Chapter Eight: Porter

Emma had this thing about food.

Most, Emma included, called it a healthy appetite and wiped their hands of it. Neal had assumed much the same at first, finding the absolute joy she took in eating one of her more endearing quirks, personally delighting in the way it seemed to strip her of the stress she typically carried, providing a glimpse of that carefree, playful side she so rarely let out of its cage as she nibbled on a candy bar or tried to choose which day-old sandwich she wanted.

She would eat anything, enjoying (almost) everything she put in her mouth, all of it getting treated like a delectable dish from a five-star restaurant rather than whatever cheap brand knock-off fit into their fragile budget. She ate when she was hungry or bored or just feeling particularly playful. When her mood turned sour and she needed comfort or simply something to help relieve the stress, she'd go for the unhealthiest sweet in their stash. But back in Portland, when they actually had money to spend, she'd always, always, go straight to an over-priced coffee shop, bypassing the desserts hidden behind glass to order a hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and cinnamon.

Neal had found it almost amusing until he realized that food, or more specifically her passionate attachment to it, stemmed from her need for some sort of constant. Addresses, schools, friends and so-called families all changed in a continuous, swirling rotation as she got bounced from home to home (even more frequently than Neal had once found himself traveling between worlds). But food? That remained a constant presence.

Foster parents could get away with a lot of shit, at least the way Emma told it, but they had to keep food in the house (even if the assholes didn't necessarily intend it to go to the kids). And Emma, whether she realized it or not (most definitely not), had learned to depend on it, turning to it for comfort and to satisfy whatever other emotional needs she required.

And while Neal had, maybe, wished that Emma could grow to trust him for those sorts of things, he knew that would only come with time, and so settled for always nicking a little something extra just for her. He had started, back in Portland, stuffing extra candy bars in his back pockets whenever they found themselves out and about, pulling one out whenever she'd start to get crabby. She'd waver, knowing she probably shouldn't with resources so tight and all, but then she'd just grab at it, tear at the wrapper, and then give him that half smile that she always saved just for him, offering him a silent thanks.

(She would always, always, wordlessly hand half of whatever back to him. She considered this an important part of Rule Number One-now-Two: Nobody gets left behind.)

Even now, in a hospital room on Thanksgiving, Neal had a candy bar in his back pocket and on the heels of what had sounded like a particularly painful contraction, he itched to pull it out, because if anything could, maybe, distract Emma he'd bet her favorite Apollo bar could get the job done. But the doctors had been pretty clear on the no food rule and Neal feared the consequences of breaking it.

Still. That didn't stop him from sneaking Emma some extra ice chips the moment the nurse disappeared down the hall.

"Thanks," she murmured, voice hoarse. She chewed the pieces slowly, carefully, as if that would make them last longer. Or maybe, just maybe, magically turn bits of frozen water into something warm and gooey and chocolate that she could savor in her attempt to block out the pain.

He pushed aside sweaty hair, squeezed her hand, and kissed her forehead as he whispered words of encouragement and love in her ear before sneaking her yet another piece of ice because what else could he do, really?

He did all this and tried not to worry. But honestly? He had never felt more helpless.

x-x-x-x-x-x

Neal had this thing about stars.

Back in Portland they'd park the bug in empty parking lots or abandoned fields for the night and, in his attempt to avoid sleep, Neal would stare out the window up at inky black skies and whenever she'd inevitably ask what had him looking so intense, he'd point out a constellation for her, tracing the stars with his fingers, weaving some fantastical tale that she swore felt like he'd made it up just for her. She'd grown up with the same stars, of course, but you wouldn't think so when he gave her different names to accompany the different stories behind them. He oozed a certain confidence in his renditions, the stories feeling familiar and detailed enough that Emma could never quite decide if she thought he had truly grown up with these strange versions about ogres and dragons or if he merely used them as a front, working his charisma like he did during one of their cons, bullshitting at her so she wouldn't press things, asking what he'd really been thinking so hard about.

They both kind of sucked at the sleeping thing. Emma did alright once she fell into a blissful slumber, but it would still take her forever to get there, her mind this loud and busy thing, impossible to turn off no matter how much she desperately wished it to. Neal, on the other hand, would just flat-out avoid sleep, waiting until he could no longer keep his eyes open, exhaustion finally pulling him under against even his own stubborn will.

So he would distract them both, telling her about the stars, and Emma would listen until she just heard the deep, rocky sounds of his voice more than any actual words because the sound of it soothed her, covering her like a blanket and warming her, making her feel safe until she'd eventually drift off, nothing but the sound of Neal's voice in her ears and stars behind her eyes.

