#thread: emma

julian had done well at adapting to dc. but it was difficult to not have his family here. he often found himself worrying about his family. he's sure they got along fine without them, but still, he hoped they were okay. since being in dc, he'd poured himself into his art. just like at home, he found himself drawing emma most of the time. not being able to see her for this long was horrible. he found himself thinking of her most of the time. he had found a bench in a park to draw. but again, emma wouldn't leave his mind. as he lifted his head up from grabbing his supplies, his eyes widen at who's close to him. "emma?"

They had fought before. It was inevitable. Some days your kid just had to break and have a meltdown over whether or not mommy would let you get a box of Count Chocula at Halloween time. This time was different. This time the No, I don't want to go! was followed by the silent treatment because Emma couldn't reasonably explain why she had to pull Tyler out of school and why, at seven-years-old, he had to move away from his friends for no real good reason. She couldn't tell him that the secret, fanatical organization that his father worked for might possibly find them because some stupid journalist caught her face on camera at a local event. A father that Tyler had no idea existed because she'd told her son that he'd died before he was born. It was a lie that was going to bite her in the ass one day, but she told herself that was a bridge she'd cross whenever the time came.

Maybe that time was drawing a lot closer than she was anticipating.

The silence that stretched between herself and her son was breaking her heart, but eventually Tyler would get over it as soon as she could get him into school again. Emma was sure that as soon as he made new friends, the sting of leaving the ones he had to leave behind in Havenwood would hurt less. But, it wasn't any less apparent to her that the situation she had put him in had made him grow up a little bit and that made her feel like the Biggest Dick Walking. Some mom she'd turned out to be, right? Well, she reminded herself, it sure as shit beats being back in the "tender clutches" of the Order, right? Of course she was. She'd rather get run over by a Mack truck than be found by and dragged back those zealotus asshats. Tyler especially. Brent would love nothing better than to turn their son into another soldier for the cause. After knowing for a fact that of the supernatural community were just like their human counterparts--just living their lives--Emma's stomach churned at the mere thought of Tyler hunting supernaturals.

"Ms. Smith?" The unfamiliar name pulled her out of her thoughts, the tone sounding as if the light-haired woman had tried to get her attention several times; A fact supported by the tugging at her arm by Tyler and a gesture at office manager who stood in the doorway to her left. Oops.

"Shit," she muttered. The curse was more to herself than anything because she should've been paying better attention rather being in her own head. Tyler's eyebrows shot upward and he regarded her with a questioning look which garnered an apology before she jumped up from her seat, pulling her purse onto her shoulder and clearing her throat, "Uh, yeah. That's me."

A polite yet warm smile preceded an invitation, "Mr. Murdock is ready for you, Ms. Smith." And with that, Emma strode forward and crossed the threshold of the lawyer's office.

Ian skipped through the halls humming in excitement, wondering where his beloved sister was. “Oh Emma!” He called through the halls before he reached her door and barged right in without knocking. “Emma! My pretty sister.” He said in admiration. “Haven’t you missed your big brother?” He said before he walked up to her and hugged her knowing he was annoying her. 

You can’t come. You have to stay.

That’s what they’d told him, as another player pushed a broom back into his hand and urged him to play on. And Amos had stared, speechless, as his best friend had vanished from the pitch. How? How in Merlin’s name was he meant to carry on with the rest of the tournament now? No way to leave, no way to follow those damned stubborn bastards who prevented him from chasing after him. They hadn’t even taken him to the healers on the camp grounds. Was it so bad?

Why couldn’t he go with him?

Amos hadn’t even gone back to his room after like instructed, he stormed around the grounds, demanding answers. He tried to hunt down Galvin at first, and failed. Then he spoke to any authority figure he could who all told him the same thing. He’s in safe hands and You’ll achieve nothing by going there. Amos thought it was bullshit, he wanted to be with Davey. He wanted to see with his own eyes, his buddy laughing and joking, and making self deprecating remarks about how he had, once again, injured himself during Quidditch.

But he couldn’t. And his mind was racing with worst case scenarios. What if he hit his head too hard? Did he break any bones? How did he land? Did they get him to Mungo’s in time? Is he going to get out of Mungo’s? “Fuck!” He yelled, throwing his fist against the door of one of the Cabins. He’d paced around so much, he wasn’t even sure which one it was. He just wanted to get out of here and just make sure his friend was okay.

Amos gave a grunt of annoyance at the throbbing in his hand, glancing down at it with blurry vision. He couldn’t tell if the stinging behind his eyes was from pain, frustration or panic. Either way, having himself injured would help no one and he gave a defeated sigh. He turned, mostly to try and figure out where he was and how to get back and ended up facing Emma Vanity. Of course, he should have gone to her, but with Davey leaving, he figured she’d have enough on her plate without a hysterical Hufflepuff.

“Sorry, Vanity.” Amos said genuinely, letting out a shaky breathe. “No one’s telling me shit and I… I’ll just see myself to bed. Clearer head after sleep or some crap like that.”

His thefts were beginning to become more and more noticeable, and in such a small town as this, it was next to impossible to sell what items he had stolen on to make any cash. In short, Robin was starting to become desperate. He could only steal so much money and use so many cards before someone realised he was the one behind the increase in petty thefts, and he could hardly look after Roland while on the run from even one sheriff, let alone a whole town. Perhaps he could leave the child behind, but at this point the boy knew all his hiding places and he’d been teaching him his tricks to escape. No, the boy would be a liability to leave behind. He’d have to take him.

