Post-curse check in with woodenass.
The sheer number of problems the town was facing with the end of the curse (and the beginning of magic working it's way through Storybrooke) equally amazed and pissed off Emma. There were the happy problems; specifically those related to reunions and the jumble of memories that needed to be sorted through. There were the serious problems; the ones
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August wasn't bitter, honestly. It hadn't occurred to him to be: he figured, rather post-hoc, that if he'd stayed unreal forever he'd never realize it; and if he'd stayed as animate wood forever, well... he'd probably deserved it. Most of the last three days had been spent managing himself. He'd only thawed out -- to his terrific relief -- through last night and the morning. First, he'd been so happy he'd burst into tears; secondly, he realized he hadn't realized that he hadn't needed to pee until he really really did. He'd slunk down the hall and taken twenty minutes in the shower without anyone seeing him, which August regarded as both a triumph and a new low.
Back in his room, he'd waffled. Between his desire to not publicly be the little wooden boy again and his apprehension at seeing Gepetto and Cricket again, and his desire to check on his motorcycle and have some breakfast and go outside and enjoy ( ... )
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"Open the door before I kick it in." At least with that warning, she could say she had tried. They couldn't expect her to leave Pinocchio on his own before she saw that he was alright. Her definition of "alright" at this point in time was better than she had seen him last; not made of wood, or partially made of wood. Able to walk, talk, and function as a human being again. She could check one of those things off just from hearing his ( ... )
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August perched on the end of the bed, fiddling with a pen, twisting it around and around in his fingers. Pens were so functional. Regularly hexagonal around the circumference and only slightly gnawed. It even had its cap. He'd had this pen, the lone survivor of a pack of ten, since Arlington.
He was fully-dressed -- he'd even shrugged on his jacket an hour ago in preparation for leaving the room. Sighing, August crossed the six feet to the door and cracked it open. His body filled the gap, protectively. "I'm not mad at you. And it seems you believed anyway."
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"Do what?" August sighed and rubbed his forehead. "I'm not going to stay in here forever. For one, it's not really my style." A weak attempt at a joke, but he was trying. Sometimes dealing with people got hard; his habit was to retreat, but Emma was making that difficult. And even if he decided to be a total coward and quit Storybrooke entirely, it would be hard to make it past the city limits without meeting someone who wanted to bend his ear.
"Look, I haven't got family, except for you and my father, and my father --" He shrugged helplessly. "I was seven when I got here with you. I helped him out when I could since I got into town, but he didn't even know who I was. I'm thirty-five now, I don't know if he even likes me. Everyone else I knew is probably busy and well shot of me. No one's looking for me but you ( ... )
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"It's different. It's not like she was your mother when you were young. You can be friends now. There's nothing to feel weird about." He closed the door behind her and leaned against the jamb. "Wouldn't it be weirder to treat a woman your own age, who never got a chance to raise you, like a mom?" A mom, not your mom, because really, how the hell would either of them know exactly how to treat anyone like their mom? August's mom was a tree and Emma's was a near-stranger old enough to be her sister, and the foster mother August had been placed with the longest reminded him unpleasantly of Mrs. Bates ( ... )
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