(no subject)

[notinthebook]

It'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.

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[the_fairest]

Mary Margaret trudged up the stairs, scrubbing off the remnants of her tears with the side of her pointer finger. She wasn't going to cry again. She wasn't. She would just... Go hide in her bed and hope sleep very suddenly would knock her unconscious, so she could outrun the feelings making a true mess of her. 

She put her key in the door and turned it gingerly, as though Emma's bedroom, a floor away, might have a speaker connected to the door. Mary Margaret has never snuck anywhere in her life, but she certainly looks like she is now. Slipping in barely opening the door the whole way, a glance toward the stairs and before, keys dangling for the plate there beside her purse. 

Red-rimmed eyes going wide when she noticed. "Emma?"

The clatter of keys is louder. But not as guilty. Confused. Concerned. 

[notinthebook]

"Mary Margaret?"

Surprise knocks her right out of self-pity, and she straightens, looks over at her friend with a bemused frown.

"I thought you were asleep."

Her eyes narrow, concern deepening that frown, and she takes a few cautious steps close.

"Hey, are you okay?"

[the_fairest]

"I, uhm," That was a hard question to start with, there. She might be entirely incapable of hiding the wrinkle that it sends thought her features. "I thought you were, too."


"I went for a walk." Totally true. And trying. Both to stay far from the urge for crying, and not suddenly blurt every single thought in her head aloud.

She nodded, faintly directive with her chin, toward where she'd been standing. "What are you doing?"

[notinthebook]

"Just trying to clean my shirt. I think it's a lost cause."

Her mouth twists and her arms cross as she glares at the fabric, before shifting like a little kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. "Well, it is now, anyway."

Looking back up at Mary Margaret, she can see the paleness of her face, the redness of her eyes, and Emma might still be a little drunk, but she's sober enough to know there's a lot more going on right now than her roommate coming back from a walk.

Her tone turns gentle, sympathetic. "Hey, come on. What's wrong?"

[the_fairest]

Mary Margaret took a step forward, to try and look at what Emma had been doing to her shirt to look that first so resigned. Only to cringe a little, wrinkling up her nose, at the sight of the shirt and the darker circle of dampness.


Was that silk? Had she actually tried to fix it in the kitchen sink?


Except then Emma asked that question again.

Mary Margaret's mouth trembles, and she tries twice, to part her lips, for any other words, any other sounds. She isn't sure what. She couldn't say it's nothing and have it come out right. Like she could pretend there wasn't a fault line ripped open only minutes ago in someone elses unexpected arms.

Mary Margaret shook her head, wishing the cloying sensation from her throat. Because there is only one thing she can say. Especially to Emma.

She swallowed, and looked guiltily toward her counter, struggling to keep her vision still clear. Especially given Emma's No Nonsense advice at lunch. "I resigned from Storybrooke General."

[notinthebook]

Oh, no.

She watches her roommate with sympathy. Mary Margaret has such a good heart, and she has so much love and affection to give, but if she's resigned, it can only mean that she's giving it to somebody who can't be hers.

It's not like Emma isn't familiar with emotional gray areas -- fleeing the room at the bar is plenty proof of that -- but she hates seeing Mary Margaret tied up like this. She'd bet every penny she has that Mary Margaret is the sweetest, best woman in the world -- she'd never try to come between anybody.

But sometimes you just don't get to make those decisions.

"It was getting that bad?"

[the_fairest]

Emma already knows what it is. She hadn't expected Dr. Hopper to. Hadn't really considered the notion of Henry talking about her, and his imaginings from the book. But Emma, already knows. Already knew before lunch today even.

So much in fact, somehow, it seems almost impossible not to just give her everything. Impossible to feel this weight, like a growing wall. Even if it did earn her Emma's disappointment.

Mary Margaret looked over at her, a brief glance, threatening to try and crack, before away. Endless, restless, fidgeting habit that it was, especially when she was distraught, she lifted her right hand, shifting her fingers and then using the pad of her thumb to spin the silver and period ring on her finger from across her palm and between her fingers.




"He said I was the only thing that felt right in the whole world."

[notinthebook]

Just because something -- or someone -- feels right, that doesn't make it actually right. It's a mistake she's made too many times to count, and each time, she hopes it's different. Each time, she hopes it's her heart that's right and her head that's wrong -- but each time, it all just crashes and burns and leaves her feeling guilty and miserable.

