Notes: So this was inspired by a gifset made by the amazing adventuresinstorybrooke on Tumblr (you should follow her blog, it's amazing). The dialogue in the first scene is verbatim from this gifset. This is dedicated to her and misscam, who seems like she needs some cheering up.
I have also taken some liberties with the FTL timeline. Don't sue me!
Disclaimer: I own pretty much nothing.
On Three
Mary Margaret rushes to Emma's office, the angry red circles glaring at her from her day-planner still plaguing her mind. The anxiety has been building for days, but when a week has passed, she finds the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach to have gnawed through her last nerve, evidenced by her mismatched gloves and the crooked angle at which her blouse is buttoned. She finds Emma alone at her desk, about to dig into a bowl of fruit loops.
"Is your father here?" she asks breathlessly, looking around for any sign of her husband.
"No," Emma frowns in response, taking in her mother's haggard appearance. "He took Henry to the stables. What on earth happened to you?"
Mary Margaret glances around the corner one last time, then gently pushes the door closed. "Emma, I need your help."
Emma takes the opportunity to scoop a spoonful of cereal into her mouth, and talks around it as politely as she can. "What do you need?"
Mary Margaret takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, her mind still adjusting to the idea of having this conversation with her daughter of all people. "I'm late."
There's a plunking sound as Emma's fruit loops fall back into the bowl, completely forgotten.
Seeing her reaction, Mary Margaret panics, talking fast and pacing. "But I don't know what to tell your father. I mean, we've sort of been trying, but ..." She sighs. 'Sort of' is the key word, and 'trying' is probably a misstatement. It might be more honest to say 'not not-trying' but that's a mouthful and she needs help now. She sees the traumatized look on Emma's face and winces. "I know this is probably making you uncomfortable, but it's been three years now and I just-"
Emma finally recovers. "You think you're pregnant," she clarifies, and Mary Margaret bites her lip, a hopeful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Why don't you just take a test?"
Mary Margaret blinks. "A what?"
Emma has apparently switched into problem-solving mode, a trait she must have inherited from her father. "A pregnancy test. You can't tell me you don't remember those from your days under the curse."
"Right," Mary Margaret says. "A test." She'd thought of this, of course, when there had only been two days worth of nerves in her gut, but the thought of David or Emma (or – heaven forbid – Henry) finding it told her it was best to wait. In all her worrying, she'd completely forgotten. But now, another thought crosses her mind. She sits on the edge of her daughter's desk, and folds her arms across her abdomen. "But would you be okay with this?" she asks hopefully. "With us having another child?"
Emma seems to hesitate for a moment, turning her attention back to her breakfast. "You've been the greatest parents, but I'm an adult," she says, stirring her now-soggy cereal in slow, contemplative circles. "You deserve a chance to do the fun baby things." She looks up and offers her mother a wan smile. "It would make me happy to see you guys happy."
She may not have Emma's lie-detecting superpower, but Mary Margaret knows her daughter well enough to know this isn't the whole truth. She thinks perhaps this is why she chose to consult Emma first, her subconscious wanting her daughter to have time to adjust to the idea. But there is still truth in Emma's words, and she seems genuinely happy, if but a little shocked. Relieved, she sighs, "Good lord, could this really be happening?"
Emma's smile grows. "Take a test and find out."
–
Red is the first to know, then Granny. They sense it on her in the way only wolves can. Snow has had her own suspicions for nearly two weeks, but it isn't until Granny casts on a length of thick wool – smiling knowingly at her – that she knows. The blanket grows slowly, row after row of neat stitches coming together inconspicuously enough, that is until Charming asks Granny who it's for. They meet that night in the kitchens, Snow and Red and Granny, long after the staff has retired for the day.
"You haven't told him yet?" Red asks immediately, in lieu of greeting.
"Of course not," Snow replies, slipping into her chair and accepting a steaming mug of hot cocoa from Granny. She's frazzled beyond comprehension, and finds sitting in denial the easiest option at her disposal. "What am I supposed to say?"
Red raises her hands, words apparently failing her for a moment. "Anything?" she says at last. "Anything at all."
