A/N: Hi, my sincerest apologies for the three months that have passed without an update. I keep repeating it everywhere but I'm just really busy with university and I can barely find time to do things that are not for school. Here's a new chapter, hope you like it.
The water keeps running for an extensive time, the small, red dot long vanished with the clear cascade. Emma only shuts the metal tap when it feels like she's not about to break down any moment. But even when the imminent threat is vanquished, she is still shaking; her hands are softly quivering and her legs feel unsteady. It takes time to recover from the shock that reverberated through her body.
One phone call, one that didn't even last longer twenty seconds, has turned her entire world upside down. Or he has, yet again.
Mindlessly, Emma resumes her cleaning. In a more careful manner this time, she gathers the remaining fragments of glass, disposes of them and cleans until the orange stain has completely been absorbed by the mop and there is no trace left of the accident on the floor.
Her radio makes a quiet click, indicating that a new song will start to play and Emma runs towards it, hitting the off button a bit too forcefully. Why did she even choose this CD? Somehow the song that carries the most memories of him, a song she hasn't even heard in her time apart from him, somehow she picked the CD containing that song to listen to. That cannot be a coincidence. It must have been her subconscious already knowing who the mystery caller was before her brain caught on. A little warning would have been nice, though.
Her eyelids shut. Emma covers her face with her hands, the pressure creating colored spots on the dark canvas. Every breath she takes returns as a sigh.
Graham is expecting her in about ten minutes for work but Emma just can't seem to muster the desire to go or get rid of the dread she feels. It has been ages since she took a sick day and lately she has been working a lot of extra hours. She deserves a day to convalesce.
Picking up her phone, she dials her boss' number. The monotonous beep greets her as she waits for someone to respond.
"Graham Humbert," he answers.
Emma runs her fingers through her locks, getting rid off some small knots.
"Hey, Graham. It's Emma. I won't be able to come into work today, I'm feeling a bit under the weather."
It is not like she's lying. She is not feeling one hundred percent, she's not even feeling optimal. The problem simply lies with her emotional health instead of her physical one.
"Sorry for the late notice," Emma apologizes.
"Don't worry about it, Emma," her boss reassures her in the accent Emma has grown fond of over the time they have worked alongside one another. "August and I can handle it alone for today. Just let me know if you'll come in tomorrow tonight, alright?"
"I definitely will, Graham. Thank you."
"It's only logical that if you're feeling unwell, you get to stay home. Take care of yourself and get well soon!" he wishes her.
Moments like these Emma realizes how lucky she actually is with her life. Her apartment, Henry, the friends she has, her job and her colleagues. When she was a child, she could never have imagined it turning out this good. Nor could she during the excruciating wait in that school bathroom, as the previously blank spot on the stick now bore a blue plus.
Thinking becomes a bit easier when there is no rush, when that hurry and commitment of getting to work on time have disappeared out of the jumble inside Emma's head. Although the prospect of sitting at home by herself and her only company the thoughts don't particularly gratify Emma either.
So, she does something she should have done ages ago; she calls her best friend.
"Emma, finally!" Mary Margaret greets her. "Have you decided which date fits the best for you?"
Right, the dinner and its still unestablished date.
"I haven't yet," Emma confesses, her foot nervously tapping on the floor. "Mary Margaret, are you at home?"
"I am." Mary Margaret sounds a bit confused by her question and the sudden shift of subject.
"Could I come by? Something happened."
She is not able to specify what or who the something is, she doesn't want to. His name hasn't fallen from her lips yet. It is a conscious decision to not utter those three syllables, because she doesn't know what catastrophe might ensue if, after avoiding the name for ten years, she does. This is not the place for it anyway. It should be in the presence of someone else, in the vicinity of her friend's comforting smile and hugs. Awaiting the answer, Emma bites her lip.
"Of course, Emma."
As soon as the agreement reaches her ears, she is mobilized. The phone clenched between her shoulder and ear, Emma forms a quick ending of the call and glances over to her windows. The sky has not cleared yet, the clouds remain dark with rain trickling out of them. She moves in her apartment, to the closet to grab her umbrella, back to the living room to grab her purse, to the hall to find a pair of waterproof shoes. She is the whirlwind of the outside storm.
Decelerating, her feet slip into the pair of boots and her arms slide into the raincoat. Emma shuts the door and locks it up after her as if she was locking all memories of him behind her closed door.
As if, because in truth she carries the memories with her everywhere she goes.
Due to the water pouring down, there really isn't any chance she's going to walk the distance separating them. The drive to the loft Emma's best friend and Emma's best friend's husband/Emma's friend own is not longer than ten minutes. It's the search of a parking spot that takes forever. Emma eventually settles for a spot a couple of blocks over, easing the Bug into the white rectangle. She braces herself for the downpour and locks the car in an unprecedented speed. With the drops thumping down on her hood, Emma runs towards the second-floor loft.
