Hey, all! So…before I started writing this story, I had this extensive outline of all of the things I wanted to happen. You should know that I have gone decidedly off the rails, which means things are getting a little scattery and emotionally ALL OVER THE PLACE. Sorry. This is not perfect and rather choppy, but if I keep it on my computer any longer I may never post it. SO HERE IT IS. Be amazed. I am a perfectionist and do not typically post anything that makes me cringe.

For those who have wondered, this is not an Emma/Mary Margaret romance story. Student/teacher love stories aren't really my thing, especially when the protagonist is under the age of 18 and in the real show they're mother and daughter. *Shudders*

Hope you are all thriving in your various lives. I personally have been binge-watching House and can't help noticing how different Emma is from Cameron. Props to JMo for versatility.

- Endless Author's Note Complete -

Chapter 4

Killed?

Emma had imagined a lot of things that could be responsible for the terror Regina inspired, but murder definitely hadn't been one of them.

She stared at Graham, mouth hanging open. "Wait, what?"

"It's not true."

"Did you just say killed?"

"There's absolutely no reason to suspect them. The guy had a heart attack. Your dad investigated the case, for goodness sake."

"If it was so clearly a heart attack, why would people suspect them in the first place?"

Graham stood from his spot, dirt crumbling away from his jeans. He stared off into the trees ahead. "Unfortunately for Regina, there's been a lot of…weird shit in this town, and she's been at the center of all of it."

"Explain."

"Only if you swear to me you're not going to buy into it."

"Can't I hear it for myself before you go telling me how to feel?"

"No. I need to know you're not going to be crazy like the rest of this town and think Regina is evil. Do you have any idea what that does to a person? Of course she's the way she is. Who wouldn't be?"

"You're displaying an awful lot of sympathy for someone you claim not to love."

He faced Emma, brow hard. "I do love her. As a person. Just because I don't want to be with someone doesn't mean I lose all feeling for them, all right?"

"Okay. Sorry. I know what you mean."

"Do you really, Emma? Because I'm kind of doubting you feel much of anything for anyone."

Emma stood up, fists clenching at her sides. "What the hell? You don't know anything about me."

"I know you've been in this town almost two months and still don't have any friends. I know your dad cries because he doesn't know how to get you to open up."

"What are you talking about?"

"My dad is the deputy. Your dad's best friend. If you bothered to talk to your own father, maybe you'd know that."

Forehead crumbling, Emma tore away from him into the woods.

In a few moments, Graham was trotting beside her. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that."

"Get away from me."

"Please. Don't leave."

Emma faced him with a snarl. "You beg me to come with you. Then you ignore me. Then you tell me I don't feel anything for anyone and I'm making my father miserable. I don't get it. I'm done with it. Stay away from me."

"Emma. Please. I don't know where those things came from."

"You asshole. You talk about Regina having good reasons for being the way she is. Well, maybe I have good reasons for being the way Iam."

"You're right. I'm sorry."

"What is the matter with you?"

"I told you, I don't know."

Emma's breathing finally slowed, and she felt the heat drain out of her face. "Take me home."


It was a long walk back, and Emma would have gladly ditched Graham if she had any idea where she was going.

He tried to get her to talk to him again, but she was done. She wanted nothing more to do with him, ever.

He'd done something terrible: told her the truth. How could Emma be so blind to the ways she must, of course, be hurting David?

She'd thought…she'd thought maybe it wasn't as hard for him as it was for her. She'd thought the kid who'd grown up without a father was the one who got to do the crying.

But she hadn't cried at all. Graham was right. She was heartless.

Once they got to Emma's street, she said, "Now leave."

"I'm sorry, Emma."

"Whatever."

She walked away, and this time he did not follow.


Emma couldn't go into the house. She couldn't explain it. Graham's words kept running through her head, and more and more, she knew there was no walking through that door.

So she stood just beyond the driveway, hugging herself. A shadow passed by one of the windows—her father? She wondered if he was worried about her, though she already knew he was.

