows heavier.
The whoosh of leaves under her feet and the sighs of her breaths distract her well enough. As much as she can hope for. It’s been a while. A while since she’s felt like that, a while since she’s had the compulsion to run. Start fresh once again. It’s the only thing she knows, even though it never ends up working in the end.
Before she knows it, she’s walked through the whole cemetery and without giving it much thought, she traces back her earlier route to go home. There’s not much more she can do right now besides try to sleep this off.
She looks down at her feet as she walks, counting the concrete slabs she passes, and she doesn’t even notice at first that she slows down — but she does, and her steps grow smaller, and she realizes the hedges to her left look awfully familiar, and—
She’s standing at Regina’s gate again. Like a creep. The light in the living room is off now, but not the one in the study, and Emma wonders if Regina will go to bed soon. If she’ll change into pajamas, go through her nightly routine — which, Emma has found out, isn’t nearly as extensive as she’d assumed it would be — and slip into her empty bed.
She wonders if Regina’s ever lonely. She wonders how she does it. How is she such a great mother, a great mayor, a great friend. Emma can barely stomach thinking of the word savior most days, and Regina— well. Emma’s never met anyone like her before. She’d bet if only she had a tenth of her strength, she wouldn’t be here right now, moping alone in the darkness like a lunatic.
She sighs. She wants to be better than that, she really, desperately does, but wanting isn’t enough sometimes. Maybe she just needs a little time. Some time to let her get used to these feelings once again, and everything will go back to how it was before. Good. Good and easy. And light.
She hears the door lock turn suddenly, ringing loudly in the dead silence of an early night in a small sleepy town. She jumps at the sound and thinks about throwing herself behind the tall hedges just a couple feet away, but she freezes instead, and—
Whoever said the only two reactions in a stressful situation are fight or flight clearly has never met Emma. She’s a prime example of a freeze person if she ever met one.
So she’s frozen in spot and she can’t do anything but watch as the door opens and reveals a an outline of Regina. Emma can’t even see her face because of the contrast between the darkness of the night and the light behind her in the foyer, but she knows she looks beautiful. What she doesn’t know is her expression, and Emma wonders how much did she just ruin her night by coming here like that. “Are you coming in or not?” Regina asks in a perfectly neutral tone.
Whatever Emma expected, it wasn’t that. “What?”
“You do know I can sense your presence around my house, right? I’ve felt you staking it out the first time, too. So are you coming in?”
Emma doesn’t think she’s ever been more mortified in her life. It’s enough to unfreeze her, and she takes a step back as she says, as quickly as she can before she loses the last of her nerve, “I’m sorry, I had no idea. I didn’t mean to— I mean— Have a good night.”
She turns and starts to leave when Regina’s voice stops her, strong and commanding. “Emma.”
She curses herself for not being fast enough, but stops in her tracks and turns to face Regina once again. She still can’t see her face clearly, but she looks at her, and she knows Regina is staring right back. Assessing her. Emma doesn’t even want to think about what Regina might be thinking right now. Everything is silent, it’s still, and Emma wants to squirm. She racks her brain for something to say, another apology that hopefully will sound more genuine than the last, that hopefully will placate Regina enough to let this go—
“Come in, since you’re already here.” She pauses, and when Emma doesn’t react immediately, she adds, “please.”
And that word alone would’ve convinced Emma, but the tone of Regina’s voice… she can’t put her finger on it, but there’s something in it that she just can’t say no to. She’s not irritated or angry like Emma expected, and just that fact alone is enough to throw her completely off balance. She doesn’t even feel like it’s her moving her body when she unlatches the gate and makes her way up the long walkway to the porch.
She doesn’t look at Regina anymore, too self-conscious to see herself being perceived, and each step she takes feels heavier than the last. But then she’s at the door, and Regina’s stepping back inside to let her in, and Emma can finally see her face.
Her expression doesn’t look like anything she’s seen on the woman before. It’s full of worry, but not in a way Emma knows how to describe. It’s not urgent, it’s not insistent. It’s just— soft. Mellow, even. She looks earnest and gentle and fond and Emma has no idea what to do with all that, so she steps in and bends down to unlace her boots. She can see out of the corner of her eye Regina closing the door and locking it softly behind them, and then Emma’s standing there, looking at her feet in socks and all she can think about is that dumb thought she had about sliding on Regina’s shiny floors.
