Set about two years in the future, this story follows Emma and Mary Margaret's adventures into motherhood again.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

The short raps at the door startled the tall blonde woman from her work, her bright eyes narrowing as she tried to think who it could be that was stopping by without calling first. Dropping the stack of linens that she had been readying for the hallway closet of the new apartment, she stood and hurried to the thick wooden door. Her steps were quick as she darted around half-empty boxes and various items that she had yet to find a proper home.

"Coming," she called out when the sound of the fist on the door came again. "Be right there."

As she pulled open the door a middle aged man smiled at her and held a brown parcel out toward her gingerly. "Delivery for Killian and Emma Jones," he said, looking down at his clipboard. "Sign for it?"

Emma grinned and tried to balance both the package and the creased paper she was signing with her married name for probably only the seventh time since their wedding a few weeks ago. "Thank you," she said as the man pulled the clipboard away and headed down the metal stairs toward the parking lot.

She only stayed in the doorway a moment, regarding the cloudy sky and the sharp wind that had blown in during the latest storm threat. She was glad that they had finally finished unloading the truck and carrying in all the furniture, boxes, and as sundry items that now made up the contents of the apartment.

It had technically been three months since they took possession of the apartment, but other than a bed and a few kitchen items, they had not had time to actually move into the space. There had been the wedding to plan, the honeymoon to enjoy, and a work schedule that had left Emma too exhausted and annoyed to worry about decorating.

"Was someone at the door, love?" her husband asked as he emerged from the second bedroom. His one hand was holding a curtain rod that she had wanted hung for her son's benefit. She'd said she could do it, but he'd insisted that even one handed he could do the job. Close to an hour later he was still holding the rod and there was no curtain in sight.

"Delivery," she said, holding up the box. While she was not much for the attention that had been lavished upon her with showers and wedding parties, she did love presents. There was a childlike glow about her when she opened the stiff wrapping paper or dug into a decorative bag for some sort of surprise.

Leaning the rod against the wall, Killian joined his wife on the couch and admired the silver wrapping paper inside the brown parcel. With a grin, Emma tore into the paper and pushed it back to reveal what appeared to Killian to be a kitchen gadget of some sort. "Who sent us that thing?" he asked, trying to read the box's contents over her shoulder.

"Mrs. Pratt," Emma said, placing the food processor on the table in front of them and tossing the packaging to the side. "She lived next door to me in Boston and always said she was going to teach me to cook one day." Running her finger over the glossy packaging that talked about the various settings and uses for the device, Emma shook her head. "She overestimated by skill level."

"It is a nice gesture," he said, dropping a kiss against her cheek. "I believe you underestimate the number of people who care about you." It had been a long standing debate between them since he had proposed a few months ago. She had sworn that they could probably hold the wedding in her parents' living room for the lack of support they would get from the town's residents. Just the opposite had turned out to be true. The wedding and its preceding events had been the talk of Storybrooke, Maine. Everyone had wanted an invitation. Presents had arrived daily for weeks before the actual event and people still shouted out their congratulations to the couple whenever they went out in public. Even random text messages including photos of the wedding were still circulating.

"She was a good neighbor," Emma said, leaning back on the green sofa. Her eyes flashed about the room. "We're never going to get through all this stuff, you know?"

Killian's chuckle was loud as it bounced off the undecorated walls. "Perhaps we should have taken your mother's advice to have the dwarfs come to help us. They do seem to work well together." His bad arm wound over her shoulders and pulled her closer to him. "Or we could give up."

"A pirate captain surrendering?" she teased, slapping at his chest playfully. "You're going soft."

His hand came to her side and flicked at her to make her laugh from the ticklish movement. "You don't want to challenge me on that, darling. I think I could make you surrender far before me." His blue eyes darkened as she pushed back at him, his body towering over her as she slid onto her back and tried to catch her breath.

"That's not fair," she squealed as he continued the assault. Even with one hand he was overpowering her easily as she gasped for air under his ticklish attack. His breath was hot against her and she could feel his own laughter with her hands braced on his chest. "You….Fine…I give…"

He reared his head back to look down into her eyes, studying the sincerity of her admitted defeat. "So quickly?" he asked. "I thought you'd put up more of a fight."

She pouted a bit, but with her arms now looped over his shoulders instead, she was still not making a move to sit up. "You're not fair," she protested. "I can't help being ticklish."

