When Emma Leaves Storybrooke
By Schroederplayspiano
Chapter 2: But You Don't Succeed
Storybrooke. An Hour Later.
"What took so long?" Mary-Margaret demanded when she opened the door to David. "I hope you didn't crash my car."
"No. Don't worry. Your car's fine."
"Then where is it?" Mary-Margaret asked looking over David's shoulder.
"It's on the side of the road on the outskirts of town."
"What!" Mary-Margaret exclaimed angrily.
"It ran out of gas."
"I filled the tank this morning!" She retorted.
"Mary-Margaret," David said soberly. "Emma's gone. She drove out of Stroybrooke."
"I know," she said in a matter-a-fact tone. "What do you expect to happen after you corner her and force her to talk to you?"
"Are you going to let me in? It's cold out here."
"I don't think I should. Why don't you go figure out a way to return my car back to me."
David could see Mary-Margaret's coldness in her face and then realized her whole body was tense. "I promised I would tell you what was going on."
"Yeah, but you don't have a good history with keeping your promises to me."
David looked straight into Mary-Margaret's eyes: a thousand deeper meanings passing between them.
"I thought we were pass this," David responded, trying to stay in the moment.
"I guess we're not." Mary-Margaret's quiet voice reinforced the sadness David saw in her face.
"Please," David begged, reaching for her hand. "Let me explain. I need your help."
"My help?" Mary-Margaret asked, shocked. She pulled back her hand. "With what?"
"With Emma."
"Emma?" She repeated, with disgust. "You run her out of town forcing her to talk to you. Now you want my help forcing her back into town so you can torment her some more?"
"Yes."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because she's your daughter."
Green eyes met blue ones and then Mary-Margaret knew.
Mary-Margaret opened her door wider to let David inside.
For she knew he wasn't lying.
Boston. Friday Night.
13 new voice messages. 25 new texts.
After the first two ignored calls from David, Emma had turned off her phone during the car ride out of Storybrooke to Boston. Graham's Walkie-Talkie was still on, sitting in the front seat next to her. It was silent throughout her journey.
Currently, Emma sat on a bench in Boston's Common staring at her phone debating if she should open any of her new messages knowing exactly who the two people all of them were from.
Her parents.
Her parents?
Her parents!?
Why was David right? Why does part of me believe him?
She turned her phone off. Back on. Quickly off again.
The park was crowded tonight. People off all ages walking through it, enjoying the night with loved ones.
And there she was: alone.
Everywhere Emma looked families were together. Some families were new, with babies in their arms or in the strollers and some families were older with teenagers bickering over parents' attention or their cell phones or whatever game they played to pass the time.
She was always alone.
A toddler was crying close to her. Emma turned her head to find the source. A father was holding his daughter tight with a painful expression on his face: He'd give anything for her to shut-up, but nothing he could provide at that moment would sooth her. He rubbed her back, but her crying continued. Finally, the father lowered himself to the grass, gently placing his daughter on the ground out of his arms.
By the time the father had reached for a toy out of his backpack, his daughter had already stopped crying. Some fireflies flying around her in the grass caught her attention. Both Emma and the father smiled at the same time. The two adults only had the same emotions for an instant, and then when the father went down to play with his daughter who was trying to catch the fireflies, tears filled Emma's eyes for the thousandth time that day.
She turned on her phone and chose to listen to last message first.
"Message 13: 'So, I'm sorry for all of my crazy messages. I'm new at this. I guess I do suck as a Dad. First day on the job and I have already forced you to run away from me. There's so much I have to say to you and I think on the phone – or at least in a voice message is not the right way to do it…I don't know though. Emma, you have a right to be hurt and upset, I'm not going to tell you how to feel or what to do. It breaks my heart that you feel like you were abandoned your whole life – that was never supposed to happen. I promise I will make it up to you. When you're ready, I want tell you what really happened. I'm worried about you. I wish you would call or check in somehow, but I guess I have no right to ask you for anything. Still, I'd appreciated it if you could. Bye, sweetheart.' End of Message."
Emma did not know what to think, or what to feel, or what to do. All she knew was his message had calmed her down somehow in someway she didn't understand.
Now what? Was she just supposed to believe that the man who had left a message that could calm her down was her father?
Belief?
It wasn't about belief.
Despite what Henry said, in her life experience, belief doesn't make things true. Emma wasn't a kid anymore – and even when she was a kid, Henry's statement still would not have made any sense to her. No, Emma wouldn't believe she found her parents simply because Henry and David believed it. She needed proof.
Proof?
Was the blanket enough proof for her?
It sure was enough for David. Then again, he "supposedly" had remembered the blanket from a "past" life. How did he know about the blanket if he didn't remember it? It doesn't seem like the type of thing Mary-Margaret would ever have reason to bring in conversation. Emma admitted that it was odd David could describe the only gift she connected to her parents without even seeing it.