Regina is still regarding her with that weird, steady look, and Emma’s stomach drops and she feels cold all over when a thought occurs to her that maybe— maybe Regina can sense more than her presence?
What if she can magically tap into Emma’s brain somehow and feel what she feels, and what if she knows. About her feelings. All of them, the good and the bad. Is that where this sudden sympathy is coming from? She thinks she could probably take many things right now — anger, annoyance, even mockery — but the thought of any kind of pity being directed at her right now makes her want to just disintegrate.
But then she looks at Regina, and Regina looks at her, and her eyes drop down to Emma’s jacket that she’s taking off now, and she says, “you look really cold, I’ll make some tea,” and Emma thinks that maybe she just spiraled for no reason, that maybe that’s all there is to it. And then she realizes that she’s freezing, and her body’s shivering without her consent, and she could definitely go for a warm beverage right now. She nods her head, and follows after Regina when she leads her to the kitchen.
But they don’t go to the kitchen. She’s led to the study instead, where the fireplace is going, and a few small lamps cast soft warm glow about the room, and Emma is feeling so much more comfortable already. Regina tells her to sit down as she gestures to the couch. “I’ll be just a minute.” And then she leaves, and Emma is alone once again.
She sits down in the middle of the couch and takes a moment to take in the room. There’s a mostly-drunk glass of wine on the side table, and a paperback on the coffee table, placed open-side down. Emma picks it up, and it takes her a second to realize the words she’s reading aren’t in english but in spanish.
Somehow she’d never considered that Regina would be reading spanish literature — even though there was no reason for her not to. She knew she could speak the language, she’s heard her do it, but reading it, too… Somehow that little fact feels important to Emma.
She turns the book over to the cover, and she thinks she’s heard of the author before, but she can’t be sure. She writes the title down in a note on her phone to check it out later, and puts the book back down the way she found it.
There’s a speaker on the mantle, and she finally registers that there is music playing softly in the room. It’s quiet enough for reading, but not instrumental. It sounds like some kind of love ballad from the 90s, and Emma’s head starts to reel from all the little details she’s just learned about Regina in the span of a few minutes. Suddenly she feels like she knows more about her than she’s learned in the past whole year, and she might have been happy about that, except— except, why hasn’t she known these things already? Was she not supposed to know, did she impose herself on Regina?
Clearly she’s interrupted her and she’s intruding on her personal leisure time. Guilt springs up in her and she needs to leave but she can’t just go without a word because that would only lead to more guilt, and— damn it. Running from her problems used to be one thing in life she could do without being consumed by remorse.
She waits for Regina to come back, and when she does and she enters the room with two mugs, Emma jumps up to her feet, feeling a little guilty at being about to waste Regina’s tea, but much more guilty about wasting Regina’s time. “I should go. I’m gonna go. I shouldn’t have— and I’m sorry about the tea—“
“Nonsense,” Regina cuts in. Emma just looks at her, because once again, Regina has surprised her tonight, and the feeling is so unfamiliar, she’s lost for words. But Regina doesn’t wait for a response when she continues, “sit down, Emma.” She nods her head at the mugs she’s still holding. “It’s cinnamon-apple,” she drawls with a small teasing smile, like she thinks out of all things, this will be the one to convince Emma to stay. And maybe she’s right, because Emma sits down immediately — but whether it’s the tea or the smile, she couldn’t tell.
Regina hands her one of the mugs before she sits down with her own in one corner of the couch, one of her knees up on the seat and half-facing Emma. Emma doesn’t have the nerve to face Regina back, so she brings up the hot tea up to her face and blows until steam rises up and moistens her eyelashes, the scent of apples and cinnamon lingering in her nostrils.
She sips at it once, twice, and the weight of the silence between them exerts pressure on her that makes her uneasy, desperately trying to find something to say to get over this awkwardness. Regina seems to sense this, too — or maybe she was just waiting for the right moment, because she says, “may I ask what you were doing out there in the dark?” She doesn’t sound judgemental. She doesn’t sound alarmed. She sounds—
Emma doesn’t know how to describe it. Open, maybe. A little curious, a little tentative. She wasn’t planning on being truthful tonight, but she’s feeling vulnerable, and the tone of Regina’s voice disarmed what was left of her defenses completely.
