Someone to Watch Over Me
Canon Divergence: Emma Swan is 10 when she first sees the pair of bright blue eyes watching her from the cracked door of the wardrobe. She thinks it was just an imaginary friend, until she sees those eyes again at 16 and 23.
Based on the prompt: A child is kidnapped and the monster who lives under the bed isn’t happy about it. Although it ballooned into something else and there ended up being no kidnapping . . .
Age 10
Emma’s new foster mother, Martha, looks to be in her seventies with brittle gray hair and deep wrinkles. Yet her smile is kind, and her hands are soft as they gently give her slim shoulders a squeeze. The house is at least a hundred years old with cracked, peeling paint, and scuffed hardwood floors. A monstrous, black pot-bellied stove radiates heat from the corner of the main room. Like most old houses, one room leads into the next, and Martha gently steers her through the doorway next to the stove. She tells her this will be the room she shares with Lindsey, the sullen teenager with a permanent scowl on her face. Emma looks around, taking it all in through her wide jade eyes. There’s a fireplace in this room, but it’s bricked up. A small space heater instead runs in the corner of the room. Martha tells her this used to be the dining room, and a set of French doors line one wall. A long, low piece of furniture sits in front of it to block the door, but through the beveled glass, Emma can see the foyer and the front door that she knows leads out to a massive front porch complete with a swing.
Martha shows Emma her bed, and she’s surprised to find that she gets the larger one. A massive double bed of thick, dark wood with tall posts. Lindsay’s twin bed, just a simple metal frame and mattress sits in front of the room’s one window.
“Lindsay couldn’t sleep in that huge bed, so I got her that cot,” Martha explains with a shrug. She sets Emma’s suitcase beside the bed and then pulls a small stepstool form under the bed. “This thing is so high off the ground, you’ll have to use this to get in it. It’s a very old bed.”
Emma eyes the stool and tries to hide how pleased she is with the bed. It’s ornate and obviously an antique. It’s like something out of a movie. She’ll feel like a princess sleeping in that bed.
But the best thing of all is the wide space between the bed and the hardwood floor. No monsters can lurk under this bed.
Martha wears a faded housedress covered in tiny blue flowers and blue terry-cloth house shoes on her feet. She dons an apron to make supper, and Emma thinks of old black and white TV shows. Maybe this place won’t be so bad. Maybe Martha will one day tell her, “I love you, please stay. And why don’t you call me grandma?”
Emma tries to push that fantasy aside. If it doesn’t come true, she’ll be disappointed. Again. Martha asks if she wants to help with supper, and she eagerly agrees. Martha lets her pour the macaroni noodles into the boiling water on the stove, warning her to go slowly so she doesn’t burn herself. She then lets Emma stir the noodles so they won’t stick together while she chops an onion expertly into tiny pieces.
“These are the chicken pot pies,” she explains next, handing Emma a fork. She shows Emma how to poke the fork slowly into the crust to make each family member’s initials. Emma grins as she presses the fork into hers, then turns the fork sideways to make three more straight lines. “E” for Emma.
Besides Lindsay and Emma, there’s also a little boy named Tyler with wide eyes and a sad, fearful face. His parents and sister where killed in a car accident, and he’s only here temporarily while his aunt and grandparents argue over who gets to keep him. Emma has a hard time imagining family, much less one who will want you so badly they would fight about it.
Martha hands Tyler a little plastic box shaped like a loaf of bread. She tells him to take out a card and pass it around the table. On each is a Bible verse, and they can’t eat until they’ve each read one. Lindsay rolls her eyes, but complies.
Emma’s verse reads, “When my father and my mother forsake me; then the Lord will take me up.”
*******************************************************
Martha has a distinctive scent to her that Emma can’t quite place. Every time the elderly woman gives her a tentative side hug, the scent washes over her. It’s comforting and makes Emma want to bury herself in a bear hug with the woman. But she refrains. She can’t seem too eager; it might scare Martha and then she won’t want to keep her.
