Notes/Disclaimers: I own nothing, this was just something rattling around in my head. Might continue from Emma's POV if the mood strikes. Being slightly obsessive-compulsive, I decided I didn't like Emma's voice in my original post, so I altered it.
As Mary Margaret traverses the boundary of warm sleep to fuzzy wakefulness, she becomes acutely aware of several things. First, and most painfully, her right arm is past the point of pins and needles, and well on its way to completely numb. Her attempt to move it is immediately stifled, as she comes to her second, albeit momentarily confusing, realization. Blinking away the haze of sleep, she peers down at the blond head nestled on her shoulder. Sure enough, her right arm is pinned under, and wrapped tightly around, her roommate, who is sound asleep next to her.
Not used to waking with anyone, Mary just isn't sure how to proceed. Should she extract herself? Should she wait for Emma to wake? Mary doesn't have any sisters, and Emma is her first roommate, as far as she can remember, though she's pretty sure roommates don't usually sleep together. Something tickles the back of her mind at that. Shouldn't she know whether or not she's had a roommate before? As quickly as it comes, the thought slips away, and Mary is again left wondering what to do, as she doesn't want Emma to feel uncomfortable.
It's not that she particularly minds her current position, it's the first time, in a long time, that she hasn't felt like something is missing from her life. Only, she's not entirely sure that she was even aware that something was out of place before Emma arrived. The woman's arrival, and to a greater extent her moving in and their subsequent interactions, seem to have coincided with Mary discovering some rather deep pain that didn't appear to be associated with anything at all. She finds this very disconcerting, but she isn't sure what it means. At the same time, there's that tickle at the back of her consciousness insisting that she should know.
When Emma shifts slightly, burrowing deeper into her shoulder with a contented sigh, Mary is quite unprepared for the overwhelming upswell of love that courses through her being. She can't recall ever feeling an emotion this strong, and her conscious mind finds it completely inexplicable that she has almost been brought to tears by her love for someone she's known for such a brief time. When, last night, she had finally put her finger on the elusive adjective to describe her feelings, she found it altogether confusing. Given their proximity in age, she can't quite figure out why her feelings are maternal. Yet there it is. Staring at her. Something. No, not just something… something important. There's that voice again. It's becoming more frequent, more demanding, yet frustratingly disappears, just as enlightenment threatens to spring out at her.
With a sigh, she absentmindedly strokes Emma's hair, hoping the blond will feel better when she wakes than when she went to bed. For all her exterior toughness, it isn't hard for Mary to see how fragile Emma's emotional world is. While the details haven't been particularly forthcoming, as Emma's not one to share much, her roommate isn't too hard to decipher. There is the obvious, lingering pain of parental abandonment, which Mary has a strange urge to patch up, as well as some other, as yet undetermined emotional traumas that manifest themselves in Emma's body language and defensive nature. The woman has a hell of a time making eye contact unless she is angry or defensive – and it isn't hard to get Emma on the defensive. The blond is clearly used to having her fires fought with fire, and Mary Margaret has taken it upon herself to fight Emma's fires with… well, even as her mind helpfully supplies the word 'water,' it isn't the image of fire hoses or a drenching summer rain that manifests in full color across her brain, but the gentle, falling flakes of winter, piling slowly, yet steadily, upon Emma's walls, until they merely collapse of their own weakness.
Graham's death, just a few days prior, had managed to build that wall higher and stronger than ever. Any small amount of trust that Mary Margaret had been given during Emma's first few weeks had been completely eradicated. Over the course of the twenty-four hours after the death, during which Emma had not returned to the apartment, Mary had prepared herself for just about every scenario for when her friend returned, even the one in which she didn't return. Yet, she'd come home, in her own time. Emma had put up a good front, Mary had to admit. It was only the dark circles under her eyes that betrayed her devastation.
With nothing more than a couple of emotionless statements of fact regarding the Sheriff's death, Emma beat a hasty retreat to her room. Mary Margaret had let her go, for the moment, fully aware of Emma's fear of being vulnerable. Still, Mary stayed up well into the early morning hours, listening for signs of distress - or packing - driven by forces, emotions, she didn't fully understand.
There was nothing but silence for hours, until just after two in the morning, when Mary finally heard the tiny whimpers. With a deep breath, she hesitantly ascended the stairs and knocked softly, even as she cracked the door open.
"Emma?" she questioned gently.
There was no response, and Mary wasn't entirely sure if Emma was awake. She crossed the room, almost silently, her heart aching more at each cry. There was just enough room on the edge of the bed for Mary Margaret to sit, so she did. She gently reached out to stroke Emma's head, which was the only part of her body not buried under blankets, and felt the slightly younger woman tense.
