Emma didn't sleep.
She'd probably be better off if she did, letting herself rest, decompress and, maybe then she could look at things with fresh eyes in the morning. Unfortunately, she had never had much luck with the whole unwind, turn her thoughts off thing . Even Neal, who usually took on the role of playing sensible for her when she got obsessive and therefore knew exactly how to get her to destress, had to put some extra work in when she got like this, her mind running off in every which direction, Emma finding it impossible to reign it in.
Sometimes she could outrun the thoughts by keeping herself busy with mindless tasks that wouldn't let her think. But she could only do so much at three in the morning without waking up Carina. She paced, back and forth, trying to rid herself of the energy that had built up over the course of the night, energy that had fried her nerves leaving her antsy with an added dose of confused as she waffled between hurt and anger.
First fate. Then magic. Emma had thought, maybe, she could take Neal's words at face value. Accept them as this delightful little quirk because oh , he believed in magic. Funny.
It wasn't funny.
She didn't find it remotely funny. Because he had lied to her. He couldn't have possibly told her the truth.
She had always known of course that Neal carried a certain sense of optimism, contagious enough that it had managed to rub off on her (though not to the same extreme). But he had faith and hope and liked to try new things even if they came with high chance of failure. He had that whole belief in something bigger … destiny … karma … higher calling crap. Which Emma didn't share. To the point that they'd get into playful debates about it, but even then he had never tried to make her believe or prove that fate somehow existed. She had just always played it off as one of his quirks – the thing that made Neal Neal, letting him exist in a world without losing himself after getting knocked on his ass one too many times.
But now, rather than just an obtuse belief that things happened for a reason, he had stepped over a line, claiming that she had magical powers and acting as though he actually had physical evidence of said fact when, really, she could explain away nearly everything he had said. The kids bounced back from injury and illness because they were kids with healthy immune systems which she did her best to support by cooking well-balanced meals and playing the part of the dreaded soccer mom, encouraging their interests, several of which, for both Porter and Carina, happened to involve physical activity. Even Porter's accident … the doctor's had admitted to reading the x-Rays wrong or mixing them up, claiming his injuries had never actually been as serious as they claimed.
Their Lover's Knot. Which admittedly had grown large enough that the wall behind their bed had become ordained with an ornate spiral pattern, murky brown turning into a vibrant green. But plants grew, Neal. Especially when they had access to direct sunlight. That good old country air probably helped too.
And his nightmares? While a part of her would like to take credit for his ability to sleep through the night now, she knew that, really, it had less to do with her and more to the fact that she had acted as a sounding board (which any old person could have done), letting him unload the burdens he had carried with him for years, finally having an outlet to talk about his demons. Of course the sleepless night would have stopped that. Time healed, but only when you let it.
And maybe, if he had stopped there, she could have accepted this as another one of his quirky beliefs (as long as he didn't share it with the children). But he had taken it a step too far, crossing a line, accepting Booth's mad rambles as fact, claiming that her parents existed in some cursed place and that her abandonment had been through no fault of their own. The sort of thing that kids in foster homes told themselves because that made it easier to sleep at night. Because it was easier to believe in the impossible than accept that no one wanted you.
She removed her glasses, dragging her palms down her face, as if that could forcibly remove the events of the evening along with the pained, fear-filled look that had crossed Neal's face as he left their room.
It almost, almost, made her want to take it back.
But Neal never lied. Not to her.
So what could have possibly pushed him to start now?
She realized, desperately, that she didn't want to find out.
Neal knew how long it had taken her to overcome what her parents had so callously done to her and yet he had spouted off this ridiculous story, full of holes, one after another, that shouldn't have even made sense to someone as sensitive and open-minded as Neal. And yeah, she called him naïve from time to time, more so in their younger years, but this went above and beyond that, into gullible territory, to the point where this strange man had come in and warped his sense of reality and his own history, forcing Emma to worry about whether or not she should start questioning his sanity.
And if she could trust that he was in his right mind, then how could she possibly trust him with the kids?
Emma hated to question that and that she had already done so several times in one night. But how could she do anything but when she could no longer makes sense of his behavior? He almost felt like a different person, someone she couldn't make sense of because this went beyond breaking one of those rules. Which had hurt, yes, but not in a way that broke her trust. He had done what they always did – put the kids first. He could use that excuse for this … whatever. His behavior had turned into the exact opposite. By trusting some stalker's stories he had taken a turn for reckless that she had seen from him since their Portland days (and even then his worst offenses had always fell on the side of self-sacrificing as he tried to protect her by throwing himself into the line of fire).