Snow takes a sip of her cocoa and grimaces. "Needs cinnamon."
Granny smiles warmly and sprinkles a generous amount into Snow's mug.
Red sits beside her friend, grasping her hand warmly. "Snow," she implores. "Why are you so frightened to tell him? He'll be delighted, you know that."
Snow sighs, wondering exactly why she's hidden the existence of their unborn child. With each passing day, she feels her daughter's presence more acutely; a rush of pure joy welling up and spilling over into her very limbs. But as the love for her child builds, she senses a growing burden of responsibility, an impending darkness that threatens her dreams and takes root at the back of her mind. It consumes her, her every thought grounded in one motive: to keep her child safe.
"If you don't tell him soon," Red warns, "he'll find out on his own."
"I'll tell him before it comes to that," Snow promises.
–
Mary Margaret finds herself at the drug store without knowing how she got there. She takes a moment to locate the proper aisle, having not visited the family planning department since her disastrous, cursed affair with David Nolan. She finds it, and passes through the baby aisle, trying to seem as inconspicuous as possible.
"Snow!"
She cringes at first, until she recognizes Ella – Ashley – leading little Alexandra by the hand, her newborn swaddled against her chest.
"Hey," she smiles, crouching to meet Alexandra, who comes running forward for a hug.
"Auntie Snow!" the toddler squeals, and Mary Margaret's arms are suddenly full of little girl. She finds herself blinking back tears for no reason at all.
"Hi, honey," she replies, then pushes the child away to get a better look at her. "My, look how big you're getting! How old are you now?"
Ashley gently nudges her daughter, who, after counting and re-counting, presents three fingers to Mary Margaret. "Three," she says finally.
Mary Margaret smiles and stands up again, Alexandra hugging her leg. She gazes longingly at the sleeping infant snuggled against Ashley's chest, using every ounce of her self-control not to take the child into her arms. "Looks like you have your hands full," she says instead.
Ashley sighs, her exhaustion clearly visible, but there's a glow about her still shining through. "You have no idea."
That stings, even though Mary Margaret knows her friend would never mean to hurt her, because she really doesn't have any idea. Sure, Emma is still a handful, and teenage Henry presents a whole new set of challenges, but Mary Margaret has never felt the satisfied exhaustion of chasing a toddler through a store, or stumbling out of bed at three in the morning to nurse a hungry infant. She's missed it all, and the thought tugs at her heart.
Ashley doesn't notice the flicker of a frown cross her friend's face, too caught up in the hectic workings of her own life, and changes the subject. "So how are things with you? Are you looking for something?" She gestures around at the aisle of diapers and bottles.
"Ah," Mary Margaret falters, trying her best not to give herself away (although she's always been a terrible liar). "Just something back there," she says, gesturing vaguely to the rear of the aisle, because, after all, that is where she's headed.
Ashley turns to see, then casts Mary Margaret a scandalous grin. "Oh, I see," she says, mirth in her voice. "Well, I'd better get going. I'm sure you'll have a great night tonight." She takes Alexandra by the hand and leads her toward the check-out counter, giggling.
Mary Margaret catches the fading sound of Alexandra's voice as they walk away. "Mommy, what's so funny?"
She frowns and glances further down the aisle, only to find a large display advertising a sale on some sort of sensual massage oil. She leans her forehead against the nearest shelf, trying to remember the last time she'd been this mortified.
–
Snow finishes dressing for bed, and runs her fingers through her hair, tugging gently at the snarls as they catch. As she slips under the covers, she catches sight of her husband in the doorway, his silhouette framed in moonlight. "Here I was thinking you were never coming to bed," she teases, and holds out her arms.
Charming is silent a moment, then steps into the candlelight, holding out a simple stuffed toy bear, a gift ribbon tied round its neck. "Is there something I should know?" he asks, his tone unreadable.
Snow finds herself breathless and at a loss for words. She stares at him, and he stares back, until she finally breaks, unable to fight back the tearful smile that's threatened her so long.
