Chapter Text
Regina receives an official Save the Date! via bird. The rolled up parchment paper is tied to the bird's leg with a frilly pink ribbon, and she unrolls it and sees Snow's handiwork all over it.
As if the bird itself wasn't enough.
The letter is inked with handwritten cursive curled at the ends, dainty and swirly to the point that it's almost illegible. Pressed flowers decorate the page’s edges. Animal illustrations dot the bottom, small critters like rabbits and squirrels and, of course, birds.
Regina rolls her eyes. It's not the typical messy scrawl and coffee-stained note that reads Emma Swan. In fact, does Emma even know about these invitations? Snow's propensity for innocent excitement has led to rather rash actions and consequences (like Daniel's death, Regina thinks wryly), and she wouldn't put taking charge of someone else's wedding past the former princess.
She almost misses the date before tossing the damn thing in the trash. Only an inane pest of a mother would choose such a ridiculous turnaround time.
A month.
Emma is getting married in a month. That means a whole month dedicated to Emma’s feelings for the pirate, of planning a celebration of their love, of busying themselves over minute details like cake flavors and flower choices and reception favors. And by the end, Regina will have to see Emma and Hook together every day and she'll paste on her diplomatic smile and pretend that she's fine, that everything is fine, that Emma going home to some rum-soaked man-child isn’t affect--
The lightbulbs pop. Spark. Blow out.
Regina yelps in surprise.
A shiver crawls up her spine. The only source of warmth now comes from the flaming invitation in her hand, and she thinks for a second about stomping it out, but there's something cathartic in watching it crumple to ashes much like her own black heart.
No, she needs to stay in control. She takes a few steadying breaths, feels her stomach expand and her heart constrict and her lungs push against her ribcage. Her magic has been more fickle since she and the Queen merged back together, and that was even before news of this wretched engagement reached her ears.
Wayward magic reels back into her veins, the last tendrils of it healing burns off her hands she doesn't even register are there.
But her magic knows. It always knows.
-----
The problem with running a magical town is that there never seems to be a magical enemy or seemingly undefeatable fairy when she wants there to be.
Not that she wants someone or something to wreak havoc on her town. But it's too quiet in Storybrooke, too still, and it's given Regina too much space and time to think. To feel. To stare heartbreak in the eyes.
Again.
The first time, she was able to throw herself into her revenge hunting for a snitching princess. The second time was more like disappointment, losing a companionship which Robin openly offered.
Today, in her never-ending quest to be good, she only has herself, her own traitorous thoughts, and endless piles of documents to go through.
She's halfway through the pile of “Educational Reform Proposals” when she's interrupted by gentle knocking on her office door.
“Can't skip lunch today, Madame Mayor,” a familiar voice says. Emma grins, holding up a paper bag stamped with Granny’s signature logo, and peeks her head past the door.
They hadn't planned for this. Granted, they never do, Emma doing as she wills, but the last time Emma had chosen to drop by unannounced had been months prior.
The lack of warning forces Regina to don on her best guise -- a neutral expression, the best that she can muster. “I see our citizen's tax dollars are being put to great use.”
Emma snorts, her responding smile reaching her eyes in a way Regina hasn't seen in a long while. “What, taking a lunch break?”
“Bribing the mayor,” Regina says, eyebrows raised.
At that, Emma lets out a full laugh. It twists Regina's stomach, a wet rag with nothing left to wring out, and still, Regina maintains her practiced smile.
“If I were doing that, I'd show up with Reese's cups. I know you have a secret stash of those hidden in your desk somewhere.”
Regina’s pen stills for a moment. No one - no one - knows that she does indeed have one or two of those peanut butter-y goodness cups on reserve for especially stressful days. Not even Henry. “And how did you come to that ridiculous conclusion, Miss Swan?”
Mischief spreads on Emma’s face and Regina swallows in anticipation. “Oh, you know, I might have snooped around once or twice when we were still at each other's throats. Imagine my surprise when I learned that the bad-ass mayor has a little bit of a sweet tooth,” Emma says, plopping onto the couch.