And she'd wake up, the backdrop still night, as the sounds of thrashing and Neal's heavy breathing jerked her out of pleasant dreams and blissful oblivion, Neal struggling to battle nightmares he never talked about and only calming when he realized that he had never left the bug they shared, remembering that the memories haunting the dark corners of his mind hadn't actually escaped the past.

She did her best to ease the transition back to reality, attempting awkward words of comfort and well-meaning squeezes of her hand, even going as far as to share her own pathetic recollections about the stars. The ones she'd grown up with. Stories about big dippers and women trapped on thrones. He'd listen so intently that it almost felt like he had never actually heard those particular versions and Emma would sometimes wish that she had a better imagination so she could, maybe, offer him something new. Something that would make it easier to forget whatever so obviously haunted him.

(But hers just kinda sucked, forever stuck in reality, refusing to even offer a distraction that she could use to lull herself to sleep, let alone someone else.)

Then, some nights, when things got really bad, and well after a certain amount of familiarity and trust had built up, she'd climb into the back or fold herself into the front (despite Neal's ridiculous attempts at chivalry they had switched off each night at her insistence and in strict accordance of the many subparts she now considered a part of Rule Number One-now-Two) where she'd just lay with him, running fingers through his hair and whispering whatever silly thought popped into her head.

That had led to their second-first kiss. This soft, tender sort of thing that barely counted as a brush of the lips, but still felt far more meaningful than the awkward, lust-filled things she had experienced every single time before him.

(Naturally that had to mean it didn't count. Because just like he had flat-out refused to acknowledge their first-first kiss, he couldn't even remember their second-first kiss.)

(Emma thought that was kind of a shame.)

Eventually, though, their relationship did progress and they would fall asleep in a sweaty mess of tangled limbs, all scrunched up in the back. Together. And while it eventually started to happen less and less (and it hardly ever happened now), Neal would still wake up, chest heaving, and when he did Emma would run her fingers through his messy hair that she'd grown to love and whisper nonsense at him and just try not to move too much when pins and needles began to jab at one of her squashed limbs.

It took her awhile to understand it. Why he made her feel safe and why she felt the need to do the same for him and why she felt happy, like, all the time. And even as she put the pieces together, she still couldn't bring herself to put words to this big, huge, HUMONGOUS thing.

Because if she put words to it that would make it real.

And real equaled terrifying.

Kinda like now, when Emma found herself on the verge of motherhood, her body attempting to do this thing that she could barely wrap her head around because no matter how many books she had read or how many videos she had watched in some feeble attempt to prepare, Emma still didn't quite get how. And she definitely didn't want to admit it because she wanted to power through and get this done and have her baby, but it hurt and she was scared and as much as the ice chips did not help she was still really glad to have Neal right there to give them to her.

"Neal," she murmured on the heels of a particularly painful contraction, head falling back onto starchy pillows, turning to peer up at him. She didn't think she could do it, really. She hadn't even gotten to the hard part yet and exhaustion had already started to pull at her.

"Yeah, baby?" He tried for a smile, but it came out strained and he looked worried.

Maybe they could both use the distraction.

"Tell me a story."

He told her all about the stars.

x-x-x-x-x-x

Loving Emma was easy.

Not in an obvious sort of way because while they had both gotten dealt a shitty hand in one way or another, they also tended to see things differently – Emma finding it impossible to see the light at the end of the tunnel while he couldn't see anything but. They understood the important things though, pushing each other, meeting somewhere in the middle because even if they couldn't agree on how to get there, they still shared the same values, desperately longing for the same things.

And along the way they challenged each other, Neal encouraging Emma to dream, helping her to fly past the limitations she had placed on herself, breaking the chains of whatever restraints kept holding her back. And, in turn, she helped to ground him, showing Neal the consequences that came with getting too carried away by whatever happened to catch his fancy in a particular moment, reminding him that the world didn't always operate in his realm of hopeful optimism.

And sure, sometimes he found the way Emma would stubbornly refuse to believe in herself and just all the possibilities that came with life just a tad frustrating. But it just seemed so painfully obvious to him, before she had introduced herself even, that she could do anything she set her mind to. Probably through pure power of will alone.

Emma, he knew, had every reason to get frustrated with him too. What? With the way he jumped into things with little regard to the consequences. Often, he realized appearing as though he didn't take things at all seriously. He used humor as a defense mechanism and, according to Emma, had way too much optimism (though he also knew that she not-so secretly admired him for it). They called each other out on their shit though and that, Neal thought, made them work (fights and all). So Neal would try and remind her that she could dream and hope and, maybe, even let herself go sometimes while Emma would flat-out accuse him of getting his head stuck in the clouds and then chide him when he didn't think things through properly.

