Chapter 16

Present

At seven minutes to 2:40pm, Emma walked into Granny's.

It was about as active as ever, the same patrons as the day before and likely the day before that. It had that small-town vibe that she had never quite gotten used to, even when she had briefly lived in ones as a kid. She could almost see why Henry would think that the town was reliving the same day over and over.

She scanned through the booths, and found the sheriff already settled in, mug cupped between his hands. He caught her eye just as she looked, and he offered that smile that should be a smirk but was too shy and sweet to make it there.

She ignored how it made her breath catch, if only for a split second.

She slid into the seat opposite him, eyebrow arching. "You're early," she remarked.

He bobbed his head and took a sip from the mug. "Not much in the way of crime here, so long as you're occupied," he teased.

She rolled her eyes and stifled a smile. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ruby approach.

The waitress' eyes were sparkling with what she knew would be gossip as soon as Emma's back was turned. A grin parted her bright red lips. "Hey there, can I get you two anything?"

The tone was almost accusing, and Emma felt herself tense. "Waiting for Henry," she barked out defensively, and turned her gaze deliberately out the window, eyes narrowed on the street leading from the school. "I'll have a hot cocoa, cinnamon, in the meantime," she finally said, and turned back to her.

This smirk was successful, and Ruby spun around with her order pad and practically skipped off. When she returned to Graham, his expression was wholly and maddeningly oblivious.

"I hear he's in a better mood today," he remarked, leaving the question open but unasked.

She leaned back and shrugged. Better to focus on the kid than on the waitress' implications, anyway. "I gave him some ideas for Operation Cobra," she said simply, and her arms suddenly felt the memory of the boy wrapped in them. She wished she could forget how right it felt, wished she could remember that she shouldn't … couldn't be in his life for long.

He hummed and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "He's back to planning, is he?" he mused, grey-blue eyes squinting.

Her eyebrows knitted and she twisted her hands together, nails biting into her skin. She opened her mouth and then closed it to a firm line. She flattened a palm on the table and resisted the urge to reach out to him. "I know it's probably not smart to encourage …."

He shut his eyes, and the fingers on his left hand tensed as if he was holding back. When he opened them, they were stormy but still soft. "If he's in a better mood, that's all I ask," he said simply.

She felt herself deflate, the kid's mournful gaze when she burst into the psychiatrist's office sharp in her memory. "Was it bad yesterday?" she asked in a small voice.

He sighed and leaned back in his seat. He looked thoughtful, as if truly considering his words. "I think … I think he was real low. But there was that moment in him, that light that he can't get rid of," he paused, and pressed his lips together. "Sorry, that doesn't make much sense, does it?"

Emma shook her head gently, disagreeing. "It does."

He stared at her intensely for a moment, and she was unnerved with the understanding that the moment brought. "I don't expect that it helped his mood much to talk with me, but maybe you got him the rest of the way. And like I said, that's all I ask. He deserves to be happy."

Just like any time he showed such care, she found that sudden urge to lean across the table and catch his lips. And not just to peck them, not a quick swipe, but to truly kiss him good and deep, and twist her fingers in the soft curls at the nape of his neck and tug him close. Was it thanks? Was it appreciation? She swallowed and licked her lips subconsciously, not finding a rational answer inside herself.

She didn't get a moment to linger on it. Henry came bounding in, bell at the door announcing his entrance. His eyes were bright, and a grin stretched across his face. He slid in next to the sheriff and beamed at her. "You came!" he exclaimed.

Graham was looking down at the boy so fondly, that her response came a half second too late to be natural. "I –I said that I would," she stammered out.

He lifted his chin and then looked up at Graham, and her heart trembled a little. Why was it that they looked so similar now whenever she took the time to notice? "Sheriff, welcome to Operation Cobra," he said.

He gave a firm nod in response, that playful side of him hidden away to convey to the kid he was serious. He lifted a fist up to his heart. "I'm honored, Henry," he replied.

Henry squinted and looked around, cautious. "Should we talk here?" he said in half-whisper. "Maybe we should go to the Castle."

"Whatever you want, kid," Emma replied with a shrug. Ruby slid the cup of cocoa onto the table in the same moment, and Henry looked down at it thoughtfully.

"I'm kinda hungry, though," he reasoned, and then looked up. "Can I get a cocoa and some pancakes, Ruby?"

"Sure thing, Henry," she said with a quick scrawl over her order pad.

"A little late for pancakes, isn't it?" Graham asked, poking his shoulder in jest.

