AN: Thanks to Emma Swan for the prompt to get me writing again. If you haven't checked out her story "Fire and Ice," you're missing an absolutely brilliant story.

This chapter is a bit lighter than the others, with a different style. Hope you enjoy.

"Seriously?" Emma crosses her arms as she glares at the brunette. "Are you punishing me for last week?"

The other woman smiles, almost wickedly. "Of course not. I'm not vengeful."

Huffing at the mischievous twinkle in her roommate's eye, she pokes at the DVD in Mary Margaret's right hand. "That one, then."

"Really?" The brunette tilts her head slightly as she frowns. "I thought for sure you'd pick Charlie and the Chocolate Factory."

Emma rolls her eyes, and turns to grab a soda. "No." Popping open the green can, she elaborates, knowing her curious roommate will inevitably ask. "The Oompa Loompas creep me out."

Mary Margaret shakes her head, and sticks the DVD in the player. "And *you're* the one that's going to save us from the "curse"? I find that my confidence is shaken."

"Hey, don't judge. Evil is different from creepy." Emma plops down on the sofa next to Mary Margaret and hands her a slice of pizza. "I won't have to battle Oompa Loompas."

"I should make you watch them. It seems only fair after I've had nightmares all week from you forcing me to watch Saw."

"I'm sure *this* will give me nightmares of some sort, just as much as the Oompa Loompas would," the blond mutters, waving a slice of greasy pizza towards the screen.

"It's Disney, Emma. How can it give you nightmares?"

With a shrug, the blonde picks off a circular pepperoni, and shoves it in her mouth as she props her feet up on the coffee table.

"How's it going with August?" Mary Margaret asks.

"It's... not. He thinks he's Pinocchio. I refuse to date a delusional puppet. It's just weird. And awkward…and not happening. Ever."

"He thinks he's a puppet?" the brunette repeats incredulously.

"Yep. He tried to convince me that his leg is wooden."

Mary Margaret mulls the information over for a moment before her curiosity gets the best of her. "Is it?"

"Of course not! It's totally normal. The dude is screwed up. In fact, have you seen Henry's book? Pinocchio was this little red headed kid. August looks nothing like him. Seriously. Unless he has some kind of addiction to Just for Men, there's no freaking way that guy could pass for a red head."

With a laugh, Mary Margaret grabs a slice of pizza and curls her legs underneath her, as she leans against the armrest.

There's silence for a few minutes, as they watch the dwarves mine for gems. Emma wonders who Henry thinks they are, since there aren't actually any dwarves in Storybrooke. Well, not that she's seen anyway. Though, surely she would have noticed seven midgets running around. It's not like she'd see that just anywhere. Except maybe at the circus. Does the circus come to Storybrooke? Maybe she could take Henry.

"I thought there were eight dwarves," Mary Margaret comments with a frown, interrupting Emma's thoughts.

"Seems like you'd be the expert, but, sadly, no. There are only seven. Hence, Snow White and the *Seven* Dwarves. See? Right there on the DVD box." Emma pokes the box with her toe.

Mary Margaret furrows her brow momentarily. Yes, she's quite certain there should be eight. Why would there be seven? There's something not quite right about that number, and she feels her heart constrict, inexplicably. Shaking it off, she turns to Emma. "Seven is an odd number."

"Odd as in not even? Or odd as in strange?"

Mary Margaret closes her eyes briefly, and cants her head towards her roommate. "Does it matter?"

"No. Either way, it's lucky."

"Not for the eighth dwarf," the brunette replies sadly.

"He's non-existent!" Emma argues, her hands gesturing towards the animated movie on the television.

"Well, I'm not so sure." Mary Margaret crosses her arms defensively.

"Fine. Tomorrow, you can call Disney and complain."

"I don't have to call Disney. *I'm * Snow White."

"Of course you are," Emma nods, taking a swig of soda.

The brunette glares, clearly affronted. "You're patronizing me."

Shrugging, and still staring at the television, Emma replies, "You started it."

"Really, Emma? I'm living with a child." Mary Margaret mutters to herself, turning back to the movie.

"Your child, apparently," Emma states with a cheeky grin, tossing a kernel of excessively buttered popcorn in her mouth.

"Then you must take after your father…." Her own comment starts a chain of thoughts. It occurs to her that while she'd thought of David as Prince Charming, she'd never really thought of him as Emma's father. She wonders about this, and can't help but steal a glance at her roommate. She wonders if it's wishful thinking that makes her see the similarities between David and the woman that Henry believes to be her daughter. She wonders about the curse. How would she feel should Henry be vindicated? She wonders if she could forgive David – or Prince Charming - but knows that she would have no reservations about accepting Emma as her daughter. She feels a twinge of something, perhaps an inkling of belief. How many people does she know that think they are all cursed characters from a fairy tale? August and Jefferson….and Henry. Three people who believe that something is afoot in Storybrooke - that things are not as they seem, or should be. She wonders if it's possible for people to have a shared delusion, and makes a note to ask Archie. "That's three people."