(It wasn’t that he’d simply gotten used to having him around. Robin Hood did not do attachments. It was one of his few hard and fast rules.)

That or he’d have to go… ugh. Straight. At least for a time.

He groaned into the beer he’d picked up, downing a long swig while Roland continued giggling at some inane comic strip in the local newspaper that Robin had stolen to keep the child occupied. And a good thing he had too, as a small headline caught his eye. Help wanted.

Robin tugged the paper away from the young boy before returning the comic strip portion, reading over the request. Instantly, he was entertained. The idea of a common thief joining law enforcement… What could be better cover for his thefts? Missing items from victim’s houses, just something they’d overlooked. And all under the sheriff’s nose. There was a poetic injustice to it, if you asked the thief, and he was tickled with the idea immediately.

A quick chat with one of the waitresses and he quickly had childcare arranged for Roland, at least for the afternoon. A pat on the boy’s head and a promise to return, greeted with a wide smile (and no tugs at his heartstrings, not at all), and Robin headed to the sheriff’s office itself. The vehicle was parked outside (he hoped he didn’t have to drive one of those infernal machines), so he waltzed right into the office, stopping with a smug smile as he saw a blonde shock of hair. The Princess-Sheriff.

Well, she didn’t look much like a princess, if you asked him.

“Sheriff Swan?” he called, expectant look on his face. “I’m here regarding something about a deputy position.”

This (eventually) takes place around three or four days after @pickyourpoisonflorist has been kidnapped.

Truth be told, Harry could have handled things better. But it was too late now.

The week had started badly. He’d broken his phone screen while playing soccer with some boys from school (a game he didn’t really enjoy, but he watched it and football with his dad sometimes, and he knew the other boys in his class loved it so it made him fit in) and both his parents had gone ballistic. It didn’t help that he’d only asked the night before if they could potentially adopt an animal from the shelter Maria (@hcldinghope) worked at. He could still hear his father’s voice ringing around his head, the look of disappointment evident in his eyes. 

“If you can’t even look after a phone, how are we meant to trust you with an animal?”

It hurt, because the day before, they’d agreed to it almost too readily, happy to give him some responsibility and show them how grown up and grounded he could be. But no, every time Harry did something irresponsible, it was always evidence to them - evidence that he wasn’t normal, that despite all the progress he’d made (despite the occasional slip up), they still thought of him as an incompetent child who couldn’t tell fact from fiction. It wasn’t the first time. There had been countless incidents before where they’d treated him the same, building up and up in Harry’s memory that he always tried to push to the side. Because they just cared. It still hurt, more and more as he got older, but he’d huffed and shouted and gone up to his room, and that had been the end of it.

Or it should have been the end of it.

He couldn’t say what gave him the idea. Perhaps he was finally just reaching the rebellious stage of his teenage years. Perhaps it was the courage he’d found he had in himself when he met Paige (@hatterxtrick). Perhaps it was the thrill he’d felt when he stole those candy bars from the shop (and a book from the school library, and the can of soda from the convenience store; just little things, little acts of rebellion, little acts to remind him that he was growing older and bolder and better). But he was sure it would work.

If the papers had already been signed, if he paid the fee and the dog was already legally theirs... It was harder to give him back if the dog was already in their home. If Harry was already attached to him, right?

Lying to Maria was probably the worst part. She’d always been so good to him, so kind and caring that telling her his parents were fine with it, providing her with a letter to prove it (that he’d spent the whole night before forging signatures for) felt like a physical pain. But when he was walking home with his dog (his dog, his very own dog - Watson, he’d decided), it was euphoric. He’d done it again. 

Maybe cheating was the way to get everything he wanted after all.

The result, however, had not been what he’d expected.

He’d gotten Watson into the house without his parents noticing. Set up a dog bowl and some water in his room, played gently with the almost-recovered dog and he’d hidden himself and his newly loyal companion upstairs when his parents came home.

What he hadn’t anticipated was Watson needing the bathroom at one in the morning. The dog had been anything but quiet about it, even if he’d been the best boy and woken Harry up to take him outside, but they couldn’t be quiet enough. Harry’s father had woken up and caught them halfway down the stairs.

The fight lasted for an hour. Watson had been shut away (after his bathroom break) in Harry’s room for the duration, so as not to stress the poor animal.

“We’re getting up and taking that damn dog back to the shelter, and you’re not going back!” had been his father’s parting shot when Harry stomped his way back upstairs, devastated. Deep down, he knew it had been a foolish idea, but he had so convinced himself that he could get away with it that he hadn’t thought things through entirely.

And now?

Now he was just angry. Angry, tired and hormonal wasn’t the best combination of states to be in when making decisions, and that was why Harry could be found at 3am, scrap metal in hand, backpack filled with clothes and his father’s credit cards (and dog toys), Watson’s leash tied to it as he walked the streets of Storybrooke. He just needed to get out of the house, away from his parents so they couldn’t take Watson away from him. Couldn’t ground him and keep him from his friends. Couldn’t treat him like the child that he wasn’t.

(He wasn’t.)

It had to have been the emotions running high through him that made his brain blank, but when he laid his eyes on an old yellow Volkswagen Beetle, Harry knew what he had to do. 

Which was why he was cursing at a door lock on said yellow Beetle at three in the morning, trying to break into the vehicle with some paperclips and other assorted small metal objects he’d thought to pocket.