And this. This radical turn in his behavior only made her think that Neal knew exactly what he was doing. Something that only cemented her fear because she had seen how scared Neal had been before Booth had even gotten the chance to speak with him alone. Which must mean that Booth knew something about him that not only involved a great deal of danger but also left Neal feeling a shame so deep that he couldn't even share it with her.
He should have known by now that he could. And a part of her wanted to march downstairs and angrily demand the truth from him.
Fear, however, won out. Fear over what could possibly be so bad that Neal would take a decade of trust and turn it against her. And greater than that, fear for her children, Emma instinctively itching to take drastic measures to protect them.
Which just made her sick. Sick sick. Like run to the bathroom and throw up that dinner they had just dropped a good hundred bucks on, leaving an acid like taste in her mouth that she desperately tried to rinse out with water and a thorough scrubbing of her teeth. Because never, not before tonight, despite their promise, did she ever have to entertain even the thought of taking Porter and Carina from their father.
She started to strip. Shedding herself of clothes, a strange mix of hers and Neal's from when she had rushed to get dressed … fuck , not even eight hours ago. She started their shower, blasting the hot water, letting it run until steam filled the room, stepping under the shower head and barely flinching when the scalding water touched her skin. Instead she showered, long and hot, scrubbing her skin raw as if only that could cleanse her of the night before. Desperately trying to focus on something, anything that would lend credibility to Neal's sudden shift in behavior. Her stupid brain, however, kept assaulting her with reasons she couldn't trust him, reminding her that for all the things he had told her, he had left just as many details out. His past always just this vague and incomplete thing that shouldn't have mattered but suddenly did.
She stepped out of the shower only when the water suddenly shifted to an ice cold, wrapping a fluffy, yellow towel around her body and moving back into the bedroom, finding clean clothes and brushing out her hair, pulling it into a tight ponytail, something she hadn't had to bother with since Porter had outgrown his fascination with it.
She gathered the clothes from the night before and threw them in the hamper, taking that downstairs, barely noting the muted sounds of infomercials as she passed the closed doors the living room, instead ducking into the laundry room and starting on the loads of laundry that she had neglected, Neal promising to get to it this weekend. For her birthday. Emma, however, needed something to do.
And when she finished putting on the first load, she shut the door behind her and went into the kitchen, starting breakfast. This elaborate feast made up of bacon and eggs and blueberry pancakes. Stacks of them. That, between transferring clothes from washer to dryer and second loads, she would distract herself by perfecting them. Throwing out any that weren't golden brown or perfectly round. Not stopping until Carina wandered into the kitchen at half-past seven, rubbing her eyes sleepily, immediately brightening, uttering an excited thank-you as she took notice of the blueberries in her pancakes.
"What about Daddy?" Carina asked as Emma dumped the leftover in the trash, having only set aside enough for Porter.
"He's not feeling well," she murmured, not meeting Carina's curious gaze, focusing instead on scrubbing the dishes, using more force than typically necessary for the non-stick pan.
(Neal didn't come find her. Didn't try to push it.)
(So … good. )
Emma wasted as much time as she could, but in the end she still went to pick Porter up early, announcing with an unnecessary shout that she was taking Carina with her as she passed the living room, prompting Carina to take off in the opposite direction.
"I didn't know you were up, Daddy," she announced, her voice carrying through the house and back to Emma as she switched out the laundry one more time before grabbing her keys and Carina's fur-lined jacket. "Marmy said you were extra tired."
They arrived two hours earlier than expected, Emma citing a family emergency as the reason for knocking on the door at such an ungodly hour. Port rushed out, trying to balance his duffel bag and the unwrapped sleeping bag, Emma relieving him of his burden as he slipped his coat over his pajamas.
"What happened?" Porter asked, brow furrowed, tying his shoes as Emma stuffed his things into the trunk (right next to Carina's things that had gotten neglected the night before).
"Where's Dad?" he asked, abandoning his shoe and straightening as this thought occurred to him. "Is he alright?"
