I'm a huge fan of Peter Pan, OUAT, and a thespian in my soul — so what better idea could there be than to bring them all together? I adored what the show did with the PeterPan arc, but here's my own take on it. I hope it's something you all enjoy!
The only warning I'll give is that while this is (probably ;D) a Captain Swan endgame, this is a Neal Cassidy friendly fic. I loved Neal, I thought he was a great character and he'll be featuring here, so if you want something that'll bash him about a bit you're looking in the wrong place. Also! I'm British, so here's hoping it doesn't show too much. But without further ado, on with the story!
1. The Kind That Like to Grow Up
You need not be sorry for her. She was one of the kind that likes to grow up. In the end she grew up of her own free will, a day quicker than the other girls. — J. M. Barrie.
"Peter Pan? Are you kidding me?"
Emma liked to think her exasperation was palpable in not just her tone, but in her stance — arms firmly folded, mouth set in a thin line, a single eyebrow climbing towards her hairline like the quirk of interest she'd held for approximately ten seconds, until Mary Margaret had dramatically unveiled the script she'd been sitting on for the past hour.
"You're not excited." It wasn't a question, more of an observation, and Emma could see the way her friend's shoulders deflated at the insufficiency of her response. Something like guilt squirmed in her gut but she forced it down with a practiced ease.
"I don't know which part is worse, the green tights or the hugely racially insensitive portrayal of indigenous people."
"Racially—? Emma, it's Peter Pan."
"You're right," Emma sighed heavily, "definitely the tights."
It wasn't that she was particularly opposed to the play itself, her ire lay more in a predetermination to find fault with whichever script Mary Margaret picked out so as to secure her non-involvement. After the James and the Giant Peach fiasco last year, as far as Emma was concerned the summer production could stick it where the sun wouldn't shine. She'd only joined the theatre programme at the behest of her foster family, back when they'd been her foster family, and she'd met some nice enough people there to warrant returning the following year — after all, she had to find some way to pass the time over the long summers in Storybrooke, so different from the bustling life in Boston she'd be used to, with days that never ended and weeks that seemed to drag for decades. Emma bore no passion for drama; she spent enough of her life pretending as it was. Staying with the Blanchard's this summer, unfortunately, was a sure fire way to make sure she couldn't exactly escape it, as Mary Margaret had been involved in the summer camp workshops every single year since they'd first begun when she was a child.
This year, though, Emma was determined to stay as far away from them as possible: that was the easiest way to avoid David Nolan.
And with him and Mary Margaret gazing into each other's eyes every five minutes, she'd take every opportunity that presented itself. Rehearsals would keep the pair of them occupied from ten until three, and that would leave Emma the entire day to — well, find something to do. She tried not to dwell on the fact that every single one of her friends in Storybrooke would be sitting inside the studio with them. She considered, not for the first time, about merely thanking Mary Margaret for the offer to stay and just hopping on a bus back to Boston and spending the rest of summer locked up in her room at the home. At least then she wouldn't have to look him in the eye again.
But summer was long. Two whole months of nothing with everybody she liked still miles away in Maine? No, Emma didn't really like the sound of that either.
The pair were currently sat on the patio behind the Blanchard's house, taking a break from the heat under the shelter provided by the giant parasol by their pool — Emma had always been blown away by the quality of life in Storybrooke, the amenities her friends enjoyed casually provided a stark contrast to what she'd grown up with shifting from foster home to foster home across New England, and to tell the truth she still didn't feel all that comfortable there. The houses were far too big, the luxuries too accessible; but she had to admit, with the unreasonable heat that had taken control of the town, she couldn't be more grateful for the opportunity to take a plunge or whack up the air conditioning as far as it would go, the consequences be damned.
Emma wasn't naïve enough to believe a few pointed remarks would deter the unshakeable Mary Margaret, and she was right — before her friend's shoulders lifted again, she could almost anticipate just what she'd rally back with.
"Oh, Emma, it's more than tights! It's—it's regaining youth, the strength of imagination, good conquering evil!"
Emma raised an eyebrow. "You mean it's acting immature, refusing to accept responsibilities and a bunch of creepy old men constantly trying to kidnap young boys? No," she mused, "really, no thanks."
