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Emma’s always hated winter.

She hates the way even a cinnamon hot chocolate won’t warm frozen fingers and she can’t stand the ice that builds up along the edge of the Bugs’ door hinges that makes it impossible to open if it dips even a couple degrees below freezing. She’s always preferred summer; sweltering road trips that taste like freedom with the window down and the wind brushing against her bare arms, the unconfined feeling of lying in the scorching sun, salt-encrusted hair tangling down her back after swimming in the ocean. 

She also hates the festivities that go hand in hand with the winter months, and so the tendency of Storybrooke’s fairytale characters to over-celebrate every holiday was insufferable.

Her first Christmas in Storybrooke had been vastly different; pre-curse breaking Emma’s only concern had been sneaking Henry a new gaming console as a gift without his mother finding out, which was a challenge in itself but not necessarily emotionally heavy. This year, however, the thought of Christmas with her family was burdened with the reminder of who would not be spending the holidays with their son. She could picture all too well the heartbreak on Regina’s face when she woke up in the morning and remembered, which was ridiculous since said woman was also a former Evil Queen who had tried to poison Emma and had successfully poisoned Henry.

Still. She really isn’t in the festive spirit.

Worse still is Storybrooke’s insistence on celebrating in full swing now that everyone has their memories back, which leads to a multitude of Fairs and Christmas stalls and assorted parties — one of which being Henry’s school’s annual Winter Solstice Bake Fair. 

Mary Margaret had been ecstatic when she’d told her about it, and had gushed for a full twenty minutes about which family recipes Emma could learn without knowing that Emma was definitely not well versed in a kitchen. David had laughed good naturedly and suggested Emma stick to her special two-step pizza rolls. Henry had tried to good-naturedly ban Emma from making anything at all, lest there be a repeat of the one time she had given him food poisoning when she had tried to make homemade enchiladas to compete with Regina’s tendency to make everything from scratch (and really, who made their pasta sauces when you could buy it a jar for like two dollars). 

Emma brought that matter up without quite thinking it through and she hated the look that crossed Henry’s face at the mention of his mother; despite his insistence that all he needed was Emma and his extended family, his face was etched with the kind of hurt that could only be soothed by the one person he didn’t want.

Emma had wrapped an arm around him and in an attempt to cheer him up declared that yes, she would be participating in the Bake Fair.

Of course, the fact that she could only cook either eggs or things that came with microwavable instructions made things difficult. 

After one failed attempt to cook a cake that just did not rise and a greyish-green batch of cookies Emma finds herself in the grocery store staring at the store-brand selection of boxed cake mixes.

“Please don’t tell me you’re planning on making a cake from a cardboard box for my son’s school fair.” Regina’s voice is weary as she appears behind Emma, lips pursed in disapproval. She flicks a lock of glossy hair behind her shoulder, looking considerably put together in a black skirt and blazer despite the dark circles beneath her eyes and her cheekbones that are more pronounced than usual. 

Regina had all but disappeared from Storybrooke in the past few weeks, which other Storybrooke residents (see: her mother) had rejoiced in, but it had played on Emma’s mind, growing in magnitude until it had accumulated into something that Emma couldn’t ignore. Regina’s disappearance from their lives was unnatural in a way that she was currently blaming on the subdued difference in her son that was entirely down to the absence of his mother’s presence.

(She really didn’t want to acknowledge that it may be partly down to the anxious turmoil in her stomach when she thought about the hope in Regina’s eyes when she’d last seen her outside of Granny’s at her Welcome Home party.)

Emma’s really not surprised that Regina’s aware of the fair, despite Henry currently being unwilling to talk to her. She supposes Regina would keep up with the town's ongoings in the same way a child rereads a book they had long outgrown. 

“Well, cakes are hard to make,” she says eventually and grabs a chocolate cake mix from the shelf and drops it in her cart in something like defiance.

Regina’s eyes narrow as she follows the movement and her fingers tighten on the bar of her shopping cart. “Should I be concerned with what you’ve been feeding my son when you struggle with such basics?”

“Hey!” Emma says indignantly. “I might not make a fancy truffle oil and lobster tagliatelle or whatever like you do but I can make passable enchiladas.” At Regina’s skeptical eyebrow raise she blurts out, “It was only one time they made him sick!”

“What—” And judging by the pissed off expression gracing Regina’s face, Henry hadn’t told his other mom about the infamous enchiladas before the curse had broken. She steps forward into Emma’s space, dangerously close as she leans forward to speak. “You gave my son food poisoning?”

“Uh— I mean— just a little?” Shit. When Regina’s eyes flash like that Emma can kind of see a little bit of the Evil Queen who had cursed them all for twenty-eight years (and it’s a little bit alarming how it sends a little jolt of something through her, heat pooling inexplicably in her stomach at both the proximity and intensity of those dark eyes).

“I will not have Henry’s health threatened over your ineptitude to make anything that doesn’t come in a cardboard box with microwaveable instructions.” Regina says in annoyance before dimming as she continues, “Despite his current… reluctance to see me.”

She ends with uncertainty, her voice wavering slightly through her sharp tone, and it gnaws at Emma’s heart a little. Regina is a far cry from the infallible Madam Mayor she had once been, and Emma knows it’s the direct impact of losing the one thing that mattered to her; Henry.

Regina sniffs, finally stepping away and brushing a strand of hair away from her face haughtily as she blinks away any left over emotion. “For the love of God just let Mary Margaret take over with her bland, overcooked sponges. I won’t have my son affected any further than he already is by you giving him and his school friends food poisoning.” 

She turns and manages two steps away before Emma hears herself speak. “Wait, Regina—”

Regina stops but doesn’t turn and Emma lets her gaze wander along her narrow shoulders before dipping down to take in her waist, brought in by the tie of her overcoat. “Maybe you could teach me?”

“ What—” Regina spins around, confusion radiating from her.

“Hang on— hear me out,” Emma says quickly, suddenly determined that this is the right decision, Evil Queen or not. “Henry’s— Henry’s yours too. It makes sense that we work together on this— who knows, maybe it’ll be a good thing,” she ends with a lopsided smile, holding out her palms in something like a peace offering.

Regina just stares at her, coffee black eyes uncertain as they scrutinise Emma. After a few seconds her mask cracks, and Emma can see the pure emotion on her face as she speaks. “Fine. Nine pm tomorrow at my house after Henry’s in bed.”

(Emma thinks it’s best not to mention the bedtimes that have been completely abandoned in the transition between Regina’s organised home to the chaos of the loft.)

“Yeah. Yes, I’ll be there.”

Regina is insistent about teaching her properly, ( which apparently constitutes following a recipe from a glossy cooking book that’s thicker than any book that claims to be for beginners has a right to be) and so Emma finds herself being led to the kitchen, hair tied up and an apron thrust at her.

“Seriously? I’m not going to throw flour down myself or anything,” she whines but dutifully loops the apron strings behind her back to lace them.

“I beg to differ,” Regina retorts, that one eyebrow raising infuriatingly. “Last time I saw you in a kitchen you had it on your face.”

