Chapter 15

Present

Emma felt awkward, eyeing the envelope of money that the teacher had haphazardly thrown on the counter. She wasn't entirely sure she knew why she had accepted Mary Margaret's offer to talk. Perhaps it was towards the idea of paying her back.

Or maybe it was the fact that the kid seemed to like the teacher, and she seemed to like the kid.

She owed it to whomever cared for Henry to make a little effort.

Mary Margaret hummed low under her breath as she prepared drinks, moving gracefully along the stovetop. Her actions were absent, innate, and Emma could almost understand the comparison to Snow White. She slid a cup of cocoa across the table with a smile, then turned to retrieve her own.

Emma took a small sip to test the heat, and the familiar taste rung back at her. "Cinnamon?"

Mary Margaret froze as she set down her mug, and hesitated before sliding into her seat. "Oh, I'm sorry, I should've asked. It's a little quirk of mine. Do you mind?"

Emma smiled to herself and shook her head. "Not at all." She huffed a small laugh. Great. Another thing for Henry to connect.

Mary Margaret relaxed, and held out a plate of carefully arranged cookies.

"Oh, thanks," Emma said dismissively with a shake of her head. She looked at the handle of the painted mug, noting the clues that it was handmade. Like the cookies, like the mismatched furniture. It all spoke of an artistic mind, and there was something innocent in it all. Even, perhaps, a little naïve. The cookies, the bail money … it was too sweet. People weren't really like that, right? "When you bailed me out, you said that you trusted me." She looked up as Mary Margaret sighed softly and looked away. "Why?" she asked bluntly. It was the one thing she just didn't understand.

Mary Margaret shook her head and glanced off. "It's strange," she began, dark strands of hair barely falling into her face. "Ever since you arrived here, I've had the oddest feeling like we met before." She looked up, green eyes searching. "And, I know it's crazy …," she said, shaking her head.

Emma held her temple. No, that she understood. The flash of feeling whenever she was around the sheriff, the familiarity whenever she looked at the kid, even this woman now. She looked up and met her eye pointedly. "I'm starting to re-evaluate my definition of crazy," she said wryly.

Mary Margaret smiled back and tilted her head to the side. "For what it's worth, I think you're innocent."

"Of breaking and entering, or just in general?" Emma asked, eyebrow arching.

She smirked. "Whichever makes you feel better."

She chuckled with a fair amount of irony. "It doesn't really matter what anyone thinks I did or didn't do," she said absently, brushing her thumb across her wrist where the bite of cold metal still stung. "I'm only here a week, anyway."

Mary Margaret looked down, lips pursed slightly, brow furrowing. "What will happen when you go?"

Emma's mind flashed to the cold, barren beach and the kid's face as frustrated tears stormed in his eyes.

Mary Margaret looked up, expression serious. Her concern spoke to just how much she cared about the kid, and Emma's heart squeezed faintly. "I think the very fact that you want to leave … that's why you have to stay. You care about him."

The statement hit her, and the inhale she took trapped itself in her chest. No. These handful of people, they cared. She couldn't. Didn't she understand? She couldn't. And besides that, it didn't matter.

Her sea-colored eyes were steady, though, and unbroken. "Who will protect Henry if you won't?"

Emma swallowed back the sting of her words as she recalled the venom in the mayor's face. But the sheriff, the teacher, even the therapist … they cared. Why was it that they believed that she was the only one that could protect him?

She heard the whispered echo of Graham's accent resound in her head: isolating. Regina would try to force distance between anyone that might try to forge a connection with Henry, and they were all too intimidated by her to question it. Regina had some kind of power, some kind of influence, where they would all fall in line at her say so. She would try to isolate him from everyone else.

She couldn't let that happen.

She squared her shoulders and sank back into the chair, staring ahead blankly. She needed to be sure that these people would fight for him when she left.

Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket, and she jumped. She threw an apologetic look to Mary Margaret and she yanked It out, rattling it onto the table.

An unfamiliar number crossed the screen, but there was no worry in piecing out who it could be. He's safe. I got him to his therapy appointment. You should be at Granny's around 2:40, he'll be waiting.

