A/N: Not my usual angst and darkness, but rather just a light bit of holiday fluffery. Written for the SQ Board Secret Santa. Enjoy!

Warning:Some mild language/sexual situations.

No matter what it seems like lately, the former Evil Queen doesn't always need to be saved by Emma Swan. And quite frankly, it's all starting to get just a little bit ridiculous anyway.

Yes, sure, all of the great stories that have been passed down through the ages love to focus on warriors from the Light rescuing damaged souls from the Dark.

And, yeah, okay so there's probably even some mild – if overstated - validity to all of that obnoxious self-congratulatory righteous bleating, but really, she can't imagine that this was what they'd had in mind. She can't see how the White Knight saving the Evil Queen from a sore tailbone thanks to sheets of slippery ice is important. She can't imagine that such a save was what the poets and literary bozos had had been thinking about while they'd been swilling cheap homemade liquor and penning incredibly one-sided half-assed overly moralistic tales.

Ahem.

Apparently, try as she might, Regina is not quite over her dark feelings about those writers and the way they've chosen to turn her into a one-note villain who'd spent most of her days sitting upon her throne cackling and preening. Memo to self, she thinks with a hint of bitterness, best to talk to Archie about how terribly awful it would be to sponsor a mass book burning of everything by those Grimm idiots.

Yeah, that would be just awful.

Or perhaps a lot of fun. Weird how this thought brings a smile to her weather chapped lips. A smile that promptly flies away when she starts thinking about annoying heroes and dastardly villains once more.

And when she remembers that she's been saved. Again.

This save involves her being pretty much stretched out horizontally as she lies backwards (she's struck be a fleeting memory of an almost grotesquely flexible Henry showing her how he could do London Bridges when he'd been four or five years of age) against Emma's strong arms. To her horror, the former queen finds that her body is twisted awkwardly – though not painfully - beneath her as she struggles in vain to maintain some degree of dignity and/or style.

"Fuck," Regina growls out, and it's perhaps the most unladylike curse (swear, she reminds herself, curses are the things that end up sending whole worlds to quaint little fishing towns on the coast of Maine) that she's allowed to slip from between her perfectly glossed (if slightly chattering) lips in over twenty-eight years. At least in public (her secretary when she'd been mayor will be the first to tell anyone willing to listen that her former boss had known quite a few creative terms with which to show her displeasure). But really, considering the bright red flush on her checks which perfectly announces her surging feelings of humiliation and embarrassment, well she thinks that maybe the word is well warranted.

Unfortunately for her, her rather amused Savior thinks otherwise. "Regina," Emma scolds, sounding almost nervous, her green eyes glancing around. There are people watching from every angle of Town Square, a few of them not even bothering to try to hide their amusement or shock. Some lady with pink hair puts her hand over her mouth. A young man points and laughs. Oh, but if looks could kill, Emma thinks as she watches her older lover glare at the foolish boy. Well, frankly speaking, if they could, that kid – and his smoking remains - could be used to warm and light the entire town of Storybrooke for about a year.

Not exactly a pleasant visual, Emma muses with a bit of a frown. She makes a mental note to speak to Archie about how to best deal with Regina's high sensitivity to being made fun of. Best to have a good plan of attack, she thinks.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

"Oh what's wrong, dear?" the brunette former queen snaps out, as she tries to right herself, but finds herself unable to do so thanks to the now broken heel of her four inch boots (perhaps Emma had been right and style shouldn't have won out over function, but then, when is Emma ever right?) "Never heard the word before?" Regina laughs then, a decidedly cold and derisive sound. Due to the nature of their relationship, though, it lacks its usual bite and mostly just comes off as petulant. "What am I thinking? It's you. Of course you have."

"Now now, Your Majesty, I'm not the one who made you fall ass over heels. Oh wait, maybe I am the one who did that," the blonde reminds her with a not at all subtle wink and a smirk that's just shy of absolutely infuriating. For half a moment, Regina actually wishes she was still the Evil Queen of old, complete with her full arsenal of devastating dark magic. Were she still that woman, she could easily wipe the shit-eating grin off of her lovers' face. And then some.

Of course, there are much more…entertaining ways to wipe that look off.

Ways that won't end up with the blonde's intolerable parents pounding away at her door, weeping and sobbing and generally acting…well, intolerable.

Well she thinks with just a hint of malice, perhaps she'll spare them a thought later when she's defiling their little girl. Actually, no, maybe not.

"You are the one laughing at me," Regina grumbles out finally, and she's just a little bit horrified to hear the childish whine in her own voice. It's rather obnoxious the different emotions and feelings that the blonde has brought out in her.

"Were it me on my ass, you would still be laughing," Emma reminds her.

