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The hardwood stairs are cold as she treads down them on the tips of her toes. Wincing slightly as the fifth from the bottom creaks, she pauses and keeps an ear out for any movement from her slumbering family members, but all seems to be quiet. Still. She holds her breath as she braves another step, as if the noise from her mere inhalations is enough to wake the other occupants of their too-small apartment.
"Henry sleeps like Snow," comes a quiet voice from the kitchen, causing Emma to jump and miss a step. David rushes forward to brace her, looking slightly sheepish as his hands grip her waist, keeping her steady. "Sorry. I thought you saw me."
"Clearly not," Emma huffs out, blowing a piece of hair out of her face and allowing David's hand to remain on her hip as she gingerly takes the final four steps. "What did you say?"
"Henry sleeps like Snow." At Emma's confused look, he elaborates. "Like the dead. I mean…" He shakes his head, as if realizing what exactly he's just said and just how close his wife and grandson came to that eternal sleep. "It would take a freight train to wake either," he mutters, following Emma into the kitchen where she plops on a stool. "That's what I meant. Sorry I startled you." He holds up a tea bag, leaving the question implied.
"Sure," she nods, not realizing that tea was exactly what she needed until he offered it. She watches him work: pouring already hot water from the kettle into the mug that matches his own and dropping a tea bag in, letting it steep. His moves are quiet, yet quick, and she can't help but think he must be fearsome thing to behold in battle.
They haven't really spoken, yet. In general, but also particularly about Manhattan. It was Snow who took the call. It was Snow whose hug she sought out first that afternoon. It was Snow who shooed her to bed when all she could do was push her food around her dinner plate and attempt to prop her too-heavy head up on her hand. He was always there, though. Hovering in the background, careful not to smother, yet ready to pounce at a moment's notice.
And she kind of loves him for that.
For as exhausted as she is, both physically and emotionally, sleep eludes her. So instead, she opts to watch her father bustle about the kitchen with all the stealth of a seasoned warrior, brandishing two mugs, one of which he sets reverently in front of her. She mutters a "thanks," and blows on the liquid, just to have something to do.
David settles on the stool next to her, but remains silent. He knows that she'll speak if she wants to and again, she can't help the warmth that blooms in her chest at knowing her parents are positively perfect for each other. Snow complements David. David is the perfect foil for Snow. Right now, for instance, if her mother were here instead of her father, Emma knows Snow would be trying to suss out the situation by talking about it. Asking Emma how she was feeling and what the plan was. Emma needed that in Manhattan, which is why Snow got the call.
Now, though. Now she thinks she needs her father.
"Henry hates me," slips out before she can bite it back, but a weight lifts off her chest at having her greatest fear voiced for someone else to hear.
She half-expects David to immediately deny her implication, but he's silent. And his silence finally brings her gaze from the counter to his profile.
He's staring at the mug of tea in his hands, as if it holds the answers to all of life's secrets, but his forehead is creased as if he's fighting off physical pain, and Emma comes to the sudden and startling realization that he is. He hurts because she hurts.
And that truth is far too much for her already emotionally unstable self to handle.
"Please say something."
David finally turns on his stool to face her full on and grabs her hands where they rest in her lap. "Henry could never, ever, hate you."
"But he – "
"No." His voice is soft but authoritative, and it's no wonder he ran a kingdom so well. "This is what happens. We sometimes disappoint the people we love. They might be mad, they might be hurt, but they will never hate us."
"How do you know?" Her voice has gotten a tone of petulancy that she'll never own up to come morning.
"Do you hate me?" he asks quietly and suddenly everything stops because, finally, she understands his argument. "Parents disappoint their children, Emma. And so I ask again… Do you hate me?"
A tear slips down her cheek as she gently shakes her head. "No."
David smiles and brushes the tear away with his thumb. "See?"
She can see the relief in his eyes; no doubt, it had been a lingering fear he had tried to dispel, but still. Those greatest fears have a habit of haunting us.
David lets go of her hands, and she fights the urge to snatch his back. "We have a tendency to idolize our parents and, when they turn out to be mere mortals, we don't quite know how to cope."
Emma snorts. "Easy for Prince Charming to say."
He quirks an eyebrow, as if challenging her argument. "You were barely five minutes old and I put you in a wardrobe and sent you off to an unknown world. Not exactly 'Father of the Year."
"You saved me," she argues and he smiles sadly.
"You didn't always see it that way."
"You nearly died."
"I did. And I would again, if it ensured your safety and happiness."
Their back-and-forth had the speed of a tennis volley, but his final words have clamped a vise around her throat, choking whatever thought she had been about to voice.
She's never had someone willing to die for her.
And David seems to have that innate paternal ability to read her mind as he spins back to face his mug and says, "I'm not sure if you've realized this yet, but I love you very much."
