Title: Breaking Routines and Crossing the Imaginary Line
Disclaimer: I do not own Once Upon a Time or its characters.
Rating: M
Summary: Nine days have passed before she glances to the calendar and realizes what time of year it is.
Note: Follows Charges: Theft of Cereal and Unexpected Resurrection and Things You Learn When Sharing a Bed. This began as a prompt from BossLady, "holiday blues because it reminds Emma what happen during this time of the year to Graham."But my muse decided it must actually be December 11th, and that there should be a rating change.
Nine days have passed before she glances to the calendar and realizes what time of year it is.
She spends the morning watching him over her coffee, never letting her eyes drift from his handsome face. He notices, she's sure of it, but he doesn't comment. He simply goes through the routine they have made for themselves.
They wake, as usual, in each other's arms. She has been firm in keeping their sleeping arrangements, feeling herself tug him closer each night. She has never been what she considers a "cuddler," but it aches the way she needs to feel him pressed up against her as the nightmares threaten to envelope her. Still, they are careful not to cross the lines they have silently drawn, and there is nothing beyond the simple brush of lips to her temple or hers to his cheek.
They are still in a sort of limbo of their lives, having found a routine but not letting the world intrude on their bubble. She has seen Henry, of course, and witnessed the lovely reunion between her son and the man who knew him from infancy, but as if by some unspoken agreement he has chosen to stay with his grandparents while they settle in to each other.
Neither have talked about what would happen when they'd have to let reality in again. Henry's the only one who knows, though she suspects he's told Mary Margaret and David. She wants to keep him secret from the rest of the town as long as she can (especially from a certain mayor who sits untouchable in her white mansion). He's been staying in her bed, sharing her toothpaste and her cereal. They've been eating whatever's in the cupboards or can be delivered by a waitress who tries surreptitiously to peek around the door whenever she comes. He's been living in her ex's clothing, the same three pieces over and over. They put old sitcoms in the background as they share in each other's presence. They've been disclosing snippets of their life since, but nothing of their future. Staying just on the outskirts of real life, never infringing on it.
Nothing has broken their system yet.
Until she looks at the calendar and realizes that today is December 11th.
Her breath hitches and stills in her throat as she finds the date. One hand wraps about the bracelet at her wrist, and sharp memories threaten to consume her (pitch forward, gasp cut short, eyes closed forever).
Three years and one night ago, he kissed her outside of the diner. And exactly three years ago, he died in her arms.
He doesn't know the date, of course. He only notices her distress. She begins to get jumpy, startling at every noise that creaks through the house and feeling her heart race whenever he shifts. When he stands, her whole soul seems to bottom out in the fear that he will collapse before he reaches her.
She is a mess of emotion, and can't seem to get ahold of any of it.
Instead, he reaches out to trail the pads of his fingers against her hand, feather-light as his dark blue eyes question her. She is only able to offer the sorriest excuse for a smile back. He stares at her only a beat longer before nodding once and saying he was going to take a quick shower. "We should get out today," he murmurs gently.
But she doesn't want to go out. She doesn't want to see anything that might remind her of the night he collapsed and died. She doesn't want to remember the way her throat closed up when the screams had torn her vocal cords to shreads. She doesn't want to remember the foggy morning in which they'd laid him to rest (how she had been too-angry-too-bitter-too-heartbroken to enter the procession). She doesn't want to see the people that had left the funeral with sad shakes of their head but only dry eyes.
She doesn't want the memories.
He comes out of the shower in one of the shirts she'd found at the very bottom of her drawer. For once, it wasn't the black the permeated her ex's wardrobe, and instead a soft grey that hung loose around the collar. She doesn't even remember Killian wearing it. But grey against his skin, even in the stretched-out well-worn tee, feels like how it used to be.
He nudges into her as he passes, and he smells clean and fresh and warm. His hair is damp and a drip falls down across the cords of his neck. A soft smile is on his face. "Your turn."
She keeps her eyes locked on his as she rises slowly. She pushes in her chair and takes a small step closer before realizing she's mimicking last time.
His gaze flashes for a second as he recognizes the look she knows must be reflected in her gaze. Determinedly, she brings her hands to the nape of the shirt (something new). He is still, his breathing picked up just enough for her to notice. Her head tries to scream at her, to remind her she isn't yet ready for this, but her fears for the day ultimately bridge the gap between them, standing on her toes and letting her lips caress his.
He takes a ragged breath across her lips. "Emma—"
She cuts him off and she tugs him forward by the collar, bringing their mouths together once more. He kisses her back, trying to make it the slow, gentle thing they had the last time. She has no patience for it, no want to think about that night. Instead, she bites into it, bringing him closer as she dives aggressively into it.
