She should probably have been surprised to see her mother scurrying around her kitchen at seven in the morning, but Emma was kind of getting used to the whole super-close-family thing. Also, she smelled hot chocolate, which she could definitely get used to.
Mary Margaret caught sight of her, and smiled brightly; saying, in a sing-song voice, "Good morning, Sunshine!" (Morning people, on the other hand, would forever remain a mystery.)
Emma grinned, crossing the apartment to slide into a seat at the other side of the counter. "Morning." She tousled her already-mussed hair, blinking lazily and looking around. "Where's Henry?"
"Taking Roland and Neal to the park, I think. He's planning to teach them how to swordfight."
That's definitely going to end well, thought Emma dryly. Still - she couldn't blame Henry for wanting to escape. There were, after all, only so many times one could ask a teenage boy to try on formal suits before he snapped and made a run for it.
Mary Margaret slid a steaming mug of hot chocolate in front of Emma, who accepted it gratefully and took a long swig of the drink. Her mother turned back to the oven, and asked, with her back turned, "Is Killian still asleep?"
Emma gulped down her hot chocolate, shaking her head. "He's not here. Probably left for the docks at dawn." She shot a glance at the empty bed, one side (his) neatly tucked in, and the other (hers) invitingly rumpled. He'd taken surprisingly well to the whole harbour-master thing, mostly because of his constant proximity to the water.
Still looking towards the bedroom, Emma's gaze landed on the white garment bag, which hung on the outside of the closet. Despite herself, she felt her lips curve upwards in a smile. Mrs. Emma Jones, she thought giddily, and, okay, maybe the whole wedding thing was kind of going to her head. Maybe.
Mary Margaret set a plate, piled high with fresh pancakes, down just inches away from Emma, and drizzled them with maple syrup. Stomach growling encouragingly, Emma reached to pull one of the pancakes towards her, only to watch as her mom pulled the plate just out of her reach.
"Hey!" Emma protested, and Mary Margaret shook her head sympathetically.
"You made me promise not to let you have anything unhealthy, remember?" There was a teasing light in her eyes, and she tilted her head, as if recalling Emma's exact words. "Something about not fitting in the dress, if I remember correctly."
Shit. That does sound vaguely familiar. Exactly the sort of thing not-ravenously-hungry Emma would have said.
Emma waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Forget that. Pass the pancakes."
Mary Margaret seemed to be trying not to laugh. "You said that you'd say that."
"Ignore me."
"That's not what the contract says."
"Well - wait, contract?"
Mary Margaret held up a piece of paper, which Emma grabbed and looked at incredulously.
"'I, Emma Swan,'" read Emma, "'order Mary Margaret/Snow White to keep me away from any and all unhealthy food so that I can fit into my dress-'"
"Told you."
"'-on my wedding day.'"
"You even made Henry sign as a witness." Added Mary Margaret helpfully, while Emma gaped incredulously. "And David. And-"
"Is this my cue?"
Emma jumped, startled, as a familiar voice came from behind her. She tried not to notice Mary Margaret taking a bite of a pancake, instead turning in her chair to look at Killian, shrugging out of his jacket in the doorway. Not for the first time, Emma felt a surge of pride for getting him into real world clothes - whatever loss she faced due to the buttoned up shirt was more than compensated for by the leather jacket. She met his eyes, and he smiled like he knew what she was thinking.
"Speak of the devil," smiled Mary Margaret, as Killian approached the counter.
"Only good things, I hope." Killian bantered lightly, pressing a kiss to Emma's temple as a greeting, taking a seat beside her. He put a large paper bag down on the counter. "Granny sends her regards. Also assorted pastries."
Emma's eyes lit up, but then she glanced at the contract and sighed. Killian followed her gaze and ventured a smile.
"One doughnut couldn't hurt." He tried.
"Tell that to the dress," pouted Emma.
"Look on the bright side," Mary Margaret said chirpily, "only one more night and you can go to a buffet or something on your honeymoon!"
A whole goddamn day. Emma groaned, face down on the counter. "I just need something sweet. Like, now." Next to her, Killian grinned mischievously.
"I can't help but feel as though you're practically begging me for a suggestive joke, love."
Emma shoved him from where she sat, and he teetered on his seat, laughing. Without looking up, she knew that her mother was giving them both a mildly scandalized glance. Chastened, Killian played the humble son-in-law card and mumbled an apology. It came close to sounding sincere - Emma would probably have believed him if she couldn't hear the suppressed laughter in his voice.