Regina’s cheeks burn. There's something special about Emma knowing something about her that no one else knows, and a flutter in her stomach threatens to burst free. “Because learning about someone's eating habits will lead to their demise,” she retorts evenly.
Emma shrugs, fries sticking out of her mouth. “Agree to disagree,” she says through chews. “You almost did with that apple turno--” Her mouth skids to a pause and hangs half-open as she looks up at Regina with eyes wide. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean--”
Regina almost reaches out to take Emma’s hand. Her body yearns to comfort, but she doesn’t, instead curling her fingers back in and leaving indents in her palm. “I know, dear.”
Emma continues, “I put my foot in my mouth when I’m nervous. But I’m sure you already know that, because somehow, you seem to always know everything about me and that should be scary but with you, it isn’t, and--”
Regina ignores the warmth spreading in her chest. She's seen Emma rambling like this many times before and has never quite figured out what circumstances cause it, but today, she refuses to let Emma continue and spew out words that she can't help but interpret as hope. “Emma. Out with it,” she quips, perhaps a tad too stern, and she brushes her hand against Emma’s shoulder to soothe the sting her reprimand brings. A compromise, Regina convinces herself, as long as it’s not skin touching skin.
If Emma’s surprised by the touch, she doesn’t show it, too occupied in her head, and she blurts out, “Will you be my maid of honor?”
The question is a knife digging into Regina's chest. Her head blurs and her breath cuts short and her ears fill her senses with cacophonous buzzing. She doesn't know if she even heard correctly until she runs the moment back, from Emma's endearing rambling to her foot in mouth moment to the weighted ask. Her blood runs cold. Her body moves on autopilot. She stabs into her salad, focuses on the sharp points of plastic digging into flimsy green, and tries not to think about why her ribs feel like they’re collapsing in on her.
Emma hastily adds, “I don't want to pressure you into it, and I know there's a lot going on already with the merge and what happened to Robin…” She trails off, rolls a soggy fry between her fingers. “It was a stupid idea,” she says, chuckling weakly. “Nevermind.”
“It's not,” Regina says, voice firm. Her salad is sitting on the table now, and she faces Emma with rugged determination. “If that's what you want.” The phrase comes out as a choke and closes around her throat, words stiff and even.
Emma doesn't notice. Her gaze is far away, as if she's searching Regina’s polished floors for age-old answers, and her head stays bowed as she says, “You're my best friend. I can't imagine asking anyone else.”
Regina feels her chest cave in, the word friend spreading like poison. This is what Emma wants. This is what will make Emma happy. This is how she can be a good friend.
“Then I'd be honored,” she croaks with a watery smile. Tears prickle her eyelashes, and she keeps her mouth wide and upturned, teeth showing, even when Emma pulls her in for a hug.
If her mask breaks, it will be irreparable.
So she keeps her eyes open, bites into her lips, forces her magic to dissipate from her hands and circulate throughout her entire body. She focuses on anything -- the table, her salad, the horse painting hung high, the vase Henry almost knocked over when he was younger -- anything except the warm woman in her arms.
“I'd be honored,” she repeats, breath brushing Emma's ear. Her chin rests in the crook of Emma's neck and she commits to memory the smell of sunflower and coffee and her own abject longing.
-----
As much as Regina tries to avoid anything wedding related unless absolutely necessary, it’s impossible when the town she runs is so small.
Here, one person’s news is everyone’s news, which means that half the town already knows that Regina is to be the maid of honor.
It makes her sick thinking about it.
So she isolates herself, finds sanctuary at home and work, focuses her attention on town reforms and not on the constant nausea clumping in her stomach.
And for a while, it works.
Until Emma asks Regina to go dress shopping with her, and Regina… well, Regina feels herself wither away.
-----
“What do you think about this one? Do you think Killian will like it?”
Emma twists and turns and examines her potential wedding dress, surrounded by full body mirrors, nose scrunched stiff as if she's ready to fight her own clothing.
It’s so Emma and so endearing and Regina aches and wants and--
No, Regina reminds herself. She can't. She won’t, and it takes all her willpower to focus back to the task at hand.
