Three years later
Driving is wildly overrated.
At the very least, it's definitely not on the top ten things Emma would ever choose to do on her birthday.
Stuck behind the wheel for five hours straight, battling exhaustion every minute of the way - yep, not her idea of a good time.
But she always climbs into the bug and comes every year.
And every month.
And every other weekend her cranky boss gives her a day off after capturing a mark.
Because, more than anything, she needs to go back.
(Pushing desperately against the invisible wall, her new bail-bondsperson ID slipping out onto the road as she finally staggers back and sags against the car an hour later, her expression hollow.)
(A year before that, her straightened hair pulled back in a braid as she attacks the barrier determinedly, forcing the inadequate magic through her fingers, watching through tear-filled eyes as it flickers and dies against the shield)
(Even earlier: It's been three months since she fled Storybrooke. Neal stands behind her, supporting her as she grazes a finger against the barrier. The next second, she's thrown back against him and they crash onto the asphalt together, his form protecting her from the worst of the fall.)
It's never worked. She's never been able to go through. She's stuck here, on this side of reality while almost everything she cares about is on the other side of a shimmering veil that she can't cross.
Sometimes, after collapsing against the border for the umpteenth time, she feels so angry and helpless that she wants to give up and never come back.
Sometimes she tries to stay away from it all.
Sometimes she wonders what it would be like to be normal, to wake up every morning and not worry about a curse and a queen, to let college boys and criminals be the top two problems on her list.
But she can't do that to Nicholas and Eva.
She owes it to them.
She owes it to their memory.
They died in this war. She can't let that be in vain, she can't let their sacrifice be for nothing. She has to finish what the three of them started together.
Even if she has to do it completely alone.
And she's afraid, but it's not of the task in front of her. She's afraid because she can't remember the exact lilting music of Eva's voice. She's afraid because she can't remember the hidden mischief in Nicko's grin. Her memories are slipping away, fading with time, and with every moment that vanishes, she's afraid that she'll wake one day not caring enough to fight this battle, not hurting enough from their loss to come back.
Time heals all wounds, they say.
She doesn't want this one to ever close.
Her own carelessness was the reason her siblings were able to run into that tunnel as she fought the dragon. Her own blind panic was the reason she ended up outside town borders without realising she wouldn't be able to come back.
She reminds herself of that every day.
Every single day, she remembers those twenty-four hours, from giving Ashley hope to lashing out blindly in the smoke and sending the curse towards Regina. She remembers her mother trusting her through the curse and her father between life and death on the hospital bed. She remembers the white room and the unmoving not-Eva who lay so cold and still and the delicate white flowers that unexplainably appeared in the room in place of their bodies.
And she remembers Rumplestiltskin, the imp-turned-landowner weaving his threads of power around her with their two deals, his words giving her hope.
"The curse will be broken before your twenty-eighth birthday... Even if you left town, you would find yourself back inside its borders well before you turn twenty-eight. Do you understand now?"
Emma nods slightly. "Yes."
She comforts herself with the thought that it'll be less than seven years now.
Seven years.
She doesn't want to think about it.
She has to believe that it will work this time.
After all, this time is special.
It's not every day a girl turns twenty-one.
"Give it a go on your birthday," Neal says, handing over a chocolate bar.
Eighteen year-old Emma takes it, raising an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
He nods, his expression serious. "Yes. Magic sort of temporarily increases on birthdays. Why do you think people make wishes when they comes around?"
She takes a bite of her chocolate, musing over the implications. "Your dad must've known a lot about magic."
His face closes off, but he gives her a small smile. "Yeah. He did."
And here she is, driving back to Storybrooke alone in the hopes that this time, it'll work.
In the end that's all she can do. Hope.
...
An hour later, she's there.
The bug slows to a stop and she flexes her fingers on the wheel, feeling the magic grow and shimmer beneath her skin. The closer she gets to the border, the more she can control it. Out in the 'real' world it usually just manifests as a gut instinct - an amazing talent for seeking people out that got her a job a month after she turned twenty.
But here?
Here, it's magic.
Here, it's power.
And she's sure as hell going to use it.
She steps out of the car, slamming the door behind her and walking towards the invisible line.
Her hand reaches out, magic filling her veins.
For a second, she pauses.
What if it doesn't work?
