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Oct. 21st, 2013 08:46 amShe's not that kind of girl. She's not the one who constantly finds herself dwelling on a guy, wondering what he's up to and trying to figure out a convenient way to run into him. Then again, it isn't every day said guy saves your life from a bunch of creatures that are literally out of this world, and it isn't every day you kiss him in the heat of the moment when you're pretty sure you're both not going to make it out through the door alive. To say that the aftermath had been confusing, given their relative disaster of a second date, would be putting it mildly.
She rationalizes it by telling herself she's just on her beat, a lowly officer who they've attached to the bar circuit so she can keep an eye on the drunks who stumble out at all hours. She's got to work her way up. This isn't Storybrooke; she's not going to be elected sheriff without much of a contest. It suits her just fine, though. She prefers relative anonymity, a badge and a gun, over being the face of things. It means that when she winds up walking past the bar she's realized he tends to frequent - she's spotted his car outside enough times to figure it out - she parks herself in front of the driver's side door and waits for him to come out.
This isn't a confrontation. She isn't this type of girl. (Okay, maybe it's kind of a confrontation, and she can sort of blame his lack of familiarity with modern technology to forgive a few unanswered calls, but after a point she has to consider the possibility that he's really just avoiding her.)
She doesn't announce herself when he exits the bar, doesn't do anything to declare her presence until he looks up - and then she glances at him pointedly, arms folded across her chest as she leans against the car.
"I was starting to wonder if you'd fallen off the face of the earth," she says - which, knowing this place, isn't that much of a stretch.
She rationalizes it by telling herself she's just on her beat, a lowly officer who they've attached to the bar circuit so she can keep an eye on the drunks who stumble out at all hours. She's got to work her way up. This isn't Storybrooke; she's not going to be elected sheriff without much of a contest. It suits her just fine, though. She prefers relative anonymity, a badge and a gun, over being the face of things. It means that when she winds up walking past the bar she's realized he tends to frequent - she's spotted his car outside enough times to figure it out - she parks herself in front of the driver's side door and waits for him to come out.
This isn't a confrontation. She isn't this type of girl. (Okay, maybe it's kind of a confrontation, and she can sort of blame his lack of familiarity with modern technology to forgive a few unanswered calls, but after a point she has to consider the possibility that he's really just avoiding her.)
She doesn't announce herself when he exits the bar, doesn't do anything to declare her presence until he looks up - and then she glances at him pointedly, arms folded across her chest as she leans against the car.
"I was starting to wonder if you'd fallen off the face of the earth," she says - which, knowing this place, isn't that much of a stretch.
