WARNINGS: Non-graphic representations of abuse. Content may be uncomfortable for some readers. Discretion advised.
This takes place after the breaking of the curse, when the clock is set back to 8:15. Mr. Gold and Regina have struck a new deal, whereby the past is undone and re-written. The setting is Boston, around the time of Emma's twenty-eighth birthday.
Time is a hazy little concept, at best. It's neither here nor there. It simply is, or is not. It can move fast or slow, depending on one's perspective, or, sometimes, not at all.
The trouble with clocks – aside from their incessant, infernal ticking - is that they are charged with tracking time, or, perhaps, rendering the illusion that they are tracking it.
That is, until they break.
With a stomp of her foot, Mary Margaret Blanchard realizes that her watch ceased to function at about the same time the activity bus rattled past the 'Leaving Storybrooke' sign, and, apparently, at the exact same moment that her phone terminated its timekeeping functionality. She closes her eyes, and shakes her head, wondering what sort of strange universe she's seemingly strayed into, where clocks don't work and, even better, where her phone has no signal.
Now, alone in the deserted parking lot, after offering - against her better judgment - to pick up the lunch that little Peter Barrie had left behind - she has no idea when she needs to meet up with her class and the other chaperones. She'd left the group exploring the different exhibits, and they wouldn't eat for another couple of hours.
It wouldn't be quite so bad, she thinks, if her day hadn't started off with Peter spewing his partially digested Lucky Charms all over the aisle of the aging, decrepit activity bus. She'd watched in muted horror as the curdled milk and rainbow colored marshmallow bits splattered and bounced, before coming to rest on the moldy rubber mat, and on the shoes of poor, unsuspecting Henry Mills, who, with his nose firmly implanted in a book, was oblivious to the gastrointestinal distress of his classmate. The bus jerked to a rapid and ungainly stop, only exacerbating the nausea of the boy, who looked entirely too green.
Mary Margaret had tried to explain the situation to the occupant of the trailing sleek Mercedes, but Regina Mills didn't care that Peter routinely jumped off swings, rode the spinning playground merry go round as if it was a rocket ship, and had never once exhibited signs of motion sickness.
No, with an emphatic finger, the mayor had beckoned Henry off the bus, given him a new pair of shoes – after all, Regina Mills was prepared for any situation - and opened the passenger door for the boy. There was simply no way her son would be continuing the field trip on the lumbering monstrosity, now reeking with the stench of vomit.
Mary Margaret had done her best to ignore the musty scent of brown pellet powder that the gym teacher had sprinkled on the chunky puddle of regurgitated cereal. She'd cracked a window, and managed to keep the children from killing each other all the way to Boston's New England Aquarium. No small feat, by any stretch of the imagination, especially on a bus with poor shocks, and strange odors that permeated the air even before Peter tossed his breakfast.
With a frustrated exhalation, Mary Margaret wanders back on to the wharf towards the aquarium. The sun hangs like an ornament in the sky, dipped in glittering, autumnal gold and bright morning radiance.
Tourists take advantage of the fall glow and snap pictures of the wistful young woman who lingers at the end of pier, looking down at the skeleton leaves that are floating on the face of the rippling water.
In a pair of high heels that have been known to chew holes in her stockings, and a dress that accentuates the rigid arch of her back, Emma Swan stares out at the ferryboats in the Boston harbor. She stands in the same spot for hours, listening to the bustling crowd and flinching whenever she hears the chime of the bells from the clock tower. Children race across the brick walkways that overlook the churning bay, squawking louder than the pigeons that strut up and down the wharf with the stateliness of gentlemen in their finest evening wear.
Emma holds a crumpled bag of birdseed, but only seems to remember it when a light rain begins to fall. She cups a handful of the grains in her palm before scattering them into the wind.
With her mouth set in a willful frown, Emma keeps her eyes on the ocean and a lone seagull that is flying circles in the distance. Her hair whips around her neck and hides the reddish blotches on her skin – the broken blood vessels that stretch across her body like roadways marked on an interstate map.