Her mom scoffed good-naturedly and seemed about to continue when the phone rang. Emma looked up with dread. "If it's Ruby about the menu again," she said, "I will cancel and order pizza."
"I think perhaps I'd better take this one." Mary Margaret picked up the phone and sure enough, as she strode away absently, the sound of Ruby's voice was clearly audible. Emma could have sworn that she heard the words "ice sculpture", and at that point, just decided to stop listening; there was, after all, only so much she could take.
She propped herself up on her arms, decided that the dress wasn't worth sugar deprivation, checked that her mother wasn't looking, and took a powdered doughnut. Killian laughed, brushing the sugar off of her top lip.
"Enjoying that?"
"Immensely." Emma smiled hugely, which made her fiancé (she still couldn't think that without getting kind of giddy - something that she firmly planned to never, ever tell the fiancé in question) smile in turn.
She took another bite, nestling into his side. "Anything exciting happen at the harbour?"
He shook his head. "If you count an unusual surplus of swans and a usual deficit of edible fish, then yes. Incredibly exciting." He gave a loud, exaggerated sigh. "If you'd just let me take the crew out for a smidge of-"
"No." Emma said flatly, trying not to laugh. "No piracy. It's illegal here, remember?"
"It was illegal in our world, too," protested Killian enthusiastically, "and that never stopped us!" He seemed about to continue, probably with some lament about the boredom of law-abiding sailing, but Emma's brain finally clued in to what he said before.
"Wait," she interrupted him, "did you say that there're swans down at the docks?"
"Aye," he nodded. "Quite a few, at that."
She frowned. "That's weird. We don't normally see swans around here."
"With one notable exception, of course." He raised an eyebrow, looking at her pointedly, and Emma rolled her eyes affectionately, turning in her chair to put her arms around his neck and pull him closer. Killian pressed a kiss to her forehead, then met her eyes.
"I love you." She said, just because she could.
"And I you." He responded without hesitation, then looked at her curiously, obviously surprised by the sudden declaration. She'd said it before, of course, but seldom idly, out of nowhere like this. "For someone normally irritable at this hour in the morning, you are in an oddly good mood."
Emma toyed with his collar playfully. "Aren't you?"
He shrugged. "Can't imagine why I should be," he said, feigning nonchalance. "Am I supposed to be looking forward to something? Have I forgotten an upcoming event?"
Ah, yes, there was the sarcastic asshole she knew and loved. Emma grinned conspiratorially, leaning forward to whisper to him. "Don't let my mom hear you say that. I'm pretty sure she's been planning this wedding since the moment she found out she was pregnant with me."
"Aha!" He exclaimed, mirroring her volume. "That's what I've forgotten. A wedding!" Emma laughed, and received a capital-L Look from Mary Margaret, still on the phone across the room.
"Swan," Killian sighed contentedly, pulling Emma closer, "you will be the death of me."
Their noses touched, and Emma could feel his breath on her lips. "Y'know," she mused, "you won't be able to call me Swan anymore, tomorrow. And Swan-Jones isn't exactly the most attractive nickname."
"You, Princess, greatly underestimate my nicknaming prowess." He was tantalizingly close, now, lips barely touching hers, and Emma could feel him smiling. Then she wrinkled her nose.
"And you, Captain," she teased, drawing back slightly, "smell like fish."
Killian sniffed the air around himself, and frowned, getting to his feet. "Just so you know, this would never happen if you'd just let me-"
"No piracy!" Emma smiled, trying and failing to look serious. There was a glint in his eyes, like he was planning something.
"Then I must insist that, as my future wife, you accept every heinously fishy part of me." He wrapped his arms around her from behind and Emma squirmed, laughing along with him.
"Killian, you stink! Literally-"
"You wound me-"
"Is this what you two get up to every time I turn my back? It's almost sickeningly adorable."
Emma and Killian looked toward Mary Margaret, who re-entered the kitchen with a knowing, gently teasing smile. Emma took a moment to marvel at the fact that, by some strange twist of fate, she had someone with whom she was so comfortable that Snow White thought that they were sickeningly adorable.
"Your daughter," Killian chimed in, still holding Emma close, "is cruel. And unappreciative of fish." Emma pulled a face at him.
Her mother grinned, setting the phone down on the counter in front of Emma, who looked at it, then back at Mary Margaret with no small amount of trepidation.
"So?"
"So, Ruby says yes to an ice sculpture, a punch bowl, and hors d'oeuvres; and no to you saying no to an ice sculpture, a punch bowl, and hors d'oeuvres."