Her feet are on the faded bloodstain, right where she collapsed three years ago, and her hand is trembling an inch from the shimmering shield she can almost see.
(She's not ready for the disappointment. She's not ready for the pain of trying and failing again.)
Her fingers reach forward, grazing the veil of magic. She braces herself for the inevitable reaction, the pulse of raw energy that will send her flying backwards, weakening her for days.
Nothing happens.
Her hand passes through.
For a moment, her mind refuses to process what her eyes are seeing.
She tries again.
The wall is there, and her fingers are touching it - they're touching it - and she's not getting thrown back, her hand passing through, she doesn't have to pretend anymore, she can go into Storybrooke.
Emma freezes.
(As it turns out, she's not ready to succeed either.)
No.
This can't be happening now. She's not ready. Yes, she wanted this - but right now she's a girl who's frightened and angry and bitter and broken, a girl who messed up so badly she got her brother and sister killed.
She doesn't think she can face Mom and Dad and tell them that.
"Aw, Come on," Nicko says from behind her. "Don't tell me you're scared now."
She jumps, but doesn't turn to look. She knows what she'll see. She knows what her mind will conjure up to torture her: Nicko, a tattered hoodie covering his ghostly pale face and his jaded eyes filled with accusation. A cruel mockery of the way she last saw him. Alive. She just has to wait a second more for -
"It's okay," Eva whispers sadly, her gentle voice breaking. "I don't mind if you leave."
Her sister is there too, haunting the shadows, slipping in and out of the darkness.
Nightmares. Hallucinations. She doesn't know what they are, but they come every time she fails to go through.
They start taunting her. They whisper of blame and forgiveness, of saviours and cowards. Eva's words are sorrowful and kind. Nicko is harsh and unforgiving.
The pain each word carries grows until it's a murmured rush that rips her apart piece by piece.
Her breath comes fast and ragged and the world spins beneath her.
"You can run away again. You can come back next year when you're ready. No one would know, I promise."
They're not real.
"You never protected us, Em."
They would never say that.
"We needed you, Emma. Why weren't you there?"
They would want her to cross the border.
Her heart pounding, she stumbles backwards to the car, not daring to turn around for fear of seeing them, seeing their faces full of hate and blame. Her hand gropes behind her for the door.
It's not real. It's not real. Itsnotreal.
She turns the key in the ignition with shaking fingers.
Her eyes catch on the snowdrops on her dash.
And for a moment, everything goes still.
Then the voices quiet. She pushes them down, locks her fears away, lets an iron-had determination takes their place.
No. She's going to do this.
She's going to go into Storybrooke. She's been planning it for three years. Drive across the border, ask Mary Margaret for help, take down the Queen, save her parents. Supplies and food are in the back of the car, gun is in the glove compartment, keychain is around her neck.
(She wishes Neal were here.)
She's ready.
All she has to do is take the first step.
The car starts, groaning across the town line, and she can't help but hold her breath as the wave of magic engulfs her, making the shift from a world without magic to a land from which magic was stolen. There's a curious tugging sensation as she goes across, an odd feeling of being combined in some way, almost as if the curse is feeding off her and linking her magic with the town's.
For a single instant, she is on the border, hanging between two worlds.
Then she's not.
Welcome to Storybrooke the sign says as it fades into existence before her eyes.
And she's across.
Finally.
She draws a trembling hand across her face and lets out a shaky sigh. She made it.
She made it.
She's really going to have to do this. She's really going to have to face Mom's empty eyes and Dad's lifeless form and then tell them the terrible truth if she manages to wake them up.
Her resolve deserts her again at the thought. The anxiety and unsureness become louder and louder- what if she fails, what if she makes things worse - and panic is setting in, and so is exhaustion - driving for five hours is pretty tiring - everything is tilting and waving and she'd like more than anything to curl up behind the wheel and sleep.
Her eyes flutter shut. Just for a second, she promises herself. Her ribs ache dimly with the pain of a long-healed wound. Her thoughts break off in delicate, jagged threads.
Open your eyes.
She groans, not wanting to listen.
"Open your eyes!"
Nicko and Eva's ghost-voices scream frantically in her head, chasing out the welcoming warmth of oblivion.
Her eyes open, each second a disjoint frame.
A wolf. In the middle of the road.