"So it's true?" he breathes, his grip on the bear tightening.
She nods, because she still can't find the words, and then she's crying. "Yes," she whispers, then laughs. "Yes."
The stuffed bear drops to the floor, forgotten, as he lunges forward and crashes into her, his fingers threading through her hair. His lips meet hers and he pushes her back against the pillows, his giddiness spilling into her.
"What will we name him?" he asks later, brushing his fingertips against her cheek.
She smiles devilishly at that. "You seem so convinced we're to have a boy," she teases. "What if we have a girl? What then?"
At that he smiles fondly and presses a kiss to her forehead. "Then I will love her even more."
–
She has false memories of Mary Margaret's years in college, of running to the drug store for condoms and leaving with about twelve other innocuous items that might make the trip seem less shameful (it never did). More recently, she'd done the same throughout her affair with David Nolan (still didn't help). At least back then, she'd been Miss Blanchard, small-town sweetheart and schoolteacher, not very popular around the gossip mills. Things aren't as simple now, and the last thing she needs is news of her pregnancy test to spread to David before she can even take it.
Lucky for her, the owner of the drug store is one of the few residents of Storybrooke who doesn't always remember who she is. Sneezy – Tom Clark – has been recovering from his ill-fated trip across the town line, and regains and loses his memories in waves. Selfishly, she hopes today is a bad day, and deposits her basket of miscellaneous items, complete with pregnancy test, on the counter.
Tom smiles at her, sneezes messily into the crook of his elbow, then greets her, "How are you today?"
Mary Margaret smiles back, certain she's lucked out. "Well enough. Yourself?"
Tom makes a noncommittal noise and begins scanning the items – a toothbrush, some shampoo, aspirin, a box of tissues. He reaches the pregnancy test last, and bursts into a broad grin. She smiles shyly, hoping he'll scan the test and they'll both get on with their day.
Mary Margaret is never so lucky.
"Congratulations, your Highness!" Tom exclaims, and Mary Margaret starts making overly conspicuous hushing noises, drawing more attention from the other drug store patrons than Tom's comment had alone.
"Sneezy!" she whispers fiercely, and he finally seems to catch the hint. But he's a moment too late, Leroy already sidling up beside her.
"What's the big deal?" he grumbles, peering over the counter to see what's caused such a commotion.
Mary Margaret puts her face in her hands, wondering if this whole situation could become any more disastrous than it already is. She can imagine it already – a rumor of her pregnancy circling town, finding its way to her husband, only for the test to come back negative. Or positive. Neither option is particularly pleasant. At least she was certain, she thinks, when this happened when she was expecting Emma.
"Oh ho ho," Leroy chuckles, elbowing her in the side. "Looks like someone's been busy."
Mary Margaret stomps on his foot, eliciting a yelp from him. "Okay," she says in a low voice, and draws them both close by their collars. "Listen here, you two. No-one, I mean no-one, hears anything about this until I've taken the test and told my husband either way. This is not going to end like last time. Are we clear?"
Leroy grumbles, but they both nod and murmur ascent.
"Good," she agrees, and releases them, regaining her calm composure. She passes Tom more than enough cash to cover her purchases, and gathers up her bags. She's pushing the door open when she sees Leroy send an over-exaggerated wink her direction. Her face flushes a deep shade of crimson, and she leaves, barring herself against the impending test.
–
The wedding is planned in a rush. While to them, simple vows exchanged over Lake Nostos are more binding than any extravagant affair, there are whispers coursing throughout the kingdom, and soon enough there will be talk of scandal. And so they marry again, a wedding complete with puffy gowns and a priest; a wedding suitable for a king and queen.
There are footsteps, and Red's hands stop their work halfway up Snow's corset. When the work resumes, more gently, Snow smiles. "You know it's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding."
"Good thing we're already married then, I suppose," Charming quips, and ties off the bindings. He presses a kiss to her shoulder. "You ready?"
"Always," she replies, and turns to kiss him.
They reach the doors to the grand hall and pause for a moment. In the interest of tradition, he'd already be inside, and she'd meet him at the altar. It's what her father would have wanted; what her mother would have wanted too. But they've never been much for tradition, and they are already partners in every way.
