You were right about one thing: I wanted you to have your best chance.

 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.

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.

'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.

When 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.