A/N: This is my very first multi-chapter Swan Queen fic, and the first three chapters are actually posted on AO3, but I figured that my night would be better spent uploading this here instead of crying over Blackstar, Bowie's last album. As far as I know, I don't actually own OUAT or anything, so here we are. So, here you have it folks, the first of what I hope to be many works that I contribute to the SQ fandom, and the AU I never thought would actually go anywhere, Any Way the Wind Blows. Let the fun begin!
Emma grits her teeth, the hard ground coming up to meet her quickly.
Turning, she squeezes her eyes shut, bearing the brunt of the impact on her right side. The pain rockets through her side, and her head slams against the dirt, her Stetson skittering across the dusty ground. Slowly, Emma rolls to her front and breathes through the pain in her elbow.
The dirt coats her face, and the ground is blistering beneath her, owing to the summer afternoon heat beating down on the ranch. Emma sits up slowly, a long shadow approaching her, blotting out the sun. Crawling to retrieve her hat, she looks up, an upturned palm offered to her. She takes it, groaning as he helps her up.
"You know, you're not actually supposed to fall on your ass," Neal says, brushing his hands on his jeans, "so save that for the show. Seven seconds, by the way."
Emma sighs, her breath hitching at the sharp pain in her elbow.
"Shit."
Her eyes flick to Neal's, a huff of discomfort escaping her when he probes her elbow too hard.
"Henry see that?" Emma bites out, wincing when Neal's thumb hits that soft spot between the bones.
Neal shakes his head, nodding towards the distant barn, across the field and out past the corral fence.
"Ruby took him over to show him the new calf."
At that, Emma breathes a sigh of relief, casting her eyes to the side, where Neal grins at her from beneath the brim of his black cattleman. Emma pretends not to notice the way his eyes glint with mirth. Ignoring him, Emma swipes at the back of her neck with her fingers, tendrils of her blonde hair sticking to the nape of her neck and replaces her hat. When Emma hitches herself up and over the corral fence, she gives the bronc a pat on the muzzle, offering a carrot for his trouble. A huff and nicker later, and Emma considers herself forgiven for falling on her ass.
Taking him by the reins, she leads Carter to the barn, the arid Texas desert stifling her. Apparently living in McGintis, Texas for a certain number of years does not make you immune to the heat, which Emma has persistently hoped for for that same amount of certain years. In the distance, she can see Ruby with Henry, and his unruly mop of hair is fluttering through a non-existent breeze as he runs towards Emma, his grin almost infectious, even as Emma moves to swipe at some of the dust on her shirt and jeans to no avail. Her spurs jingle as she hands Carter's lead over to Neal, who ruffles Henry's hair as the kid breezes past him, barreling towards Emma.
"Mom!" Henry exclaims, throwing his arms out.
"Henry!" Emma mocks, grinning when Henry scowls. She drops to her knees, hugging her son close, his t-shirt wet with sweat from the hot summer sun, and she pulls him in close, despite his wriggling excitement. She lets him go for a moment, holding him away as she plops her hat on his head, something she knows he likes, even if the hats slips down past his ears and almost covers his eyes, the sweaty brim dipping down to brush his nose, even as he tilts back to look at her.
"Did you see Neal's new calf? I get to name her! Ruby said so!"
Emma grins at him, her thumb brushing at a sticky bit of juice that he hadn't managed to get off since lunch earlier, saying "Oh, really? And what are you gonna name her, kid?"
Henry's dark eyes widen in thought, like he's been so wrapped up in the concept of having that much power that he hasn't considered what it actually means. His eyes flicker, the wheels in his mind turning, and his eyes brighten, a crooked smile crossing his face.
"Snow White!"
"Snow White?" The kid's so fuckin' excited about it, Emma can only gape. Snow White?
"Yeah! She's white as snow and plus," Henry pauses, toeing the dirt with his tennis shoes, dust pushing into the holes next to his toes— shit, new shoes soon— "maybe it'll be good luck. Maybe we could get snow this year."
Emma almost laughs at that, but then she remembers all the years that Henry's sat up on Christmas Eve, nose pressed against the glass of his bedroom window, nearly shaking from anticipation, waiting for snow. Hell, it's been so long since Emma's been far enough north that she's forgotten what snow looks like.
"Yeah, okay, kid. Go on and let Ruby know. I'll be right behind you."
Henry gives her wild smile, his limbs flying out in that haphazard way that only a little kid can manage, and Emma just sits back on her ass, her head dropping to her knees, fingers of her left hand coming up to poke at her right elbow.
