A/N: A ficlet that I wrote for Tumblr but decided to upload here.
They start after he dies.
White flashing before her eyes in a fierce spasm, his voice seeking her through the darkness, spitting bitter words of your fault, your fault. Always her fault.
Then it's Henry. Shouting at her, hissing at her. You killed him, you killed him. Your fault, your fault.
It's always her fault.
She wakes in a cold sweat with hot tears burning their way down her cheeks and she faces a strangling mix of wanting to drown in a numb sensation and curl up in a ball.
She tries to close her eyes – to fall back into a temporary oblivion – but the images return – scorching and blinding – as soon as her eyelids clamp shut and she opens them, a sob escaping her.
She climbs out of bed on cold and shaking legs, wrapping her arms around herself as she moves out of her bedroom.
One time thing she thinks as she pads down the hallway. Just for tonight – she needs him – but only tonight. Her eyes are red and puffy, her cheeks stained with tears and her throat burns with un-released sobs, hands trembling as she turns the brassy doornail.
He hasn't bothered to close his curtains and an amber glow from the faded streetlights fills the room, light rain lashing against the window pane.
The door shuts with a quiet click and the figure in the bed stirs slightly.
"Emma?" He says groggily, voice thick with sleep.
"Shh." She says, and meaning it too. It's the last thing she needs is him questioning her actions – making her feel weak – you are weak – and making her feel suffocated with self-deprecation because look how broken she is.
"Just go back to sleep." Her voice breaks as she moves over to the bed, resisting the overwhelming urge to over think her actions as she pulls back the cover, sliding into the bed next to him.
There's a moment of hesitation – the air humming with unspoken words – and then a strong arm curls around her waist, pulling her against the soft cotton of his shirt.
"Nightmares." She whispers brokenly and she hears his soft shh, quiet and lilting and somehow soothing.
"I know." He murmurs and she feels his lips on the back of her head, chaste and comforting and she can feel herself shaking because she's cold. Always cold. "I get them too."
She moves her hand to where his rests against the flat of her stomach, caressing it lightly with her thumb and she hates herself for it because she should be pushing him away, not inviting him in. Not letting him hold her – she can hold herself. She always has.
Except tonight she can't and she needs him.
But before she can dwell on how pathetic she is – climbing into bed with the pirate with whom she's barely spoken these past few days – she feels his nose buried in her hair and his warm breath on the back of her neck and she feels herself slip into a dreamless sleep.
(When she wakes up in the morning he's not there, and she walks down the stairs to find him engaging in idle conversation with Henry about fishing.
Their eyes meet and he gives a soft smile and she just knows; he understands. It's okay.
She returns the smile).
The next night, she sees them again; hears them again. Loud and echoing, bitter and nasty and laced with an undying hatred because failure. She's a failure, a failure, a failure.
She wakes in the same dishevelled and disorientated and plain distraught state as ever. She thinks to the night prior; his warmth, his comfort, his lips on her head and his murmurs of understanding and gentle shushing, coaxing her back into a doze.
Yesterday was the first day she didn't look like a feature of the zombie apocalypse – where the bags under her eyes were there but faded and where she could maintain a conversation without her heavy eyelids threatening to droop.
She wants to go to him. She aches to go to him.
And that's exactly why she doesn't. It was the same aching she'd had in Neverland – a flaming need to just pull his lips back to hers – and she'd resisted then, as she must now.
She lets her eyelids slip back shut, and when she images return, scraping and screeching, she doesn't resist, just lets the tears fall silently, hugging a pillow and pretending it's him.
When she wakes she feels more zombie-like than ever.
(His eyes seek hers throughout the day – plain and raw emotion seeping from the cerulean orbs because he never was good at refraining from staring. She doesn't care, and sometimes she even meets his gaze.)
But then it gets worse.
It's not just him that comes to her, or even just Henry, but others too. Dead. Unconscious. Bleeding. She failed them too; she always does.
When she wakes a short and anguished cry escapes her and she's positively trembling and she balls the quilt into her hands, breaths coming out in short and distressed huffs.
No matter how strong she wants to be – wants to seem – she can't do it any longer. Not when she knows he's there – open arms, soothing words, understanding and a comfort that only he can bring.
He's lying on his back this time, head titled on its side and his eyes flutter open as she walks, her figure casting shadows across the wooden floor.
She slips in next to him, resting a gentle and somewhat hesitant hand on his chest and she lets her head fall into the crook of his neck, silent tears wetting his shirt.
This time there's no hesitation – just his arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer and his lips against her forehead, giving her that comfort she'd been craving – desperately craving. There's something about his beating heart and unintentional contented sigh that makes her think maybe he's been craving it too.
Then it hits her – of course he has. It wasn't just her loss – it was theirs – and maybe this is their way of grieving. Mourning. Comforting. Healing.
This time – instead of nightmares or even a dreamless sleep – she dreams of soft blue eyes and gentle touches, a crooked smile and a jagged coastline.
