Chapter Text
Mary Margaret has decided that she and Emma are sisters.
This is ridiculous for several reasons, starting with the fact that she’s only been dating David for a year and a half. Mary Margaret, that is; Emma’s not dating her own half-brother.
Anyway, if she's being exact, David and M.M. have been dating for one year, four months and fifteen days. Emma knows this because today, right after 8th period English when everyone just wants to go home, her brother clogged the halls with an acoustic serenade honoring their 500-day anniversary. Okay, sure, it was romantic for the first thirty seconds, but when David just kept going, it quickly became more sickly than sweet. By the song’s end, embarrassment oozed from everyone but the happy couple, who were too busy trading moony glances over his guitar to be self-conscious.
High on the saccharine paint fumes of love, Mary Margaret proceeded to corner Emma by their lockers to officially welcome her into the Blanchard-Mills family...
Which brings us to ridiculous reason number two: Mary Margaret already has a sister. Two, in fact. Then again, seeing as one of the Mills daughters is off at college and the other hates her stepsister with every fiber of her shriveled black heart, Mary Margaret’s annexing of Emma makes a sideways sort of sense. It’s still completely bananas, of course, but Emma can't find the words to stop MM before she builds up a full head of steam, and there’s no changing her friend’s mind after that. The fact that they’re friends at all is proof of this—Mary Margaret had been aggressively welcoming to the new girl even before she realized Emma was her One True Love’s recently acquired sister.
In all fairness, Emma was grateful for the extended hand of friendship, even if that hand turned out to be a little clingy. She’d been resigned to spending her last two years of high school alone, a one-woman raft amongst the islands of Storybrooke’s long-established cliques. Mary Margaret, though, had refused to give up on bonding with the new girl and made sure everyone knew it. Eventually Emma gave in, though with strongly mixed feelings—not unlike this latest upgrade to their relationship.
Though her kindness is earnest enough, Mary Margaret is just too used to getting her way thanks to her face, her family, and the Disney-princess aura that hangs about her like one of her organic perfumes. It’s given her the crazy idea that everything turns out all right in the end, which Emma can't even think with a straight face. MM and David might be a match made in Hallmark with their inoffensive good looks, rabid romanticism, and utter lack of shame, but that doesn’t mean they’ll be together forever. Emma once heard that the chance of a high school relationship leading to a lasting marriage is like, less than five percent.
She hasn’t mentioned this to her brother, because he’d just take it as a challenge. Come to think of it, so would Mary Margaret.
Ugh, they’re gonna make it work, aren’t they? Those assholes.
Emma successfully dodges her friend after school only to find Mary Margaret’s other half lying in wait once she gets home.
“Emma...” David begins, tone setting off warning bells in her skull.
“Nope.” She sweeps an armful of snacks out of the cupboard and spins away from her brother, ponytail smacking him in the mouth. While David sputters, she flees the kitchen. “Plan your next grand gesture without me!”
“This isn't about that!” he calls after her. “Not exactly.”
She doesn’t slow down as she shoulders through the screen door. “Nope!” she repeats, shouting over the squeal of the hinges.
Her brother doesn’t listen, following her onto their porch like a persistent puppy. He’s sure got the eyes for it, his pleading blue gaze lasering into the side of her face with nuclear levels of charm. Emma shields her eyes and groans, sagging onto the porch swing. The chains squeak in protest; like most things at Casa Nolan—up to and including the house itself—the bench is slightly crooked and held together mostly by its coat of peeling paint.
“Do you know Mary Margaret’s sister?” he says.
“I know the bitch who keeps kicking the back of my chair during math.”
“Oh, good, you’ve met.” The swing lurches as David sits beside her, and Emma grudgingly hands him a Capri Sun. “Then you might know that she and Mary Margaret, uh... don’t get along.”
“I’ve noticed.” Emma’s been diligently maintaining an exchange of grudges and one-upmanship with Regina Mills ever since school started, but their two months of sniping pales in comparison to the stepsisters’ bitter, years-long rivalry. There’s more siblingly warmth between Emma and David, who didn’t even know she existed this time last year.
“And this is my problem because...”
David stares out over the yard, mouth twisting. “So, the Evening of Enchantment Storybrooke High Homecoming Fall Ball Prom is coming up—”
“Dude, how are you already thinking about that? It’s not for ages.”
“Tickets went on sale yesterday.”
