Chapter Text
It's an operation, or so Henry Mills had declared. Emma had acquiesced to her son's naming convention without protest, on the grounds that it had made both the idea and the implication easier to digest. But whatever way she chalks it up, through either bravery or foolishness — or perhaps a healthy dose of both — Emma Swan is going on a date with Regina Mills, her son's other mother.
It's Regina's first date. Or rather, Emma is Regina's first date. And she is nervous about it.
Operation Premiere has been underway for a little over two weeks, so called because Henry believes his mother's first First Date should be treated with all the fanfare of a red carpet event. Emma doesn't disagree with him, but as a result, she cannot remember a more stressful fortnight than the past two weeks spent planning the thing. Henry's been helping, which has been part of the problem, because he looks at her with such belief, when all Emma feels is an uncomfortable certainty that this cannot end well. She'd like for it to end with the two of them going on a real second date, but far more likely that she puts her foot in her mouth and embarrasses herself — or worse, embarrasses Regina.
It had all started with a seemingly innocent statement at a Friday night family dinner, which had left Emma choking on her delicious steak and potatoes.
"What do you mean, you've never been on a date before?" Emma had spluttered, once she had caught her breath and stopped choking.
Regina had just given her a Look, which Emma had broadly translated to "Let It Drop," and "Not in front of Henry," and maybe even a small amount of "Don't you dare choke to death on me." It's alarming, really, how easy it had been to read Regina's silence. Even more so, when Emma had felt the care dripping like honey across the table towards her.
Emma knows Regina better than anyone. So how had she missed this?
"I've been in relationships, as you all know," Regina had responded verbally, mostly for the benefit of their son and his grandparents, who had picked up where Emma had left off with their own barrage of insensitive questions, clambering on top of each other with their curiosity. A raised hand from the defendent had been enough to silence the three of them long enough for Regina to continue "—but no one has ever taken me on a date, so to speak."
Henry had protested his disbelief more than a little.
Emma had been much too caught up in her thoughts to harass Regina. No, she'd gotten stuck on a loop of choice words for all the people who had ever had the chance and passed it by.
But then Emma's mother, Snow White, had taken the burden of moving the stilted conversation forwards — and it had probably been for the best. Emma had protested less than she usually would about the details of various dates David, Emma's father, had taken his wife on over the years. She had remained silent, not even feigning an interest in her parents' recollections of their clandestine Storybrooke affair or the fairytale courtship that had taken place before Emma had even been born. In fact, she had bordered on rude for the entire rest of the evening, unable to attend the conversation whilst her mind had circled around and around all of the relationships Regina had been in — all those men who had called Regina theirs — and yet not once had anyone Made An Effort and taken her out somewhere nice. Not one single time.
Sure, Emma's dated some terrible men. She's had her fair share of false starts and unequal affairs. But both fabricated and real, she knows a date when it's staring her in the face.
And just —
Never?
Even with Regina's exceptional cooking on the table, it's hard to swallow that truth.
Her host had let it drop that evening, though Emma's not sure even two weeks later that she's forgotten the exchange. And even if she has, she's about to be reminded.
~.~
Two weeks of planning — scheming, really — yet now she's on the precipice of it all coming together, Emma feels vaguely nauseous.
"How do I look?" She asks into the shadows that cut across the sterile lighting of her small apartment.
Her apartment, the first that she hasn't had to share with another adult. A strange warmth, something akin to pride, crackles in her chest whenever she catches herself thinking those words. It's followed by a traitorous flame when she remembers just how she had come to call this place her own. Just over ten months ago, a persistent and devastating Regina had asked just the right questions, pressed just hard enough, and helped Emma to realise how much she had been sleepwalking her life with her kids in tow. And she had responded to Emma's quiet admission that she had been drowning in her marriage to her now ex-husband Killian by finding an apartment — a lifeboat — and moving Emma into it within two weeks. And not once had she made Emma feel guilty for any part of her cry for help.
The lifeboat remains exactly that ten months after they had moved in. It's not yet moored enough to become a home, but still somehow enough to keep her afloat. All told it's just about big enough for the three of them — Emma, Hope and Henry, whenever he visits. His room here is much smaller than his more permanent residence in the mansion with Regina, but she has carved out a place for him nonetheless. She remains adamant that he — Killian — will not prevent her kids from being hers. From being with her, whenever they want to be.