"It's a snack," Henry replied with a shrug.

Emma smiled in amusement, watching attentively as Henry dug through his backpack.

Henry locked eyes with her. "I found your father. Prince Charming," he whispered, and tugged the book from the depths.

Emma tilted her head, hesitating. "Henry …," she trailed off. She wanted to help the kid, but something about his insistence on her parents made the old aches from her childhood fresh.

Henry plowed through, though, and flipped through the pages. "He's in the hospital, in a coma. See the scar?" he said, and rotated the book to face her.

On the illustration was a man with blond hair, a bloody mark across his jaw and a stunned expression on his face. Graham leaned forward to look as well, shoulder knocking with Henry's, and Emma watched them for a few beats before studying the picture again.

Henry looked up triumphantly. "He has one, too," he declared.

Emma muffled a laugh, and shook her head. "So? Lots of people have scars, kid."

Henry dropped his chin. "In the same place?" he asked incredulously, and then looked up to Graham for support. "Don't you know what this means?"

Graham met her eye, and then looked back down at the kid. "I know it's quite a coincidence, but it's hard to prove that as fact. Have you found anything else?" he reasoned.

Ruby came by and dropped a plate of pancakes on the table, syrup warm and ready in a container next to it. She winked before sashaying off again.

Henry pushed the plate aside and tilted his head. He leaned in closer, encouraging them to do the same so that their group was suddenly as private as it could be in a public place. "The curse is keeping them apart with the coma. Now they're stuck without each other. We have to tell Miss Blanchard that we found her Prince Charming. When they find each other, they are sure to know each other. It's true love," he declared confidently.

Emma felt a bolt of distress and sighed. "Okay, kid. Telling someone that their …," she paused, and winced as she glanced up at the other adult. How to put this? "'Soulmate' is in a coma is probably not helpful."

Graham nudged him, and he looked up. "It's a bit of a damper," he said.

Henry frowned, and spun the book to look at it more closely. Graham kept her eye steadily, and she felt that familiarity again, acutely. Soulmates. What a funny concept, having your soul know someone, to have it match up. She took another sip, keeping the eye contact practically subconsciously. She almost wished she could believe in such things; it would have the familiarity make sense.

But she didn't believe in it. She had enough life experience to know better than to believe that there was one person out there perfect for her.

Emma snapped out of it when she felt the kid's eyes on her, and she continued. "Not having a happy ending is painful enough, but giving someone unrealistic hope is far worse."

Henry's face firmed. "But what if I'm right?" He looked back and forth to the adults and then his green eyes lit up. "We know who they are. Now they have to know." He dug into his food with a triumphant grin.

Emma leaned back in her seat, amusement coiling within her. She was torn between loving this kid's enthusiasm so much and worrying over tampering it down to something closer to reality. It so reminded her of a time when she could have been the same way before it came crashing, devastatingly, down though years of disappointment and despair. She almost had a desperate need to preserve it in him, hoped the man at his side could assist in that as well. Finally, she arched a brow and gave a quick nod. "Okay, then. How do you intend to make that happen?"

Henry grinned. "By reminding him," he said, and took another syrupy bite.

Graham chuckled and ruffled the kid's hair. "If he's in a coma, how do we go about that, Henry?"

Henry checked the surroundings surreptitiously once more before leaning in again. "We have to get her to read their story to John Doe. Then, maybe, he'll remember who he is," he said. He seemed ready to go into several more arguments to convince her, poised and prepared.

So, she leaned forward with a smirk. "Okay."

Both Henry and Graham both seemed startled by that. "Okay?" Henry asked, incredulous.

"Yeah," Emma said, smile tightening. "We'll do it."

His eyes were sparkling even more.

"But we'll do it my way," Emma warned.

"Does that mean you have a plan?" Graham asked, smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

She crossed her arms across her chest and nodded. "Let me tell her."

The next day, she was back at the diner.

She felt grungy and gross as she walked in, her back cricked and her hair a little oily. Her first stop was a beeline to the bathroom, where she immediately splashed some water on her face. She sighed as she looked up at herself.

"What, you decided you missed your teen years, Emma?" she asked her reflection accusingly. She scrubbed at her face with a paper towel and then yanked her purse onto the sink. She dug through her possessions and pulled out a tube of mascara, hoping a few swipes would at least make her look more awake.

She needed to be a little awake to get Henry listening to his teacher, that reading a book would not heal a coma patient, that fairytales were not something that happened in everyday life.

