A bit different tone this time. Keep in mind when reading this, that time passes between the chapters. Relationships are changing off-screen.
When Emma dreams of Neal, it's not the big things. It's never been the big things with him; if it were, he wouldn't matter so much.
Instead, she conjures up brief images, sensations: the scratchy blanket from the motel where they spent their first night together, the way he used to snitch cinnamon and Swiss Miss for her, the feel of his laughter muffled against her bare skin, the petty arguments over who drove. Taking a shower together and sharing someone else's shampoo. The roughness of his hand around hers.
Never the first time they say, "I love you," but how he used to tease her about her bedhead in the morning.
Never the arrest, but her release from jail: walking out into the sun with nothing but a swan on her neck and car keys in her pocket. A map of Tallahassee in the glove compartment.
Never the last time they say, "I love you," but the way Henry's shoulders slump as she tells him for the second time that his father is dead.
Emma dreams of little things, pinpricks really. But they never end, her heart is a pincushion and sometimes she's afraid she won't ever wake up, she won't ever run out of little hurts.
Sometimes she's afraid she will.
-x-x-x-
Emma is already in a booth at Granny's with a double order of pancakes and hot chocolate with cinnamon in front of her before she remembers that Regina takes Henry on Fridays. As soon as the thought hits, she can't believe she could ever forget; but as sheriff she does have to take the night shift sometimes, and she's tired. David would be happy to help, but Emma doesn't want to keep him from Mary Margaret. Walking in on them once was scarring enough; she'll let them spend their nights together in peace, thank you, and they can repay her by restricting themselves to nights only.
Of course, that would be a more convincing reason if this weren't the third day in a row Emma's pulled night shift. Mary Margaret and David are most likely spending all night discussing how worried they are about her, judging by the looks they've been directing her way. Those looks just make Emma want to retreat more.
With a sigh, Emma drops her head into her hands. Somehow, forgetting where Henry would be this morning makes her feel like crying. She's exhausted, and she isn't thinking straight, let alone doing her job properly – last night she fell asleep on her desk, though that didn't last more than an hour before nightmares had her jolting up again. She can't keep on like this, Emma knows that.
She knows she's just running.
She knows, even, that she isn't fooling anyone.
But she doesn't care. Emma just wants them all to leave her alone for a little while, just to give her a chance to try and recover and not have to think. And it seems like working overtime is the only way to do that. She's not cruel enough to leave town, not yet, and in any case he could follow her –
Breathe, Emma. Breathe.
"You know, all else aside, I do find myself rather fond of this realm's food."
She jolts up, eyes wide with shock, and grabs at her butter-knife before recognizing the voice and lowering her hand quickly. Hopefully no one noticed that.
"Neverland's left her mark on you, I see," Hook says, hardly glancing up from where he is carefully pouring spirals of syrup over his pancakes. "Useful reflexes, darling, but rather barbarian for a princess at table."
"What the hell are you doing?" Emma hisses.
In response, Hook uses his fork to cut a large piece of pancake, before putting it in his mouth and chewing. He looks up at her, mouth moving with deliberate slowness, eyes challenging.
Emma is vaguely aware that people are watching her. Her jaw is clenched tight. "Hook."
He swallows, grins, and sips at his hot chocolate. "Swan."
"That's for Henry," she grits. She feels on the verge of breaking – into tears, into violence…
"Your lad? Funny, that, I just passed him and Regina in one of your mechanical carriages. I doubt he'll mind me cutting in."
– into laughter. Emma tries to stifle them, but the giggles slip out anyway, one by one. Hook pauses with the mug halfway back down to the table, surprise and something like pleasure on his face.
"What?" he asks, and Emma can't. She puts her elbows on the table and laughs into her hands, glancing up at Hook every few seconds only to laugh harder. She is sitting in a diner, being served by Red Riding Hood, eating breakfast with Captain Hook who has a whipped cream moustache. She is spending her nights at the station to avoid her parents, Snow White and Prince Charming, who are stifling her because they're worried about her reaction to the miraculous safe return of Rumpelstiltskin's son, the father of her son, who is being driven to school by the Evil Queen while Captain Hook sits across from Emma with whipped cream on his face, asking her what.
