Emma's brain was in overload.
She couldn't even begin to process what had happened in the last hour. How could she? Neal was alive and Hook had…feelings for her. She wasn't sure how she felt about those feelings. Did she reciprocate them?
No, she shook her head to clear it. She couldn't deal with those emotions, whatever they may be, right now. Everything was too complicated. She'd told Neal that she would always love him, and she'd meant it, but she couldn't handle a relationship with him either. She couldn't put herself through all of that pain, not again.
Right now, she needed to focus on Henry, but that was hard when she had one man on either side of her, one of them telling her he would never stop fighting for her and the other looking at her like somebody had just ran over his puppy. And then there was Mary Margaret, shooting tiny, worried glances at her when she thought Emma wasn't looking.
What she really needed was a break. And maybe a drink, or five. She was just happy that they weren't trying to talk to her. Though, maybe, she thought, that wouldn't be such a bad thing. Maybe she could bug Killian for some of that rum.
Later that night, when everything had settled down a bit and she was sure nobody was watching, she slipped out into the forest. She didn't go far from camp, of course. Pan and the lost boys were still out to get them, and Emma didn't put it past Pan to jump her if she went more than a few feet out of sight of the others. Here, she was still within shouting distance. She all but collapsed onto a rotting log and began picking at the moss that coated it. She desperately needed a distraction.
Emma wasn't sure how long she'd been sitting there when her eyes began to burn and a familiar lump began to form in her throat. The events of the past few hours were finally beginning to hit her, and before she knew it she had gone from watering eyes to sobbing. She pressed a hand over her mouth in an attempt to quiet any of the pitiful noises that were escaping her throat. God, if anybody saw her like this, especially Hook or Neal, or even Regina, she would dig herself a hole and never come out. She let herself double over so her torso rested on her legs, trying to muffle a high pitched whimper that was apparently going to come out whether she liked it or not.
She wasn't even sure what she was crying about — Neal's return, Hook's confession, her mother's secret, the fact that her father could never leave Neverland, or the nagging that Henry was still out there. That every day he was without her he was closer to being a lost boy. Maybe she's crying about all of it.
"Emma? Oh, sweetheart."
The voice is sweet and sympathetic and oh god, she cannot deal with this. She covers her face in her hands, not sitting back up, just silently willing Mary Margaret to go back to camp.
But she doesn't. Instead, Emma feels her mother take a seat beside her and slide an arm around her back. It's awkward, both because of the way she's sitting and because Emma still isn't used to Mary Margaret acting like a mother to her, but she lets herself be held. Somehow the tears only come harder when the other woman's hand moves to rub soothing circles over her back, and Mary Margaret doesn't say anything, just lets her cry. When the tears finally begin to slow they're replaced by the beginnings of a throbbing headache, and Emma finally sits up, one hand on her forehead. She leans into Mary Margaret's touch and lets her support some of her weight, just a tiny bit. It's comforting, and Emma can't bring herself to tell the other woman to go away.
Mary Margaret gives Emma a moment to collect herself before she speaks. "Do you want to talk about it?" Her voice is barely over a whisper, with that same soothing, motherly quality that she's always had. Emma gives a shrug, not trusting herself to speak. She's not really sure what she wants, anyways — half of her wants to let everything out, to tell Mary Margaret everything, like she did in the days before she found out she was her mother. The other half of her wants to keep everything bottled up inside like she always does. Have a good cry and then lock all of her emotions in a box and toss them to the back of her mind. She decides that second option probably isn't all that healthy, but right now it sounds damn appealing.
Mary Margaret leans over so that she can see Emma's face and gives a tiny smile as she removes her hand from Emma's back to play with her hair. Emma's eyes are rimmed with red and she can still feel them stinging. She wipes at them self-consciously. After everything, she still doesn't want her mother to see her crying.
It almost makes her laugh.
Mary Margaret must have seen the slight turn in the corner of her lips, because she gives a faint smile too. Her hand drops again from Emma's hair to back around her arm, and she gives her a slight squeeze.
"You don't have to decide anything right now, Emma. Just focus on getting Henry back, okay? It's all going to work out," Mary Margaret promises. Somehow Emma doubts that her mother's words true, but the words are comforting for now.