Emma wakes with a pained groan to the incoming orange light of dawn. She acutely feels the brutal injuries from the night before in the alley and gunk in her bleary eyes from crying. Did I seriously cry in Jones' arms? What the hell is wrong with me? I told him about Neal! What the fuck was I thinking? Why the hell did I tell him any of that? And why in the hell did I feel safe with him?
She hastily decides to push the night before aside for the time being. If Jones wants to address it, he can be the one to bring it up. Emma sure as hell won't mention the uncharacteristic display of emotion and vulnerability from either of them. Besides that, safe just isn't something she does. Safe is sure to go away any day now.
Her eyes flick to the storybook on the desk, and it doesn't escape her mind for the remainder of the morning. There's just this feeling in her gut that says the book is significant. Instinctive feelings–aside from the lying thing–may be rare, but Emma heeds and trusts them when they arise.
She prepares for her day, cleaning herself off and completing her chores humming Billy Idol. Mopping the deck, she conceals her wince from her bruised side and arm with louder humming. It draws a skeptical eyebrow from Jones as he comes up on deck from his rounds, but not a comment. The fact that she's starting to recognize his expressions, even what all the various positions of his dancing eyebrows suggest, might disturb her. Because it's not solely survival and getting to know what sets off his temper. It's getting to know him. Which is what happened last night. And something she wants to avoid addressing, for as long as humanly freaking possible.
Her mind wanders back to John Doe and Mary Margaret. There's something there. Just the sparkle in Mary Margaret's eyes as she looked at the man. Something's there. She wonders how to wake him up.
The book! Maybe. It did pop up to her like magic. Jones said it contained the truth of these classic fairy tales. Is it supposed to help her break the curse? It might help if you read it more thoroughly. You know, gathered a bit of reconnaissance from a reliable source. You know, figure out what the hell you're actually doing. Quit flying by the seat of your pants taking shots in the dark. Try reading the damn thing! Wait a minute, reading it…it couldn't hurt for a volunteer at the hospital to read a book to a coma patient.
Emma has no idea where that thought came from. But once it's out there, it makes a certain amount of sense. Or has a certain amount of staying power. She can't quite shake the feeling that asking the teacher to read to the coma patient might benefit them both. It ignites a certain gut feeling, a surety that this must work.
The entire purpose behind the curse, or an additional piece of it, was to take away their memories. Restoring their memories and reminding them of who they are should have an impact, right? Since the book contains all the accurate stories, it should work, right? Accurate depictions of who they were will help them remember. When they remember, the curse doesn't necessarily break, but it might weaken. Therefore, the teacher should read the book to the coma patient.
Emma remembers hearing about a study through a radio interview. It might help in explaining this bizarre plan to Mary Margaret. It's worth a shot. What's the worst she can do? Call Emma any names along the lines of stupid or crazy? Been there, done that. Say no and bluntly refuse to help with an admittedly poorly thought-out plan? If that happens, Emma can always read to the coma patient herself. Then what's the worst that could happen? He doesn't wake up? Well, he's in a coma. It's not that clear when, or if, he'll wake up anyway. It's not like reading will hurt him.
"Alright there, Swan?" Jones' voice pries her from her thoughts.
"Huh?" She jumps a bit, glances down at the mop in her hands. "Oh yeah, sorry sir. Just thinking." She bites her lip in thought, furrows her brow as she tosses the water and puts the mop away. "Um, sir, I think I've got an idea. About the curse." Unlike normal, his eyes slightly darken as he frowns. What the hell is that about? That's the entire reason he brought me here, to break it so Gold gets his memories. He shouldn't seem upset about the possibility of it breaking. He doesn't seem hostile, at least not to me. Maybe it's just the last way I went about interfering with it?
"Aye?"
"It's, well, kind of an out-there idea. I mean, I'm sort of fumbling through this curse thing anyway, but I think I have an idea." He lifts his brows in prompting, or to halt her nervous rambling. "I'm thinking of asking the teacher, the one you asked if I thought she looked familiar?" He nods briskly. "I'm going to ask her to read that book, the one you said was all accurate?" He nods again, less certainly. "I'm asking her to read that to a coma patient in the hopes he wakes up." God, that sounds insane when spoken aloud. Good thing Jones is in on the curse, and possibly still batshit crazy. I haven't eliminated that possibility.
For a moment, he stares at her with narrowed eyes and puzzled brows. Then he shakes his head, losing the confusion. "Lass, I'm not even going to attempt to follow that leap." Her eyes fall to the deck and she bites her lip. Stupid, freaking stupid idea! God, why the hell did you have to say it out loud anyway? You're such an idiot! "Hey, Swan," he states gently and tilts his head to meet her eyes. No judgment, no contemptuous sneer, just open honesty. And if she's not mistaken, a bit of gentle patience. "That just means I'm more than three hundred years old and ladies' minds still remain a bloody mystery to me."
She wrings her hands. "It's just, I don't know, I have this gut feeling I can't explain."
He grins. "Well lass, I trust your judgment." Jones declares it so simply, so matter-of-factly. The certainty in his voice overpowers her insecurities. No one has ever so simply trusted her judgment, allowed her to make decisions, put choices in her hands. Certainly, no adult ever has. Adults make and impose the decisions and Emma deals with the fallout. That's how it's been. Not with him, though. Emma feels a smile split her face and beams. "Do what you feel you have to. Anything you require from me, you need only ask." Eyes bright with excitement, Emma nods, then dashes down to her cabin to collect her book. Clutching it eagerly to her chest, she stops at the end of the gangplank, catching Jones' nod of approval.
