Reposting this fic :)
Again, I OWN NOTHING.
if i did emma would have less of a backstory involving neal and more involving herself being a woman of power and substance and every episode would include killian doing something stupid and getting the reaction of "oh killian" in a loving and condescending tone from all the people who lived/live in the modern world
xox luff u mikaykay (no don't call me that actually)
chapter one: "fuck. my. life" -emma swanA seventeen-year-old Emma Swan, sitting on the windowsill of her foster home with her legs dangling outside the window, opened her book to the page she had bookmarked with a creased corner. She was reading Orphan, a story about a girl who runs away from her foster home and finds a portal to another realm. Emma could barely read the book; it was poorly written and the plot-line was junk. She had read better books than this by a five year old. Yet, Emma didn't want to put the book down. Quinn Willoughby, the main character, somewhat resembled herself.
Not to say Emma was a lifeless person with no personality traits whatsoever, because she wasn't. Emma could, empathize with the girl. As someone who grew up moving from foster home to foster home, and from orphanage to orphanage, she could easily relate to Quinn.
Emma felt her heart tear in two for Quinn as she finished the sentence, "...yet again, no one wanted Quinn."
"I read that book," Emma heard a voice behind her, and was surprised to see Henry Mills, a fellow orphan who hadn't been picked up yet.
"It's late Henry," she told him, making a 360, so she was facing the ten-year-old-boy in front of her, "you need your sleep. Big day tomorrow." Another pair of newlyweds were coming, and although Emma knew that she would never get picked, Henry most certainly would.
"You know they won't pick me," he told her, walking closer, and sitting next to her on the windowsill, "they'll probably pick baby Neal." Emma almost felt herself automatically stiffen at the sound of his name, but felt herself not doing so. Maybe she was finally getting over him.
"Henry," Emma sighed, "you know that's not true. There's always a chance that they'll choose you. Henry, you are a smart, kind, wonderful kid. Why wouldn't anyone want you?"
"Damaged goods."
Emma looked at the small boy next to her, narrowing her eyes, "Never say that, Hen. Never."
"You say it all the time, Ems," he retorted, crossing his arms, "and I can say anything you can."
"You cannot say that Henry. Never, okay? You are not even close to damaged goods. If you say anything like that ever again, I will personally throw you out this window." Emma jabbed her thumb behind her trying to prove her point.
Henry looked down at his lap, lost in thought.
"You aren't either." It was small and tiny, but the words were more than meaningful.
"What?"
"You aren't damaged either Emma," he wasn't talking loud, but she could hear him this time, "you've done more for me and the other kids than anyone else. You've actually cared about us. And, as much as you don't believe it, you're my hero. If one day I become even close to who you are, then I will be more than proud of myself."
She looked down at Henry with watery eyes, her heart swelling.
"But I did read that book," he repeated, pulling it from her hands, not marking the page it was on, "and, Emma? Quinn is a figment of someone's imagination. She's a false person, with false morals and a false life. She is not real. Not like you or me or Ruby or Graham. And, she is most definitely not like you, Emma."
Once again, Emma felt a tug at her heart, reminding her of how much she meant to Henry and to herself, "Come on, bud," she told him, slipping of the windowsill, "you need your sleep." He followed her lead, walking himself out the door of the library, and down the hall to his room.
Emma watched him go, and finally open and close the door to the younger boy's room.
She wasn't used to someone caring, and since the he-who-must-not-be-named (who, coincidentally, is very much like Voldemort) she hadn't feel wanted, or, hell, even needed. And her she was, crying because a little ten-year-old Henry Mills loved her and admired her. It was almost a whole new concept to her, making her feel slightly lightheaded and dizzy, and the words were out of her mouth before she even knew what she was saying.
"I believe."
The words tasted less bitter when she said them without malice or sarcasm. They felt lighter and happier, and she did believe. For once, she did believe.
The wind picked up around her, her blonde hair flying towards the back of the room as leaves and small branches raced around her, and she dodged them, trying not to get stung by the branches crossing against her skin.
She looked outside, and, not surprisingly, saw nothing. In Nowhere, Massachusetts, having a streetlamp was something close to a miracle.
She did though, feel something. Something pull her forward. Something pull her to lean out the window, grabbing on to the inside edge.
You could say Emma was adventurous, she snuck out of the orphanage all the time, broke into cars when she needed them, and pickpocket unsuspecting men. Emma was deadly afraid of heights, though.
Which was what led her to believe that something else was going on, maybe her concussion from last year was starting to get stronger (even though she still took medicine for it), maybe she was being suicidal (though she didn't feel like throwing herself out the window, only standing there like an idiotic intimidation of Peter Pan), or maybe she was starting to become some kind of cool magic person like Carrie (though, Emma hoped her story wouldn't end the same way, she thought of herself as a much less emotionally attached person that Carrie).
In the end, she found out that none of those were right, and Peter Pan was real.
Here's what happened (in chronological order, because why not?):
1. Emma was lifted off the ground and into the sky by a shadow, which, all in all, was much scarier than it sounded.
2. Emma screamed at said shadow to put her down, and it did nothing of the sort, just holding her closer and flying higher and higher.
3. Emma screamed once again, this time more of a terrified "aaah!" than an angry "put me down, you bastard!"
4. Emma felt almost as if the world was turning upside down for a moment before she felt completely fine once again.
5. Emma was gently put down, finding herself without a scratch or a mark
And finally
6. Emma found herself standing in front of a really hot guy with an almost evil smirk on his face.
"Who the hell are you?"
The boy scoffed at her wording, taking a few steps towards her, as if intending to display his dominance (which didn't work, by the way, Emma had had enough of that misogynistic bullshit in her lifetime) over her.
"I could ask you the same, but I already know the bulk of your story."
She raised an eyebrow at him, feeling something akin to dread fill her stomach.
"And what would that be?" She was teasing him, knowing it would irritate people like him to have their power questioned.
"Orphan."
With that one word her confidence shattered, the feeling of dread filling her wholly. Her heart constricted, twisting and turning and hurting and pulling at the frayed strings that kept her confidence in place.
"H-h-" she couldn't even finish the sentence, "y-you?"
His smile widened, a cynical glint in his eyes, "Did I hit a nerve?"