She was already dictating a speech in her head, rehearsing surprise that the ploy didn't work, and fighting a knot of worry in her stomach.

A knock interrupted her, and she frowned. It was a public restroom, after all, and it wasn't like she had the forethought to lock the door behind her. "Yeah?" she called.

There was a muffled cough, and then the door creaked open a half inch. "It's Graham. Henry wanted to get you something."

She placed a hand on her hip and yanked the door open another few inches. "What are you talking—"

The sheriff had a blue silk shirt in hand, thrust out in offering. He was avoiding looking directly at her, as if the simple act of standing in the women's restroom would be a private act.

Her brows quirked, and she looked up from the pristine blouse in confusion. "What's this?"

Graham chuckled and chanced a look at her. He pressed the hanger into her hands. "I think he's noticed the same shirt twice in a row, now. Just take it. It's not like she'll notice something missing."

She hesitated and held it up in distaste. "It's Regina's?" she asked.

Graham shrugged. "Henry said he found it in her closet," he said.

"I—" she cocked her head to the side. He was in his usual attire, blue button-up and matching tie, leather jacket with its red band around the neck on top. She thought for a second that the blue and her red leather would be complementary, then shook the thought away. "Thanks?"

He held out his hands. "Don't thank me, thank the lad," he insisted, and then walked off without another word.

She stood with the shirt a few more moments, chewing her lip. She looked back at her messy hair and wrinkled tank in the mirror once again, and finally sighed. She supposed it wouldn't hurt.

A couple yanks through her hair with a brush later, her curls bounced into place and she felt more like herself again. She bounded out of the bathroom, noting the trio already grouped together in their usual booth.

Mary Margaret was practically dancing in her seat, antsy and with a certain excitement. Henry was much the same, fingers drumming on the tabletop anxiously. Graham was the opposite, casual and relaxed against the window, almost exceptionally still as he took in the others.

She slid into the seat next to Mary Margaret, her partner in this little play, and smiled at the kid. "Thanks for the shirt."

Henry grinned deviously, that little bit of her she kept noticing. "She'll never know."

She checked her watch. It was a little past eight, and she wondered at the strangeness of this weekend morning meeting. "Where does she even think you are?" she asked, bemused.

He shrugged. "Playing whack-a-mole."

She glanced at the teacher, who simply shrugged back. Emma frowned. "And she bought that?" She didn't want any more interruptions from the mayor; she'd rather stave off another fight as long as she could.

Henry lifted his chin. "Sure. She believes what she wants to believe."

Graham muffled a chuckle into his drink, and Emma caught his eye with a smirk. "Imagine that."

The sheriff shook his head and finally turned to Mary Margaret. "Well, Miss Blanchard, why don't you let us know how Operation Cobra is coming along?" he prompted. He had a look in his eye, one that said that he already fully knew what was going on.

"Now, Henry," Emma interrupted when she saw the woman take a deep breath. "Remember that we're just getting started here."

"But he woke up," Mary Margaret blurted out, unable to stop a grin from stretching across her face.

"Wait, what?" Emma asked, mouth dropping open.

"I had heard some rumblings from that direction," Graham said, eyes twinkling. He seemed all sorts of pleased at this development.

"I knew it," Henry gloated.

Mary Margaret waved a hand. "Well, I mean, he didn't wake up, wake up, but he grabbed my hand."

Henry slammed his fist down. "He's remembering," he insisted firmly, and turned his entire body to Mary Margaret.

Graham held up a hand. "Perhaps, Henry, but what did the doctor say?" he reasoned. Emma was glad someone could be reasonable while her brain was still scrambling to keep up.

A furrow formed between the brunette's eyes, and she dimmed slightly. "He said that I was imagining it. But I'm not crazy. It happened."

A beep sounded at Graham's hip, shrill and piercing. Graham grabbed his pager and frowned. "Hold that thought." He dropped a hand on Henry's head in acknowledgement before he passed over him. He walked to the back while tugging his walkie talkie free. She heard it flick on before he disappeared into the laundry room, out of sight.

Henry looked thoughtful, determined. He continued to Mary Margaret, "well, then we have to go back. You have to read to him again."

Emma shook her head. "This is nuts," she said under her breath.

Mary Margaret chewed on her lip, but nodded at the boy. "You're right, Henry. Let's go."

"Wait, wait, what?" Emma exclaimed, desperate to get back to some piece of reality. Her back up had disappeared, but Mary Margaret was supposed to be the back up to her back up!

