A/N: Here is the official chapter one. I'd like to thank everyone who has commented. I really appreciate it, and it gives me motivation to continue with the story. I'm looking forward to sharing more chapters with all of you soon!
Chapter One
"Emma, the pancakes are done."
Time has moved on, a little quicker than Emma had expected. She thought the world would have ended by now, or at least crumble all around her. But it's still here. She's still here.
It's been two years since she left the city, and somehow on the day she set out to leave, all signs pointed for her to go back home, to Storybrooke. Any time she explained her tiny, quaint hometown to outsiders, she defined it as a place where it's unheard of for people to actually leave to grow roots somewhere else. Practically everyone knows not only your name, but also your whole story, which makes it hard for others to sneak around unnoticed. Emma has felt the pains of that too many times to count, from being caught stealing candy at a young age to sneaking in and out of the baker's son's window late at night. The instant she was caught, it was in the ears and out of the mouths of everyone within a twenty mile radius, and almost immediately she would feel the vibrating of her phone in her pocket, an incoming call from one of her parents. Becoming an unfamiliar face in the sea of people in the city was actually a relief after years of being the talk of the town, much to her embarrassment.
If people do find the opportunity to leave, it's usually a permanent relocation…but for Emma, she is the even rarer exception. She left for a bigger, brighter place, only to end up in the same place she started, a complete 360.
Emma opened her eyes. Sunlight cascaded through her window blinds, creating a soft, warm blanket over her. She reluctantly slid the blankets off of her, and dangled her legs over the side of the bed. It was the same one she had since she was in middle school. Even at the young-ish age of 28, she still fit in its twin-sized dimensions, even though it definitely could only fit one adult body. The only time she was able to fit another was when she was seventeen, and even then it was a little snug with her high school boyfriend. Although at that time, the hardest thing about trying to get to second base was trying to be quiet enough without her parents hearing the shifting of bed posts from the living room below.
"I'm coming, Mom," she said, stretching her arms into the air until a few cracks of her bones could be heard.
She tied her golden hair up in a messy bun, using the trusty hair tie that she always kept on her right wrist. Her feet found a pair of slippers, and she made her way down the stairs into the kitchen. Entering the doorway, the smell of maple syrup and sweet batter consumed her. It never got old, if she had miss anything from home while she was away, it was this. The sound of old rock songs playing on the radio, her mom twirling a spatula in the air waiting to flip the pancakes, and the assurance that nothing will change.
"Good morning," her mom, Mary Margaret, said with a warm smile that matched the sing-song tone of her voice. "How did you sleep?"
Emma shrugged as she sat down at the table. "I had another nightmare," she replied. "But it's nothing that coffee can't fix."
Mary Margaret watched her daughter pour a cup of warm brew with a look of concern. "Another nightmare? I thought you weren't having them anymore?"
Unbeknownst to her mother, the nightmares never went away. Emma chose not to tell her mother when they'd occur most of the time to keep her from worrying. Nightmares are a funny thing, they seem so real at the time, causing you to sweat all over and have breaths rushing to escape your lungs as soon as possible, but when you wake up, the sun could be shining, birds are singing, and your mom has cooked you pancakes. She thought she would be numb to them now, but recently, they have gotten clearer and almost tangible.
Her bad dreams are always about reliving the night she lost Neal. It's weird, because she isn't sure why it's on repeat, is it because she blames herself and her guilt won't allow her to forget? Or is it a form of PTSD? Either way, the images are the same, happening step by step, through her eyes. It was sort of like watching a television re-run multiple times, the overall story is already understood from previous watch-throughs, and yet, each time, there are new details that arise that weren't noticed before.
The nightmares were slowly unraveling a mystery for her, it seemed, as they'd always end before she could see the face of the bad guy. It's bittersweet, because she will never find out who it was, or at least she has lost all hope in discovering his identity. After all, the NYPD never found him, and so it's highly unlikely that it would be revealed in her dream.
"I wish there were something I could do to help, Emma," her mother said. "Maybe you could take some time off to refresh? We could go to the beach or something!"
She shook her head, and took a bite of a pancake. "It's all right, Mom. Besides, I can't take off work," she gave her excuse. "We are short staffed, and I have a pile of boxes to sort. I think I just need time."
