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Emma had spent more time staring morosely at her whiskey than she had drinking it--which, really. Probably a good thing. At the moment the odds of having to suffer through a hangover tomorrow were slim to none, so. Yay for that.
Of course she still felt like shit. Less yay.
It was just such a stupid and shitty and selfish thing to be upset over. So her dad went home--or, whatever happened to them when they left here, but probably home. Shouldn't that be a good thing? Not many people stuck here were hanging around because they enjoyed the shitty pizza place and the view from the boardwalk, they were stuck here because they were stuck here. As in against their will, as in couldn't leave. Herself included. And it had been her own fault for taking her dad's presence here for granted. That he'd just be there every day, with the baby, being her dad. Being there for her.
But now David was home, with Mary Margaret and baby Neal, and her mother wouldn't be missing Neal growing up, and hadn't that been the point of having another baby? Because they'd missed everything with Emma? Lucky for them they'd been frozen by a curse and could still pop out another kid, one they wouldn't have to stick into a magic wardrobe to God Only Knows Where--
"Shit!" Emma hissed sharply and jerked her hand away from her glass. Her whiskey was white-hot and boiling, frothing up over the rim of the glass and splashing all over her hand--which was sparking and glowing around her palms and fingers, a bright white halo of magic. "Shit, shit, come on, stop," she hissed, started to reach for a cocktail napkin but thought better of it. It would, very likely, burst into flames the second her hand touched it. She clenched her hands tight and gritted her teeth, breathing deeply through her nose. "Not now, okay, just--not now, come on. Give me a break, here."
Of course she still felt like shit. Less yay.
It was just such a stupid and shitty and selfish thing to be upset over. So her dad went home--or, whatever happened to them when they left here, but probably home. Shouldn't that be a good thing? Not many people stuck here were hanging around because they enjoyed the shitty pizza place and the view from the boardwalk, they were stuck here because they were stuck here. As in against their will, as in couldn't leave. Herself included. And it had been her own fault for taking her dad's presence here for granted. That he'd just be there every day, with the baby, being her dad. Being there for her.
But now David was home, with Mary Margaret and baby Neal, and her mother wouldn't be missing Neal growing up, and hadn't that been the point of having another baby? Because they'd missed everything with Emma? Lucky for them they'd been frozen by a curse and could still pop out another kid, one they wouldn't have to stick into a magic wardrobe to God Only Knows Where--
"Shit!" Emma hissed sharply and jerked her hand away from her glass. Her whiskey was white-hot and boiling, frothing up over the rim of the glass and splashing all over her hand--which was sparking and glowing around her palms and fingers, a bright white halo of magic. "Shit, shit, come on, stop," she hissed, started to reach for a cocktail napkin but thought better of it. It would, very likely, burst into flames the second her hand touched it. She clenched her hands tight and gritted her teeth, breathing deeply through her nose. "Not now, okay, just--not now, come on. Give me a break, here."
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Jan. 2nd, 2015 10:16 pmThe end of the year had sucked. No point in sugar coating it, it sucked. Christmas had sucked and the New Year wasn't holding out much hope of getting better, either.
A couple of weeks prior Emma had sent out a stark text message to anyone she'd thought would care (though only after a frantic thorough search of the entire damned city) that Hook was gone, and no, she didn't want to talk about it. After that, she'd turned off her phone for a bit and shut herself up in her apartment, lied and told them at the station she had the flu. The only person she'd let in, physically or emotionally, was Henry.
She'd probably still have been cocooned under a pile of blankets if she hadn't run out of ice cream and wine.
After taking a much-needed shower and resentfully tugging on a pair of jeans and a mostly clean hoodie, Emma decided against driving (driving with a wine buzz: bad idea) and walked from her apartment building to the closest convenience store. Halfway there she sat down heavily on a bench, hands shoved into her pockets and shoulders hunched to fend off the cold, because she hadn't thought to grab a scarf or gloves.
She wanted to be so damned angry, so furious. Well, no, scratch that: she was furious. What she wanted was something to direct it towards. Something or someone tangible that she could rage at, because cursing the Powers That Be had never made her feel any better.
But lacking any other target, she ended up being angry at herself. For being stupid enough to take the risk, knowing that this outcome was entirely possible.
"Fuck," she cursed softly, swinging her feet and kicking at loose gravel.