The bathroom in this house is in an odd place: off the kitchen. When Emma goes to brush her teeth, she sees two jars on the pedestal sink. Inside one is a pinkish cold cream, and in the other is powder with a fat, fluffy puff resting on top. Emma lifts both to her nose and sniffs deeply. Yes, the combination of the two. That’s Martha’s scent. Emma eyes the makeup puff as she screws the top back on the cream. She simply can’t resist it, she lifts the puff and starts patting the powder onto her face. She starts and almost drops the puff when Martha suddenly steps into the room. Emma wilts. This will be her shortest stay at a foster home ever. A new record. Nice job, Emma!
But a smile simply deepens the crows feet around Martha’s eyes as she chuckles softly. She wets a wash cloth and swipes it across Emma’s face.
“This pretty face doesn’t need makeup,” she tells her with a sparkle in her eye. “Of course,” she continues, “pretty is as pretty does.”
Emma cocks her head to one side and wrinkles her forehead, “What does that mean?”
Martha pats Emma’s cheek gently, “It means our hearts are what make us truly beautiful. The way we treat people and the things we do are far more important than what we look like.”
Emma is both relieved and surprised when that is all her transgression gets her: a gentle lecture. Martha helps her off the stool, then takes her hand. She leads her to her room, tucks her in, and says a short prayer. Emma bites her bottom lip, wanting so badly to make a request, but afraid to do so.
“Could I give you a hug and kiss good night?” Martha asks, and Emma thinks that the old woman looks just as nervous as Emma asking.
Emma beams and pulls her arms out from under the covers. The woman give her a good, firm hug. Over her shoulder, Emma notices for the first time a large, ornate piece of furniture in the corner. There are a large set of doors in the top half, and two drawers on the bottom.
“What is that?” Emma asks, pointing, when Martha releases her from the hug.
“It’s a wardrobe,” the woman explains, as she tucks the blankets back around Emma. “Old houses didn’t have closets, so people put their clothes in those.”
Emma says nothing as Martha brushes a kiss to her forehead and tells her goodnight, but she eyes the wardrobe warily. It’s the perfect place for monsters.
Lindsay comes in then, rubbing her wet hair with a towel. Instead of pajamas, she’s dressed in tight jeans and a skimpy tank top. Emma sits up in bed and watches curiously as the teenager slips into a pair of boots.
“What are you doing?” Emma asks as Lindsay slowly and quietly opens the window.
“None of your business, kid,” she snaps, tossing a backpack out the open window. “Just don’t snitch. Got that?”
Emma nods as she pulls the blanket to her chest. What does she care what Lindsay does? The teenager disappears out the window, and Emma falls back against the mattress with a sigh. She can’t remember the last time she had a room all to herself, and it makes her a little nervous. She eyes the wardrobe nervously. Did it just squeak open a little? She squints in the dark. Through the open slit of the wardrobe, she swears she sees a pair of bright blue eyes looking at her. She gasps and throws the covers over her head. She counts to one hundred slowly, squeezing her eyes shut. The wardrobe door makes another squeaking sound. After another count to one hundred, she slowly eases her head out of the covers.
The wardrobe door is shut tight.
*********************************************************
The next morning Martha is beside herself with worry to find Lindsay gone. Emma lies and says she must have been asleep when the teenager left, and a lie has never made her feel so guilty. Children’s services are already there when the school bus comes for her and Tyler. Emma so badly wants to tell the social worker that it wasn’t Martha’s fault; that Martha is nice and she wants to stay here. But she’s too afraid of her lies to open her mouth.
But the school bus drops them off at Martha’s, and everything seems normal. Martha has even unpacked Emma’s suitcase. Inside the wardrobe are not only Emma’s meager shirts and jeans, but a couple of new outfits as well. There’s also a new pillow on the bed covered in bright flowers. A fluffy white bunny with a bright pink ribbon is propped up against the new pillow. Emma hugs it with delight.
