It was still dark when she woke. She'd been waking earlier and earlier, getting to know the sunrises in this part of the world. Funny to think that back in New York she'd rarely woken before the alarm. Sometimes she'd woken to a slammed door, Henry yelling, "Mom, I'll be late for school!" and impatient car horns reminding her rush hour had begun.
Now she woke early, in the quiet, with Henry breathing beside her in the loft, her parents breathing beneath her, everyone close around her. It didn't feel close though. Henry had no idea what was going on, still thinking they were on a fun trip to a wild place for her work. Her parents were sure she'd settle back in and become part of their world. She was the one who lay there alone looking at the light creeping along the edge of the rooftops, colouring the sky. All those colours, orange and pink and green, lurid, as bold as the florescent signs back in the city. With no one else to see them.
Sometimes she wondered if she'd lain there with a newborn Henry and watched the sunrise. Babies needed to be fed at all hours. But the truth was that it was blurred. All the fake history, that she told everyone protestingly was real – it was like a memory of a story someone had told her. When Hook had given her the potion it was like finally putting glasses on after years of not being able to see.
She got up, sat closer to the window, quiet so as not to disturb the boy. He was definitely sleeping better here without the playstation and the noise from the street, and all the exercise he did, learning to sail with Hook. Eating more than a forkful of eggs for breakfast – she'd swear he'd even grown an inch since returning to Storybrooke.
But she didn't want him to grow into this place. She didn't want him to return to the space everyone was making for him. And it wasn't that she didn't understand that it was unfair, unfair to Mary Margaret who'd taught him for years, and worse, for Regina. But she could know it was was unfair to them and still stubbornly refuse to care. The memory of his small white body on that hospital bed, and her utter grief at his loss, hardened her. He would not suffer like that again.
There was barely a hands-breadth of sky to be seen from the loft windows, with all the buildings surrounding them. Silently she dressed herself, padded downstairs and left a note on the counter for the lie-a-beds. Letting herself out, she made her way to the backstreets, to the shore. She wanted the sea and the sky above it.
There was no sea in the false memories Regina had planted – why would there be – no scent of salt on the wind, no splash and sigh of the waves. It wasn't something from her childhood, either. Beach holidays weren't a thing for kids in group homes. It had only been since coming to Storybrooke that she'd learned to love the sound of it. The crash of the rollers in storm, the changing colours from day to day, the cry of the gulls, the soft giving of sand beneath her feet. The slap as the water hit the side of a ship.
And maybe there'd been something exciting about sailing through the sky, all of them crewing the ship in a storm, something real and immediate that called to her. She'd always been physically fit, had enjoyed the feel of her body when she ran and lifted and climbed. It used to be the gym, where she kept herself fit for chasing after bond-breakers. Here it was keeping fit for running away from ogres. Using that strength for doing something like sailing was different, felt different.
Of course, they'd first sailed on Hook's ship without him. Neal had taken the ship, showed them what to do, when they'd fled New York for Maine, saving Gold, leaving Hook. He'd apologised to her once about that – not about hurting Gold, he'd never truly forgiven him for murdering Milah – but for laying hands on her, pushing her aside so that he could get at Rumplestiltskin. She'd laughed and reminded him she'd knocked him out cold. They were even.
The sky was no longer raging with colour, just a soft blue, with a few softer clouds above. No real breeze, and the sea itself was flat, or near enough. The fishing trawlers had left before dawn, with only a few vessels still docked. She couldn't see The Jolly Roger there, and she remembered that Hook had taken Henry out on a different boat, which didn't make much sense. But maybe his boat hadn't made it back, this curse. Emma dimly recognised that it would like leaving half of himself back in the Enchanted Forest, for him. Like his hand lying on the deck that day, when Rumple removed it.
There were no plans for sailing that day, though. Her parents wanted more time with Henry, and Mary Margaret had a plan for having breakfast at Granny's, at about the time Regina would happen by. They'd all be there, smiling and chatting about Storybrooke, creating a warm bubble around a slightly bemused Henry. In the meantime she'd be out trekking the woods, searching for the wicked witch before flying monkeys kidnapped them all. And wasn't that a thought she'd never expected to have to seriously ponder.
