Emma Swan can remember with near perfect clarity the day she and her sister had gone to live with their Aunt Ingrid.

It had been too bright outside, blindingly sunny, as they'd watched a town full of people that hated them lower their mother's body into the ground, right beside the fresh grave of their father. Mary Margaret had clung tightly to Emma's hand and wept quietly, a catharsis Emma refused to allow herself.

Ingrid had invited them inside with promises of late bedtimes and ice cream at all hours. Their aunt Helga had visited often, her own daughters in tow. The adjustment hadn't been easy, but the Swan sisters couldn't stop themselves from taking to the only family they had left. Still, Emma and Mary Margaret had held to each other stronger than anyone else.

"The bond of sisters is stronger than any other in our family," Helga had whispered to them once, like a secret. Mary Margaret, Emma, Elsa, and Anna sitting in a neat little row across the table from Helga and Ingrid. "We protect each other."

For years, Emma and Mary Margaret watched all manner of townspeople appear on Ingrid's step at all hours, begging for help in matters of the heart. Mary Margaret had stared in wonder at the lengths people were willing to go for love, whilst Emma hid her face in her sister's long, dark locks and ignored the visitors.

"Daddy died because of the curse, didn't he?" Mary Margaret had asked one day, months and months after moving into the impossibly tall and impossibly old house. Emma had frowned at her while Ingrid's eyes had gone wide. Mary Margaret shifted in her seat, unsure of herself now that the question was out in the open. "Anna told me that's how it works. The women in our family are cursed to lose any man they love."

"Perhaps, my darling," Ingrid had sighed. Emma focused on trying to light the candle in front of her, squeezing her eyes shut tight and willing the wick to set itself ablaze. "Magic can be a fickle thing and love, love can be the most fickle magic of all. Your mother believed she heard the deathwatch beetle ticking on the day your father died."

The candle had flickered to life, the light of it causing spots to appear on the inside of Emma's closed eyelids. When she'd opened them, Ingrid had smiled in pride while Mary Margaret gasped in delight.

"Mom died of a broken heart," Emma had asked quietly, blowing lightly on the flame to put it out once more. "Didn't she?"

Ingrid had nodded sadly, grief for the loss of her own sister flashing through her usually calm and unreadable features, before saying, "Remember this, though, even the strongest of curses only have power when you believe they do."

Emma had found her sister later that evening, wooden bowl cradled in her arms as she moved gracefully through the garden. Mary Margaret had always moved like she was made for a ballroom, grace and fluidity in her strides. Emma had envied that aspect of her sister when she stumbled up stairs and scraped her knees on the harsh pavement.

"What are you doing?" Emma had asked as she followed her sister around, careful not to crush any growing plants under her boots. Mary Margaret carefully plucked petals from the brightly colored flowers flourishing around them. She punctuated the drop of each petal in the bowl with a character trait. So far, Emma had heard "kind eyes", "belief in justice", and "a nice voice".

"I'm conjuring a true love spell," Mary Margaret had answered easily, plucking a soft pink petal from one of the roses. Dropping it in the bowl, she added, "The gentleness of a storybook knight."

"Why?" Emma had frowned. "Don't you believe in the curse?"

"Of course, I believe in the curse," Mary Margaret had sighed, pivoting on her toe to find the snowdrops. Out of season, Ingrid had learned they were Mary Margaret's favorite flower and always found a way to keep them growing throughout the year.

"So, why would you want to conjure up a man only to doom him to die?" Emma had inquired slowly as Mary Margaret plucked one of the snowdrops from where it hung from its stem. She paused before dropping it in the bowl to look up at Emma.

"Because true love can break any curse," she had insisted, ignoring Emma's dubious eyebrow raise to drop the flower into the bowl. "His favorite weather will be snow."

Emma had sighed and watched as Mary Margaret had recited the rest of the incantation, the flowers catching in a magic wind as they began to swirl around the bowl. Mary Margaret had held the bowl out from herself and the wind increased, carrying the mixture of flower petals off on the wind, drifting further and further out of view.

"Whatever you say, sis," Emma commented, rolling her eyes. Mary Margaret stuck out her tongue, traipsing back past Emma and out of the garden. Emma heard the screen door at the back of the house slap shut against the old wooden door frame. At nine-years-old, Emma had found her sister to be the most hopeful and, consequently, naive person she knew. Sighing, she glanced back towards the sky, watching the petals drift further and further until they disappeared from view completely.

-/-

Mary Margaret can remember to the near minute detail the day her sister had left Storybrooke.

The wind from the open patio doors had whipped her dark hair around her face while she watched as Emma shoved the few items she felt an attachment to into a bag. Her sister had always been a light traveler, able to exist on few material things. Neal, whose name Mary Margaret hadn't learned until that night, had milled outside of the house, examining the garden while Emma packed. His impractically bright yellow car had casted it's own glow in the twilight.

"Emma, are you sure?" Mary Margaret had asked, tears welling in her eyes at the prospect of losing her sister. Seventeen and jaded in a way Mary Margaret could never understand, Emma had given her an annoyed look. Mary Margaret had lost count of how many time she'd asked that exact question in the past twelve hours, but she doubted Emma had.

Emma had slung her hastily packed backpack over her shoulder, grabbing her sturdy black leather jacket from the couch in the sitting room. Coming over, she'd clasped Mary Margaret's hands tightly in her own.

"I hate it here," she'd sighed, her shoulders bogged down by the truth of that statement. Mary Margaret had felt a tear slip down her cheek but nodded in understanding. Emma separated one of her hands from Mary Margaret's, reaching up to trace the nearly invisible scar just below her hairline.

A few months after their moving in with their aunt, a group of school children had appeared on the other side of the fence. Mary Margaret had smiled and invited them to come play, but the children had begun chanting cruel words and throwing rocks. One had caught her, nicking the skin. Mary Margaret had insisted on not telling Ingrid of the incident, not wanting to get the other children in trouble, and the wound had scarred slightly.

