Author's Notes: Minimal character changes were made to Henry, Ava, and Nicholas to fit this story but I was surprised by how little needed adjusting. During a re-watch, I couldn't get out of my head how much Ava and Nicholas looked / acted like Captain Swan kids — thus this story was born. I'm excited to share it with you.

~ Three Hearts ~

Phoenix — Minimum Security Prison

10 years ago...

Seventeen-year-old Emma Swan used to sit in her cell and stare at the little stick, but it was just a piece of plastic. Hearing "pregnant" and "baby" directed at her didn't give the stick power or importance. What was she supposed to do with those foreign words, conjure up a miracle?

She had several check-ups in a boring room with sparsely anything to distract her, apart from the stern look of a supervising guard. Then a doctor with a gruff voice asked her to lie on some sort of table or bed. Rhythmic beating rushed air into her lungs, as he told her there were three hearts. Not a baby with three hearts, as she'd assumed, but three babies. Three individual lives growing inside her, getting bigger and more real every day.

Months passed in a daze — her mind never quietening, as if to compete with the beating of her own heart. Was it trying to escape, too?

Emma fidgeted with her left ankle, frowning at the bite of its metal cuff. Looking over her enormous stomach, her legs propped up for the big moment, she wondered how they expected her to run away.

The room was chilly, clinical, and far too white.

She couldn't move, the pressure on her back increasing. Strangers rushed around her, far more prepared than she was. Machines beeped in tune to the ticking wall clock, which showed it was nearly eight. Her birthday was almost over, as three others were about to begin.

She was eighteen. Emma didn't feel older, unless she'd buried it in contractions and fear. Though she'd learned not to expect any celebration of her birthday, neither had she thought it would remain the worst day of her life.

The doctor's smile was genuine. He encouraged and praised her for whatever Emma was doing. In the sterile-stinking room, her only purpose was to breathe or push when they told her to, even as her body was at war with itself.

Muscles below her ribs wanted the babies out, but her heart's strength tried to keep them safe inside. Her belly was a cocoon; until she pushed them out, the babies were hers. Emma didn't want to lose them too. One baby needed things she couldn't give, but three robbed her of any chance to try. They had a future outside the room, which she couldn't be a part of. She couldn't be a mother.

Pushing was emotional pain turned physical, as it ripped through her with merciless force. It was the most exhausting thing she'd ever done — and she'd run across a city once when she was ten, into an abrupt forest the night she'd met him.

'It's a girl, Emma.'

Her body fought everything — even itself. Her daughter's cry snapped the strings of will holding Emma together. She trapped tears behind her eyelids, and released a shaky breath.

How was she sweating in a room so cold? The flickering lights were distracting enough. The little girl cried in the background, released from the cocoon of her mother's warmth and safety.

Emma gripped the handles of her narrow bed, willing the plastic to break too. How dare it not. She had to push out two more babies, and watch as a stranger took them away forever. Did they know what was coming; was her daughter crying because she'd figured it out?

She dug deep for the bravery to keep going, but found none inside her. She couldn't give them away. She also couldn't keep them. It split her heart and mind in the middle. How was she even still alive?

She couldn't see her daughter. Minutes ticked by, and the baby's cries elevated the room's pace. Emma was told to push again. She had to force it. Was the room getting colder?

'A boy.'

Why was the stupid doctor making this harder?

She didn't want to know what she was losing. A daughter. A son. Their cries flooded her ears, so close — yet she couldn't reach to soothe them. She wanted to hold her babies and never let go. Scenarios of being homeless, hungry, and out in the cold were her only comfort; nightmares of her memories and tainted imagination kept the babies at a safe distance.

The third one took longer and doubled the agony tearing through her. Her body realized the consequences of emptying its cocoon. Emma screamed until her throat stung. She could no longer tell the difference between sweat and tears. The doctor announced she had a second son, and the room stilled.

It was quiet while a storm thrashed inside her.

There was no third cry.

Emma lifted her chin as high as she could, struggling for a view of what was going on. They turned their backs, and the chill bit her skin.

Then her baby was right beside her, wriggling in a bundle of blankets. She could reach out and touch him. Wiping to defog her vision, Emma caught sight of the bluest blue she'd ever seen.

Her baby had his father's eyes.

'Emma?'

She turned away, focused on a spot of a white wall across the room. She made it her whole world, as her heart begged for the strength drained from her.

'Emma, just so you know, you can change your mind.'

She whimpered, gripping the sides of the bed. The tiny cry called to her. And her body, sore and exhausted as it was, heeded the vulnerable sound. The fight inside her was too complex. She glared at the doctor; she couldn't change her mind.

