wasn't yours and you weren't mine (though I've wished from time to time)
Rated: T for language and vague reference to sexy times
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Title gleaned from the lyrics of The Wolves and the Ravens by Rogue Valley.
Summary:
"What?" he says. "What do you want?"
She considers lying, turning around, insisting he misheard. But she stands her ground, for reasons she doesn't quite understand, and answers, "I want to touch you."
Post 5x03 Siege Perilous
There are moments when the chilly grip of darkness weakens. When she can feel the weight of the unfamiliar leather bearing down on her shoulders. Rumplestiltskin's dark apparition makes a habit of taunting her in the dead of night. He whispers cruel observations into her ear, and shouts bleak reminders from across the room. He reminds her what it felt like to sleep. What it felt like to be held while she slept, trusting those arms would still be around her in the morning.
But in moments like these, when the divide between Emma and Dark One comes into focus, it's blissfully quiet.
It's heart-wrenchingly quiet. Every step she takes, every sigh that rushes in her nose and out her mouth, it echoes sharply off the walls. She can feel the cold radiating from the hard surfaces of her house. It clashes against who she used to be before the darkness had taken hold. Usually this strengthens her resolve as she scoffs at the fear and reserve that used to hold her back. She can remember her walls, miles high. She can remember every fucking moment that the people she loved had chased after her while she cowered and they criticized.
Tonight, though, is different. Emma can feel their absence – feel his absence – in sharper relief than ever before. It claws at her chest, and sets her pacing across the wooden floors. Back and forth she goes, hands and eyes skipping across opulence she never could have hoped for. Emma considers it an improvement, the wanting and the having and the taking. It should calm her. But every time she passes through the foyer, she can feel soft leather and even softer hair at her fingertips. She can taste him on her tongue. Emma longs to feel it all again, to turn back time and hold him to her just a moment longer. She clenches her jaw, anger flaring at her own weakness, and alters her route. But then all she can hear is loved you loved you loved you as she walks.
Midnight comes and goes, and she refuses to bear it any longer. Before she can second guess herself, she's at the docks. Her shoes thump loudly across the planks, disrupting her as she hones in on the rhythmic swish of the water beneath. So she toes them off as she heads towards the Jolly.
She slinks easily across the deck once she boards, even as the ship sways. She recalls Killian cheekily pronouncing her sea worthy after several early mornings and late nights aboard the Jolly. With each step, more memories flood in, unbidden. And yet she pushes on, feeling lighter and lighter as she does.
She's no fool. She knows it's a façade, one that will shatter. But isn't it just one façade atop another? She considers this as she climbs below deck, as she circles the table at which they've shared so many meals, so many secret wishes and hopes. She can smell the wood of the ship, can feel its benevolent enchantment. She can smell the sea, and as she breathes, wounds hidden deep within begin to lose their sting.
Emma hears him approach long before he speaks, of course. But she's greedy for more time – and she imagines he'll not tolerate her presence for long, that what little he says will amount to a forceful goodbye.
He's a mere three or four steps away when he does speak, and it almost startles her. "Even as the Dark One, I must admit you'd still make a hell of a pirate."
She turns towards him, expression carefully neutral. "Excuse me?"
"My sabre, love," Killian says, head tilting from one side to the other as his eyes search her face. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
She doesn't give him an answer. And surprisingly, he doesn't press her for one. He seems as if he's about to – mouth open, shallow intake of breath – but then he just…doesn't. He looks at her instead, eyes both hard and curious. She feels as if he's looking straight into her soul, as if he's watching the darkness writhe about inside of her.
"Swan," he says after several long moments pass in silence. He pauses, hand reaching up to smooth over his brow. Even before he finishes, before he opens his mouth again, Emma knows that he knows, just knows why she's here. "Emma."
"Emma?" she replies. "I thought you convinced yourself I wasn't the same."
Killian's face contorts, lips turning on a frown. "Something's different."
"Different," she echoes.
"Open book, darling." A poignant pause. He shifts from one foot to the other, the rustling of his clothing deceptively loud amidst the quiet. Then, "Why are you here?"
"Open book, huh?"
"No games, Swan, not tonight. Just tell me."
"I – " Her answer catches on her tongue. She swallows and finishes on a whisper. " – came to see you."
