Chapter 3: Madame Chanel

She dragged her feet after spotting the fast food parlor she was about to walk into.

"Twelve damn blocks, Neal..." she complained. "I'm wearing boots!"

He could have at least left her a pair of sneakers along with the umbrella. Though now that she thought about it, she couldn't actually remember the last time she wore anything other than boots, or heels. And back in Portland... well.

Maybe she did have a thing for boots, after all.

"And onion rings..." she muttered, closing her eyes and sniffing the air as she approached the counter with a smile on her lips. "Excuse me, my name is Emma Swan, I-"

"Oh. Just a moment."

She raised her eyebrows when the attendant turned on her heels and ran towards another girl, whispering excitedly while pointing at her.

"Are you Emma Swan?" asked a young man wearing braces.

"Yup."

"Oh, don't mind them," he said, after realizing her eyes were on the two girls at the far end of the counter. "This dude stopped by earlier today, left an envelope and asked us to give it to you with a large order of onion rings," he explained, reaching behind him to get a greasy packet and place it inside a brown paper bag. "Don't know why those two started bouncing off the walls..." he complained quietly, shrugging.

Emma gave him a sympathetic smile. Apparently, Neal still had it in him to cause a commotion amidst female fast food attendants.

"Thank you," she said, after grabbing the packet and the envelope.

'Good job,' she started reading, after sitting on a bench on the sidewalk and unfolding another piece of paper. 'I thought this was a tricky one. See, I didn't think you would remember it.'

She paused, letting out a sad smile before reading the rest of the note. There were things about him, about them, that she should have forgotten by now. Eleven years had gone by, and it was not as if they had had a friendly breakup. Maybe exactly because they didn't say their goodbyes properly, she could never close that chapter of her life.

Maybe she simply never wanted to.

'But I'm glad you did. As a reward, you get a snack - I hope you still like onion rings. And hot dogs.'

"What, is that it?" she said quietly, turning over the piece of paper and looking for the rest of the note. "Hot dogs, is that my clue?"

It was not as if they had had hot dogs once during their days in Portland. It was more of their regular meal, the only hot items that were generally easy to pocket when they stopped at gas stations and such.

"You'll have to do better than th-"

She was shaking the envelope when a tiny tag fell onto her lap.

Chanel

Her face lit up with a grin, as memories of another day from a very distant past filled her mind.


"Oh my God, my head..."

She had just stumbled out of the bug to spot Neal not so far from where she was, brushing his teeth at a sink by the entrance to the restrooms of a local children's park.

"I told you to go easy on the bourbons," he said, eyeing her with an obvious look of concern when she reached him.

"I did go easy on the bourbons," she replied, squeezing toothpaste on her own toothbrush with a somewhat shaky hand. Her glasses were slightly out of place at the bridge of her nose, but she doubted it would make much of a difference. If anything, her sight would still be blurred due to the amount of alcohol still flooding her bloodstream. She had gone easy on the drinks, after all, but apparently she could not hold her liquor as well as she thought she could -

at least, not when her drinking partner was Neal Cassidy.

"You're a real lightweight, Swan."

She rolled her eyes at his taunt, and the two of them lowered their heads to the sink at the same time.

"Emma!" he yelped, feeling something gooey fall upon the back of his head.

"Sorry!" she chuckled, watching him splash water over his hair to wash away the toothpaste foam she had spitted on him. "I still don't get why you insisted on paying, I was almost getting away scot free."

"By flirting with the barman?" he replied, with a raised eyebrow, as he dried his mouth on a towel. "Bad idea."

"Spoke the man who got a free meal after hitting on a fast food attendant a couple of weeks ago."

"It's different."

"Oh yeah? How so?" she asked, taking the towel from his hands.

"I saw the way he was looking at you."

"What, did you get jealous?"

