Title: One Foot On the Runner's Block
Summary: Emma has always run from situations in her life. What happens when Mary Margaret confronts her on it? Emma/MM friendship. Cannon-ish. Spoilers for first season, nothing specific. Kinda angsty.
Rating: T-some language and angsty angst.
Pairing: Emma/MM friendship
Spoilers: First season of Once
Timeline: The timeline here is tenuous, jumping throughout the first season, so let's say spoilers for the first season in its entirety. If I had to put my foot down on the individual episodes, this happens somewhere between the pilot and when Emma moves in with MM.
Disclaimer: Not mine and no financial gain coming to this girl…simply getting the plot out of my head.
A/N: I've been tossing this idea around for weeks now and it just kind of hit me tonight, when I should've been working on another fic. Oh, well. Another chapter is coming to "No Sunlight" soon, guys, I promise…just not tonight. Please review.
One Foot on the Runner's Block
The whiskey burns her throat and brings tears to her eyes as it slides unsmoothly into her stomach. She holds the glass in both hands, shifting the tumbler between her fingertips. She isn't drunk enough, she muses, if she still has enough coordination to maneuver the glass. She reaches for the bottle and pours another. As easily as it was poured, it is gone. She slams another and another back, until she feels comfortably numb, warmed by the alcohol. Then, she gently, carefully sets the tumbler down on the granite countertop of the beautiful apartment she has worked so hard to get. She leans on the countertop for support, her arms crossed, her head on top of her arms. Emma Swan is twenty-seven and very alone.
She considers going out, looking for a little comfort, the kind that can't be found in a bottle but thinks better of it. Even with as much crime as Boston contains, there are still the overachieving cops who wouldn't mind putting the blonde in jail for a drunk in public charge, even if it is her birthday. Plus, she reflects, she will do what she always does when she wants to be numb: choose the wrong man. His flaws won't matter to her, the fact that he's married, or unfaithful, or abusive won't matter, until its much, much too late and she is left broken once again.
She leaves the glass on the table and instead drinks directly from the bottle, still not drunk enough to stop thinking. Emma is not a mean drunk, nor does she go to the giggly drunk girl stage most women pass through. Instead, she gets quieter and quieter, trapped in an alcohol-induced haze of memory. Whiskey gets her through and she is dependent on its amber liquid to take her away, to move her quickly through her memories to unconsciousness. None of them are good, none worth savoring. Sometimes, she thinks that she could move past them, to establish happiness in her life, but that would mean confronting the past. It's easier to run, so she runs.
"Running to or running from…?"
That is the question that is put forth to her, sometimes used against her, by the men she allows to get physically close to her. They sidle up to her, smile at her snake-like, and she knows, with a grip on her heart, and alcohol in her veins, that she will let them in. They use her, as she uses them, and leave her.
When she was fifteen, she ran track. She was a jack rabbit. Her coach, one of the few men she trusted, who never tried to take advantage of her, who only pushed her to do her best, used to ask her all the time.
"Running to or running from?"
It was their motto, used to spur her legs to pump and her lungs to fuel her body as she raced around the track. He had no idea just how true the question was. She thought she was happy then. Unfortunately, happiness was elusive, as hard to obtain as a permanent home for her. She watched the foster families she lived with warily, always ready to leave at the first sign of malice or ill-intent.
Her coach was a genuinely good man. He began to worm his way into her heart, allowing her to share meals with him and his wife. He saw the way she held herself, kept herself aloof, on the fringe, safe.
He asked her one day, when her guard was down, when he knew she would understand that he wasn't talking about track.
"Running from or running to?"
The question was different. She was sitting on the bench, trackside, lacing her shoes properly. He was beside her when he asked the question, and she heard the softness of his voice. She remembered freezing, looking into his kind face and knowing he could not be the father she longed for.
She always ran.