Emma has no idea when Regina had ever seen her in a kitchen but she ignores that in favour of clearing her throat and letting her eyes sweep across the room, taking in all of the immaculate cupboards and shiny surfaces. The last time she had been in here was the day Regina gave her that poisoned apple turnover, and a sudden uncertainty churns in her stomach; she’s not sure why she thought taking cooking lessons from that same person in the same kitchen was a good idea, except she had just wanted to get rid of that hollow look that lingered in Regina’s eyes. 

“So, what are we cooking?” she asks, swallowing back her fears and lingering over the recipe book. She flicks it open to a well thumbed page and leans back against the counter as she scans the page. “Oh, what about this! Henry would love it,” she says as she finds a complicated recipe for a decadent chocolate dessert.

Regina just raises a sculptured eyebrow and takes the book from Emma’s hands. “No.” She says firmly and flips right to the beginning of the recipe book to show Emma what they’re making. “If I have to teach you then we will be starting with the basics.”

Emma just slides onto the bar stool, letting her eyes sweep across the counter over the ingredients Regina had already prepared. She crinkles her nose in confusion as she takes in the multiple vegetables, beef, and seasonings that definitely do not look like ingredients for a cake from her limited experience. “What does that include, Madam Mayor?”

Regina takes a moment to answer, busying herself with her apron strings before speaking. “A beef and vegetable casserole.”

“Casserole?” Emma protests. “Regina, you do know this is a kids bake sale I need to learn a recipe for.” 

“Yes,” Regina speaks slowly, as if she thinks Emma is missing some major point. “But due to your apparent ineptitude to cook a proper meal for my son I thought a basic recipe like this would be more valuable.”

Emma scowls. She definitely should never have mentioned the infamous enchilada incident. “Isn't a casserole basically just chopping a bunch of stuff and throwing it in a dish?”

“Yes, Miss Swan. Is there a problem?” Regina challenges as she loops her own apron  around her waist.

“I just thought you teaching me to cook would actually include, y’know, cooking,” Emma says grouchily. She doesn’t want to mention that she doesn’t even cook for Henry (Mary Margaret seems to have taken on that role every evening).

Regina sniffs and turns her back, busying herself with reaching for a glass bowl in one of her top cupboards. Emma watches her in something like amusement when Regina has to stretch and can only just reach the bowl on her tip-toes. “Well,” Regina says, her tone sharp, “considering you apparently poisoned my son without my knowledge last year, I think I’m perfectly reasonable expecting this to be the extent of your current cooking ability.”

Emma’s irritated enough to speak before she fully thinks it through. “I’d say we’re pretty even there, considering what happened a few weeks ago,” she says flippantly, and immediately the implications of what she’s just said settle over her.

Regina freezes, having finally reached the pyrex dish, but doesn’t turn around. A few agonisingly long moments pass before Emma speaks. “Regina, I-”

“I suggest you stop talking, Miss Swan.” Regina interrupts.

Shit.

Regina insists that it’s Emma’s job to wash the dishes after they’ve put the casserole in the oven, so Emma sighs and gets to work, unsurprised. 

She’s always found something soothing in the mundane repetition of washing up and she gets lost in it for a moment, settling the crockery in to soak and scrubbing at one of the plates. It’s a few minutes before she realises Regina’s simply staring at her, dark eyes unabashed and intense as they follow her simple movements.

“What?” Emma challenges self-consciously, scrubbing at the dishes harder and consequently spilling some of the dishwasher over her sleeves as she does so.

“Did your mother not offer to teach you how to bake?” Regina sneers on the word mother but there’s a genuine undertone of interest buried beneath her snark. “Surely this is a better suited job for Snow White than the Evil Queen.”

Emma throws her an exasperated look as she grabs a nearby tea towel that hangs neatly on its hook and attempts to dry her sopping sleeves off a little. “Well, yeah, she offered.” She says without explanation and quirks a lip up in amusement at the frustrated curiosity which colours Regina’s expression.

“You rejected her offer. Why?” Regina says and sighs at Emma’s pathetic attempt to dry herself off and waves a hand instead, immediately drying both Emma’s clothes and the floor with a burst of magic.

Emma jumps at the tingling sensation that erupts in goosebumps along her skin, still uncomfortable around Regina’s magic. “I didn’t feel like learning one of Mary Margaret’s recipes.” Emma says eventually. “I… things aren’t… easy between us.”

Regina scoffs. “Oh I’m sorry, is family life not as perfect as you imagined, princess?”

“Don't call me that,” Emma snaps. She’s still not used to the idea that an unwanted foster kid like herself could have belonged to a different realm's royalty in another time-line and she doesn’t like to think about it either. “It’s just hard to adjust, I guess.” She shrugs.

Regina’s eyes darken in frustration and Emma realises how insensitive that might sound, coming from someone who arguably destroyed the last bit of family Regina had. She has to close her eyes to shake that feeling because— no. She shouldn’t feel sorry for someone like Regina, no matter how hard it pulls at her heartstrings to think of her being alone.

“Anyway. Are you actually going to let me eat some of this casserole when it’s done? I haven’t had dinner yet and I’m starving.”

Regina sounds indifferent as she replies with, “I suppose.”

It’s dark in the loft when she gets home. Emma blindly hopes that means her mother will be long asleep and she’ll be able to sneak up to her room without the incessant questioning.

“Emma?” Mary Margaret calls out as she hears Emma’s keys clatter onto the kitchen counter.

“Oh, you know, just on a night shift,” she lies and takes a deep breath before walking further into the apartment until she can see Mary Margaret standing in the dark of the small kitchen with a cup of tea in her hands. 

“You work too much,” she says sympathetically and automatically gets a second cup down for Emma. “I’ll speak to David in the morning— you really shouldn’t be working such long shifts. Maybe we could hire some more staff at the station?”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Emma says quickly. The last thing she needs is to run out of her excuses. “I like the hours, it gives me something to do with my time.” 

Mary Margaret looks skeptical as she passes Emma a steaming cup of tea (that Emma probably will end up promptly pouring down the drain when her back is turned) but thankfully drops the subject.

“Well as long as you’re okay,” she says instead. “But you’ll never guess what I heard from Ruby this morning at Granny’s!”

Emma plonks herself down on the threadbare sofa and accepts that she won’t be getting to bed for a long time.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Regina says one evening, wiping her hands on her apron and turning to lean against the kitchen counter in a way that doesn’t quite pass off as casual with the nervous energy radiating from her. “About Henry.”

Emma immediately tenses at the mention of Henry. Things have been relatively calm lately; between Henry settling into life living at the loft and her and Regina finally seeming to have found a way to get on, but it’s been nagging on her mind how separate she’s been keeping her two lives. She hasn’t found a way to bring up the fact that she’s spending her evenings at Regina’s house and she’s certain that it won’t go down well. “Yeah?” she says and keeps her eyes trained on the sink full of soapy water and dishes that she is currently washing.