No David, no Mary Margaret, no Regina. How was it that she'd come back to her family home, her hometown, and she was still all alone? This was what she'd dreamed of, back in New York – or had she? In her imaginary life, had Henry been enough? She couldn't remember now, it was all mixed up, memory and Walsh and her walls, her walls had been up, Walsh had said so. Regina's magic hadn't been able to overcome that, at least. Between years of homelessness and Neal's betrayal she was damaged, she was stuck. There was no point even trying for a life here when she couldn't truly be part of it.
Emma realised she was walking along the docks, arms wrapped around herself, as though she was cold, as though she was a child. She forced herself to relax her shoulders, shove her hands in her pockets, look up a little at the sky and smile. No point signalling vulnerability to whatever curse-building evil one could be watching. She jogged down a set of steps onto another small beach, and kicked at the sand. Just on a morning walk, that was all.
The woods curved about this part of the bay, leading to a headland which jutted out to the sea. Emma took a quick run at a boulder, leapt onto its flat top, then stretched up to swing herself onto the rocky outcrop above. She enjoyed the warmth of her body moving, obeying her, making sense. Balancing along a path of stepping stones, she took another leap to a final boulder, then windmilled her arms frantically, nearly falling. Someone was already here.
"Swan!"
He stretched out his hook, and she curled her fingers around it, righting herself. She pasted a quick smile on her face. "Just overbalanced."
"Any news of the witch?" he demanded, looking over her with a quick gaze to ensure she wasn't hurt.
Emma shook her head. "No, nothing new. I was just looking around, that's all."
Hook slid his telescope back into the pocket in his long coat. "Aye. Not that she'd be out there swimming, being a witch, but best to get a good look at the sea in the morning, and this is a stunning vista."
It was, she supposed. The sparkle of sun on the sea, the way the land curved around, the different greens, the strip of yellow sand. No castles waving pennants in the distance, though, just a mast from a fishing-trawler on the horizon. She squinted, imagining a tiny green Oz somewhere hidden by a shell-covered beach, but she knew it wouldn't be so simple. For a moment she thought of storming along the yellow brick road, finding Walsh at the end of it, grabbing the collar of his shirt and screaming into his face, "I thought you liked me! I thought you knew me!"
How could he have? Even apart from the monkey thing, she hadn't really known herself.
"Ever been out there?"
Emma followed Hook's gaze to a small island about a mile off the coast. It looked rugged, untouched. "Do you think she could be hiding there?"
Hook shrugged. "From what we've seen, she can move from place to place at will. The sea-moat wouldn't stop her."
Emma's mouth curved for a moment. He used words differently to pretty much anyone else she'd known. Talked about the seal-road, the shepherd's sky, night-candles and mermaid tides. He knew the way the land and the sea worked from decades of careful observation, scribed nightly in his ship's log.
"I'll go out, take a look. Soon see if anyone's been there."
"Not on your own."
He turned, smirked. "Well, if you're offering -"
"I'll send you out with Regina," Emma said quickly. "She can probably pick up residual magical signs that I can't."
"Or you don't trust me."
She stilled, watching him. "I gave you my son for a day. I trusted you with him."
He inclined his head. "Then what does it say that you don't trust me with yourself?"
It was like a test she couldn't pass, a text she couldn't read. "I don't know."
"It says you don't trust yourself," Hook said quietly. "You're afraid you might lean on me. You might need me. You might, perchance, let one of your walls down."
She thrust a hand out against his chest, leaving him unbalanced this time. "You're wrong."
But he didn't fall, didn't follow her, didn't chase after her as she scrambled from the boulders and stones, sliding down to the beach, running back along the sand to the steps. He stood there and she could feel his gaze on her back as he waited, watching her, still and unmoving. Like a figurehead on a ship.
The sun was well up by the time she returned to the loft, and everyone had had their breakfast and had left on their adventures. She was alone. She didn't have to be, she could join them at Granny's, could be, right now, sitting on the boat and sailing over the waters with Hook. Wind in her hair, a small smile curving her mouth at his sayings. He'd be holding the rudder with his hook, looking at the compass in his hand. But she would be lost.