"Emma," she called, her voice low and soothing. Drawn out, it was no longer a question, and the word flowed from her mouth as if she herself had pulled the name from the ethereal heavens and bestowed it upon a golden haired infant.
Emma stilled, but made no move to turn towards her friend.
"It'll get easier, sweetie." The endearment rolled off her tongue of its own will, and she worried that she'd pushed too hard when Emma curled in on herself even further.
With a sigh, Mary knew better than to force anything. She wasn't sure how she knew, but she followed her instincts. She patted a slender shoulder through the blankets, and pulled away. Quietly, she left the room, leaving the door open, just in case Emma needed her.
There were no more sounds that night, and Emma was up and gone in the time it took Mary to shower the next morning. Disappointed that she'd missed her friend, but relieved to see her belongings still in the apartment, Mary Margaret left for school.
After three days of the same routine, only laying eyes on her friend when she checked on her each night through the darkness of the Emma's bedroom, Mary Margaret decided it was time to seek out her roommate. She was, then, completely unprepared to literally bump into the other woman when she opened the apartment door.
"Oh, Emma! I'm so-"
"It's fine," came the brusque response.
Mary Margaret tilted her head, trying to catch Emma's eyes, to no avail. "I was just about to go looking for you," Mary stated, her tone as soft as she could make it.
Emma's eyes flashed in defiance, as she briefly made eye contact. "I don't need you to look for me. I'm just fine on my own."
Mary Margaret knew Emma would try to shut herself off from the world, but she was still taken aback by the level of defensiveness in her friend's tone. A careful nod, as the brunette knew she would have to tread carefully. The voice nudging at her consciousness told her this was a vital interaction, one she couldn't afford to lose. "Well, yes, but I was worr—"
"Don't," the blonde retorted, brushing past Mary, into the apartment as irritation creeped into her voice. "I'm fine. Just stop."
Conflict was not Mary's forte. Emma, however, clearly thrived on it, whether out of desperation, or necessity, or because she didn't know anything else, Mary wasn't sure. So, the possibility of beginning an argument with the blond was an intimidating thought. Perhaps it was Emma's weakening effect on the curse, or perhaps it was that ever growing voice reminding Mary Margaret that she hadn't always been so timid, but Mary found herself summoning a strength she didn't know she had. She firmly met Emma's gaze with a defiance and determination that belied her gentle response. "No."
Clearly confused by the contrast between Mary's voice and her facial expression, Emma was thrown off long enough for the other woman to continue without interruption.
"I can't do that, Emma."
"Can't or won't? What gives you the right to...to.. this," she finished, waving her hand vaguely between them, unable to find the word to describe exactly what it was that Mary was doing.
"That's where everyone in your life has screwed it up, Emma. Those walls of yours are up precisely because someone in your past thought that caring about you, or pretending to, or having any kind of relationship with you, is their right. It's no one's right. It's their privilege when you decide you want it."
Mary watched Emma's eyes soften thoughtfully for an instant, before the wall went up again. She continued, still trying to catch Emma's eyes. "So, to answer the other question, both. Can't and won't. It's the only way I know to ask for your trust, Emma, without taking it from you." Mary responds, her voice still quiet, her posture relaxed. With Emma's guard still up, she moved to sit on the couch, to make herself less threatening.
Emma turned to watch her, shifting almost nervously, seemingly unsure of how to continue. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice still defensive.
The brunette head tilted ever so slightly, and Mary considered her response. "Waiting," she responded honestly.
"What the hell does that mean?" Emma crossed her arms over her chest.
"It means that I'm not going anywhere."
Mary stated this in such a quiet, matter of fact tone that Emma wavered, her mood giving way to uncertainty.
The internal conflict in the younger woman astounded Mary. It was blatantly obvious to her that somewhere along the line, or everywhere along it, someone that Emma trusted must have caused her profound pain to leave her so afraid of being vulnerable, so reluctant to trust. She was startled by the intensity of her rage at those who would hurt her friend, unaware that she was capable of the depth of anger that coursed through her body. She struggled to maintain her calm demeanor, lest she frighten Emma away.
Uncomfortable with the entire direction of the disagreement, and the genuine concern directed towards her, the blond was left with only one option. Mary wouldn't fight, so Emma fled, closing her bedroom door loudly behind her.
With a sigh of frustration, Mary watched her go. Since she didn't hear signs of packing, she waited patiently. After all, the blond would have to come out of her room at some point. She was fairly certain Emma wanted to trust her, as she probably would have already left otherwise.
A few moments later, Mary watched Emma storm out of her room, and out of the apartment without a word. Still, no suitcase in hand, so Mary let her go.