Emma’s happy ending.
Which, according to Snow, can't happen without the perfect dress and perfect wedding and perfect reception and perfect everything.
It's nauseating.
But when the engagement was first announced, Emma had readily agreed for perfect and Snow had shrieked and hugged her daughter and cried tears of joy, demanding they start planning for her walk down the aisle as if there weren't a looming battle ahead of them and a Black Fairy to defeat. “We need to celebrate the silver linings,” Snow had said, “and what greater joy than true love?”
Joy. Yes. This is a joyous occasion, Regina reminds herself again, and Emma has been gracious enough to allow her to take part in it.
She spares the dress another glance. “It's… fine,” she says politely. She’s already lost count of how many dresses Emma’s tried on, but one thing’s for certain -- none of them are Emma's style.
No, all those pieces are covered head to toe in frills, lace, everything unbefitting of the Emma she knows. They all look like a prison, and Emma tugs at every end -- the sleeves, the chest cut, the part curving around her hips -- every piece of every dress.
This one is no different.
“So not this one either, dammit,” Emma scowls and returns to browse the rack, hanger colliding against hanger louder than before. “I'm sorry. This shouldn't be taking so long and I just-- I should’ve just asked my mom and god, I don't know why I'm making this so difficult and wasting your time and--” She throws her hands up and plops onto a nearby stool, the dress cascading onto the floor in a circle around her.
Regina shoots deadly glances at the scowling shop owner. As the savior of this town, Emma has nothing she needs to apologize for, and Regina would be damned if some no-name peasant causes Emma to feel that way. “I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be,” she says gently.
Emma nods, small and stiff, and that’s enough for her.
“Maybe you need a break from all this. We can come back another day and try again,” she suggests.
“Is that okay?” Emma's voice is uncharacteristically small, though that tone and quality seems to be more commonplace with the blonde lately.
“Of course,” Regina assures. “You needn’t ask for permission.”
What they have is enough.
-----
Yes, what they have is enough.
Regina hides behind snarky quips and sarcasm and masks the knife gutting her insides until she can find solace in the dead of night.
She figures this is her penance for the sleeping curses she’s cast, for her to fall asleep and be greeted with unwanted memories.
In her dreams, everything plays out on repeat in slow motion -- Zelena's shock as she snatches Emma's hand to display to the room, the hideous ring glinting in Snow’s loft lighting, everyone's cries of joy and Emma's laughter in response. Regina plasters on a forced smile and congratulates Emma, who pulls her in for a hug.
Her heart chokes on words and her diplomatic training haunts her mouth as she says, “I'm happy for you, Emma.”
In her dreams, she's lying through her teeth. The darkest, most selfish parts of her shadow any light, and she allows herself unfettered access to her hatred for someone wholly undeserving of Emma Swan.
When she wakes, she berates herself. She has no right to lie, no right to hate, no right to feel how she does.
If Emma is happy, then she’s happy.
She has to be.
-----
Regina might not know all the intricacies of weddings in the Land Without Magic, but she’s certain that maid of honors do not usually attend cake tastings.
Emma had invited her because, “Your palate is so much more sophisticated, and what if Killian and I order some bland tasting cake? We need you, Regina. I need you.”
And Regina was ready to refuse if not for Snow thrusting the wedding binder into her arms and looking at her with puppy dog eyes and encouraging her to go because Snow herself couldn't make it.
Only when the baker opens her mouth does Regina find out why she seems delighted at the prospect of vending for this wedding. “Oh, this is delightful, so delightful! I absolutely adore polycule weddings!”
Hook furrows his brow in confusion. Emma looks horrified.
Regina doesn’t blame her. Emma is too good for most people, herself included, and she bites back her self-loathing and puts them all out of this misery. “I’m the maid of honor,” she supplies and feels sick to her stomach. She’s not sure if it’s the thought of her being in a relationship with Hook or seeing Emma’s reaction to the thought of being in a relationship with her.