"It's our last show," Mary Margaret pointed out, immediately switching tact as she dropped the script down onto the ground. "Don't tell me you're going to quit because you think Captain Hook is pervert?"
"I'm quitting because I hate theatre. Captain Hook being a pervert is just… supplementary."
Her friend pouted, having forgotten that such shows of petulance rarely had an effect on Emma. "We had fun during Snow White, didn't we?"
The Storybrooke Production two years ago, during Emma's first summer there. Mary Margaret had played the title role, and the pair of them had met and grown friendly through their shared scenes. There'd been an enthusiasm a fifteen-year-old Emma had found somewhere out of an urge to fit into her new home, something she couldn't quite muster now. Storybrooke wasn't her home anymore, she had to remember that. This was just a holiday.
"Yeah, Grumpy was my real calling," Emma snorted.
"Hey," Mary Margaret teased, "if the shoe fits—?"
"That would be Cinderella. Another perfectly appropriate choice that doesn't involve boys wearing tights, racism, or bloodthirsty would-be child killers."
"And you could play a pumpkin."
Emma smirked, choosing that moment to stand and duck out of the shelter provided by the parasol, holding up a hand to block the sunlight from blinding her immediately. "Now you're getting it."
"Emma," Mary Margaret's voice took on a more serious note once again, and Emma could feel her making a final effort to implore her. "You know I'll be directing it — would I really allow you to not enjoy something I'm in charge of?"
She had a point. As was custom for the elder kids, the choice would be given to either be a part of the production in a dramatic sense or on the production team, and Mary Margaret had submitted her application to direct a few weeks ago; she'd found out this morning that it had been approved, just in time for her to reveal her great idea for what to stage. With Mary Margaret at the head of the whole thing, Emma was entirely certain of just how much better it would be than both of her previous experiences — she just couldn't help that one, tiny problem.
"And David?"
Mary Margaret stalled, before finally offering what she was clearly intending to be a nonchalant shrug. "Will be assisting me in directing, yeah." Emma sighed, scratching her toenail across the scorching stone beneath her feet, well aware that her friend understood that was probably the deal breaker. "You can't avoid him all summer, you know."
"Watch me."
After a beat of silence she straightened up, taking in a deep breath and soaking up the sunshine.
"I'm going for a walk. Want to join?"
"In this heat? I'd rather die."
"You just might, if you keep letting the Storybrooke summer spin you slowly on a spit." In her opinion it was much better to keep moving, to fight the temptation to lull and snooze and instead stay occupied; that was the best way to combat the heatwave. "If I'm gonna roast, I'd rather go down swinging."
She slipped on her sandals before making for the door that led back into the house. "I'll save you a spot on my platter!" Mary Margaret called after her, Emma simply sticking out her tongue in good humour.
The baffling thing about Storybrooke was that in the year Emma had spent away from it, it seemed like nothing had changed in the slightest — like time had simply stood still, every street corner or crevice preserved exactly as she remembered it, immobilised in the picturesque little town she'd been brought to almost three years ago. The streets were wide, the stillness perturbed only a few minutes or so when a slow-moving car might pass through and with the lack of people on the sidewalk she'd hazard a guess at most staying inside where they could sit beneath their air conditioning in relative comfort. The Blanchard's lived only a few blocks from Main Street, the clock tower well within sight; as her favourite spot she was tempted to head over there, but turned instead in the direction of the docks. Being closer to the sea would doubtless aid in assuaging the baking heat radiating from the concrete underfoot.
Emma hadn't made it three streets when a speedy form came flying out from a nearby alleyway and collided into her, small arms wrapping determinedly around her middle and for a moment she panicked and struggled against her would-be assailant — until she realised he was half her size, laughing with glee and delightfully familiar.
"Henry?" Emma gaped, her arms unhelpfully pinned to her side so she couldn't return the hug. "You scared the crap out of me, kid! And you're — wow, you're tall."
"And you're back!" he lifted his head to beam up at her, his grin stretching from ear to ear and Emma could feel her heart melting.