Mary Margaret gave a conceding look, but pressed forward. "If I got through to him, if we made a connection—"

Emma stood to join them. "Wait, you're not telling me you believe—"

"That he's Prince Charming? Of course not. But somehow, someway, I made a connection." Her blue-green eyes were lit up with a strange sort of hope, the same kind she would see in Henry's.

Emma worried that she had made Henry's sort of delusion spread instead of letting it falter out naturally as she wished.

"Wait, Henry, stay back," Graham called, and jogged up to them. Henry's hand was on the door handle, poised and ready.

"What's up," she asked, exasperated.

He looked at them all intensely, and then deflated back. "I have to go ahead. It's John Doe—"

"Is he all right?" Mary Margaret asked, alarmed.

He let out a low breath. "He's missing."

Eleven Years Ago

Emma woke, feeling warm and contented. The light was faint in the room, the embers from the fireplace burning low. It was still more than she was used to in bare moonlight, and she craned her neck up as she blinked awake. She was tucked in his arms, his hold loose but deliberate. She smiled, something low fizzling in her stomach. He looked peaceful, and she didn't feel as guilty to sit there and study his features with his hand heavy on her waist.

There was something freeing in it: counting his lashes and finding the scattering of freckles across the tops of his cheeks, not worrying that he might wake to catch her. She placed her hand delicately across his jaw, thumb following the stubble on his cheek. He felt warm, such a different warm in this sheltered heat than he did under the cover of furs by the chilly water. He barely stirred, unconsciously chasing her touch.

If she didn't feel the fizzling pop into something more like a growl, she may have basked longer.

She leaned forward to brush her lips over his and then moved out from his embrace, slow but with no delusions that he would remain asleep. She kept her gaze on him, and frowned slightly when her feet hit the floorboards and his lashes didn't even flicker. She thought he'd be an even lighter sleeper than usual after his outburst of not trusting Ruth and her son last night, not to mention with the unfamiliar comforts of the feather bed and thick comforter.

The patter of rain on the roof was steady, and she reasoned for a moment that it must be the lulling sounds that made him so drowsy. She brushed sweaty hair off her forehead and paid it no more attention as she opened the door and made her way into the living space.

Unlike their own room, the fire was hearty in the main area. It looked recently stoked, flames bright and casting long shadows across the heavy furniture. She wandered over to the kitchen table and found a small piece of carrot left abandoned on the side. It was a far cry from milk from a refrigerator or a wrapper full of crackers from a cupboard, but it would do for a midnight snack.

She crunched into it, and then started at a sound coming from the living space. She blinked when she saw Ruth's messy hair pop up from the couch.

"Oh, I'm sorry … I didn't realize you'd be up," she stammered, and set down the carrot. She felt caught, like a thief instead of a guest. She hadn't asked permission to get more food.

Ruth blinked once, and then smiled warmly. She yawned and sat fully, brushing back her grey-laced hair into the tie. Emma saw the moment her eyes met the food left on the table. "Oh, dear, that's quite all right. I could get a broth started for you if you'd prefer?"

Emma's face flushed in warmth, and she ducked her head. "No, no, I'm okay. I'm sorry."

She brushed away any concern and then patted beside her. "Come sit, I can at least get something warm for you. Then we can both get back to bed, hmm?"

Emma moved a toe back and forth along the wood beams, listening to the crackle of the fire and the pounding of the storm a little longer before finally conceding. She knitted her fingers together nervously and sat down on the couch at the same time that Ruth rose. "I won't stay up long," she promised, still feeling embarrassed.

Ruth's face never changed, always that serene smile across her softly weathered features. "Of that I had no worry, dear. I don't think you'd prefer my company to that of your young man."

Emma glanced automatically to the closed door, heart speeding up slightly at just the thought. "We're … he's my friend," she said, a half-truth at best.

Ruth said nothing to that, only pushed the kettle over the fire and placed two cups at the ready in front of them.

They fell into a silence, not exceptionally awkward but not a comfortable one, either. Emma bounced her knee, watching the kettle over the flames until her thoughts could center.

"It's been some time since we've had company. I am sorry that we don't have more to assist you two," Ruth offered, and moved the mug handle until it faced her.

Emma shook her head. "No, really. It's a lot. I don't know what would have happened if we were stuck out there in the storm," she said.

Ruth sighed. "I worry when the townsfolk won't even take in two kids such as yourselves. Perhaps that is why we keep to ourselves so often."

