Author's Notes: Greetings, new fandom! I've been gone from the site for a few years, but I am back and I've got stuff to post. Safe to say, I binged OUAT over the summer and so spawned this epic beast right here. I've been working on it whenever my MA degree allowed, and I feel like I've got enough material now that I won't weep in despair when my degree program inevitably sucks the life out of my soul (it's nearly thesis time *shudders*). So, you guys and this fic are going to be my happy place I go to when my advisor asks why I don't have my life together. Rock on, fandom.
So! This story is completely, totally, inescapably Captain Swan, the glory years. Think early seasons full of sass and bickering. This is one big story in three parts that are:
Part One: The Enchanted Forest
Part Two: The Crocodile
Part Three: Storybrooke
We've got a lot of ground to cover, but I promise we'll get to everything in time! Enjoy.
Disclaimer: I own nothing of OUAT. Unfortunately.
Part One: The Enchanted Forest
Chapter 1
Emma Swan could pick a lock like Houdini: seamlessly and with a sense of flare. Bright green eyes looked up and down the hall of the ramshackle apartment building as the tumblers fell into place with a click. A light flickered down the hall. She saw the tail of a mouse dart beneath the door of 25B. No one the wiser.
She quietly opened the door and came face to face with an empty room.
"What the hell?"
The apartment was entirely barren. Emma walked further into the small living room, the soles of her brand new leather boots squeaking slightly over the dry, dusty floorboards. There wasn't even furniture. No moth-eaten couch, no dirty dishes, no discarded pizza boxes and beer bottles like she'd come to expect in her line of work as a bail bonds woman. The wallpaper was peeling in places, and the window leading onto the fire escape was smashed though there wasn't a shard of glass in sight. The only thing in the apartment was a stained brass bed frame that took up the entire bedroom.
"You've got to be kidding me," Emma grumbled as she pulled out her phone. She opened her email she'd received from the Tallahassee PD. Supposedly a man named Frank Jinks had skipped his bail and fled to Middle-of-Nowhere, Maine. Stripped for cash, Emma had made the three-day drive without complaint.
Now she was complaining.
All her detective work had brought her to this apartment. Frank Jinks had taken a bus all the way to Augusta before stealing a car from a gas station and making his way to Storybrooke. From there it only took one quick search in the phone book for the cheapest apartments in town and a blank space by the doorbell for apartment 28E.
There was absolutely no sign that anyone had so much as crashed in nothing but their clothes. She could see her footprints in the dust all around the apartment. She was the only one who'd been in the apartment in years.
Emma called the Department as she walked out of the apartment.
"Yes?"
"Hi," Emma said. "I'm Emma Swan. I was sent to bring back a Frank Jinks who missed his court date last week. I was wondering if you had any new information on his whereabouts."
The officer on the line paused. "What did you say the name was?"
"Jinks. Frank Jinks."
"I'm sorry. I just checked the system. There's no Frank Jinks."
"What?"
"I'm sorry."
"No, you sent me after him. Officer Jesse Plath. He's the guy I've been dealing with."
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but according to his case files, he doesn't have anything to do with a Frank Jinks."
Emma huffed. "Well, your files are wrong, buddy. Check again."
"I can transfer you to my supervisor."
"Just check again!"
"I'm sor—"
Emma hung up before he could apologize (insincerely, she would add) again. Another curse left her lips as she walked out onto the street. Storybrooke was a dead little seaside town. Quaint. That's how a travel magazine would describe it. Little boat tours. Mayberry Main Street. Boutiques. A cute place to grab a postcard and forget about a day later.
She wanted to get the hell out.
Her yellow Volkswagon Bug sat on the curb, a too-bright spot of color in the otherwise dreary town. A breeze swept up her blonde hair as she slid into the driver's seat, and she growled in annoyance as she swiped the strands out of her face. The radio station played Madonna's "Like a Virgin" and she quickly shut it off as she sped toward Main Street.
If you asked her later, Emma would say that she chose to stop at Granny's Diner because fate demanded she stop. That Emma, an Emma that had lived a life that belonged in a fairytale, she believed in things like that. Fate. Magic.
Now, however, in this time, Emma stopped because she was suddenly overwhelmed with the desire for a good cup of hot cocoa with cinnamon. The drink was a comfort, one of the few happy memories of her childhood that she clung to. She had vague memories of an older woman in one of the orphanages making it especially for her and only for her. It had made her different from the other kids. Special.
The diner was relatively empty. It had a fifties vibe with its red leather barstools and long counter that separated the kitchen from the seating. A jukebox stood on the far wall next to a dart board. Foreigner's "Waiting for a Girl Like You" began to play as she slid onto one of the stools.
The woman behind the counter eyed her appraisingly. She looked every inch a granny with the exception of her bullet-like eyes and the way she marched over like a soldier ready for a fight. Emma tensed in response.
