Where the Heart Is
(rated K)
She's barely made it down the stairs, her foot hovering in the air above the last step, when Henry is on her, flapping the morning edition of the classifieds around and hitting her with a barrage of questions about how many square feet they need and if they want two bedrooms or three.
She pauses, briefly, and sends him a scalding look before continuing into the kitchen where there's a pot of fresh coffee waiting for her—thank God. He follows along behind her, chattering the whole way, and it isn't until she's swallowed one massive gulp that she finds it in her to speak.
"Christ, kid. It's like eight a.m. Where's the fire?"
"It's Saturday," he says, as if that should explain everything, and when she fixes him with what she's sure is a blank look, he rolls his eyes. "I don't have any school," he continues, jutting his head out and raising both eyebrows, his expression clearly saying isn't it obvious? "That means we can go look at places."
He brandishes the classifieds page again, and when the pieces finally click together, she groans.
"Henry, I really don't think—"
"No," he interrupts, and the firmness in his tone pulls her up short. "You made the decision to stay in Storybrooke. You have your family here, and your job, and Killian. There's no reason to want to leave. So since you're staying, I think it's time for you to find us a place to live. I don't know if you've noticed or not, but it's getting a little crowded here."
He looks pointedly towards the couch, where he's been sleeping for the last couple of weeks, and she feels a pang of guilt. He's right, she knows that—and the way he'd said it, find us a place to live, warms her heart more than she'd ever admit—but she's still got enough of the old Emma in her to hesitate.
She's never lived in a place like this before, a place where she has friends and family and a job that doesn't involve chasing after low-lifes in skimpy dresses and strappy heels. It's a place where she can see her future, more than just a couple of months ahead.
She sighs, resignedly, and brings a hand up to pinch at the bridge of her nose.
She doesn't have to look to know there's a massive grin stretching across her son's face.
He skips forward, thrusting the paper across the counter towards her, and points at the four ads he'd already circled in bright red Sharpie.
"We can start with these. They looked like the best."
An hour later finds her trekking down Main Street, Henry and Mary Margaret on either side. They're on their way to the first place Henry had found, a small bungalow in the middle of town.
As they approach, it becomes clear that it's been vacant for a while; the shutters hang loose on the front window, the siding is in bad need of a fresh coat of paint, and the porch creaks when they step up to the front door.
"I don't know about this, Henry," she says, as Mary Margaret pulls a set of keys out of her pocket. Apparently, the title of 'mayor' was also synonomous with 'real estate agent' in Storybrooke, because her office had a cabinet that contained keys to all the locks in all the buildings in town. "It looks like it needs a little work."
Mary Margaret has to shove on the door a couple of times before it opens, and she gives Henry a look, but he merely rolls his eyes. "That's what magic is for, Mom."
She doesn't really have a comeback for that—other than the standard all magic comes with a price that she and Mary Margaret parrot absentmindedly in unison—because it's never really been an option before.
The house looks better on the inside than the outside—although, it definitely needs some sprucing up—but it doesn't feel right, all the rooms small and boxy, the whole space feeling rather closed-off. They don't stay longer than ten minutes before moving on to the next, a townhome a little bit farther into the residential part of town that shares the same fate as the bungalow.
The third property is a little too far out, its whitewashed planks and remote location reminding her a little too much of Zelena's cabin in the woods.
She can tell that Henry is feeling discouraged as they head towards the fourth and final property, and she slings an arm around his shoulders, ruffling his hair as he halfheartedly shoves her away.
"Don't worry, kid. We'll find something. It just takes time."
They turn the corner into the driveway leading up to a small cottage, and she stops short, her words ringing oddly prophetic in her ears.
The cottage is the last on the street, its generous yard overlooking the harbor and the line of ships moored there. A wrap around porch curls its way around the entire structure, the craftsman columns contrasting pleasantly against the pale yellow siding.
She can feel Henry's gaze on her face, and she knows he feels it too—this unidentifiable, welcoming sense of home. She studiously avoids his eye as they climb the front steps and walk through the door, knowing that she has to be practical, that she can't make a knee-jerk decision on something as subjective as a feeling.
She walks carefully through the house's large, open living space and two spare bedrooms, silently admiring as Henry and Mary Margaret gush about the kitchen cabinet space and the bathroom's claw foot tub and the built-ins in the living room that would be a perfect spot for their DVD collection.
It isn't until she walks into the master bedroom, though, that she really, really just knows.
The far wall is made up almost entirely of windows, with a set of beautiful antique French doors leading out onto the porch, which overlooks the activity of the harbor.
She slowly crosses the room, carefully turning the knobs of the French doors. She steps out onto the porch, closing her eyes when a breeze that smells of salt and sand stirs her hair.
It feels like home, in a way that makes her think of Christmas dinners and lazy Sunday mornings, and nights spent curled on the couch with her son and her—
"Whoa! Look at that view!"
Henry's voice startles her from her reverie, and as she comes back to the present, she expects to feel panic at where her thoughts had been heading.
Instead, she feels a thrill of anticipation, a flutter of excitement in her stomach.
Henry looks up at her, eyes bright and cheeks pink and hair mussed, as he leans over the railing of the porch, and she can't help but smile back.
"It's close to the sheriff's station," he points out, and she thinks she has an idea of where this is going. "And it's right on the harbor."