She blew out a low breath of relief, then tightened in irritation. The reason Henry was so hurt all started with that therapist being threatened or intimidated or something by Regina. She needed to fix things with him before the kid sank any lower into that unhappiness that lingered in the shadows of his expression. "I gotta get to Dr. Hopper's."

Mary Margaret nodded and stood awkwardly. "Of course. Did you want anything …?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm fine." She hesitated at the door and turned. "Thanks. Again. Really."

She folded her hands in front of her and smiled sweetly. "Of course."

Emma shook off another one of those feelings she kept getting. It was just Henry's theories getting to her. She didn't look familiar at all.

And she had bigger fish to fry, anyway.

She stormed down to the car, pacing in front of it a moment. How was she going to do this? How was she going to get him to believe that she didn't think he was crazy? She needed him to trust her if she was going to nudge him towards the people she needed to.

She saw the pages he had ripped out folded between the seats and she smiled. There it was.

When she barged into the little office, the therapist immediately jumped up. "Miss Swan!" he exclaimed, and rushed around the couch to approach her. "Look, I can explain. The Mayor forced me to—"

Emma pushed back the ire, and held out a hand. "I know. Don't worry about it." She rolled her eyes. "I get it."

He looked decently embarrassed, and ducked his head.

Emma turned and faced the dejected little lump on the couch. "Henry, I'm sorry."

He didn't bother to look up. "I don't want to talk to you," he said bitterly.

The therapist cut in. "Miss Swan, if she knew you were here—"

"To hell with her," she said bluntly. She crossed to the arm chair and faced the kid, clutching the pages he'd given her tightly. "Henry, there is one simple reason I stayed here. You. I wanted to get to know you."

He shut his eyes firmly. "You think I'm crazy."

"No, I think the curse is crazy. And it is." She hesitated, rolling the pages in hand and wondering again if this was the best way to get to him. She exhaled sharply, and briefly looked up at the therapist before letting her gaze fall back to the kid. "But … that doesn't mean that it isn't true."

Finally, he glanced at her, sideways, cautious.

Encouraged, she sat closer. "It is a lot to ask anyone to believe in, but there are a lot of crazy things in this world. So what do I know? Maybe it is true."

He pressed his lips together and then finally spoke. "But you told my mom—"

"What she needed to hear."

He opened up a little, tentatively, peering at her from that side glance.

"What I do know, is that if the curse is real, the only way to break it is by tricking the Evil Queen," she said pointedly, and was rewarded with his matching green eyes widening. "Into thinking that we are non-believers. 'Cause that way she's not on to us. Isn't that what Operation Cobra was all about?"

A glance to the therapist showed he was no longer judging, a slight smile tugging on his lips. When she looked back down at Henry, his was more obvious, bubbling with that enthusiasm that began their interactions.

Encouraged, she smiled. "Throwing her off the trail?"

He leaned forward, eyes twinkling back with the mischief and magic that she had first seen. "Brilliant!"

"I've read the pages and, Henry, you are right. They are dangerous. There is only one way to make sure that see never sees them." With flourish she didn't know she possessed, she got up and threw the pages into the fireplace, watching the flames lick across the blanket stitched with her name. She turned back to the kid, almost breathless as the plan came to its culmination. "Now we have the advantage."

Henry lunged up and grabbed her around the waist so quick she didn't have time to prepare. "I knew you were here to help me," he said, muffled into her shirt.

Slowly, so slowly, she let her arms cross to hold him. "That's right, kid, I am," she said, pulling her fingers through the soft strands of dark hair. The phantom ache that began at her abdomen after that first glance at him was tempered, a rightness falling into place. This … this was the first time she has ever held her son (she pictured that bundle that she barely chanced a glance at).

She blinked, trying hard to remind herself that this was not her son. The kid. She was just hugging the kid.

Even if it just felt right.

(she hadn't held him because she knew she would never be able to let him go)

She shook and pulled back to look down at his face. She had to put that distance back. But she also needed to give him back his hope. "And nothing, not even a curse, is going to stop that."

He smiled, eyes wide and trusting and so damn familiar that it struck her senseless. "Will you meet me and Sheriff Graham tomorrow? To talk about Operation Cobra?"

Without even thinking, she nodded. "2:40, Granny's."

He pressed his lips together, eyes widening, and then he grinned so full and so bright. "A week?"

