A/N: I hadn't really intended to do this (and I think the ending to the story proper is probably better) but I got a lot of requests, and at any rate, I wanted to address what's up with Emma/the Charmings. I had actually intended to do it in the story itself (the parade that set off the second chapter was originally going to be for Snow and Charming, and they'd find her there), but it wouldn't go where I wanted it to, and so...
ETA 10/18: Whoa all my italics disappeared at some point I don't understand what happened. Fixed now.
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She isn't trying to be incognito, but when she dresses down and walks through the streets instead of riding on a horse or in a carriage and pulls her hair back from her face, the people don't immediately recognize their queen, and mostly pass her right on by. It's a habit she's formed; she loves her husband and children more than anything, but sometimes, she needs to get away from them and think.
The shadow of Emma has never really gone away, and still lingers in Charming's eyes and Snow's lips.
She would be twenty-five today.
— Is, she tells herself, is twenty-five today, somewhere else in the world, somewhere where she's alive and happy and wasn't killed by Regina twenty-three years ago because they never found any proof and so Emma is not dead, she's celebrating her birthday with — with a home and a family and maybe a kid or two and even if she never finds them again, she's happy.
She's safe and she's happy.
Grumpy gets this look in his eyes when autumn comes around every year and Snow lights a lantern for Emma (a celebration, a memory, but mostly a beacon in case she's looking for a light to bring her home), and he tells her without telling her that maybe she should let her daughter's dea—disappearance go, to stop rubbing more salt in this old wound, but he doesn't — can't — understand. Charming is the only one who can understand, and he does, and so that's enough.
It's a milestone birthday — quarter of a century already, has it been that long? — and so she's going out of her way to find a nice lantern, one that will rise high and float far; it brings her farther out of the castle than usual, into the far reaches of the market district, near the harbor where all the foreign merchants sell their wares.
She's inspecting a sage-green paper lantern — she always liked green, matched her eyes just so — and admiring the delicate designs on the edge, when the person at the next stall speaks.
"I love that color," a voice says, and Snow turns to make some agreeable comment but everything comes to a screaming halt when she looks at the woman.
She's smiling and she's lovely, with blonde hair and green eyes and she's in her mid-twenties and she looks kind of like Snow and maybe it's just because of what day it is, but her heart speeds up and she swears it's —
"It is nice," she replies faintly, and the woman smiles, begins to leave, but she can't just — "It's for my daughter," she goes on hastily, a little desperately. The woman looks back at her in polite confusion, so Snow goes on, feeling both stupid and stupidly hopeful. "It's her birthday."
Really? she imagines. It's my birthday too, what a coincidence!
"She likes lanterns?" the woman asks instead, and joins her at the stall, and… "That's a sweet idea, letting her light a floating lantern on her birthday. I should remember that."
I should remember that. "You have a daughter?" she asks, desperate to know more about this woman (granddaughter?) and terrified to find out.
"I do," she replies, making a face. "She'll be eight next year, thinks she's All Grown Up now and we should be treating her like an adult."
Snow laughs. "Sounds about right," she agrees. "What's her name?"
"Julia," the woman says, and — maybe she's just making polite conversation, but Snow's manipulation works anyway — "What's your daughter's name?"
"Emma," she answers, and something finally goes right, for a given definition of right.
"Really? That's my name, too. Seems like there are a lot of Emmas around here," she muses. "How old is she?"
"Twenty-five," Snow replies, and Emma tilts her head.
"I guess the lanterns are a tradition?"
"Sort of," she says softly. "Did your parents do anything like that with you?"
Emma's expression gets a little wooden, and maybe Snow's heart picks up faster. "No," she replies. "My parents… aren't around."
"They're dead?"
"Look, don't take this personally," Emma says, giving her a strange look. "But I'm not really into having deep conversations with strangers, you know? No offense."
"Oh, no," she gasps, holding her hands up in supplication. "I didn't mean to — I'm sorry."
The other woman nods and says, "It's fine, it was nice meeting you," in this final tone as she begins to walk away and Snow's heart seizes up in her chest and her feet are following the woman without listening to her brain.
