Mary Margaret
She was a friend. A good friend.
She made cocoa with cinnamon on top, just a sprinkling, but it made the sugary drink brighter, sweeter, more interesting. Emma liked Mary Margaret. She was good to have a laugh with. She was like the mother Emma had never known – well, at least what Emma expected a mother to be.
Valentine's Day had been a disaster. An absolute disaster. Mr. Gold had been arrested, locked up for attempted murder on a florist, a man who, as far as Emma could see, had never done anything to Mr. Gold to deserve such a beating. Emma crept up the stairs silently, hoping not to disturb Mary Margaret. She suddenly stopped on the landing. Crying was peeling away from Mary's bedroom.
With hesitation, Emma crept over to the white door and knocked on it gently – it swung away from its hinges and Emma stuck her head through. "Mary?" She whispered cautiously. The woman on the bed sat up, startled, and looked at the blond standing in the doorway.
"Emma." Mary murmured, before she broke down again. Without saying anything, Emma sat down on the bed and let her friend – her best friend – break into girl sized pieces on her shoulder. And she couldn't do anything about it.
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no white horse for me