"You'll always find me, right? Here, look," Emma had promised, bending down to pull something from her boot. She'd flicked open the pocket knife, the metal glinting in the moonlight, and sliced it carefully down her palm, sucking air in through her teeth at the momentary pain. "My blood."

She'd flipped Mary Margaret's hand over, slicing a matching path down her palm. "Your blood." Then, she'd pressed their hands together tightly. "Our blood."

Emma had tugged Mary Margaret in for one more tight hug, free hand fisting in the back of her robe. Mary Margaret squeezed her eyes shut, hot tears spilling over the apples of her cheeks. She could feel the sticky wetness of the blood in her palm and knew she needed to clean it or risk leaving a trail of blood back up to her bedroom.

"I love you," Emma had murmured, squeezing their clasped hands once more before releasing Mary Margaret. She'd darted out the patio door, tugging a chuckling Neal with her, and disappeared.

Mary Margaret lived with Ingrid for a few more years, until she had completed her education and could legally work as a school teacher. She found a small house closer to the center of town and worked towards becoming a normal member of society. Her powers had never been as strong or come to her as naturally as Emma's had. They were easy to stow within her and only use in the comfort of her own home for small tasks.

When she was twenty-six, the town held an election for sheriff. David Nolan had won, unsurprisingly to most of the town. The Nolan's family line goes back nearly as far as the Swan women's, all the way back to the foundation of the town as a colony. All the way back to the witch trials.

"Beware the Nolan men," Ingrid and Helga had always advised. "That George is trouble, no doubt his boys are being raised no differently."

Except, James Nolan had died in a car accident while Mary Margaret and Emma were still teenagers and David had grown up with his mother, the bastard child of George. When that bit of information came out, rather than risk scandal, George had taken David in after his mother's death. Despite her distance from witchcraft, Mary Margaret had still voted for David's opponent.

She hadn't met David until he came in for a career day at the school one day, a few months after his election. Mary Margaret had introduced him to her young students politely and kept her distance.

"You're Mary Margaret Swan? One of Ingrid's nieces?" David had asked, lingering by her desk despite the dismissal of the class moments prior. Mary Margaret had nodded hesitantly, keeping the desk between them. David had frowned before blurting, "You're much prettier than I expected."

"Charming," Mary Margaret had commented dryly, raising an eyebrow at him. She began to pack her things, keeping David in her peripheral vision just in case. He had chuckled, shaking his head at himself.

"Sorry, that came out much creepier than I'd intended," he'd insisted, tacking on quietly, "I hadn't intended for it to come out at all."

"It's quite alright," she'd sighed, tucking her folders and worksheets against her chest. Mary Margaret had looked him straight in the eye as she continued. "I suppose considering the things you must have heard about me, pretty is probably the best compliment I could hope for from you."

David had blanched and Mary Margaret had glanced towards the window where the children out at recess could be heard playing. Before he could conjure a response, defense, or insult, she'd excused herself and slipped out of the room.

When Mary Margaret is twenty-seven, Emma moves back to Storybrooke and Mary Margaret meets Victor Whale.

-/-

Neal Cassidy had shown up in Emma's life in a less than savory way and offered a chance to disappear. Emma craved the ability to exist within a world that didn't flinch at her name, craved the easy way Neal smiled at her without that usual hint of fear.

She had loved him and that, as she should have remembered, ultimately doomed him.

It had left her eighteen, alone, and pregnant. Mary Margaret had sensed the trouble in her sister easily. Within minutes of the breaking of her heart, Emma had received a call from her sister. In the safety of her sister's ear, Emma had cried. She had cried for the man she had loved, the child who would never know him, and her own bitter and aching heart.

She had returned to Storybrooke just long enough to have a home birth in her aunt's house. After a few weeks of adjusting to parenthood, Emma had been off like a shot again. Desperate to find somewhere even further away from the past she couldn't seem to escape, Emma had fled west.

Arizona put her as far from the little Maine town as she felt necessary. She'd settled into life in a large city easily, feeling more comfortable in the setting from her few years in Boston with Neal. Despite her separation from the town and her family's secrets, Emma found a new and lucrative way to use her powers.

Becoming a bail bondsperson was a chance opportunity she stumbled into, a way to make a bit of money. A simple locator charm on the real tough to find jumpers kept her and Henry fed and housed. It's a simple enough life for Emma, to blend into a large city and raise her son. It's easy and for the first time in years, somewhere around Henry's fifth birthday, she realizes she's happier than she's been in years.

The happiness makes her complacent. That's when she meets Graham.

He worked for one of the police precincts her bail bonds firm contracted with and Emma had turned over many a skip to him. They had flirted and snarked at each other, usually intermittently, and he was always nice. His jokes were just awful, but Emma usually found herself grinning like an idiot anyway. Graham always seemed to count the smiles as a win.

"You're surprisingly good at this," he had commented once, after handing off a bail jumper she'd nabbed to a uniformed officer. Emma had raised an eyebrow at him and, after a beat, he realized why. "No, no, not surprising because you're a woman or anything so archaic! I just haven't seen anyone bring them in as quickly as you can. Fess up, Emma, what's your secret?"

Emma had winked at him, answering simply, "Magic."

Eventually Graham had worked up the nerve to ask her to coffee. Once Emma had stopped freaking out long enough to accept, coffee had turned to dinner which turned to weekend dates. He was always kind to Henry who, Emma found, adored Graham. She always teased him that it was the accent mixed with being a cop.

"I didn't ask why you like me, Emma," Graham had responded, earning a punch in the arm from Emma.

When he asked her to marry him, Emma only took three days to decide on a yes. She managed a mere three years of happiness before she was swiftly reminded that she could run as far as she wanted from Storybrooke, but she would always be a Swan woman. As it turned out, curses had no distance limitations.

At twenty-nine, Emma threw anything that could fit into her single suitcase, packed up anything her ten-year-old could need, and moved back to Storybrooke. She moved back in with Ingrid, not wanting to intrude on Mary Margaret's life despite her sister's protests. Henry, not unaffected by the loss, handled all the change surprisingly well and Emma enrolled him into Mary Margaret's school.