"Look, I — " she starts, and Emma turns to her, now obviously uncomfortable. "I'm sorry for all the questions, but… My daughter, Emma, she… was kidnapped twenty-three years ago. I know it's… it's a long shot, but I light the lantern every year in the hope that… she'll see it and… come home."
"I'm sorry for your loss," the woman says hesitantly, and Snow knows she should stop but she can't.
"I don't mean to — but she was blonde and had green eyes and you look kind of like her and I don't mean to come off as crazy or anything, but…" She rifles through her pockets intently, looking for the old portrait she always carries with her, and is honestly kind of surprised when she finds it and holds it out and the woman hasn't taken the opportunity to run the hell away from her. "This… this is her."
"She's very pretty," Emma says, taking and inspecting it and how can she not see the resemblance? "I'm sorry, but I don't think I'm her."
How can she not?
"You're sure?" she breathes. "You said your parents weren't around…?" She seizes on the look of uncertainty on the woman's face. "Your birthday is coming up, isn't it?"
"I grew up in a completely different country, lady," she says bluntly, but looks very unsure and vaguely disturbed, like she's honestly thinking about it. But as Snow is about to point out that Emma was kidnapped and almost certainly taken to another country, they're interrupted by a young girl, trailed by a man with the universal facial expression of 'long-suffering babysitter'.
"Mom mom mom mom," she squeals, and she knows. She knows, this is her granddaughter, running up to her daughter, they're here, this is them —
"What what what what?" Emma replies, barely hiding a grin as Julia wrinkles her nose in annoyance; Snow smiles to herself.
"I tried to catch her, but she's… fast," the babysitter explains, but is cut off by the little girl.
"You've gotta see this cake!" she gushes, tugging on her mother's arm, and Emma turns back to her, holding out the portrait and breaking her heart.
"Here, I'm sorry for…" Emma says, but seems at a loss for the rest of the sentence. "I hope your daughter comes back to you."
Snow takes the portrait numbly and Julia looks at her. "Who are you?"
"I'm no one," she replies in a voice barely above a whisper; it's as loud as she can speak without breaking. "Just shopping."
Emma shoots her an apologetic look before letting her daughter drag her off to look at cakes — birthday cakes, probably, because Emma was taken from her parents and never knew her exact birthday so she probably just picked a date that was roughly correct and now they're planning to celebrate her non-specific birthday and there isn't any place for parents — there isn't any place for Snow — in her life.
She stands there for a long time, staring at the place they disappeared, holding the portrait.
She doesn't tell Charming about the encounter.
.
It's a little after dusk when Emma sees the green lantern floating up in the sky above the castle, and realizes where she remembers seeing that woman's face before.
"Are you all right?" Killian asks, coming up behind her and placing a hand on the small of her back.
All these years, her parents were lighting lanterns in the hope that she'd follow them home… but that's ridiculous. It was just a sad woman in the market who hadn't given up hope that her daughter was out there somewhere, and just because some (all) of the details match up doesn't mean anything.
There are a lot of Emmas around here.
"Yeah," she replies, and it's something of a lie. "Let's have this amazing cake before Julia loses her mind."
He laughs, they celebrate her maybe-birthday, and Emma dreams of a beautiful woman with black hair and a dashing man with a brilliant smile always directed at her.
.
It really isn't a good way to convince herself or anyone else that she's doing fine and not going mad, but that woman and her daughter won't stop haunting Snow, so she uses (abuses) her power to track her down, finally finding out that she's on a ship in the harbor at the moment; without hesitating or changing clothes or bothering to tell anyone where she's going, she jumps onto a horse and rides down to the wharf because maybe she's never really learned how to let things go.
She gets a lot of odd looks because today she isn't dressed down and really looks the part, but the docks are so crowded that the net effect is invisibility; it's mostly a good thing.
(Maybe Emma won't recognize her as the queen.)
The horse sets her a bit apart from the crowd, although there are enough high- and middle-class merchants with carts and carriages lumbering about that she isn't completely out-of-place at a glance, but the dockworker she stops for directions still looks at her like she's got several heads, and is currently growing more.
"I'm looking for a brig," she says bluntly, and the man blinks.
"I'll need you to be more specific, milady," he replies carefully, as if worried to be honest with someone so obviously aristocratic.