Grinning, she nods back then sprints the entire way to Granny's, hoping to catch the teacher. As it happens, she crashes headfirst into the woman. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry. Again." Emma quickly rights the folders that had been in Mary Margaret's hands and assists her to her feet.
"Oh no, sweetie. It's okay. Are you okay?" Emma silently nods. "I'm alright. No harm done. You seem genuinely excited about something, though." Mary Margaret smiles brightly, her green eyes sparkling in shared excitement. Emma immediately tamps down on her own enthusiasm.
"Uh, yeah, actually. I was kinda hoping to talk to you."
"Me?" They move to one of the tables on the patio of Granny's. Mary Margaret primly smoothes her skirt as she sits gracefully in the chair. Her ankles are crossed and she sits up straight with gentle dignity and poise. Emma plops down, her legs spread as one bounces in her antsy-ness, chewing on her lip with the uncertainty of how to start. She shrugs her shoulders as if to physically dislodge the tension. Just ask her, you freaking coward!
"Yeah. I was thinking about John Doe." Mary Margaret furrows her brow slightly. "I, uh, heard about this study. Well, it was more an interview of a guy who did this study. This like, doctor guy, not just some Joe Schmoe off the streets. And he was talking about his work with coma patients." Emma follows the understanding written across Mary Margaret's face. She smiles encouragingly and nods for Emma to continue. Emboldened, she does. "He said coma patients experience these periods of consciousness, where they're aware of the world around them. They can hear what's being said and react to it." Mary Margaret's eyes widen. "You were talking about hoping John Doe gets some good out of your visits. And I wanted to make sure you knew about that, because…" Emma looks down at the table, focusing on her book. Feeling like an idiot, she clams up. Because why, Emma? Why are you stupid enough to let these people in? You just wanna get hurt again, is that it? Fucking moron.
Gently, Mary Margaret lays a hand across the table, reaching Emma's. "Because of what I mentioned. Thinking maybe I was the only one who got any good out of it." Her voice is just as soft and kind as her hand. Part of Emma wants to look up and bask in that feeling, but she's felt that before and it's burned her far too many times. The other part has her defenses rising against this woman. That part wants to fling the chair back and sprint as fast as she can for the docks. Run fast and run far from the very fleeting feeling of warmth and kindness. She acts on neither, frozen stiff in her seat.
"Yeah, I just…" she shrugs awkwardly. "Just wondered if you knew that," she mumbles.
Mary Margaret smiles softly. "I actually didn't know that. And I'm glad you told me. Thank you. It feels good knowing that John Doe might get some benefit out of my visits." Her eyes sparkle. "I'm a teacher and am still learning."
"Have you ever thought about reading to him?" Emma blurts out before her walls can stop her. Mary Margaret doesn't balk at her rushed words. She must have students act like a total spaz all the time. None quite as much of a spaz as you just were, though. Like God, you've now crashed into this woman twice and now you're asking her to read to a coma patient. What kind of freak are you?
Instead of balking at her suggestion, Mary Margaret frowns slightly and tilts her head in thought before answering. "No, I haven't. But, based on what you've told me, I think it might be an excellent idea." Emma's cheeks pink a bit at the praise. Mary Margaret glances down at the book on the table. "And if you'd be okay with it, I think these would be perfect."
"Why these?" Thank God she suggested it so I don't have to.
"What do you think stories are for?" Mary Margaret asks. Emma shrugs. Mary Margaret points down at the book on the table. "These stories, the classics, there's a reason we all know them. They're a way for us to deal with our world, a world that doesn't always make sense."
"So it could help John Doe?"
"Well, sweetie, I don't know if it'll help him wake up. In fact, I doubt it. But it could give him the most important thing anyone could have." Emma frowns in confusion before Mary Margaret continues. "Hope. Believing in even the possibility of a happy ending is a very powerful thing."
Emma nods. She traces her finger along the edge of the book, tapping her foot under the table. "That book, they're not exactly the stories in the most traditional sense." Mary Margaret grins.
"What do you mean?"
What do you want, a book report? Emma shrugs. "I haven't read all of them. Mostly paged through them a little. Rumplestiltskin makes more frequent cameos than any other fairy tale I've read. He's kind of a creepy jerk." As Emma replies and Mary Margaret chuckles, she hears a cane tapping against the sidewalk. Her spine stiffens. Speak of the devil.
"Good morning, Miss Blanchard, Miss Swan. Lovely to see you both." Gold remarks courteously. Attempting to parallel that, Emma turns. All she can imagine, though, is the Crocodile Jones described. A man who ripped out a woman's heart and crushed it to dust. Her attempt at a polite smile slides off her face into a grimace.
"Mr. Gold, good morning." Mary Margaret resplies. He nods with a vague smile.
There's something far too calculating and more than a little satisfied in his eyes, flicking between Mary Margaret and Emma. He looks smug, like he's saying 'I know something you don't'. "Well, I best be off. You two enjoy this lovely day." Mary Margaret offers a polite smile. Emma stares him down until he leaves down the street.
"Emma, if you're not busy right now, I have a group of students coming along to put up some decorations at the hospital for the patients. Why don't you come with me? If you want?" Mary Margaret offers.
