Don't worry if you haven't seen the show, this fic won't ruin anything. There will be general themes that are the same and you may recognize some character types but I didn't want to just copy the show. I'm not sure how long it's going to be yet, but I'm hoping it will last me through the hiatus.

The wind roared as they dropped and shook, but all she could hear was screaming as they fell down, down -

Emma gasps back to the world of consciousness, eyes fluttering as she stares at the blue sky peeking out from beyond a forest of green rising above her. A few fluffy white clouds chug past as she wills the world to stop spinning. She sits up gingerly, frowning at the way her shirt sticks to her back. The dirt beneath her is damp and she reaches around her back to pull the wet fabric from her skin for a moment of relief, reeling slightly from the simple movement.

Emma slept in odd places throughout her teenage years and woken in odder places after a few inebriated nights, but never has she felt the overwhelming sense of bewilderment and utter disorientation that comes with her current predicament.

Her head aches, along with every muscle in her body, and as her racing heart slows, her battered brain starts to sift through the mess of memories to figure why the hell she's woken on her back in a jungle.

Just as memories of the violent shaking and stomach dropping plummets seep back and bile starts to rise in the back of her throat, something rustles in the large patch of ferns in front of her.

Tigers, panthers and other jungle beasts prowl in the shadows of her imagination and she tenses, ready to jump out of her skin at the first hint of death by wild animal. A shiver forces it's way down her spine and shocks her into some form of movement. Carefully, Emma casts her hands around for anything - a rock, a sharp stick, even a spork from the inflight food service - she can use to defend herself. She grits her teeth, she just survived a goddamn plane crash, there's no way she's going to die as Tigger's next meal.

The plants shake more fiercely and Emma starts to stand, nothing but palm fronds grasped in her fists, the dirt devoid of anything that could pass as a weapon.

She makes it halfway to her feet before the creature leaps out of the bushes. She tries to turn and run but trips over her unsteady feet. Her arms windmill for a second before she goes down hard on her ass. Breath wheezing and defenseless, she flings the palm fronds in a last ditch effort to confuse the beast and curls her arms around her head and neck. But when seconds pass and she doesn't feel the excruciating pain of claws or teeth, she cautiously peeks out from behind her arms and finds she's face to face with an extremely shocked Dalmatian.

Relief floods Emma's veins and she smiles, letting out a short, jittery laugh. "Sorry, buddy," she assures him, voice rasping slightly, as she reaches out a cautious hand to touch his spotted fur, "I thought you were going to eat m-"

Just as her fingers reaches his head, he skitters away with a yelp and bolts, crashing back through the underbrush.

Great.

Emma pushes up the rest of the way to her feet, swaying slightly, and a sharp sting at her arm sends her eyes downwards. Right, that.

Still attached to her wrist from the flight were the set of handcuffs she'd been shackled in. Before the turbulence overwhelmed her, she'd stolen the key and unlocked her right hand, but her left is a different story. The metal cuff carved a jagged path along her wrist and the ragged cut stings furiously now that it has her full attention.

Quickly digging in her pocket, she desperately hopes that the key hasn't fallen out. She'd had just enough sense to shove it her jeans rather than hold it as they went down. Breathing a small cry of triumph as her fingers close around the small key, she quickly makes work of the cuff, flinging it away as soon as it unlocks.

Blowing gently at her wound, she glances around and sees nothing but green. Bamboo stalks shoot up around her broken by patches of large palm trees and tropical ferns. She notices for the first time that she's sweaty and that the humidity is pressing down on her, the air moist and unpleasant in her lungs.

The silence around her is unnerving, only interrupted by her rapid breathing and the occasional squawk of a tropical bird. The panic she'd swallowed down earlier rises again until she can't stay in this oppressive tangled mess of plants for a second longer.

She starts to run, blindly shoving through the bamboo and wincing as leaves slice at her face. She bites down on her lip hard, fighting to keep a sob from bursting from her lips. It's all too much.