So she’s not surprised — although she is very sheepish — when she finds herself admitting, “I was just having a… bad night, and I went out on a walk, and I don’t even know why or how I ended up here. I wasn’t doing anything creepy, though, I swear. I was just thinking. And I’m sorry, I really had no idea you knew and I would have never—“
“Emma,” Regina interrupts her, and Emma’s eyes snap up to hers. She realizes she’s said too much and her face darkens with a blush, but then Regina places her hand on Emma’s forearm, and all her thoughts fly out the window. “You don’t have to apologize. You should’ve just knocked; you’re always welcome here. You do know that, right?” Her hand slides off of Emma’s and back to her mug of tea.
Well. Emma did not know that. She’d have to be crazy to assume she could just come here and be welcomed inside whenever she pleased, without an excuse involving work or Henry, and the thought constricts her chest in an entirely different way than she’s been feeling all night. She wants to reply, but all that comes out is a shrug. Like she’s not sure if she acknowledges Regina’s words, they wouldn’t become too real and Regina wouldn’t take them back.
They sit in silence then, and Regina assesses her with her gaze once again. Emma can feel it even though she doesn’t have the courage to look and see it. Instead, her eyes wander. Nothing holds her attention until her gaze slips to the small painting on the wall she’s always meant to ask about, because it’s clearly painted by Henry when he was a child. For some reason she doesn’t have the memory of it, it wasn’t there when Regina shared her other memories, and she hopes one day she’ll be able to ask why. Probably not just yet, though.
Then she sees the Spanish book again, and maybe she should say something, and maybe that’s a safe topic of conversation, so she tries to pull all her focus forward and come up with something—
Regina’s hand is on her knee now, and it jerks Emma out of her train of thought. She looks at it, delicate and soft, and then at Regina, whose expression is neutral when she says, “something is clearly bothering you. Did you want to talk about it?”
She shakes her head quicker than she can say no. Because whatever happens, she does not want to talk about it. Not tonight, anyways. And it’s not because it’s Regina, no. All things considered, Regina would probably be one of her first choices to confess everything to. Maybe the first. But tonight, tonight things are too raw, too scrambled for anything to be productive. Tonight, she just needs to get through it.
Regina squeezes her knee then, once, but her hand stays on it when she says, “okay. We can just sit here.” She’s tender and patient, and it’s just another thing Emma didn’t anticipate. Where are all the snark and quips she was expecting? It’s almost too much, but Emma can’t help but bask in this positive attention she hasn’t received in so long. And it’s from Regina, no less. It’s good enough that she doesn’t even feel pitied.
She pats the hand that’s on her knee with a thank you, and Regina smiles at her, and somehow it’s not condescending, and Emma doesn’t know what to do except return it with a reluctant smile of her own.
Regina leans back then, her hand gone from her leg, and Emma wishes she hadn’t, but that might be too much to ask for.
She tries not to think about it, because she has a family now, but she still feels so damn lonely sometimes. And she can’t admit it to them, because how could she? She can just imagine the look Mary Margaret would get on her face, the grimace of hurt like she’s never been more disappointed in her life — and it might be with herself, but the guilt in Emma would remain all the same.
But she is. Lonely, that is. All the time, and all her life, and she thinks that maybe it’s just how it is, because it’s not so bad. She can ignore it most of the time, and she can have fun, and she can feel love, and it’s all enough, really, when she thinks about it. It just would be a little better if—
No, no. This is a dangerous line of thought. There is no if. There is only this life she has, this pretty good life, and herself. And she’s loved, and she’s fine, and she can do it. Can’t she?
The tea in her mug has gone cold, but that’s okay. She’s almost done with it anyways. She leans forward to set the mug on the coffee table, and then she reclines all the way back, slumping against the couch backrest, letting her head fall back as a realization hits her — the song that’s playing sounds very familiar in a way that makes her stomach drop. Where did she—
Ah. Junior prom. The song she’s sat through on the bleachers with all the other un-dateable people as she looked on at all the pairs slow dance on the floor. It’s kind of funny, actually — at least funny is what she tells herself — but she’s never slow danced with anyone. The thought makes her feel sheepish, and the feeling swells in her until she finds herself blurting it out, trying to relieve the pressure inside her, “I’ve never slow danced with anyone before.”
