A/N: I love the dynamic of August and Emma, and there isn't nearly enough of them together on the show, so I couldn't resist continuing this story. I don't know how long it'll be, but I do have more that I plan to add. This chapter is sort of filler, but I really enjoyed writing it. Hope you enjoy!

August Wayne Booth was a story. From the name, to his lies, to the idea that he was no longer made from wood. He was not human in the conventional sense; he was not actually born of human parents, he did not contain any hereditary genes or traits. August was created, new and beautiful. But he was not born. Yet, of every person in every tiny corner of Storybrooke, he was still the most human of them all.

Everything about him, every quality and emotion and action was human, exaggerated. He could play the living game so well that sometimes he genuinely forgot his unusual past. The temptations of the world called to him, and he answered. He made mistakes, learned from some of them, and then made some more. He stumbled through life pretending that he knew what he was doing, when in reality, inside, he was still that scared young boy who had been thrust into a strange, new world he never should have entered. His emotions and his instincts were strong, while his head did less decision-making than he led others to believe.

But making people believe was his specialty. From the moment he stepped out of that tree and carried Emma to the road, storytelling became his main language. How else was he supposed to survive? How else was he supposed to help baby Emma survive? He had been smart enough to know that things were different here. Smart enough to know that the truth would get him in trouble. Smart enough to know that his lies could not hurt him in the world without magic. Young enough, naive enough to convince himself that they were not lies, but stories. Bended truths. Exaggerated truths. Delayed truths.

It became a coping mechanism and a defense for August to spin a tale to keep himself from harm. His will to live and his fear drove his actions. It did not take long for August to become a professional storyteller. At least, that was how he liked to see himself.

Story was such a nice word. Pleasant. Compelling. Persuasive. No one likes to be deceived. But people enjoy listening to stories. As of late, though, he had run out of stories to tell. And he had run out of the arrogance that would allow him to disguise his lies in such a way. Plus, he knew that Emma had no interest in whatever tale he might be able to weave. She could see through him.

He had chosen, probably the worst person to try and fool.

"August, I know I promised not to bug you, but I'm worried. If you're still feeling sick, I'll contact Blue for you." Emma's eyes were full of genuine concern as she spoke, and August knew he didn't deserve it.

"I can't… it's nothing Emma, okay?" He hoped the desperation in his voice would allow her to drop the subject.

"August, it isn't nothing. You know that I don't need to see your nose grow to be able to tell when you're lying."

You can tell when everyone is lying. He thought. Why is it so important to interrogate me? Why can't I just tell you the truth? Why are you so damn intimidating all of a sudden?

Emma's icy stare softened suddenly. It was as though she could see the internal struggle he was having. Not that it was too hard - he stood before her with a conflicted look on his face. She took a breath.

"Okay. Look, I'm sorry for pestering you about it. I guess I don't need to know every detail of your life, I just… I don't know. I had the feeling it had something to do with me and I got worried."

"Emma, you have nothing to be worried about with me when it comes to you."

"So it has nothing to do with me?" She hoped with the question that she could weasel her way into August's thoughts.

He paused for a moment, trying to find the words. Don't fail me now.

"It is not anything you should be worried about."

"That did not answer my question," she raised her brows. "What do you know about me that I don't?"

"I know," August sighed, "that you're not going to stop bugging me until you get what you want. Seriously though, can you give the third-degree a rest for perhaps, a day?"

"I don't know. Can't make you any promises, Woody."

"Oh God, please don't call me that."

"Why not, partner? I'll stop when you talk to me."

"Emma, come on."

"What, is there a snake in your boot or somethin'?"

August smirked, feeling like himself again for a moment, "Not in my b-"

He was interrupted by the door opening.

"My boy!" He heard. August would know that voice anywhere.

"Papa," he managed to choke out. Suddenly he could feel tears in his eyes. There was so much he wanted to say. So much he wanted to explain. So much to apologize for. Any words he could gather disappeared, though, as his father hugged him. "Papa."