2.
Emma wakes to the dulcet tunes of her son singing along to Justin Bieber on her iPod. And by that, she means loud and terribly off-key, and wait, how is that song even on her playlist?
"Henry!" she growls. It's more of a whimper than growl, really.
"Good morning," he tells her, mischief written all over his little face. "I got you coffee."
She's still half-asleep, but something unfurls inside her chest at the sight of that smile. A weight she didn't know she'd been carrying—or perhaps she'd grown too accustomed to it. Her kid's a good kid, innocent and happy and all those magic things she never got a chance be. He went through hell in Neverland and yet here he is, grinning at her like everything's all right in the world and he'll never have a chance to doubt her again.
That last part is too good to be true, but Emma will keep her feel-good delusions for the moment. She just got him back.
A glance at her phone shows it's a little past nine—at least he waited till a fairly decent hour.
Although…
"Kid," Emma tells him. "Did you steal Mary Margaret's credit card again?"
"Grandpa's," he says, unrepentant. "His password's easy." And okay, maybe the apple—heh—didn't fall too far from the tree in this case. Not that David's password should be particularly difficult to guess, it's probably 'lovemarymargaret' or 'snowrocks' or something equally obvious. But he's still a kid, not-fucked up and loved the way she could only dream of when she was his age. That's all Regina, and her brain comes to a grinding halt at the thought of Regina with a tiny Henry-shaped bundle in her arms.
It jumpstarts again when Henry says, "Drink your coffee! We have to go and help my mom!", impatient.
"We do?"
"She called and said that she needs our help!" Henry says, earnest. A little too earnest.
"Were those her exact words?" Emma says, narrowing her eyes.
"Yes?" Henry says. And when Emma refuses to budge, he says, "She called and said that she needs your help. I want to go and help too." His pout, Emma notes, has achieved new levels of perfection.
A good thing she's not a sucker, then. "Her house, her rules, Kid," Emma says with shrug.
It's not that she doesn't think Regina won't be pleased to see Henry—far from it. At his age, Emma would've given anything to have a mom who looked at her the way Regina looks at Henry. Like he's the only light in her world, a shining beacon in darkness. But she has a feeling this new… situation might end in some vintage Storybrooke insanity, and Regina wouldn't want Henry around for that, not when he's just been through what he did.
Henry looks at her like a tiny kicked puppy.
"Your son is dying of curiosity," is the first thing Emma says as she brushes past Regina into the foyer, enjoying the way Regina's eyes soften and melt. There's magic in the way Regina responds every time Emma mentions their son to her, vulnerable and wide-eyed, longing etched on the lines of her face. 'He wanted to tag along.'
The faint hint of surprise—disbelief that Henry does want to see her—and the quiet joy that lights her up from the inside: it gets Emma every damn time, tugging at her chest. One of these days she's going to give in and do something suicidal like pull her in for a bearhug, whisper in her ears that it's gonna be okay, they're gonna be okay. Who knows, if she tries it enough times, Regina might even believe her.
"I thought you might want to… wait. Before we sort this out, I mean," Emma says.
Her face falls, just a fraction. But she simply nods and says, "Yes."
She's led to Regina's study, the one where they'd exchanged words over a glass of cider while Regina looked at her like she'd devour her whole. What a way to go, she'd thought then, looking at Regina's legs and the air of incandescence about her.
Focus, Swan, she has to tell herself, and shifts her attention to the giant moldy tomes on Regina's desk. There's a half-empty mug of coffee placed beside it—Regina's clearly been hard at work—and a cute pair of reading glasses she didn't know Regina owned.
"You, uh, found anything?" Emma says, feeling thoroughly useless yet again. "How's the kid?"
"I've been researching," Regina says. "She's asleep. We have to be quiet."
"We… do?" Emma gulps, because her treacherous mind takes her straight to the gutter. Always.
"Give me your hand," Regina says.
"I… My hand?"
"Yes, Emma, your hand," she says, thoroughly impatient with Emma's fumbling. "Or have you forgotten every bit of your magical instruction after returning to Storybrooke?" It's her sexy schoolteacher voice, oh god, Emma's going to hell.