She put her head down and kept walking.

It'd been three hours since she'd left the house this morning, so she was hungry. She was also tired, her limbs heavy. After all, she'd spent the entire day sick in bed yesterday, and wasn't exactly 100% yet. But something compelled her away from the house where she'd find as much food as she wanted and her own warm bed.

She was like her mother, after all, denying herself good things.

She trudged down Main Street, passing the small shops with their quirky owners puttering around inside. Some girls from Emma's class were gathered on the sidewalk ahead, and Emma crossed the street. She didn't know where she was going, but definitely wasn't in the mood for peer socialization.

Her cell phone sat in her pocket, turned off. She knew if she turned it on there'd be a blitz of texts from David.

And probably from Ruby, too. But Emma didn't want to talk about Regina right now. Graham's damaging words had put a bad taste in her mouth about the whole mystery she'd gotten so focused on unraveling.

She wanted…peace. A reprieve from all of the tension and drama. If she were back in the city, this would have been right about the time she crept into a Sears and walked away with some random thing: a bracelet, a pot holder. But Storybrooke was too small to do anything like that. And Emma wouldn't do that to David.

Not after all of the pain she'd already caused him.

After a while, she found herself in uncharted territory, way past Main Street on a winding road surrounded by trees. This, Emma realized, was the road the social worker had taken two months ago, when she'd first driven Emma to Storybrooke. If Emma kept walking, maybe hitched a ride with someone, she could leave. Start over somewhere on her own.

Rain began to fall.

A red Jeep was parked up ahead, and Emma recognized it immediately as Miss Blanchard's car. The girl froze. Had she been followed? Then she realized that this must be where Miss Blanchard lived, out by the toll bridge, like she'd said.

Right on cue, there it was, the concrete bridge stretching out across a gurgling river. On the overhanging trees, leaves glimmered in the rain, which had gone from drizzling to pounding.

Dread filled Emma. She was going to have to knock on Miss Blanchard's door and beg for shelter.

Why did the universe hate her?

The house was tiny, and, in fact, didn't look like a house at all. It more resembled a storehouse of some kind, maybe the place early Storybrooke settlers kept winter's ice piled up for summer. Uneven gray stones formed the walls, delicate glass waving in the windows.

Emma noticed that her fingers were blue when she knocked on the plain brown door.

It opened almost immediately to Miss Blanchard's pale face. The woman wore a heavy purple sweater that fell almost to her knees, her black hair sticking up in places.

"Emma?"

"Nice day we're having," Emma said, trying to act casual but unable to hide her shivering. "Can I come in till the rain stops?"

"Of course."

Miss Blanchard threw the door open, and Emma stepped inside.

Naturally, the place was pristine and almost comically quaint. A hefty wooden table dominated half the space. On top of it, colorful balls of yarn were in various stages of unraveling. A half-formed blanket, light blue, was hanging off one side. There wasn't a television, though there was a friendly brown couch that looked like it'd seen better days, as well as a bookshelf packed with volumes of every shape and size. The kitchen made up one small corner of the room—just a stovetop and a fridge—and a shut door indicated that there must be one more section to the tiny house, a bedroom of some kind (and a bathroom, Emma assumed).

It was clear that Miss Blanchard had been spending her Saturday relaxing: knitting and reading and wearing a gigantic purple sweater. All of which confirmed to Emma that the woman was a freak.

"You're wet," Miss Blanchard said, before disappearing into the other room and returning with a pink towel.

"That's okay," Emma said.

Miss Blanchard thrust it at her. "Don't be stubborn."

The girl took it, wrapping it around her shoulders gratefully. If she wasn't mistaken, it smelled faintly of lavender.

"Come and sit down," Miss Blanchard said.

The woman led Emma to the table, where the girl dropped awkwardly into one of the squat wooden chairs. Without asking, Miss Blanchard put a kettle of water onto the stove to boil, presumably with the intention of making tea. Emma couldn't help thinking of David.