"What can I get you?" Granny asked.
"Hot cocoa," Emma said. "With cinnamon, if you could."
Granny cocked an eyebrow and huffed. "Huh."
"What?"
"I know a kid who always asks for the same thing."
"Really?"
The bell above the diner dinged, and Granny nodded pointedly. "There he is, actually."
"Hey Granny," a boy slid easily onto the stool beside Emma, "how's it going?"
"Not bad. The usual?"
"Yep."
Emma glanced at the boy. Well, teenager, she supposed. She imagined him to be somewhere near fourteen or fifteen. He was a cute kid. Dark hair and warm brown eyes that flashed with a hint of mischief when he suddenly met her gaze with a small smirk. "I haven't seen you here before," he said. "We don't get many visitors here in Storybrooke. None at all, actually."
"Can't imagine why," Emma scoffed but the boy just smiled.
"Yeah, probably best, though," he said casually and Emma frowned. Before she could wonder what he meant, he offered her his hand. "I'm Henry."
"Emma."
Granny brought their cocoa then, and Henry's eyes lit up, strangely fond, when he eyed their matching drinks. "Cinnamon makes it better," he said. "Don't you think?"
Well, this kid was certainly chatty with strangers. Emma wondered if it was a product of small town trust. "Yeah, kid," she agreed. "Never actually met anyone else who liked it."
Henry smiled. "It's a family thing at my house."
He took a sip and Emma took one as well. Henry watched her, as if waiting for her opinion, and so she obliged him, truthfully admitting, "It's good."
"Yeah, you can always count on Granny." He took another drink and asked, "So, what brings you to town?"
"Work."
"Any luck?"
"Turns out the job's a dud."
Henry shrugged, but his eyes danced like he had a secret. "You never know," he said as he slipped off his backpack and set it on the counter. He opened a pocket and took out a pen and an ink well. "Maybe you were meant to be here."
Emma snorted, mildly amused by the idea. "You think so, kid?"
"Doesn't matter if I do," he said. "It matters if you do."
What the hell did that mean? Emma took another sip of her cocoa as she watched him take out an old piece of paper. Parchment, she thought. It was actually parchment. He opened up his ink well and then carefully dipped his pen as if he couldn't allow a single drop to spill. She eyed the pen curiously. It was simple but elegant. Sleek and black with a gold tip.
"Bit old-fashioned," she said.
Henry didn't look up from his writing, but he smiled. "I guess."
"So, you're a writer, huh?"
"An Author, yeah," he agreed. "It's my job to write people's stories." He glanced at her, brown eyes alight with something she couldn't name. "I might write yours one day."
Emma scoffed. "My story ain't that great."
"All the heroes say that."
"I'm no hero."
"They say that, too."
"What makes you believe I'm some hero?"
"You're sitting at a diner by yourself. You're lonely. Your job didn't work out but you didn't just pack up and leave, 'cause you've really got nowhere else to be. You're all set up for a great adventure," he explained simply before smirking, as if he was sharing an inside joke she was supposed to understand, "and besides, believing is kind of my thing."
Emma blinked. "Right," she said slowly. "Well, good luck with your story."
"Thanks," he said brightly. "But I think you'll need it more than me."
"Uh huh."
Time to go. She pulled out a handful of ones from her pocket and dropped them onto the bar. She didn't say goodbye. Something about the kid made her want to hightail it out of there. She opened the door. It dinged sharply.
She could still hear the jukebox in the background once she was outside. A car passed by as she took a step. A sparrow flew out from a bush, jostling the small branch with a rustle. She thought she heard someone call her name. She took another step even as she turned back toward the diner.
Henry sat at the bar as he wrote the final words, glancing out the window where Emma stood staring at him. He had just enough time to smile at her before she abruptly vanished.
He looked down at the beginning of his newest story.
Emma Swan had never believed in fairytales. She had never believed in heroes and villains or princes and princesses. She was simply a woman without a home who had known too little love in her young life.
All of that changed when she stepped out of the diner and chose to turn around. She met the Author's eyes as he smiled, and then she vanished quicker than a blink.
When she opened her eyes, she was in the middle of the Enchanted Forest, nearly three centuries in the past, and though she did not know it, she was finally home.
Short chapter, I know, but it sets things up!
Anyhoo, review! Please, drop me a line. Or smiley face. I happily, giddily accept smiley faces. Also, I had a bit of a tradition when I was posting like a fiend, so here's a little preview line from the next chapter. Let's see . . . who shall it be? Hmm . . . Killian!
"You're a tough lass, aren't you? Killian Jones, at your service."
I'll update every Friday. So, see you next time.
Lots of love,
AC
P.S. I'm also posting a WinterWidow Captain America fic, so if you're a Marvel fan, feel free to peruse!