It's only when she feels the steady drizzle that Mary Margaret utters the softest of curses. Pinpricks of water stab at her itinerary, as she squints in a futile effort to see the time on the distant clock tower. Heedless of the running ink that blurs the schedule beyond legibility, the brunette scampers forth, in hopes of finding someone with a watch. Pedestrian traffic is clearing rapidly, as everyone rushes to escape the inevitable downpour. Yet, despite the increasing volume of precipitation, she comes to a startled standstill.
Perhaps it's the wind scattered birdseed that catches her eye, or the swirling of pigeons, as they land in a circle around the blonde woman, like tick marks around the face of a watch. Or, perhaps, it's something else entirely, for even when time ceases to function, fate is not so easily diverted.
Regaining the breath caught in her throat, she approaches, intending only to ask the time.
"Excuse me, but could you possibly tell me what time it is?"
Emma shifts into a defensive stance as soon as the schoolteacher utters the polite inquiry. Her instinct is to avoid all eye contact with the stranger, but she risks glancing up at Mary Margaret and then finds herself gawking at her. She expects to be judged by the woman - for no other reason than that experience has taught her to be wary of everyone - but on closer examination, she notices that the brunette is smiling sheepishly at her.
As thunderclouds grumble overhead and a flash of lightning strikes the sky, Emma lifts her chin and her eyebrows curve inward in an expression that manages to convey both her curiosity and her caution. "I—" she stutters. "I never wear a watch."
It's the tentative stutter that first puts the brunette on alert, followed by haunted blue eyes that seem much too familiar. Furrowing her brows, she responds carefully, "That's okay. I just have to meet my students for lunch, and my watch stopped. I'm sure the aquarium staff can help me."
Mary Margaret pauses, realizing that she's offering a likely unwanted explanation. She's about to apologize, and step away, when the wind shifts slightly, whipping long, blonde hair away from the other woman's face and neck, revealing angry red marks, and ugly purple bruising.
Her verdant eyes soften, and with a feeling that she will only much later recognize as maternal instinct, she speaks gently. "Are you...okay?"
Emma tenses as the breeze exposes her injuries and sends a chill up her aching spine. "Yeah," she murmurs. "I'm fine."
The schoolteacher scrutinizes her with a sympathetic frown, and while she looks like someone who is patient and caring, the blonde regards her as a threat. It isn't that the brunette is intimidating, or even that she has any imposing qualities at all, but Emma can't figure out her motives for asking.
On reflex, she wraps her arms in front of her body and glares down at the pavement. She craves compassion, but she knows better than to search for it in a stranger, or from anyone who offers it so freely. There is always a cost associated with accepting tenderness from another human being, and she is well acquainted with the forms of compensation that people tend to expect or – more commonly – demand from her.
In keeping with that train of thought, a man pulls up on a motorcycle that roars like an aggressive animal. August removes his helmet and eases up from the bike, swinging his leg over the seat and eyeing her in a way that communicates an unspoken warning. As he strolls over to her and reaches out to take her arm, she shies from his touch and her next exhale comes out as a strangled cry. "Emma," he snarls. "Where the hell have you been? You were out all night. I told you to be home by 8 o'clock—"
Emma drops her bag of birdseed, but instead of stooping to pick it up, she remains stationary and mute. August interprets her silence as a calculated act of defiance, and tightens his grip on her elbow.
She is familiar with this scenario, but she still resists him because she has learned that the severity of her punishment corresponds not with the degree of her disobedience, but rather with the harshness of his temper on any given day. He is only the puppet of their foster parents, but a part of him has always derived pleasure from hurting her and watching her suffer. Everyone treats her like a child, but they become frustrated whenever she behaves irresponsibly. "Let go," she quietly requests, but August is already digging his fingers into her skin.
With an air of casual interest, he dips his head in the direction of Mary Margaret. "Make a new friend?" he asks Emma, his voice thick with sarcasm.
In a not so distant past, that may even have been just a forgotten yesterday, Mary Margaret would have backed away, and never gotten involved. However, her spark had reignited, despite the fact that she couldn't recall that it had ever been missing.
