Make It Work
"Make it work."
He mumbles that phrase over and over, frantically cutting out strips of different colored fabrics and tossing them willy nilly onto the scarred surface of the table before unraveling strands of red string and carefully, oh so carefully, threading the needle. He pricks his fingers, but ignores the blood that wells up from the tip, instead concentrating on getting this work done so he can get home, and just forget.
"Make it work."
Forget about the fact that his daughter is gone to him. Not dead, as that would be somewhat of a mercy, but gone. She doesn't remember him, and if he showed up now at her house (he refuses to call it her home, what they had had been home) she would not know him, and that cuts all the deeper than scissors ever could.
"Make it work."
Forget about the fact that this wasn't his fight to begin with. Had it been his fault that he could make Traveling Hats? Had it been his decision to help Regina? No, but he had been drawn into the web of deceit and lies that the Black Queen was so very good at, and in the end he paid for it by losing everything.
"Make it work."
Forget about that golden haired girl, the one that causes so much trouble by asking so many questions. He can't remember if her name is Emma or Alice, but he thinks that names don't matter much, not in a world that has a Wood where names are lost forever. If he didn't have a very important job to do, he would go to those Woods and forget everything.
"Make it work."
Forget about the fact that for twenty eight years, he remembered, watched, waited, and hoped, only to be tricked once again.
"Make it work."
Just keep cutting, shaping, sewing, hoping, and dreaming. After all, he has nothing but time.
"Make it work."