For the first several weeks since Neal's birth, friends and neighbors had been steadily dropping off pre-made lunches and dinners for Mary Margaret and David, knowing the pair had their hands full with their newborn son. The meals usually consisted of a large salad or pasta dish, some of which were more creative than others, which could be easily reheated or stored for several days.
Amidst the endless parade of greenery and carbs, Granny had brought over a weeks worth of frozen lasagna (After the first two days of lasagna as their main meal David had unloaded the remaining pasta on Grumpy and the other dwarfs, who had laughed and warned David of Granny's wrath if she ever found out he was giving away her food for free), and Regina had even brought several turnovers for dessert one evening (Pear turnovers, not apple. Snow had long since given up on trying to move past her association of apples and sleeping curses).
Despite having technically resided in Storybrooke for several decades Mary Margaret wasn't entirely sure of the protocol between neighbors and new parents when it came to these pre-made meals. Was she supposed to send out thank you cards or flowers? Did she owe them all favors depending on the amount of food they sent over?
Snow could easily understand the concept of owing favors for such gifts. After all, magic always came with a price, and even kind-heartedness could only go unrewarded for so long. It was one of the reasons she had been able to survive as a bandit back in the day. For every villager or town that had risked their safety for her she had made a concerted effort to leave them some small gift. Snow hid food behind barrels and left furs as inconspicuously as possible by windows and water wells. In her mind it was the least Snow could do given the lengths many people had gone to for her. Ruby had told her years later that one of the reasons the villagers continued to support and remember Snow was because of small acts like those, which showed how far Snow was willing to go for her people.
If favors were the proper protocol, she feared being indebted to Granny for the next few decades with all the lasagna that had been dumped on them that they had not eaten all of.
But they weren't in the Enchanted Forest, they were in Storybrooke, where their friends had banded together to help them in whatever ways they could. Maybe a favor exchange wasn't necessarily protocol here, but Mary Margaret was more than grateful for the extra help and knew she would try to find a way to repay everyone anyway.
It also helped having Emma around. The blonde had done more than her fair share to keep the small apartment as tidy as possible and took extra shifts at the sheriff's station so David could spend more time with Neal. She had even cooked dinner several times when the trio had all grown sick of pasta and salad (Again, not that Mary Margaret wasn't grateful to everyone who had brought the food, but a person could only eat so many salads and pasta dishes at a time).
It was all so wonderful and blissful Mary Margaret almost missed the growing signs of something just a bit off about her daughter's behavior.
One day when she and David had come home from a walk with Neal she had heard Emma actually humming one of Neal's lullabies to herself while vacuuming the apartment.
But that would be crazy. Emma didn't hum. Maybe she had been imagining it.
She had asked David about it, if he had noticed anything strange or different about their daughter and the way she was acting, but he chalked it up to Emma just wanting to be helpful and busy. Emma was always at her most relaxed when she was busy. She just didn't do well sitting still for long. They knew that.
She had agreed, and decided to drop it and just be thankful for all the help she and David were getting from everyone, including their eager daughter.
But Mary Margaret kept noticing extra little things her daughter did that just weren't quite Emma; Emma cleaning the apartment more than once a week; Emma organizing several Storybrooke citizens with a meal schedule for the first two months of her brother's life; Emma baking a soufflé one afternoon.
Since when did Emma know how to bake a soufflé?
If Mary Margaret didn't know any better she would say that Emma was acting far more domestic than was normal for her.
As grateful as Mary Margaret was for her daughter's extra help, surprising domestic skills, and enthusiasm, it was honestly worrying to watch. So one afternoon when Mary Margaret had finished putting Neal down for a nap and walked into the kitchen to find Emma mixing up something decidedly caloric in a bowl, she decided words needed to be had.
"Emma? What are you doing?" Mary Margaret tried to keep her tone as pleasant as possible but wasn't sure if she succeeded. She didn't want to scare her daughter by being too harsh so quickly but this had been eating at her for weeks and she was worried about this change and just wanted to know what had gotten into Emma. Surely that could be forgiven?
If the look on Emma's face said anything, it was that her mother's tone was not as pleasant as she had hoped it would be. Emma actually seemed surprised at her mother's sudden appearance in the kitchen. Her head jerked up and shoulders tensed at her mother's voice, while the hand that had been steadily mixing the bowl's contents stopped moving abruptly, sloshing some batter onto the countertop.
