A/N: Hello, dear readers. So my relationship with Once Upon a Time is intense and complicated and therefore leaves me with a lot of unresolved feelings that must be channeled somehow to keep my sanity. Normally strings of youtube music videos suffices, but my obsession with Emma and David's unique situation is too much even for that. Truth be told, I'm fascinated by it more than any other relationship… maybe ever. First of all because of the age thing, but secondly because we don't really get to see it develop. We get lots of time devoted to Mary Margaret and Emma's burgeoning friendship – it's clearly delineated as a big step for both of them. And there are a few key episodes devoted to its further development later. But there really isn't much of that for David and Emma. Anything parental is aimed either at Snow and Charming as a unit or taken over by Snow, which I enjoy seeing, too, but I need to understand David's side of things.

So this was born of a desire to understand David as a character, to understand both his and Emma's feelings for each other, and to show some more development than the show gives us. This first chapter is pretty cannon (including several direct lines of dialogue, which I super don't own), but the further it goes, the less cannon it may become. I don't really know when or how much I'll be adding onto this, but I thought I might as well toss this into the Once Upon a Time ring since I'm so often lurking there looking for good Charming Family stuff.

I do hope somebody enjoys this. Thanks for enduring my above yammer.

…

He's been pacing the corridor for what feels like ages, staring hard at the firmly shut oak doors, and when they finally open, he's through them so quickly he almost knocks Johanna spinning. Snow is pulling her boots on, bodice already laced firmly back in place and cape fanned out across the bed.

"Is it true, then?" he asks, breathless. "Was Maleficent telling the truth?"

Slowly, she lifts her head, her expression agonizingly inscrutable. Then a smile blossoms across her face. "Yes."

He falls back a step with a strangled laugh and she launches herself off the bed, falling into his arms like she was made to fit there and squeezing him with all her considerable strength. He goes for the theatrics, lifting her off the ground and spinning her around, their white and crimson capes swirling together.

When he's set her back down, she lets go, backs up to look at him with shining eyes. "We're going to have a baby."

And even though Maleficent's words hum under the surface of the conversation –born with the potential for great darkness– the immediate idea of a baby eclipses it. He's not going to let an evil queen tarnish this happy moment. This child will be theirs and they can protect it. They will protect it.

…

A dark cloud hangs over Snow. The closer they get to the baby's arrival, the darker it seems to grow, enfolding her for hours, even days at a time. She grows quiet, staring off into the distance. Johanna says not to worry. Bringing children into the world is not an easy business, and she wouldn't be the first to have her moods.

But David thinks he knows what she is thinking about. He wishes she wouldn't because it makes him think about it, too, and it scares him. He doesn't want to think about a dangerous, potentially painful future, only the happiness they have right now. But he can't if Snow is restless, so they go to see Him.

…

It takes David until they've emerged from the labyrinth into warm sunlight to regain control of his faculties. Snow is several strides ahead of him, long dark hair billowing.

"Wait," he gasps, out of breath. He grabs for her hand to stop her. "What the hell was…" he trails off, gesturing at the opening to the prison warrens. He is too angry, too stunned to form full sentences.

She lifts her jaw at him, unyielding. He lets his arm drop.

"Is it true?" he asks feebly. "We're having a daughter? And you've already named her?"

"That's what you're concerned about?" she all but cries, and starts again at a furious pace toward the carriage.

Of course that's what he's concerned about. This changes everything. This changes amorphous baby into daughter. His daughter, real, unique, soon-to-be-here.

"Whatever this curse is, we'll stop it –" he sounds assured. " – but you just gave our daughter's name to the Dark One."

He can see here, a dark-haired little girl running through the gardens, twirling in ball gowns as princes stop to stare – crying as she vanishes beneath the Dark One's cloak.

"She's a princess, he'll know her name as soon as she's born," Snow says impatiently. "But it doesn't matter. He says we can't stop it. Only she can stop it."

"He lies," David points out exasperatedly. "The next thing he's going to tell us is the only way to keep her safe from this curse is to hand her over to him."

"He's not lying about this."

"How do you know?"

"Because we made a deal. He can't lie in a deal. He can twist the truth to try to make a loophole, but he can't outright lie, and neither could I."

David swallows. "Where did 'Emma' come from?"

Snow looks down, squeezing his fingers hard. "I don't know… It just sort of, came. It must be what we were going to decide on because I couldn't lie."

"Emma," David murmurs, laying his hand against the side of Snow's stomach. He feels a strong thrust against his palm. The name slides lyrically over his tongue. He is loath to admit it for he'd rather call her anything but the name the Dark One now has, but it sounds right. It feels like her name.

"How much time do you think we have?" Snow asks.

"We'd better call a war council."

He doesn't care what Rumplestiltskin says, he is not going down without a fight.

…

The nursery draws him like a moth to a flame, beautiful in its pain. Snow sleeps restlessly; they can hear the pounding of Geppetto's tools reaches them even in their chamber, a constant reminder of what is about to happen.

It has been two days since the council, since the Blue Fairy gave them a way to save their daughter, and eventually everyone in the Enchanted Forest. He has tried not to think too deeply about the plan, tried to feel only relief that Snow and the baby will be spared. But in the darkness, with the pounding of tools like a heartbeat in his ears, he can't help it.

Careful not to wake Snow, he slides out of bed and finds his way along the short stone passage to the chamber they have been stuffing with furniture and toys, books and paintings from all over the many realms. A week ago, it seemed to him the safest, most splendid room in the entire kingdom. But when he pushes open the heavy oak door, everything about this room draws an ache from deep within his chest.