Connection?
Mary-Margaret had said she had felt some sort of connection to her when they met. Did she feel it too? If she did, it was so deep there's no way she was conscious of it. How about David? Emma always thought Henry's ramblings had made her think about him differently. Now that she thought about it, Emma could remember making a conscious choice not to think of David at all.
A conscious choice not to think at all.
That sounded good at the moment.
Storybrooke. A few seconds later.
"She still won't pick up her phone," David called to Mary-Margaret as she went to make more hot chocolate.
"She turned it off, David." Mary-Margaret stated for the thousand time that evening.
"I swear it was just on."
She turned to face him, and looked at him knowingly. "I thought you promised her you were going to stop."
"No, I promised her I wasn't going to tell her how to feel or what to do anymore."
"Is there a difference?"
David took a deep breath and softly threw his phone down the table, physically letting it go for the first time. He put his hands over his face as if cleaning it without water. "I don't know."
Mary-Margaret brought the hot chocolates over to table and placed them there. Her hands went to his face to comfort him. With her thumb tracing his check, she said, "It will all be okay, I promise. Emma will come back."
David looked up at her statement. He placed his hands on her arms. "Does that mean you believe me?"
"I don't know." Mary-Margaret kept her hands on his checks, but closed her eyes. "Maybe."
"You told me just an hour ago that her blanket smelled familiar to you."
Mary-Margaret smiled sadly. "I don't think that means anything." She opened her eyes and looked into his. "I don't think you want me to believe you right now."
Sadness came over David. "What?" He asked softly. "Why not?"
Mary-Margaret removed her hands from his face, grabbed Henry's book from further down the table and held it up. They had argued loudly about his book an hour ago. Now the conversation was soft and quiet. "Because this book doesn't mean anything to me. Don't you want me to tell you I believe you when I actually remember the content in the book? "
"So, you're open to the idea?"
Mary-Margaret smiled, and David felt her lightness of tone. "I usually don't allow crazy people in my house."
David smiled back at her, reaching for one of her hands.
"All I can say is," she looked at Henry's book and then back at David. "I've now heard the theory enough times in this town to know it means something. Whether it's just a legend, I don't know. As I've now told you, I felt a connection to Emma when we met. Through our relationship as roommates and friends I have grown to love her."
"You do?"
"Of course. I just don't show it by pounding her with calls and texts."
"Hey!" David pointed at her playfully and then at her phone on the counter. "Don't pretend you haven't been doing the same! I've seen you trying to hide your phone beneath the counter."
Mary-Margaret opened her mouth as if responding to an accusation of great offence. "I have not," but then David looked at her and leveled her with his eyes. "Okay!" She said, and he smiled. "But just to contradict all your crazy messages!"
David leaned forward into Mary-Margaret, their faces moving closer. "Well, she should have some balance in her life."
"Balance is good," Mary-Margaret said into his lips before they molded together.
Storybrooke. Midnight.
A man shut off the lights to his workshop in the back of his store. He took his cane from the wall and walked to his store counter where he kept his key in the cashier box. He picked it up, locked his workshop door, and then proceeded down his shop to finish locking up for the night.
He heard a crunching sound beneath his feet. "Oh, yes," he said to the empty room. "Of course."
The man looked down at the fragmented glass pieces on his store floor and smiled. "Those Charming unicorns." He slowly walked to the back of his store again to grab a broom and a dustpan.
He continued to smile slightly as he finished sweeping up the glass on his hardwood floor. Once all the glass was in his dustpan and no evidence of a mobile could been seen, he walked over to his trash can and let all the tiny pieces slide off to mix with other debris and discarded items, never to be seen again.
"It was never doing any good hanging in my shop, anyway."
The man finished locking up his shop. When on the other side of the door, he pushed on the handle to make sure it was locked.
It was chilly outside this time of night in Storybrooke. He stopped walking to button up the rest of his jacket on his way home. With one hand keeping the top part of his jacket closed and the other holding on tightly to his cane, the man continued on his journey home.
When he passed the heart of downtown, something made look up. Whatever it was: gut instinct, worry, hope, or his personal fears that made up do it, he would forever regret his decision.
The hands on Storybrooke town clock had stopped moving.
It was stuck at four o'clock that afternoon.
"Damnit, Emma," the man cursed at the clock. He starred at the clock, not moving, for one more minute before turning his back on it. He did not want to look at the still clock ever again.
He would have to take another path to work tomorrow, if he needed to show up anywhere at all.
Author's Note: The clocks stops and my story truly starts to begin! People that made me happy this week? Lola, HarrylovesGinny09 and OncerSwarekJateBazeGirlscout, Aod4L, and kuramaangel. I am so glad you guys are enjoying my story and that my story ideas can connect to people other than myself. Until next time!