Chapter Text
CHAPTER 1
Emma Swan was running late as she pulled into the drive on Mifflin Street. And to say Regina was not going to be happy about it would be an understatement. Not that this was really Emma’s fault. It was the stupid fucking snow’s fault. Actually, no. It was Maine’s fault. Stupid Maine and its stupid early-November snowstorms.
So really, if you thought about it, made the whole thing actually Regina’s fault, being the one that cursed them all to Stupid Maine. Rationally, she had no grounds to be angry at Emma’s tardiness.
Which was an argument Emma knew she best abandon now as it wasn’t going to stand.
Instead, she huffed, declaring to no one but the inside of the cruiser, “I officially hate snow.” She snorted, glad her mother wasn’t around. Though maybe if she used that as her opening argument with Regina, she might get a few brownie points.
The first storm of the year had ground the tiny town of Storybrooke to a halt. There had been pandemonium between the town-wide power outage, Mary Margaret’’s new mayoral cabinet being unprepared, and the unbelievable amount of property damage caused by reckless fairytale characters. (“ I don’t care how many royal sleigh’s you drove - A Chevy suburban and a horse-drawn carriage are not the same, no matter how much horsepower the ad claims. No, it's not the same thing. Yes, of course, you still need a license to drive one!”) Emma hadn’t managed to catch a break and now here she was, heaving a sigh that crystallized instantly in the frigid darkness and bracing herself for the last, and inevitably most harrowing, part of her day.
It wasn’t off to a great start either. After almost falling over trying to retrieve her leg from the particularly deep drift that blocked the front door of the mansion, Emma had to make her way around to the back. The porch light wasn’t on, not that Emma really expected it to be at two in the morning, but it made things difficult with only the eerie white glow of snow and moonlight to guide her. Unkempt hedges and overgrown flower beds had grown wild and were a deathtrap when masked in a blanket of glittering white that all looked the same in the dark. She fared little better after finally making it in the house, using her keys to be as quiet as possible as it was late and the occupant of the house was likely asleep. Courtesy that was for naught, apparently, as Emma immediately tripped over a stack of cardboard boxes in the hall. She squinted. It was darker inside as it was out, pitch black without the bright darkness of winter nights, but surprisingly warm, embers of a wood fire still popped and crackled in the enormous fireplace in the living room. A pile of blankets on the sofa was empty. There was a clatter from the direction of the kitchen and the flicker of the telltale low glow of candlelight. As the house had no other current residents, Emma knew that it had to be Regina. Relieved that she was awake and Emma wasn’t going to have to wake an angry Evil Queen, she headed to the kitchen, turned the corner and - stopped.
Her jaw dropped, brain short-circuting. She had to rub her eyes to check because surely she was seeing things. Surely the well-put-together, ex-Mayor of Storybrooke wasn’t - but she opened her eyes again and she was still there.
Emma knew she should cover her face or look away or at least try something to mask the fact that she had just walked in on Regina Mills, the Evil Queen she reminded herself with a cringe, cooking in nothing but her underwear.
If very thin lacy panties still counted as underwear and not just decoration.
But she'd lost the capacity to do anything other than stand there and gape. She’d have to blame it on the candlelight. The way it flickered off golden-bronze skin and made her dark eyes seem infinite and warm, the way it cast her curves in muted shadows and highlighted the shape of her legs. The candlelight was why she couldn’t look away. No, it was the shock, not the candlelight. She was so shocked she couldn’t blink. If she was going to be that brutally honest with herself, she would have to admit had spent the better part of the last year trying to see down the woman’s shirts, past the straining top button, or following her royal behind as it strutted angrily away after one of their many arguments. She had eyes - so sue her. And now it was all, quite literally, bared before her.
Perhaps this was her bad day finally paying off. She certainly wasn’t feeling the bone-deep cold anymore. Heat began to rise from somewhere below her stomach, inching up her neck. Emma pulled at the collar of her sweater, suddenly very thirsty. Ignorant of the savior’s presence, Regina was humming, kneading at a dough on the counter. The movement caused the muscles in her arms and across her chest to flex. The muscles in Emma’s chest did a funny spasm of their own.