Her mother nodded, but Emma wasn't sure if it was in agreement or just to pacify her. It is hard to tell these days. She used to claim she had a superpower, one that would give her the ability to spot when somebody was lying. It makes her laugh now, but she really believed that she was in tune with people, able to see right through their emotions masked on their face and the nuances in their gestures. It was easy for her to catch people spinning tales of "what they didn't do" that they usually would end up confessing after she interrogated them, sometimes only taking minutes.
But now, it's hard. She lost some sort of connection to this world…to people. That part of her was gone that day in the rain, in the middle of Times Square, washed away with everything else she once had.
"I should get going, Mom," she said, and bit down on a piece of toast, letting it hang from her mouth as she put on her jacket. She took the slice in her hand and smiled. "Thanks for breakfast."
Mary Margaret handed her a travel cup filled with coffee. "Have a great day."
Emma hopped into her yellow bug. It was a nice day, as usual in Storybrooke. The winters were usually filled with cold and snow, but springtime is when the town became a beautiful bouquet of in-bloom trees, flowers, and the signs of new beginnings. It was like another world, all on its own, away from the sadness and strife other parts of the country faced. Or at least that is what it seemed like. Never in the city would someone smile or ask how her day was going as she walked down the street, but here, that was just another Monday or Tuesday…or really, common any day of the week.
The drive to the station was short, only taking about ten minutes or so from her parents' house. There was never any traffic, so even if she was running late—which is most of the time—she didn't have to worry about being stuck behind a long line of cars. Again, very much unlike the city.
It was comforting in a way that nothing changed in Storybrooke, except for the signs outside of shops that displayed sales and the seasonal menu Granny's offered for all three meals of the day. Consistency meant that nothing unexpected would happen, which made it easier for her to go on throughout the days, weeks, months without having to worry about picking up more pieces of her life. Her heart and soul were already layered with Band-Aids; she was afraid to see what else would need to be stitched together if anything else tragic were to happen.
"Good morning, Emma," Graham said as she walked into the station's office. He was in his usual position on a Monday: face hidden in the morning paper, legs up and crossed on the desk, and his chair reclining back.
"Morning," she replied, walking past his office and then to her desk, where she found a to-go coffee and donut in a bag from Granny's diner.
She looked over at Graham. He has been the sheriff of Storybrooke for about three years, specially selected by the Mayor, Regina. He also hired Emma on the spot, a month or two after she came home. Never in a million, billion years would he be nice enough to bring her a coffee, especially not one that included a strawberry frosted donut with sprinkles. This is not meant to be taken the wrong way; he is a nice guy and a great sheriff of the town. He keeps the peace, even thought, admittedly, it's not that hard in a town where they are called more to rescue cats from trees than to stop a heist at a bank. However bringing Emma breakfast in the morning would have been too nice of him, considering their fling last summer didn't end well.
It really wasn't a big deal, at least not to Emma, but Graham on the other hand, hasn't been taking it so well. They were never really in a relationship, or at least they weren't in her eyes. It was more of a "physical understanding." No strings attached, no feelings required. That would be perfectly true for her; however Graham hasn't been able to talk to her about anything other than work ever since it ended. He tries to avoid her by almost tiptoeing around her when they are alone at the station (which is most of the time; they are short staffed), always coming up with excuses why they don't do ride-alongs together, and pretending he doesn't notice her if they are ever in the same place outside of work. Needless to say, it's been awkward. His side-eye looks, when he thinks she is not looking, and straight-to-the-point conversations also don't help.
As expected, when Emma came home from New York, she was, for lack of a better word, confused. Her relationship with Neal for five fleeting years, ended with burying him in a black, shiny casket. If Neal had any family, she didn't know about them, because he sidestepped the topic so many times, and she accepted that. However, when she stood at the graveyard, surrounding a hole in the ground with a few other police officers, she could feel how lonely he must have been prior to those years they were together.
After the funeral, the New York that had once left her wide-eyed, hopeful, feeling like she could achieve anything, eager to find the greatest love of her life (other than the most delicious pizza on Earth), miserable in endless bumper to bumper traffic, and comfortable with being independent, became a bleak labyrinth of concrete. Its people had blank, blurry faces, and she, herself, felt soulless and dark. The lights were still as bright as ever, but even they couldn't spark the fire inside of her.
Although her police chief expected her to stay on the force, after taking time off, she needed to leave. If it weren't for the formalities that needed to be settled after his death, she would've already skipped down, before the soil hardened around what was left of him in the ground.