She pushes past the ghosts of her past and reaches for the bottle, shakes it slightly, moving the dregs around. Tonight is going to be a two-bottle night. She moves without grace in the kitchen, grabbing the bottle, stumbling slightly as she makes her way to the couch. She opens the next bottle, knowing, as she always knew, she'd pay for it in the morning. She drinks it quickly, slowing around the halfway point. She tries once, twice, before successfully sitting the half-empty bottle on the coffee table. She curls into herself on the couch, watching the flame dance on the single candle she has lit. It is her only source of illumination and the metaphor is not lost on the blonde. She comforts herself with the thought that at least she won't be dwelling on what-ifs and impossibilities, as she sinks into the white noise of slumber.
She is twenty-eight now and possibly, maybe, less alone. She is seated in Mary Margaret's living room, on the plush couch. Though darkness has fallen, it is early yet and she hasn't seen the school teacher. Emma has lit candles sporadically throughout the living room. They cast a companionable light into the space but their warmth doesn't affect the blonde. In one hand, she holds a bottle of whiskey. In the other, a friendly tumbler full of the liquid. It is only her third, or possibly her fourth, she thinks as she tips the glass to her lips and takes a sip. She drinks it slower, letting the liquid burn as it courses through her and relishes the feeling.
She is safe here, she realizes with a start. Her sudden movement nearly makes the bottle go flying from her slackened grip. Admonishing herself silently, she sets the bottle on the end table and finishes the glass. She broods, staring into the empty glass, as though the answer lies at the bottom. How long she sits, statuesque, in contemplation is anyone's guess.
"Running from or running to?"
Her coach's words, the last question he ever asked her, floats lazily through her mind, taunting her. She still doesn't move, as the candles burn lower and lower, offering less light. She hasn't poured another glass; instead, she turns the empty tumbler in her shaking hands. The adrenaline sings through her, instinct pushing her to choose fight or flight. The realization that she is safe has scared her. She wants to leap to her fight, to escape, to run. Usually, there is no one better than Emma at effectively choosing flight.
She finds that this time, the decision is harder to make. Uncertainty freezes her, makes her still, so that she doesn't even turn to face the door. The easy choice, the normal choice, the natural choice is to run.
Still, the question hangs in the air.
"Running to or running from?"
Emma jumps as Mary Margaret's voice fills the booth she is seated in. The blonde glances around, masking her features. Her hands, luckily, were not around the untouched hot chocolate with cinnamon in front of her.
"May I join you?" the school teacher chirps brightly, not seeming to notice Emma's aloof expression.
Emma nods once, sharply, and watches the brunette as she seats herself across from her.
"Huh," Mary Margaret says, gesturing to the beverage. "I forgot you liked that, too," she says, signaling Ruby for the same.
The women sit together in anything but companionable silence as Emma squirms uncomfortably and Mary Margaret casts around for a safe topic.
To break the tension, Emma takes a sip of her drink, getting whipped cream and cinnamon on her nose. Mary Margaret hides a smile and passes her a napkin. Emma accepts it with wide eyes while Mary taps her own nose once. Emma drops her eyes to the table and wipes it off. They sink, once more, into an uncomfortable silence.
It is broken, a few moments later, by Ruby's arrival as she drops off a twin of Emma's beverage, asks if they need anything else and then dismisses herself.
Mary Margaret watches Emma contemplatively. Emma can feel the other woman's gaze and fidgets with the napkin Mary handed to her. She opens it, smoothes it out and then crumples it, repeating the cycle over and over again.
At last, Mary Margaret opens her mouth and says, "So, Henry-"
Emma hastily slaps a few dollars onto the table and slides out of the booth. "I have to go," she mumbles and runs.
Mary looks after her and sighs. "I wish I knew what she was doing, whether she was running from or running to," she mumbles, finishing her drink.
Emma is pulled from the memory of her track days by the sound of keys jingling in the door. She doesn't turn towards the door. The shaking in her hands has gotten worse. She wants to force a fight with Mary Margaret so that she can convince herself that flight is the better option; that staying is simply out of the question. She shuts her eyes and smiles darkly, laughing that she is the cause of her self-destruction.
As the door opens, the first thing Mary Margaret notices is the ambiance. Her apartment is shrouded in darkness, broken only by the low flickering of candles spread haphazardly throughout the living room. Her first thought is that Emma has a date and she pauses in the doorway, not wanting to catch them in the act. The second thing she notices is the silence. There is nothing to indicate that her roommate is with anyone, no low music, no intimate moans, nothing. Mary heaves a sigh of relief and continues into the apartment, her eyes casting about in the darkness for her roommate.
