Set between the Enchanted Forest flashbacks from 1x03 'Snow Falls' and 1x10 '7:15AM', possibly slight AU depending on your interpretation. Written for SassySnow1988 for her birthday! Sorry it's a little late, love.
Angie is the best beta ever.
Momentum
Momentum: /mōˈmentəm,mə-/ noun. 1. The quantity of motion of a moving body, measured as a product of its mass and velocity. 2. The impetus gained by a moving object. 3. A quantity that is conserved within a closed system.
There is something to be said about the world, about the ever-changing system of checks and balances. One door closes, another opens. It's the way of life, Snow thinks, a so-called equivalent exchange that favors some and hurts others. Some find love, others heartache; and some find both while others meet neither.
She didn't always feel this way, of course. Life on the run had jaded her. Once, she'd assumed romance to be the stuff of fairy stories; love at first sight, a magical first kiss. As a girl, it made sense. Her step-mother had fallen in love with her father in merely a day (or so it seemed). Not quite first sight, but she was willing to let it slide. Love was something owed to her, owed to everyone.
But with age comes knowledge, and with knowledge childish dreams die.
Nothing is owed her. She was lucky enough to be born into privilege, unlucky enough to lose it. And true love? True love is merely a fantasy told to young children, a false promise that the universe is truly good.
So when Prince Charming here catches her in a net, she isn't afraid to speak her mind.
"There is no such thing as love at first sight, or first kiss."
(It's the bitter remnants of a childish dream, she thinks. But it wouldn't do for him to know that.)
It's funny to tell him so, this random man who's trapped her in a tree. Almost a warning, as if to say 'not interested' or maybe even 'don't you dare fall in love with me'. That is, if she believed in love.
However, she does believe in business transactions, and that's exactly what this is. In the end, it's a balance; a trade. His jewels for her amnesty.
So he cuts her down and they're on their way. Her body aches from the fall, and she spends the journey figuring him out - learning the curve of his mouth as he smiles, the amusement that lights his eyes when she's frustrated. The way he treats her as an equal in every way; the way his hand closes around hers as he helps her over obstacles in their path.
The way he grins when she calls him 'Charming'.
(Upon further consideration, she decides that maybe he isn't a soulless royal after all.)
Even still, he's a cocky bastard. Unfortunately he's a cocky bastard who also saved her life.
It seemed like the honorable thing to do. Honorable. He may be cocky, but he's honorable too. And charming, in his own way. There's something to be said about a man who would save the woman who'd just tried to drown him (a woman who has also robbed him, no less), but she isn't quite sure what that is. He's a puzzle - a prince in charm and command, but a real person in compassion and integrity.
"So why did you run?" he asks finally, breaking her from her thoughts as he urges the horse forward, glancing at her over his shoulder.
"Because I thought you'd turn me in once you got your jewels back," she replies, matter-of-fact. He startles, pulling their mount to a stop as he twists further in the saddle to look at her. "What? I know how this works. Anyone else would have me wrapped up with a bow on my head, right there on the queen's doorstep in less than a fortnight."
He looks hurt. "You really think I'd do that?"
She isn't so sure, actually. And the fact that she's leaning toward 'no' scares her even more. "When you're on the run, it's better to be cautious," she answers quietly.
"Well you can trust me," he promises. "I'll never hurt you."
She offers him a small smile. "I almost believe that." Almost, she thinks, because somehow she knows he'll only lead to heartbreak. She's seen it happen before - held Red in the dark of night after she'd dreamt of Peter, watched her father grow quiet and withdrawn after her mother's death. She knows that even this modicum of affection she has for him is dangerous.
In the end, she saves his life too. Logically, she thinks that should be enough to repay all debts - that they're even and can continue on with their lives as if they'd never met. And yet, somehow she finds herself walking him halfway back to his castle.
(They take the scenic route, of course.)
When they finally part ways, she turns to watch him. She feels it then: not love at first sight or the heavens parting with the song of a thousand fairies. No. It's nothing like the stories her mother had told her as a child. But it's there nonetheless. Just as she almost believes his promise to always find her, and just as the ring had fit her finger, it's there.
A spark.
.
Impulse: /ˈimˌpəls/ noun. 1. A sudden strong and unreflective urge or desire to act. 2. A driving or motivating force; an impetus. 3. A pulse of electrical energy; a brief current. 4. A force acting briefly on a body and producing a finite change of momentum.
But sparks need kindling.