And yep, she's gone.
Tears stream steadily down her cheeks now and it's only the grip her teeth have on her lower lip that keeps the sob from escaping her throat. Why, why, did he have to say that? I mean, she's been waiting her whole life for those words, but at this precise moment, she's vulnerable. And she doesn't like being vulnerable.
Suddenly a tissue finds its way to her hand and her father is whispering, "Our secret," without looking at her. And she doesn't think she's ever loved him more than she does in this moment.
"He compared me to Regina," she mutters miserably, hiccupping a little as she blows her nose on his proffered tissue." Chancing a glance up at his face, she realizes he looks like he ingested something sour.
"He's eleven. He'll get over it."
"But… Regina."
"I know, I know. The kid did just discover his father was alive and, you know, in the room. Cut him some slack." David pauses and smiles softly. "He thinks the world starts and stops with you."
Emma sniffles and lets his words sink in for a moment, daring to hope in the truth of them.
"You're bleeding."
"What?" She's somewhat startled at David's voice and even more so as he slides off his stool and gently turns her chin away from him, examining her temple.
"You're bleeding."
"Oh…" she gingerly touches her hairline and winces. "I kind of collided with Neal – Baelfire – whatever, the guy who knocked me up."
David lets out a strangled sound and only then does Emma remember that she's speaking to her father.
"Sorry," she mutters.
He shakes his head as if to say 'it's okay,' but he still looks slightly ill. She can't help that it brings a small smile to her face.
"Stay here," he says as he disappears into the bathroom and she tries to call him back without being too loud to no avail. He returns a moment later, holding up a tiny first aid kit that Emma's had to use on several occasions, much to Mary Margaret's chagrin. She sighs as David sets it on the counter and, with a point of his finger, silently instructs her to turn her head.
"I'm really fine."
"Uh huh." He methodically gets to work, tucking her hair behind her ear and pulling out an antiseptic wipe. "This might sting a bit," he murmurs.
It does, but she shows no sign other than the slight squint of her eye. He blows on it a bit and that vise grip on her throat is back, because she has the sudden and overwhelming image of five-year-old her running to her father with a scraped knee. And she's almost positive he'd do much of the same: telling her it'll be okay, blowing on her skin when it stings, putting a band-aid on, and kissing it all better.
He doesn't kiss it this time, and she tries to tell herself she's not disappointed.
"Good as new," he announces and she forces a smile on her face.
"Thanks."
He puts the first aid kit back in the bathroom, leaving her alone with her tepid tea and feelings she's not sure she wants to identify.
"Red room?" she asks when he returns and he pauses, confusion washing over his face.
"What?"
"I never asked you what you were doing up. Was it the red room?"
He quirks a smile and shakes his head. "Shockingly, no."
"It's 3:07 in the morning."
"Can't a man worry about his daughter when the guy who broke her heart comes back into her life?" He takes her mug and turns his back to her, beginning to wash it in the sink as if he hadn't just rocked her world.
He was awake. Because of her. Because he was worried about her. And not because she was in any physical danger, but because she was emotionally distraught. Well. She doesn't even know where to begin.
"Henry loves you. And I'm sure…" David trails off as he places the final mug in the dish rack and turns to face her. "I'm sure we'll grow to like Neal, too."
Emma nearly bursts out laughing at the look on his face, as if getting to know Neal is the absolute last thing David wants. Luckily, being Prince Charming comes with its perks, including a hefty dose of intimidation.
"But if he hurts you or Henry again, I know exactly where my sword is and some dwarves who would be expert grave diggers."
Emma can't hold her laugh back this time and she's grateful for the emotional reprieve.
"Duly noted."
He smiles once more and nods slightly, tossing the dishrag onto the counter and whispering a goodnight as he heads for the bedroom.
"David?"
"Yeah?"
"I… um… I – " And though he's there, and though he's waiting, her words have deserted her. "I can't…"
"I know," he interrupts, eyes suddenly glassy.
"You do?" Because she's sure she doesn't show it. And she sure as hell doesn't say it. But it's true: she loves him and it's the kind of unconditional love she reserves only for him and Snow and Henry. A love she hasn't allowed herself to feel until they hijacked her heart. "How do you know?"
He shrugs. "It's a Dad thing."
And this time, he steps forward and places that kiss on her temple, just above the band-aid he applied with expert care. And this time, she allows herself to close her eyes and believe that 'Yes, this will all be okay.' That Henry doesn't hate her. That their growing extended family won't eventually kill each other over some terrifying holiday dinner.
"G'night, Princess," he murmurs as he pulls away, giving a wink and a playful tug on her loose ponytail as he pads back to her mother and their bed.
It takes approximately a minute after he's gone for the words to come, the words that had been so close to the tip of her tongue.
The curtain is drawn and the light is off, yet she whispers them all the same.