She wants to tell Martha thank you for the things she got her when they gather around the dinner table, but for some reason the words won’t come.
Tonight, Emma’s Bible verse is “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.”
*****************************************************
Emma can’t sleep. All she can do is keep glancing at the wardrobe, wondering if it really opened last night, if the eyes were really there. Finally, Emma tells herself she’s being silly. She rolls away from the wardrobe, and pulls the covers up to her chin. She closes her eyes and wills herself to go to sleep. But then her heart stops. There it is. The squeaking again. The sound is longer this time, as if the door is swinging open, and Emma gasps.
She whirls around and screams when she sees a dark shape through the half open wardrobe, blue eyes reflecting the moonlight as they gaze at her. The door flings open and Martha rushes in.
“Emma, sweetie, what is it?”
“There’s something in the wardrobe!” she cries, turning and pointing. But the door to the wardrobe is completely shut.
Martha chuckles as she brushes back Emma’s hair. “Oh, that’s just your imagination running away with you.” To prove her point, she goes to the wardrobe and flings it open. Emma yelps, expecting to see the blue-eyed monster standing there, but all she sees are her clothes lined up in a row.
Martha tucks her in and kisses her goodnight, but Emma knows the truth. Something is in that wardrobe, and tomorrow night, she won’t let it scare her.
*******************************************************
The next morning, children’s services are there again, this time to pick up Tyler and take him to his Aunt who lives in the next county. At dinner that night, Emma secretly loves that it’s just her and Martha. Her Bible verse reads, “A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.”
After Martha tucks her in that night, Emma crawls out from under the covers and pulls her knees up to her chest. She rests her chin on her knees and gazes intently at the wardrobe. Her heart is thumping wildly in her chest, but she won’t hide in fear. Not tonight. She isn’t imagining things; and she’ll prove it.
Sure enough, just as she thinks she might nod off where she sits, the door of the wardrobe squeaks slowly open. First she sees those blue eyes, the bluest she’s ever seen. Then the dark shape is there. Emma eases to the end of the bed slowly on her hands and knees, and when she reaches the edge, right next to the wardrobe she can almost make out the shape . . .
But then those sparkling blue eyes widen in fear and the shape shuffles backwards quickly, slamming the door shut. Inside, Emma hears a thud followed by desperate shuffling and gasping. Then another thud followed by the sound of crying. Emma jumps from the high bed and pads the three steps across the cold wood floors to the door of the wardrobe. She reaches up for the handle, hesitating only a moment before slowly pulling it open.
All she can see at first are ten small toes peeking out from beneath the clothes hanging in the wardrobe. Emma reaches up and pushes the clothes hangers aside. Now she can see a head of dark hair resting atop two skinny arms that are folded around two skinny legs. It’s just a little boy! A little boy curled up into a tight, frightened ball. His sniffling and crying echo in the small space.
“Who are you?” Emma asks.
The little boy lifts his head, revealing those blue eyes she has seen every night, this time shining bright with tears. His dark brown hair is in need of a trim and falls across his forehead, hanging almost in front of his eyes. His thin face is sprinkled with freckles. He lifts his hand and rubs it across his nose.
“I’m Killian,” he tells her.
“I’m Emma.” She cocks her head as she studies him. “Why are you crying?”
He blushes at her question, and straightens up, pushing his legs forward. “I can’t get out the way I came,” he tells her simply.
Emma motions for him to come to her. He crawls forward, reaching his hand out to her. She takes it and helps him hop down out of the wardrobe. He wears a nightshirt made of scratchy brown fabric that reaches his knees. He shivers and wraps his arms around himself.
“Come on, I’ll give you a blanket,” she tells him, hopping up on the bed. He follows her, and she wraps a giant patchwork quilt around the two of them.
“This is warm” Killian says, holding it close.
