A/N: A bit of a crack fic, but I'm loving the idea of Emma/Terri. I think they could really bring out some good qualities in each other if they stopped wasting all their energy hating each other.

I hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think!

"Aunt Terri! Aunt Terri, Aunt Terri!"

The bed shakes beneath you, and your eyes fly open to see your little nephew jumping wildly on the mattress beside you. He stumbles, tripping over his long pajama pants, flailing his arms as he lands across your chest with a thud.

"Dylan!" you shriek, and he pops his little fireball head up, looking you in the eye.

"I'm not Dylan; I'm Austin."

Whatever.

You glance at the alarm clock beside you bed—a futile investment, you've begun to realize ever since you've moved in with your sister and her god awful children. A small part of you is glad you weren't really pregnant—you're not sure you could've handled dealing with your own little monster.

The red digits blare 6:23, and you groan. You don't need to be up until eight today.

"Austin, why the hell are you in my room at six in the morning?" you snap, shoving the boy off your chest. You don't bother to watch your language; neither Kendra and Phil do, and you're pretty sure the damage is already done. You heard one of the boys shrieking the f bomb as he ran down the hall naked last night.

"'Cause Logan pee-peed in the bed," he tells you, beginning to jump again.

You pin him down, trying not to blow a gasket as he wriggles out of your grasp.

"Why didn't you go wake your mommy up about this?" you manage to ask through clenched teeth. You swear, Kendra has been dumping the responsibility of motherhood on you ever since you moved in three weeks ago.

"Mommy and Daddy's door is closed," he informs. "And 'member the rule? Mommy says she'll hang us by our toes if we go in there when the door is shut. One time Dylan went in but they didn't even notice 'cause they were too busy wrestling and making all these nois—"

"Okay, that's enough," you cut him off, not wanting to hear about Kendra's sex life, especially from her six-year-old son. Of course, this would be the one and only time that the boys actually decided to follow the rules.

You manage to drag yourself out of bed and stumble down the hall to the boys' room. Austin rushes past you, bursting through the door to join his brothers jumping on the queen sized bed. You have to hand it to Kendra—shoving the three little mongrels into one bed was a great way to save on money and space. And the three don't seem to mind a bit; they probably don't know any better. You smirk as you get an image in your mind of three high school boys snuggling up beneath the covers of this very same bed.

The boys continue to jump and you realize that one of them doesn't have pants on. And as his long pajama shirt catches the air on the decent of his jump, flying upward, you realize it's not just the pants that are missing.

"Logan!" –at least you think it's Logan—"Where are your underpants? And would you three please stop jumping!"

"My pants are over there!" Logan points to the bedroom floor as he continues to jump. Your eyes follow his finger to a pile of wet bottoms and Power Ranger underwear bunched up in the corner. Of course.

Austin shrieks as he lands on the bed. "Ew, Logan, I just touched your pee-pee!"

You roll your eyes. God, what have you gotten yourself into?

"Okay, I want the three of you to head to the bathroom to take a shower while I clean up your sheets," you tell them, dragging them off the bed when they don't get off themselves.

"We can't go take a shower," Dylan informs you, scrambling back on the bed to jump as soon as you removed the sheets. "Mommy and Daddy's door is closed."

That's right. The only shower in the whole damn apartment is in Kendra and Phil's master bathroom.

You give up.

Damn it, you give up.

You could care less that Logan's running around half naked covered in his own urine. And Kendra can take care of those damn sheets when she decides to come back to reality—though you are tempted to burst into her bedroom right and give her a piece of your mind. But you've seen Phil in a towel before, and you're not sure if you could handle seeing him in anything less.

"Come on, boys, let's go watch some TV," you suggest the only activity that will keep the demons moderately occupied and controlled.

Three pairs of eyes light up simultaneously, dashing into the living room. They fight over the remote until you grab it from their filthy little hands, flipping the station to Cartoon Network. You settle on the couch between the boys, drifting off to the drone of the TV.

"Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" You wake up to the shrieks of the boys as they jump up from the couch, and you turn to see Kendra entering the living room, clad in a bathrobe with a cup of coffee in hand.

"Whoa, watch the coffee," Kendra warns as the three boys hurdle themselves toward her. She turns to you, smiling sweetly. "Terr, thanks for taking care of the boys this morning, though it would've been nice if you washed the sheets and fed the boys breakfast."

You shoot her a sickening smile, biting back a snarky remark."It was my pleasure. What time is it, anyway?"

"Just after eight thirty," she informs you, heading to the kitchen as the three boys begin a successive chant for pancakes.

"Shit," you mutter, because you have to be at work by nine. You started working the morning shift a few weeks ago, and though it makes the work day three hours longer, you're glad to have an escape from this madness.

You skip a shower and throw on the first clean outfit you find, heading out the door as Kendra asks if you could make pancakes while she showers.

You're free, at least for the ten minute drive to Sheets 'N Things.

God, what did you ever do to deserve such a shitty life?

xxx

You're exhausted.

And you're counting the minutes until closing time.

(Twenty three, last time you checked)

You swear, sometimes you're the only one who's actually qualified for this job. Howard Bamboo is a dumb as a post. He can't fold. He can't take inventory. He can hardly read. And he can barely hold himself together when he takes a phone call. You think its bullshit that you can't fire a minority.

Henri, the former shop teacher at McKinley High, started working here a few months ago. He still has a few months left in rehab before he can go back to teaching. He's hasn't been downing cold medicine as much recently, and when he's alert, he's actually better than Howard at folding sheet and hand towels with his thumbless hands.

The check out clerk, Macy, a nineteen-year-old high school drop out with a three-year-old daughter, is usually so stoned that you often finds her passed out in the storage room during her shift.

It's no surprise you've been named Employee of the Month since, well, ever.

There's now twenty minutes left, and you're beginning to wonder if time can possibly crawl by any slower. You're not sure why you're so eager to return home (a term you've grown accustomed to using loosely.) Kendra will no doubt rope you in to making dinner and washing the dishes. Then you'll have to listen to Kendra scream at her boys for a good hour before she can get probably only one of them showered and at most two of them in bed.

You sigh, feeling sorry for yourself as you as you pace down the emptying aisles. Howard has tonight off, so things have been pleasantly uneventful. As you continue to walk, a glint of red catches your eyes. You stop, doing a double take as you glance down the bed linen aisle.

You're certain it's her, because no one else wears sweaters and pumps quite as ridiculous as those. You watch her for a moment, scanning the rows of sheets. The anger and frustration from your shitty day overcome with you a sudden fervor.

"Need some help?" You don't bother to hide the irritation in your voice as you approach her. She wheels around on her heels, her eyes growing wide as you lock gazes with her. You mockingly smile at her, folding your arms across your chest as you continue. "Soiled too many sets of sheets recently, I presume? Picking up some more so you can continue you evening activities with my husband?"

She opens her mouth to speak, but you're too fired up to even let her have a word. "Listen, you little bitch—"

"Just shut up, Terri," she bursts, biting at her lower lip as she glares at you defiantly. "Just shut up. I don't want to hear it. Oh, and you'll be happy to know that you win. You can go running back into your slutty husband's arms, that is, if you're okay with the fact that he'll be seeing about five other women on the side."

She spins on her heels, stomping in the opposite direction. It takes you a moment to process her words, and she has almost disappeared from sight before you roughly grab her arm.

She flinches from your touch, jerking her arm to free herself from your grasp, but you continue to hold on with a firm grasp.

"Let go of me, Terri!" she shrieks, thrashing in your grasp.

You shoot her a fiery glare, digging your nails deeper into her skin.

And that is when she bursts into tears.

