Title: Easy
Rating: M. Bits of smut.
Summary: Still a couple days away from the Haven after Cora's reveal, there is nothing else for Emma to do but deal with this other new development.
Note: So, this is technically from a prompt on the 12 Days of Shipmas, I believe Day 11. However, I only started writing this because day 10 had too much exposition so it needed it's own fic. Somehow, borne of old headcanons and flu-ridden feels, it became this.
"It's cold. Here, take my jacket."
She startled and shot a look behind her. She hadn't even heard him approach, and it bothered her that she could be caught unaware.
He draped the fabric over her shoulders, and she gripped it tensely. His eyes were dark in the low light of dusk, but they seemed to burn into her as their gazes met. She dropped her look and fisted her hands into the fabric, pulling the fur around her. It was so different than the buttery leather that graced the station's coat rack. Instead of the familiar scent that she was ashamed to say she knew too well, this was deeper, muskier. The material was thicker, raw, but still was surprisingly soft against her cheek.
If her own leather jacket hadn't been on Aurora's shoulders, she would have refused outright. But the evening had gotten cold, and she was too stubborn to be near the fire, near the other travelers, near her mother, at the moment.
She whipped her face back to the clearing, taking in a sharp breath. The meadow was bathed in moonlight as it crested over the trees, covered in a fine mist. If she blinked, she could pretend they were still in Storybrooke, right in the forest that lined the town. She could pretend like dusty nurseries and women disappearing in sparkling smoke didn't exist. She could pretend that Henry was only a short car ride away.
He made a move, shifting to lean against the thick trunk of a tree, and she gave him a sidelong glance. He said nothing and only relaxed as he watched the terrain, giving her time to inventory him again. She could pretend – had been pretending just fine, in fact. Until she saw him again.
His presence was still disconcerting. More than anything else; more than warriors in steel or princesses in silk, he was the thing that tilted her world off its axis. He shouldn't be here. He couldn't be alive.
He squinted into the dark, the line of his jaw sharp and firm and familiar. Her fingers itched, and she buried them deeper into the fur as she snapped her head forward again.
He looked both too much the same and too different. He was clothed in fabrics that made more sense in a Halloween costume than real life. Green wool vest and red kerchief over plain, linen shirt, held by a wide leather belt. He had stripped the thick arm bands and strap for his arrows, but he still looked about as real as the freaking ogre Mary Margaret had slayed days ago.
It would have been easier if he had been a trick, like Lancelot. She had been convinced that's what he was when she'd first seen him. It had been mere hours later, in the dark of night, and he had come out of nowhere. But Mary Margaret drew out a rigorous interrogation, and he managed to answer enough to satisfy her roommate.
Emma, in her shock, hadn't had the strength to carry her own out right away.
But his face, those deep blue eyes, the way his lips curved and shaped over words, the way his cheek moved as he offered her a smile ….
She shivered, and sat heavily on an overturned log. Her boots sunk into the soft brush at her feet, and she frowned. "You didn't have to check up on me," she spit out.
He shook his head and didn't shift his gaze. "Who said that's what I'm doing?"
"I do," she grumbled. "What, did Mary Margaret tell you to?"
He huffed out a sound that was not quite a laugh. "I was never good about taking orders from royalty, and I don't see me starting now."
She grimaced hard and her nails pierced through the material to dig into her palms. Right, that thing. Other than dealing with the fact that her roommate was her mother, she had to contend with the fact that she was also Snow White, princess or queen or whatever fancy title she had been thrown. Which made Emma, what? Royal? It was something she would have to face eventually. Or, you know, maybe push it down where she could forget it. She cleared her throat, uncomfortable, as she refocused. "So why are you here, then?"
His cheek twitched, almost a smile, and finally broke the stare. He picked up a stick from the ground and drew patterns between the blades of grass absently. "Nothing's changed, Emma. At least not with us."
"Of course it has," she shot back icily, the need for steel dripping back into her.
"Okay, then not for me," he amended, and then threw the stick. "But we don't have to talk about that."