"A week," she confirmed, and pulled her hand through his hair again.

She wondered how quickly he could tear through her resolve.

A few hours later, she stretched into the front seat with a paper she had plucked off the counter at the diner. She opened back to the rental section, sighing heavily as her flashlight clicked on. "Seriously?" she muttered, scrawling across the lack of options with a blue ballpoint pen.

A week would be hard if she had to spend it in this damn car.

She felt more than saw the approach of a person at her window, and she turned toward the flash of pink.

"Hey," Mary Margaret said, ducking to see her. "You okay?"

She bristled slightly at the edge of sympathy in her tone and smiled tightly. "Oh, in the world of tight spots I've been in, crashing in my car doesn't even rank in the top ten."

She startled. "You're sleeping here?" she asked incredulously.

She forced a light tone. "'Til I find a place."

To her surprise, the teacher's face softened and she smiled. "You decided to stay. For Henry."

She swallowed. "I—yeah, I guess. The week, like I said. " She opened the door, desperate to change the subject. She crawled out of her bug and avoided her eye. "This town doesn't seem to have many vacancies. None, actually. Is that normal?"

She raised a brow and smiled. "Must be the curse."

She huffed a laugh and looked her over, noting the change in clothing. "Why are you out so late?"

"Well, I'm a teacher, not a nun," she joked, and then looked down. "I had a date."

"From the looks of things, it went well," she said wryly.

The answer was surprisingly self-deprecating as she sighed. "As well as they ever do."

Emma winced. "Tell me he at least paid."

She squinted her eyes shut and wrinkled her nose, shaking with a succinct "mmn."

"Ew," she replied, suddenly reminded of the million bad dates that she had under her belt.

Mary Margaret shook her head. "Well, guess if true love was easy, we'd all have it."

Emma raised her brows in concession, even as something warm stirred in her belly. It was foreign, strange: she knew she had a bad track record with love. But she could almost feel what it would be like to have that elusive thing, all at the same time.

"You know, if things get cramped," Mary Margaret hesitated around the words, but then finally pushed. "I do have a spare room."

Emma blinked and frowned, not liking the idea of such blatant charity. "Thanks. I'm not really the roommate type. It's just not my thing. I do better on my own."

It was always her on her own.

(except, was it?)

"Well, goodnight," Mary Margaret said with a shrug. "Good luck with Henry."

"Yeah…," Emma replied, and thought again about how the kid thought she was her mother. Well, at least she'd be leaving him in a week with his "grandma." She nearly snorted out loud. She shook her head. "Good night."

She watched her leave into the night and frowned.

Henry desperately wanted family that loved him, was seeking it out from her since Regina couldn't provide it. She could understand that, had wished for it as a kid and been resigned to never have it as an adult. The kind gestures of this woman almost reminded her of the time before the realism set in. And this kid … there were already people out there that loved him. They just were blocked with fear.

She pulled her hands through her hair, letting the curls smooth. He had heart, that kid, and she needed people to nurture it.

Her own heart tugged and squeezed, and she tried to block its meaning from her brain.

(a different kind of fear was holding her back)

She looked at the back seat of her car and grit her teeth. She'd slept in worse. But she's also slept in better.

Eleven Years Ago

She came into the room in the nightgown Ruth had given her, closing the door behind her and bolting it shut. She wrapped an arm across her torso to flatten the billow of the threadbare material, an effort to feel less exposed. Though the gown covered her from just below her collarbone to her knee, she felt naked in the light linen. She was used to her jeans, she supposed, or the long dresses he bought her, or at least flannel pajama pants from back in the other world. Or maybe it was just that he was there with her, in an equally loose-fitting shirt and pants, feet bare on the wooden floor.

Something about being freshly clean and not out in the elements … it made this idea of being in such close quarters more extreme.

She settled into the bed, feeling the relief that sleeping on a mattress brought almost immediately. She had missed this. She sighed contentedly. "This is nice," she pronounced.

He looked up from the fireplace and he smiled in that small way that he did, barely touching his expression. "Let me know if you get too warm in the night. You're used to the outdoors, after all," he said, his voice teasing.

She snorted indelicately. Thunder crashed distantly, but the steady rumble of rain against the cottage and the crackling fire was soothing. Her heart raced a little as he rose, and she felt the anticipation of sleeping next to him again. Would it be different in a real bed? Would it be different now that they've kissed? That she's felt him all across her body, that she wanted more of it?

