Let Your Conscience Be Your Guide

[stillsmallvoice]

There's significance in the wisdom of a child, even more in one like Henry. It's no small matter that Archie Hopper's moment of illumination came at the bottom of a mine shaft where they both could have died.

And above all, there's the very real significance that he's stood up to the one person in Storybrooke, outside of perhaps Mr. Gold whom he only associates with when absolutely necessary, that could crush him like a bug.

Yet, once Marco has bid him goodnight he and Pongo return to the office and a stack of files. And mostly full bottle of scotch, leading to a tumbler of scotch... and quite naturally a belly of scotch as he considers the decisions he's made.

[ooc: Episode tag to 1x05, finding my feet so to speak. Feel free to tag in.]

Comments

[the_fairest]

Mary Margaret doesn't want to make a sound. Not really. Doesn't want to be crying, especially when she hadn't yet at all before this. It was like speaking to him made her see more of it. The heart of it all. how it really felt. She can't help thinking, for all her good heart, it's selfish, too. Walking away.

Each time she'd felt happiest near David, it ended in a wave of startling pain and wracking guilt. Leaving now, stopped that, too. Before it could become even more complicated, even more painful.





Mary Margaret gave it another twenty or thirty seconds before she pulled away, gently, just enough, a step back, hands raising, wiping her cheeks and her eyes as she sniffled. Apologetically, ruddy faced even for that effort.

So close to the fault line, at the center of herself, where it might all start again. Even as she said, with some gravel and small breaths in her words, "I should probably go up."

Her house. Her house, with her bed and the thick blankets she'd mentioned earlier so lightly, and not the middle of the street.

[stillsmallvoice]

He lets out a small, nervous half-chuckle and nods before pushing up his glasses with the base of his hand.

"Yes, you should," he barely smiles and adds with some degree of humor; "if you need me, just give a little whistle."

Perhaps the scotch has gone to his head, with the late hour and the long day. "Or maybe just a phone call."

[the_fairest]

She gave him a watery half, mostly faltering, smile, nodding in a awkward bobble. Before nodding to the side then, she was going to go beyond him to her place, as she opened her mouth and then just closed it, reaching up to wipe another tear about as fast as it started to fall.

Words. Words really felt like such a treacherous road. Like sound might split her truly in half now. And so she looked down and just started walking toward the front of her building. But she really only made it about ten feet.

Before she couldn't do running away as simply either. Even with her center newly in shreds, she stopped not far from the door to the building. And then turned, more of a twist to look over her shoulder.




"Dr. Hopper --" She said it carefully, to call his attention to where she was, like she was testing saying anything with a sound, that had to come from that newly sharp center.

[stillsmallvoice]

He'd only just turned back toward the curb, still a little lost in his own thoughts, and when he turns back to her his lips quirk into another thin half-smile.

"Mary Margaret?"

[the_fairest]

Mary Margaret looked at him for a long second, as though maybe she couldn't figure out why. Why she'd said his name, or why he'd been there, in the middle of the night, after his terrible ordeal. Why he still was, standing there, on the street, still so....right.

Taller, even a little lost, but like maybe he found something. And hadn't even thought to keep it to himself. Even today, especially today.




Maybe she really did need to lay down.



She gave him an slightly better attempt at a smile, even still faltered and wet, and nodded, even as her hand settled on the door knob, "Thank you."

[stillsmallvoice]

Her smile tugs at him, drawing his lips to curve upward into a much wider grin. He shifts his umbrella back to his empty hand and lifts it to her in a genial wave; "Any time."

As he watches her open the door, he can feel the weight lifting off his shoulders and the gentle chill of the late night wrapping around him - the low thrum of the crickets' song lulling him to a calm he hasn't felt in a very long time.

"Good night."