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Mar. 1st, 2015 11:18 amGot a message for Emma or her mun? Leave it here!
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Jul. 8th, 2013 07:35 pm She's already one martini in, and it's not like she usually does more than that on a weeknight, but she'd come in from Granny's, and now, as the door swings open, she's going back through Granny's.
Which would be fine, if she weren't also walking straight into the path of a red-fletched dart, held by a surly-looking Graham. He looks more than a few in, himself, and that just pisses her off more.
"Emma," Ruby says, somewhere nearby, bright and cheerful. "What can I get you?"
Graham's staring her down. Like he hadn't all day. She notices that his hair is unruly, his eyes glazed and red. He looks like he just stumbled out of the bushes somewhere.
Again.
Whatever. It's not her problem. She's not here to fix anyone, no matter what Henry might think. "Nothing," she says, and heads for the door. She's almost there, reaching for handle, nearly home free, when --
zzzzzzTHNK
"What the hell?"
She's turning, indignant, and it's all snapping in her chest, the day, the jacket, Miami, Nebulon-vodka or whatever the hell it was, the woman who's story was like reading her own in a book, and Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell? "You could have hit me!"
Aware that she sounds petulant, more than anything else. Everyone's eyes on her, sending prickles skating over her skin. Making her want to cross her arms. Slip into the background. Anything but this. Public, humiliating, everything they've been avoiding all day. There's no reason for it. None.
Not that Graham seems to have gotten that memo. He's sauntering towards her. Lazy long steps that are too loose. Nothing like his usual grace and precision. Graham, who never misses. Graham, who wants to point out, here, now, in front of everyone, that she's been avoiding him. Which she hasn't. They spent all day together, working. "I'm not avoiding you," she points out, lowering her voice. Sidney, nearby, leans in to try and hear her, sending a bad-tempered flare of annoyance racing through her blood. She feels like the simmering pot on top of a stove in a house that's on fire. "I just don't want to have this conversation."
And when she tells him she doesn't care, she means it.
But he doesn't listen. Of course he doesn't listen. He's drunk and upset and it's not like she doesn't feel for the guy, okay, she does. and it's not like she hadn't--
But that's clearly been all wrong, and she's been all wrong, just like usual, so he just needs to let it go, stop following her down the street, smelling so strongly of whiskey she gets a whiff of it every time he gets far enough in front of her to get her to stop. But he won't. Stop.
She doesn't want to be reminded of their drinks at the bar, or what they'd sort of started feeling like they were easing into. Something like friendship. Partnership, maybe. Or -- okay, maybe something more, alright? She'd thought he saw her. Her. Not the bounty hunter. Not Henry's estranged biological mother. Not the mess she is. Just her. Just Emma.
Whoever Emma is.
Teasing her with baked goods. Coming back to the office with coffee, or hot chocolate. Talking long hours over beers at Granny's. And it hurts. It's embarrassing. It's humiliating, shameful. To have felt -- to have thought.
She needs to nip it in the bud, and tonight's as good a night as any. Besides. "It's none of my business. Really."
But he won't let her move past. Takes her arm, desperation in the clutch of his fingers, which, why? What's the point? Why does she need to understand anything? She understands plenty. And still, he won't let her go.
Even though it's true. They're all adults. He can sleep with whoever he wants. It's none of her business. None of it is. What is there to talk about, standing in the middle of the street, feeling her chest lace tighter with every breath and hating it, this weakness that she just can't shake no matter how hard she tries, even with that pendant hanging heavy against her collarbone, a reminder with every painful tap of metal against thin skin.
Demanding why. Voice raising. Trying to hold onto her temper, feeling it slip through her fingers like water, turning into something that's tumbling all around her, muddling everything except his face. Blue eyes. Hair awry. The pain of not being the one who gets to push it back, off his forehead, flushed cheeks, and where did that thought come from? Is it the same place he's standing, telling her he can't stand this, like she can't stand it? That he doesn't want this, like she doesn't want it? That the way she's looking at him --
"Why do you care about the way I look at you?"
A question she shouldn't ask. Never. It's not safe. She doesn't want him to know. Doesn't want him to care. If he cares, she might. If he cares, she...
And then his hands are on the sides of her face, cupping her head, and his mouth is on hers, whiskey-sweet, soft and warm and prickly from stubble, and she can feel the heat from his body, feverish, frantic, and she should push him away now, has to, can't care, can't let herself.
But it's still too long until she does. Even a split second later. Too long. Too late. Yelling at him, as something that feels important, necessary, tears itself a long thin bloody strip down the middle of herself. Lays it out raw. Flayed from the inside. A clever hand, wielding a too-sharp knife. She can see it glitter, as she tells him to knock it off, tells him it was over the line, he's her boss, they work together, she can't, doesn't. Couldn't.
Whatever it is he wants, needs, she can't give him. Won't. She gets it. She does. The wanting. To feel something. Anything. Closeness, to someone else. The sweet certainty of someone's hand in his. A kiss that feels like waking up. Smiles and teasing, friendship and laughter. She's seen it all.
But it doesn't exist. Not for her. Not with him.
Not with anyone.
And this time, when she stalks away, she doesn't look back.
Which would be fine, if she weren't also walking straight into the path of a red-fletched dart, held by a surly-looking Graham. He looks more than a few in, himself, and that just pisses her off more.
"Emma," Ruby says, somewhere nearby, bright and cheerful. "What can I get you?"
Graham's staring her down. Like he hadn't all day. She notices that his hair is unruly, his eyes glazed and red. He looks like he just stumbled out of the bushes somewhere.
Again.
Whatever. It's not her problem. She's not here to fix anyone, no matter what Henry might think. "Nothing," she says, and heads for the door. She's almost there, reaching for handle, nearly home free, when --
zzzzzzTHNK
"What the hell?"
She's turning, indignant, and it's all snapping in her chest, the day, the jacket, Miami, Nebulon-vodka or whatever the hell it was, the woman who's story was like reading her own in a book, and Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell? "You could have hit me!"
Aware that she sounds petulant, more than anything else. Everyone's eyes on her, sending prickles skating over her skin. Making her want to cross her arms. Slip into the background. Anything but this. Public, humiliating, everything they've been avoiding all day. There's no reason for it. None.
Not that Graham seems to have gotten that memo. He's sauntering towards her. Lazy long steps that are too loose. Nothing like his usual grace and precision. Graham, who never misses. Graham, who wants to point out, here, now, in front of everyone, that she's been avoiding him. Which she hasn't. They spent all day together, working. "I'm not avoiding you," she points out, lowering her voice. Sidney, nearby, leans in to try and hear her, sending a bad-tempered flare of annoyance racing through her blood. She feels like the simmering pot on top of a stove in a house that's on fire. "I just don't want to have this conversation."
And when she tells him she doesn't care, she means it.
But he doesn't listen. Of course he doesn't listen. He's drunk and upset and it's not like she doesn't feel for the guy, okay, she does. and it's not like she hadn't--
But that's clearly been all wrong, and she's been all wrong, just like usual, so he just needs to let it go, stop following her down the street, smelling so strongly of whiskey she gets a whiff of it every time he gets far enough in front of her to get her to stop. But he won't. Stop.
She doesn't want to be reminded of their drinks at the bar, or what they'd sort of started feeling like they were easing into. Something like friendship. Partnership, maybe. Or -- okay, maybe something more, alright? She'd thought he saw her. Her. Not the bounty hunter. Not Henry's estranged biological mother. Not the mess she is. Just her. Just Emma.
Whoever Emma is.