When Emma left that evening, Mary made some hot chocolate, with cinnamon, and sat down to really think. She couldn't put her finger on why she was so compelled to help Emma. She'd helped others in the past, but none seemed so… well, personal. And that was the point of confusion. Her subconscious tickle became more noticeable at that moment, more persistent. She was missing something. She was worried about Emma, but her worry surpassed that of a friend. No, she corrected. Friend wasn't right either. Sister was closer, but still not right. She struggled to name it, knew it was almost within her grasp, but it still eluded her.
She thought about Graham, and it occurred to her that his death was odd. She couldn't remember a single death in town, other than his. She frowned at this, and was sure that someone should have died, but in all her years volunteering at the hospital, she couldn't recall a single death. This was baffling.
As the clock on her microwave turned to midnight, she was startled from her thoughts by a knock at the door. Thinking that Emma forgot her key, she crossed the apartment and opened the door.
She covered her mouth in surprise to see David carrying an unconscious Emma. "What happened?" she asked, swinging the door wide so he could come in.
"Excessive consumption of alcohol would be my guess," David offered. "She was at the bar for hours, then just passed out. I thought I should help."
Mary met his eyes gratefully. "Thanks, she's having a rough time right now."
David nodded kindly. "Where should we put her?"
"I don't think we can get her up the stairs," Mary responded, looking at the steep narrow stairs leading to the loft. "She can have my bed." As she wrapped an arm around Emma, to help David, her hand brushed his arm. She was jolted by an onslaught of jumbled emotions and images and words that were indecipherable. She gasped, one word finally striking her. Mother. Unfortunately, she was in no position to analyze the thought or its associated emotions, so she shoved it aside for the moment. They carefully placed her on the bed, and Mary Margaret pulled the blankets up over her friend.
Worried about Emma, and still hurt by her last encounter with David, she'd ushered him to the door quickly. She ignored the voice that insisted he could help Emma, too. "So, thanks for bringing her home…"
David looked at her intently, as if he was trying desperately to remember something that was just out of reach. "Uh... yeah, sure. No problem. It was the right thing to do." He shook his head as it slipped away, and turned to walk leave.
When the door was locked, Mary leaned against it briefly, squeezed her eyes shut, and pushed away the strange ache rising in her chest. Steadying herself, she walked back to the bedroom to check on Emma.
She stood next to the bed, watching Emma sleep. The younger woman had dark rings under her eyes, and Mary decided that Emma probably hadn't slept in days. Curiously, she bent down to sniff Emma's breath. Emma didn't particularly smell of alcohol, and Mary thought she smelled cinnamon. With an amused smile, she realized Emma had simply fallen asleep at the bar.
She grabbed a blanket, and was reaching for her pillow before heading to the couch, but froze when Emma cried out in her sleep. Waffling briefly as to what to do, but unable to ignore the fact that Emma's cries caused her an almost physical pain, she finally decided forego the couch.
Turning out the light, she climbed into bed and reached out tentatively. She rested her hand on Emma's pillow, while gently stroking her forehead with the side of her thumb. "Shhh…" she murmured.
The cries diminished slightly, and Emma turned towards the voice.
Mary thought she saw Emma's eyes flutter open, but she couldn't be certain in the dark. As Mary continued her soothing whispers, the body next to her moved closer and closer, until a blond head rested on her shoulder, and a hand gripped tightly at her night shirt. With a shuddering sigh, Emma was suddenly quiet, and very much asleep.
At this, Mary found herself awash in emotions almost too varied to categorize. A deep, aching pain of loss bubbled up into her chest. She'd forgotten that pain, but she couldn't remember from where it originated. How could she forget that pain? She was supposed to have remembered it forever. She remembered making that vow to herself. She knew this pain as well she knew her own name, though that, too, seemed suddenly wrong. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks, for… what? Or who? Guilt filtered out of her subconscious for letting this slip her mind. Why did it feel as if her heart had been ripped out and trampled? Yet another strange thought tickled her mind. She's safe now. She didn't know where the thought came from or what it meant, only that it was important, and that she should know.
Emma shifted silently, and the movement drew Mary out of her thoughts. She held Emma a little tighter, and the pain dissipated, retreating a little less deep into her subconscious than it had been before… which is how Mary Margaret came to find herself in this morning's predicament.
Her arm is still tingling after her mental wanderings, and she decides she's going to have to move. Ever so carefully, she slides her arm out from under Emma. Her roommate is still breathing softly, and she'll probably sleep most of the day. It's Saturday, and Mary Margaret has nowhere to be. She'll make breakfast and read… and leave the door cracked. Just in case.