(He was working on it now though, in the desperate attempt to become a worthy father that would never fail his son.)

Neal liked his gut though. It rarely steered him wrong.

Like that first night, back in Portland, when he had sat himself across from her on the swings in a closed park, clutching a warm cup of coffee? He'd known, just known, that he could love her and so he let himself fall.

She'd made it easy too.

(Even if she didn't, exactly, make it look that way.)

Emma had that bristly exterior that covered walls of steel and yeah, she'd mince words, often bypassing her true meaning when she spoke about anything personal because she just didn't know how. She'd show him though, that she cared, often without really realizing it. An emotional conversation often left her stiff, her words jilted, but she'd squeeze his hand or rub that spot on his back between his shoulder blades and it worked just as well, if not better than empty words of comfort. He saw it in everything she did, really, often while hiding behind the guise of the former Rule Number One, making sub-laws, insisting that they share food and switch off, scoffing at his attempts at being polite, and forcing him to take a turn in the backseat so that one of them hadn't always gotten scrunched up in the front of the bug every night.

Emma had this fierce, protective streak about her too. Surprising, maybe, given that she had grown up with that survivalist, every-man-for-herself mentality, but through Portland and trusty old Rule Number One-now-Two she had carried a strict we both get out or not at all mandate. It was how they both got here. Tallahassee.

She loved that way too. She didn't realize it, he didn't think, how fiercely she loved, taking him and their son under her wing, trying to make up for a lifetime of no one worrying about her by trying to account for all the things she couldn't control and controlling all the things she could.

She loved silently and he hoped, someday, she'd grow comfortable enough, letting her love turn into something as loud and vibrant as those impossibly large smiles she'd share with him at her happiest. Maybe it'd even become just shy of frivolous, something that she could just spare, because then, while still precious, that meant, maybe, she could no longer call it this rarity in her life – it would simply exist, filling every corner of her world. Because she deserved that.

(He hoped to always give her that.)

He loved all these things about her. And more.

Like he said: Loving Emma was easy.

Probably the easiest thing he'd ever done.

And then they went to that first ultrasound and they heard the baby's heartbeat; this strong, steady thing for this tiny speck of a person bundled away inside Emma for safekeeping and loving him was even easier. Natural. Like breathing.

And just when he thought it couldn't get any easier he heard his son cry for the first time, this impossibly loud wail for this ridiculously tiny thing and he wouldn't have thought it, but he had never heard anything more beautiful. It caused everything else to fall away. Worries and trivial things alike all forgotten as this red-skinned baby with a head full of hair fought for breath.

Nothing else mattered.

Not even that panic-inducing moment during Emma's delivery when a wave of something caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end, the lights blowing out with the power of it, encasing the room in darkness for a moment before the back-up generator kicked in, all while a stream of nonoNO ran through his head.

"Probably just a blown fuse," the doctor had said, sending one of the nurses out to check before telling Emma she needed to give him one big push.

Neal had his doubts. About the blown fuse. Not the pushing.

He had felt that sort of power before though. It haunted his dreams at night.

He looked at Emma and wondered. Stupidly, he realized, because which one of them, really, was the more likely culprit here? Her? Or the kid that had grown up in a place known as the Enchanted Forest, called the Dark One his father, and spent lifetimes on a magical island and hopping between worlds?

Something must have rubbed off. A thought that made his stomach twist up in knots because what kind of horrors could he have possibly passed onto his son?

He had thought (or maybe just hoped) that he had left that shit behind.

But just as quickly as the thought entered his head, the ice freezing his veins melted, thawed by that healthy, powerful wail piercing the room, announcing Porter's arrival. Everything fell away. All those scary, panic inducing thoughts getting chased away by something wonderful and all-consuming and so much more important.

Love.

Pure, untampered love.

"Can you see?" asked Emma, voice hoarse with a mixture of nervous anticipation. "Is he alright?"

He smoothed back damp, blonde hair, leaning down to kiss her forehead, whispering near her ear as his eyes remained fixed on the tiny crying miracle in the middle of a swarm of doctors and nurses.

"He's perfect, baby," he told her, the words threatening to catch on a lump in his throat.

She strained in the bed, trying to see, and Neal did his best to help her up, but the delivery had left her weak and too many people were moving back and forth, blocking her view, as their son had a wipe down and a quick check-up. He had a great pair of lungs though, his piercing cry filling the room.