Snow sucks in a deep, slightly embarrassed breath through her teeth. In retrospect, she wishes she had asked for more detail about this ship she's looking for. "It — she has someone I'm looking for, that's all I know. A blonde woman, very pretty, green eyes, young daughter?"
The man's polite smile doesn't waver or become any more knowing. "Can't say I'm familiar with her. Is she a merchant? Soldier, civilian, pirate, maybe?"
"I don't know," she answers, wincing. "I don't think she's a merchant. Civilian, probably."
"Well, most of your passenger ships dock further down east this way," he explains, gesturing in that direction. "They might know who you're looking for, at least. My lady," he adds hastily, but she hadn't even noticed the vague disrespect.
"Thank you," she says shortly, and almost rides off before she remembers how manners work on this side of town and tosses him a coin without bothering to see his reaction or even what specific kind of coin she just threw at him.
East, to the passenger ships — would she be docking or disembarking? Probably disembarking, Snow thinks, since she was in the market yesterday, which would place her leaving at first light tomorrow; she has to find her tonight.
She has to know.
She's fairly sure that she isn't passing any brigs — although her knowledge of ship classes leaves a great many things to be desired — as she rides down the east road that hugs the docks, eyes so focused on the water that she's ignoring the people in front of her — she's on a horse, they can go around — and wondering exactly where the line between "merchant docks" and "passenger docks" is, and how to tell the difference.
It's a bit humiliating, and a lot frustrating, and so when she stops to ask directions a second time, it comes out in more of a growl than a polite query.
"Excuse me," she says sharply, catching a sailor off-guard; the fear in his eyes heavily suggests that his ship is involved in illicit activities, but at the moment, she doesn't care. "I'm looking for a woman, can you help me?"
"I… dunno?" he replies, in a thick accent. "Maybe?"
She pulls out a silver coin and holds it up, a taunt and a promise. "Her name is Emma. She's blonde and has a young daughter."
"Lots o' girls named Emma 'round these parts," the sailor answers, eyeing the coin as she palms it again, and starts to say, "You might wanna — " but she isn't paying attention to him anymore — at the description, a young woman passing by turned sharply toward her.
"You know who I'm talking about," she says, leaping off her horse to catch her before she bolts, and barely succeeds. "Please, I need to find her."
"Listen, lady, I have no idea who you are or what you want," the girl replies through gritted teeth, tugging subtly at her arm.
"I don't mean any harm," she explains hastily, and her voice raises an unwilling octave as she does, torn between fear that the girl will break free and run and a belligerent hope that tightens her fingers on her arm. "I just need to find her — please."
The last word seems to have gotten to the girl: her expression becomes a little less horrified and a little more compassionate, although she still looks unsettled. "I know someone who fits that description," she replies reluctantly. "Why are you looking for her?"
This brings Snow up uncomfortably short; what is she supposed to say? I met her in the market yesterday and now I've become convinced that she's my long-lost daughter and I need to find her and convince her too but I also can't alienate her before she can come back to me and I can't let her go?
"I met her in the market yesterday," she settles on. "She dropped something, I'm trying to return it. It seemed valuable," she adds, as a quick explanation for why this would matter at all.
"Well, you can give it to me," the girl replies, and Snow curses internally. "I'll make sure she gets it."
"I… wanted to ask her about it," she says desperately, and it's so obvious it hurts. The girl isn't even sort of fooled.
"Yeah, I'm not buying that," she deadpans, and tugs her arm again. "Please let go," she says evenly, in a tone of voice that suggests she can — and will — force Snow to do so if she doesn't comply.
She starts to panic a little bit — if she had paused and thought more rationally about this before coming, maybe she wouldn't be alienating her only chance to see Emma again — but is saved by the woman herself.
"Ruby, there you are. Victor's been — " she starts, trailing off when her eyes land on Snow, who hastily drops this Ruby's arm, suddenly deeply uncomfortable. This must look terrible, she must be so regretting her decision to make small talk with the crazy woman at the other stall. But her expression comes over a different sort of odd. "You again," she says bluntly, and Snow blinks.
"Yeah," she replies, wincing, "me again. I'm sorry, I know how I must look to you, but…" she trails off when she can't come up with an excuse or explanation.
