So there's a Once Upon a Time fandom? Well cool, I'm down with that. I always feel that David's own regret and sorrow is never fully explored in the show, so I decided to write something that shows his true feelings regarding Emma's lost youth. I own nothing, Kitsis and Horowitz reign supreme in this fairy tale. Enjoy!
Snow has left you to go run an errand for Henry and she tells you Emma is in Mr. Gold's shop, with a pointed look. She hurries away with a quick, parting kiss and makes her way across the street, growing smaller with each step she takes away from you. You can tell that she wants you to join Emma and perhaps strike up a conversation about something. Anything.
"Anything," Snow would say. "We have so much time to make up for."
The apprehension you are feeling has more to do with the words you have left unsaid to each other, rather than the idea that you may not have much to say at all.
Your shoes shuffle against a few stray pebbles, the purpose in your stride dampened by the thought of having to speak to her. She's your daughter, but she's a stranger; a mysterious figure cloaked in a pain this world could only offer her. A land without magic, hope, and…you.
Despite your reluctance, you manage the short distance to Mr. Gold's and the streaked window frames Emma inside, her form sitting rigidly on the floor before a cluttered arsenal of weapons. The pile is large enough that you fleetingly wonder if she plans to test the adequacy of them all. She's checking the point on a stubbed sword with a split wooden handle, and she frowns in distaste. She swiftly cuts through the air with blade, plunging her arm forward and then lowers it, contemplating its usefulness. Her actions are calculated and violent in the shadow of her dispassionate gaze.
You've always wanted to teach your children, should you have them someday, the importance of being strong; the importance of facing and fighting your demons, both internal and external.
But you didn't want their insides to harden in fear and the light within to become a weak and insubstantial pinprick, flickering in its attempt to shine through all the armored parts.
You didn't want this for her.
You push through the door and a small silver bell rings, announcing your entry into the store. She looks up sharply, her hands gripped on her current weapon of choice, ever aware and vigilant. She relaxes, the hunch of her shoulders lowering, as she observes that it is just you.
It's just me, Emma.
However, the patina of wariness never leaves her face as she gives you a small smile and looks back to her work. You give one in return, but she is already turned away, and you know your expression is one of grief without having to see your reflection.
You have never admitted this to anyone, not even to Snow, but you find yourself daydreaming in those moments that you manage to spare for yourself. You imagine a world in which Emma is untouched by the horrors of her adult life. In these fabricated memories, you always slay the monsters and she is forever protected; not by walls and weaponry, but by love and the peaceful glow of the sun.
The Summer Castle that belonged to Snow was to be your home, its imposing figure softened by the natural beauty of the moor surrounding it; stones piled high against a warm, fragrant breeze blowing off the river. You can see the heather waving in concerted motion on the surrounding fields, a golden sheath that flashes and falters minutely as Emma ambles aimlessly through, disturbing the undulating stalks. She is a child, no more than five or six, round faced and eyes blinking owlishly against the setting sun. Her blonde hair is floating carelessly behind her as she begins to run, her excitement and impatience at reaching the end of the heather making her stumble onto the rising, grassy edge of the moor before a low cliff. You watch her as you always do, to ensure she is being careful, but you're not worried: Nothing can hurt her here. There's an intelligence and grace in the way her short legs carry her, but there's no strategic parries back and forth. She takes joy in the simple act of moving through air. She is chasing everything and nothing, from the delicate butterflies that lazily float before her like downy feathers to the dust motes that disappear as she reaches for them. This is a perfect day that will be followed by an endless row of even more perfect days, and you are impatient to share them all with her. As if she knows what you're thinking, she looks back at you and smiles in a way that only a child can; unburdened and content for no explainable reason.
Just…happy.
More importantly, she looks back at you and she knows you. The warmth and trust on her face imbues you with the confidence that, yes, you are her father.
You will be there be there for her. Always.
You needed that child to be yours for just a little while. You needed her to learn and grow from your mistakes so that you might be relieved of the doubt and lies and fear that plagued you ever since you pretended to be the prince you never wanted to be.
While you knew Snow would be your forever, Emma was supposed to be your salvation.
She was to be the culmination of all the things you had done right in your life, all the light overcoming the unpredictable darkness that seemed to shroud your every move.
You know you are staring at her with the intensity of your thoughts, and you can't help wishing things were so much more different than what they are.
But the painful reality is that she no longer needs you, especially not in the way you needed her once upon a time.
Emma notices your melancholy and your unfathomable stare, and immediately halts what she's doing. She calls out for you, her voice tinged with caution. "David? David? Are you alright? Did something happen?"
Her eyes are wide with worry and it slays you that she almost intuitively anticipates the worst in life. Your face is obviously displaying the same feelings that are storming within you.
Your girl, your light. It breaks off a little piece of you inside, every time she calls you David instead of Dad.
But how could she possibly know enough of you, her father, to even consider calling you that?
You don't blame her. You don't even blame Regina. At least, not in the same way you blame yourself.
You weren't enough to save her, to give her the life you wanted for her.
You shake your head, seeking to assure her and give a little smile.
"No, Emma, nothing's wrong. Not this time at least."
"Alright, you were freaking me out a little." She gives a humorless chuckle and her relief is a joy to see. It temporarily eases the weight of fear and despair that makes the air feel heavy in Storybrooke.
But then she's back to polishing the sword in her hands, some internal battle hardening her features again. She's too solid, too impenetrable, and you lose whatever tenuous hold you had on her just moments ago.
"Emma, can you hear me? I love you, so much. And I'm so sorry. So terribly sorry that you were alone for so long. So were we. "
You dare not speak, but you think it loud enough that you're hopeful she'll hear, some of her intuition for honesty scrambling to catch the signal from your thoughts to hers.
She doesn't reply.
You squat down across from her, feigning interest in a bronze athame, its sharp edge standing out against the clutter. You hold it up to the light and observe how the surface sheen of the metal has become cloudy with time.
"We wanted the world for you, Emma.," you add, in your head.
She doesn't look up.
At this angle, the athame reflects the side of her face and you think , once again, on how she would have looked as a little girl: How she would have ran, and learned, and danced, and laughed, and how the weight of her little form in your arms would feel, had you had the chance to hold her.
But she's a grown woman, no longer a girl. You wouldn't dare try to prevail upon the notion that she could accept you as you want to be known in her life.
The child you yearned for, that you and Snow dreamt of for so long, can now only be found in your imagination.
She's forever flying through the grass, in the halcyon days of your lost memories.