Miss Blanchard turned around, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed over her chest. "Last I checked, you were supposed to be at home, resting."

"That didn't really stick."

"Does your father know where you are?"

"No."

"Is he worried?"

Emma shrugged, looking down.

"Why are you here, Emma?"

"Do we have to talk about it?"

"If you want to stay."

Emma rose from her chair.

"Don't," Miss Blanchard said, and Emma sat down again without meeting the woman's eyes.

"I just, um, needed a timeout," Emma mumbled.

"A timeout?"

"A break. From all of it."

"So you came to my house."

"Apparently."

The kettle began to shriek, and Miss Blanchard took it off the red-hot burner. "Okay."

Miss Blanchard set the mug in front of Emma and sat down in the chair beside her. The girl was expecting a barrage of questions, but instead Miss Blanchard picked up her needles and began to knit, acting as if Emma weren't there at all. Emma let out a sigh of relief, leaning back in her chair. This was exactly what she'd wanted, if unconsciously: just a few minutes when no one was trying to get close to her, or be her friend, or figure out how to get her to open up.

Someone who just…acted like Emma belonged.

It wasn't clear how much time passed, but Emma grew more and more sleepy. She sipped the bitter tea Miss Blanchard had made, and when she finished it, got up and made more without asking, helping herself to a few slices of the bread that sat out on the counter. Miss Blanchard said nothing, fiddling with the needles. She hummed under her breath every so often.

Emma went to the couch and lay down. Before long, she was asleep.

Much later, Emma thought she heard quiet voices.

"I think you should leave her here."

"What?"

"Sheriff, please don't take this the wrong way. Emma needs a break."

"From me?"

"Yes. She…that's what she told me. That she needed a timeout. I'm sure you're doing a great job, but it's a lot for a seventeen-year-old, living with the father she just met. A lot of pressure."

There was a moment of silence. "You wouldn't mind?"

"No. I care about Emma. She's no trouble."

Soft laughter erupted.

"Okay, she's trouble. But nothing I can't handle."

"For how long? A day? A week?"

"Let's play it by ear, okay?"

"Do I have…visitation rights at least?"

Miss Blanchard's voice took on a subtly different tone. "Full rights."

"Well." A pause. "That's good to hear."

Footsteps sounded against the creaky wooden floorboards. "I'll come back tomorrow morning. With some things for her."

"See you then."

The door clicked shut gently. Emma drifted into deeper sleep.


Apparently, Miss Blanchard got up at the crack of dawn every day.

The woman was awake and singing in the "kitchen" before the sun had even come up. Groaning, Emma sat up on the couch, stretching her arms behind her head. She felt…different, like she'd slept a thousand years. Yesterday's adventure in the woods was a blurry memory.

"Eat up, Emma," Miss Blanchard said, slapping a plate down on the table, which had been cleared of yarn since yesterday. "We've got library duty."

"Wait…what?"

"Book drive. Sorting. You know the drill."

"But." Emma rubbed her eyes with her knuckles. "Wait, what's going on?"

Miss Blanchard walked over to the couch. Impossibly, she was already dressed and radiating the smell of shampoo. "If you're going to stay with me, you've got to help out."

"Stay? With you?"

"The sheriff brought over your toothbrush and some other things of yours. You're welcome to use the shower. Actually, please use the shower. You're covered in mud."

Emma clambered to her feet, thoroughly disoriented. "I'm staying with you?"

"Yep."

"But…David."

"He's informed."

Emma stood there like a dummy.

Miss Blanchard clapped her hands. "Hello! Shower!"

Emma jumped, found her things by the door, and headed into the other room, too shocked and disoriented to really ask questions.

In a few minutes, she emerged from the other room dressed in clean clothes, wet hair hanging down her back. Miss Blanchard was at the table, eating eggs and reading a newspaper. Another plate sat waiting for Emma. The girl sat down and started shoveling down food.