Teasing her with baked goods. Coming back to the office with coffee, or hot chocolate. Talking long hours over beers at Granny's. And it hurts. It's embarrassing. It's humiliating, shameful. To have felt -- to have thought.
She needs to nip it in the bud, and tonight's as good a night as any. Besides. "It's none of my business. Really."
But he won't let her move past. Takes her arm, desperation in the clutch of his fingers, which, why? What's the point? Why does she need to understand anything? She understands plenty. And still, he won't let her go.
Even though it's true. They're all adults. He can sleep with whoever he wants. It's none of her business. None of it is. What is there to talk about, standing in the middle of the street, feeling her chest lace tighter with every breath and hating it, this weakness that she just can't shake no matter how hard she tries, even with that pendant hanging heavy against her collarbone, a reminder with every painful tap of metal against thin skin.
Demanding why. Voice raising. Trying to hold onto her temper, feeling it slip through her fingers like water, turning into something that's tumbling all around her, muddling everything except his face. Blue eyes. Hair awry. The pain of not being the one who gets to push it back, off his forehead, flushed cheeks, and where did that thought come from? Is it the same place he's standing, telling her he can't stand this, like she can't stand it? That he doesn't want this, like she doesn't want it? That the way she's looking at him --
"Why do you care about the way I look at you?"
A question she shouldn't ask. Never. It's not safe. She doesn't want him to know. Doesn't want him to care. If he cares, she might. If he cares, she...
And then his hands are on the sides of her face, cupping her head, and his mouth is on hers, whiskey-sweet, soft and warm and prickly from stubble, and she can feel the heat from his body, feverish, frantic, and she should push him away now, has to, can't care, can't let herself.
But it's still too long until she does. Even a split second later. Too long. Too late. Yelling at him, as something that feels important, necessary, tears itself a long thin bloody strip down the middle of herself. Lays it out raw. Flayed from the inside. A clever hand, wielding a too-sharp knife. She can see it glitter, as she tells him to knock it off, tells him it was over the line, he's her boss, they work together, she can't, doesn't. Couldn't.
Whatever it is he wants, needs, she can't give him. Won't. She gets it. She does. The wanting. To feel something. Anything. Closeness, to someone else. The sweet certainty of someone's hand in his. A kiss that feels like waking up. Smiles and teasing, friendship and laughter. She's seen it all.
But it doesn't exist. Not for her. Not with him.
Not with anyone.
And this time, when she stalks away, she doesn't look back.
Once Upon a Time, in Storybrooke
Dec. 3rd, 2012 05:53 pm It's not that she's against Christmas, exactly. That would be pointless, like being against the whole leggings-as-pants trend and wondering why there isn't a decent Top 40 station in Storybrooke. Christmas is fine, and she's always sort of enjoyed seeing lights go up, white and brilliant, like stars nestled in tree branches and twined around lampposts.
Sure. She hates the rush, the trampled snow that gets grayer with every passing day. In California and Florida, she's weirded out by Christmas lights on palm trees, Santas in shorts, and she doesn't think anybody is really for either the insanity of Black Friday or the panicked rush of stores, wiping shelves clean within hours of midnight on Christmas Eve.
It's fine. It happens all around her, like a hurricane that whirls outside a glass container, and she watches it go by and then everyone regains their collective sanity just long before making terrible decisions while drinking too much champagne on New Years, like God intended, and that's...
Fine.
Except, this year, it's not.
Some kind of madness seems to have overtaken Storybrooke, and Emma's not sure what to make of it: there are wreaths on every door, the houses are drawn out in lines of twinkling lights, and the snow keeps falling, fluffy and white, delighting both Henry and Mary Margaret, who, really, they live in Maine, how are they not used to this yet? Even the Sheriff's station has been hit by the Christmas bug; she's been eying a tree in the corner all day, has dodged mistletoe at Granny's twice, and finally had to call it a day after catching Marco stringing up hand-carved ornaments in the cells.
A tree. Presents. Henry keeps trying to hit her with snowballs, and Mary Margaret has a pretty pink flush in her cheeks and a look in her eye that makes Emma think she might have caught the holiday party bug, and she just, you know, needs some air.
And maybe a stiff drink.
Which is how she finds herself, alone by the fireside, watching the fish swim back and forth, something in her hand that the bar insisted was eggnog but which tastes mainly like cream and nutmeg flavored brandy, strongly considering just camping out here for the holidays, when something catches at the corner of her eye: a shadow, perhaps, a flicker of the flames.
Somewhere, a bell tolls. It sounds bizarrely portentous.
Of course, that's got nothing on the girl standing -- floating? is that actually floating? -- nearby, glowing like a freaking lightning bug. "What the --" Emma says, eloquently, pushing up off the couch and subsequently spilling her eggnog (or whatever) all over her sweater, which at least snags her attention for a blessed second as she deflates, face twisting up. "Aw, man."
Sure. She hates the rush, the trampled snow that gets grayer with every passing day. In California and Florida, she's weirded out by Christmas lights on palm trees, Santas in shorts, and she doesn't think anybody is really for either the insanity of Black Friday or the panicked rush of stores, wiping shelves clean within hours of midnight on Christmas Eve.
It's fine. It happens all around her, like a hurricane that whirls outside a glass container, and she watches it go by and then everyone regains their collective sanity just long before making terrible decisions while drinking too much champagne on New Years, like God intended, and that's...
Fine.
Except, this year, it's not.
Some kind of madness seems to have overtaken Storybrooke, and Emma's not sure what to make of it: there are wreaths on every door, the houses are drawn out in lines of twinkling lights, and the snow keeps falling, fluffy and white, delighting both Henry and Mary Margaret, who, really, they live in Maine, how are they not used to this yet? Even the Sheriff's station has been hit by the Christmas bug; she's been eying a tree in the corner all day, has dodged mistletoe at Granny's twice, and finally had to call it a day after catching Marco stringing up hand-carved ornaments in the cells.
A tree. Presents. Henry keeps trying to hit her with snowballs, and Mary Margaret has a pretty pink flush in her cheeks and a look in her eye that makes Emma think she might have caught the holiday party bug, and she just, you know, needs some air.
And maybe a stiff drink.
Which is how she finds herself, alone by the fireside, watching the fish swim back and forth, something in her hand that the bar insisted was eggnog but which tastes mainly like cream and nutmeg flavored brandy, strongly considering just camping out here for the holidays, when something catches at the corner of her eye: a shadow, perhaps, a flicker of the flames.
Somewhere, a bell tolls. It sounds bizarrely portentous.
Of course, that's got nothing on the girl standing -- floating? is that actually floating? -- nearby, glowing like a freaking lightning bug. "What the --" Emma says, eloquently, pushing up off the couch and subsequently spilling her eggnog (or whatever) all over her sweater, which at least snags her attention for a blessed second as she deflates, face twisting up. "Aw, man."
[Room 15, with Michael]
Jun. 6th, 2012 11:54 pm She's got the brand-new bottle of Johnny Walker Blue in one hand when she knocks at the door of Room 15, feeling unaccountably nervous.
It's not like this is weird, or anything. It's not like she thinks he'll be unhappy to see her -- or the whiskey. And she wants to know how the latest mission went, whether there were more crab-monsters involved, or...whatever might be out there.
(But they haven't talked, alone, since her stint as bartender and the fight they'd had, which, in retrospect...she doesn't even remember how it got started, or why. That feeling of sinking unhappiness is pretty immediately recognizable, though.)
If asked, she might not even be able to say why she's here, aside from the simplest reason she can put in words: she wanted to see him.
I miss you, he'd written, once.
Well, the feeling's mutual.