"Yes, probably," Regina admits. "But that would actually be funny. Unlike this."

"Uh huh. Whatever you say. Now, if you're done pouting – and yes, you do pout - would you like to stand up or would you prefer everyone keep staring at us all the while wondering why you're lying in my arms and cursing up a storm?"

"I am not lying in your arms," Regina hisses. Her eyes dart around then, and suddenly she's looking for anyone who might be wondering what Emma had suggested. Thankfully, the detestable gawkers have lost interest in them. Only a few fools continue to gaze their way. She thinks she sees drool dripping down from the mouth of one of them. Or maybe he always looks so dumb, she can't quite remember and doesn't really care to try.

"Sure you're not," Emma chuckles. "Come on, up we go."

Arms wrap around her waist, and then suddenly Regina finds herself once again standing, both feet planted firmly on the ground. Well, as firmly as they can be considering the badly mangled heel of her boot. She scowls at the expensive shoe as if it's done her as much wrong as Snow White had ever done her.

"We can go home," Emma says softly, suddenly. Looking slightly nervous about doing this in public (folks know about them, but it's still a bit weird for everyone – including the couple themselves – to be so open about their relationship with each other), the blonde then slides a hand up to the former queen's cheek, her thumb tracing her cheekbone. "It's okay. I know you don't want to be here." And that's absolutely true; this is the very last place in the world that Regina hadn't wanted to be. Out here with a town full of people who hate her.

Still, Regina finds herself frowning in response to Emma's offer. She knows that Emma has been looking forward to this weird little makeshift Winter Festival that the town had decided to put on for weeks now. She'd called it an opportunity to be normal. It'd been sold as a chance for everyone in this crazy little place to relax and enjoy the seasonal holidays with each other.

And standing close to a stand giving away cups of hot chocolate, it's hard for Regina to argue with Emma's words. Here, in the middle of this carnival of snow and ice and peppermint everything, no one is a legendary character out of a storybook. Here, they're just every day people laughing and making fools of themselves as they try to have a good time. As they try to be happy. And all they want is to share this….happiness…with each other.

She knows it's what Emma wants as well.

"No," Regina sighs, even though she'd desperately like to say "yes". Right now, were it up to her, they'd be back at the mansion, in front of a roaring fire. Henry would be nearby (instead of attempting to break a bone at the ice rink that Charming had built) and it would just be the three of them. Just their little family.

But Emma wants more than that. She wants the big family, and she doesn't want to have to choose, and as much as Regina would love to lock both Emma and Henry away and keep them all to herself, she knows that she owes Emma more.

It's the whole damn having saved her thing again.

It really is a giant pain in the ass.

"No, we should stay," Regina states.

"But your boots…"

"I believe that there are some sneakers in my trunk," Regina grits out, and it pains her to even say these words because those brightly colored (but insanely expensive) shoes had been bought to go with running pants (fashionable ones) so that she could conduct her morning jog comfortably (only around her own neighborhood, of course, the very idea of people – beyond Emma - seeing her sweaty is mortifying), but now, they'll be paired off of dress slacks and a sweater.

Gross.

"Sneakers?" Emma teases. She backs down when Regina tosses her an exasperated look that seems to say "don't push your luck, Miss Swan". Then, with a careless shrug that only Emma can pull off, "How about we skip the sneakers and go for ice skates instead. I bet Henry would love for us to join him out there." She motions over towards the rink, which is covered with kids.

"I think not. One near fall onto my ass is enough for one day," Regina answers, her mind flashing through a thousand images of her on her butt, and everyone around her laughing. There are limits to what she will endure, even for Emma.

"Fine," Emma shrugs, and Regina is thankful that the blonde doesn't seem upset nor surprised by the refusal. "Go grab your sneakers. I'm going to go skate."

"Very well. I hope you fall on your ass, dear." It's a bit nasty, and kind of a mean-hearted sentiment, but if her intent is to upset Emma (and honestly, it really isn't, she's just in a bit of a cranky mood right about now), it fails miserably.

"Oh, I'm sure I'll have a couple of falls at first. It's been a while since I've skated, but you know me, I'm a natural with hard stubborn things," Emma grins, then reaches out, cops a quick feel of the former queen's backside (enough to earn her a glare that's more indignant than furious), laughs once more and then races over towards the ice rink. "Henry," she calls out. It's a bit ridiculous, a bit absurd. And much to Regina's annoyance, she finds it rather hopelessly endearing.

"Fuck," Regina growls once more, this time much lower and practically inaudibly, before she turns and stomps (well, hobbles, really) back towards her Mercedes. She spares half a moment to send a withering glance towards some idiot citizen who is still staring at her in open-mouthed shock. And if she happens to maybe flick her wrist at him? Well Emma's not around to see it. Or scold her for it.

