title: once upon a time snow white died in her flowerbed
characters: Emma Swan, Neal Cassidy, Henry.
summary: She thinks of songbirds and her little boy, and all the times he was there.-—Emma/Neal, for Arabella.
a/n: sorry for spag errors and OCness of characters. i haven't watched the show in ages and pretty much everything is au in this, and everything is set in the pre-pilot time with some canon-ness with the emma/neal flashbacks.
disclaimer: i don't own anything besides the story idea; the original characters and everything else belong to ABC family.
dedication: this is for julyii gge, for arabella (small-town hearts)
prompt: Emma/Neal
Once upon a time, Snow White died in her flowerbed.
The dwarves find a baby nestled among the leaves; it is an ugly thing, pale and white, gurgling and spitting and crying as though it will never stop; and situate the creature so that it is placed in a crook of two wide oak trees. When they return from their daily work at the mines (aka robbing the rich and giving it to themselves, aka the poor and unfortunate souls), the baby is gone and the dwarves forget, moving on with their lives.
.
.
.
Two weeks later, in a different universe, it's all over the news.
The town of Barrington is small and mostly gloomy in its isolation from the rest of the world, and the arrival a random baby found on the side of I-90 is all over the town newspapers, lies and gossip and words scattered across its pages, and slowly, the written script turns into spoken words, and two days after, mostly everybody has decided it's something of a miracle.
(Because, you see, here's the thing about Barrington: there are no visitors. You are born in the town, and you die in the town, and you don't leave it; whatever you do, you don't leave it.)
A family adopts her at the tender age of three, and they absolutely adore her at first sight (at least that's what Emma's been told over the years); they dress her up in ironic princess outfits and enroll her in the community's daycare, and it's sort of perfect because she understands what's going on around her a few years later, and it's nice to actually be wanted, and maybe after a while it became her fault, because she became accustomed to the feeling of having a home, having somewhere to belong, but then the Evanstons have a child of their own, and she's sent back to the never-ending foster care system.
She's developed a theory that the foster care system never ends, because as soon as you're put in, you're transferred from home to home to home, and even if you do find a home that wants to keep you for more than six months, there's always the chance that they'll change their minds (and they do change their minds, they change their minds more often than fictional girls in love triangles) or that they'll be neglecting or abusive, and somebody will figure out what the scars on your arms mean, and they'll send you back to the system, and you'll never get out, that's the thing. You can't get out of the system until you're eighteen, and even when you're in the system, there's no chance to earn money of your own, she soon learns.
But Emma tries, because she thinks, there's no point in giving up so early, no point in seeing the satisfaction on their faces. But really, there's no point to anything, if she thinks about it, so she stops herself from thinking too much.
.
.
.
She's twelve when she gets her first job; it's as a model at a heavy smelling outlet at Woodfield Mall, which is probably the biggest thing that the town of Barrington has to offer, and the pay seems good for the first couple of weeks. They call her in every week or so and tell her to put on a certain pair of clothes and pose, except it's not that easy, not really.
Anybody can just stand and smile; the woman with the bright pink lips and green eyelashes smiles and tells her, The thing about modeling is that it's not only about how you look in the clothes. You can look all prim and proper, all you want, but it's not going to take you anywhere in the career.
Uh, I'm not planning on this longtime, she tries to interrupt, but is only cut off moments later.
You need more perfume too, now that I think about. But, seriously, you need to make people want the clothes; if they see you on the advertisements, your face plastered around the store, they want to want to be you. That's the whole thing about modeling at our store: we are a selective people, and honestly I don't know why we chose you, because you have way too little experience, but you're pretty and you're skinny so—
I applied for the job, Emma interjects, shaking her head. There was nobody who pointed me out on the street and told me that I should get the position. I worked for this, I earned this job, no matter how short of a time it took.
The woman tilts her head, You're not Catelyn Stone, are you? Emma shakes her head slowly, staring down at her wrists: the bone is sticking out more than usual today, but it looks almost normal underneath the fattening lights and the added weight of the heavy camera film. You can leave, then. Now.
.
.
.
(Because, you see, here's the thing about Barrington: you don't leave. Except when you do.)
.
.
.
She only thinks about leaving halfway through high school; technically, Emma knows that it's not halfway. Sophomore year approaches in five weeks and one day according to her calendar, but she's always planned on graduating early, despite her guidance counselor who insists that graduating early will only hurt her future.
