Chapter Two

Mary Margaret led Emma upstairs to her apartment.

"It's not much," she said, "but it's big enough for two."

Emma didn't know what to say. She couldn't believe how accommodating this woman was; she hadn't been treated with this much kindness her whole life. Six different foster homes, nothing like this. And she'd only known her for five minutes.

Mary Margaret unlocked the door and Emma followed her inside; it wasn't huge, but it had a warm, homey feel that Emma had craved her whole life. There were no screaming kids, no bullying teenagers, no practically rabid animals out to get her. There was just a nice little kitchen and a living room, and stairs that presumably led up to a bedroom or two. Emma felt an ache in her chest; she wished she could stay here.

"I'll make some hot chocolate," Mary Margaret said, peeling off her coat and hanging it up by the door. "First, I'll get you some warm clothes."

Emma nodded, and watched her go upstairs. She was hesitant to set her backpack down; it was soaked, and she didn't want to ruin anything. She didn't want Mary Margaret to be angry with her.

She searched the apartment for any information it may reveal about its owner. She gathered that Mary Margaret liked birds, as there were a few paintings of them scattered around, but other than that she couldn't determine much. The kitchen was clean. The living room was nearly spotless. Maybe she didn't spend as much time here as she did at someone else's house, like a boyfriend's. Like the guy in the lobby.

"I hope these fit," she said, returning to the doorway, where Emma lingered awkwardly. "The bathroom's right over there-" she pointed, "I'll wash those clothes when you're done getting dressed. And your bag, too, if you want."

"Thank you," Emma said, taking the clothes gratefully. She went off to the bathroom and eagerly peeled off her rain-soaked jeans, t-shirt and thin jacket. Mary Margaret had given her plaid flannel pants-pajama pants. She expected Emma to stay.

For a moment, Emma debated. Should she leave? She could sneak out with the excuse that she'd left something downstairs. But this woman had been so nice to her, and she'd lied to that cop, and at the same time, she didn't want to leave.

She decided to slip on the pajama pants and faded gray t-shirt. She tied her long blonde hair, which had begun to dry off already, into a ponytail. She examined her reflection in the mirror: there were dark purple circles under her hazel eyes, and she looked paler than usual. Oddly enough, she thought, she and Mary Margaret had a strikingly similar nose.

She emerged from the bathroom to the smell of hot chocolate, or at least what she assumed was hot chocolate. She'd never actually drunk it before. Usually the older kids at the foster homes got to all the good food before Emma could, or they hoarded it in their rooms, in their pillowcases. Emma usually reasoned that it was better to go without a Hershey's bar than to get punched in the nose.

"You can leave your shoes by the door," Mary Margaret said, "And I'll take those." She rushed over to take Emma's old clothes, and whisked them off to another room. It was a few minutes before Emma could hear the low rumble of a washing machine, and Mary Margaret returned, heading over to the stove.

Emma, hesitantly, followed her to the kitchen and sat gingerly in a barstool, the farthest one possible from where Mary Margaret stood.

"Do you like hot chocolate?" Mary Margaret said. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I should have asked."

"No, no," Emma assured her. "Hot chocolate is great."

She watched Mary Margaret turn off the stove and stir the dark tan liquid in the pot a bit more before pouring it into two mugs waiting on the counter. She sprinkled some cinnamon on top.

"Adds some extra flavor," she said, handing Emma a purple mug with multicolored hearts painted on it. "Hope you like it."

Emma set the mug down on the counter so it could cool off.

"So," said Mary Margaret, rounding the counter and taking a seat at the farthest chair from Emma. She appreciated that she was respecting her personal space. "Tell me how you ended up in Storybrooke."

"I ran away," Emma said. "The last foster home I was put in was awful, and I was there for two years. I was the youngest kid there, even at sixteen, and I was always bullied. The older kids would use me as their punching bag and there was nothing I could do about it. And my foster parents weren't any help. If anything, they encouraged it. They said I was just too weak."

"That's terrible," Mary Margaret said, her eyes shining with disbelief.

Emma shrugged. "I was sick of it. I knew they weren't going to help me pay for college, so what was the point of staying? And if I told them I wanted to leave, it would be no problem. I'd just get sent off to another, worse house, and regret saying anything at all.

So I took a bus out of the city, after school one day. I was getting food at this gas station about twenty minutes from here, and my foster mom was there; she'd been looking for me, though I wasn't sure why. I think it was because the cops thought they'd kicked me out, which could get them in trouble. I got away from her, though, and she called the police, so I couldn't get on another bus. I just walked, and I ended up here."

"That's . . . that's an interesting story," Mary Margaret said.

"And some cop caught me-"

"Graham?"

"Yeah, him. He saw me, and brought me back here."

"Why would he bring you to my house?" Mary Margaret asked.

"I, uh, I kind of told him you were my cousin I was staying with." Emma brought her gaze to the floor. This was her cue to leave, wasn't it? Mary Margaret would be infuriated that Emma had implicated her in a lie and kick her out, tell her not to bother sending the clothes back, she didn't want to see her again. She didn't care.

"I will gladly pretend to be your cousin," Mary Margaret said, surprising Emma, "for as long as you need."

"That's nice of you, but I really don't-"

"I mean it," Mary Margaret said firmly.

Emma couldn't bring herself to say anything else. She couldn't believe the generosity of this woman, and didn't know how to appropriately express her gratitude.

"Thank you," she said simply.

Mary Margaret smiled. "You're welcome."

"Can we talk about something else?" Emma asked cautiously. "I . . . I don't want to talk about me anymore."

"Done," Mary Margaret agreed. "Is there anything you want to know about Storybrooke?"

"Was that your boyfrienddownstairs?" Emma asked, unsure whether this would either break the ice between them or build a wall there.

To her relief, Mary Margaret just laughed. "Yes, Emma, you could say that."

"You both seem to really like each other," Emma offered.

"He's a great guy," she said. "His name is David."

"Good name," Emma said.

Mary Margaret nodded, smiling. "He works at the animal shelter. I've known him for a long time, but . . ." She sighed. "I don't know. Things have been going well. What about you? Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Oh, no," Emma said, shaking her head fervently. "Never."

"Well, there aren't many boys your age in this town," Mary Margaret said. "The school is very small. I suppose you'll need to be enrolled in school if you're staying?"

Emma realized this was a question. Was she staying?

"All right," she agreed. "But I really don't want to burden you."

"I don't want to hear that word from you again," Mary Margaret said. "This is no inconvenience. I'll sign you up tomorrow. What's your last name?"

"Swan," Emma said.

"Emma Swan," said Mary Margaret, smiling. "Sounds like a fairy tale character."

"Maybe I am one," Emma teased, "Just going through the crappy part of my story."

"Well, I'll do my best to change that," Mary Margaret said. "Tomorrow, I'll introduce you to everyone."

"Everyone?"

"You know, the town. Granny, Ruby, Archie, Regina . . ."

"Great," Emma said, trying her best to force a smile. Socializing wasn't high on her list of skills, if it even counted as one of her skills at all. She brought her mug of hot chocolate to her lips. It might have been the best thing she ever tasted.