Little Henry Mills had to be, what, eleven by now? It hadn't taken long for the little boy to worm his way into her affections, trailing behind her after school because he claimed she looked just like a princess out of his storybook, joining her for lunch and chattering away through her sullen silences — he'd been a breath of fresh air in an unfamiliar town, and Emma had no idea how much she had missed him until he'd come running up to her again.
Pulling away so she could reach under his arms, she lifted the boy clean off the ground and swung him around, delighting in the way he laughed and cheered.
"Are you back for good? Will you be coming back to school in September? Are you doing the show?" The barrage of questions came after he'd been dropped back to the ground, but mercifully Emma was saved from answering by somebody calling the boy's name, Henry looking around guiltily as he heard it.
"Must you [i]insist[/i] on running away from me at every available opportunity?"
Emma could practically hear the sound of boots on concrete reverberating as if a giant were approaching them instead of the fearsome yet decidedly mortal form of Regina Mills, who reached immediately for Henry's hand. He allowed her to take it, but made a quick grab for Emma's too. Once Regina's eyes settled on just who her younger brother had accosted in the middle of the street, the quirk of one eyebrow was the only indication of recognition.
"Emma Swan," she mused, gently tugging Henry closer to her side, "I thought we were finally shot of you."
"You are," Emma replied evenly, "mostly. I'm just here for the summer."
Regina didn't offer much in response besides a pointed look; which was fine by her, she had no interest in interacting with the older girl for any length of time either. When she turned to go Henry lingered, fingers delicately clutching onto Emma's but she encouraged him to let go — the last thing she wanted was to be on the receiving end of Regina's ire, not again. There were some things about Storybrooke she decidedly did not miss.
"Don't you want that ice cream you practically dragged me out here for?"
Henry's expression lit up, and he merely sent Emma a sheepish grin before turning and scampering along at his sister's side, heading in the direction of Main Street. Regina had never been fond of Henry's attachment to Emma, and apparently in a year's absence that was something that hadn't changed. Shrugging off the encounter, she continued the way she'd been going, already beginning to feel the coolness of the sea air blowing gooseflesh onto her skin, and Emma decided it was a wonder that the entire town wasn't flocking towards the harbour.
The sun still beat down from above, relentless and indiscriminate, exactly as she remembered it from the year prior. She tried not to dwell on the fact that the last time she'd been down to the docks had been with David when they'd rented out a rowing boat; an epic failure of a venture, when they made it no more than thirteen feet away from the pier before capsizing in hugely dramatic fashion. It saddened her to think of how she associated those happy memories with scarcely anything but pain or regret now, but Emma was not one to brood extensively on negativity — not when she had perfected the art of compartmentalizing the emotions in her life, and shutting them away when they no longer pleased her.
There was an entire box labelled David Nolan, it was her intention to make it the entire summer without touching it once.
Dismissing the direction of her thoughts, Emma decided to take drastic action to pull herself back to the present. Thinking of nothing but the heat and the coolness she knew she'd find in the sea, Emma stripped down to her vest but kept on her shorts, pausing only for a second to deposit her shirt at the end of the pier before performing her best imitation of a haphazard dive, leaping into the freezing water.
The drastic change of temperature winded her, and she was all too quickly breaking the surface and taking a huge breath of the humid air, treading water and shaking her hair from her eyes in an attempt to acclimatize properly. Emma reached out a hand to the dock to regain a sense of balance, pulling herself partially from the water — she hadn't been hovering there five minutes when a voice from behind her nearly sent her plunging back into the water in surprise.
"Hello, beautiful."
Emma whipped around to find herself a mere two metres from a boy she didn't recognise, sat on a small, worn motorboat and eyeing her with an unchecked curiosity. The boy had ruffled raven dark hair and eyes that seemed to match the shade of the ocean around them, the scratch of a hard-earned stubble resting around the edge of his chin. He looked to be not much older than she was, probably — perhaps a little closer to eighteen than she was. Either way, she was not all that taken by the darkened look he was sending her, nor the positively salacious quirk of his mouth. Emma felt as if she were being studied and recorded to an uncomfortably detailed degree.