One red eye. One black.
Howling.
She's going to hit it-
She yanks the wheel to one side.
A horrible screeching of tires and noise, splintering and shattering and the feeling of flying through the air as she's jerked forward by the impact.
Her head hits the wheel.
And then there's nothing but blackness.
Maybe not even that.
...
Her eyes snap open.
Someone is whistling. The noise pierces through her head unpleasantly and for a moment she wonders if she's slightly hungover. It would explain why nothing makes sense.
Why is she behind bars?
And how on earth did she get here?
It takes minute for it to click. The barrier- the wolf- Storybrooke. Taking into account the fact that her magic is seething in delight beneath her skin, she's going to assume she's still in town. Most likely the sheriff's office given the very noticeable metal bars surrounding her.
Holding her hand to her head, she groans as she levers herself up to check.
Yep. Sheriff station alright.
Not good.
Definitely not good. She needs to get out of here before-
"Leroy!" Graham walks into the room, his Irish brogue preceding him and she bites her lip. So much for that.
She watches the sheriff, taking in the changes - none - and trying to be thankful that he hasn't turned to face her yet. His accent brings back terrifying memories- the last time she heard him speak he was in the Queen's control. He managed to wrench free for a single second to whisper 'Run', to give her the chance to get away. Despite the not-so-great situation, it's good to see him.
Graham heads to the cell next to hers and unlocks the door. "I'm going to let you out; you need to behave. Put on a smile, and stay out of trouble."
Emma watches warily as Leroy saunters out and gives the sheriff a smile so sarcastic that she would choke up with laughter if she wasn't in mortal danger.
Has Graham told Regina she's back? Does Regina even remember her, or did the curse erase those memories?
Graham walks over to her cell and she tenses.
"And who might you be?"
What?
"I'm Emma," slips out. "Emma Swan."
She keeps up her nonchalant mask but internally, she's reeling. What is going on? She might expect Regina not to remember her, but Graham? She thinks about the curse, about the way it trapped people in time, the way no one aged and no one remembered going to college or growing up.
Oh.
Well, it makes sense. If people remembered things for too long, they would figure out the fact that time was frozen.
It could be a fluke, she thinks desperately. Maybe Graham doesn't remember her because Regina did something to him.
But, if it isn't - if it isn't a fluke, if no one remembers her, then that means that Mom doesn't either.
And that's not something she thinks she can bear.
She pushes the thought away and snaps back to reality. Graham is staring at her, his hands on his hips. "Well, Ms Swan, it seems you're bad news for our local signage. You're going to have to pay for damaging that, you know."
"It's not my fault. There was a wolf."
He raises his eyebrows. "A wolf. Right."
"I'm not kidding."
"I'm sure you're not." He shoots her a disbelieving look before going over to Leroy's cell and relocking the door.
Emma leans against the bars, allowing herself a small smile.
Whatever else may happen, she can't deny that it's good to be back.
"So, when am I getting out of here, Sheriff?"
"As soon as my deputy gets here. I'm not goin' to keep you for long."
Well, she didn't expect that.
As far as she can remember, Graham didn't have a deputy three years ago. The change is probably a side effect something Eva or Nicko or she did, but she has no idea what.
"You have a deputy?"
"I do hope you didn't think I was the only official in Storybrooke."
She grins. "Actually, I kinda did."
Out in the corridor, a door closes.
After a second of staring at each other Graham tears his eyes from hers and walks away.
Emma sits back down on the prison cot, pressing her hands to her mouth to hide her expression. She's feeling a mix of relief and terror and joy.
He doesn't remember her.
More importantly, he doesn't remember what she did.
And because he doesn't remember, she has a fresh start. Because he doesn't remember, she can begin again. She can walk among the townspeople without having to bear curious stares, whispers of running away after the death of her family.
She can hide from the blame one more day.
Rubbing her eyes, she looks up to where Graham has disappeared. Just beyond her line of sight, he's talking to someone in hushed tones, the voices mingling into an indistinguishable blur.
Then there's an intake of breath. The person, whoever he is, steps out from behind the corner and strides over to her.
No.
He stops a foot away from the bars.
No, she thinks, this isn't possible.
He can't be here.
"Emma?" He says quietly. Disbelievingly.
And it's like the past six years have never happened.
Dad.
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