Emma, beside herself with the grief, didn't leave the bed in her childhood room for a solid week. One morning, she'd woken to her sister lying next to her, fingers stroking gently through Emma's hair.

"Hey, sis," Mary Margaret had greeted softly and Emma had only managed a watery smile before the sobs had taken over, heavy and harsh. They rattled her ribcage as Mary Margaret held her.

"I was really happy, Mary Margaret," she gasped, once the sobs had worked down to cries and she could find her voice again. "I was so happy."

Mary Margaret had shushed her softly, fingers gently moving through the blonde tangles in Emma's unwashed curls. Emma had told her about Graham, all the ways he had made her laugh, the home they'd created in their too-short time together. In a quiet voice, Emma's described the ticking of a beetle she'd heard for three days prior. The way Graham and Henry insisted they didn't hear it as she combed the house looking for the vile little thing.

"Oh, Emma," Mary Margaret had sighed, wrapping her arms around Emma's shoulders where they sat in front of the fireplace. There hadn't been any more to it, no assurances that there was no such curse. No lies that everything would be okay. Mary Margaret had sat with Emma in their childhood home for a full day, listening as Emma described her lost love and sharing her own stories of the years Emma had missed.

"I know it hurts, sweetie," Mary Margaret said eventually, gripping Emma's hand as they lay in her bed. Emma closed her eyes and let the fresh wave of sadness wash over her. "But you can't do this, okay? You have to get up out of bed, you have to take care of that boy who just adores you, alright?"

Emma had chewed on her lip, nodding at Mary Margaret's statements. She'd known her response wasn't healthy, known she'd end up just like their mother. She couldn't do that to Henry, would never leave him that way. She needed time, though.

"And, for heaven's sake, take a shower," Mary Margaret had continued, a teasing not to her voice now, making Emma's eyes go wide with surprise and offense. She had slapped her sister's arm, shoving her out of the bed as Mary Margaret giggled.

The next day, Emma had gotten out of bed and set about finding her place in this new-old town.

Nearly five months after Emma decided to start living again, she's settled into a place in Storybrooke that feels completely new and, at the same time, strikingly familiar. During the week, she runs her aunts herbal shop for them, earning cautious looks from skittish customers as they peruse the shelves. They stock things like belladonna, sage, and types of herbal teas, but it's easy to spot the customers who come in looking for something a little more witch-like.

"Careful of that one," Ruby, one of the other women who help with the store, comments to just such a customer. "If you use it on the third full moon of an even numbered year in the gregorian calendar, you'll curse all your male offspring to have small wieners."

The man startles, dropping the jar of harmless tea leaves back onto the shelf with a thud before running from the store, coughing out an excuse about forgetting his wallet. Ruby catches Emma's eye and wiggles her eyebrows.

"How is it that I'm the one Ingrid doesn't think is enough of a people person for this job?" Emma asks. Ruby shrugs smugly, righting the overturned jar. Emma shakes her head at the woman, apparently her sister's closest friend and one of the few people in town impervious to the fearmongering about those dreaded Swan women. She can remember how Ingrid had sat Emma down gently to inform her she wouldn't be working the store alone.

"It's not that we don't trust you," Ingrid had insisted, gently stroking Emma's arm. "It's just that you're not much good with people, you know?"

The job is temporary anyway, as far as Emma is concerned. Her weekend job involves much more suspicion and spite from people, unfortunately. She works at the sheriff's office, trying to prove herself fit enough to be a deputy. The sheriff, David Nolan, seems nice enough but Emma doesn't trust him. She doesn't trust much of anyone in this town, though. Apparently, her past of picking up bail jumpers doesn't make her fit for police work, so Emma files paperwork while David teaches her the inner workings of the job in his free time.

Emma's pretty sure he's only doing it to get on Mary Margaret's good side anyway.

"Well," Ruby says, clapping her hands together and startling Emma out of her thoughts. "I'm gonna take my break. You can handle the place for an hour without me, can't you?"

Emma sighs. "You're just leaving so you don't have to help me with inventory, aren't you?"

"I'll bring back lunch from Granny's," Ruby calls as she heads out the door, ignoring Emma's question. Emma groans and shakes her head at the woman's retreating form before pulling a clipboard from under the cash register.

She's circling the shop, trying to count all of the little jars and mark down what Ingrid and Helga absolutely need to refill before the next business day, when the bell over the door signals a new customer. The bell is one of those small, tinkling ones that rings multiple times before it's momentum runs out. Emma has nearly used the footstool behind the counter to rip it down on multiple occasions.

Emma heaves a sigh and turns to the new arrival. He doesn't look familiar, but that doesn't mean much considering her time away, dressed head to toe in black. Emma raises an eyebrow, the heat of Maine in the summer is not a good place for the outfit. He shoots her a cursory glance before returning his attentions to the shelves and Emma figures he must also be looking for some item of magical significance. When will this town learn?

"Can I help you?" Emma asks in a bored tone as she sets the clipboard on the shelf and crosses her arm, tracking his progress around the shop.

"That's not very good customer service," he comments, looking over at her with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. Emma falters for a moment, having expected him to cower under her direct gaze. His voice is accented and she wonders if he's just a wandering tourist.

"Were you looking for anything in particular?" Emma presses, only a little nicer this time, ignoring his comment. He seems unperturbed, glancing around the shop with a flourish of his hand. Emma notices the stiffness of the fingers on his other hand, the way he keeps his arm bent at the elbow and tucked to to his side, a prosthetic.

"Aye, chamomile tea," he explains. Emma nods, crossing the room to join him near the teas. She reaches around him, pulling the jar of light colored flower buds off the shelf behind him. He doesn't follow the movement of her arm, rather tracking her proximity as she leans towards him. Emma rocks back on her heels, holding the jar up for him.

