Chapter Text
Emma knows it’s juvenile. You pull a girl’s pigtails on the playground because you can’t name the feeling that stirs in your belly when she’s near. Or in her case, you start a fight with a beautiful yet hostile local politician because it’s the easiest way to get her attention.
For a fleeting moment in the beginning, Emma had thought about becoming a more impressive person. But she quickly dismissed the idea as that ship had sailed a long, long, long time ago.
And anyway, who has the time for that? She was on the wrong side of 30 and while she now has a pretty decent career as the local Sheriff if she does say so herself, the truth is she stumbled into it by accident.
Really, her entire life has been a series of stumbles, and it’s blatantly obvious to all around her. In her defence, it's not like she’s keeping it a secret.
So Emma could only work with the tools at her disposal. In lieu of prestige and charm, she would turn up late to meetings, file incorrect paperwork, and make low-brow jokes and immature innuendoes in uniform; all just to get a rise out of Regina.
And it worked like a charm.
She already said she knows it's juvenile, okay?
Naturally, Regina calls Emma every name under the sun. Emma has to wonder if they teach a class in dressing down at private school or if the talent simply comes innately to those with good breeding.
Emma grew up in a myriad of unstable homes and she even spent a decent chunk of time in prison and yet she's sure Regina is the most diabolical person she's ever met. And she doesn’t want to interrogate why she finds that so enchanting.
There's such a thing as knowing too much, although Emma would never be accused of it.
Oh, and how many morons has Regina encountered that she has on-hand at least a hundred synonyms for the word? Or is Emma simply that inspiring? Probably the latter, she realizes, but she chooses to wear that as a badge of honor.
She probably definitely shouldn't.
She tells herself they’re terms of endearment but she knows in her heart of hearts that Regina truly means it when she calls her an idiot. For better or worse, Emma doesn't deny it. Idiots deserve rights, too.
And hey, she's one of those special idiots that's smart enough to know they're an idiot. She believes it's a big part of her charm.
She probably definitely shouldn't.
And then one day Emma gets hurt on the job. Nothing crazy, just a gash and a black eye, but Regina looks at Emma softly. Emma didn’t know Regina's looks came in softly. She imagined those looks were reserved solely for Henry. Emma treasures it while it lasts. Sure enough, it's not long before she's on the receiving end of a particularly fierce glare and just like that they've returned to regular programming. Emma half-seriously entertains the idea of joining an underground fight club and existing in a perpetual state of beat-up, but she ultimately decides against it. She's holds a very public postion of authority so it probably wouldn't look too good.
To the Sheriff's surprise, she becomes friends with Henry. She definitely didn’t do it on purpose because kids kind of freak her out but he happens to be one of those rare children that’s actually pretty cool and somehow he wormed his way into her life. She's not even lying like she usually is when she says she enjoys spending time with him.
Emma just thanks her lucky stars that he’s still at an age where he’s impressed by Sheriff’s badges and silly one-liners from joke books because that’s about all she's got in her repertoire. From then on, whenever Regina compares Emma to Henry, she takes it as a compliment.
She probably definitely shouldn't.
And so she lives to poke and prod and pester and disrupt. She learns Regina's every eye twitch and roll, every tired sigh and arched brow, and she knows it's juvenile, she knows, but it also feels like more.
And all of these things happen so fast and so slowly, across minutes and years, that it's not until this very moment, that Emma realizes she is in love.
She's always known she was dense, even before Regina started saying it to her face regularly, but it seems silly that it took her until the end to name it for what it was.
But first and foremost, Emma's an idiot so she's hoping she can be forgiven the oversight.
Oh, this feels like karma.
A 17 year old girl stands in front of her, wide-eyed and wired and with a face full of regret.
Emma's intimate with that feeling; the instant remorse after doing something colossally stupid. Granted she never did something so dumb as shoot a Sheriff in the stomach.
Her hands press uselessly against the wound in her gut. “Damn, kid. I really wish you didn’t do that.”
The young girl looks up from the smoking gun in her hands. “Shit. Fuck. I’m sorry, oh god, oh my god.”
“Hey, hey, it's ok. Give me the gun, ok?”
Emma knows a scared kid when she sees one. She’s whip thin and clearly living on the streets and she looks just as surprised by the gunshot as Emma.
“It wasn’t loaded. He said it wasn’t loaded,” she mutters over and over.