As the dark man approaches, the hairs on her neck spike in warning. She's uncomfortable with the blonde's body language, and the muted whine she emits only serves to summon Mary Margaret's protective streak. She's aghast at the way the man speaks to – Emma – and when he doesn't heed the woman's request to be released, she finds herself unable to stand by.
"As a matter of fact, she did," Mary Margaret interjects, when it becomes apparent that Emma can't or won't fight back. With a glance at the bowed head, for Emma won't meet her eyes, she continues, "Emma and I were just having a chat, and she was going to help me locate my class," she finishes, sliding her hand over the one gripping Emma, and daring him to defy her. "I believe she asked you to let go. We need to be on our way."
August smirks at the brunette, because few people have ever tried to challenge him, and he's never encountered anyone who has dared to stand between him and Emma. He is not only amused by Mary Margaret's intervention, but he's also excited about the prospect of provoking a reaction out of her. "Emma's never had any friends," he insists. "She's better at making enemies—"
His cold eyes trail to the silver cross that hangs at her neck, and then travel down to the form-fitting sweater that buttons over her white blouse. "You look like you're tons of fun," he remarks. "Are you here with your bible class?"
When he finishes giving her the once-over, he slips his arm around Emma's back and applies pressure to her bruised shoulders. He waits until she takes a gasping breath and then steps away from her.
Emma wears a solemn frown, but her eyes stray to Mary Margaret. With every passing moment, she gravitates closer to the brunette and widens the gap between herself and August. She wonders why the woman chose to meddle in their affairs, but she is grateful for the diversion and the opportunity to evade the domineering man. "I'll be home soon," she promises him, and before he can respond, she steers the schoolteacher in the direction of the aquarium.
Mary Margaret's eyes never waver from those of the man in front of her. She deliberately refuses to rise to his bait, and only glares at him as he speaks to her.
She is hyperaware of the flinch and sudden inhalation from Emma, as the man wraps an arm around her shoulders. She immediately recognizes that this intruder into their conversation is responsible for the blonde's pain, and that the injuries are much more widespread than those Mary Margaret can see.
Although her gaze is still leveled at the motorcycle rider, she notices Emma inching towards her. When the other woman is close enough, Mary Margaret takes Emma's hand in her own, as she would one of her students, and pulls their joined hands slightly behind her. She's not entirely sure it'll be welcome, but, at the moment, she doesn't care. There's an overwhelming need to put herself between Emma and her accoster.
With one last look of warning at the man, Mary Margaret allows Emma to lead her away.
She's quiet for a moment, giving Emma space to collect herself and settle her breathing. When the blonde's panicked strides finally slow to a more normal pace, Mary Margaret gently tugs her to a halt just outside the aquarium.
Before Emma can pull away from her, the brunette glances over at the woman. She's younger than she appeared upon initial inspection, perhaps a couple of years younger than Mary Margaret herself. Despite her wardrobe choices, Emma has a childlike quality to her that Mary Margaret finds quite unsettling. As such, when she finally speaks, her voice is soft, and kind, and she allows it to take on the same cadence she uses with frightened birds. "So, Emma, it's nice to meet you. I'm Mary Margaret. Do you want to tell me who that was?"
Under most circumstances, Emma feels uncomfortable with any form of physical contact, but she doesn't pry her fingers away from Mary Margaret, or tell her to let go. She is accustomed to this treatment, and behaves as naturally as a girl who is out shopping with her mother.
Her distress only becomes evident when they pause outside of the aquarium and she tucks her hands under her arms. She studies the cement and the red building that she's never visited, even though she's lived in Boston for most of her life. "No," she mutters, but through no conscious effort, she's spouting his name. "That was August."
Emma finds it difficult to assign him any other label, because the nature of their relationship defies simple definition. He is a part of her family – the person who taught her to tie her own shoelaces, and who made sure that she brushed her teeth every night. But he's also the person that has been visiting her bedroom since she was a little girl, and she once carried his baby. "He's my foster brother," she breathes.
She fidgets because she knows that Mary Margaret is looking directly at her, and she senses that the woman is perceptive enough to discern her fear. As soon as she's composed herself, Emma motions towards the glass doors of the aquarium. "We should probably find your class," she suggests.