“Martha makes them for the children she takes care of,” Emma explains.
“Is she your mother?”
Emma shakes her head, “No. Just a lady who’s taking care of me. I never knew my mother.”
Killian’s head drops, “My mother died.”
“I’m sorry,” Emma frowns. “My parents left me when I was a baby.”
“My father left me,” Killian says, “that’s why I’m a slave now.”
“A slave!” Emma exclaims. Killian winces, and she feels bad. She hadn’t meant anything against him. “We learned in school that slavery ended,” she hastens to explain.
Killian shakes his head sadly. “Not where I come from.”
Suddenly, a shaft of light falls across the bed. Emma and Killian both turn their heads in surprise towards the wardrobe. The light is unusually bright as it falls through the open door.
“That’s weird,” Emma comments, her brow furrowing.
The two of them scramble down from the bed to peer inside the wardrobe.
“Woah,” Emma breathes, for no longer does she see her clothes or the back of the wardrobe. Instead, she sees a room of wood, rocking gently back and forth. Barrels and boxes fill the room, and men and boys sleep in hammocks hanging from the beams of the ceiling. Everything is damp, and Emma can smell salt and something musty. The air blowing through feels warm and wet against her face.
“That’s the hold,” Killian tells her, “of the ship where I’m a slave.”
He scrambles inside the wardrobe, but Emma grasps his arm, “Wait, you can’t go yet!”
He shakes his head, “My brother will worry. We’re all each other has.”
Emma drops his arm, her face falling, but she understands. If she had any family, any at all, she would stay with them. She would never let them go.
“Will you come back tomorrow night?” She asks, tentatively biting her lower lip.
Killian grins brightly. “Aye, lass.”
He turns to go, but then seems to hesitate. He spins back towards her, his face flaming red, and pecks a quick kiss against her cheek. Then the light is shining so bright in the wardrobe that it blinds Emma and she has to look away. Then Killian is gone, and Emma stands there with her hand to her cheek.
**************************************************
The next morning at breakfast, Martha seems different. Her eyes seem distant, and her words make no sense. Then half her smile falls down unnaturally, and she slumps against the table. Emma shouts her name, trembling all over, then dashes for the phone to call 911.
That evening, a social worker stands in Martha’s living room waiting for Emma to pack. Emma pulls her suitcase from the wonderful bed covered in Martha’s bright quilt. She grabs the bunny and buries her face in the soft fur. Her eyes catch the wardrobe, and she frowns. Killian won’t understand when she’s not here. She takes a deep breath and before she can change her mind, she dashes to the wardrobe and sets the little bunny inside.
When she walks out of the room, she can’t help giving the wardrobe one last look over her shoulder.
Age 16
Emma lies in bed, wide awake, staring at the wardrobe across the room. It looks eerily familiar, though she tries to tell herself that’s crazy.
Her new foster family seems incredibly nice. Even the two boys who are the couple’s real children seem excited to have her here instead of jealous. The mother even seemed embarrassed when she showed Emma her room, explaining that it used to be an office, so it didn’t have a closet. She hoped Emma liked the wardrobe she had found at an antique store.
Emma stares at the wardrobe now and thinks of Martha. Another kind foster mother and another wardrobe, almost identical to the other? Happy coincidences like that don’t happen. At least not to Emma Swan.
She huffs and rolls over on her side, and tries not to think about the little boy with the soulful blue eyes. He was just an imaginary friend. A figment of her hurt soul and bruised heart. Her hand hovers over her cheek, and she inwardly berates herself. It was just a peck on the cheek, and she was ten for heaven’s sake! Correction, there was no peck on the cheek because it wasn’t real.
Because now that she’s 16, she knows better. Friends don’t just fall out of the sky – or wardrobes. And real kisses are an enormous disappointment. Like Tom Pierce when she was 13, her first kiss playing spin the bottle at a Halloween party. All she can say about that is that it was wet and sloppy, and he had bad breath. Then there was Robby Eddleston at the school dance last year. She thought he actually liked her when he asked to talk privately behind the bleachers. Then she was pinned against the wall while Robby shoved his tongue unceremoniously down her throat. But a quick knee to the groin had quickly taught Robby that she wasn’t an easy score.