Her mouth presses into a sympathetic line, and her voice is soft.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

[the_fairest]

"Dr. Hopper just asked me that." She had wrinkled her brow. Even if she couldn't say to him, what she just said to Emma. Even she couldn't forget. The way David smiled, and her heart had filled her whole chest.

Around and around it goes. Every now and again, lets her nail catch the green stone, push it back and forth.

"As you can tell, that went....well."

[notinthebook]

"Yeah."

She settles a hand on a hip and lets out a heavy breath through her nose, watching her friend with concern, before going to the cupboard and taking out one glass and, after a second's thought, a second, before getting some ice and running tap water over it.

The ice clinks gently as she hands Mary Margaret the glass, sweat already beading on the outside. "Here. It'll help."

It'll help her, too: her head is beginning to pound and one glass of water isn't going to kill the hangover she'll have tomorrow, but at least it'll take the edge off now.

She leans back against the counter and watches Mary Margaret, rueful.

"You probably did the right thing. For both your sakes."

And Kathryn's, too, but it's the woman in front of her Emma's worried about.

[the_fairest]

She stopped turning the ring, to take the glass. Awkwardly uncertain of, really, everything at the moment. Why nothing at all felt right, no matter that people, herself included, kept saying it was the right thing.

The center of her rebelled, grief struck and somewhere just short of angry. The tension, but not the fire of it. And she took a drink of the water, having no idea what else she was supposed to do.



"Thanks."

[notinthebook]

It's just a rough night all around. She grimaces into her glass, takes a deeper drink that leaves ice clinking against the bottom and her head aching with cold, which is at least a refreshing difference from feeling fuzzy with drink.

"I'm...really sorry about the hospital, Mary Margaret."

She's not good at reaching out, finding the right things to say, the right tone to take. Her style has always been to just keep on going until you find something to hit -- preferably the thing pissing you off to begin with -- but that's not what's needed here.

"And about David. I know what it feels like to have to pull yourself away like that, and it's no fun."

[the_fairest]

No fun, Mary Margaret thinks, is being sold very short in underestimation of itself, if no fun is equated to crying into the sweater vest of a man who you have never even called by his first name. Though she feels instantly guilty for the thought on both their parts.

Dr. Hopper had, truly, helped for moments there, and Emma really was trying. Awkwardly, but trying, even to push through the awkward to do it. No more or less awkwardly than Mary Margaret felt about the whole thing, too, as she stumbled to find some words.

"I'll...find something else to do on my Saturdays," she said, voice a little thick. "I'm sure there must be a hundred other things could I do to fill that time."

Fill the sudden gap in her heart that made her eyes shine, even as she was winning the battle so far with not crying again. Fill that space where she helped people over the week, where she'd been volunteering at the hospital for almost longer than she could remember.

He hasn't even been awake for a week. It shouldn't be like she's cutting something out of herself that had been there forever.

[notinthebook]

There are a million things Mary Margaret could do to fill up her time. There are other places to volunteer, other people she can help: hell, she could even take a day just for herself, if Mary Margaret were the sort of person who ever thought of that as a viable option.

Emma's pretty sure the thought just never crosses her mind.

It's not losing the hospital that's got her so unhappy: it's losing David Nolan, when he was never hers to begin with.

Not that it makes a difference. People feel what they feel -- that's why they get in trouble.

"Yeah," she agrees, but her eyes are still on Mary Margaret's face, and they're still full of sympathy.

For what it's worth, she thinks they would have been really cute together, but when he's got a wife and another life, that's not something that can be a consideration.

"Maybe it'll be better like this," she says. She shouldn't, because she shouldn't offer false hope, but she can't stand to see Mary Margaret looking like a kitten caught out in the rain. "It's only been a little while. He's got a lot of stuff to figure out, and now you both have some space to think."

[the_fairest]

She nodded, while drinking her water, causing the glass to bump against the curve of her teeth and the skin over her upper lip. Not believing, but at least attempting to hold on to the idea of those words.

It's awkward. Swallowing enough water, enough courage to actually reference him finally, even though Emma's been talking about him since she said her first words.

"Yeah. Now he can focus on his life, and what he's supposed to." His wife, his memories from before his coma, their life, who he is supposed to be.

[notinthebook]

"I was thinking more like on what he really wants."