And shit, this was bad. Glorious. And surpassing all the expectations Emma tried to ignore that she even had. But bad. A disaster really. Because Regina was going to be more than just angry. she was going to be furious. A disaster because when Regina stopped kneading her arms fell to her sides, no longer blocking her torso from view. A disaster because Emma had no control over the strangled noise that made its way out the back of her throat.
The ex-Mayor startled, jumping in alarm with a "Shit." She swore, eyes wide then furious as she dropped behind the island to save her dignity. “Emma!?”
“Fuck. Shit. Sorry, I’m sorry - “ Emma slowly began to regain control of her body, went to turn out the room, but her over-boggled brain had her running headfirst into the door of an open cupboard. “Ouch!”
“What the hell are you doing?!” Regina spat fire, though it lost much of its intimidation to the flour in her hair and the fact she was crouched to use the island of her kitchen as a sheild. She glared daggers as if following Emma's thought process.
“Sorry! I’m sorry!” Emma howled, rubbing furiously at the rising lump on her forehead, “You scared me!”
“Well I’ll do my best to not take that as an insult,” Regina drawled sarcastically, frowning as she rested her chin on the counter.
“No, no, no. Shit, sorry, that’s not what I meant. Shocked, not scared.” Emma backtracked in her blabbering and backtracked quite literally backing into the same cupboard door. “Ouch! Again!? This is crap. I mean, not you. You have a very - ahem - I mean there’s nothing,” She cleared her throat, delivering the eloquent compliment of the century: “You are very not crap.“
Emma could have taken off that cupboard door and hit herself with it.
“Flattering,” Regina deadpanned.
“No. What I was trying to say is you’re not scary or shocking. You’re gorgeous," Emma furrowed her brow, "Wait, what?”
“ Miss Swan - “
“Not that I was looking - I mean, not that anyone wouldn’t want to look. I was. Shit. I mean I was looking but - uh - respectfully?“ Emma coughed. Her mouth was still as dry as the desert and cheeks were burning up. She was almost afraid she might short circuit and ignite, the plastic melting off the wires in her brain, squawking out a pathetic, “I’m not really sure what to do. ”
“I see the Charming gene skipped a generation,” Regina rolled her eyes. “You could at least have the decency to hand me my robe.”
“Right.” Emma cleared her throat about six times as she handed Regina the silky grey bathrobe that was hanging on the back of the kitchen door with the aprons, averting her eyes and hiding as much of her face in her turtleneck as she could.
“Oh, for the love of God, stop fidgeting and sit down.” Emma did, feeling as if she was a child in trouble. Which was appropriate, because once she had settled on the barstool, Regina leaned on the counter, only margianlly more covered than before, staring her down. “Miss Swan," and uh-oh Emma knew that tone, "Just because I’m under house arrest does not mean you can waltz in, unannounced, anytime you wish.”
Emma scratched at the back of her neck awkwardly. “Uh - Actually that’s exactly what it means. It’s still my job to make sure you’re not terrorizing helpless peasants or something. Look, I’m really sorry I missed the usual time, this blizzard has set the town in a flurry - no pun intended. But I still have to show up every day, and the whole pre-arranged time period thing is kind of a courtesy.”
“A courtesy? I see. So I’m to once again accept that I have no privacy?” Regina hissed. “Of course. Your family does have a history of keeping me locked up and so readily at their disposal. Why not follow in your mother’s footsteps and keep to tradition?”
“Oh. No. This isn’t - that. Whatever that was. Regina, ” Emma was practically pleading now, embarrassment and discomfort setting in thick and fast. Discomfort that had little to do with the sweat under the neck of her jumper that was now cool and itchy as the wool stuck to her skin. “You know this is just routine. It’s part of the deal that kept you out of prison. I have to do this check-in every day, you know that. And I thought you’d rather it be me filling in the form that keeps you out of a jail cell, than any of the other town officials.”
Which was perhaps a bit presumptuous. But they’d managed a rickety, miraculous truce since Emma had climbed out of the well from the Enchanted Forest, one that the rest of Storybrooke agreed Regina wasn't worthy of. Maybe even before that, Emma thought hopefully, remembering the way Regina had looked at her when she had defended her from the wraith.
Regina glowered with begrudging acceptance. “You were late.”