It's not like this is weird, or anything. It's not like she thinks he'll be unhappy to see her -- or the whiskey. And she wants to know how the latest mission went, whether there were more crab-monsters involved, or...whatever might be out there.
(But they haven't talked, alone, since her stint as bartender and the fight they'd had, which, in retrospect...she doesn't even remember how it got started, or why. That feeling of sinking unhappiness is pretty immediately recognizable, though.)
If asked, she might not even be able to say why she's here, aside from the simplest reason she can put in words: she wanted to see him.
I miss you, he'd written, once.
Well, the feeling's mutual.
EP - Post phone call, pre Granny's
Jun. 6th, 2012 09:19 pm Well, the day could have gone better.
She's not proud of the way she'd acted at work, but Graham hadn't seemed keen on talking, and she sure didn't feel like she had much to say to him, so it was what it was, and now it's over, and she can at least not worry about it for a few more hours.
...Ish.
Honestly, the night in -- Chinese food, ice cream, and chick flick -- with Mary Margaret had helped more than she'd be willing to admit out loud...but now the food is in the fridge, the ice cream is gone, the movie's over, and Mary Margaret is in the bath, nearly pushed there by Emma, who'd then glanced through the linen closet looking for anything containing the words "lavender" or "aromatherapy" before handing them through the slightly-cracked bathroom door and reminding the occupant to stay, dammit, and relax.
The problem, of course, is that leaves her at loose ends, and she hates loose ends. Being there gives her a distinct and unwelcome sense of instability. She needs something to do, someone to talk to, something to think about that isn't the sadness in Mary Margaret's eyes or the guilt in Graham's.
Well...she pauses in the door to her room, considering. There's one errand she'd put off last night, but she may as well get it done, now. Slipping on black ankle boots and a light, loose black knit sweater over her tank and jeans, she grabs the envelope on her bedside table and heads back into the hallway.
"Open sesame," she says, and a glint of light shows through the crack of the linen closet door.
Inside, she makes for the bar, puts the wad of cash down. "Okay," she says. "Here's five thousand. Go ahead and put a thousand on my tab, a thousand on Mary Margaret's, and put the rest on Michael Westen's, will you? Maybe this way he won't get himself killed in another universe scraping together rent."
The money disappears, replaced by a receipt that Emma reads, and then pockets.
"And one more thing. While I'm here, go ahead and blow some of that tab for me. One bottle of Johnny Walker, blue."
She's not proud of the way she'd acted at work, but Graham hadn't seemed keen on talking, and she sure didn't feel like she had much to say to him, so it was what it was, and now it's over, and she can at least not worry about it for a few more hours.
...Ish.
Honestly, the night in -- Chinese food, ice cream, and chick flick -- with Mary Margaret had helped more than she'd be willing to admit out loud...but now the food is in the fridge, the ice cream is gone, the movie's over, and Mary Margaret is in the bath, nearly pushed there by Emma, who'd then glanced through the linen closet looking for anything containing the words "lavender" or "aromatherapy" before handing them through the slightly-cracked bathroom door and reminding the occupant to stay, dammit, and relax.
The problem, of course, is that leaves her at loose ends, and she hates loose ends. Being there gives her a distinct and unwelcome sense of instability. She needs something to do, someone to talk to, something to think about that isn't the sadness in Mary Margaret's eyes or the guilt in Graham's.
Well...she pauses in the door to her room, considering. There's one errand she'd put off last night, but she may as well get it done, now. Slipping on black ankle boots and a light, loose black knit sweater over her tank and jeans, she grabs the envelope on her bedside table and heads back into the hallway.
"Open sesame," she says, and a glint of light shows through the crack of the linen closet door.
Inside, she makes for the bar, puts the wad of cash down. "Okay," she says. "Here's five thousand. Go ahead and put a thousand on my tab, a thousand on Mary Margaret's, and put the rest on Michael Westen's, will you? Maybe this way he won't get himself killed in another universe scraping together rent."
The money disappears, replaced by a receipt that Emma reads, and then pockets.
"And one more thing. While I'm here, go ahead and blow some of that tab for me. One bottle of Johnny Walker, blue."
(no subject)
Jun. 4th, 2012 08:28 pm They say you should never drive angry or upset, so it's a good thing she's got a ways to walk before she makes it back to the station, cheeks warm from frustration and the long-legged, rapid stride she'd adopted.
Graham hadn't followed her.
She doesn't know if he actually did finish the shift, but the cruiser isn't in the lot when she gets back to the office, and there hadn't been any headlights behind her as she'd made her way back, so either he'd kept making the rounds, or he'd gone home, or...
Well, she doesn't really care what he ended up doing. It could be anything, and it's none of her business.
That's the refrain she plays to herself, stubborn, every time her traitor thoughts do their best to turn to the way she'd felt, like someone had kicked her in the gut, how his usually impeccable neatness had been roughed and rumpled, how his eyes had filled with guilt, how she'd felt --
It's none of her business. And she certainly hasn't been betrayed in any way.
She aims a vicious kick at a loose pebble, takes a tiny amount of satisfaction in the way it goes scattering across the lot and dings off the SHERIFF sign posted at Graham's parking spot. Childish, maybe, but, hey. No one's ever accused her of being mature.
Except maybe Mary Margaret.
Mary Margaret, who -- she glances at her watch -- may or may not be home right now, depending on how well her interlude went. Mary Margaret, who would probably understand. She'd probably even sympathize.
Not that there's anything to sympathize with.
Sliding behind the wheel of the Bug, Emma pauses, a selfish little hurt instinct deep inside wanting nothing more than to drive home and find Mary Margaret and see if maybe she can't soothe away a little of this fractured...whatever it is. Not jealousy -- there's nothing to be jealous of. Graham's a big boy, he can do what -- or who -- he wants.
That was a stupid crush to have, anyway.
But maybe Mary Margaret -- just spending time with her, hearing about David, seeing that smile blossom on her face again -- maybe that would help. It's a strange impulse to have; feels foreign and funny and she shifts a little in the car seat, wondering where it's coming from.
It's not like she needs anyone to talk to, or anything. And definitely not about something as entirely unimportant as Graham sleeping with Regina.
Whatever.
The whole drive is like that, back and forth: her mind keeps throwing images at her and she keeps batting them away, growing more and more impatient with each repetition, and by the time she's home, she's about ready to break something, but --
Mary Margaret's car. It's here, in the lot, and when Emma lets herself in, she catches the little signs that mean her roommate is home: jacket hung neatly on the coatrack (her own gets tossed on the back of a chair). Keys in the dish by the door. Coffee maker filled and set for the next morning. Emma looks up the stairs, and listens, but hears no movement.
She must be asleep. It's late, and there aren't any lights on.
For a second, she stands there, looking up anyway, hand on the iron railing, before shaking her head and making her way, as quietly as possible, upstairs. Who the hell wants to sit and listen to a sob story in the middle of the night? And with any luck, Mary Margaret's night went well, so she probably went to bed in a good mood. Emma glances at her closed door, thinking about how excited, how happy she'd been at the station.
She can't wreck all that just because her own night went to crap. If anyone deserves one good night, it's Mary Margaret, and she doesn't need her roommate barging in and bitching about something she's got no right to bitch about in the first place.
That's what she decides, and since she's not bitching to Mary Margaret, she's just going to keep this whole stupid thing to herself, so she doesn't open the linen closet door, either. What the hell would she even say? What would be the point? There wouldn't be one, so she walks on by, keeping her steps light, and heads to her room, only to be greeted by a neat pile on her pillow, red leather and yellow paper.