David seems like a nice guy who's understandably confused. Waking up out a coma he's been in for God knows how long has got to do a number on anybody.

Not that she's really the best person to give advice on figuring out wants and needs. Tonight made that pretty damn clear.

[the_fairest]

That's -- she doesn't even know what to do with that statement. "His wife. Kathryn."

The words fall from her mouth, feeling colder than the ice as they dislodge from her throat, her heart, even if her voice is closer to a reprimanded whimper.

[notinthebook]

She lets out a breath (jeez, she can smell the whiskey on it herself, that's probably not a good sign) and offers Mary Margaret a tiny, pressed smile.

"I think you should let him figure that one out. Playing a guessing game with other people's emotions is not something you want to start -- you never win and usually everyone involved ends up confused or hurt."

She sets her glass down with a dull thump. "Just give it a little time."

[the_fairest]

No, not everyone. Just her. They could go away, live their lives in some kind of relative, uninterrupted, peace now. No distractions from it any longer.

"Yeah. Maybe," is probably the least convincing thing she's said in the last few minutes. She does not expect to see him for a good while. He won't be released yet, and then specifically to his home, to her.

Mary Margaret looked across the kitchen from her, only to come back to what and where she started. "I can try and see if your shirt is salvageable in the morning."

It's a small attempt but it is there.

[notinthebook]

There's not a lot she can do or say to make any of this better or easier for Mary Margaret. It's tough when you've fallen for somebody and can't be with them; even harder when it seems like they've fallen for you right back.

So she just watched, mouth pressed tight and crooked in sympathy, arms crossed over her chest as she leans back against the counter, and when Mary Margaret offers a change of topic, she takes it, glancing ruefully at the shirt she'd brushed so violently to the side.

"I think it's probably a lost cause, but thanks anyway."

[the_fairest]

"Leave it there. Woolite and an iron can fix a lot of things if you're careful enough with them." If Emma's temper hadn't gotten the better of the crumpled pile of cloth.

She'd try, but she wasn't sure she was up to that task now.

Choosing something closer to a middle ground territory, but also potentially delicate, she said, softly, "I heard about what happened to Henry while I was at the hospital. How's he's doing?"

More importantly, with the walls and standing back, and being up still this late, how was she doing with it?

[notinthebook]

She lets out a long, slow breath, presses a smile that's all wry unamusement.

"He seems okay. You know kids; I don't think he really thought we wouldn't be able to find him."

More to the point, he'd had absolute faith that she would find him, that she would come rescue him and help him with whatever proof he'd been searching for.

She wishes she'd been so sure.

"It's a good thing Archie was there. I really think he's the reason they're both okay."

[the_fairest]

It is that distant, not even a, smile curving Emma's mouth. A half turn that looks more lost than found, forced than free, entirely unreal.

"That wouldn't surprise me. He seemed..." Something she had no word for yet. "Different, when I bumped into him."

Lost, and Found, too.


Mary Margaret was not quite leaning on the counter where the sink was, drinking a little more of the water that was mostly being held and perspiring on her hand. Far more carefully, she asked, "Are you?"

[notinthebook]

"I'm fine."

It's a kneejerk reaction, the first thing she'll always say: it's what she'd told Graham when he helped pull her out of the shaft, it's what she'd spent all night pretending to be. She finds another little smile, but it doesn't feel like it fits right.

"I mean, I was worried. And it kinda freaked me out. But everybody's okay, and Henry's home safe, which is the important thing. I, uh..."

She's been directing a lot of this at her boots, eyes distant.

"I went to the bar for a little while tonight. I think I maybe had a little much."

Understatement.

[the_fairest]

It's that first, instantaneous thing every time you ask Emma. Of course. She's fine. That solid wall that denied being anything but fine. She rarely lets herself be anything but fine.

Which would be why Mary Margaret pressed the center of her lips together a little, waiting. Letting Emma waffle from it, to small statements, most of which she knew. While she watched the conflicted struggle on the face now looking anywhere but at her.

Which was actually a rather good sign of knowing when Emma was trying to avoid something. Not so much keep it from her, but maybe avoid even feeling or looking at the thing herself.

"To take the edge off the day?" Mary Margaret asked, still gentle. The smallest sympathetic frown at the edges of her lips. "Did it help?"