All at once she's out of the jungle and onto a beach, stumbling over soft, white sand in the blinding light of the very welcome sun.

She stutters to a halt, taking in the waves gently rolling to shore before closing her eyes. The breeze off the water feels soothing on her sweat drenched skin and she sighs as she digs a hairband from her jeans. She twists her hair into a bun and sighs again, glad to have it off her neck.

A distant scream breaks her moment of peace. Her eyes snap open and she listens intently until another scream sends her running down the beach to her left. Her muscles protest every time she takes a stride but she can't just sit and listen to the agony of the other passengers.

Only the carnage shown in movies and the occasional HBO show could have prepared her for what lay around the curve of the shoreline. The remnants of the winged portion of the plane lay strewn about on the sand before her, one wing creaking, pointing up at the sky. Beside it, an engine still roars, coughing and sputtering as black smoke billows through it. Even at a distance it is horrifying, and she can see motionless bodies scattered and the living darting about the ruins. The wind carries the sound of screaming and crying towards her, so loud she can hear it over the deafening engine.

She takes in the scene at a complete loss of what to do, her extent of medical knowledge is extremely limited, like put-a-bandaid-on-it limited. Or if it's a big cut - a really big band aid. She doesn't know anything that can help at this scale.

The person closest to her is smaller than most, stumbling slightly through the sand around the perimeter of the wreckage. A gust of wind brings a child's voice to her ears, and Emma realizes that they're just a kid, a boy screaming for his mother.

Though she doesn't have a maternal bone in her body she springs into action, heart aching at the thought of a terrified child alone. Even she can't relate to going through something like this as a kid and she has plenty of unpleasant experiences to choose from.

As Emma reaches him, she gently lays a hand on his shoulder, not wanting to startle the boy further. But still he jumps, and turns to her with wide brown eyes full of hope. It breaks her heart when the hope is washed away by disappointment and fresh tears spilling from his eyes.

"Hey, kid," she says soothingly, "I'm sorry I'm not your mom, but maybe I could help you look for her?"

He nods with a sniffle.

She swipes a thumb across his forehead where she sees a cut, but it's shallow and already stopped bleeding. His face is dirty and his hair is a caked sandy mess but he seems to be alright.

"Are you hurt anywhere?" she asks, with what she hopes a reassuring expression on her face.

He shakes his head, "No, I'm ok."

"Good," she scans over his clothing just in case, but there's no sign of blood. She looks up the beach towards the trees and sees a group of people clumped together, "Why don't we go check over by them?" she asks, already laying a soft hand on his back and steering him in that direction. They were standing too close to the fuselage and that engine for her liking.

The kid nods dumbly, not shouting for his mother anymore, and the blank expression on his face worries Emma. Maybe she should keep him talking.

"What's your mom's name? Maybe she'll hear that?" she wonders, taking the boy in a wide berth around an immobile body in the sand, hoping he wasn't looking.

"Her name is Regina," the boy says in a small voice.

With an awkward squeeze to his shoulder, she suggests, "I think we should both call for her, I'm sure she's looking for you too."

He nods, looking up at her with wide eyes, "My name is -"

"HENRY!"

Someone grabs Emma's wrist and yanks her away from the boy, her torn skin shrieking at the touch.

"That's my son, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Off kilter, she manages to turn and sees a woman, Regina - most likely, who has the boy in an embrace and a glare fixed on her. Her hair is a windswept mess, but her blood red lipstick is still perfect and her dark eyes burn through Emma. What is wrong with this woman?

"I was just - I -" Emma fumbles, not really sure why she was being attacked.

"It's ok, Mom," came the boy's muffled voice from his mother's arms, "She was helping me find you."

The woman's eyes narrow, "Just stay away from him," she hisses and stalks away, herding the boy - Henry - in front of her. He shoots her a grateful look over his shoulder before his mother ushers him further away, leaving her alone.