Just...fuck it. Fuck it all. Why bother? Why bother trying to make a life here? What was the point in getting attached to people, then waking up one day and bam, they were gone. And even if they came back, they wouldn't remember a damned thing.
Why even try anymore?
Birthday candles weren’t made to burn this long. They were meant to be lit for just long enough for a group of friends and family to engage in a rousing rendition of Happy Birthday (sung in several to a dozen different keys, usually, depending on the size of the crowd) and to be extinguished immediately thereafter.
They certainly weren’t made for a 32-year-old woman to stare at while she tried to figure out how this yearly ritual was supposed to work now that her life had gone through such a dramatic shift.
Because there’d never been a crowd of people gathered around Emma Swan, waiting for her to make a wish and blow out her candles. Her birthdays had mostly passed by unremarked, celebrated (for lack of a better word) by no one but her. For 28 years there’d really been no one to say ‘Hey, we’re glad you were born, good on you for being born, here have some cake and maybe presents.’
She supposed the better question was, now that she had that--family and friends and home and love--why was she sitting here with an oversized cupcake and single cheap birthday candle, struggling to think of something poignant to wish for, as had been her tradition for over a decade? Her wish had been the same every year: to no longer have to spend her birthdays (and Christmases, and Easters, and Thanksgivings, and every holiday in between) alone. Now she didn’t have to, and she was doing so voluntarily.
Maybe it was just habit. Maybe Emma Swan--the real Emma Swan, not the woman she’d been in New York, a cobbled up concoction that was part Emma Swan and part fake memories held together with magic--was just that broken. Or maybe it was just residual fear, since every good thing in her life up to this point had existed with a very short shelf life.
Introspection wasn’t getting her much, though, except for a puddle of pale pink wax settling on top of buttercream frosting. And sadly, the longer she thought about it, the more she realized that she no longer trusted magic of any kind, not even the stuff that should be innocent. Birthday wishes surely had strings, the tooth fairy was a glorified thief with a weird fetish and Santa Claus? Mr. I See You When You’re Sleeping? Santa was shady as fuck.
So not a wish. Maybe just hope. She’d take the Mary Margaret approach. All happy endings start with hope--but no, that wasn’t quite right, either. Emma didn’t want to think about endings. Endings were sad by definition. The best parts were the beginning, and the middle.
“Here’s to a happy middle,” she murmured, somewhat amused at herself.
She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, and extinguished the single flame with a sharp exhale.
Working nights was probably always going to suck, but working with Al made it a little more bearable. Al, and coffee. Mostly coffee. Sweet, sweet bean juice, heavenly ambrosia, coffee.
Since it was a slow night, Al swung by one of their go-to late night snack stops and parked so that Emma could run in for coffee and bagels (or what passed for bagels anywhere outside of New York, which weren't bagels at all, they were lies). With Al on a health kick and Emma at least attempting to pick up some better eating habits, they'd unanimously decided to avoid the donut cliche, so. Bagels and coffee it was.
Bakery bag and drink trey in hand, Emma hurried out into the chilly night and jogged lightly across the parking lot. Warm days were hanging on but at night the cooler air carried that crisp hint to it that insisted autumn was coming. In her cursed memories October had been one of her favorite months, because of Henry's birthday, because of her memories of celebrating her birthday with Henry, of dressing him up in adorable costumes--none of which had actually happened, saved for the cupcake binge of their last, wonderful year together. The real Emma Swan--the one that'd given her son up for adoption, that'd grown up friendless, unloved, unwanted--hated the entire month. Having two sets of dueling memories meant her feelings now were very...mixed.
Especially being here, and speaking of which...
"Just out of curiosity, were you here last Halloween?" Emma asked as she climbed into the cruiser (she hadn't managed to talk her partner into taking her Beetle out on patrol--yet) and passed Al a large cup of coffee. "I was just thinking, this place doesn't need a special holiday to conjure up something horrific, imagine what it'll do on a day that's centered around being as scary as possible."
For all the madness that she'd dealt with trying to get ready--second-guessing her dress, fighting with hair rollers and what little makeup she wore--Emma was strangely calm waiting in the booth at Tintern Abbey with a glass of wine and her phone for company. She'd gotten there early (mostly to make sure they could get a decent table) and between the wine, the atmosphere, and giving Delsin text-message dating advice for his own romantic outing, her frayed nerves were soothed.