“Yeah, I knew you wouldn’t be happy about that, but in my defence, it was snowing and I didn’t realize I would be quite so ...intrusive. Wait - is this what you do when I leave? Cooking - you know - naked?”
Looking more and more amused and less irritated with Emma's discomfort, Regina smirked, opening her eyes wide and said in her most contrived voice, “Oh, I'm terribly sorry sheriff. Am I not allowed to do that, either?”
“Well, I guess you are.” Emma faltered, suddenly very interested in the light above the island and trying her best not to imagine Regina naked. This was actually something she had gotten pretty good at since arriving in Storybrooke, right up to the point of actually seeing it, and now she was officially a lost cause. Regina's put-on pout fell away to its usual grimace.
“Pasta flour,” Regina mumbled after an agonizingly uncomfortable pause.
“Huh?”
“Pasta flour," Regina gestured to the counter, "It's very finely ground and an absolute nightmare to get out of silk. I like this robe.”
“You’re making pasta?” Emma couldn’t help but be impressed, finally taking in the silver pasta machine and the drying racks that were laden with fresh pappardelle. “From scratch?”
“Of course,” Regina shrugged as if that was something everyone had the time and talent to do. Emma had a fleeting vision of all those go-getter mom's who posted videos on instagram of making healthy pasta for their kids and snorted.
“Never would have thought the Evil Queen was some kind of domestic goddess.” The words were out of Emma’s mouth before she could stop them. Regina gave her a murderous look as she pulled out a large chopping knife. Emma gulped. “What - uh - what are you gonna do with that?”
“Off the top of my head, I can think of a few ideas,” Regina threatened menacingly, but simply grabbed an onion and began to slice with speed and precision.
“So - uh - not that I’m not impressed with this whole operation, but why are you making dinner at two in the morning?”
Regina sighed, “My electricity hasn’t been switched on. And I'm still waiting on a grocery delivery from last week - no, two weeks ago. Hoped it would come today but..." She trailed off, letting her expression harden over something that would have struck Emma as being ver sad if she'd had enough time to look at it. "I had a few cans of tomatoes left and the pasta flour was in the cellar so, here we are. Not a lot of options.”
Emma remembered the dark hallway, took in the candles that littered the kitchen, the open box of matches by the gas stove, the layer of dust on the tinned tomatoes. “I don’t understand. Leroy switched the whole town back on. Like six hours ago. He wouldn’t - ”
“Conveniently forget to switch on the house where the Evil Queen is being kept? Is that such a stretch of the imagination?” Emma opened her mouth but no words came out. Regina tilted her head knowingly, going to the stove and lighting another burner with a match. “The grocery issue probably comes from a similar place. Still, I suppose it’s better than public execution.” She picked a bit of rot out of the onion and grimaced, “Though perhaps not by much.”
Emma chewed the inside of her mouth at a loss of what to do. It’s true, the town had not adjusted well to Regina. Expecting resentment, Regina was remarkably calm about the whole situation. In fact, she was more subdued than not these days, and Emma couldn’t help but wonder if the House Arrest was still necessary. But the town’s people had been out for blood and with only an eleven-year-old boy and a very confused savior standing in their way, even Emma had to admit, Regina had got off relatively scot-free. Still, it made her uncomfortable to see the once intimidating Mayor so defeated.
“I’ll fix it,” Emma pledged. Regina’s head snapped up away from the sauce, that same weirdly venerational surprise was written across her face that she’d worn in the jail cell of the Sheriff’s station after Emma had proclaimed, "She’s not dying." It made her stomach flutter just the same as it had then, filling her with bolstering confidence. It was the first time she had really felt like anyone's savior. And now, here in Regina's kitchen, was the second. “I mean it. I’ll go down to the plant as soon as I’ve finished here, even if Grumpy won't help I’m sure I can figure it out. And I know who's meant to be filling your food order. I’ll have a word.”
Regina swallowed, and if the light wasn’t so low and sent flickering shadows across Regina’s face, Emma would have sworn that it was almost a smile. “Thank you.”
“And if I can’t talk sense into them, I’ll get your groceries myself. Just write me a list.” Maybe that was a step too far. Where was that cupboard door when she needed it?
Regina's eye's flashed with something playful. “You’ll do no such thing.”