“I’d like to see him. Perhaps you’d consider letting him come over for dinner some time? With you here of course, if that appeases the Charmings’.” The last part is spoken with a touch of disdain and a slight curl to her lip but it doesn’t detract from the open anticipation on her face.

Emma finally turns from the dishes, wiping her hands on a tea towel and finally meeting Regina’s eyes. It’s almost too much to stand, the anxious desperation in her eyes. “Regina, I don’t think—”

“Emma.” Regina interrupts, her expression encased in a vulnerable hope that twists something in Emma’s lower stomach. “Please.”

“You’re right,” Emma says eventually. “Archie said you were trying to change and well you are.”

“Dr. Hopper said I was trying?” 

“He said that you’re going to see him,” Emma rushes out, afraid that she’s revealed something Regina hadn’t wanted her to find out. “That you try not to use magic, that you’re trying to talk through your past. That you're trying to be a better person.”

Regina closes her eyes and takes a moment to compose herself, and when she opens them again they’re glossy. “I am. I just want to see my son again.” The desperate look returns and she speaks urgently, tone low and fast. “Will you talk to him?”

Emma hesitates again in the expansive moment as Regina waits for her answer. She knows this means she’ll have to reveal the fact that she’s been spending her evenings with Regina for the past week and she knows it won’t go down well with either her parents or Henry, but she finds herself trapped in the imploring hope in Regina’s gaze and says, “Yes. Yeah, I’ll speak to Henry.”

Emma gets take out from Granny’s the next afternoon and balances two hot chocolates and two bags of food precariously as she opens the door with her hip and finds Henry waiting outside for her. He doesn’t look up as he scribbles in his notebook but when she approaches, he tucks it back into his backpack and gives her a toothy grin.

Emma passes him one of the drinks as she greets him and he snatches one of the food bags from her hands as they start walking towards the pier.

“You’re the best— I’m starving,” he says and immediately opens his paper bag to inhale the still warm cheese-toastie-and-fries smell.

“God, wouldn’t have thought you just had one of Mary Margaret’s packed lunches!” Emma laughs and shoulder bumps him.

“Yeah, but it’s really not the same,” Henry declares and Emma definitely agrees — her own dry chicken sandwich is sitting in the fridge at the station, where it will inevitably be ignored for the next three days until she finally throws it away.

They reach the pier and Emma swallows as she leads Henry to one of the benches, the weight of the conversation she needs to have with him weighing on her mind. If not for the promise she had made Regina last night, she would definitely be putting this off.

“I, uh, actually wanted to ask you about your mom,” Emma tells Henry in an offhand way. She stops and they both sit down on the bench, looking out at the ocean as they unpack their food. It’s still hot and Emma lets out a satisfied goran as she grabs a couple of fries.

Henry is very obviously not impressed at the mention of Regina and he crinkles up his paper bag forcefully as he pulls his toastie out of the box. “What about her?”

“Well, don’t you ever think maybe it might be nice to invite her over for dinner or something?” Emma replies and then rushes over her words at the sullen look that spreads over her son’s face. “Archie says she’s really been trying to be better. She’s been going to her therapy sessions all these weeks and, I don’t know, I thought it might be nice to check in on her.”

“Emma,” Henry sighs dramatically and puts down his food to half turn on the bench to look at her seriously. “She’s not my mom, you are. She’s evil, remember?”

Emma’s stomach twists at how somber Henry is as he says this, as if he truly believes that it’s so black and white that Regina is still the Evil Queen and therefore can’t be forgiven. She wonders at the impact of living with Mary Margaret— Snow White, who seems insistent that Regina has been given enough chances to change. That Regina is beyond redemption. 

Maybe it’s because she’d never seen Regina at her worst; Regina had always been a bitch, especially in those early passive aggressive first weeks that Emma had arrived, but never evil. Misguided maybe but not irredeemable. Or maybe it’s those recent nights she’s spent in Regina’s kitchen, uncertain smiles and stilted small talk, and the way Regina had looked at her last night when Emma had said she would speak to Henry that was so heart-breakingly poignant. 

“Oh kid,” Emma says eventually, and lays a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not as simple as that. She’s made some– bad – decisions but she’s trying to be different, and the only reason for that is because she loves you so much.”

Henry turns away from Emma’s gaze, his hair falling over his eyes as he tips his face down to try to hide his conflicting emotions. “I don’t want to talk about her anymore,” he says in such a small, sad voice that Emma drops it.

“Well, why don’t we talk about that girl I saw you come out of school with earlier instead,” she says and laughs when he lets out a dramatic groan.

“Emma!”

“He’ll come around,” Emma assures Regina as they work in silence on tonight's dish; an apple pie which Regina had promised was coincidental on her part.

Regina doesn’t look convinced and chops the apples with a little more force than necessary. “I don’t need your mindless assurances, Miss Swan,” she says and then crinkles her brow as she assesses the mess Emma is making of the pastry. “Light finger work, or you’re going to ruin that pastry.”

Emma looks down at the pastry that she’s supposed to be kneading but has more squeezed into a melted mush. “Whoops,” she says and Regina sighs and moves over to help her. She reassembles what’s salvageable into a bowl and directs Emma to wrap it up in cling-film to set in the fridge to cool.

“It’s not… mindless reassurances.” Emma insists and is greeted by a stony silence. “He just needs time. They all do. I guess it’s hard for them to understand until they’ve seen for themselves.”

“And how do you think they’re going to do that when you haven’t even told them that you sneak over here every night for cooking lessons?” Regina reprises sharply. At Emma’s silence she lets out a short, humourless chuckle as she returns to the kitchen counter to begin wiping away some of the flour. “Oh, did you think I didn’t know?”

Emma looks away for a second, suddenly chagrined. “They just… they wouldn’t understand right now. There hasn’t been a right time to bring it up.”

“Enlighten me.” Regina furiously wipes at one particular spot on her now nearly pristine counter. Emma’s eyes linger on her fingers as she does this, and she absently wonders if Regina would rub a hole onto the marble with the way she’s scrubbing. “Because I’m not sure why you’re here either. What is it, a chance to gloat over the defeat of the former Evil Queen? Are you here to rejoice over taking everything from me?”

Emma hovers awkwardly to the side of Regina and grapples for the right words to de-escalate this rapidly unravelling situation. “No. No, that’s not it—”

Regina swings around unexpectedly so that they’re abruptly face to face, furious eyes burning into Emma’s with a proximity which brings back memories of the early curse days, where Regina seemed to use her physical immediacy as an intimidation tactic. Emma’s not sure it’s ineffective, especially when her traitorous body reacts by spiking the temperature up significantly. “Why are you even here, Emma.” Regina spits out, her breath hot on Emma’s face.

Emma doesn’t know why she’s here. She’s inundated with this feeling that she can’t explain, where Regina is not just her past crimes (which was unarguably unforgivable in many ways) but also the girl who lost her first love, who was coerced into marrying a man four times her age by her own mother, somebody who loves her son enough to sacrifice her twenty-eight year long curse in order to save his life.