If Regina is surprised, Emma doesn’t know — she closes her eyes as soon as the words leave her mouth, too mortified to see her reaction.
But then she feels movement on the couch, and she hears her name, a quiet request, and she opens her eyes and raises her head and she sees Regina standing in front of her, her left arm outstretched and waiting.
Is she…? Emma can’t think of anything else this gesture could mean, but what if she’s mistaken, and what if she’s reading this all wrong, and what if she tries to take her hand and Regina recoils—
But then Regina flexes her fingers, urging Emma on, and Emma’s still hesitant, implacable, but it’s enough confirmation for her to take Regina’s hand in hers.
Then she’s being pulled to her feet, and she lets her body follow after her hand, and then Regina leads her around the couch where there is more space, and she stops there.
She turns to face Emma, and they stand together like this for a few moments, hands still clasped, and Emma thinks that if this is what slow dancing feels like, she hasn’t missed out on anything, because this is so awkward. And she has no idea if it’s because of her, or if this is how this is supposed to feel, but she’s just about ready to apologize to Regina and pull away when Regina takes Emma’s other hand and places it on her shoulder, and then Emma feels a hand settle on her waist, and—
It’s nice. And then Regina lifts up their clasped hands until they’re bent at the elbows, and she starts swaying them, and that’s even nicer. Almost enough for her to forget her anxiety. Still, she doesn’t quite let herself get too close, and the touch of her hand on Regina’s shoulder is tentative, because there are still inches between them, and Emma’s trying to be careful not to let the distance close.
But then the hand on her waist tightens its hold and she’s being pulled in. In until their chests are touching, and until she has to angle her head to fit next to Regina’s, and until her face is in her silky black hair, and—
And Emma closes her eyes — and she lets herself be swayed, and she lets herself turn slowly, and she lets Regina’s hair tickle her face. She inhales slowly so that it’s not too loud, and the familiar scent of Regina’s perfume hits her. It just might be the most amazing feeling she can ever recall feeling. And there haven’t been many of those in her life, so she remembers almost all of them.
It’s definitely the most amazing feeling, and she thinks she could cry. She thinks she might when she feels her eyes sting under her eyelids, but she keeps her breathing steady, and moments pass, and the sting recedes eventually.
They dance like this, leisurely and close. She doesn’t know how much time has passed, except that the song from her junior prom is long over and forgotten, many others having played after it. And she lets herself float away in the haze of her mind until she hears Regina whisper into her hair, “you know, I’ve never actually slow danced with anyone before, either.”
Emma can hardly believe that with how confident Regina is at leading them, and she pulls away enough to look her in the eye when she asks, disbelieving, “you haven’t?”
Regina just shakes her head, a smile on her lips that doesn’t fully mask the expression that’s… wistful. Then she pulls Emma back in, until their heads are cheek-to-cheek again and they resume their sway as Regina continues in a low tone, “there have been dances in the Enchanted Forest, of course. But they weren’t like this. They were all balls. Every step choreographed, meant to be a display of beauty and ornate clothes more than anything else.”
She pauses and they continue their dance in silence for a few long moments. Emma thinks that maybe that’s the end of their conversation, but then Regina whispers to her, quiet and tentative, like a confession, “I’d never gotten to dance with someone I loved.”
She must be thinking about Daniel, Emma concludes, and her heart constricts with pain that’s now not just hers. And there’s nothing she can do about either of their pains, so she just keeps dancing. It’s a little desperate, and it’s a little heartbreaking, but it’s the only thing she can do.
She closes her eyes again, and lets Regina sway her. Slow, gentle, and so very intimate. Hair in her face, and a warm body pressed to hers, Emma wonders how she will get up from her bed tomorrow now that she knows how good this feels. This thing that’s not meant for her, forever outside her reach.
She turns her face into Regina’s hair, slowly, subtly — at least she thinks so — until it tickles her eyelashes, and she sighs soundlessly. Then the song ends and there isn’t a next one as silence falls over them, and Emma’s sure Regina will pull away, but she doesn’t.
Instead, she starts humming the melody of the song they started their dance to, and she never once stops dancing, and Emma just can’t believe it. Can’t believe that she’s dancing here in Regina’s study with the fire crackling quietly and Regina humming into her ear, and—
She tears up again. Because this is not hers to have, and maybe this was all a mistake, because she can’t imagine waking up tomorrow to a reality where this isn’t something she can have ever again, and this time a couple of tears slide down her cheeks before she can stop them. They land in Regina’s hair and on her shoulder, and she must have felt it, because she stops her humming and she pulls away, but Emma doesn’t open her eyes.