"You trying to kill me?" she settled for throwing barbs, usually her first layer of defence. "I could have knocked myself out on the dock and it would've been your fault."
"Perhaps," said the boy, "but I was willing to take the chance. That, by the way," he lifted a hand to point unashamedly at her chest, "is doing you many favours."
Despite herself Emma looked down, and remembered to her mortification that her vest was white, and now very, very transparent. Face warming in a way that had nothing to do with the weather, Emma immediately let go of the dock to plunge herself back into the water, not stopping until it was at least up to her neck.
She turned angry eyes on the boy. "What are you, some kind of pervert?!"
"Well," he looked utterly unapologetic, "you did so graciously choose to take a dip right next to my ship."
Emma took one look at the battered craft he sat floating in. "Your ship? I could get further in a rubber dinghy."
"Poke fun all you like, but she's the finest vessel in the whole harbour."
"Thrilling," Emma muttered, still irate. A moment's silence rested between them where she waited for the boy's gaze to turn elsewhere, but he seemed quite polite to just watch her. "Aren't you going to turn around, or what?"
The water had lost its appeal, and she was suddenly eager to get out of it. Unfortunately she was still painfully conscious of the state of her vest, and reluctant to let this boy catch a second look. In response to her question, he merely raised his eyebrows and his grin grew wider. Emma, not one to be conquered so easily, steeled her sense of modesty and raised her chin defiantly. Fine. If that was the way he wanted to be, she refused to give him the satisfaction. Turning back to the dock Emma swam to the ladder along the side, hauling herself out and onto the platform, vest be damned.
Something about the way she did it seemed to have some effect on the boy, and he was suddenly spurred into action. "Here, hang on," he reached down into his boat for what looked like a hoodie, clambering back to the stern so he was within reaching distance of her.
"Oh, now you're being a gentleman?" Emma made a point of ignoring him, reaching for her shirt instead.
"I hate to break it to you, love, but that shirt is going to be just as bad when it's wet. And I'm always a gentleman." He shot her another grin, one that made her want to reach forward and tear his hair out. Or maybe tug him towards her. The heat was doing her something strange.
She also had to admit he had a point — her shirt, selected for its thinness, while ideal for the heat wasn't exactly suited to cover a soaking human being. Emma gritted her teeth, swallowing her pride merely for the sake of a walk home that might include another encounter with Regina Mills, or worse, and she snatched the hoodie the boy was holding out to her and pulled it on.
"Killian Jones," the boy offered, watching her do up the zipper with a little more force than necessary. His silence was expectant, like he was waiting for her to submit her own in response.
"Oh," Emma tutted, shaking her head in faux-dismay, "you'd be lucky."
"Not even a name for your white knight?"
"No such thing."
Without further preamble, Emma reached down for her sandals and began walking back along the pier. She could hear Killian Jones scrambling out of his boat to follow her, but he couldn't make it onto the dock quick enough.
"What about my hoodie?" he yelled after her, though she could hear amusement colouring his tone.
"I'm sure you won't miss it," Emma called back, turning only very briefly to acknowledge him, "it's over ninety!"
"Thief!"
Emma didn't bother throwing back some kind of response, pausing to slip her sandals back on and heading away from the docks without so much as a backwards glance.
"Whose hoodie is that?" Mary Margaret would ask her later, just before she let it drop to the patio outside the back of the Blanchard's house so she could jump into the pool. At least nobody in their backyard would introduce themselves by ogling her chest. She felt comfortable in this family — and while comfort could be dangerous, it was also somewhat reassuring too.
"It's mine," Emma answered once she'd resurfaced.
Mary Margaret looked doubtful. "It's huge on you."
"So?"
Her friend chose not to press any further, flickering through the pages of the Peter Pan script as she was, pausing every few moments to make notes in the margin. Emma swam a few lengths, kicking off the side each time she reached the end, and the silence began to swell between them. It was pregnant, anticipatory, and Emma was expecting at least one more approach on the subject of the summer production and was already in the process of preparing her rebuttal when Mary Margaret spoke up.