"Together?" she says, beaming up at him. It's more of a statement than a question.
He smiles brightly at that and offers her his hand. "On three?"
"One," she counts, and slips her hand into his.
"Two," he adds.
They push the doors open together, hand-in-hand.
–
Mary Margaret has never taken a pregnancy test before, but finds the instructions to be simple enough. She's just setting the kitchen timer for two minutes when she hears the apartment door open. She spins around and breathes a sigh of relief to see that it's only Emma. "Oh, thank goodness it's you," she breathes, pressing a hand to her heart.
"So?" Emma prompts.
Mary Margaret waves the kitchen timer in her hand. "Two minutes," she says.
Emma quickly drops her bags and shrugs out of her coat. "Is the test in the bathroom?" she asks, but doesn't wait for a response, already heading that direction at a light jog.
"Yes," Mary Margaret replies. She frowns when she sees Emma come out of the bathroom, test in hand. "What are you doing?"
"It never takes these things two whole minutes," Emma explains.
Mary Margaret rips the test from Emma's hands and puts it, along with the kitchen timer, on the counter. She sighs, covering her face with both hands.
Emma frowns. "Hey, what's wrong? I thought you wanted this."
Mary Margaret peeks out at her from between her fingers, voice caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "I don't know," she says, her words muffled. "I don't know what I want." She feels Emma's grip warm on her shoulder and lowers her hands, still staring silently into them as if they hold all the answers. "Are you sure you're okay with this?" she asks, finally meeting Emma's eyes.
"Yeah," Emma replies, too quickly. "Yeah, I just ..." she trails off, releasing her mother's shoulder. It's her turn to stare thoughtfully at the floor. "I'm just afraid I'd be jealous. Of the new baby." She laughs, shaking her head. "I sound like some little kid who's afraid Mommy and Daddy aren't going to pay as much attention to them. It isn't that. I guess I'm just … just jealous." She laughs a little again, more softly, in the way Mary Margaret knows she's fighting back tears. "That's silly, I know."
"No no no," Mary Margaret insists in a rush, and lifts her daughter's chin so she can see her face. Her heart aches to see unshed tears glistening in Emma's eyes. "No, it isn't. Not at all."
"I want you guys to be happy," Emma explains, her voice catching. "I see how you are with Henry, and … and I know you'd be amazing parents. You are amazing parents. And I know it would make you happy. I know how it is to miss out on that stuff, I do." She pauses a moment to wipe at her eyes, Mary Margaret reaching out to brush away a tear with the pad of her thumb. "I just wish I'd had you my whole life, too."
Heartbroken, Mary Margaret gathers her daughter into her arms. "Oh, sweetheart," she whispers. "I know this sounds like such a typical thing to say, but I'm not going to let any of that change. Emma, you're everything to me. And you've still got your father wrapped around your little finger. That'll never change. Ever. You're my best friend, Emma. And my daughter." She feels Emma's arms wind around her. She chokes, "I love you so much."
"I love you, too," Emma whispers, fingers fisting into her mother's blouse.
Mary Margaret muffles a sob against Emma's shoulder and pulls her closer. They stand that way for a long moment, mother and daughter holding onto one another, unwilling to let go just yet. Mary Margaret wishes more than anything that she could have those years back, that she could have seen Emma's first steps, heard her first words. She can't change that now, but somehow, all that matters is that her daughter is here, safe in her arms, and she's never letting her go again.
They're interrupted by the sound of the kitchen timer marking two minutes.
Emma pulls away first, and Mary Margaret reaches out to dry her tears with her sleeve. "It's ready," Emma reminds her.
Mary Margaret swallows her apprehension. "Yeah," she replies weakly. She snatches Emma's hand and holds on tight. "Will you check with me?"
Emma smiles reassuringly and squeezes her mother's hand. "On three?"
Mary Margaret's voice is barely a whisper. "One."
"Two," Emma continues.
Neither waits for 'three', both peering over the counter and into their future, together.