She smirked, raising an eyebrow as he put away his toiletries and sprayed some deodorant under his arms. In a way, she liked the thought that he could be jealous of her. Not that he saw him as anything other than a business associate of course, because she didn't actually see him as-

"Don't be silly," he cut her thoughts short, without a hint of hesitation in his voice to give her the benefit of doubt. "He could have hurt you."

"He wouldn't! And we would have saved ourselves a couple of bucks," she replied, before her ears turned even redder. "You know I can defend myself."

"Til the day you can't. You had drunk enough, and he was stone sober. You were at a disadvantage."

She opened her mouth to speak again, but he gave her no time to protest.

"No drink is worth your safety."

Something warm spread across her chest, and maybe it had something to do with the way he seemed to be genuinely concerned about her. So maybe he didn't see her as anything other than a business associate, but still... It felt good to be cared for, at least once in her life.

"What you laughing at?"

"I'm not laughing, it's just..." she said, trying to swallow back the smile that had curled her lips. "I'm not used to people worrying about my safety."

"Well, we work together now, don't we?" he replied, trying to look serious despite the joyful spark in his eyes. "So get used to it."

She watched as he made his way back to the bug, until a particular memory from the night before flashed before her eyes.

"Hey, hold on," she said, quickening her step to catch up with him. "I remember something about a celebration."

He merely turned his head to look at her in silence, and kept walking.

"What were we celebrating?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh come on. I'm sure you said something."

"I didn't."

"Hey," his hand had just touched the handle, and he was about to open the door when she pushed it closed. "Wanna hear something about me?"

Again, he was silent. The only visible sign that he had acknowledged her question was a frown, and a look that he certainly expected to be disdainful.

"I have a superpower," she said, her eyes never leaving his as she spoke. "I can tell when people are lying."

"Yeah, right."

"I'm serious. And you, Mr. Cassidy, are lying."

"About what?"

"What was the occasion?"

"Gee, you're really not gonna let it go, will you?"

"Nope."

She saw him shift his feet, scratch his neck, and then look away in a very lame attempt to hide how uncomfortable he was.

"It was my birthday," he answered at last, looking at his own shoes.

"What?"

"No big deal," he was quick to add, opening the door again. "Let's get going."

"Hey, wait," she closed the door once more, eliciting a grunt and an eye-roll in the process. "What you mean, no big deal?"

"I don't like birthdays."

"But you wanted to celebrate."

"I didn't, I... I drank too much yesterday, that's all."

For a second, his eyes caught up with hers, and she simply raised her eyebrows to show he had been caught in her bullshit detector once again. He cleared his throat, and let out a sigh before speaking, making sure to avoid her eyes until the very end.

"It makes me think... of my childhood. Of days I want to forget."

Neal Cassidy was an expert at putting up the most charming facades, she thought, as he slowly made his way into the car and she was left thinking of his smiles, his winks, his jokes. But there were times, and that was one of such, in which he failed miserably to hide his cracks, and all she could see in his eyes was sadness and loneliness.

He reminded her of herself.

"Can we... Can we go now?"

His voice brought her back to reality, and she walked to the other side of the car in silence, lost in memories of days that she too wanted to forget.


"Ready?" he asked, as soon as they got downtown.

"Ready."

"Got your cigarette?"

"Yup."

She rolled her cigarette between her fingers. And so it was that they were out on the trading floor, again. The rules were simple: get people on the street to trade one object for another, suiting people's needs and getting higher-end goods as the day progressed... Sometimes they did end up with something they could pawn for some decent money, like the day she traded a cigarette for headphones, then headphones for a pair of sunglasses, and sunglasses for a concert ticket they sold for 50 bucks.

Of course it had taken her an entire day to get it done, but she was not the kind of person that gave up easily.

"Meet you at the pawn shop at 2, okay?" he said, pocketing his cigarette before walking away.

"Kay."

"Good luck to you."

"You know I'm gonna win this, don't you?"