Emma joins a group of about a dozen ten-year-olds in their school uniforms, helping to display posters. Most of the posters and drawings are done in bright fall colors. Reds, oranges, and yellows soon line the walls. Pumpkins and leaves cover bits and pieces of the gray paint on the wall. She and Mary Margaret work together to hang a large banner reading 'Get Well' in bubble letters from the ceiling. One girl gets tape caught in her frizzy curls and hisses as Emma carefully extracts it. The students jabber away about what they're deciding to be for upcoming trick-or-treating, with inevitable arguments of which character is cooler. Right, it's already October, isn't it? She makes brief small-talk with some of the patients in the ward. Some talk about how nice it is to see kids helping in their community. They extoll the values of civic engagement and how it's a dying art among the youth. Emma politely nods along. A few mention how, just recently, they've received visitors they never had in the past. Family that they believed forgot about them have now come to visit. More changes. It generates a pleasant feeling in her chest. Stories of families reuniting, of people not being forgotten in the hospital always do.
You'd know the feeling, wouldn't you? Emma shakes off the thought before she drowns in memories of being left alone in the hospital. When she was four and had pneumonia, the Price family deposited her bag at the front desk, not even saying goodbye. When she was six and fell, resulting in a gash needing stitches running the length of her leg, Mr. Richards dropped her off to never come back. When she was seven and broke her leg, Mrs. Ross dropped her off and never came back. When she was ten and running a 104 fever, and God, what even was her name? She left and never came back. If Emma ever thought too much on it, she arrived at a conclusion she hated. As little as these people cared, they cared enough to at least take her to the hospital. Meaning they cared more than her birth parents. The other times, when cops removed her from a home and brought her here, she was examined and questioned, and she just felt tired and cold and exposed. She shakes her head to physically dislodge the memories from her mind. That forgotten, lonely, worthless feeling still lingers in spite of her best efforts to physically shake it off. Why the hell did I agree to this? I hate hospitals.
She excuses herself, taking along a few colored drawings to hang in the maternity ward. Ashley is still there, getting ready to leave with Alexandra and Sean for the big world. Ashley's still glowing with the joy of new motherhood. She and Sean share sweet, loving looks between themselves and their daughter. Little Alexandra sleeps like a rock while the nurse pokes and prods her. Swaddled in her pink blanket, she sleeps safe and sound. The love and pride radiate in waves from both of her parents. Emma smiles at the display and hangs the pictures evenly. Even with the knowledge from Jones of exactly what happens to people who make deals with Gold, Emma only feels more certain she made the right call the day before. God, how was that only yesterday? Scared as she is for what she'll face when the time comes to pay the piper, Emma knows Ashley definitely doesn't deserve that.
Emma returns to the group of students and catches Mary Margaret's eye. She smiles gently. "I've just got to return these kids to school for their parents to pick them up. Then I'll come back and read to John Doe. Why don't you sit and keep him company until I get back? I won't be too long, sweetie." It's not as if she's got something better to do or any better plan, so Emma nods and agrees.
She walks back to the coma patient's room and plops down in a plastic chair next to the bed. "So," she bobs her head and pops her lips. She bounces her foot until nervous energy compels her to pace the room. It's unnerving, she thinks, as she looks at the man. He looks about Mary Margaret's age, maybe a year or two older if anything. He's hooked up to tubes in his nose. If it weren't for the sheer lack of motion in his chest, Emma might think he was sleeping. Generous windows surrounding the room allow plenty of early afternoon sunlight in. Something about this man looks familiar in the same way Mary Margaret did on first seeing her. Emma tilts her head, considering. The man has a sandy buzzcut, strong features, lines around his eyes that suggest he's usually smiling or laughing, and a small scar on his chin. Emma shrugs. Never seen this guy in my life, so I don't know why he feels so familiar.
"It's gotta suck," she remarks out loud, "being trapped in your own head." She's saved from having to initiate any further one-sided conversation when Mary Margaret returns, her skirt swishing around her legs and her green sweater wrapped snugly around her.
"Do you want to stay for the story?" she offers. Emma blinks in surprise and Mary Margaret chuckles nervously. "I'll admit, whenever I read aloud, it makes me nervous when I don't recieve a reaction. I'm accustomed to reading to ten and eleven year olds, who will definitely voice their commentary on the stories I read." Mary Margaret chuckles affectionately. Nodding understandingly and trying to tamp down her enthusiasm at the idea, Emma smiles. She hands off the book, and Mary Margaret sits down at John Doe's side on the bed. Emma takes the chair on the opposite side.
Mary Margaret sighs. "Look, I know this may seem odd." She encounters Emma's eyes across the bed. "But I'm doing it for a friend." They both share a smile. "So please just bear with me." She opens the book and starts at the beginning, reading clearly like Emma would expect a teacher to. "As the prince chased the thief on horseback through the treacherous forest, his betrothed crossed her arms and pouted, wondering how many dreadful, boring minutes until they could resume their journey again."
If anyone called her on it, Emma would vehemently deny her interest. Gun to her head, she'd deny picturing the prince chasing down the thief, capturing her in a net then the two embarking on a journey to retrieve his mother's ring. But she leans on her arm as she listens with a wistful, and for once unguarded, expression. She snorts at the origin of Snow White's nickname for her true love, something Mary Margaret chuckles at fondly. She's on the edge of her seat as Mary Margaret reads about the troll bridge, stopping herself from shouting and interrupting 'Turn around!'. When was the last time she actually engaged with a story like this?
"They didn't need words to express what they felt in their hearts. It was here, in the shadow of the troll bridge that their love was born. Where they knew, no matter how they were separated, they would alwa-" Mary Margaret's hopeful words cut short. Emma's wistful expression slides off her face. They both gasp and gape at John Doe's hand, firmly embracing one of Mary Margaret's.
