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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."