“Emma?”
This is it, she thinks. Regina will ask her what’s wrong, and Emma will have no choice but to tell her. And as much as she tries to deny it, a part of her is relieved. Because no matter what she tells herself, deep inside she wants to tell Regina so badly. So she pulls Regina back in, and starts swaying them again, because it will be easier this way, if she doesn’t have to look her in the eyes. “Yes?” she asks, ready to confess it all. All.
But then Regina surprises her — again — and she says, “you know how I said I’d never danced with someone I loved before?”
It’s so unexpected, Emma’s eyes shoot open and her eyebrows furrow, and she can’t for the life of her think of where Regina is going with this, so she encourages, “yeah?”
Regina takes a few seconds to reply, and Emma’s tempted to pull away and look at her face, when finally Regina says, “I have now.”
It takes Emma a moment to process — because the conclusion comes to her mind immediately, but it can’t be. Regina can’t mean what Emma’s hoping for, it’s just impossible.
But the more she turns this over in her mind, the more she is convinced that— maybe? Maybe she does mean what she thinks, because what else could she mean?
Emma knows she will hate herself if she’s wrong about this. She can already feel the pain of rejection, the ache like being punched in the gut when Regina pushes her away.
But she still does it. She turns her head, and she lets her cheek slide over Regina’s, and then her lips follow the path as her nose trails over Regina’s cheekbone. And then she places a kiss to the corner of Regina’s mouth.
She freezes with her lips still lingering there when she feels Regina stop swaying. Then Regina’s hand is sliding from her waist and Emma braces herself for being pushed away, prepares herself for the inevitable crash and burn, when she feels that hand land on the side of her neck, cradling her jaw and head, and—
And then Regina’s turning her head until her lips are on Emma’s and she kisses her. She kisses Emma, and she does it like she means it — no hesitation and no regret, and Emma kisses her back, before she can wake up from this dream.
But she doesn’t wake, and Regina kisses her again and again, and Emma thinks that if there was ever a kiss that could break any curse, it would have to be this one.
And she thinks that maybe it did, because her stomach unknotted itself, and her muscles don’t feel like they’re made of lead anymore, and life’s still painful, but finally she feels like maybe it’s a pain she wants to bear.
It starts out chaste, just lips on lips moving gently, and then there are tongues on lips, and sliding together, but it never goes beyond that — it’s unhurried and unassuming. And perfect.
And then Regina breaks away, and she slides her cheek over Emma’s again until they’re back in their dancing embrace, even though they’re not dancing anymore, and she says, voice low and laced with disbelief and so much relief, “I was hoping you felt the same.”
Emma can hardly believe that Regina returns her feelings, much less that she was actually hoping for this, and it makes her feel like maybe—
Maybe she can ask for what she wants, this time. Maybe for once in her life she doesn’t have to pretend anymore that she wants to deal with this alone, and that she can deal with this alone, and that she is fine.
And maybe, just maybe, if she asks and if she’s very lucky, she will get what she needs. Maybe she won’t get her heart broken.
So she closes her eyes because she feels braver that way, and she asks, “can I stay here tonight? With you, I mean.”
And when Regina says, “I’d love nothing more,” the weight of the world is lifted off of Emma’s shoulders.
They start dancing again to the silence, and when they tire and Emma can barely stay up on her feet, they go up to the bedroom. Regina uses her magic to prepare them both for bed, and then Emma slides under the cool sheets, her eyes closing the moment her head hits the pillow, and she feels Regina slide right behind her, and curl her warm body around her, and barely half a minute passes before Emma’s deep asleep.
And when she wakes up in the morning, Regina’s still there next to her, and the ache in Emma’s chest is still there, but so is a sense of quiet peace now for the first time in a long while.
They need to talk, Emma thinks. But she’s not so apprehensive about that anymore. She looks over at a still sleeping Regina, and she turns over onto her side to face her. Regina stirs and tucks herself into Emma’s chest, her head under her chin. Emma closes her eyes and she can’t stop her lips from curling up in a smile.
Maybe she could even be happy, she thinks.