"Dance with me." [ quietly makes up for all the angst with extreme fluff. ]
「 send “dance with me” to pull my muse in for a slow dance」
his hand grasps her own, tugging gently. he has the strength to pull her in to his arms but he gives her a choice, and that’s what she loves about him. she resists at first, shakes her head and blushes, tries to slip her hand from his but he’s persistent, and tugs again, and regina bites her lip, glances over her shoulder before rising. they’re in public, in the diner celebrating zelena’s defeat and it’s not that she doesn’t want to dance with him, it’s just that they’ve never been very open about their relationship.
sure, everyone knows they’re together. that he’s hers and she’s his. but the affectionate, intimate moments are usually reserved for behind closed doors. they’re not her friends, they’re not his — for a long time, she was their enemy and they were her subjects. publicising their relationship terrifies her. she’s selfish and possessive, and she doesn’t want to share what they have with the world because what they have is so much more than 'true love'.
her eyes flit to henry, panic beginning to shine through ebony hues and fenrir’s hand tightens around her own. he won’t push her, won’t force her to do something she doesn’t want to do but that’s the problem. she wants to, she really does — but she’s not sure she’s ready to let everyone else watch. so she searches for her son, needs something familiar to ground her and he smiles, nods his head and she smiles back, turns to look up at fenrir and god, he’s tall. she’s in near seven inch heels and he’s still a good foot taller than her. they’ll look ridiculous, and regina refuses to let that happen.
it’s about time they met the woman who raised the saviour’s son, right?
letting go of fenrir’s hand, she holds her own up with one finger raised, asking for a moment as she moves to henry’s side, rests her hand on his shoulder and kicks off her heels. her hand slides up henry’s neck, palm resting against one cheek as she kisses the other and he should feel embarrassed, because he’s almost thirteen and kissing your mother in public is social suicide, but he only smiles, turns to her and whispers in her ear 'breathe, mom' and she does. she smiles at him once more, before returning to fenrir and he’s definitely a foot taller than her now, almost two. she ignores the looks, the dull in conversation as she holds out her hand and he takes it, tugs her forward and she stands on his toes, rising on her own. she’s shorter than she was before, but for some reason, it’s different.
she has to stretch to wrap her arms around his neck, and she’s suddenly thankful for those years of dance lessons her mother put her through as a child otherwise standing on her toes like she is right now would be a lot more painful. he helps a little, his own arms winding around her waist and she can rest back if she wants, knows that he’ll hold her up and she trusts him not to let her fall.
( it’s now they all realise just how short she really is. regina, in reality, is tiny. but the gowns and the heels and the hair and the attitude often made her appear larger than life, intimidating and powerful. but henry’s nearly taller than her, and they’ve only just noticed… )
he has no idea what he’s doing, of course. and if she’d known he wanted to dance with her, in full view of at least half the town, she’d have given him lessons beforehand, but now he has to follow her lead — even if she’s standing on his toes. biting her lip to hide a smile as fenrir looks down, leans back so their chests don’t touch and he can actually see the ground, regina shakes her head. “ just sway, fen. i don’t think they’re expecting you to waltz."
it’s her voice that gets to snow. has her lifting her head from her newborn son, only to find regina with a smile she’s only seen twice. because regina’s voice is soft, and light, and her smile isn’t all that different, and snow’s never seen regina with fenrir beyond sarcastic snarls and biting comments. they’re so alike, the two of them, and when regina gets smart with snow, fenrir follows. and of course, vice versa.
fenrir sways for the both of them, because he’s both stronger than regina, and currently the only thing holding her up. the panic and the nerves that had claimed regina’s head and heart fade, so do everyone watching them, as she turns her head and rests her temple against fenrir’s chest. his arm rises, moves from around her waist to over her shoulder, so his hands can run through her growing hair and they kind of just — stand there. his chin rests on top of her head and her eyes are closed until they open slowly, a small smile curving her lips and her gaze meets snow’s, who looks like she’s about to cry. 'true love is magic' lingers between them, words a girl long gone had whispered to a girl who cried. what they have, regina and fenrir, it may be complicated and foreboding, it may not be true love but something so much stronger, but it’s a magic all it’s own and snow seems to agree.
so regina smiles. any other day, she’d have rolled her eyes. she’d have scowled and muttered something insulting and tacked ‘brat’ on the end for good measure before pulling away from fenrir and closing herself off again. but regina’s comfortable, and warm, and happy, so the smile that fenrir put on her lips, the smile usually reserved for him and henry, stays for snow.
she’s startled though, surprised when fenrir moves, grasps her hand and holds it up, urges her to spin and maybe she shouldn’t make him watch rom coms with her on friday nights… or maybe she should. because she does as requested, turns slowly, she had to step on to the floor to do so, before he tugs her closer again and regina grins, feels laughter break from her lips as they hold hands. they widen, outstretched to the side and they kind of just rock from side to side before she drops his hands and moves forward, wraps her arms around his waist and rests her temple on his chest, and they’re hugging.