All-Too-Caffeinated-Baker is a deer in headlights. “Oh! Oh! Oops! Awkward, am I right?” Baker laughs, voice reaching an ungodly pitch that's reminiscent of Snow’s. “So, some cake?”
The tasting flight is mediocre at best. Regina nods politely after each bite, watching Emma’s reaction through the corner of her eye.
“I really like the chocolate one,” Emma says as she licks chocolate crumbs off her fingers.
“That one isn’t strong enough, love. We’ll go with the rum raisin,” Hook tells the baker, voice a mix between smug and assertive. He leaves no room for argument.
“The rum--” Emma cuts herself off, stammering with confusion, and Regina concentrates to reel her gripping anger back in. “Killian, this is our wed-- our event.”
Hook cocks his head. “Aye, Swan.”
Wide-Eyed Baker glances back and forth between Emma and Hook, panic settling on her face. “Uh-- so, don’t you think you should confer with the bride-to-be on decisions?” she stutters, but her expression is directed towards Regina in a desperate plea.
“Nay.” Hook’s good arm wraps around Emma’s waist. “She’s fine with anything. Isn’t that right, love?”
And then Emma’s face just… drops. Her cheek indents inward. “I guess, yeah,” she murmurs, and Hook takes the words at face value and continues his tirade.
Emma’s hands clench in her lap, trembling white knuckles digging knots in Regina’s throat.
Slowly, Regina's hand reaches over and slides atop Emma's clenched fists. Her thumb traces small circles on pale skin.
The blasted pirate is still talking, now elaborating on his drinking habits. Emma keeps her head bowed and her body still, but she at least shifts her grip and reciprocates Regina's light touches with her own.
That's all the motivation Regina needs. She cuts into the conversation like titanium. “The chocolate cake was exquisite. You used dark?”
Stressed Baker startles, blinks blankly, nods.
“What do you think about adding a fruit component to the cake? So that it’s a compromise between the two choices,” Regina adds as explanation.
“Yes! That’s great!” Enthusiastic Baker stresses a little too emphatically. “Yes! Bride-to-be?”
A growing smile sits on Emma’s face. She squeezes Regina’s hand. “I’d like that.”
-----
Regina doesn’t think wedding planning can get much worse, but as always, Hook finds a way to lower her bar further.
She sips her wine and downs her exasperation at that damn hag-fish of a to-be husband.
“He’s… busy,” Emma dismisses. Her eyes don’t (can’t?) meet Regina’s and she bows her head, focusing on the binder packed with pages of flower choices in front of her.
Regina scoffs. “And what, pray tell, has he deemed more important than his own wedding? Just yesterday, he was at Aesop’s bragging about his upcoming nuptials and today, he’s nowhere to be seen.”
“It’s not like that,” Emma stresses. “He had a little too much to drink and was really apologetic this morning and--”
“It's past noon. I see no correlation between his apologetic morning and his current incompetency.”
The florist darts her eyes, from Regina to Emma then back to Regina, mouth twitching as if trying to decide whether or not to intervene, just like how Regina’s hands twitch in her lap, itching to crook and lift Emma’s head up.
But a second later, Emma jerks up of her own volition. “Wait, you went to Aesop’s?”
Early on, right when the bar first opened, Emma had practically begged Regina to “check out the scene” together, but she rejected those invitations each time. “I don’t see the appeal in overpriced alcohol and a cesspool of sweaty bodies,” Regina had argued, and Emma had laughed and rolled her eyes and promised that she’d drag Regina there one day.
That was before the pirate tumbled into Emma’s life, before tonight became tomorrow became one day became never.
“I… needed to ensure they were following town ordinances.” Regina blinks. “As the mayor. And that’s hardly related to our topic of conversation. Where the hell is the damn pirate? He does less than the bare minimum, watches as the people around accommodate him and his wants, and then expects to receive a gold star for it.” Magic pools in Regina’s palms, itching to tear Hook’s heart from his chest and watch him writhe in pain. “This is his wedding with you. Not mine. God, if it were me, I’d--”
Emma gasps, barely audible. She’s holding Regina’s gaze now and she repeats, “If it were you?”