"How very English of you," she comments as he plucks the jar from her fingers, skin brushing momentarily against hers. Turning, Emma leads him back towards the counter to cash out the purchase.

"Irish, actually," he says as she rounds the counter. Emma nods at that, unsurprised by the correction. She'd recognize the accent anywhere, after all. He sets the jar on the counter as she types the correct amount into the ancient cash register. "I'm Killian, by the way. Killian Jones."

Emma doesn't bat an eye as she looks up from the register. "Hemorrhoids?"

Killian barks out a laugh of surprise at the question. He shakes his head though, leaning forward a bit.

"Insomnia, love," he corrects. Emma hums dubiously in response. Killian seems completely unbothered by it. "You didn't give me your name."

"You're right, I didn't," she smirks. "That'll be seven-fifty."

Killian surveys her for a moment before nodding. He pulls the money out of his nearly obscenely tight pants and hands it over to her. Emma opens the register and places it inside, waiting for the old machine to print him a receipt. Once she rips it off and hands it to him, Killian seems to consider something for a moment before leaning forward more.

"Y'know, darling, if you're interested," he starts, eyes dipping to her lips and letting Emma know she definitely isn't interested in wherever this is going. "There are more fun ways to cure my sleeplessness."

Emma's eyes go wide in surprise and she opens her mouth to tell him exactly how not interested she is when the bell above the door tinkles again.

"We come bearing onion rings," Mary Margaret calls, entering the shop with Ruby trailing behind her. Killian falls back onto his heels, pushing himself away from the counter, and Mary Margaret lets out a soft, embarrassed laugh. "Oh, sorry."

"Quite alright, lass," Killian assures her. "We were just finishing up."

He wraps his knuckles against the countertop and sends Emma a wink - it's more of a smarmy blink, considering he can hardly do it without closing both eyes - before turning and heading out of the store, offering smiles to Mary Margaret and Ruby on the way out. Once the door closes behind him, Ruby lets out a whistle.

"Who was that?" She asks, grin forming on her red lips. Emma picks up the receipt he'd left on the counter and shreds it, tossing it into the trash can underneath the counter.

"Trouble," she comments dryly. Mary Margaret shoots her a worried look, but Emma rounds the counter to take one of the paper bags from them, rifling around for her food. She doubts she'll see Killian Jones again, anyway.

She bites back a curse when she spots the jar of chamomile still sitting on the counter.

-/-

Killian Jones, as they learn from Ruby, is a recent arrival in town. A recluse, for the most part, who prefers to spend his time on his docked boat and not around the townspeople. Emma holds up the jar of chamomile and asks Ruby to deliver it to his boat.

"Sure," Ruby grins, gripping the jar tightly between her hands, black painted nails standing out against the faded whites and yellows of the buds. "Mind if I try to hit that while I'm there?"

"Be my guest," Emma waves her off, digging through the greasy paper bag propped up on the counter top. Mary Margaret raises an eyebrow at her, but Ruby catches her gaze wagging her eyebrows salaciously and earning a chuckle from Mary Margaret. The bell above the door tinkles as Ruby leaves and Mary Margaret crosses the room to grab Emma's elbow gently.

"Come on," she says at her sister's questioning glance. Mary Margaret tugs lightly and Emma picks up the bag, allowing her to lead. "It's gorgeous outside today, you can close for an hour to enjoy lunch with your sister, can't you?"

"Mary Margaret Swan suggesting I shirk my responsibilities?" Emma teases as Mary Margaret sticks her tongue out at her pushing through the door of the shop. She lingers on the sidewalk as Emma stops to lock the door. "Have I entered one of those parallel universes Henry likes to theorize about?"

"Oh, hardy har, you're a laugh riot, Emma Swan," Mary Margaret responds dryly, leading her to one of the sets of garden chairs that decorates the sidewalk. They set their bags on the white painted wrought iron table and take their seats. "I'm not a total goody-two-shoes, I'll have you know." Emma hums dubiously and Mary Margaret presses on, "Not anymore anyway. You were gone for a long time, things change."

She had meant the comment lightly and has already removed two of the styrofoam containers from the bag before she notices Emma's silence. Mary Margaret looks up at her sister and frowns. "I didn't mean it like that."

"No, I know," Emma says stiffly. Mary Margaret sighs, sliding the container with Emma's grilled cheese and side of onion rings inside across the table. "It's true, though, I've clearly missed a lot. Sorry about that."

"It doesn't matter," Mary Margaret insists, reaching over to place her hand overtop of Emma's. Emma offers her a sad smile. "You're here now. There's plenty of time for catching up."

They lapse into comfortable conversation as Mary Margaret finally manages to locate her own food within the bags. She asks if Emma thinks Ruby will be able to bed the mysterious newcomer and Emma shrugs commenting lightly, "He seemed the type. Besides, Ruby's everyone's type."

"Hey, can I ask you something?" Emma asks, catching Mary Margaret as she takes a large bite of her BLT. She nods, covering her mouth at the motion. "How's Henry doing? Not just grades and all that, the kid is so much smarter than me already, but how is he doing?"

Mary Margaret nods in acknowledgement and understanding of what Emma's asking and hurries to finish the food in her mouth. She sets her sandwich down and folds her hands together on top of the table.

"He's good, Emma, as well as a child can be considering what's happened," Mary Margaret assures her. Emma nods, still looking uneasy, so she continues, "Seriously, if you're worried about him, you needn't be. He's strong and brilliant, just like his mother, he'll make it through it."

Emma lets out a breath and nods at her sister's words. Mary Margaret watches her with concern, considering the lines of her face and way she chews the inside of her cheek. It's been months now since Graham's death, but Emma's faced so much loss and Mary Margaret doesn't know how to fix any of it for her. She'll catch it sometimes in Emma's face, a shadow of the grief brought on by a memory Mary Margaret doesn't know, and her heart aches for her. As much as the thought pains her, Mary Margaret knows only Emma can heal herself over time.

The train of thought is interrupted by the arrival of David Nolan.