Stepping back into the apartment they shared took her breath away. All of his belongings were still there, just as he had left them: his toothbrush in its own respective slot in the holder, shavings from his beard and head sprinkled in the sink, dirty clothes in the hamper, his favorite color Gatorade in the fridge that she wouldn't dare to drink unless she wanted to be tickled until she cried, and a black velvet box hidden in his sock drawer that held a tiny ring that would only be complete—have any sort of meaning—with the simplest 4-word question he never got to ask from his lips.
Life outside of the small one-bedroom, one-bath apartment went on as normal. The neighbors next door were arguing, but in a few minutes sounds of moans and pleasure will be heard. Neal and Emma would always laugh about it, turning up the television. Cars outside were honking, expecting the ones in front to move, but they had nowhere to go, thanks to the grid of a thousand traffic lights and millions of people who refuse to wait for the crossing sign. The news talked about the weather, the Knicks, and petty crimes that happened the night before. Everything went as normal, except for inside those four walls. Time didn't touched anything.
It didn't take long to pack her own things, since most of the objects tucked away in their place were shared. All that she owned herself fit into a tiny blue suitcase, along with her favorite hoodie of his that still smelled like him, a picture frame of the two of them in their blues after graduating the academy, and the velvet box. She gave away and sold what she could, emptying the place of any remaining memories.
The months between leaving the city and arriving in Storybrooke are hazy. She just existed, going through the motions: waking up, brushing teeth and maybe hair, eating breakfast, laying around her parents' house, eating a snack, going for a walk, eating dinner, and then going to bed. And then repeat, mixing in a shower every other day; only if her parents complained about the smell.
It got a little better when she began working at the police station, with the help of her father, David, bragging to the sheriff that his daughter was an NYPD officer. Over time, she was consistent with going to work, and doing better for herself, including more frequent showers and better grooming habits. Also, Graham became a distraction, maybe even a reminder that she still had needs, ones that included feeling someone else thisclose to her body. It all just fell in place, he was easy on the eyes, especially in uniform, and he treated her like a respectable officer, not caring about any previous situations.
Their relationship-slash-friendship started out strictly work, but Graham would ultimately break from his work-life barrier when it came to her. He would smile more, maybe even cross the line sometimes when he'd lean a little closer to her when they were researching, and brushing against her side when helping her with the computer. His clear disregard for her personal space didn't bother her too much…maybe, she liked it a little. It had been a long time since a man looked at her the way he did, or say her name with a tone that made her feel like she was the only one in the room and all attention was on her—even though, technically she was the only other person in the station.
One day, she finally agreed to go for a drink with him at the Rabbit Hole. It was probably the fifteenth time he asked—she lost count—, so she figured she owed it to not only him, but also herself, to say yes. As with most trips to the bar, one drink became two, and then magically, she was sitting in front of five empty glasses. Luckily she had practice in building up a tolerance to alcohol from drinking after work in New York; however currently, the moderate effects she was feeling allowed her to lower her guard. As a result, it made it a lot easier to lean over closer to Graham, and place a kiss on his lips. Like the pile of glasses, the kiss multiplied into a full make out session that she's sure even made the bartender feel uncomfortable.
In that moment, Graham unknowingly ignited something inside of her that made her feel alive for the first time in months. Yet, she knew not to believe too much into her strong lustful impulses, because even though there was strong attraction between the two of them, she had no actual feelings for him. It was still enough, though, to satisfy the gaping hole in her heart, at least temporarily.
She snapped out of her trance. "Who brought the coffee and donuts?" she asked.
He looked at her from over the top of his newspaper. "The new guy ordered it," he replied simply.
"The new guy? Did you finally hire someone else?" she asked. She wondered if her voice was sprinkled with too much eagerness. She enjoys working. It keeps her busy. The less time she has for herself, the better, but that doesn't mean she wouldn't appreciate help or at least a buffer between her and Graham.
"I did." His feet were now flat on the floor, and the paper was now pushed to the side. He lifted his chin, signaling to look behind her. "That's the new guy."
She gave him a confused look, and then turned her head to face the holding cell. Why didn't I notice him before? she asked herself. Standing inside the cell was a tall man, lean build, and slight scruff encircling his jawline.
"Hello, lass. I am the new guy," he said, his voice oozing with confidence, not caring that he was the one in the cell.
She looked him over, wondering what it was with this town and attracting handsome men with accents to work in the police department. It was only fitting that he was kept locked in the cell, having his features framed by the bars. It made it easier for her to turn around and slouch down in her metal seat. She will save her thoughts for another time, and focus on eyeing the donut waiting on her desk to be eaten.