Regina swallows. The gaping hole in her chest rips violently. Her ears are buzzing, the question churning in her head, and she can’t-- she can’t go down this rabbit hole.
But Emma is looking at her like that and she doesn’t know what it means and if it were me, if it were me, if it were me, and then she’s imagining herself and Emma and a lifetime of playful bickering. Their gazes don't break as Regina imagines the decades, eyes full of wanting. “If it were me--”
She pauses and pushes down these parasitic thoughts.
There’s a stifling silence that the florist severs by clearing her throat. She looks at Regina with something akin to pity, and suddenly Regina can speak again, words bubbling from her fiery gut. But before she can spit any of the threats resting on the tip of her tongue, the florist claps her hands together, uncanny smile on her face. “So, flower preferences?”
-----
With two weeks left, Emma still hasn't decided on her dress.
Part of Regina is grateful for the reprieve knowing that she won't have to see Emma in the dress she'll marry the pirate in.
Yet.
Snow thinks it's a classic case of cold feet, and maybe to someone as simplistic as her that would be the case but Emma's never been simple. As usual, the pixie cut brunette remains unconvinced, summons Emma and Regina to the loft, and exclaims, “I had Belle scour the back of Gold’s shop and she found it!”
Emma tilts her head in question. Regina rubs her temples.
“My wedding dress!” Snow emphasizes, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. “Do you want to wear it?”
Snow's unparalleled excitement and prior preparation makes it impossible to refuse, question though it may be.
A flicker of doubt crosses Emma's face and she nods once stiffly. “O-of course! Where is it?”
“Well, I just got it back from the dry cleaner and--” Snow gestures to the white box on her bed and lifts the top off.
“Oh Mom, it's… it's beautiful.”
“I know you've been having second thoughts about the wedding, especially with all we've been through lately. And I want you to know that it’s perfectly normal to feel this way.” She takes Emma's hands in hers, tears dotting the corner of her eyes. “Marriage is a huge commitment, but it’ll also be the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”
Regina tries not to scoff.
“It’s true love, Emma. You found your true love,” Snow continues to gush. “You've come so far and finally learned to let your walls down. I'm so proud of you. And we’re so happy for you! Right, Regina?”
Regina is not even sure why she’s here engaging in this drabble.
But here she is, watching Snow dangle the dress over Emma’s torso as if she’s ready to wrestle her daughter into that damn thing, watching Emma tug her sweater over her head, and Regina is too slow to react before she sees a black bra and too much skin and--
She inhales sharply, turns her back to Emma.
The only sound breaking silence is rustling fabric, until it all stills and disperses into dense air when Snow answers her blaring phone.
“Oh! Oh bollocks! I have to go. Neal’s come down with a fever and I--” She scrambles to gather her belongings, phone caressed to her ear still. “I’m sorry. I wish I could--” she stutters. “You look beautiful, Emma.”
Emma stares at the closed door, stupefied. That look is one Regina’s seen too many times before, and she curses under her breath and starts, “How dense can she be if--”
“I-it’s fine,” Emma says shakily, cutting Regina off, but her cheeks are trembling with hollowed sorrow and all Regina wants is to reach over and pull Emma into her arms. “It’s fine. I get it. She never had the chance to be a mom. I can't take that away from her. Come on, help me get this on,” she says, changing the subject. She turns her open back to Regina, pink coloring her cheeks and a bashful smile teasing her lips. It's nothing like the woman who once threw open her door in a revealing white tank and red lace panties and retaliated against Regina's threats. “I think I might need some help with this.”
Regina laughs, short and sharp, and feels it catching in her chest. “We didn't have zippers in the Enchanted Forest,” she explains, and laces the dress with slow precision. Her handmaidens had always taken care of this part, their hands adept and practiced, while Regina stood on her pedestal and memorized their movements from the mirror’s reflections.
Today, she mirrors those movements, focusing on her memories and not on how soft and smooth Emma's skin feels against her fingertips, not on the sharp gasp and shudder Emma's body elicits when her fingers brush against the blonde’s backside, weaving laces in and out and pulling to tighten. “Too tight?” Regina asks. It comes out as a croak.
