Writing, probably

She hadn't gotten far enough into the corridor, however, before Emma had spoken the words. Regina was sure that Emma would have gotten something else prepared, some words at the ready that would have given her added context -have they even been trying? Emma hadn't told her. Not like she needed to-, but those had never left her mouth. Instead, the offer, the lack of clues, the way she could feel her own magic sizzling inside of her, reaching forward and coiling around her fingers as she curled them before pressing them together.

There hadn't been any signs, a voice had whispered inside of her. One that sounded pleading, broken almost in a similar way she had heard within her the day Emma had told them that she would, indeed, get married. One that rang true to her emotions, maybe, but not reality.

No, that was a lie.

There had been some, she supposed: Snow's quick smile when Regina had last seen her, a certain set of hopeful glances towards nothing in particular as if almost waiting for Regina to ask her what the whole sighs and mutterings were about. The way Emma had been skittish a few weeks ago when she had seen her leave the Hospital at some unusual hours. The way Hook... She had halted herself there.

There had been signs. She had just allowed herself not to look into them.

And so when Emma twirled -twirled!- and waited for her to answer, Regina had only been able to blink.

Blink at the woman in front of her, at this version that felt too colorless, too pale. Too different to the woman she had known Emma to be once.

No, that was on itself a lie as well: she had blinked, yes, only to remain silent as Emma's initial energy began to disappear. The longer they stood, the more obvious the edges from which Emma pulled herself in, creating the construct so many now saw as the only possible option for her, began to wobble.

"We both know I can't, Emma."

Did they? Regina felt as if the conversation that should have preceded her response had also not been done either.

Yet, it felt much more contextualized than Emma's question, a voice, the petty one, whispered on her ear before she pressed her palms against her upper thighs, posture elegant, detached. It certainly felt like the end of something else, even if it was just out of need of protection. Because Regina knew that if Emma had asked her in front of anyone else, she would not have been able to reply with anything else but a resounding yes. Because maybe that had been Emma's last mercy, as horrible as it had been.

"I'm sorry."

Emma's smile had faltered then.

(She had left the house shortly after, tears already shed and some words Regina had stared at from a distance time would eventually be able to provide)

"Is something going on with her?"

She looked at her son -their son- once more, saw the eagerness that felt so similar to the one she had known to be Emma's once. That version that had been comfort despite everything else.

It feels like they’ve been here forever. At the tipping point. In the precise moment of zero gravity at the climax of projectile motion. The split second of stasis between rising and falling.

It feels like they’ve been here forever, because they have. They’ve perfected the art of delaying the decision, are masters at weighing what stands to gain against what could be lost. They’ve learned to thrive in the shadow of potential.

To dare or not to dare. The age-old question.

They’ve made peace with asking it forever.

“And this one really isn’t poisoned?”

“No,” Regina assures her with a roll of her eyes, “it really isn’t.”

“Scout’s honour?”

“I don’t see why – fine, yes, scout’s honour.”

“Pinky promise?”

Now Regina’s nose wrinkles. “What?”

“You know.” Emma grins. “Will you link your pinky to mine and promise that you’re not trying to kill me this time?”

“How is the linking of fingers relevant to – ” Again Regina stops herself in the face of Emma’s pout. She sighs. “Do I have to say it?”

“The words ‘pinky’ and ‘promise’ are non-negotiable.”

There’s a crash, followed by clatter, rounded off by the clinking of an armful of glass bottles being lowered to the kitchen island’s marble top before Emma’s voice calls out, completely unnecessary:

“I’m back!”

I can hear that, Regina thinks, but she cannot stop a smile from stealing onto her face. Somehow, she quite likes how Emma fills the house with sounds. Makes it feel lived in. The clonk of her shoes as she drops them, the patter of her socked feet, and finally, the subdued squeak of the study door – then Emma peeks around the corner.

“So what does it mean?” Squinting slightly, Ruby reads the ad again, her lips half-forming the words.

Emma, who has long since memorised the two lines, shrugs helplessly. “I was hoping you would know. I mean, there’s no way she means me, right?”

“‘Saviour wanted,’” Ruby reads out. “There’s no way she doesn’t mean you.”

Emma bites her lip. “And you think it’s really… her?”

“Unless you know any other ‘love-lorn queen in a house too big for one’ – it’s her.”

“Right.” Emma swallows. “So what do I do?”

It all happens so fast: one moment, Emma is scraping the last flakes of ground dragon’s horn into the cauldron, and the next Regina tackles her to the ground while the air above the cauldron catches fire and explodes.

The boom is so resounding and teeth-shattering and bone-grinding that Emma instinctively throws up a sound shield – a flimsy, flittering thing that weaves into the protection spell Regina already has in place, white into purple, light into… well, also light.

Emma might have hit her head.

Regina, on the other hand, looks fine, if livid.

“What the hell did you do?” she demands, still perching on top of Emma, still leaning close, so very close.

Emma swallows. She’s feeling a little dizzy if she’s honest. “I, uh. Added the ground dragon’s horn like you told me.”

“How much?”

“Four grams?” When Emma inhales, she can feel Regina’s torso against hers. “Maybe five?”

When Regina inhales, she all but squishes Emma. “Maybe five?!”

Emma really must have hit her head, because what she says next is very, very stupid. “You’re so persnickety about this. It’s kinda cute.”

Regina’s face goes pale, then red, then pale again. “How nice,” she hisses, “that my concern for safety appeals to you. But if you hadn’t noticed, magic is a very precise science. Which means that you’re either… persnickety… or you die a painful death.” She pauses, then looks away. The red comes creeping back into her cheeks like a traitor on his way to the king’s chamber. “And,” she adds quietly, “I’d rather you didn’t. Die, that is.”

Warmth flushes Emma, and for a moment she’s worried the fire that is still burning somewhere above them did find its way through Regina’s shields after all, but they’re up and glowing, the purple undulating idly. When she looks at Regina, she sees the same slow movement mirrored in her eyes. She can’t help but smile at the sight.

“Good thing I didn’t then. Die, that is.”

“Uh-oh Mom.” Henry’s smile is positively gleeful. “That octopus is totally giving you the stink-eye.”

Regina’s already dark expression gets a shade darker still. Emma, ever the peace-maker, squeezes her hand.

“Maybe that’s just what they look like, kid.”

“Or maybe it overheard Mom talking about her love for fried calamari. Octopodes are very intelligent. Look, now it’s flipping her off with a tentacle.”

“Henry!” Regina chides, then scowls at Emma. “He gets his bad manners from you.”

Emma grins. “I raised him well.”

Regina’s hands are shaking ever so slightly as she flicks through the pages of the horticultural book. Horticulture. Their last resort.

Opposite from her, Emma cannot hold back any longer.

“So?” She leans forward, the movement already slightly impeded. “Is it possible?”

Regina inhales quietly, and Emma knows. She knows.

She just doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge.

“Grafting? You’re sure?”

“It’s not unheard of.” Regina’s voice is hoarse. “Two powerful magic users like us – nature finds a way.”

Slowly, so slowly, Emma’s hand settles on her stomach. “So it really is…”

Regina’s eyes are huge. Huge, vaguely trapezoidal, with heart-shaped highlights sparkling across iris and pupil and –

Wait. Hearts?

Emma blinks. A two-dimensional strand of blond hair whips across her vision, followed by the tell-tale swirl of cherry blossoms indicating… a romantic situation? She blinks again.

“Huh,” she says into a speech bubble. A small chibi-version of her own face appears underneath the word, spirals for eyes and question marks around her head. Accurate, she thinks. “Wait, does this mean you like me?”