Shaking because of the cold and to get rid of some of the water, Emma rings the doorbell. The first face she sees is that of baby Leo, widely smiling at the sight of his godmother. A smile in response finds its way to Emma's face. Leo is held by his mother, who welcomes her inside their home.
"The weather's terrible, isn't it?" Mary Margaret comments as she sets her son down in his playpen.
Emma hums her answer and hangs up her soaked coat. On her way towards Mary Margaret she halts by her babbling godchild, running her hand affectionately across his head. The room smells great, it smells like cinnamon and chocolate, her favorite combination.
There is a small thud when two mugs of steaming hot chocolate are set on the table.
"When you called saying you would come over, I thought it the perfect opportunity to make some hot chocolate." The corners of her lips curl into a perfect smile. A match for everything else in the perfect life her friend has built.
"Thank you." Emma's hands reach for the blue cup. There's a white blob on top of it and a dusting of the brown spice colors the whipped cream.
"I can't really hide the fact that I'm surprised" Mary Margaret admits, grabbing her own cup and settling in the chair opposite of the one Emma chose. "I thought you were working today."
"I took a sick day," Emma explains before taking a tentative sip of the drink, checking whether or not the temperature has dropped enough to not burn her tongue.
Mary Margaret follows her lead but keeps her green eyes trained on Emma. Emma senses the question in the gesture. Wrapping her cold hands around the warm cup, she takes a deep breath.
"I got a call this night," she starts, her voice barely above a whisper. "It was short and vague and I didn't really think anything about it. Until this morning when I realized who the caller was."
The pause that follows isn't one to create suspense, to spark Mary Margaret's curiosity and make her guess who the caller was. It is not a cruel game of 'I have the answer and you don't'. The pause that follows gives Emma the time to take a breath, granting her some hesitance before dropping the bomb that will most likely stun Mary Margaret. Even if her shock is only half of what Emma experienced, it will stay considerable.
"Who was the caller?" she asks, still immersed in obliviousness.
"Killian."
And there it is. Killian. There is no need to specify which Killian it is because how many Killians are there in the world; how many of those played such a vital part in Emma's years of adolescence; how many of those had Mary Margaret known as well.
The dark, thin eyebrows crease as Mary Margaret leans closer. Her lips spread in surprise. She blinks a couple of times, gathering her thoughts.
"You're sure it's him?" The disbelief is expressed as doubt towards Emma.
Hearing the reluctance slightly stings, but he doesn't mind, she even understands. It sounds crazy, so extremely far-fetched and yet, it was Killian.
The edges of Emma's nails scratch over the table, sculpting little, curved lines in the light wood, small exhibits of her agony.
"Mary Margaret, I'm positive. It was Killian," she confirms.
There are quiet cries of displeasure coming from the box behind Emma and Mary Margaret stands up with an apologetic smile and in search of the reason her son is unhappy. Turning on her chair, Emma follows the brunette with her eyes. Apparently, Leo simply wants to be in his mother's arms, because as soon as she lifts the baby and holds him close, they die down. The both of them go sit down again.
"But why?" The conversation is resumed in a softer tone, the women aware of the almost dozing child. "Why would he call after years of silence?"
There are a couple of scenarios that had already crossed her mind but none of them seemed to reassure Emma. Every possibility her mind conjured up contained a grim component, a bleak situation Killian was in. He could be dying, perhaps he wanted no unfinished business and the situation between the two of them is most definitely an unresolved issue. The thought that he would only call her on the verge of death being the first to come to mind, mirrors how badly she screwed everything up.
"That's the million-dollar question," Emma sighs before savoring another taste of the hot chocolate.
Mary Margaret's fingers tenderly comb through Leo's short blond strands.
"He didn't tell you?" she inquires.
"No." Emma shakes her long strands. "He asked if I was Emma and then told me he had entered the wrong number."
Which was quite an obvious lie. It's strange Killian thought he could get away with that. It doesn't even make sense.
"Call him back."
The statement catches Emma's attention again and causes her to frown in the direction of her best friend. It would not make sense to call him back, either.
"What?" Emma temporarily forgets the hushed volume, her shout of shock stirring little Leo. He isn't too troubled, though because he does not completely wake. Emma feels relieved.
"You call him back," Mary Margaret repeats. "That will take away any remaining doubt and maybe even answer why he called."
It possibly does make sense to call him back, but that does not equate with Emma having to actually do it. Killian and she have history. Of all people, Mary Margaret should know that.
"After what I did to him?" Emma reminds her of that history.
"You weren't the only one to blame and you were seventeen, Emma. He called you first. Maybe he's ready to mend the tear. Are you?"
"I've been ready for years," is her truthful answer.
I'm evil for stopping here, I know. One day (hopefully not months from now) you'll discover if Emma does call, and whether or not Killian picks up. First, we get some more Killian flashbacks in the next chapter. Thank you for enduring my constant suspense and lack of updates.