Emma woke up in her bed, though she distinctly remembered being on the couch. She realised with a start that someone - probably one of her parents - must have carried her to her room. She wasn't sure how she felt about that… the foster child in her was disturbed by the fact that she had let her guard down enough to sleep through being picked up, carried through the apartment and tucked into bed… and apparently also changed into a pair of bright pink pyjamas covered in cartoon cats. But this was her family, her Mom and her Dad, doing Mom and Dad things that once upon a time were what she wanted more than anything else in the world.
She sat in bed and hugged her knees while she turned this over in her head for a while, before coming to the conclusion that this whole situation was very, very weird and her feelings about it were far too confusing for her to make sense of. So she shoved those feelings back into the box they popped out of and moved on.
Laid out over the foot of her bed was a small red and white dress. Emma ignored Mary Margaret's obvious attempt to little-girl-ify her and went looking for her shirt and jeans. She searched the wardrobe, the dresser, the laundry hamper, under the bed, under her covers…. They were gone.
Emma sighed internally, but she couldn't help but admire her mother's strategy and persistence. She wondered if this was her own influence. She had tried something similar once to try and convince Mary Margaret to wear something that didn't make her look like a grade school teacher.
She gave the dress another once-over. It wasn't the ridiculous tutu like dress that she had been offered yesterday – Mary Margaret seemed to be aiming for a compromise. It was mostly red, with a a white band at the waist and at the end of some slight puffy short sleeves.
Emma thought about just going downstairs in her pyjamas as an act of defiance, but ended up deciding the pyjamas were even more embarrassing than the dress. Also, a little part of her just wanted to make her mother/best friend smile. So she pulled on the dress, and the white tights, and the shiny black little shoes.
Emma plucked unhappily at the puffed sleeves and pulled a face at her reflection in the mirror; she very much looked the part of a four year old girl. Mary Margaret better appreciate this, Emma thought to herself.
She trudged down the stairs to the kitchen, where her family was already preparing breakfast. Henry spotted her first, and grinned.
"Nice outfit, Mom."
Emma pulled a face at him and headed for her stool. Mary Margaret and David turned then, and Emma could tell that Mary Margaret was trying very hard not to let out an 'aww!' or make some comment on how cute she looked.
"You're actually wearing it!" she said instead, unable to restrain a large grin from erupting on her face.
Emma shrugged in response, avoiding eye contact. Her mother's enthusiasm was infectious though, and she could help the brief smile the swept across her face. Mary Margaret was practically bouncing she was so happy.
Emma attempted to climb up the side of the stool, but it started to wobble under her weight and suddenly David was there, lifting her up and placing her on her seat. She glanced up at him and mumbled a quiet thanks.
"So," Emma changed the subject. "What's for breakfast?"