Chapter 3: Operation Hope

Things returned to normal.

Well. Emma had started talking to him again, something that allowed them to ease back into a sort of equilibrium that Neal had accepted as their new normal.

(Because everything had changed. They couldn't just ignore that.)

They had even started moving towards the giant elephant in the room. Not that they ever actually reached it, Emma pointedly avoiding the heavier, more emotional topics in favor of those on the lighter side of spectrum, clearly distancing them from the big, unanswered question. They'd have to face it eventually, of course, but Neal went with it, considering this an okay compromise because at least they had stopped ignoring the subject completely.

Health-wise, the doctor insisted that Emma was in pretty good shape, even if she had gone four months without taking the proper precautions. But they didn't smoke or do drugs and for the first time Neal found himself kinda thankful for their shitty incomes because that meant they hadn't been drinking either. Emma pointedly complained about the no caffeine rule every morning at breakfast (and every other chance she got), but she could at least have her favored hot chocolate, something that mollified her slightly. And while they had never really bothered to cook with the food pyramid in mind before, Neal went out and bought as much healthy shit as they could afford, knowing that Emma would eat whatever if only because no matter how much she disliked something, she hated the idea of waste even more.

Money, of course, still remained their biggest, most immediate concern because even if they hadn't decided whether or not they would actually keep the baby, they still had to bring him or her into the world. Generally, that involved a hospital and all sorts of expensive things.

They didn't even have insurance.

(And, after stripping to thoroughly investigate Emma's increasing bust size, they also realized new clothes would make its way to the list of priorities sometime in the near future.)

"I'll get a second job," said Neal as they looked over a surprisingly expensive bill for prenatal vitamins.

This, somehow, turned into an argument, Emma calling him and his idea absolutely ridiculous considering, according to her, his stupid job already made him completely miserable so how in the world would adding a second make things better.

(He worked in a factory.) (And while not the most exciting job in the world, he wouldn't call something that helped pay the bills miserable.) (It was just a job.) (And, really, anything that wasn't Neverland or a workhouse in Victorian London got paradise-like status in his book.)

"But you will be exhausted," she pointed out, "and with a baby to take care of that's only going to get worse."

That marked the first time Emma had alluded to even the mere possibility of keeping the baby. And, from the obvious lack of shock on her face or any attempts to backtrack to correct the possible mistake, she had obviously failed to notice her slip. Something Neal knew better than to point out. Because Emma was strong and brave in so many ways, but in others she was like a rabbit - scared and skittish and easily spooked. So he couldn't address something like that directly, but he took note of the subtle shift in her thought process and agreed to a compromise. He wouldn't get a second job, but he would look for a better one.

Easier said than done.

Neal knew that people looked at him and assumed things. Things like uneducated lay-about. Screw-up. Even druggie, maybe. They saw someone destined for failure and someone who, obviously, had never tried hard enough, therefore earning his place among the dregs of society. But when you start in the hole, it makes climbing out a helluva lot harder. He had tried. Over and over again. But eventually he'd found himself facing a choice that he imagined a lot of people had to face. He could continue climbing and falling on his ass or he could survive.

And, between acquiring the Dark One as his father, Victorian London, and Neverland, he had gotten really good at that. Surviving. Neverland alone had done many things to Neal and exactly one thing for him. It had made him stronger, giving him the means to develop a certain set of skills, born out of necessity, and ultimately letting him bypass the usual ways of doing things because no one had ever bothered to take the time to teach him those everyday sorts of skills people in a this land took for granted. And the ones he did have, skills like spinning wool and hunting his own food, had long since grown redundant.

(Neal happened to like that about this world.)

But executives with fancy suits and offices of their own didn't really find survival skills all that impressive for some reason. So he'd just have to find a way to adapt once more, learning how to survive in a different sort of world. One that involved applications and job interviews rather than cons and thievery. And, maybe, this time around, with an added dose of patience and self-control. Easy enough. Emma and the baby provided a giant helping of motivation. Motivation he had mostly lacked when he only had to worry about himself.

(He wasn't exactly proud of it, but unfortunately giving up was all too easy when he only had himself to disappoint.)

Thankfully, the footprint they had created for him back in Tennessee helped, giving him a fake job history that would, at the very least, get him a foot in the door for an interview. And then, lucky for them, Neal absolutely excelled in a little something he liked to call advanced bullshitting.

And soon enough, after several ignored applications and a few interviews to which he had to wear a very itchy suit, he went from factory drone to office drone.

He wouldn't consider it the ideal solution, not by a long shot, but it was at least good enough for now.

"But it could be better," said Emma darkly, stalking off before he could even begin to fathom what the hell she actually meant.

x-x-x-x-x

Emma, of course, obviously meant her part in everything because what exactly did she have to contribute to the situation.