"What?" Emma furrows her brow in confusion, unable to follow the non-sequitur.

"Three people who believe in the curse."

Emma isn't sure that she likes that Henry is lumped into the same category as Jefferson and August - two clearly disturbed adults. Henry is just… well, he's Henry, and lonely.

Mary Margaret is silent for a moment, then opens her mouth as if to continue, before snapping it shut.

Emma arches an eyebrow. "What? Don't tell me you're starting to buy into this curse thing, too."

"No…I just…" There's another pause as Mary Margaret hosts an internal debate. Finally, she nods, having made up her mind. "Would you be okay with me being your mom?"

It's an unexpected question, and Emma chews thoughtfully for a few seconds. "I dunno. Depends. What kind of mom are you? Are you interfering and bossy? Are you going to make me wear foofy dresses and act all princess-y? Or do I get to have a sword?"

Heart thumping irrationally, Mary Margaret responds almost instinctively, "No, you most certainly cannot have a sword."

"Why not?" the blonde asks, clearly annoyed.

"Because ….because princesses don't carry swords." It's a weak defense, and Mary Margaret knows it. She's not even entirely sure *why* the idea of Emma carrying a sword bothers her. It just seems…unsafe.

Rolling her eyes at the lame response, Emma chides her, "Don't be sexist. I'll be the first. I'm not going to wait for yet another lunatic to rescue me, when clearly I can rescue myself. You've seen the kind of man I attract."

"That's not the way it works. The prince has to rescue the princess."

"Well, sure, in 1937. Now, in 2012, I'm pretty sure there are such things as self-rescuing princesses."

"It just doesn't seem right…and why do you have to be the first?"

Emma chews slowly, thinking this through. "Well, I'm the savior, right?"

"Right…"

"So, I can do whatever I want. Henry said so." Sure, it's a childish response, but it's true.

Mary Margaret scoffs, "He did not. He just said you're the only one that can leave Storybrooke."

Emma frowns. Well, that might be right. Perhaps she can find a loophole. With a small gasp, she turns to look at Mary Margaret in faux astonishment. "And you'd let your daughter leave with no weapon to protect her from the forces of darkness?"

"A sword won't help against magic," the brunette responds, unfazed by Emma's tone. She takes another bite of pizza, and revels in her victory.

"What if it was a magical sword? Plus, I still need protection against the non-magical forces of darkness."

A short lived victory. Emma and her darn logic! "Fine. You can have a sword," she agrees reluctantly, though she isn't pleased.

"Great! Then, yeah, I'm okay with you as a mom."

Mary Margaret briefly stares at her roommate's wide grin before pointing at her. "Why do I feel like I was set up for that argument?"

"Maternal instincts?" She can certainly see Mary Margaret with strong maternal instincts. The other woman is occasionally prone to mothering her – over-mothering her, even. Though, Emma has to admit that she doesn't always mind being treated like one of her roommate's fourth graders, like when Mary Margaret buys her Fruit Loops and Poptarts. She does so love Fruit Loops. With a frown, she wonders about the chances of getting Fruit Loops if they actually *did* break the "curse" and end up in some medieval fairy tale nightmare. "Do you think they have fruit loops in Fairytale Land?"

"No," Mary Margaret responds with a shake of her head. Why was Emma thinking about Fruit Loops?

"Maybe we could use magic to whip some up," the blonde responds, thoughtfully.

"Sure, you just need to find the leprechaun."

"Seriously, no. That's Lucky Charms. Fruit Loops has the toucan," comes the exasperated reply.

"Well, Snow White does have a way with birds. So, I'm sure she could find the toucan…but she only does that for non-sword carrying princesses." Mary Margaret smiles sweetly at her friend.

Emma scrunches her face. "Not fair."

"Fairest of them all, actually. Haven't you heard?"

Emma watches her friend carefully. For an instant, she allows herself to consider that Henry might be right. And Jefferson. And August. That *is* a growing number of people that think they're living in a cursed world, courtesy of Regina. She considers the odds, and narrows her eyes at Mary Margaret. "Do you *really* think you're Snow White?"

The other woman turns to Emma and shrugs. "I don't know what to believe. It would explain a lot. Sometimes I want to believe it. What about you?"

Emma looks away, turning back to the television. She pretends to watch. "I don't believe in happy endings."

Mary Margaret smiles gently, and squeezes her friend's arm. "There are other happy endings besides that one, Emma. You know, nothing will change if I'm not your mom."