"Sweetie, can you stay here for a moment?" Mary Margaret has returned to her 'teacher voice', gently authoritative. She turns to Emma. Emma looks up, slightly surprised, and nods. "I need to go get Doctor Whale." She leaves quickly and returns a few moments later with the doctor in tow. "I think he might be waking up. He grabbed my hand." Doctor Whale shoots Emma a look that shoos her out of the way. He reaches for one of the devices by John Doe's wrist, eyes flicking between the machines monitoring the patient and the teacher with uncertainty. Mary Margaret meets both the doctor's and Emma's eyes with a hopeful smile.
The doctor shrugs out his arms after a moment. "Everything's steady. Same as it's always been." His narrowed eyes flick between the two ladies. "What were you doing in here?"
"Oh, I was just reading him a story. Emma and I were just visiting."
"Ah," Doctor Whale answers without emotion. Like he's trying not to allow his opinion to be known about how strange it seems to read to and visit a coma patient. "Well, perhaps you, um, dozed off. Perhaps you imagined it," he suggests.
"No, I didn't imagine anything." Mary Margaret shakes her head.
"She's right." Emma pipes up from the corner. Both adults' eyes flick to hers, Mary Margaret's encouraging, Doctor Whale's narrowed in question. "She didn't imagine it. He reached out and grabbed her hand. I was right there," she points to the chair at the doctor's side.
Doctor Whale sighs. He gestures to the machines blinking steadily behind him. "I can only tell you what I see, which is," he turns to the machines himself. "Nothing." Emma's gut clenches at the falsehood. There's something. She doesn't know what, but there is definitely something. Hands on his hips, he continues. "Sometimes there are minor fluctuations in readings. Perhaps you heard the machine register something and misunderstood?" His brow is furrowed and his forehead is lined as he offers a possible explanation.
Confusion has chased away the hope on Mary Margaret's face.
"Look, why don't you go home? Get some rest." Their eyes flick to the darkening sky outside the window. "If anything changes, I'll call you, okay?" Doctor Whale patiently offers. Mary Margaret nods, picks up her bag and hands Emma her book. Emma follows her swishing skirt as she quickly exits the hospital.
"Do you need me to take you anywhere, sweetie?" she kindly offers.
"Ah, no, thank you. I'm alright. Have a good night, Miss Blanchard." Without another word, Emma turns down the street towards the docks. Her eyes dart around, looking over both shoulders before going anywhere. Her ears are strained, listening for the slightest crunch in the gravel behind her.
Crunch, she detects it. Rather than freezing in place, she turns on her heel to discover nothing behind her. Frowning, she turns back around and continues, walking quickly down a different alley to try and throw off any tail she may have picked up. Crunch, she hears again, a bit louder this time. Fear spikes her heartbeat.
He's playing with me. Hastily, she sets her book down on top of a wooden crate in the alley and scrambles for a weapon. Just as she's reaching for a piece of scrap metal, something from behind roughly shoves her to the ground. Striking the pavement hard on her shoulder, she curls in on herself. Shattered glass on the ground beneath her cuts into her exposed bits of skin.
One hard kick lands in her curved spine. She loses her breath and gasps in pain. The bruises haven't healed from the night before. Pain radiates from them and bursts from new injuries. He kicks her again where her ribs meet her spine. She rolls forward with the force of the blow over the shards of glass, some cutting deeper. Pain screams along her back. Her hand darts out quickly for a weapon when the boot kicks her wrist. Emma kicks backwards wildly, repeating until her foot finally connects with something firm.
On her next kick, a gloved hand grips tight around her ankle and twists and pulls until she's flat on her back. Emma strikes the other foot out wildly, reaching for anything she can touch. The masked man leans over her, getting down and straddling her waist. She bucks her hips up wildly, trying to dislodge him, gritting her teeth as the movement and the extra weight upset the stab wound from the night before.
Feeling someone on top of her, straddling her, holding her down brings bile to the back of her throat. Panicked alarm overtakes her senses. Not again, never again! She wildly flails, flinging her arms and legs every way she can. Some connect weakly, loosely, wounding her more than him. Her wrists and knuckles twinge in pain and protest. Most don't connect with anything at all and only tire her out. When he returns the blows, Emma's able to regain her own senses a touch.
Both arms up and blocking her face, she suffers blow after blow. Each one hurts a little more as the man's fists wallop into her. Ultimately, he seizes both of her wrists and wrenches them to the side painfully. Her whimpered cry of pain gets cut off as his gloved hands wrap around her throat.
Desperate, Emma fights and claws, throwing elbows and knees, nails and fists into her fight. Her vision goes dizzy as tears burn her eyes. She can't breathe. She can barely even think. She tries thrusting her head forward into the man's face. He roughly slams her back into the ground one, two, three times. Something thick and warm runs down her neck. Dazed, dizzy and still struggling to breathe, Emma reaches around her.
Her scrabbling fingers land on a broken beer bottle. The edges of her vision are starting to get hazy. Her lungs are screaming, burning as they demand oxygen. Cold glass cuts into her fingers with a biting sting. In a final Hail Mary, she swipes it viciously across the man's masked face. Hot blood splatters across her own face as she cuts the man. He snarls as he wraps his fists tighter around her throat and slams her into the ground once again.
Desperately, she swipes the broken bottle across the man's throat as he leans over her. She misses as he darts back. Seizing the opportunity for what it is, she desperately swipes again and again, reaching for his throat. As he darts farther back, she scrambles to her feet. On the ground, she spies a twisted piece of metal and dashes to take hold of it. Gripping it like a baseball bat, she swings for the man's head and watches him fall like a sack of potatoes.
Tossing the metal to the ground, she scoops up her book and scampers back to the ship. Maybe I should have asked Miss Blanchard for a ride. She returns to the comforting feel of the Jolly, instantly sensing that Jones isn't on board. Probably staking out Mr. Gold's shop again. He said he was gonna investigate for himself if Gold remembers or not.