A young woman off to her right with a very swollen belly on her hands and knees catches her eye. She's very close to the wreckage and the flames on the nearby engine are growing larger. She can't hear her from this distance but she's definitely shouting.

Emma runs over, kicking up sand. As she kneels down next to her she can feel the heat from the fire.

"My baby, my baby -" The pregnant woman gasps and clutches at Emma's arm, eyes frightened and clenching in pain, "I need David."

"We'll find him," she assures, practically shouting to be heard over the engine, glancing up nervously at the wing extended above them. No matter what, they needed to move.

"Oh god," the woman cries out, grasping her arm tighter, "I think the baby is coming."

This could not get any worse.

An ominous creaking sounds over their heads as soon as the errant thought enters her brain and she looks up, a pit forming in her stomach. The metal attaching the wing to the body of the plane is starting to snap.

They definitely need to move.

"What's your name?" Emma asks the woman, trying to sound as calm as possible.

"Mary Margaret," the woman bites out through another spasm of pain.

"Ok, Mary Margaret, we need to get up right now," Emma orders, eyes glued to the wing above them, " I can help you walk but we really don't want to stay here any longer."

The metal groans louder as Emma grabs Mary Margaret under her arms and hauls her up as best she can. She half drags the woman through the sand, out of the shadow of the wing.

Their departure comes not a moment too soon. With one last screeching crack the wing drops to the earth, the resulting crash setting off a violent chain reaction. Hot air rushes at them with enough force to knock them off their feet. Emma lands head first in the sand, flinching as flaming chunks of metal streak through the air around them.

After the last scrap plunges to the sand, Emma sits up, still sheltering her face. The beach is much quieter now, the explosion decimated the engine and the only sounds are the cries of the other passengers and those of the ocean.

The woman beside her groans and pushes herself up into a sitting position, clutching at her stomach, as her eyes screw up she gasps out, "I'm definitely having contractions."

"How many months pregnant are you?" Emma asks urgently, if she was really about to have this baby they need to find a doctor or a passenger much more qualified to play midwife than she is.

"I'm only eight months…" She bites out, "Are you a doctor?" She asks hopefully.

"No," Emma shrugged, "But when I was seven months pregnant, I… uh I got in a car accident and I thought I started having contractions."

"You weren't?"

"Not exactly, but the impact caused something to feel like it. But it's very important that you are very calm and sit absolutely still if you don't want to have this baby right now, okay?" Emma tells her, leaving out the the part where she very well might go into labor anyway.

"Breathe," Mary Margaret whispers to herself as she stills, shooting a nervous glance at her belly.

Other than the possibly induced labor, she is in a remarkably good condition. The only outward sign of injury is a scrape on her cheek and various bruises on her arms. Her dress is stained and tattered, but every other passenger is in that same position.

"You said you were pregnant?" Mary Margaret asks in a small, trembling voice, "Your baby wasn't with you was it?"

Emma looks away from her concerned gaze, pulling a thread from a rip in her jeans, "No," she replies quietly, "He's not here."

Mary Margaret lays a reassuring hand on her arm and tries to give her a small smile, even as a silent tear spills from the corner of her eye, "Well that's something to be thankful for. I'm sure we'll be rescued and you can see him soon."

Emma rips out a particularly offending thread, stoutly ignoring the woman's kind eyes. She was taking the time to worry about her, a complete stranger, when she had her own family to worry about.

"Who's David?" She twists a denim thread between her fingers.

The other woman drags her fingers through her pixie cut, "He's, he's the father and I haven't seen him since… the crash," she finally stutters, a nervous hand fluttering to her stomach.

Emma nods, she knows she's supposed to say something encouraging but the placations stick in her throat. It's one thing to give a kid some hope, but she isn't sure she can come across sincere to someone who knows the odds. There are too many bodies on this beach for everyone's loved ones to be safe and sound.

"Could you look for him for me?"

Emma glances up, rather surprised at the request.