Emma punches her pillow now in irritation. It’s ridiculous that an imaginary kiss to the cheek has been her best yet. Pathetic, Emma. She decides to push thoughts of the wardrobe and a pair of blue eyes from her head.
She’s just drifting off when a familiar squeak reaches her ears. She ignores it, assuming she’s already dreaming. But then she hears footsteps padding softly across the hardwood floor. Emma squeezes her eyes shut tighter. Is someone standing over her, or is that her imagination? Then a hand softly touches her hair, and her eyes fly open as she sits up quickly. Her green orbs meet blue, and she gasps in shock.
“Emma?”
“Killian?” She swallows hard. “I thought you were an imaginary friend.”
He smiles, and it lights her up inside. “Liam said the same when I told him about you. But when I saw that wardrobe in my captain’s quarters, it looked so much like the one from when we were kids, I had to try.”
Emma stares at him unabashedly by the light of her bedside lamp, taking in how much he has changed. Gone is the scrawny little boy, though he is still of slender build. Just like last time, he’s wearing a nightshirt that hangs to his knees, but she can still see defined muscles in his arms and legs. His chest is broader, and his shoulders are squared back, stronger and more confident than when he was ten. His hair has gotten darker, and it’s longer, hanging down in his eyes so badly, Emma itches to push it back. It also hangs down so close to his shoulders, that he could pull it back in a low ponytail if he wanted to. His freckles are less noticeable, and his complexion is more tanned, making his azure eyes spark even more than she remembered.
“I hope the Captain doesn’t catch me. I could be whipped for being in his quarters. Though it will be worth it, now that I’ve seen you again.”
He ducks his head as he realizes that he’s been chattering on and on, and Emma feels bad for him because she knows she ought to quit staring and say something already. He pushes his hair back from his face, and when he does, Emma notices his ears. They are slightly pointed, almost elf like. They’re adorable.
He’s adorable.
He’s also cold, she realizes as he rubs his arms and curls his toes into the hardwood floor. Emma lifts the edge of her blankets. “Come here, you’re freezing.”
Those adorable ears of his turn red at her offer and he gapes for a minute like a fish. “That would be bad form, lass. Liam says I should always be a gentleman.”
Emma rolls her eyes. “First off, if you’re that worried, you’ll definitely be nothing but a gentleman. Second, I can take care of myself. If you get handsy, I’ll just put you in your place like I did with Bobby Eddleston.”
“Who’s he?” Killian asks as he slides under the blankets next to her.
“Just a jerk who shoved his tongue halfway down my throat without permission.”
Killian’s eyes darken to a stormy, steel tinted cobalt. “He did what?”
Emma shoves him in the shoulder, “Calm down, jeez. I told you, I can take care of myself.”
“What did you do?”
“Kneed him in the jewels,” she says with a shrug, trying to come off as nonchalant.
He grins at her with obvious pride, “That’s my tough lass.”
They fall silent for a moment, and then Emma finally whispers into the dark, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you came back.”
“No need, love,” he quickly assures her, “though I was worried what had happened to you.”
Emma picks at the comforter spread across their laps, “Martha died of a stroke, and I had to go someplace else.”
Killian reaches for her hand, and her movements still. “I’m sorry. I know she was a good woman.”
Emma nods, swallowing down the pain. She turns to him with a quirked eyebrow. “Did you get my bunny?”
“I did, thank you,” he nods, “though I regret to say that he ended up in Davy Jones’ locker. My master at the time called me a baby for having it and tossed it out to sea.” Emma cringes at the word “master,” but Killian doesn’t miss a beat in the telling of his story. “Nevertheless, I can’t tell you how much that small gesture meant to me. It had been so long since I had a plaything. Anyway, I hope this home has been good to you?”