But then he grabbed the blanket from the chair and settled onto the floor. Her heart sunk.

"You're not gonna …," she swallowed back the rest of the statement, and curled her hands into the comforter. She was sure she was blushing again, embarrassment coursing through her.

His lips parted slightly, watching her a moment. With a jerk of his head, he laid down. "You don't need body heat tonight, Emma."

She shivered involuntarily, but nodded. She could only imagine their host's disapproval if he did share the bed with her, anyway. The homes never liked it, even when she had been too young to think of those things, and she guessed she understood why. It was silly of her to think that they'd share a real bed after everything.

She stared at the ceiling, the light from the fire dancing across it. She played nervously with the loops in the woolen blanket. "You didn't want to share with her son?"

She was still dwelling on that. She had been so pleased when he'd refused sharing a room with David to instead be with her. She had thought ….

"I mean, I'm sure you could still go if you're uncomfortable," she said hesitantly.

He grunted softly. "No."

Irritated, she turned to him. "Why not? That way you could have the couch instead of the floor." She couldn't even say for sure why her tone was so angry, why him being so far away made tears sting the back of her throat, why the rejection pulsated through her brain.

"Because I need to make sure you're safe," he intoned, the mantra that she's heard too many times now.

She sat up to glare at him. "I can take care of myself, okay?"

"No, you can't, Emma. And I don't trust you being alone with them near, okay?" he countered with a low rumble in his voice.

She scoffed, deciding not to react to his first denial. "She let us into her home when no one else would. Why wouldn't you trust her?"

His eyes were stormy in the firelight. "Because I don't trust anyone."

She threw up her hands in frustration. "Then why do you even care if I'm safe?"

"Because I trust you!"

Her chest rose and fell with leftover anger, staring at him in shock. She knew, of course she knew. But to hear him say it was so strange. She swallowed, and her eyes shaded. She played with the button at the top of her nightgown nervously. "If you do … why aren't you up here?"

He hesitated a long moment, and when he looked up his eyes were glassy. "I shouldn't be."

She gave a shy smile. "Maybe I need to feel safe," she reasoned and reached out a hand.

He wet his lips, and stared at her eyes instead of the offer. "I'm—" he stopped himself with a shudder.

Stubbornly, she sunk from the bed and into his space. "Then I'll come to you," she whispered, and there it was again, the husky tones slipping into her throat. It felt like static between them, electricity waiting to be ignited.

He was watching her carefully, his pupils blown wide and mouth parted. His eyes flickered to her lips for barely a second. "Emma," he murmured, and there was something desperate in it.

She bit her lip and leaned into an embrace, her arms coiling around his back and laying them down in the process. Her head fell against his chest, and there was only a beat before his fingers trailed her spine to rest on the small of her back. "We just need to … sleep. That's all, wolf boy," she murmured.

His hand drifted to the back of her head, curling through her hair before tilting her head up to look down at her. His thumb rolled circles at the base of her skull, but his face was nothing near placid. "Just … sleep," he repeated, his voice sieved through emotion.

He was so close. His lips were inches away. All she had to do was lean up, just a little, and they would be kissing again. She would know his taste again, be able to memorize it.

"You should take the bed," he said suddenly, and disentangled from her.

She swallowed down her bitter disappointment, the tears once more threatening. It hurt, to be so close. "Fine," she said, sniffing, and then jumped to her feet.

"Wait," he said, and caught her hand. He blinked once, and then rose to meet her. "I mean … I want you to have the bed. You've missed it." He ducked his head, suddenly shy. "But … I'll share it with you, if you want."

Her heart hammered in her chest, realizing what he was saying, that her fantasy was going to take shape. "I, uh … yes. Yes, you can share," she stammered.

He hesitated, glancing down at her lips once more before turning and peeling back the sheets. Gingerly, she walked around and got into them, waiting for his warmth again. After a long, heavy pause, he finally joined her, slipping in soundlessly. She turned her back and pressed into him, waiting for the intimacy of the embrace she had gotten so used to. He started to form into her like he would in the forest, chest to back, but neither of them relaxed with it. He gripped at her hip, tilting her away from his lower body.