[notinthebook]

"I guess. I don't know, I was worried about Henry and Regina was being ... how she is. It wasn't a good idea."

She pauses, wets her lip, trying to decide if what she really wants is to tell Mary Margaret everything -- the drinks, the conversation, the stupid French pick-up line, the way it felt to actually be wanted -- or if she just wants to crush it all into a little ball and throw it somewhere far enough away that she doesn't have to look at it anymore.

"I, uh. Ran into Michael."

She glances up now, a quick look full of trepidation. Mary Margaret's the best friend she's got. What's she going to think of her now? She's a mess and everything she touches turns into an even bigger mess.

[the_fairest]

Her mouth firms at Regina's name. She's seen them together. Oil and water, on fire, get along better. She wants to ask what new, terrible thing the mayor did this time, on top of the terror of almost losing Henry, because of the pause Emma left there.

Except she carried on with something else.

Emma had looked so nervous and afraid in that barely glance in her direction, like she wanted to hide, as she mentioned Milliways and one of the few people Mary Margaret had met there.

"That's not terrible, is it? Drinking alone isn't as appealing as drinking with a friend, unless you want to drown the day, right?"

[notinthebook]

She doesn't want to think about how Regina pushed her out of the way, when she'd had Henry safe: dirty and grimy and pale and scared, but safe. Because of her, because of his friends. She'd been the one to go get him, she was the one he was smiling at and clinging to, until hands on her shoulders had pulled her away from him.

Her kid. Her kid, who needed to be comforted and checked over and scolded and hugged, who needed hot chocolate and as much time as he wanted to tell her all the things he'd found or wanted to find.

She's had a lot of heartaches in her life, but not one of them managed to prepare her for the sheer panic of thinking she might have lost Henry.

And then to remember pulling herself away from Michael, because dealing with her baggage is the last thing he should have to do...just the thought makes her wince, and so does Mary Margaret's assumption that tonight was just an innocent meet-up between friends.

"No, but...I, uh. Stuff...happened."

[the_fairest]

There is this is a momentary sinking feeling, her brow furrowing, because those shoes and their kitchen floor have now become the most interesting thing Emma's ever seen.

"Stuff? What could possible happen in Milli -- oh." Her brain caught up with mouth a few seconds too late. On the list of large room, and then apartment rooms. And Michael.

"Oh." She needed another word here. Emma was an adult, and allowed to do these things, right? She opened her mouth, only to close it and swallow. But she couldn't just be quiet. Not if Emma was talking, even if she wasn't sure what to say, think, about that yet.



She flustered on sure she was going to bungle whatever Emma had just implied but not really said. She tried to keep her voice quiet, stumble through the awkward, not sound judgmental. Just understanding. Sometimes things got so big, and so bad, so quickly here and all you could do was hold on to what you could.

"What happened at the mines went that badly?"

[notinthebook]

It would be really great if the kitchen floor would just go ahead and open up beneath her feet right now, and for a second, Emma wills it to happen, only to be disappointed when she doesn't manage to disappear.

When she glances up, uncertain, it's to see Mary Margaret's mouth forming a perfect little "o" of surprise, which just makes her flush, embarrassed and unhappy and wishing more than ever that she hadn't gone up to Room 15.

She's trying to figure out what to say, how to explain it, how it was a joke and then suddenly it wasn't, but she looks up sharply at Mary Margaret's question. "He's not a band-aid," she says, defensive.

She wasn't using him just to make herself feel better. If she had, she'd still be there right now.

But Mary Margaret could never mean to judge, could never be cruel, and Emma drops her eyes again, rubs at her forehead.

"Sorry. I just feel really stupid. I should know better. I do know better. He's too good a guy to be some one-night stand, so I left before things got too...too..." She rolls her eyes at herself. "Worse."

[the_fairest]

"I know you wouldn't, Emma," Mary Margaret said, after letting the small surprise at the defensive snap fade about as fast as it had come. Because it sounded almost like she was tell herself, as much as assuming on why she's asked the question. "It's not who you are."



She did, too. Know that Emma couldn't use anyone, no less someone she might feel something for, anymore than she could easily let anyone in. If anything, it's not surprise that Emma left before anything could get too serious, but actually a sense of familiarity.

With the whole subject of Emma letting people in, from any context or direction. How hard that is for her. To be vulnerable and open up. Especially for any of the wrong reasons.

