Emma tripped over the doormat as she was tossed out of the front door of her foster home, landing painfully on the palms of her hands. She angrily wiped away the brief tears that had risen into her eyes. Whether they were from the sharp stinging sensation on her hands or her foster mother's harsh words that followed her out the door, she was angry with herself for letting the pain get to her. It was a sign of weakness.

She righted herself and shoved her hands in to the pockets of her jean jacket as she bent her head against the blustery November wind and strode down the path across the front lawn. If you could call it a lawn – a bed of dead grass littered with empty bottles and cardboard boxes surrounded by a twist of chain link fence. Just beyond the boundary, she turned onto the sidewalk and jumped to see a stranger leaning against the hedge just outside her gate.

"Rough evening?" the boy asked, startling her. She hated to be startled. She liked to think of herself as having a keen awareness. That nothing could shock her. She dug her fists still further into her pockets and sidestepped the boy as he hadn't spoken. It was too much to hope that he wouldn't follow her. He jumped into stride beside her. He was about her age with brown hair that fell into his eyes. Maybe a year older, or two at most. She noticed that he, like she, was not dressed appropriately for the whether. His hands sat in the pockets of a thin hooded sweatshirt as he strode next to her, casting her a strange and intrigued smirk as he walked along side her, step for step.

"Do you mind?" she bit, stopping and turning to face him, her eyes fierce.

"Not at all," he said with a smug smile, pulling up with her.

"Stop following me," she articulated, turning to continue on her way. The boy did not heed her request.

"You didn't answer my question," he prodded.

"I don't talk to strangers," Emma mumbled, her breath fogging in the cold air. She could feel the prickle of winter on her skin as the wind blew through her jacket.

"Why, did your mother tell you not to?"

The way he said the word mother made her halt, staring coldly at the crack in the grey sidewalk in front of her. Once again the boy stopped with her.

"I know a kid in the system when I see one," the boy said. "Takes one to know one."

She cast him a sideways glance. She found a pair of sympathetic eyes returned it.

"I was hoping we could be friends?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. It was a natural reaction.

"I don't have a family," she spat. "Why would I need friends?"

"Exactly for that reason," he suggested simply, seemingly unphased by her severity. "I just got placed with a family the next town over. I'm coming from upstate New York. A lot of space up there, and good land, but also a lot of drunk people. My foster father included. So, after a brief stint back in the homes I got sent here. To Pennsylvania. Thought it might be warmer, but no, it's just as cold. There's just not as much snow. I always thought snow was the only thing that made the cold bearable. Almost charming."

Emma agreed. Her first family had been in Maine, and while she didn't remember much, she had always had a predilection for snow. Somehow it always made her feel at home, which is something she rarely ever felt.

"What was she on you about?" the stranger asked, nodding back towards the direct of her house.

"She just… doesn't like me," Emma said, looking back down at the pavement.

"Is there a reason?"

Emma drew a hesitant breath. She didn't know why she felt an inherent trust of this boy. She had never really felt trust for anyone. She wasn't sure if she should follow this strange, new instinct to trust him.

"She says she doesn't like the way her husband looks at me," she said finally. "She says that I ask for it. I told her she's got no prince charming there, but she's just jealous or something. Or insecure. I don't know. I don't really care, it's fine, I can handle it."

"Hm," the boy pondered, bringing his cupped hands up to his face and blowing warm air into them. "Can't say I've ever run into that particular issue."

"I wouldn't think you would."

"My new family seems alright, I guess," he shrugged. The pair had begun to walk again, but more slowly, more meandering. "But then again, they always seem alright in the beginning, right? Each time it's a new one, there's a new hope that it will be the one that lasts."

Emma new exactly what he meant. It was like he was speaking the words from her own heart. Breathing life into them.

"But at least they don't seem to care much where I'm at. They said that at my age I should be able to take care of myself, as long as I'm not in the way and I'm around with the social worker visits, I'm free to do whatever I like."

"How old are you?" Emma asked.

"How old are you?" he responded.

"I asked you first," Emma scowled. The boy smirked.

"I'm fifteen."

"You'll be out of the system soon then?" Emma reminded him, a tinge of jealousy seeping into her mind.

"With any luck," the boy nodded. "Now, how about you?"

"Thirteen," Emma said.

"Do you have a name?" the boy asked. Emma hesitated, but again her strangely intuitive trust for this boy prevailed.

"Emma," she said.

"Well, Emma," the boy said, sticking out his hand to shake. "Glad to know there is at least one other kid in the neighborhood who knows what it's like."

Emma eyed the hand before shaking. His hands were cold, but then again so were hers so they felt warm still. There was something strange, though comforting, in the way he was looking directly into her eyes.

He turned to leave down a side street.

"Hey!" Emma called angrily after him. "I gave you my name!"

The boy did not stop walking, but he did turn around to face her, continuing his steps backwards as he flashed her a mischievous smile.

"I'm Neal."

I don't usually do AU stories, but I've always wished there was more history between Neal, Emma and August - the three abandoned children. So here's a slightly altered version of what could have happened from between when Neal returned from Neverland and Emma broke the curse. Let me know if you'd like to see more!