"What you talking about?" he chuckled, turning around to look at her and walking backwards as he spoke. "This is not a competition. We are a team, remember?"

"Yeah right..."

She laughed when he bumped into an old lady and apologized profusely before disappearing around the corner.


"So?"

When they met at the pawn shop some three hours later, she had to swallow a smile and shrug with a defeated sigh as she approached him.

"Not this time..."

"You ended with nothing?" he asked, his fingers outstretching nervously over the counter. "How the hell did that happen?"

"Mr. Cassidy."

The voice of a very tall, bearded man resonated through the room before she could offer any explanations.

"Jo."

She watched as Neal hurriedly reached for his pockets, placing what looked very much like a fine Montblanc pen over the glassy surface.

"So?" he asked, his eyes darting from the pen to the broker's face, and then to the loupe on his hand.

"Would be worth a fortune..." the man whispered, after a long minute studying the item, "if it weren't a fake."

Neal's shoulders drooped in defeat when his counterpart put the pen down.

"Ten dollars."

"Ten?" he yelped, his eyes filled with obvious disappointment. "Oh, come on. Fifteen."

"Twelve. My last offer."

She saw him look at her face for a moment, then scratch the back of his head with a grimace.

"Fine... Whatever."

As soon as he pocketed the ten-dollar bill, the two of them left the store as fast as they could, with Neal cursing under his breath.

"Now watch him sell that pen for a hundred bucks, the bastard..." The vein on his forehead seemed about to burst; if there was one thing that bothered him beyond explanation was to be on the losing side of a bargain. "How much do you have on you?" he asked, his eyes still showing the quiet desperation she had gotten used to seeing every time something in their plans went wrong.

"Seven dollars... Ninety-five."

"Oh well... Could be worse," he whispered, getting into the car and tapping the steering wheel as he waited for her to join him. "I can't believe you got nothing."

"Well... I did get something," she said, a smile curling the corners of her lips as she looked out of the window. "But we have to stop at Goodwill first."

"What for?"

"You'll see."

She truly wished she could have waited until they had driven at least two blocks to spill the beans.

"I got ourselves a fancy dinner," she blurted out, clasping her hands together as she shifted on the seat. "For your birthday."

"A fancy dinner?"

He sounded horribly unimpressed by her announcement. As a matter of fact, the frown on his face showed, if anything, that he found that idea nothing short of ridiculous.

"Emma... We live in a car!"

"I know that. But don't you wanna know what it is like? To have... a fancy life?"

"Actually, no."

"Oh, come on! Just once."

Her enthusiasm was greeted with his usual expression of disbelief as he turned off the ignition and got ready to leave the car.


"I'm not gonna wear this," he announced, looking at the shirt and jacket she had picked for him.

"Well, you should. You look great."

Truth was that she didn't actually pay much attention to his complaint; she was busier looking at her reflection in the mirror as she tried on a silk purple dress with a pair of silver flats.

"No," he insisted, losing the jacket and looking at his reflection in the mirror as well.

"At least get some shoes," she said, although she was inclined to insist that he should really take the shirt: it looked way too good on him for him not to. "Yours are pitiful."

"Emma, we don't have money to waste on fancy clothes!" he hissed.

"No, we don't, but I have credit."

"How?"

"I gave them one of my coats."

She saw him whip his head around to find one of her coats over the counter, in he hands of an attendant.

"You really wanna do it, don't you?" he whispered.

"Yeah."

A smile curled her lips when put the jacket back on, but not after letting out a very audible, unhappy sigh.

"Fine, then," he said, as he stepped into a pair of black loafers that looked far more decent than the ones he had been wearing. "But I look like an idiot."

"No you don't," she replied, her eyes shifting quickly from his reflection to hers as she let her hair down and smoothed it, in an attempt to look classier than her usual self. "How do I look?"

She searched for his eyes, but they seemed to be avoiding hers.

"Nice," he replied with a shrug, after scanning her figure as fast as he could.

