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Emma Swan finally found her fairytale (lostfairytale) wrote in wariscoming,

Emma didn't know when the maternal instinct had finally settled in. Here in Lawrence, where she'd had no choice but to take Henry in and protect him? Earlier, watching her bond with him via television? Or before that, those last few weeks in Storybrooke, when he'd wormed his way into her reluctant heart? All she knew was, she knew her boy. Regina may have raised him, but he was still very much Emma's. They shared so many qualities and his face was shaped like hers and he depended on her and dammit, she needed him, too. Call it selfish, but she did.

So the last few days had been stressful at best. Her baby was hurting. Oh, this might not have been her Henry. But somewhere, an Emma had given birth to him. And somewhere, Regina had tormented him to the point of legitimate madness and pain. And somewhere, somewhere being Lawrence in a house where most of Storybrooke lived, Emma wanted to punch the woman. More than usual, anyway. It also scared her to remember that most people agreed that her Henry was off in this Henry's world. Her boy was strong, sure, he was half Swan and half Cassidy, after all. But he was also only eleven and could only handle so much.

The moment she heard the scream, though, her heart tore. Here and now, there was still a Henry who needed her, and badly. And it was followed by the sound of a crash and she didn't even hesitate. She placed the baby in her bouncer and took the stairs two at a time. She threw open the bathroom door and her face took on an expression of horror.

"Oh, god," she whispered, and her eyes focused on the bundle that looked so much like her baby boy that she couldn't help the heartbreak she felt.

Disregarding the potential danger to herself, she grabbed a towel and very, very gently began removing the tiny shards of glass on her son. 'Her' son, for what that was apparently worth. At first, she didn't speak. Merely pulled out the first aid kit and began patching it up. None of the shards had cut very deep and she tried telling herself it wasn't intentional, it couldn't have been. But the hell the boy had apparently been living through said a lot.

When he was patched up enough that she didn't feel the need to call 911, she scooped the small, terrified looking mass into her arms and carried him into her room. Not his, not the one that her Henry had carefully constructed and made into his own. No, she went to hers. Where they had cuddled late into the evening watching movies or just talking. Where she'd first told him she was having a baby, where she'd gone over so many important details of their fictional lives with him. She placed him on the bed and sat beside him, holding him close. Maybe he'd fight her, maybe he wouldn't want to be held by a relative stranger. But Emma remembered what it felt like to be a young child who didn't get much affection. While wary, she'd still desperately craved a hug, a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on when the world hurt her. And there'd never been one, and that was the last thing she'd wanted for her baby when she'd given him up.

"I'm sorry, angel," she finally said softly, the hurt in her voice almost as evident as it had been in his. "I'm so sorry."