He makes a sound that is somewhere between a growl and a question, but he pulls her close in, hands trailing up her back almost soothingly. It is too sweet, too reverent, making tears pool at the back of her throat, so she yanks back, panting heavily as she stares him down with a glare that plainly says no.
His head cocks to the side, a flush of heat creeping up his neck. She takes only a minute before her arms cross to an X, hooking into the hem of her shirt. She wants to make a command, to tell him nothing sweet, but as is often between them (and has been from the start), their agreement is wholly nonverbal.
She hesitates with her index fingers in the stitching, staring at him with plain question (agree to the terms?). Finally he takes a step forward, and pulls her hands out. He takes a palm and kisses it, his eyes not breaking from her own. Not completely, is the answer there. She nods and her hands find purchase on his shoulder, bunching in the grey before dragging it over his head and wet hair. It lies in a heap by the kitchen table when she begins her journey across his skin.
His lashes skim his cheeks as she explores, as she lets him have this moment of slow. She doesn't allow her mind to wander, just tracks past warm skin and healing wounds and the way his hard muscles twitch as she curves back to the places she is discovering (new information, new memories, all of it so refreshingly new). Testingly, she digs her nails into his side. His eyes snap open, a flash of something unnamed before they temper. He yanks her arms to lay around his neck, and she understands the don't.
His calloused hands dip under her tank, brushing across her stomach and painting along her ribs before rolling around to the small of her back. His fingers imprint into her hips, dragging her to him to kiss her once again. The force this time is from his side as he nips at her tongue and steals her breath. He trails upward, her tank coming with it, but he pauses at the middle. She breaks their kiss and helps him remove it.
She doesn't give him the chance to look over naked skin, to explore like she did, and instead finds his mouth again. She doesn't want slow anymore, doesn't want to give her brain the chance to catch up with her body, for her pragmatism to show up to tamper down her impulsive wish to not be so afraid.
He pants into her before his teeth drag along her jaw and down her neck, and she tosses her head back so he doesn't run out of skin to devour. She pushes one hand into the waistband of his sweats, pulling down as she tried to pull her own from her body, all the while seeking to tug him closer.
His tongue laves across her collarbone but she can feel the hesitation come back, the question as her pajamas fall to her feet. She shakes her head and pulls her leg over his waist, rocking deliberately against him. I don't want to think, I don't want to think, are the only words scrolling through her mind. His chest rumbles as he presses her against the rickety kitchen table, and she sighs as his hips fit into hers.
Her lips seeks out his, and he is only too happy to comply. At the new angle, she is better able to lift and push with her legs, making his pants and boxers pool onto the floor. She undulates up into him and the table shakes under their combined weight as he groans into her mouth.
She doesn't want foreplay, doesn't want a moment that might change the yes into a maybe we should think about this in either of their head. She knows, of course, that it is too soon, that this is exactly what she had been avoiding for the past week spent in bed with him.
But this is something that does not make a memory yank from the depths of her mind; this is new and different and nothing that will remind her of the past.
"Emma."
She shakes her head, not wanting to hear protests or reasoning or anything else that might pause. She wants him inside her and determinedly wraps her thighs around him, holding him to her. He stills and stops kissing her, only nips at her lips until finally she raises her gaze in half annoyance.
His eyes are imbued with black, dark and limitless. He gives a short shake, a denial that he's stopping things. "Table'll break," he says, his accent thick in something like lust (but underlying with something else).
She lets out a short huff of a laugh, a relieved smile crossing her face. One hand cups his stubbled jaw, making their noses touch. "Take me to bed, then."
He is somehow so much more innocent-looking as he peppers kisses along her cheeks and gives shallow touches to show his agreement (it's the awe that she tries to ignore on his face).
She expect him to get off her to help her stand, for the cold air to cover her body, perhaps waking up the fog and bringing in that rationalization. Instead, he wraps one arm beneath her and the other around her back and he lifts them both. He doesn't struggle with her weight, and that somehow reassures her. He is strong, despite the injuries that have all but faded (he is here and will fight to stay). His forehead is against hers, and their locked gazes seem to only build the fire, the assurance to move forward.
When he places her on her bed, still unmade from when they rose that morning, she grips hard against his shoulders so he won't leave to readjust them. He trails open-mouthed kisses along her neck, starting down her body. She pulls him back abruptly, the need all-consuming. She needs to know what it feels like, to have their bodies merge (like their souls already have). She fumbles with the top of her underwear, popping seams as she yanks them down. His hand immediately covers her, nimbly finding the nerve bundle and he begins slow circles.
"No," she says, her breath short and hot against his cheek as she curls her hand around him. "Inside."