And so does she, for that matter. She can't stay in any one place for too long, especially the cabin. And while she tries to leave her various stashes well-stocked, it seems she's forgotten this one.
The rain drizzles, splashing into the pond as if mocking her. A year ago, she'd have assumed that such poor planning and terrible luck would kill her before sunrise. Now, having endured worse than this, she knows that isn't true - she'll be cold, wet and miserable, but she'll survive. That really isn't much comfort, she thinks bitterly and pulls her hood tighter around her face.
She's about to give up on the fire altogether - to go hide in her hole and hope for sleep as she drips dry - when she spots a dim glow in the distance, just in the next clearing. Fire.
She has a few options, she decides. One: she can try to scare the guy off with her best wolf sounds (which, according to Red, are sub-par at best). Two: she can knock him out and enjoy the warmth until he comes to. Three: she can knock him out and steal away with a lit branch to light her own hearth.
Or four: combine options two and three.
Yes. Four it is, then.
She approaches as quietly as she can, dodging branches and puddles that may sound and give her away. The storm is a blessing though - the poor visibility her shroud as she rounds the edge of the clearing, moving from tree to tree, her body pressed flush against the trunks. The fire burns brightly despite the building rain, and her body aches for its warmth. She peers through the branches and - just as she'd thought - there's only one man, hunched over the fire as he warms his hands. If he suspects her, he shows no indication.
He'll never know.
She creeps up behind him, bow raised, but just as she's about to knock the weapon against his head, a twig snaps beneath her foot, betraying her position. It gives the guy just enough warning and instead of knocking him out, she winds up tackling him to the ground, pinning him with her body against his, her hands braced on either side of his head.
"Charming?"
It's him of course, the one and only Prince Charming, now sprawled in a puddle of mud and at her mercy. He smiles up at her. "I told you, I have a name."
Charming, indeed. "What are you doing here?" She doesn't move. After all, he has a certain penchant for setting traps and somehow sitting out the rainstorm in a net hanging from a tree is not what she has in mind for the evening.
"Evidently, getting robbed," he replies smartly. "Again."
She lets him up, wiping her muddy hands on her breeches. "That's not what I meant."
He rights himself, running a hand through his soaked hair. "I know."
She waits expectantly, one hand on her hip as she offers the other to help him to his feet.
"I'm ... hunting," he explains defensively.
She glances over to his meager pile of supplies and grins. "Hunting, hm?"
"Yes."
She raises an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Really."
"You're not - I don't know - escaping from your lovely fianceé," she teases, eyeing him pointedly.
"It … may be a perk." He grins sheepishly. "I think the real question is what are you doing here? Aside from robbing me, that is."
She rolls her eyes. "I wasn't robbing you."
"Oh, so the sneak attack from the woods was what? How you greet your friends? I'd hate to see what you'd do to an enemy."
The implication that they're friends stuns her more than it should. After all, they'd parted on friendly terms, with some vague, seemingly empty promise that he would find her should she need anything. (As it turns out, she's found him instead, but she's never really been one for semantics.) She shakes herself, finding her thoughts trailing too close to that forbidden line once again, and she punctuates the internal exchange by elbowing him in the ribs. "I just wanted to warm myself by your fire."
"Oof," he grunts, rubbing the spot. "You could have just asked, you know. You can trust people, Snow."
"Hah," she scoffs, moving closer to the fire and holding her palms out to its warmth. "I can trust people? You know I've got an impressive bounty on my head. I can't afford to trust anyone."
His voice is soft when he speaks, and she feels the warmth of his body as he steps closer. "You can trust me."
She can. It should be a given, after he's risked his life to save her, after he's kept her secret for so long. "You once told me that you'd never hurt me."
He nods. "And you told me that you almost believed me."
She actually laughs at that, pulling off her cloak and turning so the fire warms her back. "Yes, almost. Then."
"And now?"
And now? Now, it's almost impossible to deny that there's something between them, what with the universe dropping them into each other's laps yet again. And perhaps the best name for it - this understanding, this powerful thing between them - is trust. "Now," she says carefully, meeting his eyes in the glow of the fire, "I do believe you. I - trust you."
With that quiet admission, the rain stops, almost as suddenly as it had started, leaving only the sounds of water dripping from the trees between them. He's still watching her intently when she looks away, into the glowing embers of the fire.
"You're soaked," he says finally, as if it isn't obvious.
"So are you," she counters, and prods at her sopping cloak with the toe of her boot.