"Emma, who is this?" Ruby whispers, and Emma looks between the two of them.
"I met her in the market," she answers. "It's all right, don't worry about me. Vic has been looking everywhere for you, something about a dinner obligation?"
Ruby gasps. "Oh, crap, I completely forgot," she winces, but looks back to Snow before moving. "You're sure it's okay? I can hang around if…"
"No, it's fine," Emma says, and something rekindles inside her — if she hasn't been thinking about it, about their conversation, if she hasn't been asking herself if maybe it isn't true after all, she would be running in the opposite direction, or at least not agreeing to be alone with the obsessive lunatic from the other day. "Really." When Ruby finally, reluctantly, leaves, she turns back to Snow. "Want a drink?"
"Absolutely," she replies immediately, and suppresses a wince at the eagerness of her tone. She feels so pathetic; if this woman isn't really her Emma, she might just die from disappointment, and she can't do this to herself, she shouldn't be giving herself so much false hope.
But she does it anyway, following Emma (who gives her horse, and then Snow, an odd look like she's wondering who the hell this woman really is) to a tavern a couple of blocks from the water. "I'm pretty sure they have a stable around this way," she muses, but uncertainly; she doubts Emma has ever had any need for such a thing.
"Right, thank you," she says, resisting the urge to grab Emma by the arm to prevent her from running away the moment her back is turned. It ends up being unnecessary —she goes with her to the stable and stands awkwardly at the door while she talks to the boy about taking care of her horse and pays him to do so. When she's finished and meets her back at the doorway, they stand in strained silence for a moment.
"Right," Emma says lamely, and runs a hand through her hair. "Let's go inside, it's getting cold."
"Of course."
The tavern is nice and loud and warm; the sun is only now beginning to set, the tables are weighted down with food and ale and wine, woodsmoke blurs the air and mutes the conversations into a dull, indistinct roar, and they find a semi-secluded table near the fire and order a carafe of wine.
"I already ate," Emma apologizes, and Snow hasn't but she doesn't care either, so she just smiles.
"It's fine, wine is fine."
Gods, she sounds like such a fool.
The awkward silence doesn't end until the wine arrives and they've both taken a good two large gulps from their own glasses. "I'm sorry," Snow sighs. "I don't mean to be… obsessive, but…"
"It's all right," Emma says around another sip. "If it was my daughter I was looking for, I'd probably be acting just like you." She looks around for a moment as though hoping a wild conversation will fly by and make the atmosphere less horribly uncomfortable, and finally seems to have some luck. "Who are you, if you don't mind my asking?"
Oh, gods, she never even told her her name. "Oh, I'm sorry — " stop saying that " — I'm Snow. Snow White. The 'white' part is unnecessary, though."
Emma smiles, amused, but doesn't recognize that she's the queen, and she's glad for it. "Snow White? Lemme guess, you were born in winter?"
"Early spring, actually," she replies drolly, raising an eyebrow and smirking. "But it was apparently a terrible winter."
She snickers. "Maybe if my next kid is born after a typhoon I'll name it Stormy," she drawls, and Snow can't help but laugh.
"I know, it's a… unique name," she concedes, and resists the urge to ask about the 'next kid' bit. "But it's a fine tradition, I can't see why everyone doesn't follow it. When we could have Stormy and Sunny and Slushy, I don't know why we give our children such blase names like Emma and Julia."
Emma laughs at that, and Snow glows inside; a much more amicable silence falls. Finally, Snow sighs.
"I really don't mean to come off like a… lunatic, or anything," she says quietly. "I know, I'm just this strange, sad, delusional woman you're probably regretting ever talking to, and… I'm not asking anything of you, I'm really not, but…" She glances away and takes a deep breath. "I want you to be my Emma, I really do. Not just because it would mean I'd found her, but… you're happy," she explains, voice cracking. "You have a family and friends, you seem to be well-off enough… I can't believe that my daughter is dead, and I don't want to believe that she's miserable, do you understand?"
It takes her a moment to respond, during which Snow can't look at her; she feels so pathetic, but maybe another mother can empathize with her even when she sounds creepy like this.
"You want me to lie to you," she infers, and Snow bites her tongue.