"Miss Swan," he greets as he steps up towards the table. Both women turn at the moniker, but David's eyes are trained on Mary Margaret. "It's such a lovely afternoon, it really does seem as though everyone is out enjoying the sun. You're quite a ways from the school today."

He has a bag from the convenience store hanging from his fingers and Mary Margaret assumes it must be his lunch time as well. She's come to know him well enough over the past few months that she knows whatever is in the bag is probably microwaveable and full of ingredients that would make a nutritionist cringe. She'd admonish him if she thought it'd do any good, if it was her place to do so.

"I thought I'd get lunch off school grounds today," Mary Margaret explains easily, shielding her eyes from the sun so she can look up at the sheriff. His eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles at her. Mary Margaret is powerless to return it. "Spend an hour or so with my sister. You aren't going to arrest me for truancy, are you?"

David lets out a genuine laugh and Mary Margaret vaguely registers Emma's confused frown. She resists the urge to poke out her tongue at her sister and insist that some people do find her funny. Actual adults, not just the children she teaches.

"Well, I'll have to look into the law, but I don't believe it applies to teachers," David responds, grin never wavering. Mary Margaret shrugs in a well-what-can-ya-do gesture. "Wouldn't want to waste tax dollars on a fruitless arrest."

"Well, then, I won't hold you up. What would the taxpayers say if they knew you were wasting time talking to me?" She asks. David shakes his head, leaning forward a bit, and Mary Margaret can suddenly see the light blue color of his eyes much clearer.

"Talking to you could never be a waste," he assures her. It's so cheesy that Mary Margaret catches Emma pretending to gag from her peripheral. Regardless, it sets something fluttering in her stomach and she averts her gaze. David continues, rocking back on his heels, "That said, I should be getting back. I'll see you around, Mary Margaret."

He makes it two steps in the direction of the sheriff's station before Emma stops him, calling out, "Bye David!"

He jolts in surprise, turning back to the table and staring at Emma in surprise. He lifts his free hand in an awkward attempt at a wave. "Oh, bye, Emma."

It isn't until he's out of sight that Mary Margaret turns back around in her seat to face Emma. Emma's arms are crossed as she raises an eyebrow at her. Mary Margaret looks back down at her sandwich, avoiding her sister's gaze.

"Okay, what was that?" She demands. Mary Margaret gives a half hearted shrug, picking her sandwich back up. "Come on, are you kidding? He had no idea I was even here. I work with the guy and yet, for all he knows, I could have been standing here dancing naked and calling spirits."

"Emma," Mary Margaret gasps, rolling her eyes at her sister's dramatics. The last thing they need is someone around them hearing them discussing spirits of all things. "It's nothing, really. David's just friendly."

"No, Granny Lucas is friendly," Emma insists. "What I just watched was flirty. I didn't even know you knew how to flirt, let alone did I need an up-close demonstration of it."

"God, Emma, I'm twenty-seven not seven, of course I know how to flirt," Mary Margaret insists with a huff, tightening her cardigan around her defensively. "But whatever you think that was, it doesn't matter. Because David is a Nolan."

That seems to sober her sister up. Emma sits back in her seat, nodding in understanding at the point. David may be nice and friendly, he may be the first sheriff they've had in a long time whose sole mission isn't to investigate them and their aunts at every turn for the sake of keeping voters. But at the end of the day, he's a Nolan man and they've never brought the Swan family line anything but trouble.

"Maybe," Emma starts slowly, leaning forward again to rest her chin in her hand. "Maybe not everyone is defined by their last name."

"Are you talking about David," Mary Margaret asks on a frown, watching the way her sister carefully eyes the busy street. "Or us?"

Emma is quiet for a long minute, but just as she opens her mouth to respond Ruby appears. She plops down in one of the empty metal chairs and begins opening styrofoam lids looking for her own food with a groan.

"I am starving," she gripes. "Last time I run your errands for you, Emma Swan."

"What?" Emma asks, sitting back in the chair and crossing her arms over her chest once more. Ruby digs into the lasagna she'd ordered from her grandmother's restaurant. "Not a good lay?"

"God, who knows? His interest was, like, nill which I mean," she waves her fork up and down her torso as demonstration, "come on. I guess I read him wrong."

She concludes on a shrug, clearly unbothered by Killian Jones' lack of interest, and puts her focus fully on the food in front of her. Mary Margaret shakes her head fondly at her friend and misses the way her sister frowns at Ruby's response.

-/-

"Emma Swan!"

Emma startles at her name being called from behind her, turning with a confused frown. People don't really approach her in town, besides family members and Ruby. Those who've come to Ingrid for help know her family's power first hand. Those who don't mostly just believe the whispers. It's better than having stones thrown at her, she supposes.

"Ha, that's your name, isn't it?" Killian Jones is grinning smugly as he jogs to catch up with her. Emma sighs and continues in her stride towards the sheriff's station, Killian falling into step next to her. It's been a little over a week since she'd met him in the store and she'd actually lulled herself into the belief that she might not run into him again.

"You found me out," she responds dryly. Killian seems completely unaffected by her tone, keeping his pace next to her and smiling easily. It's too early in the morning for most of the town to be out and about, the early summer sun only just beginning to peek over the horizon. Unfortunately, Emma has to be at the sheriff's station this early every Saturday morning. She has no idea why Killian is awake so early.

"Ah, well, it wasn't too hard, if I'm to be honest," he admits. Emma glances him from the corner of her eye as his hand lifts to scratch behind his ear. A nervous tell. She frowns, there's typically only one reason people get nervous around her when she's not in bounty hunter mode. "You're almost like a myth around this strange town."

Emma grunts, undecided as to whether she actually wants to pursue this topic. On the one hand, she needs no help imagining the terrible things Killian is sure to have heard about her. On the other, well, she kind of wants to know what ridiculous rumors the town has cooked up in the years she's been gone.

"A myth, huh?" She offers finally. She glances over at Killian, still clad in his leather and dark colors. He's going to overheat in that getup if he doesn't switch it up soon. "Well, you know what they say about small towns."