"I wasn't until someone pushed me into the mud."
Oh, right. That was her fault, wasn't it? "I'm sure you deserved it for something. Catching a girl in a net perhaps?"
"Pretty sure my comeuppance for that one was getting pushed into a river."
Oops. That was her too, wasn't it? It's almost a habit now, and somehow that doesn't bother her. "You probably deserved it for something else, then."
"Probably," he agrees with an amused smile. He falters a moment, looking away from her awkwardly and rubbing at the back of his neck. "If you'd like, I - I have some dry clothes. You can - wear them and let yours dry by the fire."
The blood rushes to her cheeks, and - if she were questioned - she would swear it's the heat of the fire and not a nervous blush. "You don't - you don't have to."
"You look cold."
She swallows thickly and nods. "One of these days you're going to have to stop saving me."
"Never." He moves to his camp, pulling out a pair of breeches and a cotton shirt. "I'm sorry," he says, offering the clothes. "These are the best I have."
"They'll do." She accepts them gratefully, eyeing the thin fabric of the shirt skeptically. "Could you -?" She gestures for him to turn while she changes, and she sees the blush creep into his cheeks as well.
"Oh. Oh - oh right. Yes," he stammers, and turns so his back is facing her. He takes a few steps away from her, affording her some privacy.
The clothes are too big for her - no surprise - but they're dry and warm, and that's more than she could have hoped for on this wretched night. "Okay," she says, padding over to him, arms folded across her chest to guard against the chill. Her feet are bare, but the extra length of his breeches come over her heels to warm them. "I'm decent."
He turns and smiles at her, tucking a damp tendril of hair behind her ear. "So they fit?"
"Well enough," she murmurs, hugging herself more tightly. "Thank you."
He moves her damp clothing closer to the fire, laying them out to dry on the rocks before they sit together at the hearth, huddled for warmth. They make a feast of the dried meat and bread he's packed - better food than she's had in over a month - and he says nothing when she takes far more than her share; nothing still as she steals the last piece. They're quiet for a long while, gazing into the flames flickering before them, and she thinks of the past, of the future. The past? That's written in stone. Nothing will make her a 'princess' again, erase the hardships of a life on the run. But the future? That's still uncertain. She'd once told Charming that her goal was to become rich; to amass enough fortune to escape from this realm and into her happy ending. It's a silly goal, she realizes, leaning into him in the firelight. If there are no true happy endings in this realm, what's to say they exist elsewhere?
"What will you do?" she asks softly, her head against his shoulder. His own clothes are still muddy, but he expresses no discomfort. "You'll get married and then what?"
He's quiet for a moment. "I don't know. I guess I hadn't thought that far."
She snorts. "So no dreams of children then? A little prince of your own? Or princess?"
"I'd like a child," he says, an arm encircling her shoulders. "A family. A son to raise strong and proud, or a daughter to raise even stronger. More fierce than any princess in all the lands."
"So you have thought that far," she teases.
"Maybe," he admits softly. "But that was a long time ago. In another life, perhaps."
"It could still happen."
"It could," he agrees, though he sounds doubtful. "What about you? Any closer to that portal of yours? To reaching amnesty?"
She shrugs uncomfortably, because suddenly travel to another land doesn't seem like the answer anymore. Maybe … no. No. He is not the answer. "I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"No," she whispers, and when he doesn't respond, she looks up to find him staring intently at her. "Dreams change," she explains.
There's a shadow of understanding in his gaze. "They certainly do."
The little girl in her thinks this is it - that special moment - and maybe it is, but it isn't love at first sight. It's nothing at all like the stories as he tilts his head and closes his mouth over hers, his lips gentle and unsure against her own, his palm cradling her cheek.
"James-" she breathes, but he cuts her off by claiming her in another kiss.
He's felt it too, then. This thing between them. She's decided to call it trust, but the childish, foolish part of her mind thinks of another word, a far more dangerous word in fact.
"Charming."
"Snow, I-"
"Don't," she threatens, cutting him off. "Don't. You know we can't."
He sighs, his forehead leaning against hers. His voice is warm and inviting. "Snow …"
"Charming," she says again, more tenderly now. "We can't - you know we can't stay like this forever. Tomorrow-"
He cuts her off, kissing her softly then nudging her nose with his own. "But we have tonight."