"Your father is fine," murmured Emma, letting him squeeze in through the back seat before climbing in herself.
"Daddy has a tummy ache," offered Carina.
Porter blinked. "What kind of stomach ache? Is he in the hospital?"
"No," said Emma quickly, rushing to reassure him of just that as she backed out of the Hanleys' driveway. "I just … everything's fine."
In the rearview mirror she saw Porter shoot Carina a questioning look, who gave a big shrug, and then, as if just thinking of something, leaned over and whispered, quite loudly, to her brother.
"You and dad had a fight?" Porter asked, the words bursting out of him in a clear sign of distress.
Emma hesitated, hating the idea of saying a direct lie to her children, before Carina answered for her. "Daddy said they had new rules."
"What does that mean?" he asked and Carina shrugged, prompting Porter to repeat his question. "What does that mean, Mom?"
Good question. "Are you sure that's what Daddy said Carina?"
Carina gave a big nod. "I remember because he said it after I told him about Susan changing the rules." Emma looked through the mirror just in time to see her eyes widen. "Which I told him over the phone because I stayed at Susan's all night. Right, Marmy?"
"All night, sweetheart," said Emma distractedly.
"Right," said Porter slowly, in that way he did when he assumed they'd gone crazy before mostly letting it drop, the car falling into a tense silence that lasted until they pulled back into their driveway, Carina waving to Mr. Portobello's horses as they rolled their way down long and winding dirt path. She parked and Porter pushed down the passenger seat, letting him and Carina clamber out before Emma could even turn off the car.
"Leave it," said Emma as she climbed out, Porter already bouncing slightly at the trunk of the car, waiting for her pop it so he could dutifully drag his stuff inside. At his confused frown, Emma wrapped an arm around his shoulders, squeezing him to her side, as she nodded in the direction of the house. "It'll wait. Your breakfast is on the counter."
Porter ran when Carina followed it was a happy, "It's pancakes."
Almost always, Emma could find solace in Porter and Carina, their happiness providing a light in her darker moments. Like when she found herself facing a truly difficult case? They were the living embodiment of just how far she had come and giving her that much needed boost to find whatever little thing she had missed to turn the impossible to something that could give some unlucky kid a fighting chance.
Now though, nothing could brighten the dark thoughts, and seeing Porter and Carina happy only seemed to cement what she knew, deep in her gut, she had to do.
She grabbed a suitcase from the hall closet and then disappeared into the laundry room for the fourth time that morning. She pulled out another finished load and then just started stuffing the bag full of anything that, on first glimpse, looked like it belonged to her or the children, ignoring Porter when he ran inside, desperately seeking something before pausing and, with a curious glance at her, asking, "Where are we going?"
She didn't answer him. Because she didn't know.
Just like that sudden, gut-wrenching feeling that she no longer knew Neal.
And if she didn't know Neal then how could she possibly trust him with their children.
She had promised him though (the Neal she could trust) that she would never let him do anything to hurt their children. That she would do anything to protect them. Even if it meant protecting Port and Carina from him.
She had thought, hoped really, that Neal had merely been trying to do the same the night before.
But she couldn't trust that now.
And, as much as it pained her, leaving her queasy, like she might throw up that giant breakfast she had scarfed down like she had thrown up her dinner just hours before, she kept packing, refusing to break her promise to Neal.
"Emma?"
She flinched. Not at the surprise of hearing him suddenly behind her, but rather the betrayal that laced the single word.
"What are you doing?" he asked, the door clicking shut on the heel the words.
She started packing with a bit more force, body tensing to an impossible degree as she felt him hovering just behind her. She could feel the intensity of his gaze, even as she refused to meet his eyes. "We need space, Neal."
"The hell we do."
She reached forward, turning on the washing machine, Neal mimicking the action, switching on the dryer. He hadn't yelled, not purposefully, but panic had laced his words, causing his volume to rise anyway. They had argued in front of the kids before, of course, such things were unavoidable. But it was always over stupid shit.
Never like this.
"I do," she told him.
"Okay," Neal agreed slowly, carefully, "I get it, Em. I pushed too hard last night. And I'm sorry about that. I just panicked, you know, and I didn't know how else to tell you. But we can do what we always do. Take a few days, cool off, and I won't push it. Not until you've had a chance to think."