He growls again, low in her ear. He presses against her and yes, this is good, this is right, this is new (this is too soon).
His expression is unreadable, but feels weighty and dark. It lets her remember that it is too soon for him, too. She touches his side, and though her mind screams to hurry another part wants to make sure he's okay. Again, her answer comes in action. He takes her wandering hands in each of his, entwining their fingers and pressing them hard on either side of her head as he pushes into her.
His lips are gentle once more, brushing delicately across her own until she opens her mouth to him. Once she does, he directs them into a slower kiss, burning with heat and something stronger. She doesn't get the chance to protest the change as he begins to move.
She shudders, unsure which sensation to respond to, the sharp angle of his thrusts or the gentle caress of his lips. Quickly, she becomes overwhelmed, trapped by his weight and his hands over hers and the emotion of what they are doing. Something panicky climbs over her (toomuchtoomuch), until his lips part and he buries his head into her neck. Immediately, she gains back her focus, tightening around him as she both catches and loses her breath. She expects clenched eyes as she looks down, but instead they are wide open, and his teeth claw into her while those dark irises take in and relish her every gasp.
When she comes, her fingers turn white as she clamps down on his grip, half-moons across his knuckles. Her teeth sink into her lower lip, stifling the moan that tries to escape. She throws her head back against the pillow, her chest heaving against his as her body pops with energy.
She expects him to follow, to feel that emptiness that will come when he leaves her body (of reality once again). Instead, he is watching her all the more closely, letting her come down with torturously slow strokes before pushing her up that pinnacle again. Her hips arch, oversensitive and needy and no longer caring that she isn't the one in control. Her lips seek any inch of skin she can find: nose, jaw, lips.
His teeth lash against the new wound on her lip, and his look is wholly predatory as he rocks into her. He is no longer trying to build emotion, and instead has joined her on seeking only the physical. Her mind absolutely clears of anything beyond this moment, and instead every atom focuses on her second peak looming with his deliberate thrusts (all but one, which sees the love flame in his eyes all the same and returns it without a second thought).
This time, she pulls him over the edge with her, can feel as his hands squeeze into hers and his hips come to hers with less intent. He groans, long and deep, as he fills her and her cry is unhindered this time as she climaxes.
After a beat, he pulls her against him and rolls to their side, shaking as he holds her close. He is still inside her, unwilling to part them (his actions show their minds and worries mirror). Her body tremors as she tries to catch her breath, and she avoids his eyes. He keeps touching her, rolling up and down her spine in a way that can't be anything but soothing.
His head crooks down, next to her ear, and his breathing is heavy and full of anticipation. Though there are words, right at the tip of his tongue, so close she can almost taste them, he doesn't say a word (iloveyou).
And she doesn't help him (iloveyoubackbutican't).
Her body is sated and boneless, but his heart against her cheek makes her want to cry.
She has made love before, but back then it had been in relationships that were clearly defined. This time, she is trapped in this strange limbo with Graham as they edge on the fringes of real life. This limbo leaves her unsure and unwilling to find out what could happen if (though that atom is multiplying exponentially and it kills her).
A definition to what they have means that it can break. But a lack of definition doesn't stop the fact that there is something inside her that clicks when he loves her. Even if it was too soon; especially since it was too soon.
Bile rises in her throat as she realizes: what has it changed? What has it changed, except giving her a new memory to mourn if she loses him?
She rises before the tears can spill down her face. She doesn't look to see his expression as she leaves him. She doesn't need to find the confusion and hurt on his face.
She feels strangely both empty and filled as she stumbles into the bathroom. She catches her reflection in the mirror, messy hair and red eyes and bruises blooming over her skin. She swallows heavily and then turns on the shower.
The spray is hot as it rains over her, misting the room quickly. She feels out of balance, dizzy and raw. She still has no guarantee. She still can lose him at any moment. Nothing is made better by taking six steps too soon.
The door clicks, reminding her that she didn't lock it. Maybe she didn't even want to, maybe subconsciously she has been expecting this.
He is silent as he joins her in the stall. They stare at each other a long moment before he rests a hand at her hip. She turns and falls into him, her back to his chest, and just lets the water fall.
He pulls his arm around her waist, and her hands rest along his. He touches the bracelet on her wrist, brushing under it and across her pulse. She rolls her head back onto his shoulder and finally lets the tears drip down her cheeks.
"You died today."
He's quiet, tucking his chin against her shoulder and shifting until she can feel him across her whole body. "I came back."
She considers that a moment, playing with his fingers. "You came back," she repeats.
Something electric ignited in the pit of her stomach, and she turned her head to kiss his bicep. Too soon, and for him, too.
But maybe that's okay, so long as they have time to deal with it.
They'd find a better routine.