I fully intend to finish my other fic soon, but this needed to get out. Sorry! *Dodges rotten tomatoes* If you like the Charmings and some Emma backstory, hopefully you'll like this part.

Emma skirted her way around the patio furniture, making her way into the little shed built off the sprawling townhouse in Manhattan Beach. She pushed the door open quietly, peeking in.

Her father was bent over his workbench, blueprints scattered in front of him, and Emma grinned at the familiar sight. It was one she'd walked in on since she was old enough to remember, and at that thought, she felt like a stone had just dropped into the pit of her stomach. After the wedding, she'd be over two hours away, in Montecito, and though it certainly wasn't a planet away or anything, it would be…different. Except for a few trips to Vegas or New York with the girls once she was old enough, she'd never been far from her parents for long. Honestly, it made her panicky to even think about it. She took a deep breath, chasing the thought from her head, and rapped on the doorframe.

"Hi, Dad."

David looked up, fingers falling from where they'd been anchored in his short, gray-streaked blonde hair. His previous frustration melted from his face.

"Hey, princess! When did you get here?"

"Just now," she said, walking over and resting a hand on his shoulder, peering down. "Whatcha working on?"

"Just more of those hotel plans your future father-in-law is demanding to have a look at. That man doesn't seem to have much concept of a reasonable time frame." He glanced up at her, gave a quick grin. "Maybe you can ask that boyfriend of yours to have a talk with him?"

Emma held up her hands in placation. "You know I don't get involved in the business dealings. I'm strictly books-and-numbers help. And," she said reproachfully," it's fiancé. Has been for over a year, you know."

He sighed. "All this wedding nonsense is making me feel old."

She gave him a playful nudge with her hip. "You are old," she teased. "And you better get used to it; it's going to be husband in"—she glanced down at her phone—"twenty-six days."

"Hmph," he grumbled, then switched over the conversation. "How was last night? Are you allowed to tell me about it?"

"I don't know," Emma said, squinting at him. "How much did Mom tell you?"

"Oh," he said, scraping at a splinter on the table, "just that was some male revue-type thing." He looked up sharply. "Did anything happen? None of those dancers… manhandled you, did they?"

She laughed. "No, Dad. They keep everything there perfectly civil." Well, nearly, she thought with a pang of irritation. Who was that Killian, to think he—

"Well, better go inside and see how your mom's coming along. I'm sure she's worked herself up into another lather about some minute detail or other." He chucked her on the chin. "Don't tell her I said that."

She made the lips-sealed motion, and took the side door into the main house.

"Oh my god, Mom, are you in there?!"

Emma stared with horrified fascination at the towering mound of champagne-colored tulle in the middle of the living room floor. Her step-grandmother, Regina, was sitting a few feet away at the dining room table, punching a calculator, and glanced up to eye the whole mess with distaste.

A pair of arms shot up from the fabric. "Hey, honey!" Mary Margaret called.

Emma went over, pulling her mother up from the floor. "What the hell's all this for? I already have a dress, you know."

"Don't be snippy. This is for the placecards."

"How many people are coming to this thing, ten thousand?" Regina sneered.

Emma walked over, perched on Regina's chair arm. "Hi, Gran-Gran!" she said brightly, knowing how much Regina hated the nickname and any kind of implication to being old enough to be a grandmother, especially since she was only thirteen years older than her stepdaughter. Emma had been intimidated by her as a younger child, but by the time she'd reached her sarcastic teenage years, she'd found that Regina respected you when you were able to butt heads with her on the same level.

Regina, face schooled into indifference from years of practice, ran a long red nail through her well-coiffed bob. "I don't understand that reference, and I won't respond to it."

"Ooh, Emma, look at this!" Mary Margaret darted over, a sample in her hands. "Look, the tulle makes a little skirt here, and then the ribbon goes here, and, and, oh my, it's just going to be so beautiful, you're going to be so beautiful—"

Regina waved a hand at them. "Can you go have your case of the vapors elsewhere? You're infringing on my workstation."

Emma leaned over. "What exactly are you up to, Regina?"

"Giving your father a hand with the new account." She looked up, a feral grin stealing over her face. "It's certainly going to bring Nolan Construction out of its slump." She pointed a finger at Emma. "Don't screw things up with Mr. Trust Fund Baby."

Emma frowned. "I didn't think things were that bad."

"They aren't!" Mary Margaret cut in. "Just, you know, it never really recovered from the first recession. I mean, it's been good, but not great. This…this'll help. That's all."

"Got it, Mom." But Emma didn't like the sound of things.

"Anyways," Mary Margaret said sunnily, obviously wanting to change the subject. "Did you have fun with Ruby and Elsa last night?"

"It was…an experience."

Regina's head snapped up. "What's this? Was this for the bachelorette party?"

"Yeah. We went to…to the Hollywood Men show."

"Ah," Regina clucked her tongue. "Any rival contenders sweep you off your feet, make you think about calling off…all this?" She looked over at the decorations again disapprovingly.