Nice.

For a moment, she remembered what it felt like to be stuck right in the middle of everything. Not pretty enough to get the boys' attention, but not ugly enough to be bullied either. Not the smartest, or the dumbest; neither the quietest, nor the most talkative. She seemed to mingle well with her environment, to the point of becoming a part of it, invisible to others, immune to their curious glances.

Nice. Just average, plain, boring… nice.

She studied her figure for a while, smoothing her dress as she noticed her pale skin… lips far too thin and teeth slightly uneven that ended up drawing more attention than her eyes… Her eyes. She liked her eyes. More than she liked her bony knees, or her narrow hips, her flat chest…

"Why the long face?"

His voice made her jump; she hadn't noticed he was still behind her, their bodies separated by mere inches.

"Nothing," she replied, quickly searching around for her bag so that they could leave.

Suddenly, she didn't feel as enthusiastic about their dinner anymore.

"Come here."

Before she could move, though, she felt his hand on her waist, and for a moment her heart stopped. She could feel the warmth of his skin even through the dress, and she honestly hoped he hadn't noticed her shuddering at his touch.

When she lifted her gaze to the mirror again, she saw his hazel eyes bearing into hers, and her breath caught in her throat. It was almost as if he could read into her mind, her soul, into her heart beating faster.

His other hand had reached for the side of her head, and when she felt his fingertips run through her hair, she let her eyes flutter closed.

"There," he whispered, tilting her head upwards. "You look like a princess."

She shuddered again at his voice so close to her ear, and this time she was sure he had noticed. It was time she got her act together; she was clearly tired, hungry and sad, a bad combination that had nothing to do with… him.

She didn't have that kind of feelings for him, and he most certainly did not think of her like… that.

"Is that so?" she asked quietly, when she opened her eyes and saw that he had attached a butterfly pin to her hair.

"Yeah," he replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Prettier than one, even."

Her eyes dropped to her own feet as she thought about his words. There was this sort of unspoken commitment between them in which they both tried not to burden each other with more sadness than life had already given them; for that reason she knew he would do, and say, whatever to put a smile on her face, and she was grateful for that… Even when what he said was not entirely true.

"Thanks."


Two hours later, they were standing before the entrance to Le Petit Bistro, arm in arm.

"Well," she said. "You'll have to guide me through it, because I'm as blind as a bat without my glasses."

"Then put them back on."

"Shhh. Here he comes."

She squeezed his arm as soon as she saw the maitre walking towards the hall to greet them.

"Bonsoir, Madame," said the man, greeting them with a slight nod. "Monsieur. Do you have a reservation?"

"Yes, we do. We are guests of honor, actually."

"Oui. Your names?"

"Oui, yeah… Uhmm…" she squeezed Neal's arm even tighter and took a deep breath before answering. "Coco Chanel and ... Jacques Clouseau."

From the corner of her eye, she could see the man by her side blink a couple of times, apparently in shock with the fake identity he had been given. In front of her, the maitre's chin trembled, and his thin lips curled into a half-smile before he checked his list of guests for the night. Certainly, he was not expecting to find such names as he scanned the piece of paper. But, much to his surprise, he did, and his eyebrows went up for a brief second before he could regain his composure.

"Madame… Chanel," he said, after another polite nod. "Monsieur Clouseau. Please follow me."

She let out a sigh of relief as soon as the man turned on his heels and walked into the dining lounge.

"Jacques Clouseau?" Neal hissed, as they followed the maitre. "Are you serious?"

"I'm sorry, that was the first name that came to mind!"

"I know, but… Clouseau? Like, really?"

"I needed French names!"

"Actually, you didn't. You don't need to be French to eat at a French restaurant."

"Stop being such a buzzkill!"

The maitre stopped next to a candlelit table, and she felt very silly for smiling so broadly. Her eyes took everything in: from the tinted crimson bottle with a single white lily inside it, to the white napkin carefully rolled into a marble ring next to the silver cutlery. She had never seen so many forks and knives and spoons in her life: as far as she was concerned, all a person needed was one of each.