If Henry's behavior the last two weeks are anything to go by, she's been somewhat successful in that endeavour. Under the guise of planning this latest operation, he's dropped by pretty much every night. Truth be told, Emma's stale blue apartment has never felt warmer.
It's still small, though.
Her dining table has just about enough space for her family, Regina included, when she moves all of Hope's assorted toys and scribbles artwork aside. Even then, she's constantly finding bruises that speak of second-hand furniture that is just a bit too big for the square footage. Still, it's more than she'd ever had before Storybrooke, even if it's never felt like home, not really.
Despite her increasingly-energetic three-and-a-half-year-old tearing through the place and filling the blank walls with crayoned masterpieces – both on paper and directly onto plaster – it still feels depressingly generic, almost a year in. Emma's own bedroom is a victim of her constant need to put her kids first. Beyond the second-hand bed and dresser, it's pretty much the exact same as it had been on the day they moved in. In fact, it still has a wall of unopened boxes that she hasn't quite found the energy to put away yet.
But she's happy, or at least safe. Thanks to Regina. And there's a lot to be said for that.
Today, she also feels beautiful — hot, even.
It's been a long while since she had any occasion to dress up like this. Even before they separated, Killian wasn't much one for 'parading about in fancy clothes' and 'showing off to the outside world'. And much like a lot of other things that had once made her feel good about herself, she had let it go in order to keep him happy. It hadn't been deliberate, but somewhere along the way she had lost herself to the idea of the Perfect Relationship, moulding herself into an image of what she thought he wanted from her. Of what would please her parents, and the town for which she found herself a reluctant Saviour.
For a long time, that's what she had known love to be.
Over the course of the last ten months, with the wind of her own life in her sails, she's been finding joy in the small things all over again.
Tonight, the fleeting and fragile echo of her old joy returns to her in the form of a skintight red dress pulled from the archives of her former self. The soft fabric clings to curves that extend just a bit further than they had before her second child came into being, but if anything her body feels more hers now than it ever has. The dress returns her youth to her, a gentle thrum threatening to burn underneath her skin. She smiles at her own image, enjoying the strange anticipation that comes with watching her accentuated reflection smile back.
Henry notices, as he always does. In fairness, it'd be difficult not to see the effort that has gone into manufacturing the rare sighting of Date Night Emma Swan into the cool winter evening. She's even curled her hair for the occasion, and if she believed in Revenge Dressing, tonight is its absolute epitome. She's relieved that their plans will take her out of town and away from a chance sighting with Him, because this effort is entirely for Regina.
"You look great, Ma," comes the low tenor from the bathroom doorway to her left. At fifteen, Henry's deep voice is a stranger that she is only just coming to know. He's more sensitive than most, and she hears the anticipation in his excited tone for what it is.
"Henry—" she sighs. "I've told you before, it's not like that."
A mirror of his other mother, he remains silent. Raises his eyebrow. Takes a step towards her in a deliberate move to suffocate her disbelief.
"I know how you feel," Emma softens. "Just — don't get your hopes up, okay?"
Sure, Emma knows his thoughts on the matter. He's explained them to her at great length — has made no secret of his feelings to the younger of his two mothers. Emma's fairly certain this is not the first Operation which he believes will push his moms towards Happily Ever After. But it's the first in which he can rely upon an ally between the two of them. And although Emma's not necessarily an ally for the "Ever After" — her recent attempts at being someone's Soulmate souring the taste of the supposedly saccharine ideal to her tastebuds — she does want Regina to be happy, more than anything.
Henry mimes a salute, a beat late to answer her threat. His silliness makes her chuckle drily, which she assumes was the point of his theatrics.
She puts on her best Mom Voice to enforce the final word.
"We're just giving your mom the date she never had. That is all."
It's a warning she has silently repeated to herself almost a hundred times by this point, and it feels even more fragile under his expectant gaze. All her best attempts at denial feel flimsy under the harshness of her bathroom light, as though the intense rays can see through even a hint of disguise.
Of which there is none. At least not that she'll admit to her son, of all people.
"Oh-kayyyy—" Henry drawls slowly, suspiciously.
She's cautious of herself too, when she pauses long enough to actually think about her own feelings. They're much too alarming to name, and she doesn't want to deal with the implications that she's dancing around.
She deflects, as she always does.