Emma leans back into the hardwood chair of the foster home; the wi-fi's running low and she's staring blankly at the screen and decides to leave the place. It's not as though anybody will notice that she's gone for a few hours—school's out for summer and half the town is on vacation on resorts in Cancun and private summer homes in Florida, and the other half is cooped up in their houses, because balmy and arid would be nice words to describe the flaming temperature outside, and air conditioning isn't at its height in Barrington.
—'ello, she knocks on the door of the library. I was wondering if the library was open today? The face through the window shakes its head and points to the sign, which reads OPEN. Emma raises an eyebrow, It says OPEN, she says, her voice a little louder. The face looks concerned and within a few moments, quickly turns it around to say CLOSED. I know that the library is open—
The door finally swings open moments later and she faces a vast conglomeration of knowledge, and is faced with uncertainty as well.
.
.
.
Life, her guidance counselor drawls out, life is meant to be simple.
Emma sits across from her guidance counselor in an enclosed place; the leather chair is more uncomfortable than the chairs at the foster home back in town, but the air conditioning is at full blast, and even though it's an uncomfortable place to be in, she prefers it than being in Spanish class, especially on the day ofa group presentation. She had never been a leader sort of person. That's the thing, the thin woman across from her continues, life is meant to be simple.
I understand that, she replies wryly. All I was wondering was that if it would be possible to graduate early. Not this year, since it's only tenth grade, but maybe I could graduate high school after eleventh grade? Take a year off before I head to uni.
The counselor sighs, and sits down instead of the typical pacing. Miss Swan, I understand your delicate situation, but there is no reason for you to graduate early. Perhaps, if you could provide me with a proper reason other than just simply 'You want to' to graduate early, then I could allow you, but even if you had a good reason, you simply won't have enough credits by eleventh grade.
I could take more classes, Emma offers.
Emma, why do you want this?
I just want it, she answers simply. I want to graduate early so that I can take a year off before I head to uni, and I want a year off so that I can travel a little, sort of like a self-identity thing. Emma decides to pull out the trump card, Summer time has never worked well for this, especially because of the summer classes that I have to take (and that's sort of her fault because she repeated classes she had passed just for the sake of staying in an air-conditioned building for five hours a day with free food that wasn't too bad if she didn't smell it) but I wanted to find my biological mother. Y'know, because I'm adopted.
Very well, the woman states, sighing. I'll try to find a way.
(She ends up graduating early only because 117 million dollars had magically shown up in her bank accounts; it had taken two weeks for Emma to even realize the fact, and by then, the foster mothers had taken most of that money and she was left with 20 million: half of it had been donated to the school and half of it had been donated to Yale—so, when she gets the acceptance letter in May, it's not too big of a surprise.)
.
.
.
She leaves as soon as possible in typical Emma Swan fashion; everybody says that she's destined for great things even though half of them don't know her—they remember that she's the girl who was found on the side of the road and Emma thinks that it's a bit mad that most of them only think of her as that walnut-shaped baby, and can't wait to leave, so she does.
Takes the first flight out to New Haven, Connecticut, and buries herself in the work there; the campus of Yale University is pretty enough, with trimmed lawns in which girls in white dresses and boys with blazers and family crests on their jackets, like the pompous individuals they are, stamp upon.
She thinks that this could be it two weeks into school, at one of the school's eating clubs. Emma's only made a sort-of friend since she was accepted into the place, and Labor Day weekend lasts for four days, and it's a bit too early to be studying for her MCATs—but Emma soon learns that it's never too early, really, it's never too early to do anything, and she's never been a late sort of person but still—so she dives into the social stratum that the college life is based upon. Hello, she smiles weakly at the woman sitting at the front. I'm Emma Swan.
The lady stares blankly back at her. If you are affirmed that you belong here, you are free to take a seat. Emma moves forward, and she swears that she can hear the voice trail off: for now.
.
.
.
Emma's seventeen when she drops out of Yale. She lost the scholarship to an ambitious transfer freshman from Australia, and the foster care system isn't willing to pay the tuition fees, despite the fact that it's only twenty thousand up from private school tuition fees, so she drops out.
Some of her friends gather some funds to send her off with, but within three weeks, her bank account is down to a hundred and seventeen dollars, mainly because she had bought a plane ticket to Portland (partly because it was the cheapest, partly because nd she's feeling sort of desperate and reckless and decides to steal a car. Everything Emma knows about car stealing and other acts of vandalism are from the movies, but she thinks, it can't be too hard. If you can do it without a college degree, without an education, then it shouldn't be hard at all. She repeats the words in different arrangements enough times to convince herself and finds herself actually doing the act a week later.