“Oh. Huh.” She shrugs. Wasn’t like she was planning to go, anyway.
“And you know how long I’ve been trying to get Mary Margaret’s stepmom to like me.”
“Since day one, yeah.” Emma gives his shoulder a sympathetic bump. From what David’s told her, Cora Mills seems to dislike him on principle; that principle being “I’m a snobby classist control freak.” Even for an outsider like Emma, it’s impossible to miss the fact that the Blanchard-Millses have money, power, and influence in the Storybrooke community.
The Nolans... don’t. David’s mom has a job for every day of the week, his twin brother is in exile at the military school four states away, and his father was formerly deadbeat and is now just plain dead. Even before Emma came along, the homeless bastard daughter to complete this depressing family portrait, there was plenty for someone like Cora to point at and sneer.
“Who cares what she thinks?” Emma grumbles, having depressed herself into matching David’s frown. “Just ignore her. If she’s anything like Regina, she’ll hate that.”
“She is,” her brother says glumly. “No, worse. So much worse.” He shudders. “But we can't ignore her anymore. When Mary Margaret told her about the dance, she put her foot down, and...”
Emma winces as he trails off. “I’m sure it’s not that bad” she says as gently as she can. “You and MM can handle it; you two’re always saying you’re ‘meant to be.’” Just this once, she holds back the eye roll that statement deserves.
“She said that the only way she’ll let us go is if Regina does too. With a date.”
“Hoh!” Emma doesn’t manage to swallow the laugh in time, but she does feel bad when her brother’s face manages to droop even further. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “I just... don’t think that’s gonna happen.” Regina occupies a weird rung on the S.H.S. social ladder; not exactly popular, but definitely... respected? Envied? Not quite, what’s the word...
Oh, right. Feared.
“Yup,” agrees David. “That was probably just Cora’s way of saying no.” His gaze slides sideways, meeting hers out the corner of his eye. “Unless...”
Emma shoots to her feet, leaving her stomach somewhere around her knees. “David—”
“Please, Emma! We have plans for that dance!”
She pauses, too nauseated to bolt. “Gross.”
“Not those kinds of plans!” says David, chiseled features darkening to a blotchy pink. “We’ve already started campaigning for the Fall Ball Prom Court.”
“Even worse,” she snorts, striding to the door. “Look, David, you know you’re my favorite brother.”
“You only met James once.”
“And hated all thirty minutes of it,” Emma agrees. “I’ll do a lot for you, but there’s a line, and this is like, a billion miles past it. Regina and I already have a history.” Which is quite the achievement, considering Emma’s only known her nemesis for two months, mostly during school hours. Her total time with Regina would probably add up to a day or two, tops—not that she’s counting.
David scratches his head. “I thought you said it was math?”
“Look,” Emma goes on. “You know how even though Mary Margaret is mushy and entitled and gave you a literal concussion when you first met, there was still something special that made you ignore all that and fall for her?” Possibly the concussion.
“Yes—Wait, hold on!” David objects.
Ignoring her hapless himbo of a brother, Emma shakes her head. “Regina is like... the opposite of that.”
“In what way?”
“Every way,” she says with feeling. “Did you know she’s the one that started the rumor about Ruth finding me in jail?”
Her brother hisses through his teeth. “That's out of line." He pauses. "Even if you, uh, sort of were.”
“Juvie isn’t jail—not that she’d know. She’s so pretentious. You should see the way she looks at me whenever I wear the same jeans more than once a week.”
Another hesitant sound from David. “You have plenty of pants, though. Why wouldn’t you—”
“Pants never get dirty, everyone knows that. It’s not like I’m even wearing them twice in a row.” With a long groan, Emma slumps back onto the swing. “And, and...” There are so many irritating things about Regina that it’s a struggle to pick out the highlights. “She always finishes her tests first.”
“And that’s... bad?”
“She always smirks at me as she hands them in. Every single time!” And don’t try to blame Emma for looking up at the wrong time; it’s practically a conditioned reflex by now. At least the other girl’s gloating is easier on the eyes than fucking trig problems—if only by a slim margin.
“Point is,” she concludes, “I’m the last person you want asking Regina anything.”
Instead of backing down, David gains a triumphant smile. “Mary Margaret.”
Damn, she walked right into that one. “That’s not fair,” Emma says. “MM has too big of a head start. I wish I’d known Regina for half as... long...” Trailing off, she keeps her eyes trained on the yard, away from David and his aura of satisfaction.