Emma exhaled heavily, and wondered what had possessed her to let a werewolf be her wedding planner. "I'm guessing there's no point in fighting her on this?"
"None at all," said Mary Margaret, who looked a little too excited by the idea of hors d'oeuvres to make Emma feel comfortable arguing. "Oh, and while we're on the subject of the wedding, I need to talk to you about the flower arrangements. The florist has vanished off the face of the earth, and if he can't have the bouquets ready by the ceremony tomorrow..."
To be fair, Emma put forth a valiant effort to look interested. At least, she did for the first fifteen minutes.
Okay, fine. Ten. But come on, how much could she really be expected to care about the ratio of roses to leaves in her bouquet? She rose from her seat, fully prepared to give a less-than-subtle excuse about needing to shower. Predictably, this didn't work.
"Wait!" Mary Margaret cried, stopping midway through a sentence. "Belle wanted me to ask about... what was it? I wrote it down somewhere-"
Killian, who had been slowly working his way through both the pancakes and the pastries, snapped his fingers. "That reminds me; Henry wants to know what colour tie he's supposed to wear." Sensing a protest, he hastened to continue. "I told him that you'd given it to him, but the lad appears to have lost it."
"Speaking of colours-"
"Also, Robin wants to know if he's allowed to wear his scarf-"
If one more person said something about banal wedding preparations within her hearing range, Emma would not be responsible for what she did. Before she had time to think up an answer to the barrage of questions, the phone rang. She dove for it before either of the other two left their seats.
"Hello?"
"Emma," said David, sounding relieved. "Thank goodness."
Emma sat up straighter, narrowing her eyes. "Is everything okay?"
"Everyone's fine, don't worry." Her father was quick to reassure her. "Is Killian there?"
"Yeah, d'you want to talk to him?" asked Emma, already holding out the phone toward her fiancé, who looked at her questioningly. "Here he-"
"No!" shouted David, audible even as Emma held the phone away from her ear. She yanked it back from Killian, holding it at a safe distance just in case of more shouting.
"Don't mind me," Emma said pointedly, "just mildly deafened over here."
"Sorry," David sighed, and she realized just how weary he sounded. "Sorry, it's just... there's a minor problem involving the bachelor party plans."
What did fairytale characters even do at a bachelor party? "What," she quipped with a small laugh, "did the stripper cancel on you?"
"Actually, worse." said David, completely serious. Before Emma could digest (and be subsequently horrified by) the thought of Prince Charming and Captain Hook enjoying a stripper's services, her dad continued. "She seems to have vanished entirely."
Emma got to her feet, walking into the bedroom so that Killian wouldn't hear and ruin the surprise. She lowered her voice, still dumbfounded, "What do you mean? Strippers don't just disappear. Do they? Is that some stripper trick, like a pre-show?" Emma shook her head vigorously, trying to get a grip. "Wait, back up. You actually got a stripper?"
"Yes, Emma, but that's not the point," David said exasperatedly, and Emma decided that, nope, she would never ever get used to her dad and significant other being each other's 'mates'. "She's not answering any of our calls, and when Robin checked at her apartment, the door was open, key in the lock, like she'd just vanished into thin air."
"Okay, disappearing stripper. Got it. What am I supposed to do?"
"I know I said I'd pick up the sheriff's patrols until you got back from your honeymoon, but..."
Emma cast a longing glance toward her bed, still bathed in sunlight, and tried not to sound overly resentful. "Okay. Okay, I'll cover from Granny's to the docks, you take from the library to the forest."
"Thanks, Emma. I'm sure we'll find her somewhere." David said, then, as if the thought just occurred to him, "Oh, I was going to ask, about the wed-"
"See you in ten." said Emma flatly, and ended the call.
And, on second thought, maybe she wasn't used to this whole princess thing quite yet.
When she couldn't find the missing woman in down, Emma should have cut her losses and went back home.
What was that they said about hindsight being twenty-twenty?
She parked the bug and walked along the water's edge, taking her time. At the end of the pier, a figure was visible, crouched low to the water. Killian had been right – there were five or six large swans clustered around the person, occasionally squawking and pecking at one other to get at whatever crumbs were being thrown their way.
Weird, thought Emma, there're never this many swans around here. As she drew closer to the end of the wooden pier, she could make out more details of the person who waited there. It was a woman, no one Emma recalled seeing before, with flowing hair and a neon pink pantsuit that made Emma's eyes hurt.
When she was within five feet of the woman, Emma stopped. Before she could decide on a greeting (because "are you a stripper" probably wouldn't go over very well), the woman spoke.