You loosen your grasp on her arm, at once realizing the spectacle you've caused. Henri is standing at the end of the aisle, his mouth hanging open. Macy, who has emerged from the storage room, looks more alert and interested than you have ever seen her. A few customers have gathered around, looking disdainfully at the scene before them.

You lead a sobbing Emma past the small crowd, leaving through the automatic doors at the front of the store.

"Breath," you tell her as she gasps for air. You can feel her trembling in your grasp, "and tell me what the hell you were talking about in there."

"W-w-why should I t-t -tell you," she whimpers, and you can see her angry façade fading. She's truly frightened of you, and you feel smug as you realize you truly do have the upper hand here.

A fresh onslaught of tears spill from her eyes, and really, you just want to slap her, but she looks pathetic and helpless that even your bitter heart begins to soften just a bit.

"Come sit down," you tell her, a harsh tone still in your words. You jerk her arm lightly—just enough to get her to follow. You release her from your grasp as you sit down on the curb.

She rubs her arms, looking relieved to be freed. You notice the angry purple marks on her delicate skin left from your sharp nails. You feel a pang of guilt, but you say nothing.

"Sit down," you tell her again, your voice a bit softer this time. You pat the concrete ledge beside you.

She looks warily at the curb, and at first you think it's because she's scared to sit beside you (which probably is part of it), but as she rummages through her gaudy red purse and pulls out a bottle of Purell, you remember what a psycho nut she is when it comes to germs.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Emma, just sit down on the damn curb," you spit at her, and you're surprised when she actually joins you.

She slathers another layer of sanitizer on her hands and the scent of the chemical hits your nose. It calms you for some unknown reason, and you can already feel your heart rate beginning to mellow.

You know you should say you're sorry for your unruly behavior, but you're not really one for apologies. You sit in silence for a moment, watching Emma nervously wring her hands together. You've never really noticed before, but she's quite pretty, in a quirky sort of way. Every time you've seen her, she's always been so put together with her matchy outfits and perfect hair flip. But tonight, she looks frazzled, the hem of her striped sweater un-tucked, her usually perfect hair mussed, and her dark eyeliner smudged along the edges.

"So things didn't work out between you and Will?" You're surprised at how composed you are, and though you try to hold onto to your anger, you find it's quickly fading.

"No—you were right. I really don't know what kind of person he is at all…I suppose you're going to rub in the fact that you were right…" she mutters. She fiddles with the straps at of her heels, finally undoing the buckles as she releases her feet. She flexes her toes, and you wince when you see how red and swollen they are. God, this woman is insane. You're surprised when she leaves her shoes off, allowing her bare feet to rest on the asphalt, and you realize that there comes a time when even the most anal people decide they just don't care.

You process her words, and you're waiting for the smug feeling of satisfaction to wash over you, but as you look at the shoeless guidance counselor sitting beside you, you can only feel guilt and regret.

Without thinking, you reach out to pat her shoulder reassuringly, and she flinches tremendously under your touch. "So what happened?" you ask her, your voice small and filled with curiosity.

She looks at you, trying to find the catch, and frankly, you're not even sure what prompted your sudden onslaught of genuine concern. She tells you, and it takes awhile because she bursts into tears various times, and when she's finished, you have gathered that Will has been enjoying the freedom of his recent separation from you a bit too much.

A surge of anger rushes through you. "What a bastard."

"I know," Emma agrees, and she smiles sheepishly at you. This might be the first thing you two have ever agreed on, and you feel a surge of pleasure as you share a common feeling with the woman you hated with a deep passion only moment before. "And I told him so. I called him a slut in front of the entire staff this afternoon."

You eyes widen in shock, and you find yourself wishing you could've witnessed this. It's impossible for you to imagine this fragile woman calling anyone a slut, especially your husband.

"You go, girl," you tell her, resting your hand on her shoulder. This time, she doesn't pull away.