She sighs in relief, depositing the book in the cabin, then taking a clean set of clothes to the washing quarters. The water in the washbasin turns red as Emma cleans the back of her head gingerly. She didn't lose consciousness. She's not vomiting. The dizziness has gone away. While her head still hurts, the headache hasn't gotten any worse. Light and noise aren't bothering her. So at least she doesn't exhibit signs of a concussion. Most of her midsection is some shade between black, blue and purple. Poking and prodding gingerly, she discovers nothing broken and nothing shifting in a way it shouldn't. So, there's a plus. Her wound from the day before, barely starting to heal as it was, has torn back open. She quickly cleans and bandages it again. She sustained cuts and scrapes down her arms and face that, if pressured, she can just pretend she tripped and fell. Maybe down a hill, in the woods. The bruises on her arms from blocking the blows might not be accepted like that. But the scratches on her face, if she's fortunate, might be. They're minor enough they might go unnoticed, she hopes. Once the blood is cleaned off, they're small and not too visible. Emma cleans off the grit then takes care of the evidence.
Who the hell is doing this? Why the hell are they doing this? Why the hell have I gotten assaulted in an alley two nights in a row? Who the hell did I piss off enough to deserve this? What can I do about this? Because if I do nothing, one of these nights is going to kill me.
Emma pulls on an old hand-me-down sweatshirt that it's thankfully chilly enough for. The collar covers the blossoming bruises around her neck, and the hood hides the back of her head. She's gingerly moving to mop up when she spots Jones, looking significantly more chipper than she's ever seen him.
As he notices her on deck, his smile only grows. Emma can't help but feel relieved when he doesn't examine her too closely. She barely got away with evading his question last night. She doubts she can do it again. If Jones asks again, he'll likely get an answer, even if he has to keep pushing until he does so. And as dangerous as it is, there's still a deeply ingrained instinct ordering her to hide it. It's an instinct that has had her hiding injuries for as long as she could remember. Offer a convincing enough lie with an insincere smile and most adults don't look much further. Her own experience also reminds her just how much worse situations get when adults get involved. They always say they can help, but their involvement only made things worse in the past. A fact she accidentally shouted at Jones the night before in her frustration. That same instinct is commanding her to feel ashamed of it, ashamed that she got jumped so easily. He won't be that proud of you or sure of you when he finds out how weak you are.
This is undoubtedly the happiest he's ever looked returning from staking out the Dark One's pawnshop. He's beaming with pride. "Swan, whatever you undertook today has Regina in a right state."
Emma shrugs. Her shoulder screams in protest. "Got the teacher to read to the coma patient. He kinda-sorta woke up." Jones' brow furrows and his eyes narrow slightly, his lack of understanding only slightly dimming his pride. "I mean, he didn't wake up, wake up. I mean, he just grabbed her hand. But the doctor said there wasn't any change in readings, like his vital signs. Doc lied, though. Something changed. Not sure what changed, cuz he's not awake. He grabbed her hand, though." He blinks widely and rapidly a few times, processing her rambling explanation.
"The curse is what's keeping them apart, most likely. Hell, that's its entire purpose."
Emma cocks her head. Her neck's not a fan of the movement. "Really? Why them?"
"Swan, who do you think that woman is? Hair dark as night, skin white as snow?"
She blinks. "Snow White? Is that what you were trying to get me to figure out the other day at the diner?" Jones shakes his head. Then what was it? Some part of her doesn't want to ask, mostly because she doesn't want to hear the answer.
"How far into that book did you read?"
"Not far. Just the stuff you went through with Gold's cameos, then Mary Margaret read the story of Snow White meeting Prince Charming at the hospital today. Why?" Jones just shakes his head in the same way he did at the diner. Like he's waiting for her to determine something that seems obvious to him and thinks she's deliberately being obtuse. She's seen it from too many frustrated teachers to not recognize it. It frustrates Emma, but not enough to make her want to ask. "So if Mary Margaret Blanchard is Snow White, then John Doe the coma patient is Prince Charming?" He nods.
"Regina specifically targeted her step-daughter with this curse. So bringing the two of them together may represent a devastating blow." He grins. "You did good work today, Swan." She's glowing with pride at the praise. Warmth glows in her chest and overrides the pain and panic from the alleyway.
That glow has her cheerfully humming Popeye the Sailor Man through her chores, to Jones' amusement. He remarks, "Finally, one of your songs sounds like a proper shanty." She shrugs with a small grin and resumes her work until she witnesses a vaguely familiar man running from the cannery in a hurry. She narrows her eyes in focus and moves close enough to hear, Jones not too far behind.
"Look, Mick, I gotta go. It's all hands on deck at the hospital. Some emergency." Her eyes widen as she watches the man tear out. She turns to Jones, who nods. She replaces the mop below deck then they both move as quickly as they can. They approach Miss Blanchard at a familiar glass door, frantically asking the sheriff what happened.
"Is it John Doe? Is he okay?"
The sheriff looks uneasily at the small group before him. He sighs. "He's missing."
Mary Margaret blinks and draws back. Emma crosses her arms across her chest. Jones runs a hand through his hair in thought. The sheriff turns back to the doctors in John Doe's room, looking over the machines. When he turns, over his shoulder, the small group spots Regina on the other side of John Doe's bed.
With an almost polite expression on her tilted head, she exits the room. "What the hell are you doing here?" She demands with an off-putting smile. It's hard to decide who that disdainful hatred is directed at. All three standing before her are candidates, the pirate, the Savior or Snow White.
