Work Text:
“I’d really prefer not to talk about work tonight,” Emma says as she breezes through the kitchen door from the front foyer.
One breath. Regina puts down the spatula. Two breaths. She turns from the stove. “It’s Thursday.” This is a question.
Emma looks at her. Raises herself up and flops back onto the high island chair in that ungainly way she has: feet together, knees apart, upper body liquid relaxed. Arms behind her head, and neck lolling dangerously as though she’s determined to count the nonexistent glow in the dark stars on Regina’s kitchen ceiling before the quiche has finished baking. “I’d really prefer that we didn’t talk about work tonight,” she repeats.
Three breaths. Regina turns back to the stove. “Alright then.” There is a council meeting tomorrow morning at ten am sharp. Emma will be unprepared. “Alright.”
“Where’s Henry?”
“Didn’t he let you in?
A pause. “I rang the doorbell.”
Regina frowns. She didn’t hear it.
“So I let myself in.”
Strange. The key is a newer development. The fact that Emma has used it to let herself in unapologetically is newer still. Regina thinks maybe she should feel a bit unsafe, knowing someone else has an easy way into her home, the home she shares with her son. Instead her face is warm, maybe from the steam rising off the broccoli. Maybe. She raises her hands to her neck to slide the apron strings over her hair. She’s still looking at the broccoli, but she feels Emma’s eyes on her, watching. She wonders, if she turns around, if Emma’s face will be flushed. But Emma isn’t standing over steaming broccoli. She doesn’t turn, “I’ll go check on him then.”
“Got it,” Emma says, and she’s out of the chair heading for the front of the house again. Invisible stars forgotten; her body prefers to be in motion.
“Henry?” The room’s dark. Her kid’s got headphones in, is watching something at his desktop.
It’s not porn. Too bad. She’s actually almost excited for the porn conversation. It’s going to be one of the most awkward conversations of her life. And his life. And Regina’s life. But Regina agreed last week [after the just barely a teen was in bed and they were both semi-drunk in the study] that she could take point on that particular conversation. And Emma hadn’t wanted to run for the hills, to disappear. So she’s looking forward to it – a little.
“Hey, Ma.” He sees her in the glowing reflection of the monitor. “Dinner ready?”
“Not yet. School?” She trails one long finger along the top of his bookshelf.
“Fine.” He’s watching her carefully, one eyebrow raised. That’s his Mother’s expression on his young face. She almost points it out. “Work?” He asks.
“Let’s not.”
His alright is silent. “Grandpa?” He asks, much too innocently.
“No.” She can be gruff with her kid. That’s a parental thing to do. Sometimes she is afraid still. “Come set the table.”
He grins. Presses pause. Finally. What a disrespectful little shit. “Sure,” he agrees easily. Her kid. Her good good kind kid. Sometimes she gets over her fear pretty quickly.
When they get downstairs, there’s a stack plates waiting on the counter for him and a hearty glass of wine waiting for her. She’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but when Regina glares at her, one perfect eyebrow raised loftily [god, her kid is so his mother’s child] after her first loud gulp, she knows enough to offer a semi-sorry shrug.
“Long day at the office, dear?” Regina doesn’t quip, or tease.
Emma gulps. Only air this time. And a little bit of desperation, maybe. “We’re not talking about work.” She points at the other woman, looks back into her wineglass.
They don’t after that. They talk about Henry, and kind of weirdly, the history of the Cuban Missile Crisis. Snow’s newest pastel sweater, and whether Archie’s got a secret boyfriend. They eat quiche with their kid [during which time, he does not help to carry the conversation because he’s a teenager, and whatever movie he’s halfway through upstairs is leaving him contemplative. Maybe even surly.].
He’s in his room for the night by the time she realizes the wine Regina’s tipped into her red-coated glass is the last of their second bottle. She considers taking it into the study, but there are still pans soaking in the sink. Instead, she slides down the end of the island counter to rest on the floor, curls both hands around the fragile stemware as though it’s a steaming cup of tea working to clear her sinuses. Alcohol’s good for clarity, right?
Regina doesn’t speak. Sometimes they don’t talk any more; they just kind of exist in the same room. It’s comfortable. If Emma were a little braver, she might shatter the silence just to say that. “This is nice. Being here with you.” She doesn’t though. She’s only sometimes an idiot. But after Regina’s placed the last pan on the drying rack and finished labeling the three Tupperware of leftover food for Emma’s next three shifts, she smoothes her skirt with both hands, drains her wine, and turns to sit gracefully on the floor as well. Her legs are out, her toes just barely grazing Emma’s thigh. They’re sitting perpendicular to one another in Regina’s kitchen on the floor. It’s comfortable.
“Who’d’ve thought,” Emma breaks the silence [she is sometimes an idiot], but she’d rather not think about the run starting in Regina’s black tights on her left ankle, “The Evil Queen and the Savior would ever be knocking back bottles of wine on the floor of the kitchen like old friends.”
“You make us sound like alcoholics,” Regina’s lipstick is almost completely worn away after dinner, but they’re tinged red from the wine. Her head is resting back against the cupboard, but she has yet to blink. “Or is that the start of a joke?” She asks the self-professed Savior.