Regina's hand is warm in hers and she doesn't seem to notice that Emma's palms are kind of sweaty, or maybe she's just toying with her, you never know with the—
"We need to set up wards," Regina says, interrupting Emma's increasingly panicked chain of thought. "My magic is sufficient to put up something that prevents incursions or would-be glory hunters, but I thought it best to combine our magic in case the need to contain a magical eruption from inside ever occurs." Her thumb draws small circles on the back of Emma's hand, gentle.
"You want to magic-proof the house, basically," Emma determines. "You think that's necessary?" She doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to acknowledge the possibility that the baby-in-a-basket currently sleeping peacefully somewhere in this house is a shapeshifting monster. Or, you know, under the shadow of a dark curse that will consume and destroy her, even before she's old enough to spell 'curse'.
At least when she was a kid she thought her only curse was to be alone and unloved for all of eternity.
She's dealing, now that she has a family. Friends who care, and… allies like the woman whose hand she's currently holding. For magic, that is.
"I've been researching," Regina says, her face unreadable. "I want to be certain."
"Sure," Emma says.
"You will explain this to Henry if he asks," Regina says, gripping her hand a little tighter. "Follow my lead."
Afterwards, Emma's boneless on Regina's plush couch while Regina fetches her coffee and 'something to eat'. The baby's been strangely silent in the hour that it took them to get the wards up—or was it just a few minutes? Emma can't tell.
Magic always has a price, and when it's magic with Regina—powerful enough to realign planets, and she won't let herself think what that might mean, she can't—it comes with a sense of mellow contentment that feels nothing like a mind-blowing romp in the bed, nope. If she closes her eyes and let's herself imagine—which she won't, make it stop!—well.
She hopes she doesn't look too guilty when Regina shows up with a mug and pile of BLTs.
"You'll get used to it," Regina says. "Eat."
"I feel like I've ran a marathon," Emma says, just barely able to reach for the inviting mug right in front of her. "Does it always feel this way?"
"In the beginning," Regina says. "Rumpelstiltskin was a hard taskmaster. It didn't take me very long to get used to complicated spells without losing too much of my strength."
Which, ew.
The thought of Gold's greedy mitts on a young Regina's hand while he cackles and whispers seductive words in her ear— Ew.
It makes her unaccountably sad, although it's the last thing she'll ever tell Regina.
Fairy Tale Land was one fucked up place. Emma's seen the worst this world can offer and yet she can't imagine growing up there, the land of her forefathers her parents wax eloquent about.
Neal crossed worlds to run away from the horrors of that land. Regina cursed an entire world and killed her own father. Which, again— Jesus.
"What did you find?" she asks Regina, if only to take her mind away from her increasingly morbid train of thought. Regina's past speaks for itself, but somehow, sitting across her in her study and munching on a pile of delicious BLTs, Emma can't imagine not trusting her now, foolish though she might be for taking such a chance. Her admittedly stupid heart says otherwise, still beating warm in the glow of their shared magic. "Any leads?"
"A few," Regina says. "Most of them too far-fetched to consider." She purses her lips in the way that means she's going to be vague and tight-lipped for now, and Emma's just going to have to deal.
"But enough for you to be worried about, I dunno, magic go splodey?" Emma presses on, waving her hands in illustration.
It gets exactly the reaction she was expecting: a withering glare worthy of the Evil Queen. It's just—and she doesn't know how to frame this in any fashion that will earn a favorable response from Regina—it worries her, Regina on her own like this in her magic-proofed house, capable though she is of dealing with most magical threats. And the kid, Christ, the kid.
"I'm merely being cautious," Regina says, still annoyingly vague and nonchalant.
And okay, perhaps Emma's a tad hurt—just a tiny bit. She may not understand much about magic, but they're supposed to be a team. Granted, Regina's idea of a team involves her barking orders while the rest of the peasants comply, but Emma's not Mary Margaret and she's certainly not given to blurting sensitive information that affects the fate of a small, helpless child. Regina should know that by now, at least.
"I guess I'll be off, then," Emma says, not caring if she sounds a little petulant. "Henry's been texting every five minutes."
That part, at least, is true. His last text reads I wanna help pleeeease don't be mean Emma!, which is kind of hilarious, but she's also not sure if Regina wants him mixed up in all this so soon after Neverland.
"Henry has always been very curious," Regina says. There's that maternal glow again, doing strange things to Emma's stupid heart. "Curious and bright."
"Gets that from me," Emma says with a shrug, nicking the last sandwich to munch on her way. Some old habits die hard. "I haven't told him everything yet."