[notinthebook]

"You don't know that."

It could be a challenge, but it's not; it's apologetic, wistful, instead.

Apparently Mary Margaret has faith in her, too, but whether she deserves it is another question.

It's just hard. That's the problem with actually liking the guy: it sucks to have to pull away because she knows that it's the only way to save everyone involved worse things down the line.

Better to just not start anything at all.

[the_fairest]

"Of course, I do," Mary Margaret said softly, affection and sympathy merging in her voice and her face as she stepped closer to Emma. Not touching her, but tilting her head, to try and catch her eyes.

The smile is thin and awkward, but true and faithful. "Because you're here, instead of anywhere else."

Not in a bar. Not in someone's bed. Standing in their kitchen. Looking haggard, worn, hurt, scared, and like she's waiting and praying for someone, anyone, to kick her out, shut her out. Because it is all she knows, and because she knows it, she can handle it, almost wants it. All of that, and still telling her the truth.


Of course she knows. How could she not?

[notinthebook]

She's here. That's the choice she'd made when she'd fled Room 15, when she'd told him they ought to keep this -- whatever it is -- friendly.

She's not even sure it's the right choice, but what does she know? Even she thinks she's the worst person in the world to ask about what might be the right or wrong thing to do when other people are involved.

So she shrugs, searching Mary Margaret's face for the disgust and dislike she ought to be finding, but seeing nothing other than warmth, sweetness, a fond and comforting sympathy that strikes deep into her chest and nestles next to her heart where she can cherish it, like a jewel.

"It didn't seem fair to make him the solution to my bad day," she says, finally. "Just because Regina doesn't want me around doesn't mean I get to drag somebody else into it."

[the_fairest]

"Regina doesn't want anyone around," Mary Margaret said a whisper toward archly, her mouth turning back toward a harder line. "If she had her own personal vote, the town would probably be all but empty."


"But she doesn't," she continued on. Firmer sound to her voice. "Because you aren't going anywhere, and you saved Henry. Which was more than she could do, and something she can't undo with whatever she said or did after it. Don't forget that."

It was far and above, enough to punish Emma for.

[notinthebook]

If you believe Henry, that's not strictly true, but Emma doesn't exactly have the energy to debate the curse tonight, not when the damn thing's caused her so much grief already today.

Instead, she smiles, looking up from her folded arms, a grateful press of her lips.

"Thanks."

Something she could do, that Regina couldn't...yeah. It's not a bad feeling, and she'd needed the reminder.

After all, she was the one Henry wanted to see after.

(That kid has gotten under her skin in ways she never could have predicted, not in a million years.)

"I, uh..." She tilts her head towards the stairs. "Should probably go sleep this off. Tomorrow's going to be busy enough already without a hangover."

[the_fairest]

"Yeah." Margaret nodded, thinking about how tomorrow was going to be long, and felt like it would arrive too soon already. But willing, with the small give and faint almost pride that had glowed briefly in Emma's face.

The reminder that no matter what the fall out she had done amazing things today. That they would not be forgotten.

"You go on. I'll be up in a few minutes."

[notinthebook]

She gets another tight little smile, and a press of Emma's hand to her shoulder as Emma turns, slow like she's sore, towards the stairs.

"Don't stay up too late," she warns, but it's more of a joke than anything, affectionate and fond.

"Night, Mary Margaret."

[the_fairest]

"Night, Emma."

Mary Margaret watched her go, turning back to the kitchen and the island against the sound of feet on the stairs. Still new, but comforting, too. Sounds instead of the silence that had once hugged this places

She picked up both of the glasses of water, emptied them into the sink, leaving the half-melted ice ubes to melt in the drain, and then set the cups in the drying rack. She'd gone to dry off her hands when her eyes had landed on the things on the counter next to the drying rack.




Working at the hospital might be out now, but that didn't mean she hadn't learned a great deal there that she'd keep apparently. Glucose, energy, and singular-path liver functions. By the time she headed up the stairs, only five minutes later, she was carrying a small plate with buttered toast.

Grateful Emma's door was still open, she stepped in, holding it out, and told her to consider at least eating half of it before she slept. That it would make the morning a little easier on her body, if not her head. Blushing a little, on presumption, but nodding and heading off to her own bed after.





Still quite ready to put this whole night to bed, but feeling surprisingly lighter, too.