"What do you see?" Emma finally asked, giving up and falling heavily back onto her pillow.

Neal peered through the masses.

"I see hair," he told her, "he has lots and lots of dark brown hair."

Emma choked out a teary laugh.

"Just like his dad then."

If possible the lump in his throat grew larger and he murmured, "The poor thing."

It took a few more minutes of cleaning and doctor-like things while Neal expressed how beautifully she had done and how proud he was of her, before they finally brought Porter over, passing him carefully into Emma's arms.

"Look at you," said Emma, a big, loving smile on her face, a finger delicately tracing his nose and chin, as if trying to test exactly how real he was. "You beautiful baby boy."

"Perfect," he agreed. Neal gently kissed her forehead and then Porter's and added, quite significantly, "Thank you."

Neal had always known love was easy.

But then he had heard Porter cry and his heart filled.

Love was easy.

Motivating.

Inspiring.

But not just in the way it pushed him in his attempts to give Emma, and now their son, a better life. And not just by finding jobs and apartments and bringing in enough money to survive. Though obviously those things remained a top priority. But he wanted to be better too, becoming the sort of person that Porter could be proud of some day.

Love was easy.

And it would be the easiest, most challenging thing he ever did.

x-x-x-x-x

Love was real.

And like she said: Real was terrifying.

The kind of terrifying that accompanied realizations like, maybe, Emma actually wanted Neal around.

And it hadn't grown out of some ridiculous thing like need either. He'd taught her enough by then that Emma could have probably made it on her own without making another ridiculous mistake like forget to check the backseat of a car before she stole it.

So she didn't need him. She just liked him.

Only, maybe, she had kind of needed him because one silly, off-hand comment about young love from a complete stranger and Emma just froze, mid-con, blown away by someone putting words to the one thing she had refused to even think about.

(Because, again, that would have made it real.)

Neal had kissed her, mouth full of food and grinning, and Emma swatted at him, smile just as wide as he excused himself to go to the bathroom.

"I miss that," the woman at the next table had said, a wistful look on her face, "being young and in love."

Emma blinked owlishly, desperately trying to fathom why the woman would say that, half-forgetting that she needed to follow up Neal excusing himself with a dramatic phone call that would send her fleeing the restaurant in tears. Her phone went unanswered. Because love. That was just ridiculous. She didn't … did she?

She never left and Neal had returned, sitting back down at the table rather than fake-chasing after her, concern written all over his features.

(They had to do dishes to pay for a meal they couldn't afford.)

"Sorry," she had murmured later, when they had returned to the safety of the bug.

"Don't worry about it," he said easily. "Probably one of our stupider plans anyway. Too much face time."

"Yeah," she agreed half-heartedly, content with letting him think that.

Easier.

Because love was terrifying.

And not because she needed him.

She had already established that she could do just fine on her own. Maybe even better. If she took feelings out of the mix anyway.

(Which not having him around would do.)

Emma just didn't want to.

She liked having this other person around and she liked the way he made her feel, like she could do anything. Maybe even this love thing.

She didn't dare say it, of course. That would be ridiculous.

But he made her laugh and knew just what to say so that she didn't get stuck inside her own stupid head. He came up with these ridiculous schemes and actually had the guts to pull them off. But when things didn't work out quite like he wanted them to, he'd just shake it off, like it didn't even matter.

Because he had faith. Faith that everything would work out just the way it was supposed to.

Emma had never understood that. Still didn't. But she more than admired him for it.

And then everything nearly got pulled out from under her.

(Just like she knew it would. Because that's just how the world worked.)

Suddenly all those walls she had built seemed irrelevant. They came tumbling down, the words bursting from her lips, words that she had let sit there for weeks, waiting to be said, Emma carefully filtering her thoughts and speech, worried that she might do something ridiculous and say, "Can you pass the chips, and, by the way, I love you."

It terrified her. Saying it. Those three little words. She'd felt comfortable enough with their relationship, had known exactly where they stood and could feel that they coexisted on pretty even terms despite the lack of defining words, things like 'girlfriend' and 'husband' only getting thrown out there in the midst of a con. But even then saying it had paled in comparison to the thought of not saying it and losing Neal because he suddenly felt noble. And stupid.

Because Neal loved selflessly. The idiot.

She had to force blankets and food on him and every other night, before things had changed, they had argued over whether or not it was actually his turn in the backseat. He had a job he hated and insisted it didn't matter even though it made him miserable and before that he had nearly walked away from Tallahassee so nothing would happen to her.