They were silent, though not awkwardly. It felt weirdly normal to Emma, though she was still wondering what was going on.

When Emma was finished, she got up and washed her plate, still feeling somewhat dazed. Miss Blanchard added her plate to the pile, and Emma washed it absentmindedly.

"I slept the whole night," Emma said.

"You did."

"That couch. It's comfortable."

"So it seems."

Emma dried her hands, and they headed out the door together.


What about Miss Blanchard made Emma trust her so easily?

This was what Emma thought about as she panted up and down the stairs with piles of books in her arms. After all, it didn't make much sense. The woman was a teacher, for one, of a subject Emma thought was genuinely stupid. Then there was the way she dressed: like a bouquet of flowers come to life. To top it all off, she wasn't particularly nice to Emma. Well, she was nice, but "nice" wasn't the right word for it. "Stern" was better.

"Motherly" was even better.

Miss Blanchard treated Emma like a mother should treat her daughter, Emma realized with sadness.

Sadness because she already had a mother. Wasn't it wrong to accept motherly affection from someone when you already had the real thing?

Except Emma didn't have the real thing. She'd been cheated out of it by her mother's addiction. Was it so wrong—was it really terrible—for Emma to find what she needed from someone else?

She wasn't sure. But the part of her that suffered each day—the part that was small and scared and incomplete—hoped Miss Blanchard wouldn't change her mind about her. Wouldn't realize what Emma really was—a screw-up and a troublemaker—and become cold toward her.

Throughout the morning, Emma and Miss Blanchard said little to each other, working diligently to organize the ever-sprawling piles of books in the library's dusty upper room. Around lunchtime, when both of them were aching from all the lifting, Miss Blanchard suggested they head over to Granny's.

"Could we go somewhere else?" Emma said, swiping dust off her jeans.

"You don't like Granny's?"

"Well, I do. I actually don't want to run into Ruby."

"Oh. I thought you and Ruby got along."

"It's kind of a long story."

"You know, Emma, running away from a problem doesn't make it go away."

"But it does mean you don't have to deal with it yet."

Miss Blanchard rolled her eyes. "I'll get the food to go. You can wait outside."

"Thanks."

They emerged from the stale-smelling library into bright light, yesterday's clouds nowhere to be seen. Emma glanced at Town Hall, with its stark white paint and classical pillars, but didn't see the mayor anywhere. The girl had yet to glimpse the woman who had already caused her so much trouble.

She thought of Graham telling her that the mayor and her daughter had murdered the last English teacher—and shuddered. Yep, Emma wanted nothing to do with any of that stuff anymore. She felt confident in her decision to leave well enough alone.

When they got to the diner, Emma asked Miss Blanchard to get her a grilled cheese, then snuck off to the side of the building, where she hoped she wouldn't be seen.

"Someone doesn't answer texts," Ruby said.

The girl was leaning against the building, her tall frame hugged by a tight red dress that seemed a flagrant violation of even the world's most liberal employee dress codes. A cigarette in one hand, she scowled at Emma. It figured Emma would stumble right into the girl's break.

"Sorry," Emma murmured, turning to leave.

"Aren't you going to give me some excuse for ignoring the, oh, nine or so texts I've sent you since Friday?"

"I didn't want to talk to you?"

Ruby laughed, seemingly genuinely. "Emma Swan, you're an honest person."

"So I'm told."

"You don't want to hear about what's up with Regina, even though it definitely involves your mother?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Emma shrugged, moving to lean against the wall, too. "Maybe it all creeps me out. Hey, can I get one of those?"

Ruby handed her a cigarette and a red-studded lighter. Emma was relieved to light up and take a deep breath in. It'd been a while since she'd smoked, since she only did it in school, during lunch, and she'd been out of school since Friday. No amount of nicotine addiction could compel her to smoke at home, where David might find out.

"So, what?" Ruby said. "You're just going to let Regina reign queen? You don't care that she's evil?"