"He doesn't like it when things are kept from him," Regina says, eyes darkening a fraction.
"Will you—"
"Talk to him," Regina says. "Talk to him before his curiosity leads him to trouble again."
Which is a dick move, by the way, because what the hell is Emma gonna tell their son when she's in the dark herself?
Some team they are.
Emma's worked up enough that she ignores the buzzing of her phone. It's probably Mary Margaret. She'll deal with her questions and appease Henry (whose latest text simply reads ;_;) later.
She's been driving aimlessly around the town, trying to quell the feeling of disappointment in her gut. Storybrooke's pretty at this time of the year, picture perfect small town in its full autumnal glory. If this were a normal coastal town in Maine, the place would be trawling with tourists from the city, taking photos of leaves with their iPads and raving about the fresh air.
If anyone asks, she's patrolling. Important sheriff business.
She isn't paying attention when the Bug rolls into Market Street, which is why she misses the first signs of chaos. Sure, there's Mr. Crabbe out there, making angry hand gestures at a few bystanders, but that's pretty much an everyday given his general temper and holy shit, is that a—
The Bug protests the sudden halt with an impressive-sounding screech, but Emma's already flying out of the driver's seat to gape upwards at the monstrosity that's currently floating a few feet above her head. It's large and sparkly, casting an enormous shadow and wait, are those words?
Emma spots a T and K and what she thinks is an O and another K.
"Tick tock," says a voice from behind her. A furry paw lands on her neck, then, and before she has the opportunity to protest, there's twenty pounds of giant monkey on her shoulder, burrowing affectionately into her hair.
"Sorry about that, boss," says Deputy Siddiqui, flashing his trademark grin. "He just really likes you."
"He's a public health hazard," Emma grumbles, even as the damn monkey chitters into her ear. "And heavy."
That earns her bared teeth and an outraged glare. "Now you've hurt his feelings," Ali tells her. "Abu's sensitive, you know."
"Abu needs to stop trying to pick my pocket and get off of me," Emma says. "And you need to tell me what the hell's going on here."
"Abu!" Ali says with a gasp that's one hundred percent feigned. "Are you trying to get us fired?"
Right on cue, the monkey clambers on to his usual perch on Ali's shoulder and hangs his head as though thoroughly ashamed.
Which he isn't, of course. Because he's a pest and a nuisance, and Emma has no idea why he has a custom-made police badge of his own and an allowance consisting of an apple a day.
"What's going on, Ali?" Emma says. Time to focus on important things. Like: "What the hell is that thing up there?"
"Got a call from Mr. Crabbe. I was in the station," Ali says with a grimace. Emma winces in sympathy, because no one should have to be on the receiving end of that tirade. "So I took off and there's… this," he says, waving a hand in the general direction of the sparkling silver monstrosity. "It says 'tick tock'. I don't know why. But you haven't seen anything yet."
"There's more?"
Ali and Abu nod in unison. "And, um, Yasmin's already here with Mr. Glass. I didn't call her, I swear."
Great. There goes her Sunday. Or well, what was left of it.
Walking down to Princess Lane is a bit like walking into a sparkly silver disaster zone.
It's a cute little street on a normal (for Storybrooke) day, home to all sorts of local businesses and tiny eateries with their colorful furniture and pretty umbrellas on the sidewalk. Right now, though. There isn't an inch that isn't enveloped in glitter right now. The road's all silver and she's ankle-deep in glitter, wishing she'd remembered to wear shades for once. It's like the fairies got drunk and threw up fairy dust all over the place.
The shops have downed their shutters and there's overturned furniture everywhere, not to mention god knows how many more of those float-y graffiti monstrosities hanging ominously in the air, all bearing the same words: TICK TOCK. What the actual fuck.
Every now and then, one of the monstrosities go F-O-O-M, spraying even more glitter.
"Wow," Emma says.
"My thoughts exactly," Ali agrees. Even Abu—who, Emma notes with some irritation, is now sporting a pair of stylish miniature aviators—appears overwhelmed by the spectacle.
And then there's Captain Hook, covered head to toe in glitter and dragging one of the Lost Boys by the ear. He's one of the older ones, lanky and disheveled. Also covered in glitter, but right now, who isn't?
"Swan," Hook says, flashing her a grin that probably would've passed as rakish if he weren't, you know, sparkly. There's glitter on his teeth.