"What's that, Swan?" He asks, his stride slowing enough that Emma's slows with it until they're stagnant on the sidewalk. A sea breeze blows the awning above the bookstore upwards, fabric rustling loudly in the quiet street.

"People have to manufacture their own entertainment," she sighs, turning to face him. Killian takes a step forward, just within her personal space but not yet encroaching upon what Emma would call groin kick territory. He tilts his head at her and she feels like she's being studied. Resisting the instinct to squirm under the scrutiny, she meets his blue gaze unyieldingly.

"And what sorts of entertainment do you manufacture, love?" He asks, voice dangerously low. Emma doesn't think he's waiting for a response like "oh, I turn men into frogs and dance naked in the moonlight in my free time". She almost gives it, just to see the reaction, though. Instead, she shrugs lazily and tilts her head in turn.

"I sell herbal remedies and teas for my aunts," she answers, voice giving away nothing even as Killian searches her face. "I hang out with my kid. Occasionally, I catch bail jumpers out of town."

Killian's lips twitch at the response, a small smile taking up residence that Emma would almost call fond if the notion weren't ridiculous for a stranger. He nods as if her answer is an acceptable one and turns from her, continuing her original trek towards the station. Emma rolls her eyes, but follows him.

"What about you, huh?" She asks, despite herself. She shouldn't be putting forth the effort to get to know this man, mostly a mystery even to Ruby who is usually like a living rolodex for town gossip. "What brings you to our little seaside haven?"

"My ship," Killian answers succinctly and here Emma thought she was the one of the two least likely to give answers. It's unfair in a way, thanks to this stupid town he already knows everything the town finds relevant about her. He shoots her a smirk and Emma realizes the response had merely been for the benefit of her annoyance. "That and a need for a change of scenery. As it turned out, some other coastal towns south of here were a little too heavy on people."

Emma smirks. "Not a people person, huh?"

"Quite the contrary, I'll have you know people love me," he responds, answering her smirk with one of his own. Emma hums dubiously.

"Is that so?"

"Aye," he nods, sounding absolutely sure of himself. Emma would roll her eyes again if she weren't afraid this conversation was going to cause them to roll right out of her head. "That's just it, isn't it? The adoration can get a bit much, you see, I needed a break from it all."

"Oh, I'm sure," Emma nods, grinning despite herself. Killian chances a glance at her, noticing the smile on her lips and lets out a laugh. His hand brushes lightly against hers as they walk and Emma pulls her arms into herself, crossing them over her chest. He lets out a nearly imperceptible sigh, but doesn't comment.

"So, you know what the town thinks of me," she comments, unable to resist. She's always had a penchant for treacherous waters, she supposes, and this is no exception. Nothing good can come of knowing what the town says behind her back, considering how much they say to her face. Killian inclines his head slightly, watching her carefully from the corner of his eye. "Why are you running after me on an empty street, then? Aren't you afraid for your safety?"

"Poor form to listen to rumor, Swan," he shrugs, her cold tone having no affect on him. "Unfortunately, in this town, it seems impossible to avoid. Doesn't mean I need to believe it, of course."

He catches her upper arm suddenly, in a surprisingly gentle grasp. It's just enough to stall her momentum, getting her to turn to face him on the sidewalk once again, before he lets go. Emma frowns at him.

"I'd rather get to know you personally and make my own judgements from there," Killian tells her softly, once again just at the edge of her personal space, testing the waters. She nibbles at the inside of her lip and considers him. He'd shown up out of nowhere on his ship and caused quite his own stir in the rumor mill. There'd been too many contradicting stories for Emma to commit any of it to memory, but they'd all added up to one near certainty; Killian Jones, with his intense stare and his thick accent and his exposed collarbone, is trouble.

Emma left trouble behind years ago.

"You're afraid to reveal yourself, whoever you may be underneath your armor and walls," he comments at her prolonged silence, taking one step forward into her space. She squares her shoulders and meets his eye. "You're afraid to trust."

"I try not to make it a habit of trusting handsome strangers with secrets," Emma admits, a little coldly as she shakes her head. Killian's eyes flash at her assertion that he has secrets and it only confirms the belief. Suddenly, his face lights and a grin takes over his features. Emma raises an eyebrow in surprise at the change.

"That's quite alright, darling," he says, voice light. "I love a challenge."

Emma rocks back on her heels, surprised at the comment. Without a response, she can only frown at him until someone behind them calls her name, startling Emma and causing her to break away from Killian's gaze. She glances over her shoulder to find David moving swiftly down the sidewalk towards them.

"Hey, there you are," he calls, jogging the last few steps over to them. His gaze lands on Killian who has taken a few steps back, Emma realizes, no longer in her space. David frowns, greeting Killian with a chilly "Mr. Jones."

"Sheriff," Killian nods, offering a nearly mocking salute. Emma narrows her eyes, looking between the two men, but Killian turns his gaze back to her before she can question it. "I should leave you to your work, Swan. I'm sure I'll see you later."

She frowns at the assumption but Killian is gone, heading back across the street and in the direction of the docks, before she can refute it. Instead, she turns her attention to David who is still frowning after the man.

"What's up?" Emma asks, pulling his attention back to her. David shakes his head and his tight expression melts into something much friendlier. It's the expression she's come to expect from David, towards almost every person in town, in fact. Kind eyes, her mind recites suddenly and she frowns to herself at the memory of her sister.

"How would you like to accompany me on a call today?" David asks, jolting Emma back to the present. Her eyes go wide at the offer.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" She asks warily. Emma doesn't want to be stuck filing paperwork while David just explains to her what a deputy job is like every Saturday for the rest of her life. But, also, she doesn't know how anyone in town will react to her presence at their beloved sheriff's side.

"Absolutely," David insists, despite Emma's concern. "If you're going to be a deputy, the town needs to get used to you as a civil servant, someone who is there to help them."