"Sure you're ok to look after Hope for the evening?" Emma asks. "All being well, I won't be back till after her bedtime. She's going through this weird thing where she won't eat—"
"—anything green, I know," Henry interrupts, placing a hand on her shoulder. "It won't kill us to have nuggets and potato smileys for one night."
"Just don't tell your other mom you told me that. I gotta have plausible deniability when she comes after me for our genetic predisposition for junk food," Emma jokes, laying it on thick in a surprisingly good mimicry of Regina.
Henry's laughter reverberates off the empty walls and surrounds her in comfort.
"Gotcha. I'll have her in bed by seven. Prime Xbox time until you get home — whenever you get home."
The last is said with a crinkle to his nose. Because he's made it abundantly clear he thinks his mothers should explore their weird — unique — connection, but he's still a teenager, and Emma's sure he doesn't want to think too much about the specifics of them connecting in that way.
Not that Emma isn't open to — uh — connecting with Regina.
It's harder to deny those desires when she's dressed like she is, specifically to please Regina.
And when Henry's giving her the mother of all side-eyes. God, when had her baby boy gotten so old, so mature?
"You're sure?" Emma presses. "And you'll call if anything happens—"
Her concern is unnecessary, really, because he is very old for his age, and he loves his little sister with all the weight of his True Love family behind him. And in any case, the plans for this evening had been at least sixty percent his idea in the first place.
Still, Emma will not look away from one last chance for someone else to chicken out for her.
"I'm ok, Ma," he continues, weary in a way his fifteen-year-old frame is far too young to hold. "It's going to be perfect. You're going to be perfect. You're both going to have a lovely — ordinary — Friday evening. She's getting a night off from Gram and Gramps and Family Dinner. It's gonna be hard for you to mess that up. And anyway — she's going to love you—"
Emma watches realisation colour his face with embarrassment laying its pink fingers in stages. So far, they've managed to dance around it without anyone mentioning the specific words. It's one of Emma's best skills, avoidance, and she had thought Henry had inherited the same degree of wilful ignorance from her. But clearly the self-righteous optimism he received from his grandparents has beaten his diplomacy this time. It's not even conscious, if his chagrined expression is anything to go by. Either way, by the time he's caught up with his mouth, Emma's has dropped into a deep frown.
"This is stupid. I shouldn't — she's gonna hate—"
"Your evening together, I mean—" Henry backtracks, but it's too late.
Emma's not really listening, anyway.
Henry appears to consider slapping her for a suspended moment. Then he breathes. Emma tries to copy the motion. To be normal about it. It shouldn't matter. They're just friends — friends who happen to share a marvellous son — friends who are both single — friends who are going on a date. A surprise date that she has planned, that shouldn't be any different to a normal Friday Night. Nothing romantic will happen, because Regina isn't at all interested in anything like that with her. If she were, then something would have happened all those years ago, when she had first wanted—
No. It doesn't matter what their son seems to think. It doesn't matter what Emma wants, if she's really honest with herself.
This is just a service to a friend, to make her smile, to give her the experiences that fate and history have kept from her. It doesn't have to be anything more than that. It can't.
Still—
"Why did we make it a surprise, she—"
Emma chances a glance at her own reflection and she winces at herself, slicked back hair framing a face that looks ghoulish in the static. Her words trail off as she sees how spooked she looks. Eyes wide and ready to bolt, she knows she's overreacting. But having pulled the rip-cord — Henry having given her feelings the name that frightens her the most — she can't stop the spiral. Sure, she feels them. Has for a long time now. Has even named them that, in the quiet of her own darkened bedroom. God, even when she was with Killian, perhaps even before she was with him, she had felt something inconvenient and persistent and altogether more than friendship for Regina Mills. But it's always been so one-sided that she shouldn't be even pretending to humour it now.
All of a sudden, her makeup feels like a mask, feels like she can't breathe through it. She wishes she hadn't made such an effort, even though that's the whole point of this evening. But her perceptive son recognises the signs, so his voice is kind when he speaks.
"Ma."
All she can give is silence. He sighs into it.
"Emma."
Her name is less kind, less soft. Henry is her strength, and she leans into his persistent touch on her bicep to borrow some for the evening.
"It's a surprise, because she deserves to have the whole magical experience. Because she'd have said no if you'd have asked. But it's just that she hates the idea of you going to any trouble for her—"
He's right. Emma knows it. It makes her feel even more nauseous, despite her empty stomach.
"—so we should have asked," Emma cuts across him. "What were we thinking? She's going to flip."