"Hook." Emma nods. "Care to explain why you're manhandling that kid?" She's kinda ashamed to admit that she doesn't actually know all of their names.
"I didn't do it," says the kid in question. "Let go of me!" He's shifty and wild-eyed in the way all the Lost Boys are. They don't trust grown-ups, not really, not even the Savior who promised them a home and a family and did jack all about it. Yeah.
"Not so fast, lad," Hook says. "You have some explaining to do."
"I didn't do it!" The kid protests, only to have Hook tug at his ear once more. "Ow," he says. Abu chitters in excitement, evidently enjoying the drama.
"Alright," Emma says. "Enough. Hook, let go of the kid's ear. Are you telling me he's behind this— whatever this is?"
"I'm not!" The boy says, rubbing at his now-released ear. "I didn't do anything, Savior, I swear!"
"I saw him," Hook insists. His beard sparkles in the late afternoon sun. "I was at the Mermaid Tavern," he says, "trying to obtain a decent pint." The Mermaid's one of the few establishments in town that'll still serve him alcohol. Granny banned him last month for getting into a scuffle with Gold and terrifying the diner's other patrons in the process. Emma had her own share of yelling from Granny afterwards, because apparently she encourages his drunken shenanigans. Which is decidedly unfair, because she doesn't.
She may have accidentally blurted that she's not opposed to anyone punching Gold in the face.
"I heard the voices outside, thought there was a situation that could use my intervention." Hook says, jerking her back to the present. "That's when I spotted this little rascal fleeing the scene of crime. Thought you'd get away with, didn't you?" Which means he went trolling for a fight and ended up finding the boy in question. Emma's fluent in Hookspeak these days.
"Did you actually see him do anything?" Ali says, skepticism written all over his face. Abu nods in agreement. A TICK TOCK monstrosity floats overhead, casting oddly shaped shadows upon them.
"That's because I didn't!" The boy protests. He doesn't seem to be lying, from what Emma can tell. But her lie detector's shaky on the best of days, and it's possible he might have more information than he's letting on at the moment.
"That's a Lost Boy," Hook shrugs. "And he was skulking about. I know trouble when I see it."
"That's not evidence," Ali says. "I suppose we can take him to the station for questioning. Right, boss?" And Emma's about to agree when the kid breaks into a run—of course he does, it's what Emma would do in his place—with Hook in hot pursuit.
Things get a little chaotic after that.
They've gathered a considerable number of bystanders by the time Emma catches up with Hook, who's bodily tackled the kid and is now rolling about in glitter as the boy struggles to get away from his clutches. Hook's got a split lip and the kid sure is scrappy, giving as good as he gets. Years (centuries?) of Lost Boy training kicking in, Emma supposes.
It's the monkey who ends up breaking it up, landing squarely on top of Hook and pulling at his beard, causing him to howl in pain.
"Enough," Emma says, glaring down at the two of them.
"He was getting away!" Hook protests, sullen.
"I said enough!" Emma says, because she's in no mood for any of this shit. That hook of his is a dangerous weapon. "You've had your fun."
Hook's pout is one of being very misunderstood. It's cuter on Henry, though, and Emma's learned to ignore it even then. On most occasions, anyway.
"Call David. We're taking them to the station," Emma tells Ali. "And please ask the Mother Superior if the fairies can help us clean up this mess."
She kind of wishes she could call Regina instead, who'd probably sort the entire place out with one regal wave of her hand. Because Emma might be annoyed at the woman, but Her Majesty's nothing if not efficient.
F-O-O-M, goes yet another one of those awful things, and then Emma's being showered in silver glitter as well.
"That's a nice look on you, Sheriff," says another familiar voice, damn it, damn it. "Care to hold that pose?"
So there's glitter in her hair. And glitter all over her face. And glitter in her fucking teeth. And she's just been photographed by the gleeful Storybrooke Mirror photographer, who somehow happens to be miraculously unscathed by any of the glitter bombing and is currently beaming at her like the cat that ate the canary. Like Emma hasn't already graced their front page in a variety of embarrassing ways already.
"Hey, babe," says Ali, who's similarly covered in glitter now. The monkey, of course, moved away just in time, and he's now perched atop Yasmin's shoulder, grinning malevolently at the two of them.
"Deputy," Yasmin nods, all business. "Sheriff."
