Author's Note: You guys are so amazing. Thank you so much for all your lovely comments and follows and favorites and for pushing me to open up the original one-shot into this story. I had a lot of fun this one; I hope you all did, too. :)

Chicken and broccoli alfredo was a meal Snow had prepared many times, mostly because it was the only way she could get both Henry and Emma to eat broccoli. As such, she could pretty much prepare it on auto-pilot. It was no trouble at all to keep half an eye on her grandson and injured daughter while she cooked.

A smile curled on her lips when she saw the two of them cuddled up together on the sofa. Well, it was more that Henry had cuddled up to Emma, but she'd allowed it, which was in and of itself a minor miracle. The work that boy had done to help lower his mother's walls was nothing short of amazing. Snow suspected that Henry was the first person to get through to Emma in years. Snow herself had helped, of course, back when she was Mary Margaret, but she never would have gotten in without Henry priming Emma first, making her open herself up just enough for Mary Margaret to sneak in before the doors closed again.

And Henry was still doing that now. In his own little way, he was pushing her to open up more and more. They'd joked amongst themselves that Henry didn't have any ability to be subtle but the truth was that he could be incredibly subtle. Subtle and patient and understanding, and he'd been working so hard to help his mother relax and settle in with her family.

From her vantage point, Snow couldn't quite tell if Emma was dozing or not. It appeared as though she was; her eyes were closed, her injured arm propped up on the arm of the sofa, and her feet resting on the little folding coffee table. Ordinarily Snow would have chided Emma for putting her feet on the furniture but today, she figured she could allow it. Henry, who was paging through his storybook, seemed perfectly content to simply sit with her.

"How was she?" Charming murmured, startling Snow out of her reverie. "When she first got up here, I mean."

Snow once again darted her gaze to Emma before refocusing on the cooking chicken. "In pain but trying to hide it," she answered, keeping her voice as low as Charming's just in case that Emma wasn't asleep. "Stubborn might as well be that girl's middle name."

"Stubborn might as well be all our middle names," Charming replied, a wry smile on his lips. He fished a piece of penne out of the pot, blew on it, and popped it into his mouth.

Snow smirked. Innate stubbornness certainly ran through all their veins. A maddening trait to pass down, surely, but a wonderful one as well. Although that stubbornness made for moments like earlier when it had been a production just for Emma to allow Snow in enough to take care of her, it also gave them strength of character and spirit and steely resolve. It was that stubbornness that gave them the drive to never surrender and to fight for what was theirs.

She was about to say as much to Charming when he all of a sudden stiffened, his brow furrowed and his posture telegraphing concern. She followed his gaze, keeping one eye on the meal to make sure the chicken didn't burn. He was frowning at Emma, though Snow had no idea why. After a moment, he tapped the wooden spoon on the side of the pasta pot, set it down on the counter, and crept over to the couch.

He gave a confused Henry a little smile as he crouched down next to the sofa, softly calling his daughter's name. She stirred at the sound of his voice, scrunching her nose and blinking her eyes open. "What're you doing?" she mumbled when he slid his hand under her injured one.

"Can you squeeze my hand?" he asked to the confusion of his entire family.

"It's not broken," Emma insisted as she sat up a little bit straighter, her voice verging on a whine. "Besides, didn't we already do this when I first got hurt?"

"Not quite," Charming gently replied. "Please just humor me and try to squeeze my hand."

After a swift roll of her eyes, Emma – very slowly, Snow noted with a pang of concern – closed her hand around Charming's. She managed that quite well but when she tried to give his hand a hard squeeze, she winced in pain. She met her father's eyes, suddenly looking as worried as everyone else. "It's not broken, is it?"

"No," Charming assured her with a tender smile. "If it was broken, you wouldn't have been able to turn it when we were in the woods. It's most likely a torn ligament or tendon, which is nothing to sneeze at but far easier to treat than a break."

"Why did you have her squeeze your hand just now?" Henry asked, his voice low in awe. Who knew his grandparents were so good at diagnosing injuries?

Charming carefully uncurled Emma's fingers from around his hand. Snow gasped, finally seeing what her husband had seen from across the room: slight bruising on the back of their baby girl's hand. "A simple twist doesn't bruise," he explained, first meeting Henry's eyes and then Emma's.

A flurry of emotions flickered across Emma's face. Love, awe, discomfort, and longing crossed her features in a fraction of a second. And then Emma caught herself. She schooled her features, wrinkled her nose at her father, and teasingly whined, "You're not going to give me a care plan, too, are you?"

"No," Charming chuckled. "Snow's already got you doing the right thing."

"Thank God," Emma grumbled, making everyone laugh. Still, Snow caught the tenderness and affection in her eye, tenderness and affection that hadn't been there the day before.

Charming smiled and stood, making a move to sit on the couch next to his grandson. Before he could sit, though, Henry got up, vacating his spot next to Emma. "Where do you think you're going?" Emma asked her son as he bounded towards the kitchen.

"I want to help Gramma with dinner!" he exclaimed.

Snow grinned to herself. She always looked forward to her little cooking lessons with Henry as she prepared meals for the the family. Dinner was a little too far along tonight for a complete lesson, but she would never turn away a pair of willing hands. "Will you stir the pasta for me?" she asked.

"Absolutely," Henry smiled.

"Thank you. In a few minutes, I'll teach you how to tell if the pasta is done."

Now Henry was beaming. "Okay!"

For a few minutes, all was quiet except for the sounds of dinner coming together. When Snow removed the chicken from the heat and set the pan on an unused burner to let the meat rest, she glanced across the room to check on the rest of her family. Charming had settled on the couch next to Emma, and she'd once again closed her eyes. This time, Snow knew she was dozing because her head was resting lightly on her father's shoulder. As for Charming, he'd taken her uninjured hand in his and was lightly running his thumb over the back of it. He was clearly thrilled to be so close to his daughter and to comfort her in any way he could.

With her husband taking such good care of their daughter, Snow was free to focus on dinner and on Henry. Her wonderful grandson, without whom this entire day never would have happened. Smiling softly, she slipped the wooden spoon from her grandson's hand and wrapped him in a tight hug,

Though clearly surprised, Henry easily returned the embrace. "What's this for?" he asked, looking up at her with a slightly confused expression.

"For being you."

He still looked confused but happily accepted the affection. When he let go, they returned their attention to the meal. Snow fished a piece of pasta out of the pot with the wooden spoon and blew on it before popping it into her mouth. It still had enough bite that it would be perfect for Henry to understand the difference in texture between not-quite-cooked and done.

Snow glanced around the apartment one more time, at Charming and Emma snuggled together on the sofa and Henry standing next to her, sneaking croutons for their salad right out of the bag. A contented little smile curled on her lips. Who would have thought that a day in the woods could bring four people so much closer together?