“Watch me, Mills.” Emma tingled with excitement at goading her. She had missed her verbal sparring with the Mayor and was hoping that maybe she might spark a bit of the woman’s former self into being. But she was to be disappointed.
Regina sounded as resigned in her obedience as always, small scraps of remaining pride dictating she stand over the caramelizing onions and garlic and not spare Emma a glance through the whole process. “Well, let's get on with the report, then. I won't keep you.”
Emma got out her daily report and began to fill it in. Their daily script of “Where have you been?”/”Nowhere.”/”What did you do?”/”Nothing”/“Did you speak to anyone?”/”No.” The questions were going slower than usual. Partially because the smell of the homemade tomato sauce, which, Emma could tell from the scent alone, had the perfect balance of chilli and lemon - and that olive oil Regina wrangled from her basement must have been expensive. It also didn’t help that Emma couldn’t keep her eyes from drifting back to the hem of Regina’s robe.
“Are you listening to me, Sheriff?”
“Uhhhhhhhh...no?” Emma dragged her gaze from where she was definitely not staring like a mindless idiot at the backs of Regina’s legs, up to her face. Which, to her horror, had finally looked away from the stove and was giving a twisted glare of reprimand and maybe a bit of amusement. “What did I just ask?”
“How pleased the citizens of my town must be to know their hard-earned tax dollars are being rightfully budgeted on paying the Sheriff to stare at my ass." Emma went red. "Tell me, how much was your pay raise when your mother took over my office?”
“I - I wasn’t staring at your ass," Emma spluttered, "It was your legs.” And exactly how that was supposed to help her case, she had no idea. “Oh, actually about that... My mom is having issues with the budget again. Your advice helped so much last time - it’s clear to anyone with eyes that she has no idea how to be Mayor but she’s too proud to ask you herself.”
Advice may have been a stretch. Snow had been in the middle of a meltdown in the sheriff's office and Regina had barked begrudging information between insults and scathing looks from through the bars of a jail cell. Still, it fixed the problem and Snow had been more humble about her mayoral capacity since. “She can send me the paperwork to look over. Heaven knows I have nothing else to do. Provided I’m not killed in my sleep first.”
“Killed in your sleep?” Emma blinked, confused.
“I was trying to tell you," Regina rolled her eyes, "There was definitely someone lurking outside my house today.”
Emma frowned, chewing on the end of her pen. It wouldn't be the first time someone had stood outside to gloat at the captured Queen, but it had been a while since the last incident, resentment taking a back seat to everyday life. “Did you see who it was? Was it those teenagers again?”
“No.” Regina looked dubious, almost frightened, though that was likely a result of having spent months cooped up. “I know when I’m being watched. And whoever it was, they were there for a good few hours. So you can go ahead and write that on your little Regina form.”
“Were you cooking in your underwear then, too? Because that does attract attention.”
“Careful, Miss Swan. I still have a knife.”
She wrote it in the box anyway. Just as she finished filling the heavy uncomfortable silence with the scratching of ballpoint on paper, a bowl was slammed down in front of her with a clatter and a grimace from Regina. “What’s this?“
“Pasta. You’re practically drooling.” Which was true. Whether the drooling was because of the food or the fact that Regina’s naked form was now permanently seared into her poor defenceless memory, the world would never know. “Don’t the Charming’s ever feed you?“
“You made me some?” Emma asked in disbelief, watching with ravenous eyes as Regina angrily grated the last of her parmesan over the top of Emma's bowl.
“No. I simply made too much,” Regina spat, slamming the grater down and all but throwing a set of cutlery at the savior.
“Hey! Didn’t your parents ever tell you not to throw knives?”
Regina glowered. “You had the pleasure of meeting my mother. What do you think?”
Ah, right. Cora. Emma had almost forgotten the domineering cruel woman who had treated Regina like a weapon to be wielded, like a means to an end. Remembered the hand in her chest before Cora was thrown backwards. How fervently Regina had insisted that it was a good thing they had left the woman in the Enchanted Forest with no way to get to Storybrooke and, despite their disagreements, Emma was inclined to agree. She hadn’t forgotten how Mary Margaret had let slip that Cora had killed Regina’s True Love. Hadn't forgotten, "Your mom - she's... She's a piece of work, you know?"/"Indeed, I do." Having good enough sense to recognize it was likely a touchy subject, she hadn’t brought it up since they’d returned from the Enchanted Forest. But it was insight enough into the Evil Queen that had Emma wondering...