"I want it to be the truth," she says bluntly, "but if it isn't, then… yes." She takes a deep breath and finally looks across the table again; Emma hasn't run yet, at least. "But… are you absolutely sure? How?"
Emma looks away this time, and sighs heavily, finishing her glass and pouring herself another before answering. "Do you have any idea… Every abandoned child wishes their parents would show up out of the blue someday," she explains reluctantly, "with stories about how they were taken away from them and they loved them and always wanted them… I dreamed about it, Killian dreamed about it, everyone dreams about that. But it doesn't happen."
"But it did to one girl," Snow cuts in fervently, because that's such a thin reason, she had thought it would be something so much more concrete like a locket with a portrait of her parents or something but if the only reason she thinks it isn't true is because it's never happened to anyone she knows… "It happened to one girl. Why can't it be you?"
"I'm not that special," she snaps, and Snow frowns.
"You are to someone," she replies quietly. "More than one person, right? Your husband and daughter, at least."
"That's different. I meant, I'm not someone's long-lost baby girl they've been dreaming of for twenty-three years."
"Why can't you be?" she asks, and goes on hastily because she can see the frustration all over Emma's face. "You don't have any memories of your parents? Any at all? Maybe a dream?"
If she sounds desperate, it's because she is; but Emma opens her mouth to speak — something clearly biting and negative, judging from her expression — but then closes it again and glances away, hesitating.
She was so young, any memory she might have would be fuzzy at best, enough to be disconcerting but not enough to convince herself. The look on her face…
But then — "No," she answers finally, draining her glass and standing up to leave, clearly done with this conversation and even more done with Snow.
She stands hastily, hands up in supplication. "I'm sorry, I really am, I don't mean to — "
"Will you stop apologizing?" Emma snaps, and Snow winces in spite of herself. "Look, I get it, your daughter was kidnapped and I understand how you feel, but it doesn't have anything to do with — "
"Snow!"
It's either perfect timing or the absolute worst possible timing; Charming is coming toward them, looking worried as hell. "Charming," she winces. "Hi."
"I've been looking everywhere for you, what's going on?" he asks, deeply concerned, and places a hand on her shoulder. "The stablehand said you just grabbed a horse and vanished."
"Oh, I…" she starts, but isn't sure how to explain. She glances to the place where Emma should have been, only to find that she's still there, staring at Snow's husband, color draining from her face. "I was just having a drink with…" She doesn't want to say Emma and get his hopes up but she doesn't have any other description… but the way she's looking at him —
The way she's looking at him like she's seeing a specter from a dream.
He turns to her and pauses just like Snow paused yesterday, and Emma reaches out to him, hand hovering over his chin. "Smile," she says faintly, and tears spring to Snow's eyes.
Charming was always smiling at Emma, like they had some inside joke or secret, and the scar on his chin gives him such a distinctive smile.
She's right.
She's right.
She's right.
"…with Emma," she finishes in a whisper.
.
"Wait, what?" Killian asks incredulously, and she runs her hands through her hair.
"My parents," she gasps, looking around as though the answers to the questions she can't even fully comprehend will spring up from the floor. "My — my parents. Are the king and queen. And they're here. I — what the hell am I supposed to do?"
"Here," he repeats bluntly. "As in, 'in this city' or 'on the deck'?
"In the castle," she replies, sinking onto the nearest seat-shaped object. "I just — ran into this woman at the market yesterday and she thought I — I mean, we do look alike, but I thought… it's not like you and Julia, it's not that obvious… but she… really believed it."
"How do you know?"
She sighs. "You remember that dream I told you about?"
"It wasn't a dream," he infers, nodding and running a hand over his face. "What do y — what do they want you to do?"
"Have dinner with them tonight," she answers, and looks up at him; his expression is oddly closed. "All three of us."
He raises an eyebrow and mutters, "I don't foresee that going particularly well for me."
Emma laughs at that, although it's a little desperate. "That might just be the most self-aware thing I've ever heard you say."
.
Killian, in spite of every vaguely sincere attempt to clean up his look or properly shave, can never quite hide the aura of "rogue" that's always enveloped him, but he does concede to a white shirt and red vest (which makes Emma uncomfortable for a number of reasons, beginning with how odd he looks in white and red and ending with how good he looks in white and red).