She felt his breath, hot on her neck, and it was like aerated anticipation. She wanted to move, to twist her leg to pull him firm against her like he was preventing them from being. Her skin itched with want. She turned her head to meet his eye, and she was blown away by the barely contained restraint in his expression.

A strangled sound escaped him, and he pulled her body around to face him again.

She didn't get a moment's thought before his mouth was on hers. Her hands fisted in his shirt, colliding into him. There was something more desperate to it now that they were tracking over familiar territory. There was no tentativeness, just rawness as his tongue touched hers and he moved to drink her in. She sighed and shakily loosened one hand to move to his neck, helping angle so their lips collided more exactly. He moved, but only pulled back to trail across her cheek and down her jaw.

"Please," she hissed, dragging her nails through his scalp, but she wasn't sure what exactly she was pleading for. Her leg fell over his hip, yanking him closer, and his eyes were wild as his head shot up.

"Emma, I don't kn—" he said throatily, but then sucked at her lip as he pressed her down hard on the bed. "I haven't—"

"Just kiss me," she pleaded, pulling him closer.

He let out a throaty noise before complying, tongue flicking hers before exploring once more.

She felt lightheaded again with his hard body firmly pressed against her. Her mind flashed to the older kids at the last home, the ones with so much more experience than her, and she knew she wasn't ready for all that. But she needed something, anything to help quell the heat inside her.

She made a sound that was embarrassingly close to a whimper, and slanted her hips to press harder against him. He groaned into her mouth, and yanked away to pant into her neck. His hands gripped her waist so tight she knew there would be bruises tomorrow, but then he suddenly released her, palms gliding. She ground against him when his hands reached the underside of her breasts. His eyes were onyx as he met hers, and it spiked something inside her. Her blood was rushing through her ears, and she reached to grab his hands, guiding them over her chest.

"Please," she rasped.

He angled his mouth over hers again, and with aching slowness he cupped her through the material. She squirmed against him, shockwaves flying through her. He breathed heavily over her, and met her gaze wildly. "Is it—"

"More," she demanded, arching her back. She fumbled with the buttons, pulling the top few open.

His eyes were wide, set so intently on her that she felt his stare before his hands slipped underneath the rough material, parting to expose her to the cool air. Goosebumps formed across her skin, but she wasn't sure if it was the cold or his stare that made it that way. She gasped at the first feel of his calloused fingers across her soft skin. He swallowed and then trailed wet kisses down her neck, acting on instinct alone. That more than anything else made her eyes roll back, and she gripped his jaw to bring him back so she could kiss him again.

She could do this forever, she thought, just linger in the press of his lips and the ebb and flow of his tongue, his rough hands exploring her sensitive skin.

She heard a creak outside, and he released her lips with a soft pop. They hovered in each other's space a moment, listening for more movement. After a few heavy beats, there was shuffling outside, the sound of another fire being lit in the living space. He chuckled deep in his throat and took his hands out of her clothes, smoothing the fabric closed once more.

She could help a shy giggle as well, and then she left one last, lingering kiss on his lips. "I guess we should sleep," she whispered.

He nodded, his eyes dancing. "Should be simple enough," he said dryly, head cocking to the side as he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Maybe … maybe you could kiss me again, though," she said shyly.

He hummed and complied, softer and sweeter than before. "Why does this feel so easy?" he mused.

She bit down on her lip, and peeked at him through her lashes. "Because we like each other?"

She expected a smile, a quirk of the lips at least. Instead, his gaze grew serious and thoughtful. He brushed through her hair again, soothing and slow, his dark eyes intense. "I like you more than anything," he finally said.

She smiled tentatively. Her heart felt full, squeezing and fluttering. Her stomach flipped in nervousness. "I like you more than anything, too."

He smiled then, fuller and wider than any she'd seen from him before. He pushed his forehead against hers and then tugged her close. She ducked her head, resting at the crook of his neck and settling. His heart was still rapid against her cheek, and she sighed contentedly against him.

This was good. This was right.

This was a word she hadn't ever used before, one she wouldn't voice.

Instead, she let the slowing rhythm be her lullaby, the tide of his breath her rocker.

She was nearly asleep before she silently decided that love wasn't so scary after all.