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.
no subject
"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."
no subject
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.)