She turns her back on the living room and shuts the door, quietly setting her school items on the ground, leaning them against the wall. Her shoes come off next and she silently pads into the living room.
The third thing Mary Margaret notices is Emma's slender form. Mary can see her profile as the blonde slumps, eyes closed, on the couch, a half-full bottle of whiskey and an empty tumbler on the end table closest to the door. Mary's eyes survey the scene, trying to guess at its cause.
From the little she knew about the blonde, Emma drank when she was upset and broke things when she was mad. After her bouts with Regina, sometimes Emma did both. There were no signs of destruction, so this was not Henry-related, she concludes.
Mary Margaret perches on the couch and turns to face Emma. With her eyes closed and her face relaxed, the blonde looks young, much younger than the persona she presents to the world. Mary feels a quick twinge of affection for the tough younger woman. She reaches for Emma's shoulder, thinking she is asleep, and moves to wake her.
Before Mary Margaret's hand is on her shoulder, Emma's eyes pop open. She jerks away from Mary's hand, her features harsh.
"What are you doing?" she asks, her words slurring slightly. The fumes from the open bottle of whiskey drift to fill the space between them, as Emma closes herself off, crossing her arms over her chest, hiding her shaking hands.
Mary Margaret smiles at the blonde. "I thought you were asleep," she says gently. "I was going to see if you wanted to get into bed where you won't wake with a crick in your neck," she teases.
Some of the harshness leaves Emma's face. She is not relaxed, though, remembering her earlier plan of creating conflict.
Mary hikes a thumb over her shoulder, behind her, pointing to the whiskey bottle. "What caused this?"
Good. Emma thinks that this will be easy, sister Mary won't like the thought of an alcoholic living with her. The adrenaline hums a song of conflict throughout her body. She sweats, her hands shake, and she resists the immediate urge to run.
"Does it really matter?" Emma bites off, defensively, canting her body away from Mary.
"Yeah, it does," Mary responds. "You drink when you're upset and break things when you're pissed off. Since I don't see anything broken, you must be upset," she concludes.
Emma stiffens and closes her eyes, cursing internally, wondering when she allowed this woman to get this close to her, to know her. Her heart skips a beat and her insides twist violently, fear gripping her. She is always the ugly duckling; no one can see the swan inside.
"I'm not pissed and I'm not upset. Can't I just have a fucking drink?" she says, voice pitching upwards, trying to push the argument forward, noting with satisfaction as the school teacher blanches at the swear word.
It's funny, in a not humorous way that Mary Margaret immediately realizes what Emma is trying to do. She sees it in her students all the time, whenever they don't want to talk about something. They act out in an attempt to push her away, so that they don't have to confront whatever it is that is upsetting them. No matter what the behavior, it has never worked. Despite the age difference, there is no way Emma will be successful. Mary steels herself for Emma's next move.
"Emma…" she says, drawing her name out slowly. She leans in but doesn't touch the blonde. "Seriously. What's wrong?"
It's the tone that does it as Mary Margaret says her name. The affection and, possibly, if her needy child is to be believed, the undertone of love in the school teacher's voice that launches Emma from the couch. She stumbles, barking her shin on the coffee table in her haste. The pain doesn't slow her down though she takes the time to curse under her breath as she stalks towards the stairs. She has one hand on the banister of the staircase that leads to the loft. She pauses, one foot on the step, and barely turns her head towards Mary.
"In the morning, I'm leaving," she says. There is no sense of the dramatic, only sadness and defeat in the young woman's voice. Emma turns back to resume her flight up the staircase, cognizant of Mary standing in the living room, uncertainty on her face.
On the third step, the words stop Emma cold.
"Running to or running from?"
Mary Margaret asks the question, having moved closer to the stairs. Her voice is soft, but insistent. She notices the way Emma tenses, her hand curling around the banister, her shoulders drawing in. When the blonde turns on the stair to face her, Mary is again struck by the youngness radiating from her.
