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.