"Yeah, you may be aiming a little high," Emma grumbles, but David ignores her negativity as he continues down the street. She sighs and follows after him, lacking another option. David is nearly as bad as Mary Margaret with his never ending optimism and eternal hope springs.

"Come on," David calls, stalling long enough to let her match his stride. "Apparently, someone broke into the library last night."

"I will bet you three tins of that fresh ginger you like we find out it was Will Scarlet," she comments once she catches up to him. David gives her an admonishing look as they continue down the street, back past the bookstore where she and Killian had paused.

"Now, Emma," he scolds gently. "It's not right to bet on a sure thing."

-/-

Mary Margaret knows she has the tendency to overcompensate. She hears it in Ingrid's tutting that she's working too hard, in the other teachers "oh, you're not leaving yet?" surprise as they pass by her classroom on their way out. She knows she has a tendency to spread herself thin in order to prove herself. After over five years, she's still desperately trying to prove herself.

Of course, the time she's spent at her job means practically nothing. She can shape all the young minds she likes, send them off to become doctors, lawyers, and the most brilliant of societal influencers. It won't matter, really, not to this town.

If she starts to think about that, though, Mary Margaret can only spiral downwards in a terrifying mindset of despair. Emma thinks she's unendingly and annoyingly optimistic, maybe she is. What her sister doesn't understand is that she needs to be. Emma has her snark and a million more ways of distancing herself from the townspeople.

Optimism and hard work are Mary Margaret's own defense mechanism.

It's what has her sitting at her desk, grading papers and preparing her syllabus for the last few weeks of classes until so late into the evening that the sun has started to dip behind the horizon. At the beginning of summer, that means it's late. Startled at the realization, Mary Margaret checks the time and rushes to gather her things up.

She locks the door to her classroom and switches keys in her hands to lock the door to the whole building once she's outside. It's customary that all the teaching staff have keys. The school doesn't have an elaborate security system so whoever leaves last, locks up. Mary Margaret would usually take her time and check all the other rooms, but tonight she's certain she's the last.

There's a rustling behind her as Mary Margaret slips the key into the lock, turning it and hearing the tell tale click of the tumblers. She startles and whips around to find the source of the noise, keys slipping from her hand and hitting the pavement.

"Oh, Victor," Mary Margaret gasps, placing her hand over her heart. She stoops down to pick the ring of keys back up and offers the man a cautious smile. "You scared me."

Victor barks a laugh that's on the edge of what she would consider condescending. "Yes, I noticed that."

Mary Margaret offers him another smile before turning to head down the sidewalk towards her house. She can hear Victor's footfalls as he follows her. Glancing around the street, Mary Margaret is surprised at the quiet night surrounding them. With summer rapidly closing in on the town, people are usually more actively outdoors.

"You're out pretty late," Victor comments from where he's fallen into step behind her. Mary Margaret adjusts the strap of her tote bag and nods at him. "Busy day?"

"Ah, yeah, just lots to do before the school year ends," Mary Margaret chirps, unable to contain her excitement for the weeks she has planned for the kids. Lacking children of her own, and the immediate means to create some, Mary Margaret feels like she forges a special connection with every one of her students. She thinks they like her in return, too, despite what their parents may feel.

Victor doesn't seem particularly interested in it, though, nodding his head before pressing on. "Right, so listen, I was thinking we'd get a drink tonight." The lack of a question makes Mary Margaret's brow furrow. "It's been a while since we got together."

Mary Margaret sighs, unprepared to let the man down gently but clearly needing to do so. She'd met Victor a few months prior, when he'd moved back to town after finishing his residency at some big hospital. He'd showed at interest and pursued her for a while. In a weak moment, Mary Margaret had given in and they'd ended up sleeping together. Not her finest moment, surely, but she'd thought Victor understood that it wasn't anything more than that.

"I don't think that's such a good idea, Victor," Mary Margaret responds gently. Something flashes in his eyes but she continues. "I'm supposed to have dinner with my aunt and sister and I just don't think we should have a repeat of what happened last time."

It's a lie, sort of, she wasn't expressly invited over for dinner. Mary Margaret isn't above changing her routine around a bit to stop by the old Victorian house if necessary though. Victor doesn't really seem pleased with this answer, as the corners of his mouth pull down in a frown.

"No, no, that's not it," he bites out and Mary Margaret's eyes widen in surprise. "This isn't about dinner with your family, is it? This is about Nolan, isn't it?"

Mary Margaret shakes her head, but before she can argue the point Victor is moving. He paces in front of her, waving his arms as he speaks. The whole picture it creates is something a little mad. She grips the strap of her bag and takes a step back from him.

"What is it about that asshole that makes everyone think he's so great?" Victor rants. "He's not that great. He's just some half-wit who inherited a name that gives him power. That doesn't make him some- some- prince!"

"Victor, this isn't-" Mary Margaret tries, not interested in debating David Nolan's personality. Victor cuts her off, stopping in his tracks to look her dead in the eye. Mary Margaret stumbles back another step, surprised at the intensity of his gaze.

"I'd expect you of all people to see through it, at least," he growls, following her step backwards with a step forwards of his own. "How could you expect him to ever return those feelings of yours? Everyone sees how you pine after him. He's a great Nolan, what could he ever feel for you but disgust?"

Mary Margaret feels the hot pricks of tears building in her eyes, but refuses to allow him the satisfaction of making her cry. Instead, she says, curtly, "I'm not interested in you, Victor. I'm sorry if that hurts your feelings, but I'm certain you'll make a full recovery."

She spins on the ball of her foot, the rubber sole of her converse scuffing against the pavement, and makes to walk away from him. Victor's hand closes roughly around her bicep though, gripping her painfully as he tugs her back to face him. Mary Margaret gives a startled shout but Victor presses his other hand to her mouth as he presses her back against the building they'd stopped in front of.

"I'm not finished talking, Mary Margaret," he says, the calm of his voice betrayed by the simmering rage in his eyes. He's pressed close enough that Mary Margaret can smell the booze already on his breath. "Don't you know it's very rude to walk away from someone who's talking to you? Makes one wonder what kind of manners you might be teaching those students of yours."