“No,” Emma whispers. Her eyes are closed, wetness prickling their corners.
Regina swallows, but the lump doesn't disappear. She can feel Emma’s warmth seeping into her like magic, a tangle of vines travelling the length of her spine as she works the laces up Emma's, except her leafy laces settle at the base of her throat and choke her with smothering affection.
Only when she's finished does she notice Emma looking at her through the mirror, glossy green orbs gripping Regina's tangle of vines.
It's too much.
Her gaze darts to the dress. The feathers lining every inch of the skirt piece scream Snow through and through.
“How does it look? I know it's not my typical style, but--”
The word tumbles from Regina's lips. “Beautiful.”
And it's true. It doesn't even matter how gaudy the dress looks. Emma is gorgeous, especially when her face lights up into the most dynamic smile, and Regina feels her breath snatch in her chest, her blood pump a steady beat in her neck, her mouth run dry.
It's too much.
She turns away again, unable to look at Emma or the dress any longer. “But what you think matters most, Emma.” Her hands busy themselves with finding a free hanger in Snow's closet.
“I know. I-- my mom's over the moon about it, and--”
“You don't need to cater to her. It's your wedding, not hers,” Regina retorts, harsher than she intends. She bites her lip. Metal floods her tongue as readily as her unspoken apology.
“I don't mind,” Emma says, her tongue rolling in ambivalence. “This whole wedding thing just isn't me. But Killian and my mom and, well, the entire town expects some sort of grand gesture of love, and… I-- I don't mind either way. Like, if this’ll make them happy, I'll do it, you know?”
This damned town. Moments like these remind her why she cursed them in the first place.
She grits her teeth, counts to ten the way Archie taught her. “You don't have to have an elaborate wedding,” she mutters, choking on her own feelings. Or get married at all, she longs to add, but she knows better.
“I know. I know, okay? I--” Emma plops to the floor, feather dress and all. “I know.”
“Okay,” Regina breathes.
Emma says desperately, “I'm marrying someone I-- I'm marrying my true love and he loves me and I dragged everyone to hell and--” The unfinished sentence hangs in the air between them. And you lost Robin because of me, Emma's silence roars.
“Emma--” Regina starts. She wants to rectify Emma’s misguided notions about Robin being her soulmate, wants Emma to know she doesn't blame her for Robin’s death, wants so much and so deeply and can't find it in herself to let the words flow out because once they do, she might not be able to stop from spilling too much.
“I promised you your happy ending and I’m damn well still gonna make sure you get it,” Emma says again.
It's ironic, cruelly so -- Emma's insistence that Regina's happy ending happen without her, and it only leaves Regina feeling utterly defeated.
She's reminded that at the end of the day, villains like her don't get their happy endings.
But determination sets on Emma's face like she'd move the moon to keep her promise, and Regina can't help the smile that tugs at her lips before reality sets back in.
In a few weeks, Emma will be married and the impossible promise forgotten.
Magic coils in Regina’s belly and surges up. She stumbles forward, catches herself on Snow's wardrobe and feigns reaching for a hanger. The taste of bile coats her tongue. Her lips tremble, from what she's not sure, but she’s lost to her emotions, a single tear streaking down her cheek, and before she even registers what she's doing, a hand reaches into her chest with a subtle, concealed movement and wraps around the faint beating organ. She squeezes -- once, twice, and a third time for good measure, just firm enough for the physical pain to drown out everything else.
A temporary solution, but at least she can face Emma again. She holds out the hanger, gesturing for Emma to take it. “Let's focus on securing yours first,” she eventually says, if only to fill the stifling atmosphere with something. Her voice sounds robotic, practiced.
Emma notices it too if her expression is anything to go by, though she doesn't comment and instead responds with a grim “okay,” as if her happiness were a shackle binding her to a cage.
Snow and Neal. Feeling like a lost girl, Regina thinks, because there's no way Hook isn't Emma's happy ending.