A Conversation

Emma cautiously let herself into the loft, wincing as the door creaked. If she could get in and out without running into Mary Margaret, she would consider it a long-overdue-for-vanquishing-yet-another-villain-and-living-to-tell-the-tale- payment of an already steep debt.

A slight movement out of the corner of her eye distracted her from the beeline she'd made for the stairs – and the stupidly expected solitude of her not-really-so-private room. She really needed to find her own place.

Inwardly cursing her need to see who had caused the nearly imperceptible motion, Emma quickly glanced toward the kitchen to see Mary Margaret drape herself expectantly across the counter in front of her, hands cupped under her chin and smiling like a cat who'd caught the un-expecting canary right out of the air.

"I need to get to the station," Emma began weakly, continuing to make for the stairs, hoping that the new mayor's sense of obligation to town safety could put this inevitable conversation off for a few hours.

"No," came the singsongingly drawn out word that nailed Emma's forward momentum to the floor. "You definitely need a change of clothes, since you're still wearing yesterdays, but David isn't expecting you for hours yet."

Emma heaved a defeated sigh and swiveled away from the traitorously close stairs. She glanced around for her brother, re-considering that maybe it was a bad strategic move to try to sneak in. She should have stomped across the floor like a rampaging ogre, hoping the inevitable baby's wailing would distract her mother enough to give her time to snatch up clean clothes and make her escape.

Emma bit back an exhausted moan at her mother's knowing giggle.

"He's sound asleep."

Then inwardly cringed at the pleading tone she couldn't quite keep out of her voice. "Mary Margaret…"

"What happened to mom?"

Emma leveled her mother a searing look that would have made Killian proud. "I'm not having a conversation about my sex life with my mother."

"I haven't asked you to kiss and tell." If Mary Margaret was insulted by the snappy comeback, it was hidden beneath an ever-widening smile.

Emma could feel an exasperated pout coming on and stubbornly refused to move closer and give Mary Margaret any cause to continue this uncomfortable conversation.

"Bad night?"

Emma didn't even need to use skills well-honed during her years as a bail-bonds woman. Her mother was positively vibrating with joy. "You know it wasn't."

"I don't know at all. You haven't told me anything."

And if it had been anyone but this particular woman, she'd be tempted. Tempted to become, just for a few minutes, that young girl who gushed about a man with her closest friend. Reveal in conspiratorial whispers that every step caused a pleasant twinge between her legs and other sensitive pieces of skin bore scruff burns she'd rather proudly display than cover.

But this was her mother. And she really didn't want to have this conversation. Ever.

And said mother was still standing there proudly sporting a face-splitting smile.

She considered it a miracle that she hadn't yet rolled her eyes at the infuriatingly cheery woman.

What had possessed her to leave Killian's bed? And why hadn't he stopped her? Emma bristled at the fleeting thought. Oh, he did. Twice. Before she insisted she needed to get some clean clothes and get to the station. Do the honorable, sheriff-like thing. She long regretted that decision now. How insufferable he'd be when she told him he was right.

Emma's eyes narrowed with more suspicion than she really felt. "Since when are you team Killian?"

Mary Margaret rounded the bar and sidled quickly to her side. Took her hands and squeezed gently.

A pensive, thoughtful smile replaced the wide, teasing one from moments before. "You look happy."

The tension between them evaporated in an instant and Emma felt with every fiber of her being the immense need to validate those words. "I am."

A small, gentle hand touched Emma's cheek and a sharp awareness suddenly tugged at her heart. Of a conversation that could have been. Had she not grown up an orphan. When she was 16 and not a grown woman over 30.

The first serious look she'd seen since she walked in the door passed across her mother's face before she matter-of-factly stated, "And that's why I'm team Killian."

Emma exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her worst fears for how this conversation could have gone vanishing in light of her fearsomely protective mother's sudden acceptance of Killian's place in her life.

But she knew what the widening smile and brightening eyes meant. And she was so not going there.

"I'm still not gonna kiss and tell."

With an amused huff, Mary Margaret returned to her dishes. But not before sliding a book on the city's electrical grid across the counter.

"You might want to stop by Regina's to resume those magic lessons. Don't worry about being late. David thinks you're working on the power outages this morning."

Emma glanced down at her hands in shocked horror then back at her mother's grinning, cherubic face.

"The whole town knows how happy you are, Emma."

END

Notes: I'm not sure how good this is. I'm completely out of practice writing prose. But I've been hooked (heh) by this show and these characters and wanted to try my hand at writing something for them.

There may or may not be a decidedly higher rated 'prequel' to this story in the works…

If you liked this or hated it (because I'm quite the fan of constructive critique) please leave a review and let me know.