Killian hums in reply. Whether it's in agreement, or reproach, or something else, she's hard pressed to say. He's been so closed off, nearly unknowable. This is what she means to say, when she speaks. But instead, in a rush, she hears herself saying, "To touch you."
He leans back. "Pardon?"
"I want," she starts. But her words catch yet again.
Killian looks into her eyes. It's all terribly surreal. He should be berating her, demanding she return his sword, begging her to just leave him be, to let him wallow in the specter of who she once was.
Instead, he reads. He reads her quietly.
"What?" he says. "What do you want?"
She considers lying, turning around, insisting he misheard. But she stands her ground, for reasons she doesn't quite understand, and answers, "I want to touch you."
If none of this had happened, if she hadn't picked up that fucking dagger, Emma knows she'd be looking at a self assured grin. That the innuendo would nigh on leak from his pores as they lost themselves on the nearest flat surface.
But she did. And they're not. She can see him preparing to refuse.
"You don't have to…" She says hurriedly, but she trails off, brow furrowing, just as his quirks in response.
She sighs and finishes, "Touch back."
He stands rigidly before her, an unreadable expression on his face. The seconds tick by, and Emma has to fight not to twitch or shift with impatience. Now that she's heard her desire in her own words, her fingers itch to reach out and touch him. But she knows that, in her vulnerability, she couldn't bear to to see him pull away. She can hardly bear this, waiting as he watches her. So she remains still. She knows the veil of darkness could shield her, could set the cold disregard back into place. But if she doesn't indulge herself now, even if only for a moment, she feels she might shatter.
Emma tenses when Killian's shoulders drop.
But then he nods, and she blinks up at him. Up, up, she realizes, as she takes a step forward. She hardly has occasion to appreciate just how much taller he is than her. But with her shoes abandoned on the dock, and his still on his feet, she has to crane her neck. As all encompassing as she is, Emma feels consumed by him in this moment. The darkness inside rears, eager always to be above, to be more. Yet she remains, unflinching and stoic, waiting for him to retract.
But he doesn't. Instead, he shuffles forward, leans down a bit, and closes his eyes on a sigh. She wonders, how does he know? How? He seems a million miles away to her, but to him – in this moment, at least – there must be writing above her brow, spelling her out. Again the darkness urges her to leave with a taunt and a flourish. To shake him from the lonely corners of her mind. It's a grand struggle, and she wonders at which side will win out…
Then he wrinkles his nose – likely a reflex, a bit of dust perhaps – and it's such a familiar gesture, she wonders at who she was kidding.
Emma reaches for his shoulders first, hands pressing down on the corded muscle. She expected to find him tense, reluctant. But he – as per usual – manages to surprise her, loose joints falling forward. She chalks it up to tiredness. But then she traces his collar bones, and he falls forward just that much more. His mouth opens, but he doesn't say anything, not at first. She can feel his warm breath on her face, and she trembles. She should end this.
"Emma," he whispers. It falls, nearly strangled, from his lips, and one of her hands trails down his chest, fingers catching on the buttons, while the other roams up his neck. With one hand, she cards her fingers through his hair, and watches, entranced, as it falls back into his face. With the other, she skims lightly over his belly, listening for the familiar hitch in his breath as the hypersensitive skin seizes in response. She can hear the echo of his laughter from days past, when she'd tease the fierce pirate captain for being ticklish as she chased him from one end of the deck to the other. The memory stops her in her tracks. But then he leans further still, and she can smell the leather on him, the salty residue of the sea, the rum on his breath. She inhales deeply, and presses on more urgently.
She reaches for his face next, thumbs skimming over his cheeks. The stubble on his jaw is thicker, more unkempt. It's softer somehow, and she marvels at the individual strands as she drags her fingers slowly down his cheeks, down his chin, down his neck, then back up again. She can feel him shuddering, can hear his uneven breaths, takes stock of every twitch, every sway. She wants to breathe him in, envelop him, convince him to follow her back into the comfort and consistence of perpetual nightfall. Emma allows herself to pretend it's possible, if only for a moment, as she strokes over his eyebrows, pulling the wiry strands in the wrong direction.
She almost believes – almost – when his lips pull up into a smile.