“I don’t know.” Emma’s voice is hoarse and unsure and she takes an inadvertent step back because she just can’t think with Regina that close. She closes her eyes and takes a shaky breath in before continuing. “Maybe because everyone deserves a second chance. Because I didn’t come here to take your son away from you or ruin the life you’ve built. I broke the curse to save my— our son, not to take everything away from you.”

The fight seeps away from Regina and she turns again in an attempt to hide the sob that suddenly wrecks her chest, agonising and all consuming.

Emma moves forward without thinking, wrapping her smaller frame in a hug that surprises them both. Regina tenses momentarily, conflicted emotions radiating from her, before she finally sinks into Emma’s arms and tucks her head below her chin in something like surrender.

An unspecified amount of time later Regina pours Emma a glass of her so-called best-apple-cider-you’ve-ever-tasted and passes it to her before settling down into the sofa opposite in her study.

It’s a little tense, the apple pie long forgotten as they nurse their respective glasses in a slightly uncomfortable silence. They haven’t spoken since Regina’s breakdown, the tell-tale signs still evident in her red-rimmed eyes and slightly blotchy skin.

“You know…” Emma says conversationally whilst simultaneously trying to wrap her head around the fact that she’s sitting here, in the immaculate study of the woman who’d vowed to destroy her. She thinks back to the first time she’d sat in this house, an untouched glass of cider in hand as Regina veiled thinly concealed threats beneath a calculated smile and friendly small talk. It’s worlds apart from this moment, a vulnerable Regina sitting primly across from Emma and looking at her as if she has the power to take everything she loves away from her. Emma has to take a deep breath and try to keep her tone casual as she continues, “This isn’t half bad.”

Regina’s eyebrow raises with a half smirk and an exhale of a laugh. “You’ve tried it before.”

“I had one sip before you kicked me right back out.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Swan,” Regina says unconcerned. “Your one sip was about half the glass.”

Emma just laughs and takes a tiny sip as if to prove a point, and her chest swells a little bit at the genuine laugh this prompts from Regina.  “So,” she says instead of confronting this growing feeling, “How about we leave this apple pie for tomorrow night now?”

It’s more than a little how pathetic she sounds, and even more pathetic how a gnawing anticipation grows in her chest as she waits for Regina’s reply. She’s half convinced that Regina will kick her out for good now that she knows Henry is still refusing to see her. After all, what other reason would Regina have for letting Emma take over her kitchen each evening. 

The silence that stretches on is almost too much, but eventually Regina replies in a small voice, “Yes. Tomorrow night, then.”

It’s dark by the time Emma finally leaves the station the next evening, a low moon illuminating the quiet street as she steps outside. A quick glance at her phone tells her she’s already an hour late and she swears under her breath as she hurries to the Bug. 

Regina opens the door ten minutes later, lips pursed in disapproval.  “I thought you’d changed your mind,” she says.

“No! No, I was just—”

“Late.” Regina finishes, cutting off any further reply from Emma as she opens the door a little wider to allow Emma to squeeze past into the foyer. “I suppose you’d better come in.”

There’s a flicker of vulnerability gleaming in Regina’s bottomless eyes that takes Emma a moment to place. Emma dims when she places it. She can imagine all too well the sinking depth of rejection Regina may have felt waiting for Emma earlier this evening and realising the real possibility that Emma wouldn’t be coming.

Emma follows Regina to the kitchen, trying to push that image out of her mind.

“I thought we’d make quiche,” Regina says as Emma follows her through to the kitchen. “You obviously need practice with pastry if last night is any indication.”

Emma just laughs and rolls her eyes.

“You need to eat, Emma,” Mary Margaret says later that night, her doe-like eyes sincere with a smothering type of worry that Emma has never known how to deal with. Her stomach protests against the thought of more food, too. That quiche had been amazing.

“I grabbed something at the station,” she defends awkwardly, slipping her jacket from her shoulders and hanging it on the hook in the doorway. She hadn’t fully thought through just how hard it would be to spend her evenings at Regina’s without her family questioning where she was— probably in part due to never having to explain to anyone where she was in her previous twenty-eight years pre-curse breaking. 

“Oh, Emma.” 

She’d also not anticipated just how disappointed everything that came from her new-found mother’s mouth would sound. 

“Why don’t you come home early for dinner tomorrow night? Henry’s requested this special chicken I do, so I thought you might like to join us?” She looks so hopeful that Emma has to look away and make herself busy putting on the coffee machine.

“Yeah, uh… Sure. I’ll try and be back in time.”

She’s not, of course, and she finds herself helping chop vegetables on a bar stool across from Regina, watching how easily she moves in a kitchen. Emma just couldn’t cancel with Regina, who’s now artfully kneading the pastry for the pie they’re baking, making it look effortless despite Emma knowing that pastry is a bitch from the previous night's dish (she’s definitely not making pie for the bake fair). It’s still a little awkward and Emma finds herself staring at Regina more often than not, and mentally cursing when she manages to catch herself a little on the knife as she’s once again distracted.

Regina seems different tonight though. She’s still prickly and makes more than one jarring comment about Emma’s so-called-ridiculous pleather jacket, but there’s something more unrefined about her that tugs at something in Emma’s chest.

(Later, she’ll get a call from David asking where she is, because Snow made the chicken and everything,  but just seeing Regina’s soft smile when Emma proclaims she’s ‘busy with something important’ is worth the trouble and assuages the slight twinge of guilt.)

“Who taught you to cook?” She finds herself asking. She’s been thinking about it a lot (thinking about Regina in general a lot) and imagining different scenarios in which a young Regina first started to bake. She has this stupidly indulgent idea of Regina cooking before she was experienced and being the same level of incompetent as Emma has been. She wonders if Regina had ever set spaghetti on fire in her early cooking days, or whether she was born as perfect at this as she seems to be at everything else she puts her hand to. “I can’t imagine your mother being the maternal baking type.” 

A flash of surprise flutters across Regina’s face before it smoothes away as she shrugs. “My father taught me as a child,” she says and falters slightly. She looks up from her pastry and seems to search Emma’s face for something for a moment, leaving Emma feeling uncomfortably scrutinised. Whatever she was looking for she apparently finds as she continues hesitantly, “He loved to cook and always told me that the key to happiness was to have the skill to cook whatever you fancy whenever you liked. He taught me a lot of recipes from our heritage that my mother did not… approve of.”

“He sounds like a good guy,” Emma says softly and impossibly hates Cora even more. Slowly she was starting to get a picture of the effect she’d had on a young Regina and the woman she’d met in the Enchanted Forest was starting to make more sense as the manipulative, cruel woman she was.

“He was,” Regina murmurs and her eyes have a kind of faraway look about them. “I had half forgotten most of his recipes by the time I’d cast the curse and arrived in Storybrooke. It was only when I adopted Henry that I started to remind myself of them.”

“Do you still make them now?” Emma pushes and her gaze is steady as she catches Regina’s eyes across the counter.