"What happened to John Doe? Did someone take him?" Mary Margaret asks.
"We don't know yet," the sheriff answers with his hands on his hips. "His IVs were ripped out, but there's no sign of a struggle."
Both Emma's and Jones' eyes flick to the mayor. Both seem to ask the question 'What did you do?' to the mayor. "You think I had something to do with this?" She demands, outraged and offended.
"It is curious that the mayor's here." Emma points out.
"I'm here because I'm his emergency contact." Regina answers impatiently.
"You know him?" Mary Margaret asks.
Regina turns her annoyance on the teacher. "I found him. On the side of the road, years ago, with no ID." Something about being found on the side of the road has Emma rocking back a step unconsciously. "I brought him here." Doctor Whale comes around Regina's shoulder, white lab coat sticking out.
"Mayor Mills saved his life," he states solemnly.
"Will he be okay?" Mary Margaret asks gently, hopefully.
"Okay? The man's been on feeding tubes for years, under constant supervision." Mary Margaret's eyes meet the floor. The good doctor's bedside manner from the day before is gone. "He needs to get back here right away or quite honestly, okay might be a pipe dream."
"Well then, let's quit yapping and start looking," Emma states. She turns to get started.
"That's what we're doing. Just stay out of this, dear." The mayor says dismissively. Oh, we're back to sickly sweet and professional mayor, not raging psychotic bitch. Good to know. Thankfully, the mayor's phone rings. As she steps away to answer it for a brief moment, her face pales. "I need to go check on something. Sheriff, find John Doe. You heard Doctor Whale. Time is precious."
As the mayor leaves, the sheriff seems to release a breath, visibly relaxing his shoulders. "Okay, how long between your rounds since you last saw him?" He turns to Doctor Whale.
"Twelve hours or so."
"Then that's what we need to account for." The sheriff's eyes flick between Emma and Jones, almost as if he's trying to dismiss the child. Emma stubbornly ignores the glance, and Jones offers no comment as they follow into the security room that's more like a closet. The sheriff, seemingly realizing that time is of the essence and the more eyes the better, shrugs it off. Mary Margaret follows, turning a peridot ring around her finger anxiously.
Three tall metal shelves line the walls without the computer set-up. Leroy leans against one in janitor's coveralls as a man in a security uniform of button-up, tie and slacks sits in the chair at the desk. His nametag reads Walter. Walter clicks around on the old computer, smothering a yawn with his hand. Jones leans against the doorframe. Mary Margaret stands with her arms wrapped around herself anxiously awaiting news. Emma crosses her arms across her chest on the sheriff's other side.
He gestures to Walter and Leroy. "You two were the only employees on the floor last night. And you saw nothing." He says incredulously. Walter tiredly scratches at his ear as Leroy grumbles.
"Not a thing," Walter answers, voice scratchy like he just woke up.
Emma sees Jones' cocked eyebrow and agrees. "Did anyone walk by?" She asks.
Leroy shrugs the shoulder not leaning against the shelf. "I didn't see nothin'."
Sheriff Humbert sighs. "Miss Blanchard, was there anything unusual you saw during your trip with your class?" He suggests. Emma's head is tilted to the side as she frowns at the computer screen behind Walter. Something's off.
"I don't think so," Mary Margaret answers.
The trip with the class! That's what's wrong! Emma steps forward assuredly. "We're looking at the wrong tape." The adults in the room, save Jones, furrow their brows so she sighs. Jones has the same look on his face he always gets when confronted with modern technology, slightly lost and hiding it well. Gesturing to the screen, she explains. "This is the ward where your class put up decorations. If this was really the tape from last night, we would see the banners the kids hung up." The monitor displays drab, dreary, and most importantly empty walls.
Leroy scoffs. "You fell asleep again," he accuses Walter.
"You sellin' me out?" Walter asks quietly.
"I ain't gettin' fired for this!" Leroy balks.
"At least I don't drink on the job!" Walter fires back.
"Gentlemen, enough!" Sheriff Humbert cuts through their argument. "Where's the real tape?" He demands impatiently. Their eyes flick between each other. A few clicks and a few taps have the picture on the screen flickering. Finally, the ward in the hospital displays the decorations from the day before. Everyone gathers around the desk, watching carefully. John Doe, dressed only in his paper-thin hospital gown, walks through the glass door, past the decorations and out the door to the outside world.
Mary Margaret expels a breath of relief. "He walked out alone. He's okay."
Emma points to the screen. "Four hours ago. Where does this door lead?"
"The woods," Leroy answers, rubbing his beard.
"Time is precious," Jones points out. "None to waste."
Different search parties fan out through the woods. The group of four, Emma, Mary Margaret, the sheriff and Jones, all stumble through the trees, following the sheriff. Each of them has their eyes out for any sign or clue of John Doe's presence. Sheriff Humbert drops to a knee, hand flat on the ground, staring straight ahead.
"What is it?"
"The trail runs out here," he answers. The sheriff stands, hands out by his sides. "Just give me a second. This is my world." He nods as he steps away. Jones frowns and lightly pulls Emma aside.
"Swan, how far did you say you two read?"
"What does that have to do with it?"
He cocks an eyebrow. "So it's mere coincidence that Snow White reads to Prince Charming and he wakes from a coma, is it?" Emma sighs, deflating her shoulders a touch and shrugs.
She stares straight ahead, not really seeing, as her mind whirs. There's that same certainty in her gut that she felt about reading the book. Eyes wide, she nods. "Miss Blanchard! Sheriff! I think I know where to go looking for John Doe!" Just as she turns back to the two adults, she notes the slight approving smile from Jones.
"What's that, sweetie?"
