Mary Margaret Blanchard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
the_fairest) wrote2012-05-20 08:10 pm
the_fairest) wrote2012-05-20 08:10 pm
Between 1.06 (The Shepherd) and 1.07 (The Heart is a Lonely Hunter)
Her alarm went off, and she groped on the bed table for it, squinting to spot the red electronic numbers and sighed with relief with the jarring sound silenced. Her head felt like she rolled something over it, or through it, and as she curled up to her pillow the sleepy confusion about that fled too quickly.
She remembered.
David.
Dr. Whale.
Mary Margaret clutched her pillow a little tighter as she let out a breath into the top of her comforter. She had. They'd. All of yesterday actually happened. Was sinking back through her as though it was a lead weight tearing through any peace of sleep she'd gotten between being dropped off and waking up.
Emma would be home now. She wanted to see Emma even less now.
Somehow, she knew, Emma would look at her and just know. All of it.
David.
Dr. Whale.
She hadn't been drunk enough it wasn't a coherent choice, but even the thought that they were consenting adults made her want to crawl under her pillow and just die. It wasn't to do with that. That had, he'd, it'd been fine really. Not miraculous to call down angels, but not terrible either.
But that neither of them cared. Not about each other. At least not really, right? There was that.
She was going to be sick. It was her first thought as she flung herself on to her back, looking at the ceiling, only then to cover her eyes with her hands. Uncertain if that urge was more about what she'd drunk or what she'd done.
And David. Who had remembered his life.
David, who went to bed with Kathryn last night.
Who was waking up with Kathryn sometime this morning.
The woman whom he was married to. The person that he loved.
And she was just -- the fool -- a set of intense feelings he 'didn't quite understand.'
The girl who just tripped and fell into someone else's bed right after, like it would fix the hole in her.
Mary Margaret squeezed her eyes tight, refusing to let the feeling in the back of her throat lead to tearing up. She had to teach. Her head feeling like a brick was going to be bad enough already. She couldn't be red-eyed and wet cheeked in front of her students, too.
She turned her head and watched the luminescent red letters of the clock change between 6:03 and 6:04 in the shadowed dark of her room. Less than twelve hours, and now she could add hung-over, and uncertainly guilty, again, to the nauseously roll in her stomach.
She needed ice water. Strike that. She needed a shower. Maybe both. Maybe both at the same time. Except the less she could manage accidentally running into Emma maybe the better. Was it wrong to pray it didn't happen? God.
No. She didn't even want to think about God yet either. With the tip of her thumb, she turned her ring, looking between ceiling and clock, before finally pushing herself to sitting up.
The shower was hot and Emma's door had been closed -- when she went to her shower, when she came back from it, even when she'd re-emerged from her room clad in a cornflower blue button up dress and a navy blue cardigan (she'd had to take off the white one instantly).
The door closed, she'd stopped briefly by it before walking down, but maybe working late had gone into far past late. She hadn't been home when Mary Margaret was dropped off, as she'd agreed to. The jacket and envelope still folded untouched on her pillow, door open then, when she'd gone to collapse into the void of her own her.
The sound within the room, door closed, was utter silence now.
Even taking her time over a second cup of coffee, after passing on breakfast because nothing sounded appetizing in the slightest, she'd been watching the stairs with emotions she could only barely label. Wariness, resignation, worry, guilt, panic, shame, but even so, maybe even hope?
But no Emma. How strange that was.
Not Emma sleeping in after work.
Yet something about her not being awake.
The confused disappointment tugging at her heart.
Even when she couldn't think of anything good enough to say to her.
She remembered.
David.
Dr. Whale.
Mary Margaret clutched her pillow a little tighter as she let out a breath into the top of her comforter. She had. They'd. All of yesterday actually happened. Was sinking back through her as though it was a lead weight tearing through any peace of sleep she'd gotten between being dropped off and waking up.
Emma would be home now. She wanted to see Emma even less now.
Somehow, she knew, Emma would look at her and just know. All of it.
David.
Dr. Whale.
She hadn't been drunk enough it wasn't a coherent choice, but even the thought that they were consenting adults made her want to crawl under her pillow and just die. It wasn't to do with that. That had, he'd, it'd been fine really. Not miraculous to call down angels, but not terrible either.
But that neither of them cared. Not about each other. At least not really, right? There was that.
She was going to be sick. It was her first thought as she flung herself on to her back, looking at the ceiling, only then to cover her eyes with her hands. Uncertain if that urge was more about what she'd drunk or what she'd done.
And David. Who had remembered his life.
David, who went to bed with Kathryn last night.
Who was waking up with Kathryn sometime this morning.
The woman whom he was married to. The person that he loved.
And she was just -- the fool -- a set of intense feelings he 'didn't quite understand.'
The girl who just tripped and fell into someone else's bed right after, like it would fix the hole in her.
Mary Margaret squeezed her eyes tight, refusing to let the feeling in the back of her throat lead to tearing up. She had to teach. Her head feeling like a brick was going to be bad enough already. She couldn't be red-eyed and wet cheeked in front of her students, too.
She turned her head and watched the luminescent red letters of the clock change between 6:03 and 6:04 in the shadowed dark of her room. Less than twelve hours, and now she could add hung-over, and uncertainly guilty, again, to the nauseously roll in her stomach.
She needed ice water. Strike that. She needed a shower. Maybe both. Maybe both at the same time. Except the less she could manage accidentally running into Emma maybe the better. Was it wrong to pray it didn't happen? God.
No. She didn't even want to think about God yet either. With the tip of her thumb, she turned her ring, looking between ceiling and clock, before finally pushing herself to sitting up.
The shower was hot and Emma's door had been closed -- when she went to her shower, when she came back from it, even when she'd re-emerged from her room clad in a cornflower blue button up dress and a navy blue cardigan (she'd had to take off the white one instantly).
The door closed, she'd stopped briefly by it before walking down, but maybe working late had gone into far past late. She hadn't been home when Mary Margaret was dropped off, as she'd agreed to. The jacket and envelope still folded untouched on her pillow, door open then, when she'd gone to collapse into the void of her own her.
The sound within the room, door closed, was utter silence now.
Even taking her time over a second cup of coffee, after passing on breakfast because nothing sounded appetizing in the slightest, she'd been watching the stairs with emotions she could only barely label. Wariness, resignation, worry, guilt, panic, shame, but even so, maybe even hope?
But no Emma. How strange that was.
Not Emma sleeping in after work.
Yet something about her not being awake.
The confused disappointment tugging at her heart.
Even when she couldn't think of anything good enough to say to her.