His expression is entirely too knowing, and the way Mary Margaret's eyes sparkle conspiratorially makes fighting a blush awfully hard.
Henry's smile stretches into a grin. "There's lots of room to grow."
Mary Margaret snickers, and she says nothing, hooking her arm through Henry's and tugging him back towards the front door.
"C'mon, wise guy. We've got some thinking to do."
She takes the night shift at the station, as is her normal Saturday night custom, and Killian joins her promptly five minutes after David leaves, as is his custom.
He appears at the door to her office, tapping the glass with the back of his hook and offering up a cup of Granny's to-go. She smiles as she rises from her chair, accepting the Styrofoam cup and the kiss that comes with it.
Since the defeat of the Snow Queen and Rumplestiltskin's resulting banishment, crime has been nearly nonexistent, and often, the twelve hours of her shift creep by painfully slowly. Sometimes, she and Killian pass the time talking; other times, they play card games, or watch Netflix on the computer at her desk.
Tonight, though, she doesn't feel much like games or TV, and she's got too much rolling around in her head to talk. He picks up on this as effortlessly as he does everything else, and after depositing his own cup of coffee on the edge of the desk, he drops down into the chair across from her, producing a small, leather-bound book from his jacket pocket. She cocks an eyebrow in question, and he tilts the cover so that she can see the title—Robinson Crusoe.
"The Lady Belle leant it to me," he says by way of explanation, and she finds herself marveling yet again at the unlikely friendship that the resident librarian and her pirate seem to have struck up, especially considering he once tried to kill her.
He delves into his book—propping it up carefully on his lap with the tip of his hook, good hand alternating between flipping pages and lifting his coffee to his lips—and she spends a good hour pretending to do paperwork while really just staring at the single gold key lying next to her mouse.
She knew she had found the perfect house—or what could be the perfect house. There was just one thing missing.
Abruptly, she stands, fingers fisting around the key, and he glances up at her, his expression perplexed.
"Let's go patrol," she says, and he doesn't question, closing his book around a scrap piece of paper and rising to follow her.
Her hands tremble as she locks up the station door behind them, and she forces herself to take a deep breath, to try and quell the adrenaline pumping through her veins. She doesn't even try to feign her usual disinterest as she climbs in the driver's seat of the cruiser and eases it carefully out of its parking spot. She drives past her normal turn, and she can feel Killian's confusion, palpable in the silence between them, as she heads straight for the cottage.
He remains silent, even as she pulls into the driveway, trusting her to explain in her own time. She feels a surge of affection so overwhelming that it's nearly breathtaking, and it gives her enough confidence to put the car in park and open the door.
She climbs the front steps, heading straight past the front room and the kitchen and the den, all the way down the dark hall to the bedroom at the very back. Killian's footsteps echo behind her every step of the way, and when she comes to a stop in the middle of the room, facing the wall of windows, she feels him sidle up next to her, his dark coat and pants making him nearly invisible in the shadows.
"I don't recall there being a call from this address," he says, and even though his voice sounds carefully mild, she can see his expression out of the corner of her eye, can see the way his gaze is calculating and questioning, reading her like he always does.
She shakes her head, holding up the key in her hand as a partial explanation. "Henry and I went looking at houses today."
It takes him about two and a half seconds to catch up. "This is the one you like the best."
It's not a question, but she nods anyway, finally chancing a glance in his direction. His face is thoughtful as he gazes around the room, sharp eyes taking in all the details, even in the lack of daylight.
Silence stretches between them for several moments, and the apprehension that it brings knots her stomach.
When she can't stand it anymore, she asks, "What do you think?"
Her voice sounds breathless and nervous, a teenager wanting the approval of her crush, and it makes her wince a little bit. He catches it as he turns to face her, his expression softening into a smile as he reaches for her hand.
"I think," he says, threading his fingers carefully through hers and tugging her closer, "that finding a home is a big step."
She knows he understands, knows that the significance of finding a place and settling down is not lost on him, and she smiles up at him from under her lashes when he brings their joined hands up to wind around her shoulders. She feels the pressure of his lips, warm and familiar and comforting, against her forehead, and she closes her eyes, leaning farther into his chest.
"It's something not undeserved by the resident Saviour," he murmurs, and she can't help the wry snort that escapes her lips, or the way her heart seems to swell in her chest at his praise.
She pulls back just far enough to look at his face, and even though she thinks she knows the answer, she still needs to hear him say the words. "So you like it?"
He cocks an eyebrow, the beginnings of a smirk tugging up the corners of his lips, and for a moment, she's terrified he's going to ask something to put her on the spot—does it matter if I like it?
But he doesn't and she barely manages to hide her sigh of relief. His eyes are intense in that way that used to make her uncomfortable but now just makes the blood pound, heavy and thick, through her veins.
He lifts his hook to brush a strand of hair out of her face. "You're comfortable here. It makes you happy. Of course I like it."
She's still getting used to this, these moments of raw and open honesty that come so easy to him, and she wishes for the umpteenth time that she had similar words to say.
She doesn't, though, and the best she can manage is a strangled "Good" around the lump in her throat when she presses her forehead against the ridge of his collar bone and winds her arms around his waist.
She signs a year lease the following Monday, and even though her fingers tremble when she grips the pen, her resolve is as sure and steady as his hand, a gentle pressure on the small of her back.
