More than once she'd thought about moving. It's not that she didn't like her job, or her family really (as much as she loved to complain about them). She couldn't shake this feeling like she was a loser for still being in Storybrooke.
This was especially apparent on days like today - she'd agreed to run errands with her mother ("we hardly ever see you anymore") and the final pillars of her patience were propped up only by the double dirty chai latte with cinnamon she'd been nursing for the past hour.
Her mother had been rambling endlessly about how things were at school (she'd taught the 2nd grade for 15 years now) and despite her best efforts, she was starting to zone out.
"... you know, the one just off of main street?" Mary Margaret's eyes roamed her daughter, unsure if she was still following the conversation.
"I'm sorry, what?" Emma snapped out of her daze.
"The Catholic church just off main street. Your father wants to start going to church again." Mary Margaret repeated.
"Huh. Any reason in particular?" Emma's heart sped up at the mention of the church, the memory of her recent "confession" still fresh in her mind.
"I don't think there's some specific reason, but you know he went every Sunday with his mother - and he just misses her so much sometimes." Her mother's eyes welled up almost imperceptibly at her husband's pain.
David and his mother had always been incredibly close, and when cancer claimed her life a few years back, he'd nearly lost it.
"I know it's been a few years, but, maybe it's just a way to feel close to her. Anyway, we're going this Sunday."
"Well, maybe I'll come with you guys," Emma chimed in.
The look on her mother's face was a priceless combination of shock and confusion that had Emma laughing so hard she doubled over and almost spilled her drink.
"Geez, mom! It's not like I'm a Satanist or something!" She was still chuckling as her mother tried desperately to mitigate the harshness of her reaction.
"No, I know that, of course. I think that would be wonderful. I just never… I'm just surprised is all. I can't imagine you in a church." Mary Margaret was clearly both amused and delighted at the idea.
"Are you sure you want me to come? I might pull an Al Pacino and get burned by the holy water with all my evil-ness on such hallowed ground," Emma teased.
"Really, though - all joking aside - we'd love that." Mary Margaret combats her daughter's flippant comments with deliberate sincerity.
"It's a date." Emma smiles sweetly in response - belying the decidedly sinful reason behind her sudden interest in the church.
He'd been struggling to come up with this week's sermon, which was frustrating after he'd been on such a roll.
Maybe a Psalm? Perhaps the Sermon on the Mount? Some of the I Am statements?
Running his hand roughly through his hair, he leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling - as if by some miracle the words would appear before him on the wooden beams.
He knew exactly what God wanted him to talk about, but he refused to acknowledge it.
The signs were everywhere: the damn pamphlet that was exactly the same as all the others, but somehow stood out everytime he walked by, as if it was inked in neon; that Nolan girl's phone number scrawled on a post-it after it had faded from his skin; the confessional booth that he could hardly look at anymore without practically drowning in the stormy sea of his guilty conscience.
Sexual immorality. That's the topic that's been thrown in his face over and over again, but talking about it would make it too real - and he's convinced that every single person in the pews would somehow know the topic was close to home.
After wrestling with it for another day, he decided he just couldn't wait any longer. Maybe if he tackled it head-on God would cut him some slack and make this whole situation easier somehow. It'd be a miracle, and though he'd studied them, he had never really believed in them.
Once he finally accepted that he had to talk about sexual immorality, the sermon came to him easily. Finding the words and the commands were never difficult - it was just following them that he struggled with.
Next up was preparing the slides. It had irked some of the more traditional parishioners that he used his phone from the pulpit to direct the slides himself, but he'd always been adept with technology, and he preferred to run the service himself.
He was halfway through preparing the slides when a text popped up from a number he didn't recognize.
It simply read: Father Jones?
Curious. He tried to think about who he'd given his cell number to recently, but nobody came to mind.
That's correct. I'm sorry, but I don't have your number saved. Who am I speaking with?
His friends in seminary used to tease him about how formal he was in text messages, but he never could bring himself to use misspelled abbreviations when it only saved three seconds of typing, but caused four minutes of confusion to decode.
You'll see. Just wanted to make sure I had the right number. ;)
His eyebrow quirked skyward at the cheeky response. It had to be Emma. But how did she get his number? And what did she mean by "You'll see"?
He didn't have much time to think about it, as Lucy rapped on the door frame with a few visitors in tow for a quick introduction and tour.
"Mr. and Mrs. Nolan, this is Father Jones. Father Jones, Mr. and Mrs. Nolan."
His heart jumped into his throat as he took in the sight of them [her parents?!]. They were the very picture of classic American suburbanites.
He was tall, handsome and clean cut, wearing jeans and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She was petite, but held a quiet confidence and strength behind her friendly features.
After shaking their hands he manages to find his voice.
"Very nice to meet you both. Any relation to Emma Nolan?"
The look of surprise at his mention of her must mean that the didn't know about her community service assignment.
"She's our daughter, but how do you know her?" Mary Margaret asks.
He's suddenly extremely nervous. How much is he supposed to say? Should he say anything at all? He hardly knows Emma, but he bristles at the thought of upsetting her by sharing more with her parents than she'd like.
"She's been looking into volunteering here. We met briefly to discuss programs that may be of some interest to her." There. Vague enough, and not lying, but doesn't give too much away.
The look on David's face could best be described as skeptical, but for some strange reason Mary Margaret seems a little more accepting, though very ready to change the subject.
"Well, as the town sheriff, I thought I'd finally drop by and introduce myself," David picks up on his wife's unease and redirects the conversation. "We've been trying to get better about attending regularly, but, you know how it goes."