She's almost done with getting the obstinate car door open when this teenager comes up to her, arms crossed, speaking in a snobby voice (and Emma can't blame her, because it is a nice car, that's why she chose it). That's my car, the girl states.
Oh, Emma pauses, turning to face the girl with what she hopes is an innocent expression. I'm sorry. It's just that this looks a lot like my car—
It's a one of a kind car, the girl continues, crossing her arms. Unless it's not a one-of-a-kind car and my dad was lying. She pauses for a moment, pressing her fingers to her forehead. Oh god, I'm sorry, this probably is your car. This doesn't even look like my car; maybe I'm just imagining everything, today's just been a really awful today, okay, bye.
Emma just stands there, an amused grin playing on her face, which quickly turns into guilt because she sort of knows that this is that girl's car, but she needs a mode of transportation other than Greyhound buses and AMTRAK train tickets, and a car seems like the only other option besides a bike. She slowly opens the car door and slides into the leather seat, a relieved grin sliding onto her face when she finds the keys already in.
She's turning in the ignition, reveling into the uncomfortable, yet familiar, stench of vanilla parfum (Emma's never been a fan of smelling like a dessert) when a head pops out from the back seat and she screams. What're you doing in my car? The boy asks. He looks about eighteen, nineteen, and a bit of scruff grows at the edge of his chin.
This isn't your car, Emma attempts to state calmly. This is my car. She thinks of a name quickly and blurts it out, I'm Cynthia. Cynthia Rose. What about you? (Later, she realizes that exchanging pleasantries seems as though she's actually interested in being friends with this random criminal—but she's sort of a criminal too—and it's not the right impression to give.)
Baelfire, he states, enunciating the syllables. From the front seat Emma scoffs, and he turns to her with an amused expression. What's wrong with my name?
Nothing, nothing, she grins. It just sounds really archaic, that's all.
Well, he attempts coming up with a retort, to no avail, your name sounds really snobby.
Emma tilts her head for a moment, pondering. Well, you see, at least my name's not Baelfire.
Well, he grins, I guess that we're in this together now. So you can call me Neal. Only a few people call me Baelfire, and, uh, I'd like to forget those people.
There's the faint stench of pollution mixed in with vanilla parfum emitting from the car, and momentarily, Emma feels bad for this whole thing—stealing a car, lying to the girl (aka the very probable owner of the car she is currently driving in) and attempts to brush the guilt to the back of her mind, but it stays steadfast center. She pauses, shaking her head. Uh, no. I got this car. You can get another one.
Cynthia, you see, here's the thing: I'm not giving up.
.
.
.
(You see, that's the thing about Neal Cassidy: he doesn't give up. Until he does.)
.
.
.
Three and a half months pass by before something changes; they establish a cycle between the two of them: he's the one who distracts the storeowners, speaking in long, elaborate sentences with flowery language, flashing his stolen Rolex watch every now and then, and she's the one who loads up on goods, stuffing them in her pockets and purse, and every now and then, just to keep things interesting, they switch roles.
She leans back in a cerulean shade of darkness, and as the light strikes the room, notices the way the color of the recliner turns into something that could be easily recognized as teal, and briefly ponders that time, time does not change things, but it changes our perception of them. Later in the day, she voices the opinion and is met with an entirely different response. Cinnamon on your coffee, he ponders, his arms crossed in a briefly theoretical position and the first thought that comes to Emma's mind is that this boy-man does not think very often.
(And maybe that's why you like him, her heart beats the pulses which translate into words and within a beat, back into the blood which pumps through her veins, because you like the action, like the adventure—after all, she was never one for the academics, deep down.)
I like cinnamon, she defends. It reminds me of—
Coming home? He quirks a lip, sitting down on the tarnished parkway bench. The bright yellow car that they stole is halfway down the street, and if Emma could distract herself from the way the clothes she's wearing are stolen (and so is the cash in her wallet, the fake identification cards, the Tiffany's ring on her finger), maybe she can pretend that they're just a boy and a girl, because that would be simple and normal, and god damn it, she misses simple and normal.
Sort of, she shrugs, keeping a blank expression on her face. I wouldn't expect you to understand, of course. Coming from a rich family, you wouldn't know what that even means.
It's an unnecessary jab but it's their fifth robbery this week, and it's only Tuesday, and she's just tired of this life. Of course, there's nothing she can do to change the situation these days; Yale wouldn't possibly take her back, and the adrenaline rush has never been the same since that first robbery, and the guilt only gets worse and worse every night. The lies wrap around her like a thick blanket, and suddenly, there are holes everywhere, and the truth shines through, as it always does, and then, that is the end (and she wakes up). Emma—
Neal, she counters.