"But this is so much bigger than that, Neal," Emma argued, and just as he fingered pink frill and a superman t-shirt, she added, "and I don't think you should be around the kids right now."
He stumbled back, as if her very words had slapped him. "You don't honestly think I would hurt the kids."
"No," she said, quick and forceful, because that remained the one things she could trust. "Of course not. Not on purpose. But if you continue on like this. With your … delusions . Well, you will hurt them."
"Running will hurt them, Emma," he shot back, taking a step forward, grabbing Carina's shirt and shaking it at her, "taking them from their father will hurt them."
She took the shirt from him, calm and controlled. Almost. Only the slightest of tremors shook her hands as she packed it away. "I made a promise to you, Neal, that I would always put our put our children first. Rule Number One, remember?"
His bandaged hand landed on hers and, accusation in his tone, he said, "You're putting your fear first."
"No," said Emma sadly, and while she hated that it had come to this, she didn't actually doubt that this - leaving, giving Neal time to get his shit together – was the right thing to do. "I'm really not."
"You are," he insisted, softer and without the hints of accusation this time, "and it is okay to be scared, Emma. You just had your entire world-view turned upside down. We both did. But don't run from it. Don't teach the kids our bad habits."
Emma shook her head. "It's not a bad habit if it protects them."
"You mean protects you ," he said pointedly.
"I know what my priorities are, Neal," she said flatly, turning back to folding clothes, "you're the one that forgot."
"I have never put the kids second, Emma," he told her, a sharp reminder, " Never ."
She dropped a t-shirt, facing Neal dead on, arms crossed over her chest. "But that's what Booth wanted, wasn't it? For me to run away with him and break his fancy ass don't-know-how, don't-know-where curse. I am not going to uproot our lives on a bunch of what ifs and unknowns."
Neal stared at her blankly. "I didn't ask you to."
She cocked her head, giving him her best oh, please look. "But that's what you expected to happen, isn't it?"
He swallowed thickly.
"Yeah," said Emma, the word weighted down, his silence alone a great disappointment. "That's what I thought."
He thought whatever was more important than their children. Or he didn't have enough faith in her to put their children first.
"Then we won't," he said suddenly, desperately, "I'll drop it. Forever, I promise. It'll be like it never happened. Just don't leave. Don't take the kids. Everything will go back to the way it was before, I promise."
She gave him a long, hard look before murmuring regretfully, "except you don't believe that. You're lying."
His jaw set into a tight line before he stepped back, desperately ripping the bandages from his hand, the cloth falling away to the floor.
"Look," he said, holding his hand in front of her, " look. "
She let her eyes flicker in its direction and yeah, she didn't see any signs of his confrontation with Booth, but what did that prove, really?
He moved his hand back to his side, body deflating, not needing to hear her voice her disbelief. "We're stronger than this, Emma."
"It's not forever, Neal," she said. A promise. Because even as angry and as hurt and as scared as she was, she could never just abandon him. Not like his parents had. "But we need time."
(And by we she really met him. Just enough for him to get his head back on straight.)
"We don't."
"We do," she stressed, zipping the suitcase closed with more force than really necessary. "I'm doing what you asked, Neal. Please don't make it be for nothing."
She kissed him then. Long and fierce and half-desperate, tasting the salty mix of both their tears, making it a goodbye and a promise, drawing it out and hating that it had to end.
"I love you," she told him, grabbing the bag and moving towards the door, "I'll call you."
"Love you too," he murmured, sound so utterly lost that her resolve nearly crumbled.
But it wasn't forever. She had meant that. They just needed time.
"Who wants to go on a road trip," said Emma after locating Porter and Carina in front of the television, her best smile pasted on her face, the kids immediately expressing their excitement, jumping off the couch and shooting all sorts of questions at them as Neal stood stoically in the background. Emma smiled tightly and added, "then give Dad a hug and a kiss goodbye."
The excitement wavered.
"Daddy's not coming?" Carina asked, her lower lip jutting outward, forming a pout.
"Daddy's not feeling well," Emma told her, a reminder of the reasoning she had laid out earlier.
"We can't leave him when he's sick," said Porter, looking half-alarmed and half-suspicious. "Who will take care of him?"
"He's very contagious," said Emma swiftly.
"But you can make him feel better can't you, Mom?" Porter questioned and something in his tone gave her pause, eyes flickering to Neal long enough to see him raise a pointed brow.