"She's going to take one look at you and say hell yes," he counters, voice stern just like his other mother.
"She's going to see me and wish me serious bodily harm. How did I not—? Fuck. All her life, people have forced her into things — into romance, or whatever — that she doesn't want. And I can't become one of them."
Her son is silent, thoughtful.
She's distressed, unbreathing.
"Well, why don't you just ask her when you get there? Tell her 'no pressure' or whatever," he suggests. "But you're not allowed to call it 'just friends.' You said you'd give her a proper date, and anything else is cheating."
Just ask her. He makes it sound so easy.
The nausea is back. It chews at her when she's not looking.
"I'm not sure—"
"Just ask her, Ma. What's the worst that can happen?" He persists, her brave and foolhardy son.
With Regina? Certain death, or permanent estrangement. Neither particularly high on her list of wishes for the New Year.
Still, they've gone to quite a lot of effort. And Regina does deserve to be taken on a proper date. Emma's certainty of that fact hasn't left her since they first broached the topic at dinner two weeks ago.
And Regina can say no.
That's as much a nightmare as it is a relief.
Emma exhales slowly, and relents to her son.
He hears her surrender, pulls her into a hug that she wishes would go on forever. But he pulls away after a fraction of a moment, and she knows it's time to face the music.
"If I get fireballed, you're gonna have to live with Gram and Gramps, you know that kid?" She attempts to distract herself with humour again.
"Not gonna happen," he jokes confidently, smiling again as Emma steels herself.
"Wanna bet?" She returns.
"Mom's definitely gonna fireball you if she hears you've been encouraging me to gamble again," he warns.
"Spoil sport," she grumbles, but she cannot argue with the truth in his words.
Her attempt at levity works well enough that her feet make their way to the sidewalk outside her front door within the next fifteen minutes, after a hug and a wish for luck, and a long rambling list of Hope-related concerns.
~.~
It's mild out, which is unusual for this time of year. The holiday season is well and truly behind them and yet there's no sign of a thaw on the horizon yet. The late January sun has long since retired beneath the horizon, so Emma's breath dances in the air in front of her with a persistent flicker, under the glow of the street lights. She's wrapped up warm, but classy. Her leather jacket is stowed and replaced with a stylish black peacoat, one that Regina had gifted her a few years back now. She has a bright red umbrella, just in case. But Emma's banking on the one weekend of dry forecast staying true to its word.
She arrives at Regina's in a hire car, which is Stage One of the plan, because Regina Mills has made it clear on several occasions that she will not enter Emma's yellow Bug outside of an emergency or an absence of her own free will. Add to that Emma's first stipulation — that the date must take them out of town, where Regina can enjoy herself without worrying about who can see them together — and a hire care had fast become essential.
Perhaps she deliberates for longer than is healthy on Regina's doorstep, building her courage. She curses herself for not having brought gloves when her numb fingers finally wrap around the cool brass door knocker and rap four times, in the specific rhythm she saves for Regina alone.
"Emma," Regina recognises the unconventional greeting instantly. "You didn't need to pop rou—" Regina's voice falters as she takes in the view.
Heat spills from behind her and into the darkness of the early evening, and Emma feels the weight of the warm waves pushing against her legs, rendering them weak. In fairness, it's probably not Regina's central heating at fault here. Because Regina — Regina — she. Well…
She's dressed for a night in. Alone. And that means nicer pyjamas than Emma has ever owned. It means no makeup in a manner that renders her features impossibly soft. It means soft curls pulled back into a messy bun that leave a perfect halo of flyaways around her face. And it means more of Regina's skin on show than she ever reveals in company.
All of it leaves Emma at a loss for words as overpowering as the sudden presence of feeling. She's not strong enough to stop her eyes from lingering all over.
"I — um," Emma stutters. Her tongue feels dry in her mouth. Regina appears similarly affected, eyes catching on Emma's figure against the darkness as Emma tries to find her voice.
It's saying something that Emma is the one to recover first. She thanks all the effort she had put into dressing up, and her last minute decision to wear the coat open, both of which have clearly had some kind of an effect on her counterpart, if her continued silence is anything to go by.
"I'm sorry to interrupt your night in to yourself," Emma says once she recovers. She winces at her opener being wasted on an apology. She's supposed to be smooth, goddamnit.
Regina's face morphs into confusion at that.