Dealing with someone else's love life was, after all, much easier than dealing with her own.
At fifteen til seven, Emma put her phone on silent and slid it into her purse, focusing on sipping her wine and not fidgeting. It was difficult not to look down every few minutes just to fuss with the bodice of her dress and make sure her boobs were still in place (they had not, so far, shown any interest in going rogue) or tug and twist at a lock of the hair she'd curled for the first time in ages, but it was hard to find something else to do with her hands. She toyed with her wineglass instead, uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, tapped the heel of her shoe against the floor.
She snuck a peek at the time on her cell phone. Two minutes had passed since she'd put it up. Maybe he'd forgotten. She should've offered to pick him up, hell, she had a car now. Should she call him and see if he needed a ride? Would they be willing to hold her table if she had to step out?
...And this was exactly why she hated dating. It was fraught with self-inflicted pitfalls and anxiety, and she was an idiot, it wasn't even seven o'clock yet.
"Get a grip, Swan," she muttered to herself, taking a much healthier swallow of wine than the prim sips she'd previously enjoyed.
For something that'd taken her weeks to work up the nerve for, Emma was ridiculously unprepared for a date. She hadn't picked out a venue when she'd finally stopped being an idiot and asked Hook if he wanted to go out, and, after she'd solved that problem by ripping through the phone book until she found a decent sounding first-date restaurant, she'd realized she didn't have a thing to wear. All of her little black dresses and impractical but sexy heels were still tucked back in the bedroom closet of her New York apartment. She'd filled out most of her day to day wardrobe, but she hadn't had a reason to buy a damned dress yet.
Well, now she did, and she couldn't freaking pick one.
What would Killian even like? Other than corsets and cleavage (and he was shit outta luck on the first one, Emma was not squeezing herself into one of those torture devices disguised as fashion again anytime soon). She plucked a dress from the rack, held it out, sighed and put it back. Everything was either too high school prom or too Regina Mills. There had to be a happy medium in here somewhere.
Well. Emma had given her best try, she really had. Unfortunately if the rather lumpy bowl that she'd produced was any indication, Emma's hidden artistic skills did not lie with pottery.
But of course that hadn't really been the point. The point had been having fun and spending time with Henry. Definitely mission accomplished on both of those points, because it had been a lot of fun. Next week they'd learn how to glaze their lumpy creations, and then she'd have something handmade to present to her dad, to maybe make up for thirty-one years of not being able to give him childishly crafted things. That would be pretty cool too, she had to admit.
"So what do you think, kid?" she asked Henry teasingly as they stood side-by-side at the sink, scrubbing the clay from beneath their nails. "Do we have a future in ceramics? We could open our own mom and pop store--well, mom and son."
Being a kid again was in many ways like having a kid: it was a near daily exercise in 'I've actually always wanted to do this, and now I have an excuse to'. Unfortunately there were a few very obvious trade-offs in the 'being a kid again' situation. Loss of fine motor skills. And muscle tone. And patience (which, admittedly, Emma Swan had not possessed in spades even as an adult with more impulse control and a more even temper). And it turned out that building an impressive castle out of sand was a lot harder in practice than it actually sounded. The sand couldn't be too wet, or too dry, the buckets were useless, and Emma had collapsed the same tower at least twice by knocking into it with her elbow or her knee, because she was a clumsy preschooler and they kept getting in her way. Her first attempt the day before had pretty much ended with her scowling at a shapeless pile of wet sand.
She had a plan, though.
She was enlisting the pirate's help.
All right, sure, she had no idea if Hook knew anything about sand castles, but he was a pirate and therefore had spent a lot more time on beaches than Emma had, so it seemed perfectly logical to her. She spent the walk to the shoreline giving him the highlights of her very strange week. "It hasn't been all bad," she admitted, swinging her buckets and kicking at sand with her tiny feet. "When you're short and cute people practically throw ice cream and candy at you. I'm the right size for the swing sets and the slide at the park. But it's really weird to look at Roland at eye-level. And Regina smiling at me, all warm and maternal and sweet? That goes beyond weird. That's scary."