(Other than, maybe, an expanding midsection.)

"You have a job," said Neal, brow furrowed in the face of her declaration.

"Flipping hamburgers," she pointed out, starring a promising ad in the classified section.

"And I stare at computers all day," he said, "it's a job."

Emma merely huffed. He had missed the point.

And she couldn't exactly blame him.

No one would ever dare call Emma a particularly ambitious person. Up until about a year and a half ago she had, maybe, one goal in life. Survive the foster system and get out. Which she had. And then she just had to worry about getting by because dreaming remained a luxury when the day to day consisted of satisfying her basic survival needs.

Then she met Neal and suddenly she believed in dreams again.

It made just getting by a problem.

(More specifically, she blamed her age and obvious lack of diploma.)

"We're idiots," she told Neal over dinner one night.

He snorted and gave a dry, "Thanks."

"I'm serious," she insisted, poking at overcooked pasta with her fork.

(Since moving, Emma had put forth a ... decent effort to learn how to cook. The results, however, still fell on the okay to really fucking bad end of the spectrum.)

Neal regarded her for a few moments and then set his own fork down, giving her his full attention as he responded with a very careful, "Okay?"

She elaborated with (a somewhat dramatic), "We don't know anything."

He cocked his head. "That seems like a slight exaggeration."

"We can pick locks and hot wire cars," she listed, waving her fork around in the process, "oh, and maybe the how-to on knocking a guy out in a single punch."

"Seems useful," he said blandly.

"We thought Tallahassee was near a beach," added Emma as if this would prove her point.

"That map was very deceiving," murmured Neal sheepishly and then, quite serious, he added, "There are different kinds of intelligence, Em."

True. But how could they possibly build a life off those?

(And, more importantly, what sort of life could they build for their child?)

"You're the one that wanted to settle down," she said with just as much seriousness, "so maybe it's time we learn how to do more than just survive."

x-x-x-x-x

Emma had upset Neal.

Not that he had said anything, exactly, and he was still, technically, talking to her. So she couldn't speak with any actual authority on the matter other than the fact that she knew how he usually acted. And usually he had that goofy sense of humor, that ridiculously hopeful outlook, and he always, always, put forth a sincere, even winded effort to get her to crack a smile.

In the past week she hadn't even seen him smile once.

In fact, all in all, he just acted kinda broody.

Emma didn't like it.

So naturally, she tried her best to fix it.

First, thinking it was just a bad mood, she tried cheering him up with all his favorite foods. Including extra spicy Buffalo wings and mac-and-cheese. None of which she had cooked. Which he ate, but it didn't really change anything.

(She didn't get it. Food almost always made her feel better.)

So when she realized that hadn't worked and that, maybe, it was more than just your run-of-the-mill bad mood she bit her tongue and tried apologizing.

(Even though she didn't exactly think she had said anything wrong.) (Neal agreed.) (Really.) (He used those exact words.)

"Why?" he said, "You weren't wrong."

(See?)

But still, nothing changed. And then she realized, maybe, he had just misunderstood her.

"I don't think you're stupid," she whispered to him in bed a few days later and long after they had said goodnight. "That wasn't what I was trying to say."

(When it came to expressing herself Emma just sort of ... failed with words.)

And she really hadn't meant it that way either. Neal knew things. He knew lots of things. He was full of odd but interesting facts and all sorts of useful skills that he had expertly passed onto her. But, despite the fake history they had given him back in Tennessee, he didn't actually have a diploma. The very same diploma she had never bothered with because, up until a few months ago, she had considered math and science and English irrelevant to surviving life. And while she didn't necessarily buy into the whole education is the only way to get by spiel, she did want better for ... well, you know. So now she just worried that they didn't know the right things. The sort of things a parent needed to know in order to raise (and even help educate) their child.

(If they kept it, of course.)

"Good," he murmured, "because I don't think I'm stupid either. Or you for that matter."

Things didn't change the next day though. Something she didn't understand at all because Emma knew he hadn't been lying.

It forced her to conclude that this problem only existed because of one very simple fact. The fact that she had never actually gotten stuck on the losing side of their arguments before. Neal had gotten remarkably good at smoothing out the wrinkles that appeared in the wake of fights and disagreements while, at the same time, even expertly cheering her up. But other than soothing a few nightmares, Emma had never really had to do the same with him.

(He was always happy.)

(And, okay, between the two of them, she was, maybe, definitely, the more likely to hold a grudge.)

(Neal was very low maintenance. She liked that about him.)

But despite the fact that nightmare remained a very different thing from a fight, Emma decided that she should approach them the exact same way. Because eight months together. Emma had, maybe, learned a thing or two about Neal. Like the fact that he had a thing for physical contact. And, perhaps more specifically, he tended to crave that human connection particularly after he bolted awake, shaking and unwilling to close his eyes because closing them meant returning to whatever images haunted his mind after sleep. Images he couldn't even bring himself to share with her.