(She wakes again with him absent from the bed, and when she comes down the stairs he's there with coffee and bagels and more understanding glances.
She doesn't even feel that weak.)
It happens again the next night. Same cruel images, same suffocating need to pull herself away from them, same cold sweat and dry throat and need for his arms around her.
This time she doesn't even hesitate, past the point of foolish insistence that she can get through it on her own. She needs him. And she doesn't even care that she does, slipping into his embrace again.
His hand comes up to her head, stroking her hair lightly and pulling her head further into his neck. Her leg slips between his, her hand curled up at the v of his shirt, and once again, she sleeps soundly.
David watches his daughter over the next few days, noting to himself with a soft smile that she seems to be getting better. The bags under her eyes are less pronounced and the tired slump to her shoulders seems to be disappearing.
She no longer seems like she's just pretending to hold it together – for the sake of the cause – but is actually getting better.
He wonders if it has anything to do with the not so discreet glances exchanged between her and the pirate, shy smiles they think no one else sees.
So close. They had been so god damn close to finding her, to capturing her.
Emma has aching limbs and dreadfully sore muscles when she and Killian drag themselves back to the house, not even a shared glass of rum before they stumble into their separate rooms.
Except this time, Emma doesn't even bother to attempt sleep by herself. She simply changes into her pyjamas before slipping back out into the hallway.
He's just removed that ridiculous leather waistcoat shirt of his when she enters the room, shutting the door softly behind her. She can feel his gaze and catches the hint of a smile as she moves over to the bed, not waiting for any sort of consent before tucking herself into it and letting her eyes slip shut.
Her eyes stay closed and she mumbles something even she doesn't really recognise as she feels the covers lift beside her and his warm body press up against her back. His arm curls around her waist, balling her jumper up into his hand.
(It's about four in the morning when Henry has a nightmare of his own and gets up to seek a mother's comfort. He frowns when he's greeted with an empty bed, eyes flickering to the door down the hall.
He can only roll his eyes and sigh in that self-riotous manner all 13 year olds hold when he sees her curled up with Killian because really, it's about time.)
Somehow, they slip into a routine.
Tiresome days with injuries and casualties; physical and emotional exhaustion at its peak after which, they walk home – sometimes a stagger, sometimes a limp, sometimes nursing a bloody arm or cut shoulder – then collapse into bed in a graceful heap of sore limbs and forming bruises, wrapped up in each other's embrace.
What was once her worst nightmare – or full of them, to be correct – becomes something of a safe haven, a moment of peace amidst a sea of chaos.
(When her parents catch on to this routine – stumbling into her room to deliver news of a lead on the green bitch tends to have that effect – they don't comment, or judge, because they know it's what she needs. What they both – her and Killian – need. And she's grateful.)
She doesn't know if it's sleeping with him – in the completely innocent way – that makes her feel so incredibly natural about touch with him, only that somewhere along the line small things that would have been crossing the line become the most natural thing to do.
Putting her hand on his arm as they stand, glossing over some information a book Belle gave them holds. Resting her head on his shoulder whilst they wait for Regina to finish making a potion. The comforting squeeze of his hand when the queen asks her to help. A kiss to her temple when things all get too much.
Soon, it progresses. From simple touches and grazes and quiet displays of a kindling affection to her hand slipping into his on the walk home (and not because she's upset, or in need of comfort, but because she wants to), his hand on the small of her back as they hunch over maps of the mines that run a web underground or his hand on her thigh when they sit round the dining table, battle tactics going back and forth.
They never really discuss it – there honestly isn't time – and so they progress with no real direction. And each night, without hesitation or confusion or any doubt at all, really, they slide into bed together.
It's only when the witch dies is there a mild contemplation. Maybe with her gone, the nightmares will fade, giving her no need to curl up with him each night. But she does anyway because whilst she may not need it, she wants it, and for once, that's good enough.
He'd kissed her before then – on her temple, her forehead, wherever was closest, generally – and so his lips on her cheek is nothing strange really.
But he lingers. And she lets him. Then slowly, his lips move from her cheek. He drops a kiss beneath her ear and then ones along her jaw, and she tilts it, inviting him. Then he softly kisses the corner of her mouth before pulling away, lips hovering above hers, waiting for her to make the move.
Knowing without doubt that it's what she wants – what she's always wanted – she tilts her head, brushing her lips against his before her hand slides up to cup his cheek, deepening the kiss and coaxing a small groan from him.
And then all of a sudden – through quiet murmured words of affection, gentle touches and caresses, tangled limbs and entwined hands – sleeping with him becomes a little bit less innocent.
(In the morning, neither of them gets up. There's no witch to hunt, to beast to kill, so they simply sleep.
When Emma does wake up it's to kisses on her shoulder, sparkling blue eyes and a soft smile. She smiles back – and kisses back – and for the first time since he passed, completing the process that started when she first climbed into bed with her pirate – she doesn't feel broken at all.)