Her jacket? She closes the door softly behind her, walks forward, a frown pulling at her forehead, aching there, but getting closer just proves her initial recognition. It's her jacket, her favorite jacket, the one she'd left in Miami by accident. Michael must have given it to Mary Margaret when he tried to come through the door to find her.
On top of the soft leather sits a sealed envelope; she picks it up and rips the top edge open as her frown deepens, right before it clears into round-eyed surprised.
That's...a lot of money, and she thinks back to that conversation at the bar, Michael telling her he needs another job because the five thousand from Paco only went so far.
She'd thought that seemed low at the time, but she'd never thought for a second it was because he'd split it with her. It's hard to say whether it was idiotic, or sort of chivalrous, in a really bizarre kind of way, the sort of way Emma's beginning to recognize is ingrained somewhere deep in Michael, beneath the quips and the suits, even beneath the something hard there that's like punching steel when you think you're going to hit silk.
Friends. That's what Michael had said, that's what they've been -- sorta -- since that awkward conversation up in Room 15, and it's worked -- sorta -- so far. She'd taken that definition and locked what happened in Miami up behind it, brushed it off as a one-time thing, but this, seeing her jacket and the wad of cash stuffed into an envelope, it makes her reassess.
She hates that. There's nothing worse than not knowing where you stand, and that fact that she's the one confused only pisses her off more.
This is just what she needs.
Putting the envelope back down, she sits on the mattress, looks for a long minute at the red leather and the collection of crisp bills just poking out of the yellow paper, then flops on her back, letting out a breath like a puppet getting its strings cut, staring at the ceiling.
It's got no answers for her, but it's something to look at that doesn't remind her of anything. Or anyone.
Graham hadn't followed her.
She doesn't know if he actually did finish the shift, but the cruiser isn't in the lot when she gets back to the office, and there hadn't been any headlights behind her as she'd made her way back, so either he'd kept making the rounds, or he'd gone home, or...
Well, she doesn't really care what he ended up doing. It could be anything, and it's none of her business.
That's the refrain she plays to herself, stubborn, every time her traitor thoughts do their best to turn to the way she'd felt, like someone had kicked her in the gut, how his usually impeccable neatness had been roughed and rumpled, how his eyes had filled with guilt, how she'd felt --
It's none of her business. And she certainly hasn't been betrayed in any way.
She aims a vicious kick at a loose pebble, takes a tiny amount of satisfaction in the way it goes scattering across the lot and dings off the SHERIFF sign posted at Graham's parking spot. Childish, maybe, but, hey. No one's ever accused her of being mature.
Except maybe Mary Margaret.
Mary Margaret, who -- she glances at her watch -- may or may not be home right now, depending on how well her interlude went. Mary Margaret, who would probably understand. She'd probably even sympathize.
Not that there's anything to sympathize with.
Sliding behind the wheel of the Bug, Emma pauses, a selfish little hurt instinct deep inside wanting nothing more than to drive home and find Mary Margaret and see if maybe she can't soothe away a little of this fractured...whatever it is. Not jealousy -- there's nothing to be jealous of. Graham's a big boy, he can do what -- or who -- he wants.
That was a stupid crush to have, anyway.
But maybe Mary Margaret -- just spending time with her, hearing about David, seeing that smile blossom on her face again -- maybe that would help. It's a strange impulse to have; feels foreign and funny and she shifts a little in the car seat, wondering where it's coming from.
It's not like she needs anyone to talk to, or anything. And definitely not about something as entirely unimportant as Graham sleeping with Regina.
Whatever.
The whole drive is like that, back and forth: her mind keeps throwing images at her and she keeps batting them away, growing more and more impatient with each repetition, and by the time she's home, she's about ready to break something, but --
Mary Margaret's car. It's here, in the lot, and when Emma lets herself in, she catches the little signs that mean her roommate is home: jacket hung neatly on the coatrack (her own gets tossed on the back of a chair). Keys in the dish by the door. Coffee maker filled and set for the next morning. Emma looks up the stairs, and listens, but hears no movement.
She must be asleep. It's late, and there aren't any lights on.
For a second, she stands there, looking up anyway, hand on the iron railing, before shaking her head and making her way, as quietly as possible, upstairs. Who the hell wants to sit and listen to a sob story in the middle of the night? And with any luck, Mary Margaret's night went well, so she probably went to bed in a good mood. Emma glances at her closed door, thinking about how excited, how happy she'd been at the station.
She can't wreck all that just because her own night went to crap. If anyone deserves one good night, it's Mary Margaret, and she doesn't need her roommate barging in and bitching about something she's got no right to bitch about in the first place.
That's what she decides, and since she's not bitching to Mary Margaret, she's just going to keep this whole stupid thing to herself, so she doesn't open the linen closet door, either. What the hell would she even say? What would be the point? There wouldn't be one, so she walks on by, keeping her steps light, and heads to her room, only to be greeted by a neat pile on her pillow, red leather and yellow paper.
Her jacket? She closes the door softly behind her, walks forward, a frown pulling at her forehead, aching there, but getting closer just proves her initial recognition. It's her jacket, her favorite jacket, the one she'd left in Miami by accident. Michael must have given it to Mary Margaret when he tried to come through the door to find her.
On top of the soft leather sits a sealed envelope; she picks it up and rips the top edge open as her frown deepens, right before it clears into round-eyed surprised.
That's...a lot of money, and she thinks back to that conversation at the bar, Michael telling her he needs another job because the five thousand from Paco only went so far.
She'd thought that seemed low at the time, but she'd never thought for a second it was because he'd split it with her. It's hard to say whether it was idiotic, or sort of chivalrous, in a really bizarre kind of way, the sort of way Emma's beginning to recognize is ingrained somewhere deep in Michael, beneath the quips and the suits, even beneath the something hard there that's like punching steel when you think you're going to hit silk.
Friends. That's what Michael had said, that's what they've been -- sorta -- since that awkward conversation up in Room 15, and it's worked -- sorta -- so far. She'd taken that definition and locked what happened in Miami up behind it, brushed it off as a one-time thing, but this, seeing her jacket and the wad of cash stuffed into an envelope, it makes her reassess.
She hates that. There's nothing worse than not knowing where you stand, and that fact that she's the one confused only pisses her off more.
This is just what she needs.
Putting the envelope back down, she sits on the mattress, looks for a long minute at the red leather and the collection of crisp bills just poking out of the yellow paper, then flops on her back, letting out a breath like a puppet getting its strings cut, staring at the ceiling.
It's got no answers for her, but it's something to look at that doesn't remind her of anything. Or anyone.
(no subject)
May. 20th, 2012 09:23 pm She kind of feels like she should have heard from Mary Margaret by now.
Right? Isn't that sort of the deal? True, she didn't tell Mary Margaret about everything that happened with Michael, but...that's hardly the same thing as David leaving his wife.
Unless...
She thinks back to the jacket and envelope left so neatly on her bed, and guilt roils in her stomach. She probably should have told Mary Margaret. At the very least, she shouldn't have found out from Michael trying so hard to get here to talk to her that he'd ended up shunted straight into a burning building.
(She still feels really kind of awful about that.)
But Mary Margaret...she wouldn't hold that against her. Right? Maybe she's just been busy.
Either way, the office is unbearably quiet, and she could really use a little good news, so she tosses aside her half-eaten sandwich and grabs her phone to call her roommate.
Hopefully at least one of them has some good news.
Right? Isn't that sort of the deal? True, she didn't tell Mary Margaret about everything that happened with Michael, but...that's hardly the same thing as David leaving his wife.
Unless...
