A/N: I'm back! Hopefully some of you have stuck around. Sorry for the massive wait. Hopefully I'm not too rusty with this whole thing. University got busy now that it's the push for grad school. I've even been too busy to stay caught up with the second half of this OUAT season. I was also not sure how I wanted to approach this one since I wanted to do something centered around a art therapy class and I wanted to do it right. I work as a mental health advocate when I'm not in school so I'm concern with getting this right. Hopefully I can. I'm just about to start exam season but I didn't want to wait any longer to start developing this story so we'll see how this goes. Not sure what my update schedule will be for the next while but hopefully you all like what I'm creating. Let me know what you think! Thanks and enjoy!
Disclaimer: All aspects of Once Upon A Time belongs to the show's creators.
Emma was late. Well, not late for anything she had to do. But she was late if she wanted to go completely unnoticed. She ground her teeth in frustration as she circled the lot once more, windshield wipers beating a steady rhythm, the rusty left break squealing as she settled for a spot far too distant from the door. It had been raining so much lately that they'd seized up, her beloved Bug showing its age like an arthritic old woman in damp weather. But if she waited any longer she would interrupt the class trying to slip in. Which probably wasn't a good thing considering she wasn't actually supposed to be there.
Parking, Emma got out, slung her bag over her shoulder and hurried across the lot, reaching the door in record time. Once inside she shook out her hair, tiny droplets spraying across the glass door as it shut. The building was quiet, most people hidden away in the myriad of offices and clinics since it was still within the work day. Sitting at the large grey desk in front of her was Belle, the receptionist for the entire floor, who rolled her eyes at Emma's hurry then smiled widely, waving her towards the first door on the left. Even though technically Emma wasn't supposed to be there no one actually said anything about it.
"Thanks, Belle," Emma called as she moved towards the door. She paused at the threshold, listening through the crack in the door. A soft voice came through, listing off gentle instructions on how to properly use the cakes of watercolour pigment. A few moments later the guidance ended and there was a rustling of paper on desks and the gentle lap of water as paint brushes were dipped into the little glass dishes, all with hand painted snowflakes on the side. Emma used the movement as her cover and slipped through the space of the ajar door, smiling because she knew Elsa had left it open specifically for her.
The class inside the bright workshop was small, a select group of people either there because of doctor's orders or because Elsa, the teacher, thought they could use the safe space. The majority of the people were already at work, painting gentle brushstrokes across thick ivory paper, oblivious to the new person in the room. Most had also seen her before, coming out of the attached office room after class, so that helped with her unobtrusiveness. Emma scanned the faces as she scurried along the front wall, covered in a mural the patients added to at the end of each session. She recognized all but a few, sitting in the back corner. The look on their faces told her exactly what she needed to know- doctor mandated.
Very few seemed happy to be ordered to attend Elsa's art therapy class. At least at first. By the fourth or fifth session Elsa's calm nature and experience of her own battles with agoraphobia usually convinced them she could be trusted and they would be won over. She had a way of relating to those feeling lost, alone, exhausted. And maybe that was why Emma had gotten along so well with the blonde woman when they first met five years prior.
"You're late," Elsa whispered as Emma hurried past her.
"But I caught him," Emma replied which earned her a small and reserved smile. She'd give Emma a more enthusiastic answer when they weren't in public.
Finally, Emma reached the door to the small office and let herself through. It was a cubby of an office, but one that Elsa had made the most of. Drawings coated the walls, some tacked up with pins, some stuck up in an elaborate series of glittering blue clothespins. Everything Elsa had added was colourful, trying to make up for the faded beige walls. Shelves covered the farthest wall, art supplies in buckets and baskets, all organized by both type and colour. And there were reams of paper everywhere. A small architect's desk and paint splattered stool served as Elsa's workspace when she wasn't teaching an art therapy class.
Emma tossed her bag onto the floor by the desk and flopped down on the light grey couch pushed up against the far wall. The springs creaked like old friends, welcoming her back to her favourite napping spot, as Emma shrugged out of her red leather jacket. She toed off her brown boots, pushing them across the beige tile towards her bag, then unclipped her handgun from her belt, before curling up against the back of the couch.
A health clinic might seem a strange place to nap, and really it was, but for Emma, who was used to a lifetime of sleeping in strange places and foreign, temporary bedrooms, it was natural. It was also practical. Emma lived outside of the city where cheaper rent allowed her to actually have her own space, rather than live with half of the population of South Boston in a closet sized apartment. But because of her job as a bail bondsman, leaving the city when her target was going to be somewhere that night, or she was waiting on a time sensitive call, really didn't make any sense. She was in the business of catching people and that was hard to do when you were stuck in rush hour traffic. Emma could be going for hours tracking and questioning and dragging people back to the precinct she primarily worked with so she slept when she could. And that just happened to be when in the tiny comforting and artsy office Elsa was teaching her art therapy class. Not that Elsa minded. Best friends were good for that.
Tucked into the tweed cushions, Emma let herself drift off, knowing Elsa would wake her in two hours.