They both have to work tomorrow. Emma’s kind of drunk. She slides herself around the side of the island and scotches into the corner between Regina and the counter; it’s all very dignified. Now they’re parallel. She hands Regina her still full glass, waits for the other woman to swallow a delicate sip. The heat from her body is soothing. Emma rests her head on Regina’s shoulder and tries not to sigh in relief when the former Queen doesn’t even stiffen. Sometimes they can touch each other like this; sometimes it’s okay. Regina did not deny that they are friends, so tonight, it’s okay.
“Did you ever think about more kids? Like… having more?”
“I cannot carry children to term,” This Regina does say stiffly.
Emma waves a hand lazily in the air in front of them as though this admission is not something she may have guessed, as though this admission does not cause her heart to constrict or her entire body to suddenly feel shame and hurt equal measure. “What about adopting more? After Henry?”
She hears Regina lick her lips. Emma’s being rather stupid tonight, all things considered: close physical contact and prying conversation. Usually she only gets away with one or the other, but Regina’s let her call them friends.
Thursday nights with Emma Swan are apparently the only time when Regina Mills stutters as she speaks. “I – I was afraid.” Pause. “I was terrified [honesty] that I would not even be able to love Henry…adequately.” Emma does not move. “So no. Once he was here. I did not think there would be room for anyone else. Or at least, I did not feel as though anyone was missing.”
She should object to ‘adequately.’ To fears of ‘not enough.’ Instead, “Can you miss someon-thing you’ve never even known?”
“Yes.”
Emma reaches for the wine. Takes a drink. It’s late. She should leave. Her head feels heavy though. She’s grateful for the strength of Regina’s shoulder. “My mother’s pregnant.” This is not a non sequitur.
“Again.” This is not a question.
“Yes. Second time’s supposedly the charm.” She tries to grin.
“It’s third time, dear.”
“Right,” except that’s a sob rising in the back of her throat, so she swallows the last three letters of the word, and tries very hard not to let any of the saltwater stain Regina’s blouse. She should definitely be over this by now. Definitely.
Regina readjusts their position. She lifts an arm, slides it around Emma’s shoulders, tangles her fingers gently in Emma’s blonde curls. She tugs, working through the knots that have accumulated throughout the day. It doesn’t hurt, not like it does when Emma pulls the brush through her hair in the morning, quick and decisive and a little bit ferocious through her own discomfort. It’s quiet for a few minutes, and when she’s ready, when she’s sure her stupid voice won’t break, Emma jokes, “Got any more realm encompassing curses hanging around?”
Regina seems to consider this, her fingers pausing in the midst of a particularly infuriating tangle. “No.” Emma wonders when they started whispering.
“Well! At least my parents make cute kids, huh?” She moves to sit up. This is not what she meant to say.
Regina does not seem to need to consider this. “Yes.” Emma can practically hear her frown. “Thankfully, Snow White and Prince Charming seem to have a knack for producing offspring who avoid all of their parent’s worst habits.”
This is a compliment. So, Emma smiles. Who’d’ve thought, she thinks, that someday the Queen would compliment Snow White’s children, drunk on expensive wine on her kitchen floor on a Thursday. “I’m happy for them,” they’re still whispering. “Really.” She sighs. Her throat is tight, but her body is warm and loose where it is pressed flush against the other woman’s.
“Alright,” Regina agrees easily. Regina never agrees. Never does anything easily. “Alright.”
Henry comes downstairs for a midnight snack at two. He’s got school in the morning, but you don’t half-ass a Lord of the Rings marathon. He smirks. Opens the fridge door wide enough so that it bumps Emma’s sock-clad foot. She twitches. Winces. Yawns. Wakes up. She’s a light sleeper anyway.
“Kid?”
“Didn’t know you were sleeping over,” he grins.
“I should head out,” Emma groans. “After my butt gets over being numb. Shit.”
“How’s the floor?” He asks, grabbing the bag of grapes.
She glares at him. Lifts her arm from where it’s fallen across Regina’s torso. Thank God she doesn’t drool in her sleep.
“Take the couch,” he shrugs. “I’ll wake, Mom.” Regina, propped against the kitchen cupboards, on the cold floor, in her kitchen, is, apparently, a heavy sleeper. Emma grins, thankful when her knees don’t pop as she stands.
“You should be asleep,” she mutters, glancing at the clock on the microwave.
“Good thing I’m not,” he retorts, even as he slips past her and crouches carefully carefully carefully next to his still-sleeping mother. “You’d be a bitch in the morning if you slept here all night.”
She could hit him – gently. But, he reaches out a slim palm, rests three fingers on the back of his mother’s hand, “Mom? Momma, wake up,” he murmurs carefully carefully carefully. She doesn’t hit him. Turns instead for the living room, and a comfortable, waiting couch. She’s still a little drunk maybe.
“Henry?” She hears Regina, voice deep and confused and layered with sleep.
“Hey,” he says, “Let’s get you up to bed.” There’s a smile in his voice. Like picking his mothers up off the kitchen floor and sending them to bed is normal. Right. Not at all weird as fuck.
He’s a good kid. A damn good kid. She flops down on the couch, and is asleep in seconds. She’s not at all prepared for work tomorrow; the council meeting in the morning is going to be hell.