He grinned brightly before dipping his head to brush his lips against hers. "That might be one of things I love about you," he said before kissing her a bit more urgently. "One of many."

"Is there a list?" Emma asked when he pulled back. "A long one, I hope."

"Aye," he said. "Grows longer every day."

***AAA***

Neal Nolan's face was streaked with tears as his mother, Mary Margaret attempted to carry him and a bag from pharmacy into the loft. His crying was not a new thing, as he had been throwing tantrums daily for a few weeks whenever something did not go his way. The loft felt hot to her as she pushed open the door and her face flushed at the exertion and temperature.

The blonde haired toddler waved one first through the air and gripped his mother's damp shirt with the other as he wailed inconsolably at the injustice of her insistence upon a nap. "No nap!" he cried out as she kicked the door shut behind them. "No nap!"

Mary Margaret was a patient woman, sometimes to a fault. She loved her job as mayor and loved motherhood even more, but after two and a half years of life balancing the two she was ready for a vacation. She knew she should be grateful, as she had a loving and supportive husband who did more than his fair share of the heavy lifting. David Nolan was constantly arranging carpools with the other parents, changing diapers, instilling potty training schedules, and insisting that his wife get a night or two away from the drudgery of parenthood.

As she lowered her son to his bed, trying to catch his kicking feet to remove the small sneakers, she reminded herself that she had wanted this. She wanted children and to be a mother more than anything. She'd had the opportunity once with Emma, but that had been lost in the curse and never fully regained when their 28 year old daughter had returned to their lives in Storybrooke.

"Sweetie," she pleaded as her son's wet cheeks turned crimson with anger. "Please stop fighting me." She felt horrible to be pleading with a toddler for a few moments of quiet and sanity, a foolish move in what felt like a constant power struggle. The toddler paused for a moment like he was considering her request and then launched a shoe foot back at her with a resounding denial.

She'd read all the books on parenting in the town's library, some of them more than once. Emma had helped her look up techniques and suggestions on the Internet. Even the mommy group she belonged to threw out opinions and recommendations on everything from finicky eating habits to assuaging fears of the dark. She should be equipped and ready for this, but she felt woefully so unprepared sometimes that she considered throwing her own tantrum right next to her son.

Backing away from the bed, she cringed as his chubby hands grabbed for her and came up empty. Her heart felt torn with the sight of him wanting for anything that she was denying him. But the books said this was necessary. Her feet stumbled as she cleared the doorway and pulled the door shut to the sound of his yowls for reprieve from his afternoon nap. Over and over she repeated to herself that he was not hurt or in any real distress.

Her phone ringing startled her as she lowered herself to the top step. Pulling it out of her pocket, she looked down at the smiling picture of her daughter. "Emma," she said, hoping that her overly perceptive daughter did not hear the frustration and anguish in her voice.

"Is everything alright?" Emma asked immediately. Of course she could hear the wavering quality of her mother's voice and the muted screams of her brother.

"It's just nap time drama," Mary Margaret answered. "Where are you? I thought you were working at the apartment today."

"We are," Emma said. "I just thought I'd check in and see how things were there. Also wanted to know if you and Dad wanted to grab a bite one night this week."

Mary Margret's stomach lurched at the thought of food, which was odd for her. She loved food and actually had spent much of her time in Storybrooke learning more about the culinary arts. She had not actual career plans for it, but had found that she enjoyed the process more than anything. "That's a good idea," she said to her daughter slowly. "I'll check with David."

"Are you alright?" Emma asked. "Is it that stupid stomach bug that's going around? I swear everyone's got it."

"I suppose," Mary Margaret said, her hand cradling her forehead. "Nothing that a few hours of sleep wouldn't cure."

Emma laughed. "I can imagine. Killian's picking up some lunch for us at Granny's right now. I could have him swing by with something for you."

"No, thank you though," Mary Margaret said. "I should probably stay away from grease and fat. I don't think my stomach could take it."

Emma made her mother promise to call if anything was needed, telling her that she would gladly babysit her baby brother any time that was needed. Being married to one sheriff and the mother of another one, she was well used to being cared for and protected. Still, Mary Margaret was a tough woman in her own right. She pulled herself up to a standing position and smiled as she realized that her son's cries were no longer audible.

Using the time she had been granted, she picked up a few of the items around the loft and then lowered herself to the bed she shared with her husband. Baby monitor next to her, she drifted off with the hope that she would feel better in the morning.