Julia is much easier to handle, because Julia has decided — even before all of this — that she wants to be the queen of the pirate lords and insists upon dressing accordingly, so the only trouble is convincing her to favor the "queen" part and leave her toy sword behind (which she ultimately has to be bribed into doing, because "what if they attack and nobody else can defend us?").
Emma is a different matter entirely, not just because it's her parents and she honestly can't remember the last time she wore a dress, but also because it's much easier to forgive a man for looking a bit dangerous — particularly if he's a man who's sworn to cherish and defend her (even if there aren't any official documents on the matter) — but princesses are supposed to be demure, aren't they? And dress all… fluffy.
She has never in her life dressed in anything involving taffeta or a pannier and, in fact, isn't even sure what those even are.
Gods, she thinks, looking through the wardrobe, what the hell do you even wear to a dinner with your long-lost-recently-found-oh-by-the-way-also-royal parents?
"Well, you can only hide the truth for so long, love," Killian says, shrugging and lounging in his chair like usual, and it's only because Emma knows him so well that she sees how high-strung he is at the moment; is he really that nervous about this? "May as well be straight with them."
"I like this one," Julia declares, holding up a somewhat scandalous red number that only flirts with the word "appropriate." (She makes a mental note to discuss her daughter's disconcerting taste in fashion with Killian later.)
"It would make an impression," Killian drawls, barely controlling a snicker. "And we'd match."
"You aren't funny," she grumbles, but there isn't anything better on-hand, and so the red dress it is.
.
The king — whose name is James, except "it's actually David, long story, evil adoptive father, long-lost twins, you get the idea" — takes an immediate and mutual adoring to Julia, not unlike Killian's first experience meeting her, but seems wary of the man himself, to the surprise of exactly no one. And maybe it's because Killian has only known his daughter for a year, but he seems disgruntled by how well (and how quickly) she gets along with her grandfather.
"Didn't she decide she loved you more than anything after knowing you for five minutes?" Emma challenges quietly, and he concedes the point with a jealous and unwilling hmph.
This castle is bigger than the count's was, and furnished better, and Killian has to physically grab Julia and make her hold his hand so she doesn't bolt off to explore (which Snow finds endearing and David finds annoying, although that might be because he wants to be the one holding her hand).
She pouts the whole way into the dining hall, but forgets about it entirely when she sees the table.
Emma is positive they don't usually keep it this fancied-up — no doubt they've gone all-out to welcome her here — but the effect is overwhelming: a large, glittering crystal chandelier, silver tableware, enough food to feed an entire… everyone who is already seated at the table.
Either the king and queen have been really busy in the last twenty-three years, or they just really like electing people to their court; at least thirty people are there, and they all stand when she walks in, and she almost runs away because no.
Julia, on the other hand, seems to find it perfectly fitting that they respect her position as Pirate Queen.
Oddly enough, though, this gives her some kind of solace; at least one of them is comfortable here — although a quick glance at Killian sees him looking, if not in his element, then at least not out of it, and she thinks of the day she met him. He glances at her and shrugs as if to say, hey, what can you do?
I can run in the opposite goddamn direction, she thinks. That's what I can do.
"I know this is a bit… overwhelming," Snow says in the biggest understatement she's heard since 'he'll be back in no time', taking her arm and guiding her to an empty seat at the near end, "but you'll get — I mean, it's not as scary at it looks. They're all family, or may as well be."
You'll get used to it, that's what she was about to say; they all know it, and Killian stiffens almost imperceptibly.
The dinner itself goes well enough, with enough polite small talk and vague introductions — and enough of David having to explain to Julia what, exactly, she's putting on her plate — to keep things light, if tense; Killian doesn't talk much.
It starts to go downhill when the food has been eaten and the desserts are served and the conversation goes exactly where it's been inching toward since she met with Snow in that tavern:
"So, tell us about yourself," Snow says, with both eagerness and trepidation, and she blinks, glancing sideways at Killian.
"Um," is all she can get out before Julia answers for them:
"Mom stole an apple!" she replies, grinning, because she thinks it's the best and most romantic thing she's ever heard, but Emma just wants to hide; there's the first secret she didn't want them to know (her life as a thief on the streets) that's out of the bag. "And Dad saved her from it."