"Sheriff Swan," says the one and only Sidney Glass, freshly reinstated to his position as Storybrooke's resident gossipmonger by the Acting Mayor. Great. "Would you care to comment on this atrocity perpetrated upon innocent businessmen?"
"We're investigating the matter," Emma says, trying to brush some of the glitter off her hair.
"Are you telling us you have no idea who's behind this horrific crime?"
"Like I said," Emma says, "we're investigating. And you're getting in the way of our investigation, so buzz off."
"The people of Storybrooke want answers, Sheriff Swan," Sidney persists. It's a bit like old times, and Emma can't help but bristle.
"Listen, buddy—"
"You should discuss this with the Mayor's office, Mr. Glass," Ali intervenes, smooth as ever. For a fellow former thief, he sure has far more tact than Emma usually manages. "We're not taking any more questions, sorry. We've got an investigation to run."
And Belle will field all questions with ease, Emma has little doubt. She's less hands-on than Regina ever was—being less of a control freak with a dark curse to cover up, that is—and nice in a way that even Sidney can't find fault with, despite the gossipy articles about her and Gold that he churns out every other day. Belle's good press, mostly. Makes Emma's job easier.
A small part of Emma can't help but wish for Regina instead, working with her and not against her like she did back in the days. Working to protect the town she cursed into being, their magic coming together with breathtaking ease even as their personalities clash and spar. Regina's just… efficient. Yeah. That's why.
Things go smoother once David shows up, bundling off a still-sulking (still sparkling) Hook and an increasingly terrified Lost Boy to the Sherriff's station. That is, right after he fishes out his phone and takes a photo of Emma in her current avatar, that asshole.
Emma sticks to clean up duty, Ali in tow, reassuring furious shop owners and getting Mr. Crabbe to shut up about his damn lobsters.
"Doesn't feel like your run-of-the-mill vandalism, does it," Ali says, scratching his chin. "Or maybe I'm over-thinking this."
"You're not," Emma says, because she's thinking the same thing.
Eyewitness accounts don't amount to much. No one saw anything suspicious. No, they don't know what 'tick tock' is supposed to mean and would very much like for Emma to figure it out. Yes, the glitter bombs appeared out of thin air, and that never bodes well in a town with too much magic and too few people who truly understand how it works.
"Let's just wrap this up," she tells Ali, weary. "We'll have plenty of time to figure this out tomorrow." Tomorrow there'll be further interrogations. Meetings with Belle and quite possibly the Mother Superior, who is sort of the town's unofficial magic consultant by default, the other options being Gold and Regina. There'll be an investigation. Emma's pretty certain watching re-runs of SVU and successfully chasing the town's feline population off trees does not qualify the Storybrooke Sheriff's department for actual detective work.
There was a time when Emma answered only to herself.
Granted, she was also miserable and alone at the time. But she misses the freedom sometimes—to be able, simply, to walk away and not care.
Caring is exhausting business.
Emma scrubs herself for a good half hour when she gets home, rubbing at her skin until its raw and pink. It's not that there's any of that awful glitter left—Sisters Astrid and Tara saw to it, along with the rest of the glitter-affected area. It just feels like she's covered in that crap.
Sisters Astrid and Tara also looked awfully shifty, which, again. Emma's just so tired.
There's a text waiting for her when she emerges from the shower, one that simply reads: Talk to Tinker Bell.
It's no less cryptic than anything else Regina has shared in the course of this long, frustrating day. But of course Regina's been keeping tabs, and the thought that Her Majesty deigned to drop some sort of a helpful hint, well. She probably has a ridiculously dopey smile on her face right now.
thx, Emma texts back, things ok w the kid?
Everything is fine, reads the next text, oh-so-predictable. She's annoyed with Regina, who doesn't seem to grasp the idea that she can talk to Emma, even as she keeps instructing Emma to have conversations with everybody else. Hell, it probably would kill her to admit that she might be having difficulty with changing diapers or whatever.
She thinks of Miss Baby-in-a-basket, cooing adoringly at Regina—who Emma's annoyed with, she is—with little regard for who she once was. Aaand there's that dopey smile again, her reflection on the mirror grinning back at her like a helpless fool.
The worst part is, Emma's not even sorry.
Note: Storybrooke's way too white. We don't have to keep it that way.
The action-y moments in this chapter was difficult to write, not to mention Hook's voice, augh. I'd love to hear what you think!