Tonight, she thinks. It isn't much - a fleeting moment in the endlessness of time - but maybe it's enough. Dreams change, she thinks faintly as his mouth closes over hers again, the heat of his tongue against her lips. Just as there is balance in the world, a give and take, there is also change. Magic from the smallest of moments - the clasping of hands, the breathlessness of a goodbye - and just like that Prince Charming is actually charming. Just like that, she's in his arms and the world is still. The smallest of moments - a gaze, a touch. A catalyst.
His hands are warm against her, like fire against her skin as they trail up beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. They're also clumsy, she notices and smiles into him. Clumsy as they work at the wrap around her breasts; clumsy, shy and unsure as he touches them for the first time, pulling back to gauge her reaction.
She swallows thickly, her fingers curled in the still-damp fabric of his shirt. Her voice is rough. "Your clothes are still wet."
His breath catches. "They are."
"Maybe-" She clears her throat and tightens her grip. "Maybe we should get you out of them."
"Probably," he agrees, and his hand moves, palming her breast with more certainty. His thumb brushes her nipple and she gasps. This is new territory for her, leaving her just the tiniest bit lost at what to do next. She understands the mechanics, of course, but Red's whispered fantasies in the dark of night are a far cry from the reality of his hand against her breast and the wet heat of his mouth on the hollow of her throat. Her breath is coming in ragged pants by the time she manages to tug his shirt over his head.
"Snow-"
"Just tonight," she warns, but her voice is uncertain. Not uncertain about this - this: his heart pounding beneath her hand, his face so close she can't quite focus on him at all - but rather the warning itself. Just tonight, she tells herself, because maybe she needs the reminder most of all. One night. No attachments.
But then he pulls the shirt over her head and his mouth is on her breast and oh. Oh, how she wishes a night could last a lifetime.
His cloak at least is dry, soft and warm from the fire, so he spreads it out on the ground before he guides her down onto it. She's naked now - the clothing she'd borrowed now scattered around them and just as forgotten as every reason that this is a bad idea.
He's hers, that much is certain. His sudden shyness as he strips down makes that very clear, and clearer still as she strokes him and his whole body stiffens. He is hers, just as she is his; an unbreakable bond forged as he puts his mouth between her thighs, as he presses into her and everything goes dim at the edges of her vision.
His name is on her tongue - not 'James' but the name she'd given him - and she presses it into every inch of his skin she can reach - naming him over and over again, branding him as hers. Finally, it comes out as a gasp, just as he presses two fingers against her and her whole world shatters around her. She hears her own name, too, a half-sob as he shudders against her.
They're still for a while, catching their breath as the fire dies down, leaving only the heat and glow of embers. He regretfully says that he should tend to it, but instead he merely wraps the cloak around them, the heat of his body enough to weather any storm.
She's nearly dozed off when he laughs, and she props herself up on one elbow to see him in the fading light. "What is it?"
"It's kind of funny," he says, reaching up to draw his thumb across her cheek. "That you were once a princess. Well you still are, but -"
Once, that would have sent a sharp pang of loss straight to her heart, but now she merely aches for it - a reality as intangible as a dream. "But what?"
"If you weren't on the run, I could marry you."
That should frighten her, she thinks. But somehow it doesn't. She smiles sadly down at him. "Charming, you know it isn't that simple."
"We could run away together?" he offers hopefully, sitting up as if to stress the seriousness of his proposition.
"Oh, yes," she teases. "With a double bounty on our heads."
He relents, and his tone is more playful than before, even if she catches a brief flicker of hope in his eyes. "And we could have children. As many as you want. A whole brood of bandit princes."
"Or bandit princesses," she adds, playing along. She lies down again, smiling up at him as he smiles back down at her.
He kisses her, not with the passion of before, but with a tenderness that makes her heart ache. His lips are warm and featherlight against her forehead, her eyelids. "And we'll live happily ever after," he promises softly.
Happily ever after. It's an idea that she'd given up on years - no, a lifetime - ago. But the thought warms her soul, and a smile tugs at her lips. After all, dreams change.
.
Inertia: /iˈnərSHə/ noun. 1. A tendency to do nothing or to remain unchanged. 2. The resistance of a body to changes in its momentum.
He finds her at the cabin. It doesn't really surprise her, so when two bluebirds and a dove land on her windowsill, chirping and cooing excitedly about a prince come to visit, she merely smiles and greets him at the door while he ties up his mount. It's a warm afternoon, and Red has snuck away to visit Granny for a fortnight, so she doesn't restrain herself from appreciating the way his leather breeches complement him.
"You found me," she grins.