“I haven’t really had reason to,” Regina replies hesitantly and averts her eyes back to her pastry. “Henry’s favourite was always my father’s paella,” she adds quietly.

Emma offers a sad smile and thinks again of a younger, more free Regina and who she would have become without her mother’s influence. She quietly goes back to the job at hand, both of them working in silence before Emma finishes chopping her vegetables and puts her knife down with a flourish. “So, what now, Madam Mayor?”

“Regina?” Emma calls as she swings open the door to Mifflin Street, awkwardly balancing her keys and coffee in one hand and her shopping bags in the other. When she gets no reply she sighs in relief and shuffles into the house, letting the door swing shut on its own as she makes her way to the kitchen that’s become so familiar over the last two weeks.

She had hoped Regina wouldn’t be home; she’d managed to find out that her appointments with Archie happened to fall on Tuesdays at seven and so arranged her whole plan under the presumption that this week would be no different. She needed to do this herself, or at least get started before Regina got back.

She had actually practised this recipe earlier in the day, yet a wave of nerves grips her as she pulls out the ingredients she needs. She feels ridiculous for being so sentimental (honestly, she can’t remember actually wanting to open up to anyone but Henry in, well, a long time), but after Regina had been so open with her the previous night about her upbringing, Emma felt like repaying the favour a little. She had grown up with no one for most of her life so this was as close as she could get to a childhood recipe.

She has just over forty minutes before Regina comes home, her voice ringing through the hallway.

“Emma?” she calls.

“In the kitchen,” Emma shouts back and nervously smooths down the front of her shirt and tries to wipe at the sticky stains on her jeans before Regina enters the room, looking put together in a crisp blazer and trousers, heels still on her feet.

She pauses as she turns and sees the absolute mess Emma has made of her kitchen, and Emma follows Regina’s eyeline to take in the seemingly endless dishes piled in the sink, the egg she’d dropped on the floor and promptly forgotten about, and the sticky jam tarts sitting on a baking tray waiting to go in the oven. 

Shit, she thinks and assesses that her plans of opening up to the mother of her child might have been ruined by the absolute state of the usually pristine kitchen.

There’s a heavy silence before Regina laughs, and it’s open and rich— somehow like the first sip of a good red wine and the low rumble of thunder at the same time. Her eyes are twinkling as she saunters across the small gap between them and reaches to sweep a spot of flour away from Emma’s chin with the soft pad of her thumb (Emma represses a shiver and tries not to focus on just how close Regina seems to be).

“They smell amazing, Emma,” she says, and Emma absolutely does not linger on the way Regina's tongue curls around her name. The distinct switch from being Miss Swan to Emma is dizzying and has no right to affect her as much as it evidently does.

“It’s, uh, nothing special. It’s just—” Emma manages but cringes at how deep her voice comes out, thick with something. There’s a sharp tug in her chest, the words she wants to say sticking in her throat and she suddenly realises this is a ridiculous idea. These memories are so faded now, as elusive as a dream, and they have never mattered to anyone except for an abandoned child. 

She clears her throat and pulls back a little, bracing her hands on the kitchen and taking a gulp of a deep breath in the hopes that it regulates her a little. “Actually, it’s stupid—”

“Emma…” Regina stops her with a hand on her upper arm, her fingers light but somehow anchoring her. Emma doesn’t move from their position, her back to Regina and herself only connected to her through the hand on her arm. She holds herself rigid as Regina speaks softly, “Why are these so important to you?” 

“It’s just…” she trails off and licks her lips. She thinks back to her first foster home, how safe three-year-old Emma had felt in what was supposed to be her forever home until it was ripped from under her. Most days she thinks (pretends) she’s healed from her lonely childhood, a ready-made dysfunctional family planted in the open wound of her past. Other days she thinks she’ll never forget the forgotten place she once held in that first family that ever belonged to her.

“Tell me,” Regina says and it’s gentle, not a command but an implorement. “Please.”

Emma takes a shaky breath and turns around to explain about her first memories of warm, home-made jam tarts and the sense of home that always inexplicably comes when she makes them.

Meanwhile, Regina slides her hand down Emma’s arm to link their fingers together and doesn’t let go for a long time.

“You’re late.”

Emma rounds the corner into the kitchen and is greeted by the sight of one Regina Mills perched on a barstool, an unamused expression on her face.

Emma can’t help but roll her eyes as she unwinds her scarf and shrugs out of her jacket. She is late, but it's technically not her fault; fairytale characters living in a sleepy town like Storybrooke apparently enjoy causing more trouble (and paperwork) than necessary if the all out brawl over something that happened over twenty-eight years ago has anything to do with it. “By two minutes,” she laughs lightly before the smell of fresh cooking hits her and she’s immediately peering over at the stove to see what it is. “It smells amazing— are we not doing a cooking lesson today?” 

“No,” Regina states. She stands up, crossing the small distance over to the overhead cabinet to get two wine glasses and Emma really does not have to rip her eyes away from the tantalising sway of Regina’s hips as she moves (except she is kind of mesmerised).

It’s getting a little bit ridiculous, the impossible pull to Regina, and Emma’s a bit ashamed when she feels her face flush a little. 

“I thought I’d cook for you tonight,” Regina says and at the questioning glance Emma throws her way she continues, flustered. “It’s so late and I thought you’d be hungry after your shift.” 

Emma doesn’t bring up the fact that Regina cooking for her kind of negates the whole point of her being here and instead accepts the freshly poured glass of wine from Regina. “You’re right, I’m starving.” she says. “What did you cook?”

“Paella,” Regina says and Emma smiles, thinking about their conversation about her father a few nights ago.

“That sounds amazing.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Regina says later as Emma pulls on her jacket and follows her to the front door, slipping out behind her and abruptly coming face to face when Regina turns unexpectedly, a small smile on her lips.

Regina’s so close that her eyes look almost black in the weak half light of the porch, her pupils swallowing the thin ring of coffee iris’. Emma’s always been aware that Regina’s beautiful in a luminous, intimidatingly breathtaking way, and the spark of attraction has lingered between them ever since Regina had offered her that first glass of apple cider. 

For the first time she lets herself consciously flick her eyes down to Regina’s lips and wonder what it would be like to close the gap between them and taste her. Regina teeters forward slightly in her heels as if drawn by a magnet and Emma suddenly understands that she really wants to kiss her and that same want is mirrored in Regina’s eyes. Attraction has always been a fleeting sensation for Emma, a quick infatuation of a one-night stand, and she’s overwhelmed by the burning want creeping up on her that swells her lungs into conflict.

“Well,” Emma says eventually and Regina’s eyes track the motion of her throat as she swallows. “Thank you for dinner.” 

“You’re very welcome.” Regina’s voice has dropped an octave, gravelly and rough against the quiet of the porch and her eyes dance with unspoken humour. Emma’s still angling forwards into Regina’s space, too close to be appropriate enough to be deemed purely friendly, and she thinks she might go wild at the proximity. She can practically count the faint freckles that form across the bridge of Regina’s nose, can smell the sweet scent of her shampoo, and she finds herself leaning closer still, their arms brushing as Regina’s hand comes up to finger an errant curl of Emma’s hair.