Noting her expression, Mary Margaret continues, "It's just that I can't," she gestures to her stomach, "And I know he's looking for me and -"

But Emma was already on her feet, "What should I be looking for?"

Mary Margaret almost looks taken aback at how hurriedly she's agreed, but quickly recovers. "He's tall, over six feet with coloring, well, almost like yours but his hair is a little darker. And his name is David Nolan."

Emma nods, already scanning the beach, "I'll come back in a few minutes to check on you."

"He was wearing a green plaid shirt with a white t-shirt."

"Got it." Emma starts off across the sand, leaving Mary Margaret to look forlornly after her, eyes dry but tear tracks still leaving shining marks on her cheeks.

She heads in the general direction Henry and his mother went, towards the group of people near the tree line, ignoring the people darting around her. None of them are wearing green. She does a double take when a man in a suit runs past, but no, it's not him. His blond hair is much different than the dark, wiry hair of the man she desperately never wants to see again.

More cautious now, she moves through the sea of people, occasionally calling David's name, but she doesn't see anyone who remotely fits his description. The chatter and crying of so many people quickly sends her away and toward the fuselage. There are still small fires burning amongst the metal but the thick black smoke from the engine has largely dissipated, leaving behind an acrid stench in the ocean breeze.

A scrap of green catches her eye. Half buried in the sand, impaled of what looks to be the remains of a collapsible suitcase handle is a green plaid shirt. Gingerly she grabs its sleeve and it tears free. She turns it in her hands and her heart sinks as she sees it's stained with patches of red.

As she debates whether she should just pretend she never saw it or bring it to Mary Margaret, a shout rises and she looks up. In the shadow of the fuselage the same man in a suit shouts for help. "There's someone trapped!"

Making the decision, Emma drops the shirt, kicking some sand over it and runs to help the man. As she reaches him, she hears another man moaning in pain, his legs traps under one of the ruined plane wheels.

"I'm a doctor, I can help him," the suited man was saying to a slim woman with long, dark hair, "We need people to lift this up so we can pull him out."

"I can help," Emma broke in, earning a nod from the other two, "But we'll need more people to lift."

They press an smartly-dressed, older man into service as he limps past. He, the doctor and Emma shuffle into place, gripping bits of the wheel that wouldn't slice their hands as the other woman grabs the trapped mans hands ready to pull him loose.

"On three," the doctor orders, "One…"

Emma digs her feet into the sand, the last things she wants to do is lose her footing and cause herself, or anyone else further injury. She's not even lifting yet and the metal is digging into her hands uncomfortably. She attempts to shift her grip into something less painful but the torn metal doesn't offer an adequate grip.

"Two… Three…"

Emma strains, doing her best to lift with her knees. A bead of sweat drips across her temples and her hands slip slightly on the hot metal as it slowly sinks into her skin. She forces herself to breathe and throws all her strength into lifting, but either they're too exhausted or the damn wheel is too much for the three of them. It hasn't even moved off the ground.

Someone quickly slides into the space next to her, their hands brushing hers as they join the effort. With their added strength, they lift the wheel just enough for the man to be pulled free.

Before she can turn and thank the newcomer, the man they'd saved let out a stifled scream. She whips around and presses a hand to her mouth as she sees where one of his legs used to be. Blood pours onto the sand, but already the doctor is undoing his tie and wrapping it around his thigh. Forming a tourniquet, the bleeding abates and he turns to the younger woman and the older man.

"I need you to watch him and find a cloth, as clean as you can to help with the bleeding."

When he stands and wipes his bloodied hands on his pants, Emma approaches him, "I was just with a pregnant woman and she thinks she's having contractions, do you think you could -"

"Pregnant?"

Emma turns and is met with the exact description of Mary Margaret's David. He towers over both her and the doctor and his classically handsome face is marred with lines of worry.

"David?" Emma guesses and he nods as affirmation. "She's over here, follow me."

She leads him and the doctor to the other side of the fuselage where Mary Margaret is still sitting, but hangs back as they run towards her.