“Shut up,” she grumbles.
He pats her shoulder. “Just think about it?”
Emma scowls. “Done. There’s absolutely, positively, no chance in hell that I’m asking out—”
.
.
.
“Regina, heyyy.” Emma stares down at the desk before her, studying the scars left by years of restless students. It’s easier to admire the vandalized piece of furniture than look up at its occupant. “You got a minute?”
“I have five, and they’re spoken for,” says Regina Mills. Emma forces her eyes up as the other girl scoops up her designer tote bag and stands with a flip of her chin-length power hair. “Unlike you, I plan to reach my next class on time.”
Emma is so busy rolling her eyes that she almost misses her nemesis’ exit. Shouldering her ratty backpack, she stumbles after Regina before she can escape with that deceptively speedy power walk of hers.
“Worried you’ll be late for lunch?” she calls. Typical Regina, acting like she’s the only one allowed to be busy.
“Ah.” The other girl’s shoulders sag at being caught out, but she’s back on the offensive before Emma’s eyes can make another loop in their sockets. “Should I be concerned that you know so much about my schedule?”
A snort, Emma decides, would be appropriate here. Unfortunately, she ends up inhaling a double barrel of cologne from a passing football player and has to spend the next several steps wiping her eyes. When her watery gaze clears, it finds Regina peering back with a blend of disgust and amusement.
“We have the same lunch period,” Emma croaks, but the retort has lost any oomph it might have had. “I see you there, like, every day.” Though Regina never stays for long. While it’s not uncommon to spy her in the lunch line, Emma’s suddenly unsure if she’s seen the other girl actually eat.
“Ah,” Regina says again, then turns forward and keeps walking. Cursing under her breath, Emma follows.
“Okay, fine!” she says, panting slightly. It’s not like Regina’s going that fast, but the river of students parts before her in a way it never does for Emma. The taller girl is forced to dodge through the gaps in Regina’s wake, invisible and ignored in the eyes of the shambling student body. “We can walk and—oof—talk.”
“Can you?” she hears, Regina’s cool tones cutting through the air as easily as she cuts through the Axe-scented mass of their peers. “What do you want, Swan?”
“You busy Friday afternoon?”
Emma cringes as a few ears twitch in their direction, but at least the loaded words force Regina to acknowledge this conversation is happening. Looking about as happy as Emma feels, she sidesteps into the alcove between two sets of lockers and invites Emma to join her with the least condescending sneer in her arsenal.
“Friday? Why?” Regina finally meets Emma's eyes, and the niche suddenly feels far too small for the both of them. Dragging her newly damp palms over her jeans, she swallows and says:
“Uh...”
Emma’s not the bashful type, but there’s something about being the sole focus of Regina’s attention that makes her tongue turn to silly putty. This is nothing new. When they’d met on the first day of the school year, she’d been struck by the sharp light in the other girl’s eyes—and then by the sharp point of the other girl’s foot, accompanied by a hiss of “Stop gawking and pass me the syllabus.” Stung in more ways than one, Emma doesn’t even remember what she snapped back; but judging by the way those dazzling eyes had bulged out of that perfect face, she must have struck a nerve.
So yeah, bad first impression: that’s entirely on Emma. She didn’t feel great about it, but by the time her defensiveness wore off, she and Regina had already fallen into a pattern of barbed words and dirty looks. Like the one Emma’s being treated to now—good old Glower #7. Eyebrow arched, jaw set, mouth arranged in a disdainful slant that draws her gaze to the scar Regina’s lip gloss never even tries to conceal. Today’s shade is a sort of brownish pink, impossibly flattering in the hall’s fluorescent lighting. From her experience with Mary Margaret’s mountain of cosmetics, Emma figures it must be called something awful like caramel crush or peachberry swirl or apple cider creamsicle.
Great, now she’s hungry and tongue-tied.
The lips move.
“I’m waiting,” sighs Regina, her glare graduating from suspicious to scathing. “But please, feel free to waste more of my time before you explain.”
The words may be harsh, but at least they whip Emma’s sluggish tongue back into action. “Well, we have that assignment due on Thursday and I’ve got work this weekend, so it's gotta be Friday for me.”
“So glad you could fit me into your schedule,” Regina says, managing to look down her nose at Emma despite said nose being level with the base of the blonde’s neck. “You know that’s not what I meant. Don’t make me ask again.”