“We should do it again.” The humour that they have dinner every night is not lost on Emma, but she swallows again against a smile and drags her eyes away from where they’ve settled on the scar above Regina’s lips to meet her heavy gaze.

“Definitely,” Regina murmurs and Emma finally moves, her hand trailing up Regina’s bare arm and up until it settles over the side of Regina’s neck, thumb pressed to the spot where she can feel Regina’s pulse throb erratically, the only sign in her otherwise calm demeanour that this is affecting her just as much as it’s affecting Emma. 

Experimentally, Emma sweeps her finger over that spot and shivers when she feels the shudder that shakes Regina as she lets out an irregular exhale and unconsciously shifts slightly closer until they are pressed fully against each other. Regina drops the curl she’d been holding behind Emma’s ear and slides her hand until she’s cupping Emma’s cheek, thumb brushing against her cheekbone. Emma absently thinks that this, this feels more natural than weeks of trying to slot into her pre-made space in her family. It has been easier than over-compensating chatter with her mother and stilted small talk with her father. The only thing comparable is the easy belonging she has found with Henry.

It’s the thought of her son that finally breaks through Emma’s trance; frosted-glass illusions shattering until all she can feel is the amplifying turmoil budding in her stomach. The impulse to run rises up in her until she’s choking on it, hot and sticking in her throat.

It’s in this moment that a heavy-lidded Regina finally leans forwards to capture Emma’s lips—

And lands on a smooth cheek instead, Emma having turned her face at the last minute and jumped back at the contact, alarm bells sounding in her head as she disentangles and takes three steps backwards. “Yes,” she practically squeaks and suddenly she’s a few paces away, face flushed and flustered. What is she doing? Is this what they’ve been building towards this whole time? She blinks against the uncomfortable conflict of confusion and longing and hates herself more than a little.

Regina looks at her with wide, confused eyes. Her tan skin flushes from the chest up as she too steps back until she can reach back and lay a hand on the door handle behind her back. She shakes her hair away from her face and purses her lips as she straightens her face, her mask slipping back into place as easily as she had carved it away mere moments ago.

“Goodnight, Miss Swan.” 

—and then she’s gone, turning the lock on the door with an echoing final click, leaving Emma to trudge back to her car with her hands thrust into her pockets. 

The next day passes in silence, Regina’s phone going unanswered and her house seemingly empty, although Emma knows she’s being avoided. Regina barely leaves the house now, with nothing but Emma’s cooking lessons and Archie’s therapy sessions to occupy her time. Something heavy settles in her chest and Emma puts it down to this feeling that seems to be growing, cloying and all consuming. It’s surprising in an inevitable kind of way; a conflict between her newfound confidant and ex-enemy that wars inside of her and she can’t quite pin down.

It clicks, however, that night after a particularly vivid dream that wakes her up in a tangle of sweaty limbs and pillows, Regina’s name a ghost of a breathy sigh on her lips.

Shit , she thinks, and it comes rushing to her all at once, tangled and elusive emotions straightening out into one unsurprising, logical answer.

She’s in love with Regina.

Fuck.

Emma sits in silence at the dinner table, pushing her overcooked vegetables around her plate with her fork. Maybe she’s been spoiled lately with the elaborate meals Regina has cooked for her (with Emma’s limited “help”) but she really doesn’t think she can stomach any more of this meal.

“I’m so glad you’re joining us, Emma,” Mary Margaret says, beaming across the table at each of its occupants. “This is our first proper family dinner with all of us here.”

Emma looks around the table at her family; David’s crinkling smile, Henry’s animated chatter around his huge mouthful of food, Mary Margaret’s expectant gaze, and the gaping hole of the one person who is not here.

“Anyway, Emma, have you thought any more about what to cook for Henry’s school fair?” Mary Margaret continues, oblivious to Emma’s inner turmoil. “I was thinking maybe I could teach you a couple of family recipes.”

Emma clears her throat and raises her gaze to meet her mother’s eye, finally making a decision she should have made two weeks ago when this had all started. “Actually, Regina’s been teaching me.”

The room falls silent, three sets of eyes trained intensely on her, and Mary Margaret is the first to recover. “What? Emma—” Her voice holds the same disappointed inclination that Emma remembers from her foster-kid days.

“Emma, she’s evil.” Henry interrupts and his little face is tense, his jaw set and his eyes sparkling with unshed tears that he still hasn’t let fall over his adoptive mother.

“Henry, she’s—” Emma swallows and feels like the worst person in the world when she sees the heartbreak and betrayal etched on her son’s face. “She’s still your mother. She’s trying to change.”

“She’s the Evil Queen.” Henry shouts back and he’s pushing his dinner away from him, standing up so quickly that his chair flies back behind him.

“Henry—”

“No! She’s trying to ruin everything again— it’s what she does!” And he’s suddenly rushing up the stairs away from her.

Emma stands and is stopped by a gentle hand on her elbow and a set of deeply disappointed eyes that brings back memories of too many foster parents to count.

“Leave him to cool down, Emma.” David says, and Emma shrugs his hand away and excuses herself from the table, hot, frustrated tears stinging her eyes.

“I can’t believe this, Charming,” Mary Margaret starts dramatically but Emma doesn’t hear it over the slam of the front door as she leaves the apartment.

Emma doesn’t have anywhere to go in this town. Ruby is Mary Margaret’s best friend first and foremost and she’s pretty sure Regina wouldn’t want to see her right now, and so she sits outside on the steps outside the apartment building and wraps her jacket a little tighter around her to shield off some of the cold.

It’s not long before the door opens and footsteps pad down the steps until David’s sitting down beside her, settling down and resting his elbows on his knees in a mirror image of his daughter. “It’s a little cold out here to be stargazing, don’t you think?”

“Huh, guess I missed the memo where I was actually welcome inside,” Emma huffs out a dry laugh that holds no humour.

“They’ll come around,” David says and wraps an arm around Emma’s shoulders, rubbing his hand up her arm in an attempt to keep her warm. Surprisingly it’s actually a little comforting so Emma lets him carry on.

“And you?” she questions.

“You know, I’ve known Regina for many years and this may be the first time I’ve actually seen her actively trying to be a better person,” David muses and Emma immediately turns her face to watch his face as he speaks. 

“For Henry?” Emma asks cautiously.

“Regina has her… faults.” David sighs and leans further forward on his elbows. “She’s made many mistakes over the years, some catastrophic to our whole kingdom. She’s never shown any attempt to repent for these mistakes, well, until you arrived, Emma.”

Emma falls silent as she processes. “She has changed,” she says after a few moments. “She’s been going to therapy and she’s just… different. She’s not the woman Snow knew back in the Enchanted Forest.”

“No, she’s not.” David agrees. “But you need to understand from your mother’s perspective too. She sees someone who might hurt the family she’s almost lost ten times over. She’s just trying to protect you.”