Emma fights the urge to pull away, and tries to relax the growing tension in her shoulders. "Right, but everything will change if you are. My whole life will have been one big lie. I don't...I'm not sure how to deal with that."

Sensing the discomfort, the brunette pulls her hand away, and tries to offer what little comfort she can. "Well, we can deal together, because that would make the last twenty-eight years of my life a lie, as well."

"Yeah, but you would have had a life before that. I didn't."

"True."

Emma shakes her head, as if it will rid her of the thoughts. "It doesn't matter. It's just a delusion… You're different tonight. You've been different since you got out of jail. More.. spunky.

"Yes, I guess so. It feels right, you know?"

They watch in companionable silence for a few minutes before Emma speaks agains. "Hey, Mary Margaret?"

"Yes?"

"For the record, I really wouldn't mind if you turn out to be my mom."

It's unexpected, and Mary Margaret is surprised by her emotional response. Her heart soars, but she tries not to make a big deal of it, for Emma's sake. She knows it takes an enormous effort for the woman to share such private feelings with anyone, and it's a measure of trust that she hadn't expected. She weighs her options for a response, and opts for teasing – sort of. "For the record, if I am your mom, I'm not letting you have a sword." Because, really, if she *is* Emma's mom, there's no chance in hell the woman is going to be wielding sharp objects. She still remembers the toaster stabbing.

"Ridiculous… and I don't need permission. I'm an adult." It's almost a whine. Almost.

"Of course you are."

"Now who's being patronizing?"

"I'm not patronizing, I agreed with you," Mary Margaret states matter of factly.

With a huff, Emma crosses her arms, thinking that her roommate didn't actually agree with her at all. Not that it matters. She *is* an adult, and if she wants a sword, then she'll get a sword. A sword would be awesome, if the whole curse thing isn't a delusion. Much cooler than a gun. She imagines herself in a sword fight – winning, of course – and perhaps with some light armor because while wielding a sword is pretty fucking sweet, being cut by one is immensely less appealing. She wonders if someone in Storybrooke offers sword fighting lessons. Or maybe she could just get one on eBay and practice in her bedroom. She grins to herself, and makes a mental note to check it out at work tomorrow.

She turns her focus back to the movie, and sees the dwarves and a menagerie of wild fauna chasing the Evil Queen.

"Is it bad that I'm imaging Regina being struck by lightning and crushed by a boulder?"

Mary Margaret lets out a choked half-laugh. "No. In fact, wait, let me enjoy that visual for a moment."

"If only I could find some dwarves and a cliff – and an overly convenient thunderstorm," Emma thinks aloud, with a wistful sigh.

"Yes, Storybrooke is decidedly short on vertically challenged adults. Perhaps Henry could help?" the brunette suggests, grabbing the last handful of popcorn.

Emma ponders the idea for a split second before shaking her head. "Not sure that involving my child in a murder plot against his mother would benefit our relationship."

Mary Margaret nods, watching as Prince Charming kisses Snow White, awakening her from her slumber.

"I just don't understand these fairy tales," Emma complains, as the credits scroll. "Why bother with all the theatrics? Instead of trying to trick Snow White into eating the apple, why doesn't the queen just sneak up behind her and run her through with a sword?

"What is it with you and swords? " Mary Margaret asks, turning to look at the blonde. "There's not much of a story or a happy ending if she does that."

"Not only that, if she just wants to be the fairest, why doesn't she just maim Snow White or something? The plot makes no sense."

"Emma!" Mary Margaret scolds sharply, even if she isn't sure *why* the comments are so upsetting. Well, maybe she is. After all, she might be Snow White. The thought of being run through or maimed is horrible.

"What? It's no worse than a poisoned apple!"

"You'd have her maim you own mother?" Mary Margaret asks quietly, her feelings hurt.

"Well, no, of course not… I was just making a point." Even if the point was made to entirely the wrong person. It's a still a valid point, after all. The evil queen with all her drama is such a cliché. She snickers under her breath at what Regina might think if Emma called her a cliché. No doubt, she'd be horribly insulted, much too vain to think of herself as anything but original.

She glances at Mary Margaret, who still looks hurt after Emma's suggestion of disfigurement. With a sigh, and a mental kick, she reluctantly apologizes. "Sorry, I didn't mean for that to be quite so personal. You know, if you *are* Snow White."

"It's fine. I'm not sure why that bothered me so much….but know that now you are most definitely not getting a sword. You might maim me. Or someone else," the brunette responds pointedly.

With an internal string of expletives, and an outward scowl, at her roommate's almost victorious tone, Emma wonders how she might redeem herself such that she'll be allowed to have a sword. Just in case.