"The toll bridge." She answers with iron-clad confidence.
"Why the toll bridge?" The sheriff asks.
"The last thing you read to him was Snow White and Prince Charming at the troll bridge."
"Sweetie," Mary Margaret begins patiently, "the book didn't make him wake up."
"No," Emma concedes, then in the same breath, "but it could be the last place his mind was." With wide eyes, the two adults acknowledge her point. "I know I saw a toll bridge in the woods somewhere. I just don't remember where it is."
"I do," the sheriff says. They all follow as Sheriff Humbert leads the way. A bit of running through the woods later, they make their way through the trees at the sheriff's shout. Resting on a leaf is a torn blue bracelet with a white tag. It reads John Doe, DOB: Unknown, 67140404. Something red coats the left side of the tag.
"Is that?" Mary Margaret asks, unable to complete her question.
"Blood," Jones quietly confirms.
Confirmation only grants their search more urgency. They search frantically along the waterline. Rocks, more rocks, some branches, and some more rocks. No sign of footprints, no sign of more blood, no further breadcrumb to follow to John Doe.
"Oh my God!" Mary Margaret frantically shouts, running off. The other three turn and follow towards the unconscious body lying in the shallows. "Oh my God! Oh my God!" Her voice grows more shrill with her fear.
"I need an ambulance. At the old toll bridge, as soon as possible," the sheriff says into his walkie-talkie. The four quickly take hold of a limb each and transport John Doe carefully to the shore. Their communication comes out in quick calls to slow down and rapid-fire directions. He lies there in the one place free of big rocks, unconscious.
"No no no no no! No, no, no!" Mary Margaret begs frantically. Jones pulls Emma aside, out of the way. She flicks her gaze back to him. He's clearly concerned but shakes his head. "I found you!"
"Help's coming," the sheriff informs them.
"It's going to be okay."
"It'll all be fine, lass."
"Come back to us," Mary Margaret begs as she puts her hands on top of each other and begins to push down on John Doe's chest. Jones gently turns Emma by the shoulder, trying to encourage her to look away from the scene. He expresses something about her not needing to witness that. That, she assumes, being a death by drowning. Emma maintains a steady eye on Mary Margaret anyway, that elusive little bastard called hope rearing its ugly head once again. "Come back to me," she whispers as she pinches his nose, tilts his head back, and breathes into his mouth. Somewhere, mouth-to-mouth changes to a caress, holding his cheek instead of tilting his chin.
Coughing and sputtering have Jones stop trying to turn her away. John Doe turns his head and coughs up water. He gasps for breath as all four heave sighs of relief. "You saved me," he whispers to Mary Margaret as she cradles his head in her hands.
"He's okay," Emma whispers.
"Aye," Jones answers in the same voice.
"Thank you," John Doe says hoarsely.
"Who are you?" Mary Margaret asks.
"I don't know," he answers. Emma's gut clenches.
"It's okay. You're going to be okay."
The trip to the hospital is frantic. Jones and Emma ride in the back of the sheriff's cruiser while Mary Margaret rides up front. She's frantically twirling that peridot ring around her finger, anxiously fixating on the flashing lights of the ambulance in front of them. Their short ride takes an anxious few minutes. The four follow the gurney as far as the glass door once they get inside. They see two nurses in white uniforms and Doctor Whale in his white lab coat take over.
They hook the dazed man up to an IV, instantly starting him on fluids. Doctor Whale is taking his pulse when a blonde woman runs in. "David? David, is that you?" She runs past the crowd at the door like she doesn't even see them and straight into the room. Doctor Whale patiently tries taking the woman aside as she continues shouting for David. As the woman reaches out to John Doe with a loving look in her eyes, Doctor Whale leads her to the other side of the room to continue his examination. Sheriff Humbert quietly excuses himself to go deal with paperwork at the station.
"Who is that?" Mary Margaret asks the question on everyone's minds. Heels clack swiftly down the hallway, announcing the queen bitch's arrival. Emma and Jones share a look and a sigh.
"His wife," Regina answers a moment later with a satisfied smirk. Mary Margaret frowns. Emma and Jones share a look, Emma's questioning and unsure. Something in his face says 'I'll explain later' and Emma nods. "His name is David Nolan. And that's his wife, Katherine. And the joy on her face, well, that's put me in quite the forgiving mood." Lady, do you even know what forgiveness means? Katherine leaves the room with a beaming grin on her face.
"Thank you. Thank you for finding my David." The happiness on her face as Katherine faces Mary Margaret is far too sincere to fake. Her arms are wrapped around herself like she's struggling to contain her joy.
"Um, I, I don't understand." Mary Margaret blinks rapidly. Her smile looks forced and painful, at least from Emma's vantage point of leaning against the wall. "You didn't, you didn't know that he was here in a coma?" The hope from earlier has all but shuttered over on her face. The mayor seems to relish it like a shark relishes blood in the water.
"A few years ago, David and I were not getting along. It was my fault, I know that now." She shrugs, directing her eyes down. "I was difficult and unsupportive. I told him if he didn't like things, he could leave. And he did. And I didn't stop him. It was the worst mistake I ever made."
Emma leans forward, sensing something off. "You didn't go look for him?"
"I assumed he'd left town all this time. And now I know why I never heard from him. Now I get to do what I've wanted to do forever." She leans forward and looks so thrilled with the possibilities before her now. "Say I'm sorry. Now we get a second chance."
"That's wonderful," Mary Margaret forces out, sounding anything but.
Doctor Whale comes through the door behind Katherine. "Well, it's something of a miracle." He remarks on the situation.
"He's okay?" Katherine asks.