"Not at all," Regina replies. Emma watches her whole body morph into a polite wall of refinement. It shouts of her earlier unrefinement, which makes Emma feel fantastic. "Can I—? Would you like to come in from the cold?"
Emma takes a deep breath and nods gently. She steps past Regina and into the foyer, trying to avoid touching her unintentionally, as she has long since trained herself to do.
"Were you on your way out somewhere?" Regina asks in an even tone. Almost. Emma can hear the slight waver, the slight pinch at the sides of her mouth.
So something about that makes Regina uncomfortable, then. Curious.
"Actually, no. This — um — you were where I was headed, actually," Emma says quickly. Drawing this out will only make things more uncomfortable for the both of them.
Regina's charade drops in favour of surprise, and Emma steels herself.
"To — um —"
It should be illegal to be this nervous. Emma's palms are slick with it, and she has to bite the inside of her lip to force the words out. It feels like a leaden weight hangs over the outcome of this conversation. An entire friendship in the balance, a future up for bargain. It renders her uncharacteristically shy.
"Would you like to go on a date — tonight — with me?" She squeaks, her voice carrying through the octave with the weight of the moment squeezing on her throat.
Regina blinks. Swallows. Takes a step towards Emma as if to make sure she is for real.
"A what?"
Great.
"A date," Emma responds quickly.
Regina scowls.
"Are you out of your mind?"
Even greater.
"You know, where two consenting adults decide to spend an evening alone together. For romantic reasons," Emma explains it to her in no uncertain terms.
"I know what a Date is, Emma. I'm not five," Regina shrugs her off.
"Yes, well—" Emma drags out, filling the silence.
Regina looks at her as if she's grown an extra head, and it stings more than a little.
"Youdon'thavetogooutwithmeifyoudon'twantto," Emma rushes to assure her, trying to offer a rejection first, so that Regina's refusal bites less forcefully when it settles between them.
This is a Bad Idea. She can't believe she let Henry talk her into it.
Regina's stony silence pierces the nervous band around Emma's throat and all of a sudden she is babbling in an attempt to continue to soften the eventual rejection.
"It's stupid. We — I — I just thought that, since you'd never been on one before… And then we're both free tonight because my parents cancelled Family Dinner. So I thought that maybe — but nevermind. We don't—"
"Emma."
Regina's interruption is firm. It's the tone she uses with Henry when he's in trouble.
Emma swallows and waits for her sentence.
"That is absurd. You don't need to organise a pity date for me," she says sadly, like she believes that is exactly what is going on here.
And sure, that's what she had tried and failed to convince Henry of. But Emma's not here out of pity.
"It's not—"
"Emma, I know you're trying to be kind. But me and my pyjamas had a delightful date with a bottle of Pinot Noir, a rather large and delicious bowl of freshly popped popcorn and the deluxe edition of A New Hope with the director's commentary. So I do not need your pity, nor your date, thank you very much."
Emma's heart clenches at that image, of Regina drinking alone on her oversized couch instead of with her family, where she belongs. Sharing Henry is definitely better than fighting over him, but it still has its drawbacks with them living at different addresses.
She wills herself not to dwell on one easy solution to that.
Still, the image of Regina's night in spent wearing her current get up causes a wave of heat to settle just south of Emma's stomach. Because Regina's idea of pyjamas involves quite a lot less — though doubtless much more expensive — fabric than Emma's. She's been wearing the sensual excuse for nightwear the whole time, and Emma's convinced it's at least half of the reason why her brain and her words have been so all over the place.
"But—"
"Please, don't pull yourself away from your children, Em-ma. I'm perfectly happy on my own," Regina doubles down. Whether she's trying to convince Emma or herself, Emma's not sure. But even the slightest chance of it being the latter is enough for Emma to push back.
"It's not a pity date, Regina. You can say no. I won't force you. But believe me I'm here 'cause I want to be, because I like being around you, and not out of some weird kind of Saviour complex or something." They both chuckle at her light teasing. It bolsters Emma's confidence, and she carries on. "So if you're game, I'll give you the best first date of your life," she promises. It's a tightrope balanced between sincerity and levity, and Emma watches the effect of her words melting into a tentative smile on Regina's face.
"The best I've ever had?" Regina counters with a light chuckle. It dissolves on the air between them as she licks her lips.
Emma is not strong enough for this.
She nods, not trusting her voice.
