Author's Note: Hi everyone! I'm doing my best to get back in the swing of things; I recently graduated with my bachelor's degree and started my first "big girl" job so things have taken a lot of adjusting. I'm hoping to get Inside the Fire back on a regular schedule soon, but until now, here's a short Mad Swan one-shot inspired by a prompt. They were my OUAT ship before Captain Swan existed, and even though I've certainly moved on, they'll always have a small place in my heart. I hope you like it!
As far as birthdays went, Emma Swan was sure she'd had worse. She lumbered into her apartment, awkwardly kicking off her pumps. She sighed as her aching heels found their natural grounding. It was the night's only comfort—that and the slightly-squished cupcake box she held in her hand.
She fumbled for the lights and then for a pair of scissors, cutting away the soft ribbon the bakery owner tied the container up with. It was decidedly unlike Emma: pale pink and distinctly girly, something out of a storybook she'd long since grown out of. She related more to the box underneath: plain and unwanted. Emma shook her head and the thoughts out of it.
She jammed her fingers under the flimsy cardboard flaps, chipping at the red of her nails. Inside the box was a birthday cake for one, a cupcake heaped with vanilla frosting and decorated with a pretty blue candle. Emma pulled out a lighter from the drawer where she'd found the scissors and thumbed over the sparkwheel, striking up a steady flame. She lifted it to the candle and it took easily to the wick.
At least something went right tonight, Emma thought, setting the lighter aside. She crossed her arms on the counter and slumped, resting her chin so that her face was level with the cupcake. A long second dragged as she watched the candle burn. Its wild dance cast shadows short and long across her face, causing a smile to ghost her lips. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Just this once, Emma wished, I don't want to be alone on my birthday.
Before she could blow the candle out, someone rapped wildly against the door. Her green eyes snapped open wide. She jumped to her feet and padded across her apartment, her breath caught up in her throat.
Wishes don't come true, Emma reminded herself, waving off the silly thought before it had time to root in her mind. She rocked onto the tips of her toes and stared out the peephole, not recognizing the face on the other side.
He was her age or slightly older, tall and lean with one of those ridiculously handsome jawlines that could fill the pages of a romance novel. His eyes jarred her. They were blue as the ocean but a hundred times clearer, almost translucent against his fair skin. His hair was dark, messy, with a few strands hanging over the light lines of his forehead.
And he wasn't alone. A little girl gripped his hand, her braided brown hair laced with the most beautiful auburn streaks. He couldn't hope to deny her. They had the same eyes, blue as clear as glass. She was eight, maybe ten, the same age as…
Emma shook her head fiercely and twisted the door handle, opening the door it as far as the chain would allow. The man smiled at her and it was radiant, bright enough to darken the sun. The blonde felt her stomach flop.
"Emma Swan?" he asked.
She nodded, incredulous. "Can I help you?"
"I thought maybe I could help you," the stranger told her. Emma's eyebrows knitted together; her confused expression made him laugh. He dipped his free hand into the pocket of his long, dark coat and pulled out a little brown wallet.
Emma balked. She fumbled for the latch and pulled open the door.
"Found it in a cab," he explained before she could ask. "Happy birthday, by the way. I must say, your driver's license looks a lot nicer than most of the ones I've seen."
"My papa thinks you're cute," piped up the little girl, beaming up at Emma with just one front tooth. She smiled back at her.
"That's very kind of your papa," said Emma. She thumbed through her wallet, combing through the few dollars stashed inside. "Here, let me—"
The man reached out his hand, closing it gingerly over hers. "There's no need," he said. "Think of it as a birthday present."
"Ooh! Is that your cake?" asked his daughter giddily. She slipped her hand from her father's grip and skipped right past Emma.
"Grace! Grace, you can't just—"
"She's fine," the woman laughed. She looked at him a moment too long, remembering the wish she made on the little blue candle. For the second time in a few very short minutes, Emma reminded herself that wishes didn't come true, that magic wasn't real, no matter what the lure of his smile wanted her to believe.
"Well, since I already know your name and your birthday—"
"And my weight. And my height. And God only knows what else about me."
"You're an organ donor, that's very nice of you." He grinned at her. "I'm Jefferson."
There was that blinding smile again. It was so wild, infectious—it reminded her of the Cheshire Cat's. Emma hoped he couldn't see that he was having such a silly effect on her. She was about ten years and twenty heartbreaks past falling for a man at first sight. But he was kind; his presence was warm. And for the first time in 28 lonely years, Emma Swan wasn't alone on her birthday. She stared into his glassy eyes and smiled.
"It's nice to meet you, Jefferson."
"It's nice to meet you too, Emma," he said, holding her eyes with his. "Happy birthday."