And yeah, even though it probably shouldn't (she is a former Evil Queen in rehab, after all) just maybe it feels just a little bit good to scare the shit out of someone for a few fleeting moments.

She shrugs her shoulders, then.

Because you know what? Some habits die hard.

Life is inherently unfair. Regina Mills has known this – and suffered through it – for a very long time now. That said, there are some rather interesting equalizers that have a way of popping up from time to time. One of these is the fact that Emma Swan isn't actually as graceful as her last name might suggest.

In fact, the beautiful blonde is a downright klutz and a half.

Which makes Regina – now outfitted in ridiculous sneakers instead of stylish boots – grin entirely too much. She's not at all a good sport about Emma's clear inability to skate even a foot before falling down, and the downright predatory (like a cat stalking a mouse) expression covering her face is evidence of such.

"Where exactly did you say that you'd learned to skate, Miss Swan?" Regina queries, a perfect eyebrow lifting up. "From one of your mothers' dwarves? Dopey, perhaps?" she adds, just to rub it in a little bit more.

"Hilarious," Emma groans, all the while wondering if one can actually break their ass while trying to impress their clearly unimpressed eleven-year-old son. With a deep breath, she stands up again, takes a forward steps, and stumbles back down.

"Oh, Em," Ruby says from where she's standing a few feet away, leaning over the rail with a steaming cup in her hands.

It's Henry who makes it even worse, though. "Emma, maybe we should…" he suggests, motioning away from the rink. He's actually got a bit of style, and until his blonde mother had shown up, he'd actually been charming (no pun intended) the hell out of the girls in his class. Or what passes for such when you're his age.

His mom skating with him, and ending up repeatedly on her ass had pretty much killed all of that. Now, it's just the two of them in their little corner of the ice.

"One more round around the rink," Emma insists as she pushes herself back up to her feet, wincing as she does so. Her eyes connect with Regina's, and she can't quite help the defiant expression she throws back at her amused lover.

"Have you actually made it around the rink, dear?" the brunette queries, unable to stop the maddening smirk she's wearing from spreading so that it's practically in her hairline. Her dark eyes glisten with something that might be just a little bit malevolent. It's quite clear that she's having entirely too much fun with this.

"Yes," Emma answers, and it's the worst damned lie ever told.

"No," Henry says with a shake of his head. "Really, no."

"I thought not. Perhaps you should listen to our eleven-year-old son and get off the ice before you hurt yourself more. Or anyone else."

"Thanks for the concern, Regina, but I got this," Emma retorts. Her eyes are still locked with Regina's, and yeah, this is their typical contest of wills.

Apparently the holiday season doesn't actually call for truces and goodwill to men and women everywhere. Especially not between these two.

"By all means then Sheriff," the former queen nods as she rubs her leather gloved hands together. She looks at her son, whose own expression is somewhat fearful. Not of her for once, but rather of what kind of crash Emma is going to skate her way into next. "Henry, perhaps you might want to stand back a few inches so that you don't get taken out when your mother…well you know."

"Yeah," he says. "I think you're right."

"Hey!" Emma protests. "You're on my side, kid."

"Yeah," he repeats. "But you're kind of dangerous right now." He motions around. "Notice how everyone else around us has…taken off?"

Emma growls at that. "I can do this." Then, glaring right at Regina. "I can."

"Of course, you can. Shall I go find your parents so that you have a cheering section?" Regina suggests, and it's obvious to Emma that this is absolutely payback for being amused by the former queen's earlier trip and fall. The whole Savior catch had apparently just made it that much worse for her.

And turnaround? Well it's always fair play for Regina Mills.

"No. I don't need a cheering section. I have Ruby and Henry."

"You do," Henry nods, but he's already stepping off the ice and joining Regina.

"So I see. Traitor." Once he shrugs his shoulders in resignation, she sighs. "Fine. Don't believe me. I'll be right back."

"Good luck," Ruby says. It occurs to Emma that the waitress is the only one of her friends who has stuck around to watch the carnage. Probably for the best.

"Thank you, Ruby. I appreciate that." She takes a deep breath then, and pushes herself up and out, her skated up feet gliding forward on the hard cold ice.

A moment later, she meets the hard – and suddenly very cold and wet - ground again with her terribly sore backside. "Dammit," Emma hisses, trying desperately to block out the sound of the former queen's victorious laughter.

She can't, though.

She groans, drops her head back and mutters, "Fuck."

Regina's house is – thankfully - quite warm and cozy. The apple cider rested between her cold palms is hot and fragrant, and the sound of Henry prattling on about how much fun he'd had at the Winter Festival is music to her ears. She actually hears very little of what he's saying, but the words don't really matter. What does is the energy and joy and happiness that she hears in his voice.