Well, fuck. Then it’s my lucky day.
Emma's legs buckle and she falls to the floor of the convenience store. She looks up and sees the harried clerk on the phone to the police, she thinks Leroy’s probably on the other side of the call, and she knows help is on the way. It gives her some small relief.
The girl kneels next to her then and hands over the gun, placing it in Emma's bloody hands with a pathetic string of sorries.
"I know, I know," Emma soothes, as she unloads the gun and tosses it far away. It's too little too late, but she doesn't want this kid getting shot by police–her friends–just because she's holding a weapon.
Emma looks back at the trembling girl. She remembers being so hungry she couldn't think straight, so alone she couldn't even remember what kindness felt like.
She leans slumped against a shelf of snacks while the girl hovers near, unsure what to do. Emma would've thought she'd have run by now. It's what she would've done at her age.
"Hey," she says, grabbing the girl's attention. "Make sure you tell them it was an accident. Your boyfriend promised it wasn't loaded and then you tripped and pulled the trigger. You hear me?"
The girl nods slowly. "It was an accident," she mumbles.
"Yes. Good," Emma says, closing her eyes to wait for the ambulance. The pain has subsided and she's sure that's not a good sign.
Then her phone starts ringing from her back pocket. She doesn't bother trying to reach for it. She reckons keeping her guts in takes priority.
“Hey kid, could you answer that for me?”
The girl hadn't registered the noise for what it was until Emma spoke. She nods and the Sheriff winces as she leans to the side to reveal her back pocket. The girl shakily reaches for the phone.
"Uh, it's Her Majesty," she whispers.
Emma just nods and the girl answers it, holding it up to the Sheriff's ear.
“And where are you, Miss Swan?” Regina starts in her best impression of an imperious overlord, also known as her general speaking tone. Emma thinks she probably talks to babies and puppies just the same. She can't help but smile.
Who starts a conversation like that?
“Oh, don’t you know? I cease to exist when I’m not in your presence, Mayor Mills.”
Regina scoffs impatiently as Emma continues. “I simply stare at the wall and wait til I hear from you next.”
“Alright, Miss Swan. Enough of that. I'm at your office and you're not here.” Emma imagines she's tapping her foot in frustration.
“Did we have a meeting scheduled?”
She doesn't remember having a meeting with the Mayor and she would; they're the highlight of her calendar after all.
“Well, no, but I expect-” Regina starts but she doesn't get far. Emma interrupts. “Oh, an impromptu visit, huh? You were thinking of me and you just had to see my face, am I right?”
Regina huffs, refusing to find Emma's cockiness as anything other than maddening. “No, of course not. I simply-”
Emma's smirk is practically audible. “Take your time, Your Majesty. I’ll await your phony excuse.”
Regina changes the subject with a exasperated sigh. “And where are you anyway? Rescuing a cat from a tree?”
Emma looks down then, at the mess of her uniform, and her situation comes into sharp focus. She stumbles awkwardly. “Uh, nothing you need to worry about.”
“Worry?" Regina scoffs. "And why would I worry about you?”
Ok. Ouch.
Emma thinks of better things, of Regina's incoming soft look if she survives this, and maybe it lulls her into a false sense of security because she decides to go off-script. “Isn’t that what you do when I’m not there? Wonder how I am, what I’m doing, if I'm okay?”
Regina rolls her eyes, Emma’s sure of it. “And why would you think I do that?” she says, her haughty tone returned.
Suddenly the game falls away and Emma remembers she's a woman with a hole in her stomach, talking on the phone to the infuriating woman who she's shockingly only just realized she's in love with.
“Because that’s what I do with you,” Emma says softly.
God, maybe it's a good thing she's dying. Regina will never let her live this down.
Regina splutters. That's not how this game works. “Is everything alright, Miss Swan?” she asks, her voice now laced with concern.
Emma suppresses a cough, feeling her strength fade. She thought she could do this, pretend til the end, but now she's not so sure. “Maybe it’s not enough to hear your voice, maybe I need to hear something true.”
“Like what, Miss Swan? Like you're a pain in my ass?” Regina's reaching for the familiar because she senses something's very wrong.
The Sheriff smiles softly. “Yes, like that. But maybe something else. Something I’ve never heard before.”
Her eyes flutter shut and her last words come out as a whisper. “Something like I love you.”