"I suppose I could get on board with the idea, if you're sure you want to," Regina finally accepts slowly, as though afraid that Emma will bolt if she is too enthusiastic.
The weakness is replaced with shock, as Emma feels her whole body warming at the implication.
She is going on a date. With Regina Mills.
There's no time to allow the shock to render her foolish though, not when Operation Premiere is getting the greenlight. Not when Regina has agreed to spend an entire evening alone with her. And not when Emma has spent weeks planning the evening in question.
Failure is not an option, not with Regina Mills' first First Date in the balance. Emma turns up the charm, dusts off her flirting game from the back of the closet, and squares her shoulders for the task at hand. It may all be a pretense, with no chance of it being returned outside of the game of the evening, but Emma will make sure that Regina gets the full Princess Queen Treatment, if it's the last thing she does.
"Ok then," she agrees. "Game. On."
Emma takes a breath, and hits the accelerator, shucking all her trepidation in order to set the tone for the evening.
"In that case—" Emma steps forwards, floods Regina's personal space with her perfume. "—As much as I love these—" she runs the silk fabric at the waist of Regina's pyjama top between her thumb and forefinger to make sure Regina is following. Regina tenses and looks her directly in the eye, lips parted just a tad. "—and I do—"
Regina gasps into the gap that Emma leaves for her to dwell on that. It's true, of course. Not that Regina needs to know that. But Emma's hands long to trace the waterfall lines of Regina's matching set — and beyond, below — more than she has wanted anything for a very long time.
She snaps herself out of it by forcing her gaze past the outline of Regina's nipples against the thin fabric and up towards her eyes.
They're on fire, which doesn't help as much as Emma was hoping they would. Regina's molten gaze spills across Emma's own cleavage, and perhaps there is something there that Emma hadn't allowed herself to hope for before. Or maybe Regina's just playing the same game as Emma is, trying to make this all that she had hoped her First Date would be.
"The evening I have planned for you requires us leaving the house," Emma returns to her proposal at long last. There's a collective sigh of relief — or disappointment? — and Regina smiles. It's a wicked thing that contorts her face into a mask of danger.
Emma raises an eyebrow, unsure if she wants her silent question answered or not.
"You planned an actual date?" Regina asks, dumbfounded.
Like Emma has ever half-assed anything when it comes to Regina Mills. Even hating her had taken over her whole life, for a time.
"I am taking your First Date very seriously, Regina," Emma replies in a show of indignance. The Emma who had suggestively fingered Regina's pyjama shorts drops for a minute, and Regina smiles softly to see the real thing back again. But when Emma had said "Game On" with her whole chest, it had clearly ignited Regina's competitiveness, because she slips back into her own Date Night persona almost immediately.
"Our first date," she corrects firmly, biting her lip just so.
Jesus Christ. Emma's stomach flip-flops at that. And Regina's always been a stickler for proper grammar, so it could just be that. But something about her tone screams that it's important to her too — maybe even special.
“Right, right. You’re right. Of course. Our first date is gonna be perfect," Emma promises in return.
As if that isn't enough, Regina lets go of her lips again and chases the rim with her pink tongue. Of course, Emma does an excellent job at acting like she's entranced by the motion. Like any good date would.
"And am I meant to agree to the whole thing without knowing what you have planned?" Regina asks, guarded all of a sudden.
Emma falters just a fraction at Regina’s hesitation.
"I was kinda hoping so, yeah," Emma replies, insecurity rising in her stomach like acid. She swallows it down. This is Regina. She can trust Regina. Of course, whether Regina can trust her is yet to be ascertained, but Emma doesn’t allow herself to take away the chance that Regina might want give it to her. "Like — ah — I think you'll like it. It's planned with you in mind. But y'know, it's more romantic if it's all a surprise…"
Regina laughs a slow and satisfied laugh at that. It settles somewhere in Emma's midsection, and she has to make a conscious effort to attend to whatever Regina says next.
"So, what? You're just going to pretend to be madly in love with me the entire time, then?"
And well—
There's an idea. Try it out for size under the guise of pretense.
It's not a terrible plan, even by Emma's standards.
On Regina's part, there's insecurity hiding in plain sight. Emma's sure of it. Regina's voice, usually so strong and clear, flutters around the syllables. Her face is pinched. Emma longs to smooth out the concern-shaped crumples more than anything.