"What…what did you say?" Emma whispers the question. She swallows and the sound is loud in the stillness. Everything in her screams at her to turn, to run, to seek sanctuary in the bottle she has in her bedroom. To push this discussion further is only to break her own heart yet again.
Mary steps closer to the stairs, stopping at the bottom step and looking up at Emma who is perched on the third indecisively. Emma seems to vibrate with emotions; fear, sadness, and anger are chief among them. Mary thinks, if she squints, she can see hope in the blonde's eyes and it gives her strength.
"I asked you if you were running to or running from?" Mary said, her voice clear.
"Why…would you ask that?" Emma says, with a little shake of her head.
"Well…" Mary Margaret begins slowly, trying to choose her words carefully. "Its what you do, isn't it? You run."
Mary's words are harsh truth in Emma's ears. She is stuck, stung with the realization that this woman really has come to know her. When had that happened?
Mary shakes her head, heart pounding, hoping she is going to release the young woman with her words, rather than damage her further.
"I don't mean to say that to be harsh or cruel, and certainly not judgmental," she says, her eyes locked on Emma's face, trying to decipher the expression there, as she continues. "I just wanted to know if you were running to something or from something."
Emma is silent. The weight of the obvious answers hangs heavily in the air between them. Emma refuses to acknowledge it and fights to control the emotions crossing her face.
It is all too much. Emma's knees go weak with the knowledge that if she runs, as she has intended, she'll leave Henry, the young son she gave up all those years ago. Henry, who needs her as desperately as she needs him. She realizes, with a sudden intake of breath, that she is not willing to let him go so easily. The shock has her sitting on the step, the smooth, cold wood anchoring her.
Mary Margaret sees Emma sink and bounds up the stairs without thinking. She is suddenly next to the young woman, seated on the step beside her. Their knees touch gently, canted as she is towards Emma. Emma turns tired, broken eyes to Mary as she shrinks into herself. Her hands grip the wood of the stair, holding her upright. She squeezes so hard that she thinks she might dent the wood and relaxes her hands a millimeter.
"You can't run from us, Emma," Mary Margaret murmurs to her. She sees the way the blonde maintains a death grip on the wood and covers Emma's left hand with her right. She feels the grip relax slightly.
Emma's breath catches as she works to control the sobs fighting to break free. Had Mary Margaret just said "us"? Emma was cold, she was harsh, unlovable, angry, malignant…she must've misheard her, the blonde decides. And yet…the brunette was holding her hand, offering her comfort. What kind of game was this?
"What do you want from me?" Emma whispers, leaning her head forward, dropping her gaze to the stairs. Mary Margaret's grip on Emma's hand intensifies, nearly painful as she reacts unconsciously to the blonde's words. Her blonde hair spills around her face, hiding her behind its curtain.
Mary Margaret's voice is barely above a whisper when she responds. "I want you to stop running and be happy," she says, gently brushing the blonde strands back from Emma's face so she can see her eyes.
The blonde uses her superpower on Mary, judging her words. She is surprised and more, as flurry of emotions fly through her, and she confirms that Mary is telling the truth. Mary Margaret truly does want Emma to be happy. The words filter in, winding their way across her brokenness, a soothing balm for her heartaches. She wants to pull away but the pure honesty in Mary's words stills her flight instinct. Emma tips her head back and opens her eyes wide, attempting to futilely stop the tears that threaten to spill.
Emma turns blue tear-filled eyes to the brunette who watches her carefully.
"I…I don't know how," she admits quietly as twin tears trail slowly down her cheeks.
Mary Margaret seizes the moment and pulls Emma into an embrace, wrapping both arms tightly around the broken young woman. Her hand trails soothingly through Emma's hair as the floodgates open. Emma's sobs are painfully cathartic, releasing things that Mary can only guess at, given the brief history Emma has given her. She holds the younger woman to her and imagines, for a moment, that their two heartbeats are one as her heart breaks for the blonde.
She murmurs quietly into Emma's ear and remains locked with her until Emma's sobs subside. She pulls away, looking at the blonde's tearstained face.