“I get it,” Emma admits. “But I know that she would never hurt us again.”

David offers her a wan smile and slides his hand down to squeeze her knee as he stands up. “Don’t stay out here too long,” he says. “I hear someone’s making hot chocolate for everyone in the next ten minutes.” He winks and then heads back upstairs, leaving Emma alone with her head still swirling.

Henry insists on coming with her the next evening and he looks every bit the devastated eleven year old as he crosses his arms and follows her to the bug. “Someone needs to protect you, Emma,” he says, and looks at her as if she’s a pathetically naive child he needs to protect.

It’s enough to make her chest swell and her heart break simultaneously.

He’s still sullen as they stand on Regina’s doorstep after ringing the doorbell, Henry refusing to look anywhere other than his scuffed up sneakers and Emma tingling with anticipation. She hasn’t felt this nervous about coming to Regina’s house since that first cooking lesson, but now- knowing she’s turning up uninvited and unwanted after last night’s confusion has her bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet and her palms sweaty.

“Henry,” Regina breathes in surprise when she answers the door, and Emma can see how she has to restrain herself from touching him (brushing back his too long hair, cupping his chin with her fingers) in the way she folds her hands nervously over her stomach. Her eyes don’t stray from her son, fragile and heartbreakingly open for a moment as she lets her eyes sweep over his face. Henry meets her gaze with a defiantly raised chin and resentful glare that gnaws at Emma’s stomach.

“Let’s get this over with,” Henry says and storms ahead of them both into the familiarity of his childhood home.

“He’s just angry, he’ll calm down,” Emma offers apologetically and lets herself linger over Regina’s features, drinking in the dark, dark eyes that have become something like her anchor over the past few weeks.

“I know my own son, Miss Swan,” Regina snaps and turns on her heel to walk to the kitchen. Emma sighs and follows her, shrugging off her jacket and hanging it on the coat hook with a familiarity that would stun her if she thought too hard about it.

They make lasagne, which apparently is Regina’s signature meal if the wistful expression that breaks through Henry’s armour is any inclination. Emma finds herself kind of in awe of how competent Henry seems to be in the kitchen and knows instinctively that it comes from hours spent in this very kitchen being taught by his mother.

“Do you want to help me with the sauce, Henry?” Regina says hesitantly, and her expression is hopeful as she pushes the weighed out ingredients over towards him expectantly.

Henry stands by the kitchen island, hands folded over his chest and Emma can see the war going on inside his head — the part that remembers his childhood years spent with his mother and the newfound knowledge of who Regina was.

“Well, just to make sure nobody gets poisoned,” he eventually says harshly but it’s offset by his uncertain tentative expression. Regina just smiles sadly, like she expected it, and hands him a wooden spoon.

Emma clears her throat as she laces an apron that Regina had passed her and gets started on the one job she can do safely; chopping the vegetables. “So, where do you keep the sauce?” she asks and scans the counter for the jar of lasagne sauce for Henry to warm up.

She gets two reproachful glances for that comment that just proves the whole nurture versus nature debate.

“Emma, we’re going to make the sauce ourselves.” Henry explains slowly.

“Oh, uh, I pretty much thought the sauce just came in a jar,” Emma says sheepishly and gains a giggle from Henry and a small laugh from Regina. 

It’s a little easier after that, still stilted between Regina and Henry but civil enough that Emma revels in feeling like she’s actually supposed to be here. She and Regina have seemingly brushed aside their own unresolved tension in favor of a good evening for him.

Henry announces that he’s going to go up to his old room to find one of his old comic books half an hour in, and leaves with a last order to Emma to keep stirring the sauce while he’s gone. Emma does so dutifully, but as soon as she hears his steps thudding up the stairs she takes a deep breath and lets herself turn to watch Regina.

“So, I guess we should talk about last night,” she begins tentatively. Regina remains with her back to Emma, stacking dirty dishes in the sink with a little more force than necessary.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Regina retorts sharply.

“Obviously.” Emma rolls her eyes. “But maybe we should talk about it anyway.” 

She abandons the sauce to cross the small distance across the kitchen and lays a hand on Regina’s arm and flinches when Regina shrugs her off.

“Is last night the only reason you brought Henry here?” Regina says instead. Her voice wobbles slightly and she swallows, keeping her back to Emma.

“What? No—”

“Well, forgive me for thinking so when you’ve been so reluctant—”

“Regina, no.” Emma interrupts urgently. “It’s not like that. I, uh— I ended up telling them all that you’ve been… helping me with this bake fair and Henry decided he wanted to come after all.”

The silence stretches on, still tense as Regina processes these words. “And let me guess,” she eventually says, drying her bubbly hands off with a tea towel as she faces Emma. “Henry wanted to protect you from the Evil Queen.” 

Emma lets out a low, frustrated groan. “He’s working through some things, but this is good. Let him see how much you’ve changed. I—” she sighs again and steps closer to Regina so that she can grasp her hand. Regina raises her eyebrows but let’s Emma take her hand nonetheless. “Regina, I can see how much you’ve grown over the last few weeks, how much effort you’ve put into changing to be better for our son.” She stumbles over the words ‘our son’ slightly, the meaning behind them so surreal even now. “And this is your chance to show him too.” 

She offers a crooked smile, and they stand like that for a boundless moment, Regina’s eyes glistening as she latches on to Emma’s gaze.

“Emma,” Henry says as he comes back into the room and the moment is broken as Emma drops Regina’s hand and they both take a hasty step back. “You need to keep stirring the sauce or it will just stick to the bottom, right Mom?” 

Emma doesn’t look away from Regina and catches the look of surprise and wonder at something so familiar as being called Mom, even if it was an inadvertent slip on Henry’s behalf.

“Sorry kid, you didn’t remind me like you were supposed to.”

The eye roll that follows is a hundred percent Regina.

The lasagne already smells amazing and Emma can’t believe they have to wait forty minutes for it to actually be ready to eat.

“I’m starving,” she whines and jumps up onto the bar stool to sit next to her son whilst Regina leans over to put the dish in the oven. Her eyes absolutely do not linger on Regina’s bent over form and she looks up instead to dramatically continue with, “What did you guys use to do while you wait? I’ll go crazy just sitting here.”

Regina straightens, slips her oven gloves off and folds them neatly to place on the counter. When she speaks it’s careful and hesitant. “Well, we used to do a puzzle to pass the time when Henry was younger.”

“A puzzle?” Emma scrunches up her nose and questions. She’s sure she’s never actually sat down and worked on a puzzle for fun.

“Oh yeah!” Henry says brightly, as if he’s just remembered this piece of his childhood. “We used to be so good at them.”

Henry offers an uncertain smile that’s more a slight quirk of his lips and the way Regina’s face lights up is blinding. “Would you perhaps like me to find one for us to do now?” She says and when Henry nods she turns to the bookcase tucked in the corner of the room to start sorting through some of the puzzle boxes stashed there.