Mary Margaret struggles against his palm, eyes wide with panic. She thinks of the tote bag pressed to her side, the pepper spray rolling uselessly along the bottom of it. His fingers dig into the skin of her arm still, hard enough to bruise and cause tears to spring once more to her eyes. Still, she refuses to let them fall, squeezing her eyes shut.

Victor continues to rant like a drunk lunatic, about all manner of things from the Nolans to herself. She distinctly hears the term fucking tease and if he weren't so close she'd knee him in the groin merely for the insinuation.

"Hey, what that fuck are you doing?" A familiar voice calls out from a little ways down the street, followed by heavy and quick footfalls against concrete. Mary Margaret's eyes fly open in relief and she takes in the sight of her sister, a furious presence in red leather as her blonde curls fly out behind her.

"Oh, great," Victor grumbles, releasing his hold somewhat on Mary Margaret. He steps away so he's not pressing her against the building quite so harshly. "Your sister and I were just having a chat."

"Yeah, I can see exactly what kind of conversation you were having," Emma bites, stepping towards him menacingly. "Wanna take your hands off of her?"

Victor scoffs, looking between the women with something like amusement. Mary Margaret figures he's trying to play their interaction off as innocuous, but Emma is smarter than that and doesn't bite. Victor has his attention on her, though, and it's enough for Mary Margaret. She strikes out with her leg, quick as lightning, and catching him just in the joint of his knee. Victor drops to his knees on the concrete with a curse and Mary Margaret breaks away from him to run over to her sister.

"You bitch," he barks. "You could have dislocated it or torn something. You're gonna fucking pay for that."

Emma rolls her eyes at him while he struggles to his feet. "You don't have any more cards to play here, Whale. Go home, while you still have the option."

His knee must not be in as bad of shape as he's projecting because he moves suddenly, lunging forward before either of them can act. Suddenly, Mary Margaret is on her back on the concrete with him on top of her. Her head knocks against the ground, blurring her vision at the edges, and Victor's hands wrap around her neck.

Her windpipe closes under the pressure and Mary Margaret gasps for air, clawing at his hands around her throat. Emma is shoving at him from behind, trying to knock him off. Finally she gives a good full-bodied shove, knocking him to the concrete. His head hits the ground, hard, but Emma is helping Mary Margaret back to her feet.

"Are you alright?" She asks and Mary Margaret nods, hand coming up to her throat as she sucks air into her lungs gratefully. She looks down at Victor and then back at Emma.

"He's not, though," she observes quietly, fingers shaking as she gestures to the unmoving man sprawled out on the sidewalk. Emma shoots her a wide eyed look before crouching down next to him, fingers searching his neck for a pulse.

Standing up, Emma runs a hand through her hair and looks at Mary Margaret, observing succinctly, "shit."

Mary Margaret stares down at the body of Victor Whale and can't help but agree. Shit, indeed.

-/-

"Oh, God," Mary Margaret repeats, her mantra of the past few minutes. She's pacing back and forth across the pavement and clutching her tote bag tightly. "Oh, God. Oh, God. Emma, what do we do?"

From what Emma knows Victor Whale was a real asshole and, after catching him clearly intent on hurting her sister, she's having a hard time finding a shred of sympathy for the man. Except, she thinks of Henry and the possibility of prison. That's not happening.

"Okay, listen," Emma says finally, turning to stop Mary Margaret's pacing. She places her hands on the other woman's shoulders. "You have to calm down. I think there's a way we can fix this, but we have to get him back to the house."

"The house?" Mary Margaret gasps. "Aunt Ingrid's? But what about her and Henry?"

"They went out for ice cream right before I came out to find you," Emma assures her. She crouches down next to Victor again, lifting one of his limp arms and wrapping it around her shoulder. Mary Margaret follows her example and they heft him to his feet. His head lolls against his shoulders and Emma notices a blooming redness in his hair. "I could feel that something was off and knew you needed my help."

"How do you intend to fix this?" Mary Margaret asks as they begin carrying Victor's body down the street. It's empty right now, but Emma doesn't know how long they can get away with this for. The drunk angle might work, usually, but not in this town. Not for her and her sister.

"There's a spell," Emma explains. "I remember seeing it in one of the books. We'll just mix up whatever we need and the good doctor here will be fine."

She doesn't mention that she'd thought of the spell after Graham died, had considering trying to bring him back with it. Ingrid had warned her against it when she'd asked, insisting there were some things nature simply couldn't condone. Victor was already barely human, she doubts any spell can make it worse.

It's a pain in the ass getting him back to the house, but they manage it uninterrupted. Emma clears off the table in the kitchen and they spread him across it. She makes a mental note to disinfect and maybe just burn the table when this is over.

Mary Margaret lights the candles while Emma locates the book. It's not the most complex spell she's ever seen but it's been over a decade since she tried something more elaborate than a locater spell. They need something white to paint the pentagram across his chest and Mary Margaret hands her one of Ingrid's yoghurts from the fridge.

"It's all I can find," she shrugs and Emma shakes her head. Whatever, it'll do she supposes. There's chanting and needles that are meant to be inserted into places needles should not be inserted. It's the type of magic Emma hasn't done in a very long time, but she's nonetheless still good at it. Ingrid always said she had a natural talent.

Victor sits up, eyes wide and glassed over, and immediately lunges for Mary Margaret again. He gets his hands around her neck and Emma acts without thinking. It takes three solid knocks from Ingrid's trusty cast iron skillet before he slumps to the floor. His breathing has ceased again and Emma groans.

Mary Margaret crosses to her, hand once again rubbing at the red marks on her neck. Emma doubts they'll be gone by the morning, she may be cursed with scarves for a week or so. Her free hand grips Emma's as they stare down at the lifeless heap on the kitchen floor.

"What now?" Mary Margaret asks.

Emma thinks it bares repeating after the night they're having; Shit.