She smiles faintly, and you can tell your praise pleases her. "It did feel sort of good—to stand up for myself that way. But at the same time, it made me feel really crappy that I had to put Will down to boost myself up…"

Of course her moral compass has her feeling guilty. But then again, no matter how horrible you are yourself to others, she's right. How rewarding, really, is it to degrade some one else?

She sighs, scooting a bit closer to you, and you feel your heart rate begin to accelerate slightly from her proximately. You continue to rub circles gently on her shoulder.

"Terri," she mutters after a few moments of silence, "have you ever just hated yourself so much? Or at least tried to hate yourself? It's so damn hard," you're shocked to hear her use even this minor profanity, "because we're wired to root for ourselves—to always want to be the best and loved by everyone, that even when we say we hate ourselves, we just can't."

You know exactly how she feels, because that's the way you've been feeling for the past few months, every morning when you would wake up and adjust that pregnancy pad, and now every morning when you wake up without it.

You don't say anything. You lean over to wrap your arms around her small frame, engulfing her in an embrace. She sighs heavily, melting into your arms. She buries her face in the crook of your neck, and your chin rests lightly in her curly red hair. It smells like strawberries, and that makes you smile.

"Thanks, Terri," she mutters, her hit breath ricocheting off the skin of your neck.

"Attention all customers, Sheet 'N Things will be closing in five minutes," the manager's voice blares over the intercom. Though you're outside, you can still hear it loud and clear.

You break apart, almost regretfully, from Emma's grasp. She pulls those god awful pumps back on her swollen feet, and you offer her your hand to help her to her feet. She smiles at you, and you can't help but to return the grin. Though it's awful, you feel sort of glad she's in the same boat as you right now. It makes you feel a little better not to feel so alone.

"Well, you probably need to get back in there and close up," Emma tells you, smoothing her skirt as she glances at you.

"Oh the other employees can handle that," you quickly tell her, not ready to leave her just yet. "Oh, you never got to buy your sheets. I can help you pick some out quickly if you'd like."

She blushes, stuttering slightly as she speaks. "I, um, don't really, uh, need sheets…" she trails off, refusing to catch your gaze.

And then it clicks. "You came here because you knew I worked here…because you wanted to run into me." It's a statement, not a question, and the color of Emma's cheeks deepens.

"I felt so alone, and—and I kept thinking of you…how you would know exactly how I felt…I thought we'd just end up yelling at each other, truthfully…but even that would've been better than going home and crying alone..."

You have her wrapped in your arms once again, and you feel her arms tighten around your own waist. You're filled with a sudden melancholy feeling, thinking about just how lonely and estranged this poor woman is from the rest of the world, and it gives you a sudden burst of pride to know that you've managed to help her in some way. You feel a fierce loyalty to her, and you're already having trouble recalling exactly how it felt to loathe her. Who would've thought that you would have so much in common with her and that it would feel so good to take a step away from your own selfish feelings and truly reach out to someone else?

You pull away, smiling at her. Impulsively, you lean in, brushing a gentle kiss against her forehead. Beneath your lips, you feel the heat of her blush rising.

"I'm glad you came tonight," you tell her once you pull away. "I appreciate it…a lot more than you probably realize."

She smiles, her gorgeous brown eyes lighting up. "I'm glad…and you know what Terri, it's kind of nice, you know, not hating you."

You couldn't agree more, and you're about to suggest that maybe sometime the two of you could do something together, when Henri emerges from the store. "We need some help moving some boxes into storage before we close up…I can't lift them, and Macy's puking her guts out in the bathroom."

You sigh, that anger and annoyance starting to creep under your skin once again.

"I'll let you go now," Emma tells you, waving as she steps down from the curb.

You watch as she slips into the front seat of her pristine black Volvo, the dark car disappearing into the night as she drives away.

You feel a pang of regret that you didn't exchange numbers or anything. But after all, you remind yourself as you enter the emptying store, it's not like you're friends or anything.