Part 1
This is going to a small verse - the number of chapters hasn't been set but I know where this is going to go. It's going to be angsty, mixed with some fluff/comfort/and family love. It's an OQ story, but it's really much more than that. Hopefully you all like it and will leave me with your thoughts.
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It's been eighteen years since he's been here and it feels strange. To be walking along these sidewalks, passing by houses and shops he'd long forgotten. The town somehow seems less bright than his memories provided, a touch colder, and quieter, creating a rather eery feeling in his heart.
There are people that walk by him, a few stare for a second longer, trying to place him before moving on without any real care. It strikes him odd, that in a town where every face was known by everyone, no one seemed to take a second look at him, a stranger. He recognizes a few of them, kind of. The ginger doctor and his dog, both who walk as though a weight presses them down. The old woman and her granddaughter who barely take passing notice as the door chimes behind him.
It's certainly not how he recalls Storybrooke, but then again, there is a lot he doesn't remember. Not since that day. His brain has blocked a large portion of it out in some attempt to protect and shield him from the truth. He knows it too. The questions he'd asked that were avoided with sad eyes, names he'd use that no one else would, remarks which were pushed to the background.
Eventually the quiet just took over everything in his world. Why bother asking when no one will give a answer.
He supposes it's why he came back. For answers. To figure out the what, and the why, to put some reasoning behind the holes in his mind. Sitting at the counter, he orders a hot chocolate and cinnamon, the spice familiar on his tongue and at least it is something he can recognize.
He's not actually sure where to start. Who to ask, where to find those who can help him. It's usual for him though. To be alone like this. Walking through life with uncertainty and loneliness as his closest companions. It's been this way for a while now. He forgets how it felt before, when life was normal.
"Home" had become hollow. Everything was hushed, there was no laughter, no endless tales of adventure, and certainly no feeling of familiarity. Even if they told him it was where they were supposed to be. Back here. In this place. Not in that one. They belonged here. He belonged here.
It never felt like it. Not for one day did it remind him of home. Years ticked by, and the lightness in his heart dimmed. It was hard to find things to be cheerful about, a rarity if he even smiled. He can't actually remember the last time he smiled, really smiled. Probably before they all left.
She used to smile. Had one of the most beautiful ones he had ever seen. Does she still smile?
There is so much he wonders about her. Far more he remembers too. She is what stuck, the one face cemented into his brain. The color of her hair, dark brown like the trees, matching her eyes, though if he concentrates hard enough he is certain they held flecks of sunshine. She smelled of roasted apples, and was always, always warm to the touch. On many nights he could hear her voice, gentle and kind, matched to a low rumbling laugh that echoed in her chest. He liked her laugh. Especially when she genuinely laughed. There are fuzzy memories of him laughing with them. With her.
He hasn't laughed in years.
Downing the rest of his cocoa, he grabs his coat and toque, leaving what he hopes is enough cash to keep him in Granny's good graces should things not exactly go as planned. He doesn't actually have a plan, but he turns left out of the diner anyway, knowing the route by heart. Eighteen years and he knows it takes exactly 214 steps to get to her house; a left straight away, walk 68 steps, turn right and walk to the red light 87 steps away, another right, past the blue house, and 59 steps later there it is.
Stark white against the black night sky, a single porch light glowing dismally in the corner, every other window dark. What if she isn't home? Will she even remember him? It's an all too real fear that sparks in his heart as he stares up at the looming willow trees that frame her house. What if she doesn't want to see him?
The iron gate is chill under his palm, creaks as it opens, he winces at the disruption into the silence of the night. 108. The gold numbers shine out like a beacon, tugging him forward with every step. A rush of excitement gushes through him just thinking about the chance she is beyond the familiar white oak framing and four pillars. For the first time in years, since he found the portal to get back, hope flickers. He'd traded everything personal possession (which wasn't much) to a man with a strange hat, whose dark blue eyes drilled into him when he mentioned her name, who he was, why he wanted to go back and see her.
The door is cold as he traces the gold numbers, and the previous burst of elation slowly ebs away, swallowed by trepidation once more. Eighteen years is a long time. There's a definitely possibility she has moved on, has a new life, a life that doesn't need him in it. His head hits the door with a rather loud thud. That wasn't his intention, he'd planned to knock. His heart thunders as a light flickers on in what he remembers to be the den, muffled footsteps shift.
This is it.
For a second he is stunned by the strange tall blonde that opens the door, standing near as tall as he, a brimming fire behind bright accusing blue eyes. She glowers, and he shrinks, unaware of what words will appease this apparent guardian dragon. He's never seen this woman before, would have certainly branded her scowling face in his mind as one to avoid.
"I-uh-I apologize M'lady."
"Who are you?"
He steps away, unsteady and unsure of what to say. He shouldn't have come back, this was a bad idea. She isn't here. "I'm sorry, I must have the wrong address." He turns, and his heart sinks into the cratering darkness, wrapping it's cold hands around him like an old unwanted friend.
"Mal? Who's at the door?"
He hears her before he see's her.
That same velvet smooth voice that has been talking to him for near two decades. His eyes have shut on their own, cinching together as the ability to breathe suddenly becomes near impossible without a stabbing pain. Eighteen years he has heard his name in her voice. Eighteen years, he has wondered about her, thought about her, dreamed of her.
His heart pounds furiously, setting off his shaky nerves as her heels come to a clicking stop behind him as he hears her ask again. It floods back, every moment being in this place, with the family he lost long ago. A brother who suddenly vanished, the woman who'd become his mother, simply gone without warning. And his father, the one face that alluded his mind, a gray fogged silhouette, his Papa who never came back, never said goodbye.
He freezes, begs for some strength to stay upright and keep the burning tears at bay.
"Can I help you?"
He turns back to her and the night goes silent. And he waits, unable to find the courage to look at her fully, he just stares at the ground through blurred wet teary eyes. He could run. Spin around and bolt. Far away from her. His mind panics as he hears her heels click out onto the stone porch, her breath hitched and shaking.
This was a mistake. And his brain commands him to flee, but his feet refuse to budge.
"Oh. My. God."
He feels the way her palm trembles as it finds his cheek, and she is still warm.
"Roland?"