"At least I have him," Emma murmured, barely recognizing that she let the words out.

Ruth watched her out of the corner of her eye. "Tell me: is it a good thing?"

Emma traced through the memories in the sort of half-exhausted pace that was both lingering and quick. She gave a final nod, and then tapped her nail against the mug. "Yes," she said, not bothering to elaborate.

Ruth hummed and reached out cautiously, threading her fingers in her hair. She began to plait the strands in a steady, vaguely familiar movement. Emma allowed it without protest, blaming the sleep that still clung to her senses instead of the motherly action that she found that she craved. She didn't press further, leaving the silence open-ended.

"I haven't found many people that I trust," Emma ventured, cautious. "I trust him more than anyone else."

Ruth let go of her braid for favor of the softly whistling kettle, and poured the two cups until a lightly floral fragrance mingled with the smoky wood. "I am glad of that," she said, and then her hands returned. "It is important to find those we trust with our lives as well as our hearts."

Emma had no reply to that, at least not aloud. Her cheeks heated again, and she took a small sip of the tea. Her heart: she didn't imagine giving such a thing up would have been so easy.

"I'll admit I've likely trusted more than you, growing up," Ruth continued. "Some founded, some not. It's not a simple thing, but it is dearly important. Without that, I wouldn't have had my husband, gods rest. And certainly not my David."

Emma swallowed and tucked herself inward. "We haven't known each other too long," she protested. What she had with him … it felt like a secret. One she hadn't told him, one she barely told herself. And she was nowhere near thinking about making a third out of their duo.

Ruth set her cup down and finished braiding her hair, tucking loose strands behind her ear. "I didn't mean to presume anything, dear, just to say that you shouldn't take what you feel for granted."

Emma silently agreed, leaning against the couch. She studied her a beat, then cocked her head to the side. "Why do you care so much?" she asked plainly.

Ruth opened her mouth, and then shut it back. She appeared thoughtful for a moment. "There's something I see of myself in you, I suppose. A daughter I don't have, maybe. You are almost the same age as my son, and I couldn't imagine leaving him on his own quite yet."

"I'm fine on my own," Emma grumbled, and took a finger to pull the neat braid open again, letting loose blonde hair fall into her face.

"I'm sure you are," she soothed, and pat her shoulder cautiously. "But you bring out that instinct all the same, you and your young man."

Emma stared into the fire, trying to imagine for a moment what having a mother like Ruth would be like. She shook herself, and brought her knees to her chest. She felt more awake rather than less, and on guard in a way that spoke to how easy it would be to find comfort in the older woman's offer of protection and care.

"But listen to me go on. I don't know either of you, of course, so I cannot impose myself. Just know that I glad to have stumbled across you two, glad I could help in a time you needed it," she said, and then picked up their mugs again.

"I—" I'm sorry. I just never had anyone care like a parent should. I'd like you to care. Emma swallowed thickly. "I should let you get to bed. I'm keeping you up."

Ruth smiled warmly in the dim. "Perhaps. It is fine, though. When you are ready to go back to bed, I will as well."

Emma shook her head and leaned against the couch. Maybe just some time alone, staring at the fire, would temper her enough to get back to bed. "No, it's fine. I don't need company."

Ruth hesitated. "Well, you see, dear, I was sleeping out here."

Emma frowned. "Why?"

Ruth gave a bare shrug as she moved about the kitchen. "It is a small home, you see."

Emma looked over the doors, the room they were in, David's, and the one she assumed was Ruth's. "Yeah?"

"Well, I could go on and share with David, but I didn't want to bother this night," she said.

"Why not stay in your own room?" Emma asked.

"Because it is quite occupied," Ruth said with a smile. "I do not mind giving it up for two down-on-their-luck people."

Emma winced, realization falling over her like a bucket of water. "Oh, but that's not fair—"

Ruth waved her off. "It's quite fair, thank you, and my own decision."

Emma rose unsteadily. They were taking her space. And she was taking her makeshift place by being up. It felt wrong. "I'll—I'll get to bed," she stammered.

"Don't feel you have to. I do enjoy the company, though it is late."

The door to her room opened with a start, and she looked up to find him in the doorway. His eyes were a bit wild, but glassy, and she frowned as she jumped hurriedly to his side.

She was still trying to process, realizing just how much of an imposition they were being but especially her. She could at least sequester them back, explain and work on regrouping to get back to their inlet. She looked up to try to get across her urgency, and his eyes were set. Panic was clear in him, a certain anxiety and fear for her wellbeing.