After they step inside, Emma gestures to a glassy-eyed young man who has a badge pinned to the front of his vest, declaring that he works there. She goes along with Mary Margaret, because it's still raining outside, and by now her feet are blistered and sore. Her plan is to wait in the lobby until she's certain that August has departed, and return to the wharf after the storm subsides.
As she confirms the time with the information desk attendant, Mary Margaret watches as Emma wanders over to a cushioned bench, and slowly leans back against the wall. Inexplicably relieved that the woman isn't leaving, the brunette exhales softly and turns to face the blonde.
She briefly ponders how to proceed. The interaction between Emma and August had disturbed her deeply, and she's quite concerned as to what will happen to Emma when she returns home, given the evidence of abuse on her body. She doubts the woman will offer any additional information in regards to her situation, and Mary Margaret is loathe to inquire, simply because it is apparent that Emma either doesn't want to talk, or is afraid to do so. The brunette isn't even entirely sure why she feels an overwhelming urge to help Emma, other than the fact that she reminds Mary Margaret of a small, terrified animal.
Realizing that she has to wait for Emma to come to her, she borrows a pen and scrap of paper from the attendant and scribbles down all of her information. She then approaches the blonde carefully, and sits down next to her, intentionally leaving a half-arm's length of space between them.
"Thanks for helping me out today, Emma, I really appreciate it. I'm...not entirely sure what your situation is, but August didn't seem like a very nice person. If you ever need help… or want someone to talk to, here's my number and address," she finishes, extending the paper to her new friend. "No one has the right to hurt you," she adds quietly, her voice barely a whisper.
Emma hesitates before taking the slip of paper, but when her fingers connect with the outstretched hand of the stranger, she experiences an upsurge of longing that confuses her. Her nostrils flare because she feels lightheaded, and she sucks on the inside of her lip while Mary Margaret mutters her observations.
Regina locates them by the entryway, and although Emma has never spoken to the tall woman, she recognizes her face and the sound of her voice. Her grating contralto causes the blonde to stiffen and shrink back against her seat. "You're supposed to be at home," she shrieks. "Not out making new friends—"
Mary Margaret looks back and forth between Emma and the esteemed mayor of Storybrooke. She cannot fathom why Regina would even know Emma, let alone feel the need to harass the poor woman.
Without conscious thought, she again places herself between Emma and the person intimidating her. "You know, that's the second time I've heard that today, and, quite frankly, I'd like to know what is going on between you, August, and Emma. Why would the mayor of a tiny little town in Maine care what a woman in Boston is doing on a random Friday afternoon?"
Regina glares at her outspoken enemy, and her eyes become dark and pitiless. "Ms. Blanchard," she barks. "You have been gone all morning. I suggest you get back to your class, and allow me to deal with Emma. I've known her foster parents for many years, and I'm sure they're worried sick about her. Ever since she was declared incompetent, it's been a terrible hardship on the family, and yet they continue to care for her through these rough times—"
As Regina announces her incompetence to everyone who happens to be loitering in the lobby, Emma lowers her eyes to the floor and withdraws into herself. She endures the public humiliation without contesting any of the remarks that are being made about her.
Emma expects that Mary Margaret will listen to the dignified mayor, and she suffers a flurry of panic that leaves her gasping for air.
With her body still firmly planted between Regina and Emma, Mary Margaret turns to glance at the downcast blonde. Almost impossibly, Emma has managed to make herself look even smaller, and the brunette frowns sympathetically, knowing there's absolutely no way she can leave the other woman alone with Regina, especially given that there's just something about the mayor's explanation that doesn't sit well with her.
Green eyes flutter shut as Mary Margaret turns back to face Regina, and she crosses her arms defiantly. "You know, she doesn't seem particularly incompetent to me. Furthermore, were you aware that her family has been hurting her?" Mary Margaret whispers angrily, trying not to call attention to their small group.
Regina tries to cultivate her patience, but her mouth is puckered in a murderous scowl. "I happen to know everything about their situation," she spits. "Miss Swan has a tendency to become violent, and they discipline her only when it is strictly necessary."