She hisses when she remembers why she'd been back in the saddle practicing in the first place, and feels the awkward way her elbow extends out. Tears spring to her eyes, and she blows a strand of blond hair out of her eyes, a muffled fuck soft against her sleeve. In the distance, she watches as Neal sweeps Henry up by the arms, and Henry's head whips back, a peal of laughter ringing through the still air of the day. The day she gives up rodeo will be a difficult day, but it isn't today, and it hadn't been that day six months ago when she'd pulled her right arm so badly that she'd had to forfeit the competition to Belle Gold, an inexperienced first-time competitor.
Emma shoves the feeling of defeat away, down deep where it can't quite touch her, and peels herself up from the desert ground, hands brushing against the denim of her jeans habitually.
Eventually, when Henry's had enough excitement for the day and he's tuckered out enough to slump onto Neal's sofa with Emma's hat askew on his head, tipped down over his face like those old cowboy movies he's seen so many of, Emma finds herself outside on the porch, Neal and Ruby nestled close on the porch swing, Emma clutching the neck of a Budweiser in the plastic picnic chair that is Unofficially-Totally-Hers. She takes a swallow of alcohol, the remainder of the six-pack between the three of them on the small round table next to Ruby on the swing.
"What the fuck am I doing?" Emma says out loud, hand coming up to bat a gnat away.
"Drinkin' beer," Neal snorts at his own joke, and lifts his own bottle to his lips.
"Fuck off. You know what I mean." Emma glares at him, but the angry glare doesn't work as well as she hopes it will, and Neal grins from around the mouth of his bottle.
Ruby leans forward, her breath reeking of beer, and Emma waits patiently for her eyes to focus.
"I honestly have no fucking clue, Emma." Ruby giggles, and Emma's lips curls in disgust as Ruby laughs throatily, and Emma rolls her eyes. The bug zapper snaps, an unsuspecting and now very dead moth falling on the porch. The swing creaks when Neal leans over Ruby to snatch up another bottle, the hiss of the cap snapping off filling the silence.
"If we knew what the fuck anybody was doing, we wouldn't be here." Neal gestures to the sweeping land, and even in the dark, Emma can tell where the brush stands out against the bleak desert. Emma suspects that the sentiment makes more sense to Neal than it does to her, so she smiles and swallows her last mouthful of beer, pretending she understands.
They pass the rest of the evening in silence, and when Emma pleads tiredness, neither Neal or Ruby protest; instead the sounds of whispers and giggles reach Emma's ears, even on the living room floor. Emma drops with a huff next to the sofa where Henry's sleeping soundly, and checks to make sure his shoes are off before she drifts off to sleep.
When Emma wakes in the morning, it's to the blare of Sunday morning cartoons and Henry two feet away, munching on Fruit Loops way too loud. Her mouth tastes— she runs her tongue across her teeth— like she'd had too much beer last night, and she sits up, smiling as Henry grins over at her, a thin trail of milk leaking down his chin.
"Hi, Mom, I made you some too." The kid beams at Emma, shaking his hair out of his eyes and gesturing over at a bowl of soggy cereal that's sitting on the table by the end of the sofa.
"Thanks, kid," Emma gets up, relishing the pop in her back and running her hand through Henry's soft hair as she reaches over and grabs the bowl, lifting the spoon to her lips as she joins Henry on the couch, a spring digging into her back uncomfortably.
"Neal or Ruby up yet?"
A shake of Henry's head has her up as soon as she finishes the cereal, and she gathers her car keys from the counter where she'd abandoned them shortly after tucking Henry in, and takes her bowl to the sink, scrubbing it out. The kink in her side, regretfully, is still there and it's a wonder she's not stiff as a board— combining yesterday's throw with the luxury of the floor was not as good an idea as it seemed, apparently. Still, it beat driving. There was no way in hell she would drive with alcohol in her system, let alone with Henry.
That lack of judgment is reserved for the few stupid teens of McGintis on weekend nights, who's hijinks kept MPD very busy on a regular basis.
Dropping a kiss to Henry's forehead, Emma pretends not to hear the groan as her blonde mane blocks the television.
"Let's go, kid. I gotta get you home and showered and dropped off at David's shop. I can't be late again."
Emma sighs when Henry frowns at her, mid-bite, and she leans in close, stage-whispering as if she's revealing her recipe for mac n' cheese, "Look, I know. Tell you what, I'll let you put your feet on the dash."