Emma’s pretty sure she could dodge the point a little longer if she tried, but poking the bear of Regina’s patience is a risky prospect at the best of times. In the past, that wouldn’t have stopped her from seeing how much she could inflate the other girl’s forehead vein, but today Emma’s nerves deny her even that minor pettiness.
“If-you’re-not-busy-we-should-hang-out-just-the-two-of-us.” She has to shove the words out in a single breath.
Watching Regina react is an education. Whatever her nemesis was wary of, Emma’s monosyllabic invitation blindsides her with almost visible force, sending ripples across her face as her features scramble for a proper response. The usual expression of cool superiority is melted away by flaming cheeks, jaw going slack for a split second before Regina snaps it shut and lifts her chin. The graceful column of her neck goes rigid, dislodging a lock of dark-chocolate hair that falls over her baffled brow.
This mix of shock and disbelief isn’t a state Emma’s seen before, and she thought she’d witnessed the breadth of Regina’s emotional repertoire. Annoyed, when Emma tipped her chair too far back and knocked the tower of notebooks off her desk. Shocked, when Emma topped her score on a delightful fluke of a pop quiz. Even gleeful, when Mary Margaret faceplanted in the middle of the hall and got gum on her favorite cardigan.
But flustered is a new one.
“I—” Regina’s voice cracks, another first. “I...” she tries again, but to Emma’s disappointment, the iron bands of her control clamp back into place halfway through the letter. “... don’t have time for this!” the brunette says, then turns and heads—flees, really—for the cafeteria. The crowd in the halls has thinned out, making it much easier for Emma to keep pace.
“I’m serious,” she says, a little offended. Definitely not hurt, hell no. That twinge in her gut is just a hunger cramp.
“I find that hard to believe,” huffs Regina, face aimed firmly forward. A curtain of glossy hair blocks Emma’s gaze, but she can still spy the incandescent cheeks on the other side. It’s not hard to imagine how Regina’s feeling right now: if their roles were reversed, Emma would be just as confused, just as angry. Of course, in her case there’d also be just a hint of But maybe... which is obviously out of the question here. She’s not sure if Regina shares Cora’s contempt for her family, or if it’s just a consequence of their bad first impression—and the equally abysmal second through ninety-ninth ones—but she doesn’t take it personal. There’s plenty not to like about Emma Swan; just ask her baker’s dozen of failed foster families.
“Don’t you ever think it’s weird we never see each other out of class?”
“Not particularly.”
“Oh, c’mon, I bet you’d be surprised at how much we have in common,” Emma tries.
Regina finally slows her pace, letting Emma walk next to her rather than scuttle along trying to catch her eye. “This I have to hear.”
“We both hate this town.” She starts with the easy ones. “We’re both math geniuses.”
“Hah.”
“We both think I’m hilarious.”
“Hah.”
“That counts!” Emma barely stops herself from pointing and grinning like a fool. “See?” She’s on a roll here, which naturally means...
“Plus neither of us understands what’s going on with my brother and Mary M—”
... that she can't help but fuck it all up. In her and Regina's ongoing hot-and-cold war, Mary Margaret is the Cuban missile crisis. Should Emma so much as hint at her existence—or god forbid, say her name—Regina’s mood rockets straight to DEFCON 2. The why is a mystery to Emma, who has very little context for their vendetta and at this point is too afraid to ask. She just knows that if she and Regina are America and the Soviet Union, then the stepsisters are the Axis and Allies. Which is which depends on who you ask.
Also, she’s totally acing next week’s history test.
Regina screeches to a halt, nearly clotheslining Emma as she shoots an arm into her path. “Mary Margaret?” she enunciates with fanged precision, venom dripping off all five syllables. “Does this have something to do with my insipid stepsister?”
Emma spares a mournful glance at the cafeteria doors just down the hall before dragging her gaze back down to Regina’s. Once she does, though, it’s impossible to look away. The inch of space between their eyes boils with the intensity of the smaller girl’s stare, her distrust looming over them both. Emma hitches one shoulder and clears her throat, as much to hide the leap in her breast as to dodge that accusatory glare.
“No...ot exactly?” She doesn’t mean for the last bit to leak out, but the faint fragrance of Regina’s apple shampoo proves even more bewitching than her eyes.