David blinks and Snow tilts her head in polite confusion, leaving Emma to clarify. "She means the consequences of the stealing. It wasn't some demonic, man-eating apple."
"Yeah, and he took her in with his crew," Julia goes on, and Killian buries his face in his palm.
"We need to teach you how to tell a story, love," he says quietly, and she glances at him, completely unfazed.
"But that's the best part," she replies, genuinely confused as to why that's not necessarily a good thing.
"You're supposed to start at the beginning."
"But the beginning is sad."
"Okay," Emma announces abruptly, "dinner has been great, maybe we should move this conversation somewhere else and maybe it's past someone's bedtime."
"You said I could stay up an extra half-hour if I left my sword at home!" she cries in a rush, and Emma almost misses Killian's exasperated clarification to her parents of toy sword, toy sword.
"Yeah, except you didn't," she counters, reaching over and snatching the little wooden sword from Julia's boot, where she must have thought she had been very clever to hide it; she looks absolutely devastated.
"How'd you know?" she pouts, but Snow answers before she can.
"Everybody hides weapons in their boots, sweetie," she replies in a slightly strained voice, resting her chin on her fist. "It's the first place someone'll look."
"Seriously?" Emma asks, both taken completely off-guard and a little annoyed. Snow shrugs.
"What? It's sound advice."
She blinks.
Who the hell are these people?
.
She did not think the 'calling in Julia's bedtime' thing all the way through — what the hell was she planning to do, leave her daughter in some strange room in some strange place? — which causes some awkward maneuvering before it's finally decided that David will escort her back to the ship, where Ruby will take care of her.
This buys her some time — although not as much as she might have hoped, given the proximity of the harbor to the castle — to come up with some kind of parent-friendly version of her life story and coordinate it with Killian through meaningful glances and shrugs.
She has a lot of trouble on that front.
.
Snow can't stop fidgeting.
She wishes her granddaughter hadn't had to leave so early (although she understands — the girl is seven, after all, and it's getting late), because she only had one other child, a son, and never had the chance to spend time with her own little girl… but then, if all she knows about Emma's story is that the beginning is sad, it's probably for the best that she not be around for the whole thing.
If Emma is even going to tell her the whole thing; family or no, they're still strangers.
And worse, she won't be staying.
She almost slipped up and assumed that Emma would, of course, choose to stay with her long-lost parents, but that's… Emma has her own life, and this isn't it.
Maybe they could all stay? David would get over his protective instinct and stop glaring at Emma's husband (they are married, right? She doesn't wear a ring, but they certainly act like it) and — Julia would love it, obviously, she's at just the perfect age to be told she's a princess —
But Emma looks so uncomfortable; Killian looks more at-ease in this setting than she does, although he may simply be hiding it better.
(She isn't sure how she feels about him yet. He's very charming and witty, which can be lovely or dangerous; his appearance suggests the latter, but his interaction with Julia and Emma suggests the former and she doesn't really know how much of her reservation is based on the fact that it's Emma — her baby girl — he's with.)
"So…" she starts, looking around the drawing room where they've relocated; Killian is watching Emma, seated stiffly on the edge of the chair, out of the corner of his eye. He almost looks afraid. "What brings you here? I mean, what attracted you to our lovely city?"
"We took some damage in a storm," Emma answers tightly, running a hand through her hair and wincing as though this is somehow a poor answer. "This was the nearest port."
"Needed supplies, anyway," Killian chimes in, and then, in a lighter voice, "as well as cake. One of the great regrets of my life is telling Julia that there is more than one variety of cake."
It eases the mood somewhat; Emma laughs and relaxes a little, to Snow's relief.
"She has a sweet tooth, I take it?"
"That's like saying a typhoon is kind of windy," Emma replies in a drawl, and shoots Killian a sideways glare. "And isn't helped by someone always giving her candy."
"Oh, I'm aware," he declares, lightning-fast, and turns purposefully to Snow, "my lady the queen should show more restraint. It's a terrible habit, she shouldn't enable it."