She curled her hand into his, giving one squeeze to reassure him. "We'll get back to sleep, then," she said to Ruth, and pulled on his grip toward the bed. "Thank you."

"Goodnight, dears. Sleep well."

He stumbled into the room with her, unsteady on his feet. It was strange to see, but she was still flustered after the talk with Ruth. She closed and bolted the door behind them. "Wolf boy," she hissed in a whisper. "We have to leave in the morning. We're taking her room, and I didn't realize—"

She finally took the time to really look at him. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes still a little unfocused.

"Hey, you okay?" she asked, and pressed a hand to his cheek. She was surprised to feel the warmth there, and her concern bloomed to alarm. "Whoa, what happened?"

He shook his head, swaying a bit as he fell back against the bed. "You were gone," he said, ignoring her concern.

"I'm fine," she brushed off, and cupped his face in her palms. "You feel … you don't seem well."

"I'm cold," he said, in a voice that bordered on pitiful.

"No, you're feverish," she protested, and pushed his shoulders until he was laying down. His eyes closed immediately like one of those dolls the kids that were chosen would get. "Wolf boy … you were fine just a few hours ago."

"I'm still fine," he insisted, then began shivering.

Her lips formed a firm line, and she covered him in the thick wool blanket. "I'm not sure what's going on, but you're not fine, dammit, you're sick. Now go to sleep."

"Not sick," he grumbled, eyes opening to slits. "You were gone."

"I was getting some food," she finally said, and pressed her palm to his forehead. "When did you start feeling bad?"

He started shivering again, teeth chattering audibly, but managed to shake his head no. She looked around helplessly, trying to decide the best course.

"That's not an answer. I'm going to get you water. Maybe Ruth has something medicinal? I don't know what the hell to give you, and I know Tylenol isn't going to be available," she rambled, feeling helpless.

"Don't go," he said through the chatter, his grey-blue eyes squinting up at her. He reached one hand forward, and she grabbed it quickly.

"I don't understand," she confessed, and pulled her hands through his hair. He looked so different than the determined boy she's depended on these past weeks (months, now?).

"I—I think it's the scratch," he admitted softly, and brushed weak fingers against his side.

She pulled at the linen shirt he'd had borrowed from David, and frowned darkly at the angry red line that had formed at his side. "When did this happen?" she asked.

He barely shrugged. "Th' rocks. When we were moving. I's fine," he slurred.

"Didn't you use ice greens?" she asked, rubbing her palm against her clothes in memory.

He nodded, and he started shivering again.

"Dummy, not enough," she deduced, and rested herself on top of him, hoping adding her body heat would help. "It came quick," she added, and tugged at her lip worriedly.

He looped an arm around her and she automatically adjusted to better fit into him. "Sorry," he murmured.

"Wolf boy," she started, and then looked up at him. His eyes were shut, and he had beads of sweat at his temple. The heat from when she woke made sense now. She had the edge of panic, the I can't lose you that ran deep. She knew it wasn't quite as serious as all that, that it was just a scratch that got infected, but now that she cared so much for him, now that she could admit to herself—

"I's okay. Ask," he paused, breathing deeply a few beats before swallowing. "See if she has wormwood?"

"That'll help?" she asked hopefully.

He tightened his arms around her before loosening. "I think," he said.

She didn't even think about imposing anymore; he needed something to heal and she had the means to ask for it. That was all that mattered. "Okay. Okay, I'll see if she has it. We'll get you well again, okay?"

"Not s' bad," he said, and his lashes fluttered, he ducked his head into her hair and took a long inhale. "I've'd worse."

Emma frowned, but she pressed her hand against the opposite rib, remembering the scar she had found accidentally when she'd seen him in the river. It had looked worse.

"You're okay, though," he said softly, more a sigh than an actual statement.

She blinked and looked back at his face. He was drifting back to sleep, but there was such relief on his face. She pulled herself upwards, despite the gnawing feeling that being in his arms would be better. She placed her hands on his side for a moment, and stared down on his face. "You're going to be okay, too, Wolf Boy," she said, the conviction in her tone more than she was feeling.

He gave a smile that was half a grimace, but he nodded once.

She gave one nod before extracting herself once more, heading to the living space to ask after the medicine.

She didn't notice that in the moments before her hands left his skin, there was the barest hint of golden light, the dimmest of magic that burned through the source of infection.

He was already sleeping easier by the time she had made it out the door.