Emma raises her chin and blinks to spare herself the shame of shedding tears in front of the livid mayor, and the woman who seems determined to protect her. She wants to tell Mary Margaret that Regina is a liar, but she only groans whenever she attempts to talk.
In her growing agitation, Regina whips out her cellphone and speed dials the home number of Mr. and Mrs. Darling. She insists that they come down to the aquarium and collect their ward. As soon as she ends the call, she paces around in front of Emma and straightens her suit jacket.
Mary Margaret again turns to face Emma. Her arms are still crossed over her chest, and she watches the blonde thoughtfully for a moment. The other woman is trying to blink back tears, and Mary Margaret cannot reconcile this Emma, who flinches every time Regina speaks angrily into her phone, with the violent person that the mayor seems to think she is.
She crouches down, such that she's eye level with the blonde. "Emma," she calls gently, "I don't know if I can help you today, but I promise I will help you, okay?"
Mary Margaret neither expects a response, nor receives one, so she stands and reaches out to catch Regina's arm.
"Madame Mayor, I understand what you've been told, but I want you to look at Emma. She has bruises and red marks all over her neck and face. That doesn't look like discipline. It looks like abuse—"
Regina sneers at Ms. Blanchard and waves her hand in a way that is both dismissive and belittling. She persuades the schoolteacher to step aside, and tactfully conceals her concern until Mr. and Mrs. Darling arrive. Although she detests how they've been handling Emma, she doesn't want anyone to interfere with the arrangements that she's made, especially because the following week is the blonde's twenty-eighth birthday.
Emma watches as Mary Margaret walks away, and she feels anxious when the brunette disappears from view. She sits in silence while her foster parents speak with Regina, but her eyes continue to search for the schoolteacher.
When Regina is face-to-face with Mr. and Mrs. Darling, she leads them towards an alcove by the entrance to the aquarium. She bombards them with accusations and insults, but her final threat is the only one that Emma happens to overhear. "It is clear that you can not deal with Ms. Swan," she roars. "I'll call the state. They'll take her away, and throw her into a group home for incompetent adults—"
Emma has been hearing that threat since she turned seventeen, but Regina has never snapped at her foster parents with this degree of ferocity. A part of her wonders what it would be like to live in a group home, but she also fears the unknown. Mr. and Mrs. Darling have predictable tastes and attitudes, and as she stares at them from across the lobby, she feels relieved to be going home with them.
Mr. Darling wears a red tie and a dark jacket with epaulets. His black moustache curls upward with his lip, and there is a prosthetic limb where his left hand used to be. Mrs. Darling has wide hips, and she rests her hands across her plump midsection while Regina shouts at her. The couple appears unaffected by the news that they may lose Emma, and they hurry away without waiting for the blonde to catch up.
Emma follows her foster parents out to their car, and Mrs. Darling secures her seatbelt, because it is one of the small ways that she can make her feel helpless. On the ride back to their apartment, the Darlings scold the young woman and inform her that August will be watching her that evening. In the privacy of their home, they force Emma to sit on her own hands and set up an egg timer that ticks off the minutes that she will have to remain in an upright position.
When she is allowed to move, August leads her into the bathroom and fills the tub with suds. She undresses and sinks into the warm water, feeling her muscles cramp and release. He scrubs the flat plane of her stomach, and behind her ears. After he inspects her, he motions for her to stand up and then wraps her in a towel. They go into her bedroom, where he selects a revealing, pink nightgown for her to wear, and she pulls it down over her damp face.
Their foster parents have gone out for the night, and August decides to be generous with her. He tucks her into bed, reads her a story, and then picks up her baby blanket. As he kisses her goodnight, he hands her the bundle of wool and smiles down at her. "There," he says. "That's better, right?"
Emma wants to scream at August, but she knows what will occur if she opposes him. In submission, she grabs her baby blanket and slides underneath the covers. She's aware that he could still change his mind and choose to punish her. "Yes," she agrees, and before long, he's turning off the light and leaving her bedroom.
After he's gone, she lies awake and searches for the scrap of paper with the schoolteacher's address. She doesn't know why the woman swore to help her, but she thinks that the brunette is the type of person who keeps her promises, even if she's convinced that she will never see her again...