They stare at each other for a moment, sort of lost, because when they were children (they didn't know each other and it was better that way, she thinks sometimes), he wanted to be a firefighter at the age of six, she wanted to be a sheriff at the age of five. He changed his mind and went through the options of race car driver, soccer star, demon hunter (he had been thoroughly disappointed when his mother told him that the Winchesters were completely fictional, but had brushed the fact off and pretend that it didn't faze him), pathologist, to whatever the hell this was.
She had never envisioned being anything other than a sheriff deep down, but Emma told the guidance counsellor and her Yale classmates that she was interested in law.
(A few months later, he'll ask her what she wants to be, and she'll only reply with silence because having a dream, having hope, it's not right; she knows the truth, what happens with false expectations.
Five months later, he'll ask again, and she'll say that she wants to be a sheriff. He'll laugh and she'll punch him on the shoulder—not hard, though, because he's sort of delicate and bony—and then maybe he'll buy her a diamond watch (you see, she pretends that he bought it, but they both know the truth) to apologize.
Six months later-
Six months later, there will be no boy and she will be the one, dark and desolate, to ask herself the question.)
.
.
.
If Emma looks back, she finds herself lost in a myriad of lies and truth; sometimes, she lies down on the floor of their motel rooms, and wonders when the lies and truth will come together as a whole; everything these days is puzzle pieces, and Emma wants to find an answer, find some sort of mixed truth between them, but it is impossible, of course, and she has never been one for pushing her luck.
I got an idea, he states over dinner.
Like usual, it's nothing expensive; he's bought a couple of hot dogs and mustard packets and paper napkins and they're sprawled out across the grass at Central Park with homeless people and wealthy teenage socialites alike in the ambiance, so it's more frightening than anything else. His eyes are gleaming and Emma sighs because the last time he got an idea, he nearly died (and she thought she lost him) and they had to pay for the hospital bills, which drained their accounts. What now? And if it's about the watches, we're not doing that; somebody already tried doing that two states over a week back and ended up in jail.
Yeah, well, he shrugs, we're a lot more careful than that. Anyways, it's not about the watches. Uh, Neal stutters, and for a moment, he resembles a lost nineteen year old boy, and after a moment, he resembles a forcefully assured nineteen year old boy; later, Emma thinks, she doesn't like how quickly Neal can change himself: it makes it harder to trust him, but she does it anyways; and smiles. It's about you.
So when they kiss hours later, Emma thinks that it feels like coming home, but she doesn't trust him enough to tell him that.
.
.
.
Emma's in jail when she finds out the truth: not the whole one, a half-truth. She almost laughs when she's put in jail, because god, she knew that love couldn't work out in the end (Where's Neal? she had asked frantically, only to receive the police officer's cold reply of, Ma'am, Neal Cassidy was the one who tipped us off about you. You're going to have come with us) and she was right all along, and finally, the blanket has dissolved into loose threads, that under no circumstances, could be threaded back together into something absolute.
I'm pregnant, she whispers to herself at night, and just knows that this can't be done. I'm nineteen, I'll be twenty when I leave this crazy place. I don't have any money, I don't have a job, I don't even have an undergraduate degree from Yale. All I have is a high school certificate that I lost and the watches have already been placed back in the store. There's nothing left for me.
She doesn't expect him to be waiting outside the door when she's released from jail but when Emma's lying down on her ratty apartment bed in her orange jail outfit, she desperately wishes that he was there or maybe that she hadn't given up her baby for adoption, because she just feels so lonely, but it's a bit too late to be thinking like that.
Yale doesn't take her back; surprise, surprise. Emma ends up sending a letter to Neal; she thinks that she owes him nothing, but she still feels like she should tell him, about her son, about their son being put up for a closed adoption. The reply is eight weeks later, and she's already given up when it pops up in her inbox.
Emma—
I'm sorry.
—Neal.
She figuratively rips the paper up and throws it into the burning fire and wonders when or if she'll ever be able to trust somebody again.
.
.
.
She is twenty-eight and ten months when they meet again. It's on the streets of New York like something out of Breakfast at Tiffany's, but instead of a scrawny cat and a passionate kiss, there's shocked glances and the introduction of his son, and it's not really about what she wants anymore.
.
.
.
Sometimes, Emma thinks she loves him. But she's old enough to know that love isn't enough.