They had shared their second first kiss after a nightmare.

(Not that either of them counted. Neal didn't remember the second and the first had served as a distraction, Emma taking the initiative when they had nearly gotten caught someplace they never should have been.)

But contact. Neal liked it. Even before things in their relationship had changed, he'd sit right up next to her or walk close enough that their jackets brushed.

He liked to hold hands.

And, up until his recent turn of mood, her side of the mattress was usually his side of the mattress too.

It grounded him, she thought. Touching. Contact. It reminded him about where he was. That he wasn't alone. He needed that. And while Emma had never really seen herself as the touchy-feely sort, preferring to save hugs or a pointed squeeze of the hand for those times when words just up and failed her, she had made the adjustment, coming around to Neal's more casual displays of affection.

Besides, Emma liked that she could give him that, even if she had to work at the whole casual touching thing.

(It got easier.)

That made the solution obvious. In fact, it was perfectly simple.

Sex.

More specifically, considering he had avoided her attempt to join him that morning in the shower, a seduction of sorts.

Contact. Touch. Connection. Or, rather, reconnection. This would clearly accomplish all three.

But Emma had never really attempted a seduction before. Neal usually initiated things, for one, and when he didn't Emma had found that she didn't really need to put in all that much work to get the ball rolling. So she broached the topic with Gretchen from work, cornering her near the freezer because even if they weren't the best of friends, they still got along well enough. Well enough even that she knew Gretchen had had at least two serious relationships, officially adding up to more experience than Emma could claim to.

Plus, she was kind of desperate. Point proven when Gretchen got Emma to do the one thing (well, one of) she absolutely hated.

"We'll go shopping," said Gretchen enthusiastically, ignoring Mark when he squeezed past them to pull out more beef patties and, seemingly unconcerned about his presence (though clearly aware), continued, "but you should go down on him -"

He swore under his breath, looking flustered as he shut the freezer, walking away, the patties apparently forgotten.

Gretchen didn't even blink, the only sign that she had noticed the slight upward movement of her lips. "Guys are always in a better mood after that. I even got a watch out of a guy once."

(That Emma knew.) (The mood thing.) (Not the part about possible bribery.)

Shopping involved Target and lingerie, Gretchen sending her back off to the dressing room after eyeing each outfit thing critically.

"You are very pregnant," noted Gretchen, managing to not make it sound like a code-word for fat as she fiddled with the straps. "Is this gonna be your way of breaking the big news?"

"He already knows," said Emma, who decided to go out on a limb and just say she didn't like lace. Not even a little. But she shook her head, and added. "No. He's surprisingly okay with it."

She had wondered, briefly, if he had gotten fed up with her continuing lack of decision on that front but she couldn't wrap her head around that. Not when he seemed so genuine about supporting her no matter what.

"Huh," said Gretchen, obviously baffled. Whether it was due to Neal's okay-ness or her own inability to pull off sexy under things Emma couldn't exactly say.

But she got sent off to the dressing room with something red and, thankfully, a lot less lace. As she tried to navigate her way into it, she added, shouting out to Gretchen. "I think I bruised his ego, y'know. Insulted his intelligence or whatever."

(Which she still couldn't make sense of either, but it was the only conclusion she could reach given the lack of evidence.)

Gretchen tutted, any of her earlier surprise fading away as she muttered something about men. "That would do it. But," her features turned approving as Emma stepped out of the dressing room, "one look at you in that and he'll forget his own name. Nevermind what's pissed him off."

Emma smiled tightly, trying her best to look grateful and not completely out of her element while Gretchen aimed her phone at a scantily dressed mannequin.

"You saving up for something," she asked, nodding at the phone.

"Nah, sending it to Mark," she said and Emma rolled her eyes in amusement because honestly.

And a few days later, when her fed up-ness with Neal's brooding officially outweighed her own supreme awkwardness, Emma donned the thing for Neal.

He, however, failed to respond as planned.

"You look very nice, baby," he said, voice low and obviously tempted as he fingered one of the thin straps that wouldn't quite stay on her shoulders, "but I thought we were saving up. For," his eyes flickered toward her stomach, "you know."

Well, fuck.

She had gotten so caught up in worrying about this stupid thing with Neal that she had forgotten to worry about all the other things she actually needed to worry about. And she absolutely could not seduce Neal or whatever when she felt guilty.

So the problem continued to go unsolved.

Until finally, in typical Emma fashion (and maybe what she should have done in the first place), she just decided enough was enough and went ahead, confronting it head on, cornering him in the bathroom while he brushed his teeth.

"I don't know what you want me to say," she said, bowling over his garbled protests. "Tell me what I need to do to fix this."

He spit into the sink.