"Aye. It can be difficult sometimes, but I applaud your dedication and efforts to make God and the church a part of your life. Will I see you for mass tomorrow then?" He stands up and leads them to the door of his office.
"Yes, Father. Looking forward to it." Mary Margaret says cheerily and Lucy follows them out, shutting the door behind them.
He's left wholly unsettled. She's the sheriff's daughter. Of course she is.
Determined to overcome his indecent thoughts (and recently actions), he threw himself into crafting his sermon - skipping dinner altogether until the damn thing was finished. It was as if each line was part of a conversation with his inner-demons.
The sermon was essentially a war with himself - chastising, persuading, begging. He knew all the words about how he should be, all the words about why this was sinful and wrong, all the words about why he was going to hell for embracing it and falling short of his calling - but by the end he just felt exhausted and guilty.
He needed to sleep. He'd have to be at the pulpit in the morning - and Lord knows this wasn't going to be an easy topic.
The next morning he steeled himself for the task ahead - buried in the routine of the rest of the service. That's one thing he'd always loved about the Catholic church - so much of it was so routine for him now that he could do it backward, forward and blindfolded. There was some comfort in that.
But all too quickly the routine was complete and all eyes and ears were on him - waiting for his message. He set in explaining their topic for the day and scanned the pews just like he did every other Sunday.
"It may be an uncomfortable topic, but it's one that is incredibly important. Especially in our modern age when it seems that sensuality and sex is everywhere you look."
His eyes land on Mr. and Mrs. Nolan, the prim epitome of the attentive churchgoer. But right next to her father was Emma - and the sight of her made him want to throw up. He felt his face go pale as his stomach dropped.
Why on earth was she here?! Oh God. Oh God. She's going to know this is all about her. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
It was only when she smirked at him and looked to the others to the right and left of her that he realized he'd fallen silent.
"Sexual immorality." With extraordinary effort he forced himself to continue.
For the first 10 minutes he managed to drag himself through the message. Adultery and divorce were relatively easy - and he felt like God was guiding him - helping him hit his stride. Maybe he could do this after all.
He used his phone to pull up the next set of slides about lust (purposefully avoiding the entire right side of the church) and as soon as he got the scripture up the phone vibrated against his fingers and a message popped up.
Enjoy the show ;)
It was at that moment he thanked God for the feature on the program that only showed the slides and not everything that happened on his phone - because a picture that came up nearly stopped his heart, and he can only imagine what it would have done to the 88-year-old Mrs. Clarke in the front row.
Emma Swan's likeness was on his screen - from her bare shoulders up, lips caressing a bright red and shining wet lollipop, her cheeks hollowed suggestively and her eyes alight with mischief. The blood running through his veins was at once ice from the shock, and fire from the arousal the image conjured.
His eyes flicked to her sitting serenely in the pews with her parents - the ghost of a smirk on her lips, knowing what he'd just seen. She must have set the text on a timer - her hands were still folded neatly in her lap - phone nowhere in sight.
He cleared his throat and attempted to carry on with the sermon, but for the next 30 minutes another picture flashed on his phone every 5 minutes - without fail.
They got progressively more obscene - the lollipop, a close up of her face contorted in pleasure, the artful gentle curve of her nude hip and taught stomach, her own hand palming her chest - pink nipples pert and responsive, her hand between her legs followed by another lollipop-like picture - with the candy replaced by two wet fingers.
By the end of the sermon he was painfully hard and dizzy with arousal. He quickly left the pulpit and sought refuge in the small room where they stored the elements of communion. He knew he didn't have much time (he'd already broken tradition by slipping in here for just a moment, but he couldn't very well walk about with his robes tented in that particular area, as it were.
He adjusted himself (luckily the robes hid the bulge incredibly well), and stepped back out to complete the service, skipping announcements entirely and opting to dismiss everyone right away.
As much as he wanted to disappear into his office and relieve the half-hour of extreme sexual tension she'd created, he knew he had to bid a few parishioners farewell to keep up appearances. He stood at the door and said thank you to those who came to the service (he could overhear more than one hushed conversation about what a strange service it was, and how off he seemed).
The Nolan family came up through the crowd and David shook his hand and complimented him on the service, Emma following closely behind. She took the opportunity in the shuffle to get a little closer to him and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest as she slipped her hand down and behind her as she walked by, firmly grabbing his ass for just a second before continuing out as if nothing had happened.
He cursed under his breath, she was playing with fire.
Finally, he was able to escape to his office - taking the steps two at a time and throwing the door shut, flipping the lock in one fluid motion.
He had the traditional robes off and his hand down his pants in record time - he hadn't even bothered to sit down and make himself comfortable. He knew it wouldn't take long.
Tossing his phone onto the wooden desk he pulled his hand back long enough to flip back to the pictures she'd sent him and spit into his palm before continuing to work himself from base to tip.
It only took a minute for that familiar feeling to settle low in his stomach, his muscles drawing tightly, hips rocking in time with his hand rolling over the ridge and head of his cock in earnest - chasing his pleasure.
His hips stuttered and he choked back a grunt as he came into his hand - eyes fixed on the image of Emma's face as she was in the throes of the same kind of ecstasy.
He shuddered and fell back into the visitor's chair in his office - exhausted and sated as he tucked himself away and grabbed a few tissues to clean himself up.
This woman had no shame. She was sexting him during a sermon, and (God help him) he loved every filthy minute of it. He knew he should delete the pictures to help steel himself against further indiscretion, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it.
As much as he hated to admit it, once she set her sights on him - he never stood a chance.