That seems to elicit enough enthusiasm from Henry to speed up his eating and he shoves his bowl, milk untouched, into his mother's hands. Emma laughs at his harried attempt to shove his shoes on and she sets the bowl into the sink, casting a glance down the hall, where the wallpaper is yellowed and peeling moreso than in the rest of the house, waiting for Ruby or Neal to stir. When it's clear that they're still not up, Emma shakes her head, fiddling with the keys in her hand.
Henry piles into the rickety truck cab with all the enthusiasm of a kid who's going to Disney Land, and Emma laughs when he plants his feet firmly up on the dash and stares at her, almost daring her to say something. Emma snatches the Stetson from Henry's head and plants it firmly on her own head, running her fingers through her hair and checking her rear view mirror. After a couple of tries, the truck starts up, it's engine turning with a screech, and Emma tries to pretend she doesn't hear it.
August in Texas is the worst. Ever. And Emma lived in Mexico for like, two weeks once. Yeah, it fucking sucks.
McGintis is tiny, the kind of small town that people think of when they think of small towns, except there's less religion and more assholery. But Emma doesn't mind it. What she does mind is the single stoplight in the dead center of the one road town that never turns green when she needs it to.
She hopes Lucas doesn't bust her ass for being late. Emma being Emma, knows that her mouth won't keep her out of trouble long enough for Ms. E. Lucas, the meanest damn cattle rancher this side of Austin, to give her a proper excusal. That old woman is a fucking pain in Emma's ass, but really, Emma can't help but thank her. She'd given her so much in the beginning.
Emma casts a glance over at Henry, only to find him sleeping, face pressed against the seatbelt, and his face slack, mouth open. Emma feels a stab of shame when she looks at him, and it's sharper now than any other time. He's the sweetest little boy, gentle, laid back, and it pains Emma to think that she can't give him everything he deserves. He deserved a hell of a lot more than Emma can give him.
The blaring of a car horn behind her snaps her out of her thoughts, and she floors the gas, truck jerking wildly out of the idle it'd been in. They pass by Nolan's Tackle Shop, Geppeto's Saddles, and a few other standard small-town shops, including a specialty souvenir shop no one ever actually visits that sells firefly jars to people who can't figure out that a regular jar works just fine, and a gas station before finally feeling the smooth highway under the tires for a few minutes.
Emma turns when they hit the pathway, an old sign signaling that the "McGintis Apartments" are "the best in McGintis", despite the fact that the complex is literally the only one in town. Or within fifty miles.
The pathway is gravel, and Henry is rocked out of his sleepy dozing when they roll up to the cluster of building, the desert hills offering the best view to its residents.
Dirt, dirt, and oh, more fucking dirt.
The buildings themselves aren't in awful condition, and Emma would even call them quaint, but for the bone-dry swimming pool that hasn't been filled for who-the-hell-even-knows-how-long and the dilapidated white iron gate that's more a hazard to its residents than a deterrent to anyone at this point. Emma parks in the open lot, glad that Mr. Ford F150 hasn't stolen her spot again, like last time. Last time, she'd had to park in the dirt. Fuckin' cactus.
Henry bolts towards the apartments, snatching her keys away before she really has the chance to hand them over. Emma makes the short, but actually very unexpectedly painful, journey up to the second floor apartment that she pays way too much for, and pauses at the door. She can hear Henry already starting the shower, and she kicks the door shut, surveying her home.
How the fuck did she end up here?
Saturday morning's dishes are still on the coffee table, and Henry's latest comic book is open to where he'd left off, and Emma makes quick work of the dishes. When she passes into her own room, she shuts the door with a click, peeling her shirt up gingerly.
A mural of purples and greens and blues paints her side, and Emma curses. She should have just stayed on the horse. She doesn't need to look to know that her already bad elbow is pretty fucked up. Her hair is presentable, so she pulls it back, braiding it with quick precision. Emma takes in her tired eyes, green dulled by the exhaustion she can still feel. She looks away and doesn't look back.
She tucks her button down into her jeans, hoping that the white won't stain today. She's gone through three white shirts in the past month, because when you work on a ranch, there's just the tiniest chance of getting dirty. Her black Stetson is in place and Emma offers one look at the mirror, smiling half-heartedly at her reflection, pretending like maybe it's comforting to her, before stepping out to start her day.
Eight hours later, she's flat on her back, again— seriously, what the hell?— and she's looking at the greatest pair of legs she's ever seen.
Who even has legs that sexy?
A/N: Reviews are food for the fic author's soul, you know. I wonder who those legs could belong to, hmmm? You'll find out soon enough.