And with that curiosity, Emma suddenly remembered exactly who she was dealing with. Sadly she looked down at her bowl, wisps of steam tantalized her nose and her mouth watered. “Please tell me this isn’t … you know. Poisoned. Or cursed.”
“How would I do that? These wards your mother had the fairies put on me stop me from being able to use my magic. And it’s not as if I leave arsenic lying around the house.” Emma raised an eyebrow in disbelief, not unconvinced that arsenic isn’t exactly the type of thing Regina would leave lying around. The brunette grinned devilishly as if she could read her mind, sweeping a hand to the glass bowl at the last autumnal offerings from her tree. “Apple?”
“You’re not funny.”
Regina rolled her eyes with an exasperated, “Oh, for goodness sake.” She reached across the island to steal a bite from Emma’s plate. She chewed and swallowed, eyes fixed with vexation on Emma. “Happy now?”
“Thrilled, because this smells amazing.” And it was. Perfectly chewy fresh pasta and a sauce that was so flavourful and fresh, she never would have been able to guess that it was thrown together with the scraps of Regina’s depleted larder. Mortified, Emma gazed into the bottom of her bowl, nothing left but a few scraped stains of tomato. She looked up to meet Regina’s eyes, still guarded though pleased. “Uh - sorry. It was really, really good, and I haven’t had time to eat a lot.”
Almost as if she was going to ask, Regina raised her eyebrows, opened her mouth. But stopped herself, instead gesturing to the stove. “There’s more. Help yourself.”
“Regina, there’s loads here! Exactly how many people were you expecting to entertain in your underwear?” Emma gawked in disbelief at the small mountain of pasta still left to cool and wilt in the pot. She turned to look at the once Mayor, once Queen, sitting alone at her counter in her pyjamas picking listlessly at her small bowl of food. Her heart did a funny twist in her chest.
“Nobody,” Regina glowered, dropping her fork with a disappointed clang. “I can’t get my portion sizes right. I’m not used to cooking for one anymore.” It must have slipped out against her will, along with the sniffle that followed.
“Regina - “
"No matter.” Regina straightened in her seat, stuck her chin in the air and dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her robe.
“He must have eaten well. Henry I mean,” Emma amended at Regina’s look of confusion. “Would explain why he’s not interested in Mary Margaret’s food. I’m not sure she even knows pasta comes in anything other than dried.”
“I suppose it’ll have to be the small victories from now on.” It was sarcastic, but Regina did look a little cheered. Emma counted that as a small victory of her own.
“I bet he's never had a bad meal in his life. And as someone who has had loads, well -" Emma looked at the low lit kitchen, at the pictures of Henry that littered the walls, the two stools at the breakfast bar, drawings and homework that were stuck to the fridge, and Regina sat amongst it all, alone. "This is pretty close to what I imagined him having. I couldn’t sleep in prison, I was so afraid that he’d end up in the system like I did. And to get myself to sleep, I’d imagine a big house with a backyard and lots of trees and a Mother who loved him so much she’d make him anything.”
Swallowing, Regina looked away, hiding her face as she said, “The same mother who is now under a lifetime arrest? Is that what you imagined?”
“I was in prison too, remember. I know what it's like to be locked up. It’s hell enough without all this,” Emma said, looking at the dark light bulbs and empty cabinets and the reminders of the son she'd lost. “I’ll fix it.”
Emma’s vows echoed through the too big, too empty mansion, stirring the dust and pouting into its darkest corners. It was the only time Regina smiled at her the whole night, through wet eyes. Even when Emma waved goodnight with renewed promises to fix her electricity and get her requested groceries delivered.
But Regina did smile again the next night when Emma arrived for her scheduled check-in. Maybe because Emma had shown up a little early to shovel the impossible drift from her porch. Regina had opened the door with surprise, the lights in the foyer finally back on and bright behind her, food stacked high in her kitchen. She took in the cleared snow, Emma’s cold pink cheeks and nose, before stepping aside with a smile and an invitation.
“Dinner, Miss Swan?”