But then his eyes crack open, burning bright in the shadows. He straightens, towering over her once more. She looks him over as he backs away – hair askew, shirt crooked, cheeks flushed. He smooths back his eyebrows with his hook, and it feels like he's shaking her off.
"Time to wake up, darling."
The façade of tenderness these past several moments have worn begins to crack as reality rushes back in. It's the middle of the night, and the man that told her not two days ago that he once lovedher stands before her, dismissing her.
Her nostrils flare, "The Dark One doesn't sleep."
"Then why are you dreaming, love?" The words are gentle, imploring. She can't stomach the beseeching expression on his face, so she stares over his shoulder.
He's right, of course. She is dreaming, as much as the Dark One can. It's implicit in his question that she'll not be indulged once more. This isn't who she is anymore. Isn't ever who he was. It is, as he's said, time to wake up. She looks back into his eyes, watching as the softness there turns back into stone. She imagines it's a front, but either way, she can hear him bidding her farewell without him having to say a word.
"Goodnight, Hook."
The words are barely out of her mouth before she disappears in a swirl of magic and a muted poof. She reappears on the docks, and slips her shoes back on. She could, of course, be home in a moment. But the idea of home is pulling her in so many directions. And everything she looks at is coated in a hundred shades of irony and contradiction.
So she wanders under the stars instead, willing her mind to empty of the feeling of Killian's skin under her hands. When she walks through her front door at first light, the vision of Rumple is waiting for her, perched atop the living room table. But he says nothing, simply regards her as she lays the dagger on the kitchen counter. He is her only company as she traces the edge of the gnarled blade.
She sits in silence until the sun rises, and she can hear the citizens of Storybrooke begin to scurry about. There's a grandfather clock on the other side of the house, and when it strikes seven, she stands suddenly, tucking the dagger back inside her coat.
Rumple cackles. "Calling the pity party, are we?"
Emma throws him a dark look, unamused. "We have work to do."
"Whatever you say, dearie."
She pretends nothing has changed as she climbs down the stairs to the basement. She pretends Killian's not looming over her thoughts. She pretends she doesn't want him. She pretends, she pretends, she pretends.
Maybe tomorrow it will be enough.
Killian wakes with a start. It takes him a moment to shake his dreams from his mind – Emma's hands, Emma's heart, her body pressed up against his, her lips and teeth and tongue everywhere, everywhere. Not that he doesn't dream of her nearly every night, but the moments she stole in the night, they set fire to his imagination. He can't bear to sleep any longer, so he pulls himself out of bed. The battery powered clock at his bedside reads 7:00AM. It was something Emma had insisted he have before…
Before.
As he shuffles about, Emma's absence is felt in every creak, every groan of the ship as the tide rolls in. There's no use wishing he hadn't given in to her desire. He did. He poured salt into a gaping wound, and then she left with hardly a proper goodbye.
It's the prevailing pattern, it seems. Emma's there, and then she's gone. Often even when she stands yet before him. He feels as if there should be rubble in her wake. As if the Jolly should be in pieces, scattered haphazardly along the shore. He is positively wrecked, more so even than when they made love in this very room. He can still feel her hands – the weight, the warmth, the hint of innocence and desperation in their searching.
But then he breathes in. And breathes out. Nothing's changed, nothing's out of place. He repeats this to himself, because even now, his face is burning and his knees are quivering. His heart beats heavily in his chest. Despite the sleep he managed, or perhaps because of it, exhaustion is quick to settle back into his bones as he heads towards the deck. He leans against the railing and watches the horizon. He knows she's long gone by now, can feel it in his heart.
So he raises his hand to his face, fingers grazing over his lips. He had watched as the Dark One – Emma – reached out to him, body screaming at him to reach back, heart breaking over and over as her hands roamed with abandon. And so he indulges himself for a moment, softly, quietly, whispering the words, breath clouding in the chilly morning air, moisture gathering on his fingertips.
"I love you."
It will be wonderful when Emma is home, and he can whisper these words into her ears until she tires of it. And – he resolves, jaw ticking – so she will be.
Notes: So I wanted a canon-ish excuse for there to be post "I loved you" snuggles, and this is the best I could come up with. This was meant to be a short drabble, but I got a little carried away. I hope you like it!