“Explain.” The fog in her brain thins slightly as Regina draws back, taking the heat with her. Her bag has slipped off her shoulder, now held up like a shield. Or possibly a bludgeon. “Now.”
Had Emma been inclined to listen to her brother, this would be the part where she dodged and deflected, insisting that she just wanted to show her nemesis a good time. Not the most convincing claim, but she suspects she could sell it. Maybe she’d even succeed, though all that would do was postpone Regina’s suspicions for an anguished reveal somewhere around the end of act two. Since neither she nor Regina is a complete idiot—nothing personal, David—Emma was never going for that plan. With the other girl’s guard somewhere in the stratosphere and showing no signs of dropping, she has little choice but to go with the truth.
Or most of it, anyway.
“You know Mary Margaret’s stepmom?” she begins, and immediately regrets her wording.
The look Regina gives her is torn between offense and disbelief. “Funnily enough, yes,” she says, dry enough to evaporate half of Storybrooke Bay. “I believe we’ve met. Just once or twice.” And there goes the other half.
Emma fights a wince. “Right. Well...”
When her explanation rambles to an end, Regina’s face could be carved from stone. “I see,” is her only response. Her voice is flat, eyes aimed over Emma’s shoulder into the middle distance. Several long seconds later, she returns to reality with a soft sigh, rubbing slow circles over her temples.
“I know she sees me as some sort of wicked stepsister—”
“The term used most often is ‘Evil Queen,’” Emma corrects, fighting a grin and losing.
“Of course,” mutters Regina. “My point is, Mary Margaret has no one but herself to blame for this ridiculous restriction of my mother’s. Well, herself and your corn-fed sap of a brother. I certainly didn’t agree to be the latest hurdle in their obstacle course of romance.”
Emma nods to herself as she digests this, ignoring the dig at David because... well, fair. “So you’ll help?” she says.
“No.” Regina manages to pack a short essay’s worth of scorn between those two letters. “I don’t see how any of this is my problem. Why should I subject myself to an evening of overplayed music and heteronormative grinding just so Mary Margaret can win yet another popularity contest?”
“It doesn’t have to be heteronormative,” Emma offers, which doesn’t seem to help much. “And not just one evening,” she goes for broke, eyeing the vein in Regina’s forehead as it approaches a new record. “We’d probably have to hang out a few times before, too. Y’know, to sell it to your mom.”
The scrunch of the shorter girl’s nose says it all. “Mother,” she says. “She couldn’t have just said no?”
Emma can only shrug. She doubts anything she has to say about Cora Mills will steer this conversation in a productive direction.
“I, however,” says Regina, “will make myself perfectly clear: I refuse to waste a month of my life playing the fool for that brat’s sake.” Her suspicious look returns to Emma. “So why are you?”
“Uh?” She plays deaf, fiddling with her flannel to dodge Regina’s spike of curiosity.
“What are you getting out of this?” the other girl presses.
“It’s... a long story,” attempts Emma, snatching at the sunbeam of a chance. “Why don’t we meet up and talk about it? Say... Friday afternoon?”
This draws another half-amused scoff from Regina, which she counts as a win. “You must really want whatever she’s offering,” the brunette muses. “It’s almost charming, this desperate harassment of yours.”
This time, Emma does wince. “Got it,” she says, shame rising in a hot flush up her throat. “Sorry I pushed.” A weak smile forms on her lips. “Hey, at least I can tell MM and David how much their idea sucked. I know you’ll love that.” She steps back, starting to turn away, but Regina stalls her with a hand.
“Or...” she purrs, mouth curling upward around a flash of teeth. Frozen in her tracks, Emma stares at an expression as far from Regina’s usual deadpan as it can be without migrating to the back of her skull. It fits the brunette’s fine features like an iron glove, a beautiful warning sign that Emma stares at like the sun. As brilliant as it is cruel, it makes Regina’s previous smirk look downright saintly, the glint in her eye alone wholly justifying Mary Margaret’s nickname. “Perhaps you tell them something else,” says the Evil Queen, “and we all get what we want.”
Emma doubts that very much, but she can only blink at Regina’s departing back, doing her best to memorize the image seared into her eyelids. By the time she finds her tongue, the other girl is nearly out of earshot.
“So is that a yes?” she calls, hopeful despite herself.
Regina half-turns, sinful smile still lingering in the curve of her cheek. “No.”
“Is that a no?”
The smile grows.
“No.”