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[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]

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.