A/N: Smut is implied but not explicitly described.
He's spent so long chasing her, hoping and wishing and praying to every deity out there that he might one day hold her in his arms and have her look at him with the same emotion that paints every corner of his soul. He's spent so long imagining the day she might feel for him a fraction of what he feels for her that when it does come, he's not sure if it's real.
Her lips are warm and soft against his, moving and parting with tenderness. Her hand hands are running through his hair, and up his arms, as if she is desperate to feel that he's real.
(They're both having trouble separating reality from a dream)
And yet, despite the way she moves closer and closer still to his leather clad form, he does little more than run a tentative hand through her loose locks of gold and loosely cup the back of her head for a few short seconds. He dares not move his hand lower, or closer, for fear that if he does, she'll evaporate, like the dreams of his year without her.
He dares to stroke her chin with a gentle hand, breathing her in with every inhale. And when she smiles at him, he feels lighter than he's been in three hundred years.
And still, he doesn't grasp her waist to tug her closer, or deepen the kiss beyond what she initiates. He finds that running fingers loosely through her hair is enough, just so long as she remains with him, solid, and real.
It isn't fear of her running that prompts his hesitancy to pull her closer, but fear that it was never real to begin with, that it's a dream, or an illusion, or a trick.
(Who could truly love such a black hearted man?)
But she's there, and she's kissing him. He sees it in her eyes, the affection she'd been fighting for so long, and now, she's thrown herself into it, drowning in the feeling of home and him.
(Really, they're basically the same thing)
She is not without her hesitancy, and fear, but he can see in her eyes that she wants this, wants him. He can only feel pride in her, fighting for what she wants, taking it, and throwing away doubt in favor of the reward.
Their lips linger as they slowly shift away from each other, preparing themselves to walk back into the diner, knowing that there's been a shift between them.
They're still smiling when they get up from the small table, each only daring to meet the other's eyes in short glances.
And when they head back in, they act no differently than they normally would, but the casual way that she places her hand on his shoulder before trying to introduce the new addition to Storybrooke to Regina sets every nerve in his body on alert, telling him just how not normal things are between them now.
(He hopes he never gets used to her touch. He wants it to send a pleasant warmth through his veins and into his heart each and every time)
…
The first time they are together, he is as gentle and as hesitant as their kiss outside of Granny's. His movements are slow and fluid, without any trace of hurriedness. He spends long minutes tracing his way down her body, memorizing every inch of her skin. His press is a mere whisper, so soft and worshipping, but with a twitch of doubt in every touch.
He does not press against her, or wrap his arms around her. He only strokes and kisses, never leaving his hand or lips in one place for too long, or with a touch too firm.
Even her hands gripping his arms and waist and torso do not urge him into moving faster, harder, or without care.
(Her touch helps to reassure him that she is real, but there is always a lingering thought that if he holds to tight, she will shatter, like glass)
As she comes apart beneath him, he feels a sense of realness fall into place. No dream could have prepared him for the bliss of making love to her.
…
She notices how he doesn't initiate contact with her. She is always the one to lean in first, to weave her fingers through his hair, to grab his hand and refuse to let go.
At first, she wonders if she isn't enough, or if he doesn't trust her affections, but she comes to realize that much in the way so much good has been taken away from her, so much good has been taken from him. She sees the way his fingers twitch when she walks near him, as if ready to pull her flush against him, and the way he leans in her direction when they're in the same room.
She figures out that it isn't that he doesn't want to touch her, but that he's as afraid of losing the people he loves as she is of letting the people she loves in. She knows the feeling of things being too good to be real. New York was nothing but a lie she'd been force fed at the fault of a curse.
But they are real.
…
She spends every moment that they're together showing him just how real they are, with every kiss, caress, and insistent grips.
When they kiss, she runs her hands up his arms and to the crooks of his elbows to lift them to her, placing them at her hips and keeping her hands on top of his hand and hook to keep them in place before winding her arms around his neck.
When they make love, she follows his hand as it travels up and down her body, stopping it in places and holding it over her, forcing him to firmly touch her. She holds his head to her as he sweeps open mouthed kisses to her neck and stomach. As their lips meet over and over with passion, she grips his hand and places it at the back of her neck, moving it up and down a few times to force his fingers into her hair, to tug, and caress with fervor.
…
He touches her more and more with each day, starting with his palm pressed against her cheek as they kiss and as they walk next to each other, on their way to the next town crisis, grips her hand, entangling their fingers without prompting.
As they steal kisses in an alley near Granny's, his hand entangles in her hair, fingers pressing slightly against the back of her head to deepen the kiss.
As they leave her new apartment, he holds his hand out to her to take, a smile lighting his features.
His actions become bolder and without fear as the days go on, a simple caress of her cheek turning into a hand trailing down her back, a grip of her wrist to his hand pulling her by her hip into him.
Touching her becomes easier for him, the disbelief of his reality fading gradually and allowing him to touch her without reserve, without worry.
…
Neither of them mention the progression of touch between them, but the thankful smiles he gives to her and the victorious light to her eyes when he holds her says clearly how well they know each other. They each read between the lines to know what the other needs. Without words, they use the simple gesture of touch to speak volumes of what they mean to each other.
His hesitancy to touch her speaks to the scars he bears, but her care in showing him that she won't disappear is the balm he needs to soothe the dull ache of too many years without something good to hang onto.
(Their love is not glass and will not shatter)