Maybe Emma had been more lost in the motions than she had realized and just didn't notice her coming in, Mary Margaret thought.
Emma recovered quickly though, her armor up once again, and she glanced from her mother's face to the bowl in front of her, back to her mother.
"Baking pear turnovers?" She answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, but to Mary Margaret it sounded just a little too defensive.
Mary Margaret must have given her daughter a look of some sort, because Emma shifted her weight on her feet and started sheepishly trying to round back her answer to fill in the blanks.
"David ate the last one yesterday and I know you both like them so I thought I'd make some instead of trying to ask Regina for more, because she's got enough on her plate just being her, and I don't think she'd be too happy if I asked for more food from her and will you just stop giving me that, that 'mom' look?" She spoke quickly, not quite rushed, but fast enough that she clearly didn't like having to explain herself. Emma turned her attention back to the mixing bowl in front of her with fervor, bits of the contents spilling out of the bowl and decorating the counter further.
It occurred to Mary Margaret that Emma would probably insist on cleaning that up herself, given her habits as of late.
"A 'mom' look?"
"Yeah, that thing Granny does to Ruby and supposedly Regina and I both do to Henry. You're doing it." Emma said without looking up from the bowl that was now being mixed a little too eagerly.
Mary Margaret took a breath in understanding at Emma's comment.
Whenever Red gave an answer that left too much unsaid Granny would stare her down with a single, silent, disapproving stare that all but forced a rushed explanation from the brunette. It was like watching the silent interrogation of a child with their hand in the cookie jar. As a bystander it was always a bit uncomfortable to be around, but now Mary Margaret had a 'mom' look too?
Now she just felt guilty.
Mary Margaret hated making her daughter uncomfortable. She didn't feel like she got to be a mother to Emma very often so whenever she knew Emma was unhappy or annoyed because of her it always hurt. She was still learning how to properly handle times where Emma was upset or defensive, something that would have surely been easier if they had spent more than three years together as a family. As if she needed another reminder she had missed watching Emma grow up.
Now that she thought about it, Emma had been so involved in her baking that she didn't notice Mary Margaret coming in at all, interrupting what was an otherwise peaceful moment for her daughter. Emma rarely had those moments with her role as Savior. She hardly ever let her guard down that much, hardly ever let herself be so absorbed in something that she forgot to be watchful and wary, and Mary Margaret felt the guilt build up inside of her for taking that small moment of calm from Emma.
She hadn't planned on sounding terse with Emma, or giving any 'mom' look, but she was worried and just wanted answers about her behavior the past few weeks.
"Emma, I didn't mean to sound... It's just, well, I don't want to sound rude or ungrateful or anything. I love that you've been helping out around the apartment and at the station: the extra shifts, the cleaning and cooking, and just looking after everything. You have no idea how much it means to me and your father and we can't thank you enough." She paused, trying to form the words delicately in her mind before she spoke them. "The thing I don't understand though..."
Mary Margaret watched Emma for any more nervous movements. Whether Emma realized it or not she was very expressive. Not so much in her face, but in her body language. Emma had once explained to her mother that her years in the foster system had taught Emma to guard herself emotionally and always be watchful of other people's intentions towards her, especially through watching their body language. But if Mary Margaret had gleaned anything from her three years getting to know her daughter, it was that Emma didn't fully realize she was just as expressive as the people she was guarding herself from. And the way Emma held the mixing bowl a tiny bit closer to her body and seemed to lean backwards away from Mary Margaret was blatantly defensive and nervous.
Mary Margaret also knew that the more time she spent analyzing the best way to phrase her question, the more skittish Emma would get. This wasn't a life-threatening crisis or curse, so why was this so hard to ask?
To Hell with it then.
"When did you learn to bake?"
That caught Emma off guard. Green eyes widened a fraction before narrowing in confusion. Her mixing stopped entirely but she still held the bowl close, using it almost as a barrier between herself and her mother.
"What do you mean?" Emma asked. She didn't seem suspicious but she wasn't being outright forthcoming either.
"When it was just the two of us living here, before the first curse was broken, I don't think I ever saw you use the kitchen for anything other than coffee and toast?"
Emma's eyes slid sideways, recalling their time together before the memories had returned, before they were Snow White and the Savior, a mother and daughter. When they had just been Mary Margaret Blanchard and Emma Swan, unlikely friends and roommates.