It's getting hard to breathe, but Emma can't stop laughing. She can't. Hook's looking less and less amused, she knows she sounds a little bit hysterical – she is a little bit hysterical…
"Swan," he says, more softly than she'd have expected. "Swan… Emma?"
He's making her name into a question, a question that she doesn't think she can ever answer. His eyes are dark and focused, his knees (she notices) crowding hers under the booth, his hook lying flat on the table. He starts to reach out with his hand, grazes her fingers with his own, and Emma yanks herself back violently before she even realizes, laughter cutting off.
He stops, arm outstretched, and the look on his face. Emma feels sick.
"I'm – I'm sorry," she breathes, as he pulls his hand back, "I just –"
Hook shrugs stiffly, settling back in his seat, and just that tiny movement away has her feeling frantic. She snags a napkin, leans across the table. Catches his jaw with one hand. Scruff against her fingers. Wipes at his mouth. Once. Twice.
He stares at her.
Emma swallows hard, sitting back and showing him the napkin. "Sorry, you just had…"
She snickers a little, again. She feels dizzy. She eats a few bites of pancakes, but they are much too heavy in her stomach.
Hook takes it all in. After several minutes, he smiles. "Ah."
Emma drinks her hot chocolate, wishing she'd ordered coffee. Probably she should not have touched him. "I'm… sorry, I'm just so tired."
It comes out much more honestly than she meant it to. Hook's smile drops – because of course he caught that, he understands exactly what she isn't saying. He always understands what she doesn't say, he always catches her out and Emma can't handle that now.
But then he smirks, does something lightheartedly lewd with his tongue, "Well, I've a perfectly serviceable bed in my quarters. More than serviceable, actually; it's downright heavenly. I'd be happy to share…"
"Nice try."
"It's the least I can do. Think of it as thanks for the meal."
"Whoa, what makes you think I'm paying for you?"
"Love, if gold coin is accepted legal tender in this world, then I will gladly foot our bill. However, based on those little bits of paper I see everyone else waving around…"
Emma scoffs, amused. "You've had weeks to adjust, quit pretending to be so helpless."
"I'm just a simple pirate, lass."
"A pirate lass? You've been holding out on me, haven't you."
He's smiling. She's smiling. It's such a little thing, but Emma doesn't think she's smiled like this in a very long time. She isn't thinking about anything, just bantering back and forth, and it seems like only a moment before they've both finished eating.
Ruby looks at her curiously as she pays, shooting glances at Hook waiting by the door. Emma, confidence buoyed by the easy conversation – or perhaps the lack of sleep – stares back calmly. This will all be getting back to Mary Margaret before the day is out, she knows, but she doesn't care.
She walks through town to the police station with her head held high, pirate captain strolling along next to her. They hardly talk at all, but this silence is no less comfortable than the flirting that preceded it, and Emma's still high on the simplicity of it all. Her head's buzzing with it.
Hook pauses at the station door. For a single, insane moment, Emma has the urge to give him a goodnight kiss, nevermind that it's eight in the morning.
He hesitates, then says, "Till next time?"
Neil has been back for three days and she hasn't spoken to him yet. He's alive and he said he loves her. She said she loves him. She – she does love him. That's never been the question.
She just doesn't think she can ever trust him again.
"Hook," Emma says. She knows she'll regret this as soon as she gets some sleep. This could be a step forward or just a new form of running – she can't tell. She doesn't care. Right now, she doesn't care about anything else. She can't. "Next time, you pay. No more of this dubloon crap."
He's surprised, that's what really gets her.
"As you wish," he promises with a flamboyant bow. Emma is struck with a sudden fear that any day she's going to bump into Westley and Buttercup at the gas station or something – god, fairy tales. She is living in a town of fairy tales. This is the first time she's really had time to let that sink in and it's long overdue.
A lot of things are long overdue.