She thinks back to the jacket and envelope left so neatly on her bed, and guilt roils in her stomach. She probably should have told Mary Margaret. At the very least, she shouldn't have found out from Michael trying so hard to get here to talk to her that he'd ended up shunted straight into a burning building.
(She still feels really kind of awful about that.)
But Mary Margaret...she wouldn't hold that against her. Right? Maybe she's just been busy.
Either way, the office is unbearably quiet, and she could really use a little good news, so she tosses aside her half-eaten sandwich and grabs her phone to call her roommate.
Hopefully at least one of them has some good news.
(no subject)
May. 18th, 2012 09:00 pm She's not nervous; that would be stupid.
Okay, so maybe she takes a little extra care with her hair and makeup and choice of clothing: no boots, this time, in favor of a plain pair of black heels, a faintly sheer red top tucked loosely into the waist of her jeans, matching her lips and nails.
"You're not going to wear a dress?" Mary Margaret's standing in the doorway, hands cupping her elbows, smiling that small, satisfied smile that seems to be on her face every time she looks at Emma recently.
Emma shakes her head. "I've only got the one, and...I don't think this is a dress kind of evening."
"But it's a date," Mary Margaret insists. Emma drops her eyes to search for mascara on the bureau top so she doesn't have to see herself blushing in the mirror.
"Well, I don't think it's a dress kind of date."
She's considering herself in the mirror when there's a knock on the door. Mary Margaret , hand to her chest, looks like she's about to explode, but when Emma gives her a warning look, all she does is say "I'll just...go get that," and scurry back downstairs, leaving Emma to spritz on perfume and take a minute to stare at herself.
She looks pretty much like usual, but he likes her usual, right?
She's not nervous.
But it still takes a her a few minutes before she manages to pull herself away from the safety of her room and head downstairs, a little more carefully than usual in these shoes.
Okay, so maybe she takes a little extra care with her hair and makeup and choice of clothing: no boots, this time, in favor of a plain pair of black heels, a faintly sheer red top tucked loosely into the waist of her jeans, matching her lips and nails.
"You're not going to wear a dress?" Mary Margaret's standing in the doorway, hands cupping her elbows, smiling that small, satisfied smile that seems to be on her face every time she looks at Emma recently.
Emma shakes her head. "I've only got the one, and...I don't think this is a dress kind of evening."
"But it's a date," Mary Margaret insists. Emma drops her eyes to search for mascara on the bureau top so she doesn't have to see herself blushing in the mirror.
"Well, I don't think it's a dress kind of date."
She's considering herself in the mirror when there's a knock on the door. Mary Margaret , hand to her chest, looks like she's about to explode, but when Emma gives her a warning look, all she does is say "I'll just...go get that," and scurry back downstairs, leaving Emma to spritz on perfume and take a minute to stare at herself.
She looks pretty much like usual, but he likes her usual, right?
She's not nervous.
But it still takes a her a few minutes before she manages to pull herself away from the safety of her room and head downstairs, a little more carefully than usual in these shoes.
(no subject)
May. 18th, 2012 02:41 pmThey say you should never drive angry or upset, so it's a good thing she's got a ways to walk before she makes it back to the station, cheeks warm from frustration and the long-legged, rapid stride she'd adopted.
Graham hadn't followed her.
She doesn't know if he actually did finish the shift, but the cruiser isn't in the lot when she gets back to the office, and there hadn't been any headlights behind her as she'd made her way back, so either he'd kept making the rounds, or he'd gone home, or...
Well, she doesn't really care what he ended up doing. It could be anything, and it's none of her business.
That's the refrain she plays to herself, stubborn, every time her traitor thoughts do their best to turn to the way she'd felt, like someone had kicked her in the gut, how his usually impeccable neatness had been roughed and rumpled, how his eyes had filled with guilt, how she'd felt --
It's none of her business. And she certainly hasn't been betrayed in any way.
She aims a vicious kick at a loose pebble, takes a tiny amount of satisfaction in the way it goes scattering across the lot and dings off the SHERIFF sign posted at Graham's parking spot. Childish, maybe, but, hey. No one's ever accused her of being mature.
Except maybe Mary Margaret.
Mary Margaret, who -- she glances at her watch -- may or may not be home right now, depending on how well her interlude went. Mary Margaret, who would probably understand. She'd probably even sympathize.
Not that there's anything to sympathize with.
Sliding behind the wheel of the Bug, Emma pauses, a selfish little hurt instinct deep inside wanting nothing more than to drive home and find Mary Margaret and see if maybe she can't soothe away a little of this fractured...whatever it is. Not jealousy -- there's nothing to be jealous of. Graham's a big boy, he can do what -- or who -- he wants.
That was a stupid crush to have, anyway.
But maybe Mary Margaret -- just spending time with her, hearing about David, seeing that smile blossom on her face again -- maybe that would help. It's a strange impulse to have; feels foreign and funny and she shifts a little in the car seat, wondering where it's coming from.
It's not like she needs anyone to talk to, or anything. And definitely not about something as entirely unimportant as Graham sleeping with Regina.
Whatever.
The whole drive is like that, back and forth: her mind keeps throwing images at her and she keeps batting them away, growing more and more impatient with each repetition, and by the time she's home, she's about ready to break something, but --
Mary Margaret's car. It's here, in the lot, and when Emma lets herself in, she catches the little signs that mean her roommate is home: jacket hung neatly on the coatrack (her own gets tossed on the back of a chair). Keys in the dish by the door. Coffee maker filled and set for the next morning. Emma looks up the stairs, and listens, but hears no movement.
She must be asleep. It's late, and there aren't any lights on.
For a second, she stands there, looking up anyway, hand on the iron railing, before shaking her head and making her way, as quietly as possible, upstairs. Who the hell wants to sit and listen to a sob story in the middle of the night? And with any luck, Mary Margaret's night went well, so she probably went to bed in a good mood. Emma glances at her closed door, thinking about how excited, how happy she'd been at the station.
She can't wreck all that just because her own night went to crap. If anyone deserves one good night, it's Mary Margaret, and she doesn't need her roommate barging in and bitching about something she's got no right to bitch about in the first place.
That's what she decides, and since she's not bitching to Mary Margaret, she's just going to keep this whole stupid thing to herself, so she doesn't open the linen closet door, either. What the hell would she even say? What would be the point? There wouldn't be one, so she walks on by, keeping her steps light, and heads to her room, only to be greeted by a neat pile on her pillow, red leather and yellow paper.
Her jacket? She closes the door softly behind her, walks forward, a frown pulling at her forehead, aching there, but getting closer just proves her initial recognition. It's her jacket, her favorite jacket, the one she'd left in Miami by accident. Michael must have given it to Mary Margaret when he tried to come through the door to find her.
On top of the soft leather sits a sealed envelope; she picks it up and rips the top edge open as her frown deepens, right before it clears into round-eyed surprised.
That's...a lot of money, and she thinks back to that conversation at the bar, Michael telling her he needs another job because the five thousand from Paco only went so far.
She'd thought that seemed low at the time, but she'd never thought for a second it was because he'd split it with her. It's hard to say whether it was idiotic, or sort of chivalrous, in a really bizarre kind of way, the sort of way Emma's beginning to recognize is ingrained somewhere deep in Michael, beneath the quips and the suits, even beneath the something hard there that's like punching steel when you think you're going to hit silk.
Friends. That's what Michael had said, that's what they've been -- sorta -- since that awkward conversation up in Room 15, and it's worked -- sorta -- so far. She'd taken that definition and locked what happened in Miami up behind it, brushed it off as a one-time thing, but this, seeing her jacket and the wad of cash stuffed into an envelope, it makes her reassess.
