Mary Margaret Blanchard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
the_fairest) wrote2012-04-19 12:24 am
the_fairest) wrote2012-04-19 12:24 am
1.06, The Shepherd
Her last hour had been entirely too confusing.
First Dr. Whale assuming that she'd resigned from the hospital due to their atrocious date and his lack of reaching out after. Then Mayor Mills threatening and then outright stating that she'd single handedly wrecked Kathryn Nolan's marriage. Only to end up in Milliways, by way of the school, with the greater conundrum of Michael, and whatever newest even more awkward event that had happened between him and Emma.
Leaving her with a clue further to her roommate who had been avoiding The Door and the whole topic, one red jacket and a very stuffed envelope. The last of which, unmarked, she kept turning over in hand. She'd even picked up the letter opener from her desk. But she was staring at both without the ability to move her hands closer together. She wanted to know, but Emma wasn't someone to get to through force.
A point she was beginning to note Michael had yet to see, and hoped he might before causing a third even greater space between them. Even if Emma wasn't and hadn't confided the happenstance of the second. Maybe that was part of not forcing someone to do anything. It was letting them have the space to not choose you and not choose to talk, too. To let them set their own boundaries, their own pace, their own comforts.
Conflicted, Mary Margaret set down the thick closed envelope and picked up a piece of her own mail, slicing through the top of it with a fast flick of her wrist, using a small golden sword letter opener, and taking some frustrated relish in the sound of the slicing paper that rent the silence of her classroom.
First Dr. Whale assuming that she'd resigned from the hospital due to their atrocious date and his lack of reaching out after. Then Mayor Mills threatening and then outright stating that she'd single handedly wrecked Kathryn Nolan's marriage. Only to end up in Milliways, by way of the school, with the greater conundrum of Michael, and whatever newest even more awkward event that had happened between him and Emma.
Leaving her with a clue further to her roommate who had been avoiding The Door and the whole topic, one red jacket and a very stuffed envelope. The last of which, unmarked, she kept turning over in hand. She'd even picked up the letter opener from her desk. But she was staring at both without the ability to move her hands closer together. She wanted to know, but Emma wasn't someone to get to through force.
A point she was beginning to note Michael had yet to see, and hoped he might before causing a third even greater space between them. Even if Emma wasn't and hadn't confided the happenstance of the second. Maybe that was part of not forcing someone to do anything. It was letting them have the space to not choose you and not choose to talk, too. To let them set their own boundaries, their own pace, their own comforts.
Conflicted, Mary Margaret set down the thick closed envelope and picked up a piece of her own mail, slicing through the top of it with a fast flick of her wrist, using a small golden sword letter opener, and taking some frustrated relish in the sound of the slicing paper that rent the silence of her classroom.
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(And it never, ever, even once, felt like it was the right thing.)
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Children are already starting to file in for class and he knows he's running out of opportunity, but he needs to say what he came here to say. "The man who chose that life - whoever married Kathryn - is gone."
He can already see her forming a response in her head as his voice drops to a whisper.
"The man here wants someone else."
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As if he knew what his words meant, what they kept doing to her. The way it kept bringing up the surprise at Regina saying he'd left Kathryn. The way it all beat a pulse against the other words she couldn't force far enough away: I'm choosing you.
I want you.
She closed her eyes, grit her teeth and then shoved it all. Reaching out, with all her willpower, to shove his arm and him from the row of desks, from herself, her classroom, her class, her life, her morning.
"You really have to leave me alone."
Before she gave in. Before she couldn't stop it.
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"Is that truly what you want?"
He can't stop himself from asking, like he has to know for sure, because it still feels as if she's holding something back from him. Something she doesn't want to admit to herself, let alone him.
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What she wanted didn't matter. What she wanted didn't matter. What she wanted--
"Go," It came out louder and more sudden than she meant, and so much more like a plea than a command. If David kept talking she was going to fall apart from every choice she was supposed to be making. To *not* be making.
Right here. In her classroom. Surrounded by her students.
Her steps were faster, she was pushing him faster out the door.
Looking to her class and not to him, as everything felt like it was falling.
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"Meet me tonight. At least think about it," he quickly adds, before she can find the space to reply.
"I'll be at the bridge where you found me at eight o'clock. Think about it until then and decide. If you don't show, I'll know - and I'll never bother you again. But if you choose this - if you choose us - " His expression breaks into a smile, unabashed. Excited. Almost boyish.
"You know where I'll be."
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For him to never come back? For him to get the hint and go back to his wife, to live his happily ever after marriage, away from her? For him to stop fighting so hard, making all these impossibly grandiose claims that hounded her in all her waking and dreaming hours?
For him to stop smiling the way the way he did, like he knew the deepest secrets she had, stop letting his voice drop to that that hushed whisper, so that her stomach tightened with a startling ache at the word us, and plummeted through her legs, and shoes, beneath the floor, deep into the ground, leaving her bereft of the ability to think, of anything at all beyond what he was offering, when suddenly he turned and walked away?
(Dear Lord, she needed Emma right now.)