"Emma," she began with reluctance, "about the whole Peter Pan thing—"
Emma cut across. "Mary Margaret, listen—"
"No you listen," her friend continued a little more forcefully, "I just wanted to—apologise. I know theatre isn't really your thing, I just thought..." She dropped the script down onto the patio, scratching the back of her head. "I invited you here this summer to spend time with you, Emma. I missed you. And now I'm going to be busy pretty much all day and I just can't shake the feeling that I'll never see you."
That was not a tactic Emma had been anticipating.
"But it was naïve of me to expect things to be like they were. It's just—it's just hard, you know? The two most important people in my life won't even look at each other and I've never been good at being stuck in the middle."
For what it was worth, Mary Margaret did genuinely appear apologetic, to the extent that Emma was almost entirely certain that if she'd stuck to her guns, she would've gotten away with it and not had to even touch the summer production with a fifty foot barge pole. Unfortunately, as she watched her friend's gaze drop dejectedly to the tiles, moving a finger back and forth across the pale concrete, Emma had to admit she had a point. It seemed silly to make all the effort of staying with Mary Margaret over the summer only to avoid the one place she was certain to see all of her friends. Otherwise, what had she been hoping to achieve by getting out of Boston?
And everything that had happened between her and David — she had to stop forgetting Storybrooke was a small town. It had affected everybody, and perhaps she needed to own up to that.
Emma made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. "I'll do your damn show."
Mary Margaret's gaze shot up, and she looked almost hesitant to smile. "You mean it?"
"I mean it." Although she still made the effort to throw a sharp look in her direction. "But don't go thinking I'm going to be getting in some silly green costume or night dress or—whatever. I'll help you direct, got it?"
Mary Margaret's beam made it almost entirely worth it. "Got it."
That said, if the twinkle in her friend's eye was any indication, she'd probably regret this decision later.
23rd August, 2010. One Year Ago.
Happy Cottage Children's Home, Boston.
"You know there are hundreds of children who would kill to be in your position, Miss Swan."
Emma shifted uncomfortably in her chair, avoiding the piercing eyes of Mr. Gold. In all her time in Storybrooke there were many things she hadn't missed about the man, and this was one of them; the coldness of his demeanour as he addressed those in his charge.
"I—I know," was all she could muster in response.
"Two years with a foster family, a family that would like to keep you."
Emma looked up, fiercely. "I don't want to be kept."
Mr. Gold acquiesced, tilting his head in an acknowledgement of her words before turning his attention back to the paperwork in front of him, making a few notes with a ballpoint pen. The desk between them remained the only barrier, and Emma was grateful of its presence. She couldn't believe she was doing this, she couldn't believe this was happening. Again.
"You're certain there's nothing else you wish to tell me, dearie?" Although it was an endearment, that term had always sent chills down her spine. "No other reason for your change of heart?"
She knew what he was probing for, some excuse to have them investigated. Well, Emma sure as hell wouldn't give him one.
"No. Nothing."
Mr. Gold fixed her with a disbelieving stare, and she tried to keep her returning look as hardened as she could; she couldn't crack, she couldn't falter, anything that would give him an in could ruin everything.
"Alright, there it is." She hadn't realised he'd continued writing, and had apparently finished filling out the form. "A social worker will return to Storybrooke in the morning to collect your things. Welcome back to Happy Cottage, Miss Swan."
They both rose from the desk, crossing the few feet to the door of his office, where Mr. Gold opened the door to let her out. A hand on her shoulder made her falter, though, and she looked apprehensively up into his eyes, and was taken aback by what she found there, almost — concern?
"You're sure this is what you want?"
She steeled herself; more than anything she had hoped he wouldn't ask that question.
"Yes," she said, proud of her voice for not quavering once, "I don't want to live with the Nolan's anymore."
The moment lingered, the pair sharing a beat of silence, before Mr. Gold finally released her. As Emma stepped back into the wide, empty corridor, she avoided the stares of some of the younger children peeking around the corner. She had to remember she was signing away her right to privacy now. The door to Mr. Gold's office snapped shut, and Emma tried to convince herself she didn't feel nearly as alone as she imagined, footsteps echoing in the vastness of her choice.