Emma looked around her at the still unfamiliar surroundings. “Well, I haven’t been here long, actually. I’ve been bounced around a lot of places since Martha, and most haven’t loved me as well as she did. Except Ingrid, until I found out she was crazy.”
“Crazy? How so?”
Emma groaned at the memory. “She thought I had magic!”
Killian narrowed his eyes. “Why is that crazy?”
“You can’t be serious! I mean, she almost got me killed.”
Killian shrugged, then gestured with his hand at the wardrobe. “I travel to you through an enchanted wardrobe, Emma. And you think magic sounds crazy?”
She huffed out a breath. “Well, okay, yes, you and I . . . that’s hard to explain. But me being like Hermione Granger or something? No way.”
Emma leaned against Killian’s shoulder with a sigh. “Can we not talk about me and my pathetic life? What’s been going on with you?”
Killian secedes to her wishes and begins to speak. He tells her about discovering rum for the first time at thirteen, and then gambling with dice and cards at fourteen. “I’m pretty good,” he brags.
Emma tilts her head up and grins at him saucily, “I’m sure you are.”
He swipes his tongue along his lower lip in a way that is simply unfair, then continues telling her about letting Liam down at every turn. He weaves a story of a storm at sea where all hands are lost but he and Liam; a story that has her hanging on his every word. This leads to him and his brother joining the Navy at 15 and 19, respectively. Emma turns her head again, her eyes wide.
“Isn’t fifteen awfully young for that?”
Killian shrugs, “Some join as powder monkeys at 11 or 12,” he tells her, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. His words make her wonder, not for the first time, if their wardrobe is some sort of time portal. His world seems so old-fashioned compared to hers. “I’ve caught on fast, though. So has Liam. He’s a lieutenant already, and many of the sailors think he will be the youngest yet to make Captain. I’m still just a cabin boy, but my Captain says its only because he likes the fine job I do. He’s talking of promoting me soon. This time, I won’t let my brother down.”
Emma turns her hand so their palms are touching and laces her fingers with his. “What kinds of things have you had to learn? Like sailor’s knots and star charts and stuff?”
“Aye, and other things, too. I’ve had to learn cartography and geography. And languages, too. Greek was the hardest.”
“You know Greek? Like Zeus and Poseidon and all of that?”
The smile he gives her almost seems teasing, “Of course.”
Emma pokes him in the side and grins when a laugh spills from his lips. “Say something in Greek for me.”
His face turns suddenly earnest as he gazes into her eyes and says, “Omorfi kopella.”
“What does that mean?”
He blushes and ducks his head. His unfairly long lashes brush the top of his cheeks as he answers. “I said you were beautiful.”
Killian brushes her cheek lightly with his thumb and then leans towards her. Emma meets him halfway. His lips are soft and warm against hers, and their touch makes her heart soar in her chest. This is what she had always imagined a kiss should be. It’s nothing like kissing Tom Pierce or Robby Eddleston. Killian tilts his head to deepen the kiss as his fingers thread through her hair, and Emma sighs into it. When he pulls back, his eyes are a midnight blue as he rests his forehead against hers.
“The thoughts I’m having right now aren’t very gentlemanly,” he confesses huskily.
Emma chuckles. “Good,” she tells him, thumbing his lower lip, still moist from their kiss.
A bright shaft of light falls across her bed and Emma groans. Killian cups her face in both his hands. “I wish I could stay, but –“
“Your brother,” she finishes for him. She looks long into his eyes. “I get it. You’re all each other has.”
Killian nods and brushes one chaste kiss across her lips as he rises from the bed. He bows to her, taking her hand and brushing his lips across her knuckles. She giggles, and he gives her a slightly roguish smile.
The last thing she sees before he disappears inside the wardrobe is the look of longing in his blue eyes.