Snow chokes on her wine and there's a tense half-second where Grumpy is prepared to come to her defense — because how dare this strange man speak to a queen like this — but then she starts laughing and the tension passes. Maybe it's not the funniest or most proper joke ever, but it shatters the uncomfortable atmosphere, and she could almost hug him for it.
Emma, if possible, looks even more relieved than Snow feels, and elbows him in the ribs even as she laughs.
.
In the end, the story she gives them is only the barest of bones; she emphasizes the "church" part of her childhood more than the "brothel" part (even though the church had much, much less to do with her), downplays the amount of thieving that went into their survival, and completely leaves out Killian's arrest and its aftermath, implying that he's been here from the start.
If it bothers him, he doesn't show it… but then, he wouldn't.
He is distant when they get back to the ship, and it unsettles her — he was fine in the drawing room, interjecting with some light joke every time the conversation threatened to go in directions she really didn't want it to go, which, while transparent, was greatly appreciated by everyone. She thought he was just uncomfortable with her parents at the start, warming up to them and the situation as the night wore on, but now…
"I'm sorry," she says in a low voice, and he raises an eyebrow. "For… leaving so much out. I just didn't want them to… you know…"
"No, that was for the best, I suppose," he replies with a dismissive shrug. "Nothing to apologize for."
"So what's wrong?"
He hesitates; it gives him away. "Nothing," he answers easily, and starts to go on with some excuse, but she cuts him off.
"You're lying. You've been tense all night."
It's a long moment before he answers, and he doesn't look at her when he does. "Nice place they have, your parents," he says ambiguously, idly reorganizing the desk. "Nice people too, simply overwhelmed with joy at your return."
"Is this… are you jealous?" she asks incredulously, because Killian has (with only one exception) never mentioned or referenced his own parents. "I know it's bizarre, and — really rare, but…"
"This has nothing to do with them," he cuts in, voice carefully even, but still without looking at her.
She's about to ask him why the hell he brought them up then, but it clicks suddenly — his discomfort with the whole situation, his unwillingness to let David hold Julia's hand, the way he stiffened when Snow made that comment about Emma getting used to it, nice place they have…
"I'm not staying with them, Killian," she says slowly. "We can just... visit whenever we're here."
"Hmm," is his only response for a moment. "She liked it there, with them," he goes on, still in that careful voice, like he isn't sure he won't scream if he lets any emotion at all slip out. "Wouldn't want for anything."
"She already doesn't want for anything," Emma snaps. "And she doesn't like it there more than she loves it here. With you."
She wants to shake him for the self-doubt at the same time that she — unwillingly — understands it.
After all, she's chosen stability for Julia over (waiting for) him before.
"It's a stable home, with her real family," he continues, voice dropping, and he finally looks to her, expression unreadable; maybe afraid, maybe wounded, maybe bitter. "Perfect environment for a young girl."
"Please," she says dismissively, waving a hand. "If there's anything I've learned from you, it's that blood doesn't define family." He starts to say something else, but she steps forward and crosses her arms. "No, stop it, we're not going anywhere. Gods," she mutters, almost as an afterthought, "I'd have to enlist a whole army to pry her away from you, you're her hero."
For a moment, the atmosphere between them remains tense as he searches her face for something, some hint of dishonesty; finally, after what seems like forever, he relaxes, and then winces. "In that case, we should discuss the definition of 'hero' with her."
"I am beginning to worry about her worldview," Emma admits, gesturing to her dress. "She picked this out, after all."
"Well, it does look good on you, I must say," he murmurs, sliding a hand around her waist and pulling her closer.
"That's part of what concerns me," she replies. "If she shares your fashion sense, we're gonna have a lot of trouble in a few years."
He pauses, as though the thought has just occurred to him. "Oh, that won't do."
She laughs at the look of extreme discomfort on his face, and steps closer, running her hands down his chest. "We'll worry about that later. Right now… there are more important things on my mind."
"Oh?" he replies, raising an eyebrow in amusement.
"Yeah, you," she murmurs, leaning up to his ear and undoing the first button on his vest, "should wear red more often."
He smirks and pulls her a little closer to him, and if his fingers are a little tighter on her hip than usual, if his kisses a little more intense, she pretends not to notice.