ZELENA'S FANFICS:

EMMA HAS A NIGHTMARE. SHE IS A GROWN ASS WOMAN, BUT SHE STILL NEEDS SOMEONE TO SOOTHE HER AFTER AND CUDDLE HER. BECAUSE IT'S FUCKING ROMANTIC, THAT'S HOW COME.

Killian slowly opened his eyes. Something had woken him up, but he wasn't—

"OW!"

Emma's hand had smacked him square in the face. He cautiously felt for a bloody nose as he looked down at Emma, preparing to accuse her of unprovoked domestic violence—but alas: she was thrashing about in the throes of a nightmare.

Emma had a ton of angst, but she refused to talk about it because it made her look even more damaged, as well as give him the opportunity to complain that she was shutting him out. Afterwards, she would reveal some minor tidbit about her life that apparently explained so very much about her present self; then he would have to smile at her gently and say a few wise, sweet words. Nights like that usually ended in them doing it, or at the very least, having a lengthy make-out session. Just because.

But before the fun part came the not-so-fun part: the talking. He sighed, and listened as she conveniently mumbled in her sleep exactly what was troubling her.

"No! The parents came to the orphanage to adopt a younger child, and I am upset because they didn't adopt me! And now in my life, I am worried that no one will ever want me, and that everything I have is temporary, and will be ripped away from me, and I will be an orphan again!"

She said this all very clearly and distinctly, so that was quite helpful.

He ignored the fact that it was such a ridiculously stupid nightmare that it was hardly worth discussing, as well as the fact that Emma was a grown woman who could handle the odd nightmare or two,, and shook her awake.

"EMMA!" he shouted, then swore violently, realizing it would make for a much sweeter story if he woke her gently whilst stroking her hair and composing a song in his head for her, dedicated to the beauty of her sparkling emerald green eyes.

"Emma," he crooned softly, running his hand through her hair. ("They are so sparkling green," he sang in his head. "Look how fucking green they are…"). "Emma, wake up, love."

"What?" she said groggily, cracking open her eyes. "What happened? Oh—before you answer that, should I nestle my head against your chest?"

"Fine, but it's going to be a lot harder to stroke your hair. Then I have to angle my elbow all funky, and it's going to hurt like a bitch."

"All right, I'll nestle later."

"What happened, love? You were screaming like a banshee." He drifted his hand from stroking her hair to cupping her cheek as tears gently slid down her face. "You were extremely loud, and probably disrupted the neighbors."

Emma took a shuddering breath, and lifted her emerald orbs to meet his sapphire ones. "Oh, Killian," she breathed, her voice sounding shaky. "I dreamed that I was back—"

"At the orphanage, I know. You were saying, love?"

"Right. And there were these—"

"Parents who came to adopt a younger child, yes, I know, love."

"You know me so well," Emma whispered. "It's like you're a part of my soul my heart—"

"We don't have time for that, love. We still have a whole paragraph of snuggling after this."

"Sorry. So, these parents came, and I… I saw the joy on their faces when they took little Cecelia home." She stopped, hiding her face as more tears came. Killian tried not to feel impatient: he'd been caressing her face for ten minutes now.

But he loved her….and they were so frickin' happy together….

"Tell me, love," he said softly.

"It's just… I felt so alone. Like no one would ever look at me like that. Like no one could ever want me." She looked at him mournfully. He looked back at her, smiling vaguely: she seemed to be waiting for him to say something, but he didn't know what he was supposed to say,

"Like no one could ever want me," she repeated, raising her eyebrows meaningfully.

"Er…"

"Okay, this is your opening to say something sweet, and then completely ruin the effect by making a dirty joke," she snapped. "Work with me, here."

"Right," he said hastily. "Sorry, it's just—you know, you've been waking up in the middle of the night a lot lately, I haven't gotten much sleep in the last few weeks. I know," he said as Emma opened her mouth. "I left the door open for another dirty joke, but I'm too tired, Emma."

She frowned. "Excuse me?"

"I'm really tired. I just don't have the energy to comfort you or cuddle you or talk about your feelings. And no, I don't want to talk about my feelings or have you cuddle me, either. In general, I'd really appreciate it if you could stop using me as your surrogate therapist.

"And while we're on the subject, other things I'd appreciate is: one, you not constantly reminding everyone how sexy I am—it objectifies me, and it makes me feel like a cheap floozy. Two, stop talking about my eyebrow game—that's a bizarre thing to fixate on. Three, enough with the modern inventions already— I get it, I'm not from around here, so it's hilarious to see what shenanigans I get into when I encounter a toaster. Four, stop coming up with lengthy descriptions of my eyes. Yes. They're blue. We know. Five, let's all stop pretending I'm good with kids. I'm a violent, mentally unstable, alcoholic pirate; not a nanny. And six, I really don't need you giving people graphically detailed descriptions of our sex life. It is weird, Emma, to put that much time and energy into describing every little thing that happens, that people don't need to know the specifics of, to perfect strangers! Just saying ' dot dot dot' would do the trick, you know? I mean, if it's rated 'M', go for it, but make sure you rate it correctly, don't mislead people with a 'T' rating! I still think it's a little creepy, either way, but whatever."

She nodded stiffly, her mouth a thin line. "Anything else?" she asked, rather coldly.

He tilted his head back, thinking. "Mmm… no. No, I don't think so."

"Great, then it's my turn," she said briskly, sitting up. "I'm tired of having you compare my eyes to emeralds. They're green. Nothing fancy. Just plain old green, all right? Two, you think I like having you think about how sexy I am all the time? It makes it hard to talk to you, because everything we say sounds sexual, even when it isn't remotely sexual. Three, I'm sick of people trashing Neal just to make our relationship seem better. He was a great guy, everyone loves Neal, he's amazing. Four, not everything you do is cute, okay? I don't always feel like collapsing into giggles when you watch Peter Pan and complain about how inaccurate it is. It's a children's movie, of course it's going to be mild, you idiot. Five, I don't care how sexy you are, you can't avoid every argument by cutting me off by kissing me senseless. Six, do you think I enjoy waking up in the middle of the night to bitch about a nightmare that isn't worth half the effort I put into it? I'm tired, too! We're all tired! Everyone's exhausted! We spend all this time, doing all this pointless romantic shit—I'm sick of it! Can we just go to bed?"

He stared at her, blinking rapidly. "God, I love you so much right now," he breathed. "Yes, please. Let's go to sleep. Without snuggling."

"Not even a kiss good night!" she agreed.

And they turned their backs on each other, content to drift off to sleep without so much as a peck on the cheek.