Charming family feels!

The first thing she hears is screaming. A few of them, actually; two deep and angry voices howling at one another while feminine shrieks litter the background. Emma bolts upright as she hears her father call her mother's name like a prayer. He sounds desperate and if there was anything she had learned from Henry, it is that Prince Charming only became desperate when a life was on the line. She tumbles from the cot in the room she is sharing with her parents and staggers out onto the main deck, arm thrown up to deflect the harsh sunlight of Neverland. Christ. In the darkness of the cabin, it was easy to forget where she was: aboard the fucking Jolly Roger gearing up to take on Peter Pan, and as absurd as her life has become, it all gets pushed away as she takes in the scene she has stumbled in to.

Mary Margaret - Snow White? Mom? God, no. - has the tip of a ferociously sharp looking sword pressed tightly to the curve of Regina's neck, a thin line of blood highlighting the contact, with a look on her face that sends a cold chill down Emma's spine. It's the look of a woman possessed, a woman in mourning, a woman deeply wronged. David has his arms splayed outwards, standing with his back to his wife and her prey, yelling at Hook not to get involved and to let him handle it. Gold stands off to one corner, thoroughly enjoying himself, and Emma is at a loss.

Her mother looks ready to murder. She would be lying if she said a tiny part of her wasn't the slight bit rooting for it. Below deck, she had not been able to hear much of what was actually being said, but now she's out in the open and the dust is settling somewhat, it all becomes pretty clear.

"Say it again," her mother says through clenched teeth. The sword moves closer, only just, but it's enough to make Regina flinch.

"I think you heard me well enough the first time." Arrogance is easy for the older woman, Emma thinks, easier than pity or shame, or even guilt. It can mask the harsher feelings below, can twist any kind of conscience into a beast lurking beneath, convincing itself that yes, good, I am doing the right thing. But this close to the flame, Emma can see it fading pretty fast - a trickle of doubt, perhaps even fear, has filled in the cracks and Regina can see Snow White under Mary Margaret for the first time in a very long time. Emma steps forward despite herself, angling towards David.

"What the hell is going on?" Her voice is shaky because she is also the tiniest bit afraid. Such rage, such utterly unbridled contempt, should never mark Mary Margaret's features, contorting soft beauty into captivating loathing. She has become all sharp angles and hard lines; jaw clenched, knuckles white, shoulders squared and feet apart. The smell of death and danger is carried on the breeze coming from the rolling sea.

"Twenty-eight years," Mary Margaret spits. "You stole twenty-eight years from me. Her entire life! I never got to hear her first words or see her first steps or hear her laugh for the first time! I held her for less than a minute - a minute! I held my baby for a minute and then she was gone. My baby!" As she went on, listing injustice after injustice, her voice became more and more hysterical, angry tears streaming unchecked. "You stole my daughter from me and you dare try and tell me what is best for her?"

Emma shifted, uncomfortable, feeling strangely as though she should not be witness to the minor meltdown. It was all suddenly too private. An intimate kind of grief typically reserved for midnight crying jags into a husband's shoulder or a soft pillow was now on public display and it made her feel like a child, hidden behind the bannisters on the stairs, eavesdropping on conversations not meant for consumption. Love of the unconditional sort had never been reserved for her; not even in the better foster homes did she feel as cared for as she had hoped. There were stories and perhaps even a kiss on the forehead or two, but there was no real sentiment behind it, just a sense of duty and mild parental obligation. But standing here, now, watching Mary Margaret positively seething over the fact that Emma had grown up unloved, it struck her that she was wanted.

Once upon a time, she had been planned for and hoped for and tried for. She had been prepared for. She had seen the nursery - the massive teddy bears and hand made crib, obviously crafted with absolute love, and above it a mobile of glass unicorns and tiny swords, each handmade with care - but only now did she realise: her parents had loved her before she took even her first breath.

And that thought spurred her into action.

"Mom," the word left her mouth before she had time to think about it and it shocked Mary Margaret just as much. Not enough to drop the sword, but enough to avert part of her attention, still glaring daggers at Regina. "I know you're mad, and you have every right to be, but this isn't the answer."

"She should pay for what she did." Emma's heart almost shatters as Mary Margaret's voice breaks, grief finally overwhelming her anger as she starts to cry in earnest.

"And she will. But not like this." Edging forward, past her father, Emma wraps her hand around her mothers and gently tugs the sword out of her hand, tossing it aside and out of reach. Her mother collapses into the circle of her arms, body wracked with loud, proper sobs, and Emma blocks out the entire world because her mother is crying. Someone is talking but she doesn't care who and before she even realises, they are alone together.

Slowly, reluctantly, she pulls away, wiping at her own tears and Mary Margaret cups her chin, her resolve returned. Occasionally, Emma misses her roommate and friend, but then there are moments like this and all she can think is Mommy.

The brunette steels herself, meeting her daughter's eyes. "Sometimes..." she clears her throat, trying again. "Sometimes, I look at you and I can hardly believe you're really standing in front of me. I keep thinking you're going to disappear or that I'll forget you again. But most of the time, I am so angry at myself." Mary Margaret closes her eyes against whatever onslaught of shame comes over her. Emma frowns, not understanding.

"What do you mean?"

A gentle hand rests along the side of her face, thumb moving over the soft skin of her jaw. "For forgetting you at all. For forgetting my perfect, beautiful baby girl."

"The curse-"

"Is no excuse." And there it is. Love, expressing it and accepting, did not come naturally to Emma, but even her years of disappointment and rejection cannot fight against the tidal wave crashing over her as she takes in the look on her mother's face. True, pure love, the kind only a parent can have for their child. A look that said I am yours and you are mine, no matter what. Without thinking, Emma crushes herself against her mother, arms tightly wrapped around her, eyes damp again.

"I love you, too," she murmurs into Snow's shoulder. For the first time in a long time, she feels home.