One look over at Regina, and she knows that the older woman is hearing the same thing, and having the same pleasant thoughts that she is.

Finally, after they've been told about a snowball fight with his classmates (which had abruptly ended when Snow and Charming had accidentally wandered into the middle of it which had resulted in them getting pelted by about half a dozen hopped up on too much sugar ten and eleven year olds – a revelation which earns a somewhat malicious chuckle from Regina), the brunette says with what sounds like a reluctant sigh, "All right, Henry, you've had quite the night. I think maybe it's time to turn in. Why don't you head up and brush your teeth?

"Really? Do I have to?" and his eyes skitter over towards Emma. That Regina's expression only flickers for a moment or two is quite the improvement, the blonde thinks. Now, this isn't about choosing his birth mother over his adoptive one. No, this is simply a matter of a child playing two parents off each other.

And failing miserably at it.

Emma snorts in response. "Don't even try it, kid. Upstairs. Now."

He lets out a petulant sigh, "Fine." And then he's up and galloping out of the room. It's a sign of how content Regina is that she doesn't even yell at him not to run in the house. Actually, she chuckles to herself and shakes her head.

"Thank you," Emma says suddenly, sliding her body very close to Regina's, an arm looping lazily around the former queen. They're completely in front of the warm fire now, and in the back of her head, Emma's thinking this might be a great way to get rid of the rest of the chill she feels. It'd probably be good idea to get rid of her still slightly damp clothes, and really, what better place then here?

"Hm?" Regina queries, glancing at her, flames dancing across her olive skin.

"For coming with us tonight. And for staying even after your…fall."

Regina shrugs. "If I hadn't, I would have missed your…falls."

"True, and thank you for reminding me of those, but I'm still glad you were there. I know you're not yet comfortable around everyone."

"You mean because most of them would still like to string me up?"

"They need time to forgive."

"As do I, dear." Said so very quietly.

"I know," Emma nods. "Which makes what you did today mean even more."

"Don't go getting all sentimental on me," Regina cautions, but the words are relatively empty, devoid of the bitterness, which had once dripped over them.

"God forbid."

Regina rolls her eyes. "Come on, let's go say goodnight to Henry."

It's while Emma's hugging Henry, and telling him to sleep well and have great dreams that Regina notices that the blonde sheriff is still shivering. She waits until they're outside of his room to say softly, "You're cold."

"Just a bit. It was freezing out there."

"And you did hit the ice enough times," Regina says with a satisfied nod.

"You're not going to let me live that down, are you?"

"Not a chance." She sighs then, as if she's making her next words sound like a bit of a chore. "I suppose we should get you warmed up before you catch something." She arches her eyebrow. "I don't share my bed with sick people."

If it's her intent is to sound indifferent or disinterested in Emma, she fails miserably because suddenly, the blonde is grinning damn near ear to ear. "Uh huh. So what did you have in mind to warm me up with?"

"A shower."

"I was thinking in front of the fire, but okay," Emma answers as she steps closer.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Miss Swan," Regina scolds. "A hot shower. By yourself." She then wiggles her eyebrows. "What you do in there is up to you."

"Yeah, so I'm thinking no."

"Really? You are?"

"I'm thinking you're going to join me." And then she's leaving no actual room for debate by leaning in and crashing her mouth against Regina's. The soft grunt she hears is enough for her to reach her hands under the brunette's shirt.

"Cold," Regina whispers as the sheriff's freezing hands connect with her skin.

"Feels warm to me," Emma answers as she pulls Regina's shirt off completely.

Regina just groans in response. She tries to say something else, but it's absolutely incoherent to her as well. Not that it actually matters what she's saying right now because it's cold and the air is puckering and prickling her suddenly naked skin and she just doesn't care about anything except for Emma's mouth.

That is until she's under the warm spray of the shower, Emma's lips now sealed over her pulse point, a hand on a breast and another hand between her legs.

"Fuck," she growls, her head thrown back against the cold wet tile.

And then Emma laughs. "All you had to do was ask, Your Majesty. Consider it your reward for coming with me tonight."

"Suddenly, I'm very glad I did," Regina stammers as her vision starts to swirl, and colors begin to dance around in front of her eyes. There's a pressure building low in her stomach, and she wonders for half a moment if a person can actually explode and implode all at the same exact time.

She thinks that maybe – just maybe – they can.

"Me, too," Emma answers before capturing her lips again.

The last thought that Regina has before she completely loses the ability to think at all is that she really needs to do whatever has to be done in order to make sure that this Winter Festival becomes an annual tradition around Storybrooke.

Thankfully, Emma has the exact same thought.

-Fin.