He makes his way to the door, stopping just shy of kissing her. Instead, he reaches out to take her hands in his, thumbs rubbing over her knuckles. "I told you I would."
"I suppose you did. How?"
"A bird," he answers, as if he thinks he's so clever. Not many exiled princesses speak to birds, so it likely wasn't difficult.
"Charming. James." She bites her lip, marveling at the fit of her hand in his. "What are you doing here?"
"I had to see you."
"But I thought we agreed," she says, sounding unsure herself. His presence alone is overwhelming, and the heat of his skin is too much to bear. "It was supposed to be just that night. Just one night."
"I know," he concedes, but his hands cling more tightly to hers. "I know. But - I couldn't stop thinking about you."
It would be a lie to say she hadn't thought of him. The mere thought of him is a distraction that may someday get her killed - lost in a daydream of his palms against her skin, his lips against her ear as guards surround her. He's a drug, and the most dangerous kind.
"I-" she begins, but the words run dry, and before she can stop herself, she's rising up on the balls of her feet to close her mouth over his. He makes a little noise of surprise before cupping her face in his hands and following as she turns and pushes him toward the bed.
"We have to stop doing this," she breathes, fingers busy unfastening his doublet.
He laughs, one hand caught up in her hair, the other working at her dress. "We just started doing it."
He's leaving a line of messy kisses down her neck, then between her breasts and down her belly as he pulls the clothing out of his way. She nearly loses it already when his mouth closes over her, when his hand meets hers halfway, clasping tightly as the sensation is so strong she needs something to hold onto. "We have to figure out what we're doing," she insists, and she isn't sure if it's a gasp or a sob, because the small corner of her mind still prone to rational thought warns her that this union can only end in heartache.
He pulls away when she's just on the edge, breathless himself. He presses a kiss to her inner thigh, and then another. "We will," he promises, his eyes meeting hers, dark with desire and something far more precious. "Tomorrow."
One more time can't hurt, she thinks, trembling under his touch as his hands and mouth move up her body. And maybe that's true. This - what they have - isn't something easily stopped. Once set in motion, like a landslide, it will conquer everything that stands in its path.
(But inevitably, even landslides find their end, and a certain merger - a nag with a bad attitude - serves as a constant reminder that theirs is closer than they might think.)
"Okay," she agrees breathlessly as he rises over her. "Tomorrow."
But tomorrow comes, and there is less talking than hands on skin and the whispering of names in the early morning light.
Another tomorrow follows, and they do finally talk, huddled up by the fire naming their extensive brood of bandit princes and princesses, planning their escape to another realm. "We'll change our names," she decides, and presses a kiss to his bare shoulder. "You'll be Charming and I'll be Mary."
He laughs and kisses her, his fingers tangled in her hair. "Isn't 'Charming' a bit conspicuous?"
"Hmf," she pouts, leaning up to taste his lips again. "Do you have something better then?"
He hesitates for a moment, seeming to consider. "How about 'David'?"
"David," she repeats, tasting the name on her tongue. It's very him, almost as much as 'Charming' and certainly better than 'James'. "I like it."
When the third tomorrow arrives, he admits he must leave - that hunting trips can only last so long and he must return before they're discovered. "I'll send for you," she insists, though she isn't sure. A life on the run is a far cry from a life as king, and - despite her childish need to be with him, to have him as hers for all eternity – she can't stand the thought of him in pain or imprisoned. If he sends for her-? If he sends for her – even though she hasn't done the same, she'll go with him. "In a month, I'll send you a message and you'll come find me." She refuses to cry, but regardless he kisses the invisible tears away, thumbs sweeping across her cheekbones as he promises to find her, swears that he'll send for her and they'll finally figure out what they're doing.
And so she waits.
And waits.
And a month later, when she's almost ready to give up, to give into the heartache and the mess Prince Charming has made of her life; when she's convinced herself he's better off without her. When the solution is in her hand - a dove alights on her finger, cooing about a prince in love.
A letter.
Dearest Snow,
I've not heard from you since our meeting, and can only assume you've found the happiness you so desired. But I must let you know, not a day goes by that I've not thought of you. In two days' time, I'm to be married. Come to me before then. Come to me and show me you feel the same, and we can be together forever. And if you don't, I'll have my answer.
Your Charming
Snow thinks of landslides, of an avalanche that cannot be stopped. She thinks of a spark and kindling, of a fire and the heat of skin-on-skin.
She thinks of Charming, and a land of happy endings.