Emma. Her name is still new on his tongue, and each time he thinks of it, it seems to glitter in a new angle. Although they did not get the chance to decide on it as he had imagined, it feels overwhelmingly right. There is something in the way the syllables fall together that thrills him, and he knows that he would have chosen – in fact, feels that he did choose– this name for his daughter.

He crosses slowly to the crib at pride of place in the middle of the round, glittery room, gilded in moonlight, and runs a hand over the intricately carved wood. Never completely shaking his roots, he had insisted on having a hand in fashioning it. It stands ready to receive a baby that will never touch its blankets. Nothing in here will ever be used. The room feels suddenly like a mausoleum, and he allows it to hit him with its fullest force for the first time: he will never even see this baby they've been so eagerly awaiting for months.

He knows it is not the same as a stillborn child, but the joy-turned-pain of their never-to-be-used nursery feels so much like he's lost her just as she was about to come.

Twenty-eight years, he reminds himself with a great effort. It feels like an eternity, but it will end. And meanwhile, his daughter will be growing up, happy and safe, that is what matters. And he will see the beautiful woman Snow will no doubt mold her into.

But this baby… she will be lost to him. He could wait a hundred years on the promise of seeing Snow again. They will have their happiness, of nothing else has he been more certain. But twenty-eight years is a lifetime for this child. He will not know her when he finally lays eyes on her.

He grips the crib's rail in both hands, squeezing his eyes closed to block out the mockery this room has become. He wishes that he could get this feeling out of his chest. Snow has always known how to soothe the tempests of rage and grief that he cannot manage himself. But she is brimming with her own fears and sorrows. He can tell she is a breath away from crumbling under the impact of it all. For her he must pull it together. For her he must not dwell – must not even think about what he is losing and what is barreling toward him.

He takes a steadying breath. She will be beautiful, Emma. She will be every bit as strong and brave and good as her mother, as his mother. He cannot wait to see that, and that is what he will think of.

…

The plan tumbles off course so alarmingly fast, he has no time to process it. One moment he is kissing his wife, trying to lock away the feel of her to hold onto for the next twenty-eight years, and then the baby is coming and the curse is coming all at the same time and the wardrobe is almost-but-not-quite-done, and by the time it's finished, it's too late. If they try to move her now, they endanger both Snow and the baby.

Snow is screaming in an unbearable amount of pain, screams that rip right through him, and he wants to sob at the thought of her having to endure this alone, as they had planned. In a twisted way, he is glad everything has gone so awry. Snow is not alone for this; none of them will have to be alone for anything. They will be cursed for eternity, but they will be together.

And then she is there. The haze of pain and blood is over, and Doc is holding a tiny, squawling pink thing in his arms. Snow is already reaching for her, desperate, and the moment she has been cleaned up and wrapped in the blanket Granny knitted for her, he places her in her mother's arms.

She is tinnier than David ever imagined, her face round and perfect, her limbs flailing as she screams her heart out.

"Sh-sh-sh, my love. It's alright, it's alright," Snow murmurs, kissing the smooth crest of her head and holding her close. And as the baby quiets, they can hear the sounds of fighting, swords slashing and men shouting, drawing nearer.

It is a vain gesture, but David puts his arms protectively around both of them. At least he'll go with his whole world against his heart.

"The wardrobe," Snow murmurs as though from a great distance. "It only takes one."

She sounds as though she is just realizing this, and it breaks his heart all over again to watch it sweep over her.

"Then our plan has failed," he says. The resignation seems ages old in his own voice. "But at least we're together." This is the only solace he can offer her. There is nothing left for them to do but wait for the storm to crash over them.

"No," Snow says, low and fierce. "You have to take her. Take the baby to the wardrobe."

Determination grows with every word, pulling at the urgency, the hope that he has already let go of.

"Are you out of your mind?" He has already given in; the thought of sending their daughter away now – a nearly impossible prospect before the plan crumbled around them – is beyond his strength.

"No, it's the only way, youhavetosaveher," Snow's words run together with urgency, frantic, utterly unwilling to yield this baby to defeat.

He's shaking his head. "No, no, no, you don't know what you're saying." She's tiny, helpless. If they send her away, they're surely killing her, and maybe that would be kinder than living an eternal curse, but Snow would never suggest that for their child. Delirious from pain or fear, she can't be thinking clearly.

And maybe he doesn't want her to be thinking clearly because he's already let go of the ache of having to give up this baby.

"No, I do!" She gasps and looks him dead in the eyes, steely and unstoppable. "We have to believe that she'll come back for us. We have to give her her best chance."

Against his will, the words rekindle the fight in him. He looks down at the little, squirming miracle in Snow's arms and knows she's right, knows he will walk through hell itself if there is the wildest chance of saving her from this.

But the ache of losing her twists his stomach. He stoops to kiss her soft forehead, and hopes she'll feel the residual waves of this – this kind of love nothing else has ever prepared him for until he can take her in his arms again.

Snow is crying again, silently, but so hard it might break her.

"Goodbye, Emma," she whispers, her tears running down Emma's cheeks as she presses her lips to the baby's forehead.

Then David takes all seven pounds of her into his arms. She fits there, right in the crook of his elbow, the bottoms of her feet snug against his palm. He can't believe he's doing this. He kisses Snow hard, the baby pressed one last time safely between them. And then he rushes for their one slim chance at salvation.