"There's nothing to fix."

Then he went back to brushing his teeth.

(Idiot.)

Emma bit her lip. She wanted to scream, which made her think she best not push it just then.

But just a little while later, as she tried to decide if she wanted bacon or sausage with her eggs, Neal broached the subject himself.

(Well. Kind of.)

"If you want," he said, "after the baby is born we can pack up and go back to living out of the bug."

Emma blinked.

She knew, of course, that he wouldn't dare suggest that they raise a baby in the car. Neal would never do that, not after everything she'd so reluctantly dumped on him. So that must have meant that he had decided he didn't want to keep it.

Oh.

She stood stiffly, keeping her eyes trained on the half-scrambled eggs as they simmered in the pan. Any thoughts of bacon or sausage had fallen away completely and suddenly she had this sinking feeling in her stomach, something that felt remarkably like the disappointed panic that had fallen over her that time he told her they wouldn't be able to go Tallahassee after all.

"Is that what you want?" she asked carefully, poking the eggs with the spatula half-heartedly.

He came up to stand at her shoulder. "I want you. I want you to be happy."

Emma blinked and gave him a confused look. "I am happy."

(She wasn't unhappy.)

"Are you?" he asked with furrowed brows. "Because I didn't mean to force you into settling down. I just thought it's what we both wanted."

Oh.

"It was," she quickly insisted then shit. "Is. It is what I want. I want to be with you."

And there she went, screwing things up all over again because one of those things was slightly different than the other. She tried one more time.

"Here's the thing," she said carefully, turning her attention back to the frying pan. "I like being able to choose between sausage or bacon with my freshly cooked eggs in the morning."

Neal still didn't seem convinced, offering a slow, "Okay."

"It's just, maybe, one day I might like to have both, y'know? And not just on the weekends."

He seemed to get it now.

"You can have both, Em," he insisted, "whenever you want."

(Well. Maybe not.)

And if she couldn't already see him mentally trying to calculate what he could have instead she might have even appreciated the sentiment.

"Both of us, I mean. Without feeling guilty," she amended, almost as an afterthought because food wasn't really the issue here. Instead she turned fully and took his face in her hands. "Neal, babe, I just meant that I want to be happy. Both of us." She continued quickly before he could insist that he was. "And by happy I mean not lose who we are in silly things like jobs that we hate or by trying to be something we're not."

He brought up a hand to cover one of hers, squeezing. "We won't," he said. "This is just what we need to do right now."

She nodded because she understood that. She did. "But we can't forget."

People who forgot lost themselves and then woke up one day in the distant future, panicking, wondering where the hell their life went. That's why people got divorced … broke up ... sometimes even abandoned their kids. Kinda, she assumed, like Neal's mom had done with him.

(And that was the opposite of what she assumed Tallahassee should be.)

"Then we won't." He said it so simply, in that earnest way that made Emma want to believe in things the way that he did, that she couldn't help but kiss him and when he responded it was this desperate sort of thing, letting her know that he had found this … whatever just as difficult as she had.

"Hey," he murmured as Emma found that sweet spot below his ear, his hands slipping under her shirt, "seeing as you couldn't return that little, uh, you know, maybe we should put it to good use now."

Emma hummed an agreement as she let go of his ear lobe with an audible pop. "Make-up sex is a special occasion."

Indeed.

When the smoke detector chimed in, reminding them that they had forgotten the eggs, which had turned an unfortunate brown, they turned off the stove, deciding to skip breakfast altogether.

And Neal stood by his word in that typically unexpected way of his, starting with moving the fliers and take-out menus from their place on the fridge to an unused drawer (of which they had plenty), clearing a space that Emma immediately took notice of when she went to order a pizza.

"To stick our goals," Neal had said, fiddling with one of the bear shaped magnets left by the previous tenants, "until we can."

Emma abandoned her frantic search, ignoring her sudden craving for pineapple as she gave him her full attention because finally, officially, her Neal had returned, complete with the corniest thing he'd ever done for her. She absolutely loved it (like a lot). And that night she cut out a picture of a sunny Florida beach and stuck it smack dab in the middle of the fridge.

(The ocean was really only a couple of hours away, but there was always something - like work and exhaustion and, okay, pure laziness - that kept them from making the trip.) (But this, Emma thought, this would hold them accountable.)

Neal grinned goofily as she stepped back, his arm pulling her flush against his side as they both admired the finished product. Someone, somewhere could probably dream of bigger and better things, but right then Emma couldn't think of a better start for two kids that had found themselves constantly denied the luxury of hopes and dreams for most, if not all, their lives.


Thanks for reading everyone and thanks to lilnudger82, Rainbow2.0, and maressaonce who took the time to leave such nice reviews - I can't begin to express how much I appreciate it!

Next Chapter: Athena's Ruling