"Maybe she's not evil, Ruby. Did you ever think she's just screwed up?"

"If you knew what I knew—

"I don't want to hear it."

They were silent for a few seconds, breathing and puffing.

Finally, Emma said, "Why don't you stop her, if it means so much to you?"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"She has power over me, over all of us. You're the only one who's ever stood up to her."

"She has power over you?"

"It's hard to explain. It's, like, she can make people do what she wants. Graham, for example—

"Please. I don't want to know."

Ruby kicked the back of her heeled boot against the building. "You could still hang out with us, you know. Me and Belle."

"Not to talk about Regina?"

"No. We could just…chill. Watch a movie or something. Get into trouble."

"I'm not big on the trouble these days."

"Movie, then. Planet of the Apes. Belle has a thing for animal movies."

"Emma Swan." Having spotted Emma with a cigarette, Miss Blanchard dropped the two paper bags she was holding.

Ruby stiffened. Emma froze. Miss Blanchard's face was the image of rage.

She stomped up to Emma, snatched the cigarette out of her hand, and threw it on the pavement, grinding it under her pale pink flat. "I cannot believe that you would smoke knowing the risks of giving yourself cancer!"

"Well, I'd better get back to work." Ruby scurried away.

"That goes for you, too, Ruby!" Miss Blanchard said.

When she turned back to Emma, her face still contained enough redness to fill a tomato. She pointed toward the road. "Let's go! March!"

Emma jolted into action.

Maybe motherly affection wasn't all it was cracked up to be, after all.


Sunday turned to Monday, Monday to Tuesday, Tuesday to Wednesday, and still Emma stayed in Miss Blanchard's tiny home, spending her nights on the brown couch. Soon, a week had gone by. Then two.

They got into something of a rhythm, Emma and Miss Blanchard (who started to let Emma call her "Mary Margaret" as long as they weren't in school.) In the mornings, they would go to the library and sort through the latest shipment of children's books. Then, Mary Margaret would drive them to school, leaving Emma at least a block away so no one would know they were getting there together. (Emma didn't want it going around that she was living with her English teacher, especially because it would raise questions about David's ability to parent.) After school, while Mary Margaret did classroom chores and grading, Emma would go to the sheriff's station and do her homework there, so that she could spent time with David. Miss Blanchard would come pick Emma up around five, and they would go back to the small house, where the woman would compel Emma to complete her schoolwork and only then allow her to listen to music or read a magazine.

David's eyes grew sad when Emma said goodbye each day, but Emma couldn't help wanting to leave with Mary Margaret. It was so much…less complicated. The woman wasn't related to Emma, didn't have all this angst pent up about leaving her alone all her life. For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, Emma felt like she could breathe.

They'd had some good times, Emma and her father. She couldn't deny that she felt real affection for him.

But it was all too painful for her to deal with. The idea of making him cry.

One year, she thought. One year in Storybrooke, and then she could leave and be done with it all. Though the idea of saying goodbye to David, Mary Margaret, and even Ruby was increasingly painful.

Just not as painful as the idea of staying.

Still, as the days wore on, Emma grew increasingly in awe of Mary Margaret. The things the woman could get done in a day. She made elaborate breakfasts: eggs, pancakes, bacon. She graded papers with a dopey smile. She kept her house so clean and tidy Emma suspected there were birds doing the chores when no one was looking. Mary Margaret was just…so…capable. Tough.

Happy.

How did she get that way?

More and more, Emma woke up earlier so she'd have time to eat breakfast with Mary Margaret, not just shove it in her mouth on their way out the door. When Mary Margaret was reading on the couch, Emma found herself sitting down next to her. Emma even said yes to going for walks in the woods, pretending she didn't really want to go but actually cherishing the woman's company.

Emma couldn't help it. There was something about hope that drew you to it, like a moth to the flame.

"Emma, you have a phone call," Mary Margaret said one evening.