Slowly, her eyes fell to the bundle. The pale blanket looked softer than the uneven bed they'd chained her to. A little hand waved; searching. Did he know she was there?

Emma sniffed the cocktail of chemicals and sweat, then inched closer to the baby. How could something that beautiful and innocent have come from her? His fingers were so tiny. He vocalized a precious sound that shattered her trance.

She jerked her hand back.

Breaking into sobs, she moved away again — shaking her head until the doctor passed round the bed to take her son away. Caught in the moment, she'd missed the other two babies leaving the room.

They were gone. She was alone and had no continued purpose in that cold room. A violent sob tore through her chest and throat, filling every part that wasn't already hurting. She regretted it, but couldn't speak. She wanted her son back, but couldn't move. Emma stared at the blurry ceiling, not knowing how to keep herself from breaking.

Her daughter and two sons were gone.

She had to give them their best chance, even if it destroyed her. For months, there were three tiny hearts inside her — their kicks, growth, aches, and hormones became a part of her. What was she now without them? Could her lone, broken heart sustain her? They formed within her and created a new Emma. But what happened next? She didn't know this new Emma, yet somehow she'd become her.

And with them gone, she'd also lost yet another connection to him.

There was nothing left now. Nothing, apart from the only thing she could seek relief in: never having to explain to Killian Jones that she'd let someone take their babies away.

...~...

The boy had green eyes.

Henry showed up on Emma's doorstep to announce he was her son, which was definitely an unwelcome break from her usual routine, and his eyes were her first clue. He was her second child, whisked away before she'd processed having given birth to a baby boy.

Had it really been ten years since that awful moment?

She handled the Henry situation rather well. Sure, she was hiding in the bathroom, fighting the urge to throw up, but how was she supposed to react? Her son was in the kitchen stealing her orange juice, and she was fine. She could get through this.

'You know, we should probably get going,' he said.

Emma barely set two feet out of the bathroom when his attention was back on her. That was okay. She gave birth to three babies and put them up for adoption. She survived that, so she could get through anything. She looked at the boy's eyes, and doubts clouded in.

Henry. He wanted her to come home with him.

No way. Not happening. Absolutely bloody not.

'Okay, kid, I'm calling the cops.' She reached for the phone.

'And I'll tell them you kidnapped me,' Henry said, with a no-doubt-inherited dash of smugness.

Emma put the phone down. Oh, he was good. Not impressive, but good. She wished she could say she was better, but the kid won. It didn't even feel like a battle; one moment she had the phone and an intention to use it, then next she'd gathered her coat and was locking the apartment door behind them.

'Nice car.'

She ignored the kid and slipped into her yellow bug. He was too happy, and it made everything uncomfortable. More than it already was. Starting the engine and driving them out of Boston, Emma wondered if she'd be lucky enough to drive the four hours to Maine with no conversation.

'I'm hungry. Can we stop somewhere?'

If the first ten minutes was much to go by, her wish for a silent drive was a waste of optimism.

'This is not a road trip; we're not stopping for snacks.'

'Why not?'

Emma gripped the steering wheel, willing herself to keep it together. Maybe he just had questions or was too curious for his own good? All she had to do was remain distant and boring. Then he'd fade into memories and out of the present. She'd drop him home with his actual parents, who probably had a lovely house with big backyard, and be on her way.

He was ten. Kids got bored easily, right?

'Quit complaining, kid. Remember, I could've put your butt on a bus; I still could.' It was a good thing she was the one with the superpower, because that was a blatant lie. Hopefully, it'd deter his interest. She wasn't his mother, just the woman who brought him into the world.

'You know, I have a name? It's Henry.'

Her plan failed — rather miserably, even by her standards.

Emma turned onto the highway and focused ahead. She glanced at the object clutched on his lap. A book of fairytales. That conversation distracted him, but further lessened her confidence. He believed the stories were real and that whatever problems he had, she was going to fix them.

She exhaled and leaned back. The kid — Henry — turned to stare out the window. It was dark, so there wasn't much to see. At least she wasn't the focus of his attention.

Seeing Henry awoke curiosities she'd never allowed before. He had her eyes, but his hair was brown — not as dark as Killian's or light as hers. If the triplets weren't identical, she wondered what they looked like. Did they know each other? Why did Henry come alone? She always worried they'd be split up; three kids were a lot for anyone to handle.

Perhaps the truth sat beside her, with an empty back seat.