Emma shrugged her shoulders carelessly, seeming a little more at ease. "I don't know. Maybe it's having Neal here, or maybe its everyone bringing all this food and me not wanting to eat pasta every night." Mary Margaret chuckled at that. What did Hook always say about them? Like mother like daughter?
"There's absolutely nothing wrong with it Emma," Mary Margaret tried to reassure her daughter, shaking her hands in front of her before leaning on the counter between them. "I just noticed lately you've been awfully domestic and really attentive and I wanted to know what brought it all on. Between all the cooking and baking and organizing and that dinner from last week, what was that? That fish thing?"
"Poached salmon," She responded nonchalantly, the fingers of one hand drumming casually on the side of the bowl. Mary Margaret caught a glimmer in her green eyes that showed Emma took more pride in that dish than she was probably willing to admit. "I've made that before for you guys. Remember when Henry and I first got back from New York and he didn't remember who everyone was? We had that potluck thing with Regina so she could see Henry without it seeming weird. You made mashed potatoes and I did the salmon and Regina brought… The turnovers..." She trailed off, eyes glazing over in deep thought.
Mary Margaret watched her daughter's face, eager to learn her expressions. Her eyes were downward, staring into nothing but focused nonetheless. Emma was clearly coming to some sort of realization and Mary Margaret was happy to give her the time she needed to do so, so she stayed quiet and waited patiently for her daughter to say something.
She didn't have to wait long, because several moments later Emma's eyes were filled with a sudden clarity.
"Regina," The blonde said simply.
Emma moved her gaze to the mixing bowl still resting in her arms and stared at it for a moment, as though she had forgotten it was there. Her eyes narrowed and all at once she pushed it onto the counter as if it had burned her. Emma moved her arms stiffly by her sides and her shoulders tensed up again, but the movement didn't bother Mary Margaret like earlier since she was sure this time it wasn't done out of anything she did personally.
"Regina?" Mary Margaret prompted, leaning forward on the counter and hoping for more answers. Honestly, sometimes getting answers from Emma was so easy and other times it was like pulling teeth.
"Regina."
Mary Margaret waited for her daughter to elaborate further, but when she was met with continued silence she tried to put on her best 'mom' look to incite some more information.
It did nothing but make Emma chuckle, relaxing her shoulders and posture. At least she didn't look quite so uncomfortable anymore.
"Are you actually trying to use the 'mom' look now? I'm sorry, but I don't think it works when you're trying to use it deliberately. It's gotta be subconscious or something, cause that just looks constipated."
Mary Margaret bristled at that.
"Well, what about Regina?"
"I don't know exactly," Emma said, the fingers of one hand pushing the bowl away from her in little taps as though it were a small pet she was prodding away from her with a stick. "I think she did something before Henry and I left for New York from Pan's curse. Something about my memories or whatever. Cause you're right, I don't remember really using the kitchen when I first came here, but in New York and since then I'm totally comfortable. I somehow just know all of these recipes for things I apparently didn't realize I never knew before, like the poached salmon and I guess pear turnovers too. I bet I could tell apart all those fancy dinner spoons and salad forks and cups, actually."
Mary Margaret lifted her eyebrows at her daughter.
"You think Regina gave you memories of domestic skills and etiquette?"
"I don't know, maybe? I'm not totally sure about the etiquette stuff, but I guess. Anything's possible, right?"
A moment of silence passed, neither women quite sure what to do with this realization. Did they call Regina and question her about the implanted memories? Did they leave it be? There wouldn't be any negative consequences to these implanted memories and behaviors, would there?
Mary Margaret broke the silence first, nodding her head as she spoke.
"I should thank her."
"Seriously?!"
Mary Margaret threw her hands up defensively. "As your mother I'm just happy you and Henry aren't eating take out every night. A home cooked meal is good for you and it's just a nice thing to come back to. Besides, that salmon from last week was really good. You don't think you could make it again, do you?"
With that Mary Margaret picked up her phone and dialed a phone number that was becoming increasingly familiar. Maybe she would invite Regina over for a cook-off or family dinner. She would let Regina and Emma duke it out in the kitchen and the rest of them could reap the delicious benefits of their culinary talents.
"Hi Regina. It's Mary Margaret. Listen, I just had something I wanted to ask you…"