"Well, physically, he's on the mend. His memory is another issue. It may take time, if at all." The doctor explains carefully.
"What brought him back?" Mary Margaret asks softly.
"That's the thing. There's no explanation. Something just clicked in him."
"He just got up and decided to go for a stroll?" Emma deadpans.
"He woke up and he was delirious and his first instinct was to find something, I guess."
"Can I see him," Katherine asks.
"Of course," Doctor Whale answers and opens the door for her. The mayor turns to leave. Emma glances between Katherine at David's bedside, lovingly stroking his hair. She observes Mary Margaret watching the same scene, hands clasped in front of her stomach, tears starting to brim in her eyes. Emma turns to Jones in silent question as the click of heels against linoleum grows fainter. He nods, and she swiftly follows the mayor.
She catches up at the entrance. "Madam Mayor!"
Regina turns with a swish of her dark hair. "Miss Swan, I let you off the hook back there. Don't push it." Is that supposed to be a joke? She offers a slight smile that grates on Emma.
"I'm sorry, but Mrs. Nolan? Kind of feels like her story could be a load of crap." Emma plows through, blunt and tactful as ever. The mayor blinks. "All this time, there's a John Doe lying around in a coma and nobody puts it in the news? Nobody goes looking? Something's not right here."
The mayor tilts her head. "Well, what else would make sense to you? Why would Mrs. Nolan lie?" She leans in, smiling that same politician's smile and blinking far too rapidly for Emma not to notice. "Do you think I cast a spell on her?" She asks mockingly.
"I think it's rather strange that you've been his emergency contact all these years and you only found her now." Emma places emphasis on her last four words, letting the impact strike the mayor.
Arms crossed across her chest, she shrugs. "Well, this town is bigger than you know. It's entirely possible to get lost here." We're changing away from the small, tight-knit community, huh? "It's entirely possible for bad things to happen." Her voice is hard on her last statement. Bruises and hits from the alleyway, two nights in a row, flood Emma's mind. Panic she refuses to show on her face has her heart stuttering in her chest.
She shrugs it off. "Just when it's convenient, you manage to solve the mystery?"
"Thanks to you." Emma balks momentarily. The mayor haughtily lifts a shoulder in grudging acknowledgment. "That tape you found, that was a stroke of genius." Emma blinks at what sounds like praise. "So we went back and looked at past tapes. Turns out, Mister Doe's been talking in his sleep. He's been calling out for a 'Katherine'. After that, it wasn't hard to put the pieces together." Emma's gut is swirling and churning like crazy, clenching against the complete load of bullshit the mayor expects her to swallow.
"And here I thought you and Mary Margaret would be pleased." No, but you certainly sound like you are. "True love won out. So bask in the moment, dear. Were it not for you two, they would have lived their lives completely alone. That's why I'm willing to forgive your incessant rudeness." She smiles that politician's smile that doesn't quite reach her cold, brown eyes again. "You two helped reunite my friend and her husband. It's reminded me of something. How grateful I am to have her, and how much of a blessing it is that they have each other. Because not having someone? Well, that's the worst curse imaginable."
The mayor stalks out the hospital entrance into the night. Emma frowns, mind buzzing as she returns to where Jones is leaning against the wall, offering Mary Margaret a flask from his coat. Mary Margaret doesn't seem to notice, as she intently watches the couple in the glass room. Katherine's back is to the window, but David only seems to have eyes for Mary Margaret. The force of the emotion in his eyes almost knocks Emma back a step from second-hand impact. His arm lies stiff and awkward around Katherine's shoulders. His expression looks confused and lost, which would match with the amnesiac coma patient. But her lie-detector firing tells her it might be something else.
She quietly stops at Jones' side. One questioning glance at the flask in his hand has him shaking his head. For some reason, his eyes flick to the teacher and the ex-coma patient. "You're a bit young for this." He tucks it away. Emma shrugs.
"Wasn't actually asking, Captain."
By unspoken agreement, they continue to lean against the wall. They watch as Mary Margaret leaves, apparently unable to bear seeing Katherine. They whisper out their plans and a few observations, comparing notes on the day. Any nurses who try to dismiss them instantly leave, swooning as Jones gives them a charming smile and a wink.
Emma's not sure how long, but after a little while, the sheriff returns. He glances around, and when he spots her and Jones, he seems to set his shoulders and walk right up to them. Emma tenses. "Whatever he says I did, I didn't do it." The words come as a spontaneous response and draw a chuckle from Jones.
"Captain Jones, Miss Swan, you both did fine work today. I just wanted to say I appreciate the help." He's got a slight, weary smile underneath the bristling beard. "Thank you both." They both nod.
"What happened to 'I didn't do it', lass?" Jones teases with an annoyingly smug eyebrow.
"Guilty conscience?" The sheriff asks with a growing smile.
"No!" Emma shoots back unconvincingly. Both men chuckle at her hangdog expression and shuffling. "I just thought if the sheriff was here, it meant I was in trouble. No offense, but that's kind of what meeting you has meant."
Sheriff Humbert nods his acknowledgment. "I do apologize for that. I just wanted to say that catching the tape was a stroke of genius. You do fine work. You're an observant young lady, Miss Swan." He smiles at them both. "Have a good rest of your evening." With that, he turns and leaves, rubbing at his face.
Emma and Jones continue leaning against the wall, comparing notes. Katherine eventually leaves for the evening, sparkles of love in her eyes. She thanks them both for finding her David again. David stares through the glass like he's trying to puzzle something out. Rolling her shoulders, Emma walks up to the glass door she's been watching all night, knowing that what lies beyond will change things.