Sprawled on the couch with one of Mary Margaret's reading assignments held open above her head, Emma frowned. "From who?"

"Forgot to ask."

Sighing, Emma rose from the couch and walked over to the landline: a corded phone actually attached to the wall. Only in Storybrooke.

"Hello?" Emma said with the phone to her ear.

"Emma."

There was a whack! as Emma dropped the phone. Mary Margaret jumped at the sound.

"Who is it?" Mary Margaret asked, one hand on her heart.

Emma felt the color drain out of her face. She reached down and picked up the phone. "How'd you get this number?"

"Your father gave it to me."

"He wouldn't do that."

"Please, Emma, talk to me. It's been so long since I've heard your voice."

Emma swallowed hard. "I don't want you to call me, okay? That's why I haven't been answering."

Her mother's voice grew low and urgent. "You have to leave Storybrooke, okay? Run away. Don't ever go back."

"What?"

"It's dangerous for you to be there. Please. I've been trying to tell you all along—

Emma hung up the phone, then slid down the wall and hugged her knees to her chest.

Mary Margaret remained with her hand on her heart, staring at Emma with an open mouth. Finally, understanding dawned on the woman's face. She pulled out one of the chairs and slid it close to Emma before sitting down.

"Your mom?" she said.

Emma nodded, not meeting Mary Margaret's eyes.

"What'd she say?"

Emma shrugged.

Mary Margaret laid a hand on Emma's arm, causing the girl to jump, though Mary Margaret didn't remove her hand.

"Why did you have to leave her?" the woman said.

Emma looked up coldly. "Don't you already know?"

"Why would I know?"

"Come on. This is Storybrooke. Nothing stays a secret."

Mary Margaret smiled in a sad way, sighing. "Okay. You were right, that day I first tried to talk to you. The teachers were briefed on some of your…situation." When Emma's brow grew hard, Mary Margaret held up a hand and continued talking. "But I didn't feel bad for you. I still don't."

"Why's that?"

"Because I know a thing or two about hard situations. I know they make you stronger, not weaker. So maybe you've been through a lot, Emma, but it takes about five minutes with you to see it's made you tough, not weak. I didn't feel bad for you that day. I respected you."

Emma looked up with an unhappy, broken smile. "You're wrong. It has made me weak. I'm…damaged goods."

"That's not true."

"It is. I can't get close to people. I can't let anyone in."

"You're letting me in right now."

Emma held the woman's gaze for a long moment. "Yeah, well, you're a freak."

Mary Margaret crossed her arms over her chest. "Hey!"

"I mean it. My defenses were not prepared for your kind."

"I resent that."

Emma swallowed. "Mary Margaret?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks for letting me stay with you."

The woman smiled, before her eyes filled with tears. "You're welcome!"

"Oh jeez."

Mary Margaret clutched both hands to her chest. "You made a heartfelt statement!"

"Which I'm rapidly regretting."

She leaped from her chair. "I'm going to bake something!"

Shaking her head, Emma watched her start rifling through her cabinets like a raccoon on speed. Once again, Emma felt deep appreciation for her…despite her very evident insanity.

The sound of her real mother's voice echoed in her ears. It's dangerous for you to be there. Emma felt anger like geyser blowing steam in her chest. Her mother didn't want her to be happy. That was why she was telling her to leave. She wanted Emma to be just as miserable as she was.

But what if it was true? What if was dangerous here, like Ruby had said, and Emma was ignoring it?

Plus, her mother had always been unhappy herself, but she'd never gone out of her way to sabotage Emma. Her mother loved her. Emma knew it was wrong of her to believe her mother would deliberately spoil her happiness.

Then why had her mother told her Storybrooke was dangerous?

Emma pressed her forehead into her knees and sighed. A moment later, she pulled her phone from her pocket and texted Ruby. Let's meet up. I'm ready to talk about Regina.

Within seconds, Emma got a text back. Tomorrow night?

SAY WHAT YOU THINK. (Though do be gentle about it.)