Emma hiccups occasionally, a side effect of the torrent of emotions she has just put her body through. Her eyes feel swollen and tired and she knows she must look rough. Her appearance doesn't matter, though, as it is only an incomplete front broken by the brunette before her.
Mary Margaret seems different, changed, perhaps, by the experience of getting through to Emma. The blonde realizes, with an internal sigh, that that is exactly what the brunette has done, breaking through the tough exterior shell, to the messy, emotional center.
Mary takes Emma's hands into her own.
"If you let me, I can try to help you learn to be happy," she says. A frown crosses her features, as Mary looks her in the eye. "You have to promise," she emphasizes the word, "that you won't run on me or Henry. You won't run on us," she says, conviction in every syllable.
Emma offers her a watery smile. She is quiet for a long while before she answers. Mary feels her heart pounding against her ribcage, afraid that Emma will choose to leave, to run, because of the vulnerability she has just displayed. She tries to still her pessimistic thoughts as she waits for Emma to answer, her heart in her throat.
"You don't know what you're getting yourself into," Emma mutters with a shaky laugh.
"Whatever it is, I don't mind facing it with you," Mary says. This time, Emma doesn't have to use her superpower to know the other woman is telling the truth. The conviction is in the brunette's eyes.
"Why do you care so much…?" Emma asks softly, glancing at their joined hands.
If Mary Margaret is truthful with herself, she doesn't know why. She had felt a strong instinct to trust and protect this woman since their first conversation at the school. She remembered her foolish words to Emma, putting her foot in her mouth, and seeing the quick look of hurt that had crossed Emma's face. She remembered how Emma had shrugged it off, thinking Mary hadn't seen it and accepted Mary's clumsy apology. It was then she felt a hook embed in her heart for the younger woman.
"I…I just do," Mary Margaret says. "I'm sorry, I can't explain it…it's the same reason I trust you and the same reason I asked you to be my roommate."
"Blind faith, huh?" Emma says, smiling lopsidedly at the brunette. She uses the humor to separate herself, just a little bit, from the situation she is in. It isn't simple blind faith, and Emma knows that. She wants to make the promise truthfully, logically, not while she's emotional, so that she knows she'll be able to keep it.
At last, the blonde speaks. "I promise to talk to you about it before I run," she says, looking at Mary Margaret. Mary's lips are thin as she considers the modified promise. It's the best she's going to get and she knows it. She nods once before smiling.
"Good enough," Mary says. "Why don't you go wash your face off and I'll make you some hot chocolate…with cinnamon," she adds, standing on the stair, smiling down. She sticks her hand out, offering Emma a hand up. Emma looks at the hand for a moment and then takes it, allowing the brunette to pull her to her feet. Mary Margaret turns and walks into the kitchen.
Emma climbs the remaining stairs, entering her bathroom. She opens the small linen closet and grabs a blue washcloth. She wets it and washes her face off, removing the traces of the tears. She thinks briefly that it is a good thing her mascara is waterproof as she smiles into the mirror. She leans on the sink and brings her face close to the mirror. She is not certain what it is about her that makes Mary Margaret care for her but she is determined not to let her down. Her features crease into a frown as she makes up her mind not to run. She sighs as she towels off her face and glances, once again, at the mirror. It hits her forcefully.
"Running from or running to?"
Emma's eyes are bright, reflected in the mirror, as she realizes she ultimately has her answer to the question. She was always running from, and she has finally found the place and people she was running to.
A/N: Hope y'all liked it. Someone suggested to me that I write more MM/Emma pieces and, after watching the pilot for the bazillionth time, this long thing came to me. I'd been pitching the idea around in my head, given that Jennifer Morrison looks like she could be a runner and the fact that Emma runs. Anyway, hope y'all will review and let me know what you think. Cheers!
Music: Angels & Airwaves "A Little's Enough"
"When all is said and done
Will we still feel pain inside?
Will the scars go away with night?
Try to smile for the morning light
It's like the best dream to have
Where every thing is not so bad
Every tear is so alone
Like God himself is coming home to say
I, I can do anything
If you want me here
And I can fix any thing
If you let me near
Where are those secrets now
That you're too scared to tell
I'd whisper them all aloud
So you can hear yourself..."