When her eyes finally met Neal's, she realized he was already sitting at the table, glancing at her with an amused look in his eyes. She probably looked like a fool, mouth gaping and all.

She couldn't possibly care less.

Behind her, the maitre was waiting for her to sit so that he could push her chair - even that made her smile.

"Thanks," she whispered, clutching the purse on her lap and looking around to see how she was expected to hold herself.

"Napkin goes in your lap," she heard Neal say, with the casualty of someone who had done that many times in his life. "In case you're wondering. And the forks and knives? Start with the ones farthest from the plate and work your way inwards."

"How do you know all that?"

"I didn't always live in a car, you know?"

He winked at her before looking around, still lacking the same enthusiasm she was displaying. And so, he knew how to behave in such occasions. There was so much about him that intrigued her... But if he had never told her anything, probably there was some sort of invisible line she was not meant to cross.

"Were you born here?" she asked, looking at the tablecloth with renewed interest as she avoided his gaze. "In Portland?"

She raised her eyes to his just in time to see him chuckle as he placed his napkin in his lap.

"How about this?" he asked, his eyes slightly less playful despite the smirk on his lips. "You don't ask questions about my past, I don't ask questions about yours."

Shot down in record time.

"Oh," she muttered, her ears going red as she faked a careless smile. "That makes you sound like... s-some sort of serial killer."

"Well, I'm not a serial killer," he replied, shifting on the chair as he drew in a deep breath. "Or a sex maniac. Or anything of the sort, so you can chill out."

"Good."

She kept her smile in place, almost as if her lips had frozen in a lifeless upward curve. She didn't care about him that much, so it didn't really matter if he felt like telling her things or not.

She didn't care.

She really didn't care.

Her chin trembled a little, and she took that occasion to reach for the bottle of water and fill her glass - the perfect excuse not to look at him in the eye.

"Look... It's not that I don't trust you or anything," he said, his voice low and hesitant. "It's just that there's nothing... worth telling. Sorry."

"That's OK."

She took a large gulp of water, staring at him from the top of her glass. His gaze had dropped to the empty plate in front of him, and she took that chance to study his face, before a waiter showed up with a bottle of wine in his hands.

"Chardonnay, 1976," the man said, showing Neal the bottle before pouring some of the wine on his glass.

Without a second of hesitation, he gulped down the wine and nodded; apparently, the sign the other man needed to fill her glass, refill his, and excuse himself.

"Well," she whispered, holding her glass with a certain amount of insecurity as awkward silence fell between them. "Happy Birthday."

She saw a smile curl his lips, and it was the kind of smile that made her feel strangely happy to be near him. A smile that made her smile in return even when she felt the saddest, one that made her heart skip a beat and she simply didn't know why.

"Thanks," he replied, raising his glass as well.

"I kind of understand it, you know."

"What?"

"You, not liking birthdays and all," she said, sipping her wine as she spoke. "I'm not sure I like them myself."

"Why?"

"I don't know..." she shrugged. "When I was a child I used to see these other kids getting all hyped up... Sending out invitations and showing pictures of parties and stuff... I got invited for a few, at school. Never went to any," she paused for an instant, her eyes resting on a fork as she revisited the bits of her childhood that sucked the least. "I knew that I had to take a gift... But I could never afford one, so I just... I think I was embarrassed. So I didn't go."

"What about your birthday parties?" he asked, his glass of wine long forgotten as he crossed his arms over the table.

"There was one. I think I was 10. There was this school I went to, and I still don't know if they just spelled my name wrong or if the cake belonged to another girl... There was this, like, huge 'Emmy' written in icing..." she said, rolling her eyes as she shook her head with a faint smile on her lips. "But they gave me a party hat and a bag of candy... And they told me to cut the cake after blowing the candles. It was fun."