She hates that. There's nothing worse than not knowing where you stand, and that fact that she's the one confused only pisses her off more.
This is just what she needs.
Putting the envelope back down, she sits on the mattress, looks for a long minute at the red leather and the collection of crisp bills just poking out of the yellow paper, then flops on her back, letting out a breath like a puppet getting its strings cut, staring at the ceiling.
It's got no answers for her, but it's something to look at that doesn't remind her of anything. Or anyone.
Graham hadn't followed her.
She doesn't know if he actually did finish the shift, but the cruiser isn't in the lot when she gets back to the office, and there hadn't been any headlights behind her as she'd made her way back, so either he'd kept making the rounds, or he'd gone home, or...
Well, she doesn't really care what he ended up doing. It could be anything, and it's none of her business.
That's the refrain she plays to herself, stubborn, every time her traitor thoughts do their best to turn to the way she'd felt, like someone had kicked her in the gut, how his usually impeccable neatness had been roughed and rumpled, how his eyes had filled with guilt, how she'd felt --
It's none of her business. And she certainly hasn't been betrayed in any way.
She aims a vicious kick at a loose pebble, takes a tiny amount of satisfaction in the way it goes scattering across the lot and dings off the SHERIFF sign posted at Graham's parking spot. Childish, maybe, but, hey. No one's ever accused her of being mature.
Except maybe Mary Margaret.
Mary Margaret, who -- she glances at her watch -- may or may not be home right now, depending on how well her interlude went. Mary Margaret, who would probably understand. She'd probably even sympathize.
Not that there's anything to sympathize with.
Sliding behind the wheel of the Bug, Emma pauses, a selfish little hurt instinct deep inside wanting nothing more than to drive home and find Mary Margaret and see if maybe she can't soothe away a little of this fractured...whatever it is. Not jealousy -- there's nothing to be jealous of. Graham's a big boy, he can do what -- or who -- he wants.
That was a stupid crush to have, anyway.
But maybe Mary Margaret -- just spending time with her, hearing about David, seeing that smile blossom on her face again -- maybe that would help. It's a strange impulse to have; feels foreign and funny and she shifts a little in the car seat, wondering where it's coming from.
It's not like she needs anyone to talk to, or anything. And definitely not about something as entirely unimportant as Graham sleeping with Regina.
Whatever.
The whole drive is like that, back and forth: her mind keeps throwing images at her and she keeps batting them away, growing more and more impatient with each repetition, and by the time she's home, she's about ready to break something, but --
Mary Margaret's car. It's here, in the lot, and when Emma lets herself in, she catches the little signs that mean her roommate is home: jacket hung neatly on the coatrack (her own gets tossed on the back of a chair). Keys in the dish by the door. Coffee maker filled and set for the next morning. Emma looks up the stairs, and listens, but hears no movement.
She must be asleep. It's late, and there aren't any lights on.
For a second, she stands there, looking up anyway, hand on the iron railing, before shaking her head and making her way, as quietly as possible, upstairs. Who the hell wants to sit and listen to a sob story in the middle of the night? And with any luck, Mary Margaret's night went well, so she probably went to bed in a good mood. Emma glances at her closed door, thinking about how excited, how happy she'd been at the station.
She can't wreck all that just because her own night went to crap. If anyone deserves one good night, it's Mary Margaret, and she doesn't need her roommate barging in and bitching about something she's got no right to bitch about in the first place.
That's what she decides, and since she's not bitching to Mary Margaret, she's just going to keep this whole stupid thing to herself, so she doesn't open the linen closet door, either. What the hell would she even say? What would be the point? There wouldn't be one, so she walks on by, keeping her steps light, and heads to her room, only to be greeted by a neat pile on her pillow, red leather and yellow paper.
Her jacket? She closes the door softly behind her, walks forward, a frown pulling at her forehead, aching there, but getting closer just proves her initial recognition. It's her jacket, her favorite jacket, the one she'd left in Miami by accident. Michael must have given it to Mary Margaret when he tried to come through the door to find her.
On top of the soft leather sits a sealed envelope; she picks it up and rips the top edge open as her frown deepens, right before it clears into round-eyed surprised.
That's...a lot of money, and she thinks back to that conversation at the bar, Michael telling her he needs another job because the five thousand from Paco only went so far.
She'd thought that seemed low at the time, but she'd never thought for a second it was because he'd split it with her. It's hard to say whether it was idiotic, or sort of chivalrous, in a really bizarre kind of way, the sort of way Emma's beginning to recognize is ingrained somewhere deep in Michael, beneath the quips and the suits, even beneath the something hard there that's like punching steel when you think you're going to hit silk.
Friends. That's what Michael had said, that's what they've been -- sorta -- since that awkward conversation up in Room 15, and it's worked -- sorta -- so far. She'd taken that definition and locked what happened in Miami up behind it, brushed it off as a one-time thing, but this, seeing her jacket and the wad of cash stuffed into an envelope, it makes her reassess.
She hates that. There's nothing worse than not knowing where you stand, and that fact that she's the one confused only pisses her off more.
This is just what she needs.
Putting the envelope back down, she sits on the mattress, looks for a long minute at the red leather and the collection of crisp bills just poking out of the yellow paper, then flops on her back, letting out a breath like a puppet getting its strings cut, staring at the ceiling.
It's got no answers for her, but it's something to look at that doesn't remind her of anything. Or anyone.
(no subject)
May. 16th, 2012 08:38 pm Night patrols aren't really so bad. Besides, with luck, Mary Margaret won't be home tonight anyway, at least not for a while, so Emma might as well be doing something useful instead of hanging around at home waiting to see how it went, right?
And there's something sort of relaxing about driving around Storybrooke at night in the cruiser. It's quieter, more powerful than her little Bug, and it turns smoothly through the streets as she makes her way around and through town.
Gold's pawnshop: nothing going on there, though there's a light on in the back. She wonders, briefly, whether the guy ever goes home, and, if he does, what he goes home to. She seriously doubts there's a Mrs. Gold around to put up with his cryptic riddles.
The residences and businesses are all shut up for the night, warm yellow lights glowing behind some windows, but it's late, and plenty of people are already asleep, probably, or getting ready for bed and work and school tomorrow.
The Mayor's house takes up practically it's own street: a graceful New England version of a mansion, built square and simple with a high hedge around it for privacy. The windows are all dark as she drives slowly by, but she looks over anyway, wondering if Henry's up.
Maybe he'd give her a wave or something if he saw the cruiser.
But it's not Henry she sees when she looks towards the house: it's a tall shape, jumping lightly out of a window and landing on the lawn below with hardly a thump. Heart racing, she pulls over, gets out of the cruiser and shuts the door as quietly as she can, nightstick at the ready as she tiptoes on silent boots to wait by the edge of the driveway.
When he comes out, she's ready for him, with a swing right to the gut.
And there's something sort of relaxing about driving around Storybrooke at night in the cruiser. It's quieter, more powerful than her little Bug, and it turns smoothly through the streets as she makes her way around and through town.
Gold's pawnshop: nothing going on there, though there's a light on in the back. She wonders, briefly, whether the guy ever goes home, and, if he does, what he goes home to. She seriously doubts there's a Mrs. Gold around to put up with his cryptic riddles.
The residences and businesses are all shut up for the night, warm yellow lights glowing behind some windows, but it's late, and plenty of people are already asleep, probably, or getting ready for bed and work and school tomorrow.