"You," the woman demanded, snapping her fingers in Emma's direction without even looking at her. "Tell me where to find Emma Swan."
Emma bristled, instantly defensive. "You're looking at her."
The woman turned to face her for the first time, interest obviously peaked. She looked Emma up and down, taking in her old jeans and leather jacket and raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Really?" She asked. "You're Emma Swan?"
"Yep."
"Savior of Storybrooke?"
"Uh huh."
"The one with the super yummy husband-to-be?"
"Ye- wait, what?" Emma broke off mid-word, utterly confused.
"Hmph," the woman went back to feeding the swans, obviously unimpressed. "I have to say, I expected better. Blonde has never been my colour."
"Okay, lady, you're obviously confused, so I'm going to call-"
"No." Without looking away from the swans, the woman held up a hand and the phone flew into her grasp before Emma could react. "No, I'd like to talk to you by yourself. Besides, we wouldn't want to worry Killian, now would we?" Her tone was light and pleasant, but there was a hardness in her eyes that immediately put Emma on edge. She scanned the area around her, looking for someone to call to if she needed help, but there was no one in sight.
Stalling it was, then.
Emma raised her hands in a gesture of peace. "Okay. You want to talk, let's talk. How do you know about me and Killian?"
"Oh, please. I do my research." The lady casually tossed the phone into the water, straightening to look Emma in the eye. She leaned forward, lowering her voice like they were best friends at a slumber party. "It really is quite the story. A noble hero, moving on from a troubled past and finding true love and a family where they least expect to. And you're there, too." She waved a hand like she was swatting away a particularly pesky fly, and before it could occur to Emma to be insulted, the woman was talking again.
"You know, I recently discovered this world's version of my story. Of course, it's not really my story, the way you tell it." She sighed, like the mere thought of her past exhausted her. "A bit disappointing, honestly. Such good dramatic potential, and what do they do? Make it a dance routine. Ridiculous."
"Dance routine," Emma repeated, running through every fairytale she knew and trying to think of a villain she hadn't yet encountered. Then it hit her. "Oh my god."
"That's what I said! I mean, this whole 'black swan swooping in to trick the swan maiden's prince and kill anyone in her way' garbage? Gives such a bad impression of me."
"So you weren't trying to trick a prince and kill everyone in your way?"
"What?" The woman looked up. "Oh, no. My dress wasn't black. It was pink. The killing part's true. Try to keep up, savior."
"You," Emma said, "have got to be kidding me." Somehow, be it the ridiculous situation or the wedding related stresses that had been steadily building for the past months, she found herself laughing. "Swan Lake - it isn't even a fairy tale! It's a ballet!" This statement was accompanied by an alarmingly vivid mental image of the dwarves in tutus and toe shoes, which led to Emma laughing even harder, doubling over.
In retrospect, she probably could have reacted better. Made conversation, or, better yet, shoved her off the pier right then and there.
In retrospect, she could have done any number of things, other than laughing. Predictably, she did none of them.
"Oh, brilliant," said the stranger, looking entirely bored, "The savior's delusional." She gave Emma one last, utterly derisive glance. "Pity. I didn't want to have to get rid of another one."
That stopped Emma's laughter pretty quickly. She reached for her gun, but the woman flicked a perfectly manicured hand in her direction and it was like walking into a brick wall. Emma stopped in her tracks, wincing. She tried to shake her head in an attempt to clear her mind, then was startled to find that she couldn't. Couldn't shake her head, couldn't - because the only thing she was thinking was run - take even a single step in any direction. Whatever spell this weirdo had cast on her had frozen her entirely, toes to head to feathertips to-
Wait.
Wait just one damn second.
If she could've moved, Emma would have been screaming, because right where her fingers were supposed to be she saw slender, white feathers.
She watched, frozen in horror, as the transformation spread up both of her arms. Her neck was seized by some invisible force, like hands strangling her. This was impossible, even for Storybrooke. The lady stared bemusedly as Emma struggled for breath, and when she dropped her gaze and looked back at her arms, all she saw were wings.
And this had to be some sick joke, because there was no way in hell that Emma Swan was literally being turned into a swan two days before her wedding. A million things were racing through Emma's mind (she had to warn her family, she had to get Henry out of this freak's warpath), but the force around her throat attacked with renewed force and she knew that she was going to black out.
Absurdly, her last thought before losing consciousness was that, shit, she would never get that dress on now. The woman turned and walked away, Emma's gaze landed on one of the nearest swans, and - about damn time - everything went black.