It was impossible to never think about her three babies over the years. She'd tried not to, but every once in a while, she'd see a little boy or girl in the street and wonder. She couldn't shake it this time — the image of her baby with blue eyes. Her second son, who haunted her dreams.

'You have a brother or sister?' Hopefully, she wouldn't regret starting a conversation when he was finally quiet.

'Nope.' Henry turned to her, eyebrows raised. 'Do I?'

And there was the regret. How was she supposed to answer that?

No, and let it be a lie.

Or yes, and mess with his life more than she already had.

Lying would be best, but she hesitated at a glimpse of his eyes. He'd found her. If Henry suspected he wasn't her only child, then he wouldn't believe anything else she said. Liars weren't boring.

'You tell me.' Emma shrugged. 'How did you find me?'

He mirrored her shrug. 'A website. It was pretty easy.'

'Great,' she muttered. 'Why now?'

'Because today is your twenty-eighth birthday, right?'

'Yeah.' She frowned. 'So?'

'So, it's been twenty-eight years since the Evil Queen cast the curse.' Henry held tighter to his book. 'That's when the savior's supposed to come home and save everyone.'

'And you think I'm the savior?' Emma withheld a scoff.

'No, I know you are.'

The kid's determination didn't waver. When they finally drove through Storybrooke, Henry tried again to convince her that the fairytales were real. It was a whirlwind of a night — meeting Regina; nearly running over a wolf, crashing the car enough to knock her out; then waking to find herself in a cell the next morning.

The irony wasn't lost on her.

Leroy, Marco, Sheriff Graham, Regina, Mary Margaret — the morning was a rush of faces and names. Henry also had a habit of running off, which would be more concerning if it wasn't a small town with only so many places to run to.

Storybrooke emotionally drained Emma by the afternoon, between finding Henry and questioning his mother's frosty social skills.

She clutched the steering wheel, sitting in her car with the engine off. Parked away from busier parts of town, she tried to convince herself to turn her key and drive out of Storybrooke. Just turn it and leave. Turn. Leave.

Henry's pleas for her to stay a week, and Regina's increasing dramatics, raised an unsettling feeling that paired well with ten years of crushing guilt. Her instincts said if she left now, she'd only turn back. Something wasn't right.

She leaned into the seat, eyes closed. If she concentrated hard enough, she could almost hear sails flapping in the breeze and smell the salty ocean air. Killian would know — and if not, Liam would definitely know.

'I need you to tell me what to do,' Emma whispered.

Killian would give a smug smile and say no one tells Emma Swan what to do. She almost smiled at that, but the ache inside her grew.

'A kid showed up on my doorstep and said he was my son. A ten-year-old boy with brown hair and green eyes.' She bit her lip, eyes still closed. 'I don't think he knows about the others. Henry. His name is Henry.'

Saying it aloud made him an actual person; a little boy with a name. The situation became more difficult. Her urge to run intensified.

'I'm in Maine. It's a port town,' she continued anyway, yearning for the gentle rock of the ship. 'What would you do? His mother is kind of a hard-ass. He asked me to stay a week to... the kid's got problems. He believes fairytales are real and this entire town's been cursed by an Evil Queen.'

Maybe he had an active imagination too? All those adventures she and Killian had when they were young — becoming pirates and slaying dragons. They were fuzzy and disjointed now, but every kid believed in that crap, right?

Maybe their son... no, she couldn't call him that.

Emma opened her eyes. Still stuck in Storybrooke, alone.

But she knew what Killian would say, and it wasn't what she wanted to hear. He'd call her out on hoping he'd convince her to leave and never look back, so she'd feel less guilty about doing it. He'd argue she had to stay to make sure Henry was all right. Liam would agree, because he was annoyingly reasonable like that.

Killian never would have let them go. Yet he wasn't here, and he'd let her go.

Emma stared at her phone. She needed to make sure all three of them were okay. She still had contacts in Boston, and people who owed her favors. But what if the triplets were unhappy? What if she'd made a mistake that couldn't be fixed like a torn sail, broken-down cart, or a guard's nose?

Their three hearts started as a rhythmic sound, then three cries, and now were three children with names and personalities. If Henry wasn't happy, or if he needed something more from her than just answers, she'd have to do the same for the others. She owed it to all of them, to herself, and even to Killian.

If she didn't make sure they had their best chance, then all that pain was for nothing. And if she had made a mistake, Emma was damn well going to fix it.

Author's Notes: This story has a video, linked in my profile. There's also a link to my Discord server, for anyone interested.

I hope you enjoyed this first chapter!