Maybe not as fun as having a party at home, with family and friends, and people taking pictures and laughing...Still, she had kept that party hat for years. She would probably still have it, a memento from the only birthday party she had ever gotten, if it hadn't gotten lost in one of her many changes of address.

"You know," she continued, raising her eyes from the table only to find him smiling at her again. "When I have a kid, I'll make him a birthday party every year. With ribbons and cardboard pictures and a cake... With the right name on it, of course..."

"You want kids?"

"Yeah! I mean, not now... But yeah. One day. A boy and a girl. Maybe more," she tried not to laugh at his face. He seemed shocked, and at the same time fascinated, at her idea of having a small army of children. "You?"

"Kids?" he asked, reaching for his glass as he looked away. "Never gave it much thought," he paused to drink some of his wine, raising his eyebrows as he looked at her face. "It's not as if I can afford to have one living in a car."

"You won't be living in a car forever, you know?"

He had just opened his mouth to speak again, when the waiter reappeared.

"Escargots en Persillade," he said, serving them what she assumed to be some sort of exotic stew. "Our entree."

"What is this?" she heard Neal ask, his face as pale as a ghost as he stared at the dish that had just been placed in front of him.

"Snails, with garlic and parsley."

She wiggled her eyebrows at the word snails, but the man sitting across from her was far from amused. He looked positively sick, saddened and ready to run, his fingers flexing over the table as he looked at the food.

"I'm not a fan of snails..." he muttered.

"Well, in that case you can have the soup inst-"

"Yeah," he muttered, pushing the dish away. "I'll have the soup, then."


When dinner was over, Madame Chanel and Monsieur Clouseau left with the same classy demeanor as they had arrived. The only difference was that now they had their pockets and bag full of souvenirs from Le Petit Bistro.

The last stop of the night would be at Washington Park, their usual hiding place when the nights were not as cold as they usually were during winter. The first days of spring were still far too cool for them to venture sleeping out, but that didn't mean they couldn't spend at least a couple of hours sitting on the roof of the bug, enjoying the breeze as they checked their hauls.

"I pocketed all the bread and butter when they were not looking," she said with a smirk, as she removed the contents of her bag and placed them by her side.

"We got soap for an entire lifetime," he said, emptying his pockets as well. "And mouthwash! Can you believe it? Bless posh restaurants and their posh restrooms."

"And a scarf."

"And... you're not gonna believe this," he chuckled, reaching for something from under his shirt. "A hat!"

"You stole a hat? How?"

"It was left in the gents room. I had to flatten it a little, but I mean..." he put on the Trilby tweed hat as he spoke. "I found it very... Clouseau."

When he tilted his head upwards, she couldn't help but laugh.

"Do yeau have for me... the mass-age?" he said, wiggling his eyebrows as he faked a very convincing French accent."I got one zis morning from ze yard of Scotland."

She felt her sides were about to burst as he continued with his impersonation, and she had to make an effort not to fall to the side as she clutched her stomach, gasping for air.

"Now all I need is the trench coat," he added, grinning widely as he grabbed her arm just as she started to slide from the car.

"Oh my God..."

She saw him stealing a glance towards her as she wiped away a happy tear from the corner of her eye, still laughing.

"So..." he took off the hat and ran a hand over his hair before speaking again. "What's the verdict?"

"On what?"

"On living fancy."

"Boring," she shrugged, bringing her knees closer to her chest as laughter finally subsided. "And the food is not that great."

"Right?"

Only then did she realize that he had only emptied the pockets of his pants. Apparently, even after all the fruit shaped miniature soaps and several little bottles of mouthwash he had already pulled out from inside them, there was still room for more, but this time in the pockets of his jacket, from where he took out two hot dogs wrapped in aluminum foil.

"Where did you get these?" she asked, her eyebrows going up in awe.

"From the gas station, while you filled the tank."

