Somehow that expression of disappointment hurts more than if he had expected something. Her beer goes untouched on the table, growing stale. The feeling of falling causes her to brace her hands on the wooden table in front of her, a mild, passive gesture that can’t stop her head from spinning.
What do I do? The question persists on the tip of her tongue, refusing to pour past her lips. Asking would betray some sense of weakness, uncertainty. Emma has gone thirty years as the only person she can rely on to know what to do to. To bandage her wounds and make her decisions and hoist herself up when those decisions go wrong. Reaching out feels impossible.
And yet, not for the first time, she finds her chest aching, and realizes that it’s for Mary Margaret. If she were here, she might have some answer. Guidance. If she were here, Emma would not need to solicit it of anyone; it would be freely offered.
Instead, she feels like she’s drowning, smothered by her own guilt.
He doesn’t expect anything, but Hook does. Hook stares at her now, grim but implicitly expectant. She will do something. She will care for this child, she will be ready this time. All because he knows something that she doesn’t. Knows who she should be and isn’t because the Veil stole that from her. ]
I’ll be right back.
[ She barrels out of the booth without waiting for his reply. Though she has no idea where to find the bathroom, she doesn’t wait to ask anyone. She searches it out instead, and doesn’t stop moving until she’s inside and her back has slammed against the cheap plastic door of the stall and her ears are ringing. She feels hot. Her vision tunnels. Panic blossoms in her chest and she finds herself, not for the first time, completely lost. ]
no subject
Somehow that expression of disappointment hurts more than if he had expected something. Her beer goes untouched on the table, growing stale. The feeling of falling causes her to brace her hands on the wooden table in front of her, a mild, passive gesture that can’t stop her head from spinning.
What do I do? The question persists on the tip of her tongue, refusing to pour past her lips. Asking would betray some sense of weakness, uncertainty. Emma has gone thirty years as the only person she can rely on to know what to do to. To bandage her wounds and make her decisions and hoist herself up when those decisions go wrong. Reaching out feels impossible.
And yet, not for the first time, she finds her chest aching, and realizes that it’s for Mary Margaret. If she were here, she might have some answer. Guidance. If she were here, Emma would not need to solicit it of anyone; it would be freely offered.
Instead, she feels like she’s drowning, smothered by her own guilt.
He doesn’t expect anything, but Hook does. Hook stares at her now, grim but implicitly expectant. She will do something. She will care for this child, she will be ready this time. All because he knows something that she doesn’t. Knows who she should be and isn’t because the Veil stole that from her. ]
I’ll be right back.
[ She barrels out of the booth without waiting for his reply. Though she has no idea where to find the bathroom, she doesn’t wait to ask anyone. She searches it out instead, and doesn’t stop moving until she’s inside and her back has slammed against the cheap plastic door of the stall and her ears are ringing. She feels hot. Her vision tunnels. Panic blossoms in her chest and she finds herself, not for the first time, completely lost. ]