The Mayor's house takes up practically it's own street: a graceful New England version of a mansion, built square and simple with a high hedge around it for privacy. The windows are all dark as she drives slowly by, but she looks over anyway, wondering if Henry's up.
Maybe he'd give her a wave or something if he saw the cruiser.
But it's not Henry she sees when she looks towards the house: it's a tall shape, jumping lightly out of a window and landing on the lawn below with hardly a thump. Heart racing, she pulls over, gets out of the cruiser and shuts the door as quietly as she can, nightstick at the ready as she tiptoes on silent boots to wait by the edge of the driveway.
When he comes out, she's ready for him, with a swing right to the gut.
(no subject)
May. 14th, 2012 09:22 pm It's quiet in the office.
Unsurprising, really; it's usually pretty quiet in the office, especially when Graham's out making rounds in the cruiser. She's still busy going through old files, trying to catch up on the criminal history of the town, not that there's much to look at: a few drunk and disorderlies (mostly Leroy), some break-ins, a handful of domestics. It's the usual mix for a town this size, with the one anomaly of the mine collapse.
(Her own file's in here, too: Graham had pointed it out with an all-too-innocent smile as the newest troublemaker in town, because he thinks he's funny like that.)
It's boring in here without him, and she finds herself glancing at the clock for the third time, wondering when he'll be back.
Which is stupid. He's not on a timetable, and she'll see him when she sees him.
Unsurprising, really; it's usually pretty quiet in the office, especially when Graham's out making rounds in the cruiser. She's still busy going through old files, trying to catch up on the criminal history of the town, not that there's much to look at: a few drunk and disorderlies (mostly Leroy), some break-ins, a handful of domestics. It's the usual mix for a town this size, with the one anomaly of the mine collapse.
(Her own file's in here, too: Graham had pointed it out with an all-too-innocent smile as the newest troublemaker in town, because he thinks he's funny like that.)
It's boring in here without him, and she finds herself glancing at the clock for the third time, wondering when he'll be back.
Which is stupid. He's not on a timetable, and she'll see him when she sees him.
AU of BEING HAPPY, DAMMIT
May. 7th, 2012 04:05 pmShe's got absolutely no idea what's going on.
Her head is throbbing, her heart is pounding, and she'd just helped Graham break into a grave -- isn't that the kind of thing she'd normally arrest someone for? -- but all she can concentrate on right now is the fact that they're alone in the office and she's just realizing that it's really sort of dark and cozy in here with the lights mainly off, and that his hand is gentle as he cleans up the cut on her forehead, and that she sort of feels like she's never really seen Graham before.
At least, she's never seen him with this accompanying feeling of terrifying happiness.
She's still watching him as he goes to put away the cloth he'd used, and he glances over at her, smiles, slightly, quizzical. "What?"
She doesn't have a good answer for him. It's all too complicated to put into words, but it boils down to one thing, one thought that keeps running around through her head, settling in her heart and making it race, making it feel full almost to bursting.
He picked her. He picked her. She'd pushed him away and gotten mad at him and she hadn't come here to be anything other than a friend and a partner, but then he chose her and changed everything.
When she gets up, she feels like she's moving underwater, but he waits for her, and she can feel her hand going to his shoulder like she's a person in a dream, feels his settle at her waist, and nerves make her smile, make her feel like she's sixteen years old and out in the world for the first time on her own, when she leans up to kiss him.
And it's so sweet, something she never thought she'd ever have for herself, though she doesn't understand the single tear that falls or the way he thanks her, making her smile, a helpless, hopeless, brilliant flash of a smile that cuts through the gloom they're standing in.
"Anytime."
Her head is throbbing, her heart is pounding, and she'd just helped Graham break into a grave -- isn't that the kind of thing she'd normally arrest someone for? -- but all she can concentrate on right now is the fact that they're alone in the office and she's just realizing that it's really sort of dark and cozy in here with the lights mainly off, and that his hand is gentle as he cleans up the cut on her forehead, and that she sort of feels like she's never really seen Graham before.
At least, she's never seen him with this accompanying feeling of terrifying happiness.
She's still watching him as he goes to put away the cloth he'd used, and he glances over at her, smiles, slightly, quizzical. "What?"
She doesn't have a good answer for him. It's all too complicated to put into words, but it boils down to one thing, one thought that keeps running around through her head, settling in her heart and making it race, making it feel full almost to bursting.
He picked her. He picked her. She'd pushed him away and gotten mad at him and she hadn't come here to be anything other than a friend and a partner, but then he chose her and changed everything.
When she gets up, she feels like she's moving underwater, but he waits for her, and she can feel her hand going to his shoulder like she's a person in a dream, feels his settle at her waist, and nerves make her smile, make her feel like she's sixteen years old and out in the world for the first time on her own, when she leans up to kiss him.
And it's so sweet, something she never thought she'd ever have for herself, though she doesn't understand the single tear that falls or the way he thanks her, making her smile, a helpless, hopeless, brilliant flash of a smile that cuts through the gloom they're standing in.
"Anytime."
(no subject)
Apr. 11th, 2012 02:54 pm'Welcome Home' parties are kind of a drag when the guy they're thrown for disappears halfway through.
She doesn't even notice David's gone until Kathryn comes up and asks if she's seen him -- she had, but it doesn't seem right to tell his concerned wife that the guy had been hiding out from her well-meaning celebration. Just like Mary Margaret said, Kathryn is awfully nice, and she doesn't make a scene or fuss, but she gets a kicked look in her eyes that make Emma feel like a heel just for having a suspicion of where her husband's gone.
Not that she can judge anybody. When it comes to relationships and what's right or wrong to do in them, she lacks a leg to stand on.
Still, she can't help suspecting, and when she drives home after a stilted but polite goodbye from Kathryn, she's anything but surprised to see the tall figure walking away from the apartment. David doesn't have to look up for her to recognize him, but he does, and she does, and so it's another non-surprise to walk through the door, keys jangling in her hand, to find Mary Margaret hard at work apparently trying to scrub the porcelain right off a plate.
"You might want to ease up, or that brillo pad’s going to press charges," she says, not unkindly.
She gets it. And at least Mary Margaret's method of coping is productive.
She doesn't even notice David's gone until Kathryn comes up and asks if she's seen him -- she had, but it doesn't seem right to tell his concerned wife that the guy had been hiding out from her well-meaning celebration. Just like Mary Margaret said, Kathryn is awfully nice, and she doesn't make a scene or fuss, but she gets a kicked look in her eyes that make Emma feel like a heel just for having a suspicion of where her husband's gone.
Not that she can judge anybody. When it comes to relationships and what's right or wrong to do in them, she lacks a leg to stand on.
Still, she can't help suspecting, and when she drives home after a stilted but polite goodbye from Kathryn, she's anything but surprised to see the tall figure walking away from the apartment. David doesn't have to look up for her to recognize him, but he does, and she does, and so it's another non-surprise to walk through the door, keys jangling in her hand, to find Mary Margaret hard at work apparently trying to scrub the porcelain right off a plate.
"You might want to ease up, or that brillo pad’s going to press charges," she says, not unkindly.
She gets it. And at least Mary Margaret's method of coping is productive.
(no subject)
Apr. 9th, 2012 12:37 am There's a certain point in the workday where everything just slows down -- as long as there haven't been any emergencies. It's a very specific, drowsy, four-forty-five in the afternoon sort of feeling, when the sun's started to head westwards and the office feels as dead as a graveyard.
She hasn't worked a nine-to-five in...ever, really, and it isn't hard to tell: she's been fidgeting since four.
Now, she's got a little pile of balled up pieces of paper on her desk, and she's tossing them, one by one, at an empty coffee mug on the floor, under the mugshot measurements.