"Thank Goodness, I'm starving!"

"The duck à l'orange was not a hit, then."

"If they had served more duck and less orange, maybe it would have been."

She took an eager bite from her hot dog, feeling way too happy for a person who could didn't even have a bed to sleep on...

"You like stories, right?" he asked, while munching on his snack as well.

"Yup."

"Kay. So I'm gonna tell you one. You ready?"

"Yup."

He put down the hot dog and crossed his legs, clearing his throat as he straightened his back and stuffed his chest.

"Once upon a time..."

His narrative was abruptly interrupted by a loud snorting sound.

"What?" he asked, with a frown.

"Is it a fairytale?"

"Not sure about that..."

"'Once upon a time' is for fairytales."

"Not necessarily."

"Ok, whatever. Proceed."

"Once upon a time, there was a boy. The son of a spinner. Do you know what a spinner is?"

"Someone who spins."

"Yeah. Pretty much. So, the boy and his father lived together in a very, very distant land. He had no mother. He had... sheep. And a goat. And chicken. Life was hard, because they were very, very poor. Bu-"

"What was his name?" she interrupted, as soon as she finished eating her hot dog, lying back to look at the sky as she listened to his tale.

"Whose?"

"The boy."

"The boy was... The Boy."

"And the father?"

She turned her head to look at him, and saw hesitation spread across his face as he opened his mouth to respond.

"Wait, don't tell me. The father was called... Father."

"For storytelling purposes, yes."

"What is the name of this story?" she asked, chuckling slightly as she closed her eyes.

"It doesn't have a name, it's just... a story."

"You're making it up as you go."

"Well... Yes. And no."

"Someone is feeling mysterious today..." she replied, feeling a little drowsy as the distant chirping of crickets filled the air.

"Can I go on?" he asked, and she smiled at the hint of annoyance showing in his voice.

"Sure."

"Where was I?"

"They were very poor."

"Oh yes. But the boy had big dreams. He dreamt of becoming... a knight."

"A knight?"

"Yes. He thought of war strategies and enemy armies coming from distant lands... He would slay dragons, and ogres, and all sorts of evil creatures... and he would protect his village, and his father."

"Was his father ill?"

"He had a war injury. The rest of the village didn't like him much, called him... Hobblefoot."

"That's cruel."

"Yeah..." she opened her eyes to look at his face, only to see him pouting like a little boy. But then, it was gone: he waved a mosquito away from his face, and went on. "Well, anyway, one day the boy was drafted. His time to fight in a war had co-."

"Wait," she interrupted again. "Is this some sort of sad, "curl-into-a-ball-and-cry" story?"

"It's a... strange story. It is sad, yes, b-"

"Is this going to have a happy ending?"

"I don't know," his voice was low and hesitant before he chuckled. "I hope so."

"Yeah, you'd better come up with something. I don't like sad stories"

"I'll try."

"Did the boy go to the war, then?"

"No."

"No?"

"No. His father was too scared of losing him, so he came up... with a plan. He would steal something from a very powerful wizard, and..."

She heard him pause for a moment, but her eyes were far too heavy for her to open them and find out the reason why.

"Emma?"

"Hmmm?"

"Are you sleeping?"

"No. I'm hearing. He stole something, then?"

She heard him move next to her, and her eyes shot open when she felt his hands on her legs, pulling her down into his arms.

"Come on," he said, holding the door open as he helped her onto the backseat. "You should get some sleep."

Her whole body felt warm despite the cool breeze, but still, he was careful enough to cover her with a blanket.

"Great job today," he whispered.

"Hmmm?"

"Day trading. You did a great job."

"If you don't watch out, I'll become better than you," she replied, her voice sleepy and slow as she pulled the blanket over her nose.

"I guess you already are," he whispered again.

"I heard that."

The last thing she heard before he closed the door was a quiet chuckle, and then his voice again.

"Night, Emma."

"Night, Neal."