But they were partners, really, and, if anything, Emma thought having a partner meant that you didn't have to do things on your own anymore. And Emma liked that. The having someone.

She had fallen for Neal bit by bit, without really realizing it. No effort involved. Well, until her head had joined the party anyway and then letting herself love him turned into bit of a spectacle. Probably the hardest, most terrifying thing she'd ever done.

Things with her son progressed much the same. Worse even, because it felt inevitable that she would lose him, if only because giving him up seemed like the only way she could do right by him.

She'd been so very wrong about that.

Loving Neal empowered her. It made her stronger and gave her back things she had lost to the tests of time. Things like hope and faith and trust. And it had even given her something she'd never felt before because no one had bothered to love her and she had certainly never felt it for anyone in turn. Love had simply become a legend, the thing of fairytales. That elusive thing that couldn't possibly exist and she most definitely didn't believe in.

But love was very real.

She could feel it.

Like, seriously.

Everything hurt. This terrible aching pain in places Emma would swear hadn't even existed before today but fuck did she know about them now.

She tried shifting and pillows and even standing before giving up because obviously she would just have to suffer in this uncomfortable hell forever. It'd be nice though, if she could find just one position she could tolerate so that she could focus on the breast feeding lady because apparently she had a lot of important rules and tips and even, potentially, more discomfort and soreness that she needed to know about.

(Now obviously, Porter was worth every pain-filled, uncomfortable second but come on.)

Emma's frustration ended though when they wheeled her son back in, Neal following dutifully behind as Porter wailed unhappily. She sent an accusing look at the nurses and then Neal, who merely shook his head.

(She had insisted that, if he actually wanted her to sleep, Neal had to watch Porter like a hawk.)

"Someone's hungry," he explained.

Ah.

"Hey, handsome," greeted Emma as the nurse passed Porter into her arms. He fussed a bit, both had just taken a long nap, and she smiled lovingly when he gave a big yawn for such a tiny little thing. Neal settled into a chair next to the bed and then Emma tried her hand at this breastfeeding thing.

"Weird," she said, scrunching her nose a good time later when Porter finally latched on. She fretted a bit when the nurse left the room, but eventually relaxed when it seemed like she and the baby would do just fine on their own.

(And relaxed, she supposed, would have to take the place that comfortable formerly occupied.)

"I still can't get over how tiny he is?"

Neal chuckled, teasing. "I'm blown away by all that hair to be honest."

Emma rolled her eyes before sobering. "We can do this though? Take care of something this small?"

Neal made a face, as if it would be nothing. "Course," he said. "He'll be worth it."

Emma smiled softly and turned her attention back to Porter, her heart warm and full. She could have never imagined loving someone so much. Falling for Neal had taken her by surprise, sure, and sometimes she still found herself blown away by the intensity of it. How just seeing him could make her feel better or how easily he made her laugh or how he had this ability to push and challenge her, showing her how to test limits, giving her faith and hope, and taking her on this ridiculous journey that she could have never done on her own.

But that love, strong and passionate and empowering as it was, paled in comparison to the depth of what she felt for her child. Love that was protective and fierce and all-encompassing, inspiring and motivating her, and suddenly she couldn't help but wonder how she could have ever thought this wouldn't be enough.

It was more than, really.

Porter was this tiny little wisp of a thing that she had carried around with her for nine months. He had Neal's ridiculous hair and her chin and this button of a nose and looking at him, seeing the pair of them mixed together in something they created, just filled her.

Filled her with a love that was terrifying, absolutely wonderful, and she knew it would never, ever waver.

How could it? Not when she had so much of it that it threatened to overflow, filling her and spilling out.

Yeah, love was absolutely terrifying. Especially because it forced her to worry about something other than herself. It had taken her awhile to figure that part out, but once she'd started Emma had found it impossible to turn off. Suddenly she had so many new things to worry about. Everything Neal did (and Porter now) she felt. Because when they hurt, she hurt. And when they cried, she'd tear up too.

But that old worry. That single thought that had haunted her for months and months, the idea that just loving her son couldn't possibly be enough? Ridiculous. It was so much more than enough. It was everything. And it would drive and push her and motivate her because Porter would never, ever feel the same neglect that his parents had felt. She wouldn't let him.

Love was terrifying and oh, so very real.

And yeah, it was so much more than enough.


Thanks for reading everyone and a big thank you to steelneena and maressaonce for leaving such lovely reviews!

Next Chapter: Growing Pangs