But he stepped forward, ruffling Porter's hair, "It'd make me feel better to know that you two weren't around to catch whatever this dang bug is."
Sniffling, Carina threw his arms around him. "Feel better, Daddy."
Neal hugged her long and tight, and then Porter, murmuring something to both of them that Emma couldn't quite hear, before he walked the three of them to the car (Carina running back inside after remembering her teddy bear was still in her bedroom), hands stopping the door before she could close it. "Drive safe."
Emma smiled tightly and nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak. Because she didn't want to do this. She didn't. The thought of it killed her, really, because she knew, with all of her heart, that Neal would never do anything to hurt the kids.
Not intentionally.
And therein laid the problem.
"See you soon," she murmured, finally, and closed the door, trying not to think that this marked the end of something they couldn't bounce back from. Instead she picked a direction and just drove, driving straight until she had no choice but to turn, on and on.
(She had thought, briefly, about South. Florida. Maybe to pay Joy and Maya a visit, but that would take days and Emma knew that Joy wouldn't even entertain the thought of her company, instead turning her around and pointing her back home.)
Porter stopped speaking to her. Somewhere around the two hour mark when he realized that the question, "Where are we going?" had no definitive answer and that "Why isn't Dad coming?" ended with he wasn't asked and not actually the repeated he's sick.
Instead he stared out the window, brushing Carina off when she repeatedly tried to draw him into one of her car games with a mumbled, "not now," while pointedly ignoring Emma's attempts to draw him out by offering to let him pick a place for lunch.
Carina chose McDonald's and, fair enough, because she was the only one that ate.
(Porter was protesting and, in a sure sign of the apocalypse, Emma had lost her appetite.)
She got him a Happy Meal anyway and then made a point not to mention it an hour later when he finally started picking at it.
They passed through Vermont and New Hampshire, the kids eventually falling asleep in the face of having nothing to distract them from the dull motions of the moving car and the blur of passing scenery, nothing exciting to grab their eye save for highways and trees.
Emma hadn't slept and she considered taking an exit and stopping at the nearest hotel. But she wasn't tired, her mind refusing to shut off, giving her a fresh bolt of energy every time a thought she didn't like floated through her brain.
She didn't know what to do.
Usually, when she felt like this, overwhelmed and scared, she could talk to Neal.
She wanted to talk to Neal.
Desperately.
Maybe it was just habit.
Or maybe the distance had finally given her some much needed clarity.
Regardless, she felt the lines of her hardened resolve begin to blur, doubt creeping in, Emma wondering if she had acted too rashly, old habits and past experiences clouding the one of the few things she could accept as an absolute.
She could trust Neal.
"Marmy, can we please go home now?" asked Carina sleepily as Porter stared stonily out the window, "I forgot to say goodnight to Daddy."
Fuck. What the hell was she doing?
"Yeah, sweetheart ," she murmured, hand reaching for her purse, eyes drifting to the passenger seat for one moment, her hand gasping the material, handing it back to Carina. "Why don't –"
Carina screamed, turning Emma's blood to ice, the purse dropped and, for the first time in hours, Porter spoke. Well, shouted at her. "Mom! Look out!"
A wolf (a fucking wolf) stood, staring at them from the middle of the road. Both hands back on the wheel, she swerved, narrowly avoiding the wolf, instead crashing the car into a sign welcoming them to a town called Storybrooke. Smoke bloomed from the engine and, after putting the car in park, shaky hands went for the seatbelt.
"Port, Carina," she called, voice reaching a level of panic she hadn't felt in years. Carina was crying and she turned, trying to account for them, before getting out of the car, shoving the seat forward in a desperate attempt to reach the kids, undoing Carina's seatbelt first, shaky hands combing over her and, seeing no signs of injury, Emma set her on solid ground so she could get to Porter. And he was fine too. He was breathing. He could focus. He just had a cut on his forehead.
"You're okay," she whispered desperately, her finger gently wiping over the blood, trying to clear it so she could see the actual depth of the cut. "You're okay. I'm sorry. We're okay."
It was a bit of a gash. He'd need stitches.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
And then, as if it was nothing at all, the cut faded before her eyes, his skin mending itself, Emma flinching back at the surprise of it, meeting Porter's angry gaze, his features set in hard lines.