"Mary Margaret!"

"David?"

He crashes to his knees on the sand in front of her, wrapping her up in a hug and then they're talking to each other in rushed voices, broken by a kiss or two. Fresh tears are running down her face and she seems torn between smiling and sobbing, a hand still on her stomach.

Emma swallows down the lump in her throat and silently skirts the couple. She passes other survivors as she walks away, a pretty brunette dabbing at the head wound of a bookish, ginger man. She catches a glimpse of Henry and his mother sitting on a large bit of driftwood silently watching the activity before them. A woman with copper hair strides from the jungle, stopping to help an elderly woman sift through some luggage. A rather handsome man with curly brown hair stacks wood as if he's going to build a bonfire, maybe to catch the eye of a rescue party. But she doesn't join them, needing a moment to herself.

As she passes him the man calls out in a strong Irish accent, "Would you grab some wood on your way back?" She pauses for a moment and he gives her a small smile, "If you can, of course. The name's Graham, just find me."

Emma nods silently, any words she might have said caught in her throat, and tries to force her mouth into anything that might resemble a smile. Her lips won't move though and after a moment, he turns back to his work.

And then she's stumbling away, weight pressing at her heart. Almost as desperate to escape these people as she wanted to find some in the jungle, she breaks into a jog. She only stops when the sounds of the other passengers can't be heard on the wind and the wreckage is barely silhouetted by the sun far away down the beach. Her lungs burn and a muscle in her leg is cramping.

She wants to hit something, she wants to scream, she wants to sink down into the sand and cry. But there's nothing to hit but sand or the very hard trunk of a palm tree and her ears are still ringing from the screams of the other passengers. Besides, there's something about the quiet breeze and the gentle waves that makes this all seem a little better. But it's not enough and so she collapses to her knees, because she survived and she's here, but that fear is still clawing at her throat.

Through blurred eyes Emma glances farther down the shore and up to the jungle covered mountains looming in the distance. The pressure is still pressing at her chest and she can't hold back the choked sob that tears out of her. At least they couldn't have crashed in a more beautiful place.

Pressing her lips firmly together, she takes in the picturesque little beach, the sun is sitting low in the sky and casting an orangey glow on the otherwise azure water. A dark form at the water's edge catches her eye and with a sinking heart she hopes it's just driftwood, but at second glance there's no mistaking the shape of a body.

She shoots a plea up to the heavens, don't be dead, don't be dead, as she rises to her feet. Dragging one foot after the other she makes her way through the sand, eyes squinting, hoping for some sign of life.

They were face down, unmoving, in some sort of uniform, (the pilot maybe?). Clearly male, his sweep of dark hair still soaked. She kneels down next to the body carefully, knowing that if he moves unexpectedly she will have a heart attack. She gently grasps the waterlogged sleeve of his uniform and pulls. He rolls limply onto his side, revealing his sand encrusted face. He doesn't appear to be breathing.

She's never been trained in CPR, but Emma has seen enough TV to know the general idea. Rolling him further onto his back, she laces her hands together and places them on his chest at his sternum. Or does she breathe first?

Hesitating, she moves to his face and quickly brushes off the sand near his mouth. She tilts his head back, remembering it's important from some medical procedural - at least she hopes they weren't making it up - and pinches his nose shut. Taking a deep breath, she leans down and presses her mouth to his.

Emma's barely blows a half breath when a shudder runs through his body and he jerks up. She pulls away just as he spits up water across his shoulder, lungs wheezing and coughs wracking his chest. Relieved, she sits back on her heels, hand still gripping his uniformed chest.

"You're ok," she breathes, half to reassure herself, "It's ok, you're ok."

He lets out a few more sputtered coughs, before collapsing on his back, chest heaving. His hand snakes up and grips hers on his chest like his life depends on it, and finally as she leans further over him to brush more sand off his face, his eyes blink open and meet hers. Emma swears they're the bluest she's ever seen.