"It wouldn't be much of a date if I didn't fancy you, now would it?" Emma replies after some consideration, trying to toe the line without revealing too much. But Emma had promised Henry she wouldn’t lie – wouldn’t friendzone herself tonight. So she ultimately leaves it to Regina to decide whether she wants to treat Emma’s real admiration as make-believe or to see it for what it is.
"Ok," Regina hums, leaving Emma burning for clarity in the smoke of her desire. She's quiet for a moment, reflective. "I can certainly think of worse ways to spend an evening—"
"Regina—" Emma interrupts, convinced she's going to admit the inevitable, both to herself and to Regina. But her voice trails off as she takes in the expectant gaze across from her.
"Yes, dear?" Comes the soft response.
Emma freezes, jaw softening at the nickname despite her best efforts to appear unaffected.
Regina chuckles, and Emma can't work out why.
"I suppose I best go and make myself presentable. I'll try to be quick," Regina continues, without waiting for Emma to sift through her brain for what she had wanted to say. Gentle laughter lingers in the thrum of her voice as she waves a hand towards the kitchen, and migrates to the bottom of the stairs with more sway in her step than usual.
Something inside Emma rebels at the idea of Regina putting more clothes on, despite having been the catalyst for such a thing. But she remains silent. She owes it to both herself and Henry to allow this date to pan out as they had planned.
"I'll just—"
"I won't be long. Help yourself to a drink, if you'd like," Regina repeats herself, smiling.
"Um, great," Emma says.
Smooth.
But still. Regina said yes. To a date. With her. Emma's whole body feels as though it's vibrating at that. She gets herself a glass of water to douse her suddenly dry throat, anticipating Regina's first attempt at Date Night attire even as she tries to tell herself she's not looking forward to exactly that.
~.~
Whatever anticipation Emma had or had not felt is rendered completely insignificant by the whole-body want that courses through her when Regina finally emerges into Emma's temporary refuge. She's glad she's seated on plush cushions, able to hide the way her hands tremble. Regina smiles as she crosses the threshold, smiles at Emma. And like a fucking sucker, Emma grins back. With the excuse of the First Date Charade, she can finally stop pretending she doesn't want to drink Regina in. The irony is not lost on her, much as her words are. They dissipate halfway between herself and the vision in the doorway.
"Wow," Emma exhales, breathing it all in.
Regina is stunning, impossibly so. Every part of her screams of how she's Made An Effort, and Emma's chest feels tight at the idea that it's all for her.
And just like that, going back to yesterday's feigned distance is not an option.
She can't deny that the attraction — the love — is there when she's rethinking everything she has planned for their multi-stage date as a fresh shower of desire rains gooseflesh over her skin and has her longing to stay right where she is. Right where they are.
"—uh, you look… gor—great," Emma chokes. "I love that dress on you."
Regina blushes. Looks at the floor.
It's true, the dress is worn like a second skin, somehow tighter than even Emma's and such a rich black colour that it makes Regina herself appear in technicolour. It's low cut, because apparently the Gods she doesn't believe in want to test her. And she's been sparse with her make-up, just a gentle accentuation of the features that Emma has loved for so long.
Her gaze takes its time returning to Emma's, and when it does Emma is even more confused than before. Because Regina looks as though she's melting at Emma's words. Like it matters that Emma's the one who said them.
"Thank you, Em-ma," Regina offers in response. Emma can't make out her tone. It sounds like warmth, like the rush of a match as it strikes against coarse sandpaper – as though Regina’s voice is designed to raze Emma to the ground. Emma’s not even sure that she would mind, if the truth be told.
As much as she wants to spend the whole evening here, alone with Regina, Emma's pragmatic side wins out.
"We should leave soon, if we're gonna make it to our reservation on time," she suggests, trying to pretend she's not nervous.
Regina just raises her eyebrows in a gesture of mild astonishment at Emma's presumption to have booked something. Emma reminds herself that Regina had thought her suggestion had been a pity date. And whilst she’d happily take the pressure off with such false assumptions, perhaps this evening will reassure Regina that pity had been the farthest thing from Emma’s mind when she had planned this.
"Yeah, yeah," Emma demurs. "You can save your judgement for later. Of course I booked something. You only have your first First Date once."
"I'm not—" Regina begins, then seems to catch herself. She breathes out slowly. "Thank you for doing this for me," she softens.
And as they walk to the car, Emma feels overwhelmingly glad that she is the one getting to do this. For Regina Mills.
~.~