So far, she's gotten one in.
There are five more scattered around the mug.
Pressing her lips together in concentration, she pauses, moves: the little white ball arcs through the air.
Misses.
(That's number six.)
"Aw, man!"
She hasn't worked a nine-to-five in...ever, really, and it isn't hard to tell: she's been fidgeting since four.
Now, she's got a little pile of balled up pieces of paper on her desk, and she's tossing them, one by one, at an empty coffee mug on the floor, under the mugshot measurements.
So far, she's gotten one in.
There are five more scattered around the mug.
Pressing her lips together in concentration, she pauses, moves: the little white ball arcs through the air.
Misses.
(That's number six.)
"Aw, man!"
(no subject)
Mar. 30th, 2012 11:38 amWhen she wakes up, mouth fuzzy and head aching, and stumbles past the linen closet on her way to the shower, she can't help pausing as she grabs a towel.
She could say the words, grab a cup of coffee and something greasy at the bar, wait out this hangover, head to work once her head's cleared a little. It would be easy. No one would miss her.
She stares at the closed closet door, then heads to the bathroom without opening it again.
That all just means that she's a little surly when she gets to the office. Graham's as affable as ever, and if he notices the redness of her eyes or the way she digs into a breakfast burrito at her desk or the fact that she keeps refilling her coffee, he doesn't mention it.
He does tell her that she's on her own for lunch -- her turn to man the phonelines, but she waves him away -- after a day like yesterday, after a night like last night, she's more than happy to just hang out here and not think about a single damn thing.
She could say the words, grab a cup of coffee and something greasy at the bar, wait out this hangover, head to work once her head's cleared a little. It would be easy. No one would miss her.
She stares at the closed closet door, then heads to the bathroom without opening it again.
That all just means that she's a little surly when she gets to the office. Graham's as affable as ever, and if he notices the redness of her eyes or the way she digs into a breakfast burrito at her desk or the fact that she keeps refilling her coffee, he doesn't mention it.
He does tell her that she's on her own for lunch -- her turn to man the phonelines, but she waves him away -- after a day like yesterday, after a night like last night, she's more than happy to just hang out here and not think about a single damn thing.
(no subject)
Mar. 30th, 2012 10:58 amIt's not fair that she's still so wound up when she makes her way down the stairs and into the bar. She makes for the door without looking around, pushing away the thought that there are people here who must have seen her go upstairs with Michael who are now watching her leave alone.
Well, who cares? It's not like she really knows anyone here all that well. They're adults. There's nothing wrong with wanting a little company after a rough day.
(It's a little harder to convince herself everything's fine when she feels like turning around and heading straight back into that room to finish what they started, but she's adept at shoving those thoughts away and though they cling, fuzzily, to her mind, they don't keep her from walking straight out that front door.)
The apartment is dim and quiet, soothing, and she heads to her room to strip off her jacket and top, inspecting it for damage done by the dirt and grime of the day. There's a large dark blotch on the side, and she throws on a worn button-down before picking the blue top up and heading, a little gracelessly, down the kitchen.
She probably ought to know better. She's never been good at fixing things, like stains on silk, and she's scrubbing at the damn thing with a wet washcloth but when she holds it up, heart sinking, it's clear that all she's done is made it worse, and now her stupid shirt is ruined. Temper flaring, she balls up the cloth and throws it at the sink, bats the shirt away, and slumps over the counter with her head pounding and her hand rubbing over her eyes.
What a freaking disaster.
Well, who cares? It's not like she really knows anyone here all that well. They're adults. There's nothing wrong with wanting a little company after a rough day.
(It's a little harder to convince herself everything's fine when she feels like turning around and heading straight back into that room to finish what they started, but she's adept at shoving those thoughts away and though they cling, fuzzily, to her mind, they don't keep her from walking straight out that front door.)
The apartment is dim and quiet, soothing, and she heads to her room to strip off her jacket and top, inspecting it for damage done by the dirt and grime of the day. There's a large dark blotch on the side, and she throws on a worn button-down before picking the blue top up and heading, a little gracelessly, down the kitchen.
She probably ought to know better. She's never been good at fixing things, like stains on silk, and she's scrubbing at the damn thing with a wet washcloth but when she holds it up, heart sinking, it's clear that all she's done is made it worse, and now her stupid shirt is ruined. Temper flaring, she balls up the cloth and throws it at the sink, bats the shirt away, and slumps over the counter with her head pounding and her hand rubbing over her eyes.
What a freaking disaster.
(no subject)
Mar. 19th, 2012 07:59 pm It turns out that Mary Margaret is, kind of unsurprisingly, a morning person.
She's already up and downstairs making coffee by the time Emma's eyes open. It's light in the room, and she looks blearily around, wondering for a second before she remembers -- oh, yeah. She moved in with Mary Margaret.
Well. Moved in is kind of a strong turn of phrase. She doesn't even have all her stuff yet, and crashing in Mary Margaret's extra room is hardly the same thing as signing a lease.
Whatever. She pushes herself up and out of bed, sits slouched on the edge for a minute, breathing in the scent of coffee and listening to the soft sounds of Mary Margaret moving around a floor below. That was a weird freakin' dream, that bar. With the dead girl and the witch and the guy who gave her his number instead of working every possible angle for hers.
She frowns, reaches forward to tug her jeans off the chair they'd gotten tossed on, and rummages in the pocket, pulls out a crumpled bar napkin that she unfolds and then stares at, eyes going wide.
No way.
She claps her hands together with the napkin between her palms, and gets up, putting the napkin down, for now.
This is something she really can't handle before coffee.
***
It's well into the afternoon before she drums up the courage to do more than just eye the door to the backyard; Mary Margaret's in the kitchen, washing some fruit or putting away groceries or something -- Emma's not totally clear on just what chores need to be done -- and she sneaks over to the door, puts a hand on the doorknob, turns it just enough to open the door.
Voices and the clattering of dishes and the smell of a crackling fire push their way through, and she shuts the door again. Opens it, takes a long look.
"Mary Margaret?" she calls. "I think you're gonna wanna come and see this."
She's already up and downstairs making coffee by the time Emma's eyes open. It's light in the room, and she looks blearily around, wondering for a second before she remembers -- oh, yeah. She moved in with Mary Margaret.
Well. Moved in is kind of a strong turn of phrase. She doesn't even have all her stuff yet, and crashing in Mary Margaret's extra room is hardly the same thing as signing a lease.
Whatever. She pushes herself up and out of bed, sits slouched on the edge for a minute, breathing in the scent of coffee and listening to the soft sounds of Mary Margaret moving around a floor below. That was a weird freakin' dream, that bar. With the dead girl and the witch and the guy who gave her his number instead of working every possible angle for hers.
She frowns, reaches forward to tug her jeans off the chair they'd gotten tossed on, and rummages in the pocket, pulls out a crumpled bar napkin that she unfolds and then stares at, eyes going wide.
No way.
She claps her hands together with the napkin between her palms, and gets up, putting the napkin down, for now.
This is something she really can't handle before coffee.
***
It's well into the afternoon before she drums up the courage to do more than just eye the door to the backyard; Mary Margaret's in the kitchen, washing some fruit or putting away groceries or something -- Emma's not totally clear on just what chores need to be done -- and she sneaks over to the door, puts a hand on the doorknob, turns it just enough to open the door.
Voices and the clattering of dishes and the smell of a crackling fire push their way through, and she shuts the door again. Opens it, takes a long look.
"Mary Margaret?" she calls. "I think you're gonna wanna come and see this."