"Regina," Mary Margaret began, but Emma answered.

"No. Of course not."

"You're blushing!" Regina cackled. "Well, I hope you got one more good go of it. Because after the thirtieth, for the rest of your life, it'll be laughing at his inane humor, travelling to Big Daddy's hotel conferences, and—does he slop food everywhere when he eats? He looks like he does—cleaning up after his messes." She held up a finger. "And as for the bedroom: I'm sure his routine's stale as a Triscuit already. Take my word for it, just lie back and think of Eng—"

"O-kay!" Emma jumped up as if she'd been stuck with a pin. "That's my cue."

She turned to her mother. "If there's anything I can put together, I'd rather just do it back at the apartment."

Mary Margaret's bottom lip jutted out. "But you just got here!"

"Yeah, I know, I'm just feeling a little…tired after yesterday. Late night," she said, pointedly ignoring Regina's snicker.

Her mother seemed to get a hint. "Oh, all right," she conceded.

She stuffed a few things into a sturdy shopping bag, and walked Emma to the door.

"Here's the swans, you just punch them out—isn't that ingenious? And I've put the guest list in here. Are your calligraphy skills still good?"

"Sure."

"Great! Well then, just write each name in the center, and you're done. Bring them back, and I'll stick them onto the main card."

"Thanks, Mom."

She hugged Mary-Margaret, and walked out without another word to Regina. She didn't know why she was so bothered by her particular remarks today; she was always making acerbic comments. Maybe she was too old to stay out late anymore. It was making her crabby.

The bag of cardstock swans were left on one of the kitchen chairs as soon as Emma got home. She had absolutely no stomach for them right now. She rubbed at her temples; maybe a nap actually was in order.

Before hitting her bedroom, she took a detour into the second bedroom, which she'd fashioned into her workspace upon first moving in nearly five years ago. These days, it seemed to be more like a tomb. All of her old paintings lined the wall, some facing out, some stacked one on top of the other. Her art desk had a fine layer of dust on it, and there were full dust bunnies gathered around its legs. Emma ran her fingertips lightly over the tubes of oil paint, probably dried out by now. She was never very good at screwing the caps back on completely. What did it matter that she was moving? She wasn't using the space anymore. All her work would probably go into storage; Neal was never a great fan of her technique anyway. Although, he'd said indulgently, if she was good, maybe a few pieces could be used to adorn the guest bedroom, where whoever was visiting would be in no place to complain about it.

Her mouth stretched into a wan smile (more of a grimace) at the remembrance, while she moved to the window. This one still had the best view in the whole apartment. She could see a generous portion of the most bustling swath of Santa Monica, while also being able to glimpse the ocean beyond it. You could even make out the pier if you looked hard enough.

God, she would miss it. Who the hell did she know in Montecito? She wouldn't even be able to piggyback on hanging out with Neal's friends, because he was currently living with his father in Pasadena. When Mr. Gold had offered the other house as a wedding present, Neal had jumped at it.

"I can't take my father anymore, Emma. He's smothering me with his demands, his business. The only way to get out from under his influence is to take the house. Don't get whiny about it; it's going to be exciting. A new start!"

Exciting. Emma sure didn't feel any more excited about the concept than when it had first been brought up, which registered somewhere around barely and not at all.

Her phone vibrated suddenly, jerking Emma out of her worries. She reached up to push her hair back, feeling wetness on her cheek. She hadn't even realized she was crying.

"Fuck," she growled, tugging the phone out of her jacket pocket, squinting at the number while brushing at her eyes. Hmm. A 562 area code. She couldn't think of anyone she knew down that way, but Ruby was notorious for forgetting her phone at least twice a week. Maybe she was calling from whichever theater the stage crew had her stationed at this time. Though Emma seemed to remember her mentioning being in downtown this week….

"Hello?"

"Emma? Sorry, is this Emma Nolan?"

Definitely not Ruby. "Who wants to know?" she said gruffly, prepared to unleash a verbal lashing of epic proportions if it was a telemarketer. Had to release the frustration somehow.

The accented voice on the other line chuckled before answering. "Killian Jones is the name. Seems your friend left her phone behind in the booth last night at the club."

Killian? Oh god, it was the stripper. "Well, thanks," she said in as calm a tone as possible. "I'll let her know to drop by and pick it up."

"Er…it's not at the club anymore, lass. I have it."

She sighed heavily. "Why?"

"That place is chaos 24/7. I thought it might get lost. I remembered your name, found it in the address book, and took a chance."

"Okay, well where can she reach you?"

"I live in Long Beach. Work at the container yard most days."

Ugh. Who said it had to be a telemarketer? He was looking like a better candidate for her rage more and more. Long Beach would be a nightmare to get to for Ruby, and despite her stunt last night, Emma didn't want to put her through that. She still needed her to be the Maid of Honor, after all.

"Alright, Killian Jones. Name a time and place—a well lit place—and I'll be down this evening."