It happened at some point between that last late night/early morning session of bottle feeding, diaper changing and lullaby singing that Emma took so David could get a solid night of sleep and the moment her internal clock still woke her up around 6:30, as that was when she would've usually been waking Henry up for school. She might've just rolled over on the couch, snuggled back in and dropped back off to sleep, if she hadn't immediately realized that something was really, really wrong.
Tangled up in clothes that were many sizes too big, Emma stared down at her little bitty hands and arms and let out one shrill, short but enthusiastic scream before she remembered her little brother and clapped her tiny hands over her tiny mouth. "Dad?" she squeaked, fighting her way out from underneath the blanket and her oversized pants. "David?! D-daddy?! Help!"
Everything was back to normal. At least that's what Emma kept hearing, and while she figured it was fairly safe to take the word of those that'd been living here longer than her this was an even more skewed interpretation of the word 'normal' than the one Emma was used to. And that was saying a lot.
She rolled with it, though, partly because if the dust was settling then maybe she and Regina could put their heads together and find a way back home, partly because it meant the people she cared about were at least some semblance of safe again. David and Neal were fine, the baby napping peacefully as though nothing in the world was or ever had been wrong. and she touched base briefly with Regina via text, just enough to ascertain that she, Robin and Robin's son were all right. She hadn't thought to ask Hook if he had a phone, hadn't even momentarily considered the possibility that he'd figured out how to use one. But even if he had she'd had his number, she still would've crossed town to knock on the door to his apartment and check in on him face-to-face. Assuming, of course, that he was home, though if he wasn't she could either wander the beach or poke through the taverns and bars until she found him.
Or pick the lock on the door and wait. They were both pretty stalker-y options, but she supposed it was her turn to be the one doing the chasing.
She rolled with it, though, partly because if the dust was settling then maybe she and Regina could put their heads together and find a way back home, partly because it meant the people she cared about were at least some semblance of safe again. David and Neal were fine, the baby napping peacefully as though nothing in the world was or ever had been wrong. and she touched base briefly with Regina via text, just enough to ascertain that she, Robin and Robin's son were all right. She hadn't thought to ask Hook if he had a phone, hadn't even momentarily considered the possibility that he'd figured out how to use one. But even if he had she'd had his number, she still would've crossed town to knock on the door to his apartment and check in on him face-to-face. Assuming, of course, that he was home, though if he wasn't she could either wander the beach or poke through the taverns and bars until she found him.
Or pick the lock on the door and wait. They were both pretty stalker-y options, but she supposed it was her turn to be the one doing the chasing.
It was a while before either of them felt like getting coffee, but Emma touched based with Regina after the...current weird and altogether crappy situation normalized and they decided to meet up at a cafe.
Emma got there first--the wholly unwanted luxury, she supposed, of not having a kid in her life anymore to tend to--and ordered a hot chocolate (with cinnamon) out of sheer habit. It was only after it was set in front of her that she realized she didn't want it. It was a fragrant representation of Storybrooke and Granny's, Henry and home, and the scent made Emma's stomach feel queasy. She scowled at the cup. All right, this was really enough already. This ball of homesickness in her gut, it had to go; it was past time to adjust and suck it up.
Emma sighed and moved it the cup from her, taking one of the crescents of biscotti from the saucer and nibbling on it to distract herself. It was insane to even think it, but talking to Regina might actually help. That was not a thing she ever thought she'd want, not a thought she'd have imagined would ever have crossed her mind, but there it was.
Henry probably would've been happy to hear it, that the two of them were getting along. Maybe she'd get the chance to tell him. Eventually.
Emma got there first--the wholly unwanted luxury, she supposed, of not having a kid in her life anymore to tend to--and ordered a hot chocolate (with cinnamon) out of sheer habit. It was only after it was set in front of her that she realized she didn't want it. It was a fragrant representation of Storybrooke and Granny's, Henry and home, and the scent made Emma's stomach feel queasy. She scowled at the cup. All right, this was really enough already. This ball of homesickness in her gut, it had to go; it was past time to adjust and suck it up.
Emma sighed and moved it the cup from her, taking one of the crescents of biscotti from the saucer and nibbling on it to distract herself. It was insane to even think it, but talking to Regina might actually help. That was not a thing she ever thought she'd want, not a thought she'd have imagined would ever have crossed her mind, but there it was.
Henry probably would've been happy to hear it, that the two of them were getting along. Maybe she'd get the chance to tell him. Eventually.