That feeling is swelling in Emma’s chest again and she can’t do anything but surrender to it and let her eyes linger now that she knows exactly what it is. Regina’s hair is tucked behind her ears and she’s gradually become more relaxed throughout the evening — stripped of her heels and her blouse loosening from a previously neat tuck into her skirt — and Emma can’t help the way her eyes linger along the muscles of her bare calves as she kneels to unbox one of the puzzles.

She’s just swallowing and fiddling with her collar when she registers the pair of eyes fixed on her, intense mirrors of her own.

“It’s rude to stare, kid,” she says, her voice an octave lower than usual, but she doesn’t draw her eyes away from his mother.

“Huh,” Henry huffs out, amused. “I was going to say the same thing to you.”

Emma can’t think of any response other than to dig her elbow into her son’s ribs before Regina turns, a selected puzzle in hand.

Henry gradually warms up to Regina, the familiarity of his childhood conflicting with what he had learned about her past which culminated in a slipping façade.

Emma excuses herself after her second portion of lasagne, (which might actually be the best thing she’d ever put in her mouth) and she takes her time in the bathroom, hoping to give them a moment to talk alone. She washes her hands before studying her reflection in the mirror and tucks a few unruly strands of hair behind her ears in an attempt to control it a little.

When she eventually heads down the stairs, she stops just short of the kitchen doorway and hears two voices drift over to her.

“It’s… complicated,” Regina is saying, her voice strained. “I’m so sorry for my past and the people who I hurt. But the curse brought me you. And your mother. And I can’t be sorry for the events that brought you to me.”

It’s brutally honest and Henry falls silent for long enough that Emma reenters the kitchen just in time to see him pulling away from Regina’s embrace, scrubbing at his wet cheeks.

“You good, kid?” she offers and Henry nods.

“We were just about to carry on with the puzzle,” he says and bounds off to the living room, leaving his mothers to trail along behind him.

It’s almost nine when Emma and Henry finally leave, both still full from their dinner. 

“Maybe we could do this again?” Regina says, her expression open and vulnerable as she watches Henry.

“Yeah,” he nods slowly, still a little shy. “Maybe you could have dinner with Snow and David and us?”

A dark look crosses Regina’s face at the mention of his grandparents but she smiles anyway, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ll look forward to it,” she says and watches as Henry races to get in the Bug after a small wave goodbye.

Regina turns her attention to Emma, who has been watching the exchange between her son and his mother intently. She offers her a small smile and reaches across the small distance to take Emma’s hand for the second time that evening.

“Thank you for tonight, Emma,” she murmurs and Emma has to flight down a flush at the low rumble of her own name from Regina’s lips. “It’s— I’m so happy I got to spend tonight with Henry.” Her eyes are dark and ardent as she leans forward to press a lingering kiss at the corner of Emma’s mouth, too slow to be purely friendly. And suddenly any reservations she had about this seem insignificant.

“You’re welcome,” Emma says stupidly, smile big as she briefly squeezes the hand in hers.

“Emma, come on,” Henry calls from the front seat of the car, and Emma laughs and reluctantly joins him.

“So, I’ve been thinking about the Bake Fair.” Emma says two nights later over dinner, Regina sitting primly across from a wary Mary Margaret. 

“Yeah?” Henry asks with a mouthful of food which earns him a stern look from Regina. 

“Well—” Emma starts. “I wanted to know what you’d think of both me and Regina cooking for your fair.” She pretends to be oblivious to her mother’s protests of “Emma!” and Regina’s unequivocal glance. “I mean, I could definitely cook something that’s okay, but as it’s a family event I thought you might like us both to help.”

“Don’t you remember the last time Regina ‘baked’ you something, Emma,” Mary Margaret hisses under her breath.

Regina turns her nose up haughtily and focuses on Emma and her son.

“I’m asking Henry.” Emma emphasises.

“Well,” Henry bites his lip and looks between his grandparents, then to Emma and then finally lets his gaze rest on his mom. “I guess it would be nice for both of my parents to cook something together for the fair.”

The look of wonder that glitters across Regina’s face is nothing short of breathtaking; she’s always beautiful, put together and perfect in every way, but in that moment her face lights and it tugs Emma’s heart up sharply between her ribs without warning.

Maybe she’s more in love than she thought she was.

“Especially because I don’t really want Emma giving my friends food poisoning. No offence.” Henry adds after a moment.

“Hey!”

It had dropped a few more degrees in the few weeks leading up to the event, but despite that Emma grudgingly admitted that the over enthusiastic, festive, fairytale residents of Storybrooke had done an amazing job of the Bake Fair. A makeshift ice rink had been decorated in strings of fairy lights and various decorated tables were laid out in preparation for the homemade food— one of which was where Emma and Regina’s pies had been laid out.

They had made two pies in the end, one apple and one cherry, mainly because Regina said it was nice to have a variety (but Emma suspects it was partly because she doesn’t want to be associated with Emma’s terrible pastry). 

Now, the bug is quiet as Emma drives Regina home, a sleepy Henry already having been dropped off at the loft after the Fair.

“So,” Emma says, interrupting the comfortable silence that had enveloped the car. “Are you proud of me for baking something actually edible for this thing?”

“I must admit,” Regina says, and Emma can hear the smile in her voice, “I really didn’t expect you to be able to make a whole pie after that one lesson in my kitchen where you dropped a whole cake batter.”

“It’s called growth, Regina,” Emma laughs. “Anyway, did you doubt your teaching abilities that much?”

Regina scoffs. “No. I doubted your ability to learn.”

“Wow,” Emma says in mock offence, glancing at Regina briefly with a smile on her face. “Anyway, I’m surprised we didn’t win after all this.”

That sets Regina off and she sniffs in derision. “Well, Michael Tillman’s Victoria Sponge was too dry to have placed second,” she points out. “And Granny doesn’t have any children in Storybrooke’s school so she should have been disqualified.”

Emma turns off the Bug with a laugh as she pulls up to Regina’s house. “We definitely should have won,” she agrees.

“Exactly!” Regina exclaims. There’s a beat where they stay silent, and then she sombers as she turns to face Emma. “I guess this is it now then,” she says as she fiddles absently with one of her rings. “You’ve officially finished your cooking lessons.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Emma says and angles herself closer so that she can sweep a lock of hair away from Regina’s eyes, eliciting a shaky intake of breath. “I still don’t get how to make lasagne.”

“Oh,” Regina breathes.

“And—” Emma sweeps a thumb over Regina’s bottom lip and delights in the way in quivers under her touch, Regina’s dilated eyes watching her every move intently. “I think Henry might need some lessons too.”

“Yeah?” Regina says, and beneath the burning want in her eyes is that slither of hope. “I would like that.”

Emma just hums and leans forward a little more until their lips are almost touching.

“I thought this wasn’t what you wanted,” Regina whispers, a quivering breath trembling against Emma’s lips, oh so close.

“You never gave me a chance to tell you want I wanted,” Emma replies and surges forwards to close the small gap between them and— 

Oh—

It’s a long time before either of them head inside.

fin.