make me choose:
∟anon asked: sheriffs station or
I did the thing. Are you surprised?
(Killian does dishes, and I melt into a puddle of fluffy goo. Seriously watch your sugar intake before reading this)
my mind needs unpacking
She takes the stairs slowly, peeling her gloves from her hands as she goes, already dreading what she will find when she opens her door. She and Elsa have spent the past three hours practicing at control of their magic, and she is dead tired, but worse than that, she knows Henry is angry with her.
It’s not as easy as she had hoped to settle in to this town. On top of the ever present villain to conquer, and the Sheriff position that David was only too happy to step aside for, its been…difficult to let herself become comfortable here. She’s still fighting unpacking all the boxes piled up along the wall of their new apartment by the docks, for no particular reason other than that it feels too permanent to put her crappy plates in the beautiful hutch her parents had given her earlier in the week, to hang up her clothes in her closet, to hang her paintings on the walls and have more than a few of her glasses in the cupboards.
(Henry had put his foot down about the mugs, and she will admit, with the amount of hot chocolate her family consumes, it was probably a good thing)
And now Henry is mad at her because she won’t help him unpack. He’s mad because he knows exactly what she’s doing, why she’s waffling. He’s mad because he is firm in the belief that family and home is easy and she wishes he was right, but it’s not, and it never has been. She doesn’t know if it ever will be.
The door is unlocked when she reaches it, and she swings it open expecting to find the normal chaos she associates with her soon-to-be teenage son.
Instead she finds the shoes next to the door have been neatly arranged, and the side table has been organized, the key ring she hasn’t bothered to hang up has been screwed into the wall above it. Down the hallway she can hear one of Henry’s video games playing, and she lines her boots up next to Henry’s trainers, hanging her coat up on the coat rack she knows for a fact had not been unpacked when she left to meet Elsa.
There is water running in the kitchen, and as she darts a glance into the living room she notes that Henry’s game is paused, and the throw pillows have been lined out neatly along the couch (instead of piled in the corner collecting dust), and the lamps have all been plugged in, the rug rolled out neatly and her coffee table is actually being useful, now, in the center of the room, as opposed to it’s previous spot leaning against the far wall.
It looks nice, cozy and warm and she feels a ridiculous urge to curl up on the couch and go to sleep.
There are soft voices echoing in the kitchen, and Emma trails after them, turning the corner with a greeting on her tongue.
She stops at the edge of the doorway, her heart catching in her throat at the sight that greets her.