She swallowed thickly, surprised and angered by the fact that her throat was narrowing. She tried hard to push back memories, those feelings when his hands were on her cheeks and those eyes were glowing at her, just for her, and she had had that piece inside her swelling and filling, those walls crumbling away to nothing. It was easier to focus on the crushing panic and loss when he'd tumbled to the ground. She grit her teeth together and blew out a low breath. "I don't understand why—how—you're here."
He was quiet a long moment and then shrugged. "Something Henry said, I think. We can't leave, not really, during the curse. And this is not Storybrooke, but it is its mirror in so many ways. So maybe—I don't know. Maybe death just wasn't an escape."
The confirmation in his words, that he had been dead, was strangely comforting. It made it certain that she was not crazy, that remembering the hard sobs as she shook his cooling body were not something conjured by imagination. "It's been too long," she said, and to her horror her voice shook.
She felt his eyes on her when she didn't look up. "I know. That's not my fault, though."
She laughed a little bitterly. "Yeah. I guess you didn't ask for an aneurysm, then," she said stiffly.
He sighed and leaned back. "Is that what they said?" he murmured, then rubbed the space over his heart.
She has a strange sense of déjà vu from that last evening in the shadow of a mayor's mansion, of the press of her hand over his chest and the thunderous beats beneath. She cocked her head to the side to peer up at him, breath hitching.
He looked lost, and so strangely ephemeral in the mist and dark. She reached out almost out of her own accord, gripping the rough sleeve of his shirt. "Why are you here?" she whispered.
He turned to look down at her, eyes soft but questioning. "You needed the company," he said simply.
"Why do you care if I have company?" she pressed.
She noticed her mistake almost as soon as the words tumbled out of her mouth. Her eyes widened in surprise, though his were steady. Why do you care how I look at you? It wasn't the same words, not even the same context. But the tone and the moment and the sentiment … somehow it echoed the scene outside of Granny's on a chilled early December night. She shivered, but couldn't manage to tear her gaze away.
She wasn't entirely sure if she did it on purpose or not.
He was still, completely motionless. Her fingers were still gripped at his sleeve, but the connection was tenuous. His eyes burned through her, like something physical. Her heart was stuttering, and she peaked down at his lips for a fraction of a second.
She opened her mouth as if to speak and then decided against it, rising to get closer into his space. She brushed her fingers under the cloth to warm skin, and relief shot through her. "You are real, aren't you?" she murmured.
Graham moved slowly, like that last kiss, but instead of warm lips on hers, he only used his other hand to circle her wrist. "Yes," he said, an answer to her question that wasn't truly necessary.
She's not sure she's thought of him as real, as truly the same person. It's been near to a week, but she's worked hard to separate feelings from this situation. She's compartmentalized as much as she could, at the very least. She thought she was hallucinating when she first saw him. Mulan and Aurora were at her back, Mary Margaret at her side, and the mist was heavy through the trees. And she thought … maybe she was dreaming. Maybe it was a nightmare. But then Mary Margaret had shout out, and Graham had slowly approached. His eyes had set on hers and never broke, and he had greeted her roommate with the name Snow.
Emma didn't know what to do with that. This man with his familiar voice and strange clothing was someone new, no matter how much she recognized his soul.
And she hated it. She hated the feeling of being with them all. It was strained, enemies turned allies and friend turned mother and … and what was he? Boss? Partner? Almost lover? Now he was just a character from Henry's book, even though his eyes were just the same.
But now that she was touching him, even in this tentative grasp, it was solidifying.
He was Graham, the same Graham.
Her Graham.
They were locked in with each other, holding on and being held, but only at the extremities. The air was heavy around them, thick and palpable and crackling. She felt the hum of her body and the sudden startling feeling that something was right in it.
Her eyes fluttered shut and she tightened her jaw. She yanked away and stumbled back a few paces. "I—sorry. Not—I—" Her teeth clanked together, stopping the stammering abruptly. What was she doing?
He backed up against the tree again, staring at her but not expecting anything. Why did he have to look just the same, even in those stupid clothes? So handsome and yet so haunted. Why did he look at her just as he did, those steely eyes so lit up just for her? Her eyes flick down to his mouth once more, and suddenly she could taste him, so vividly that her mind whited out.
What stopped her – What was stopping her?
She blinked, and the image of him in her arms, frighteningly still, was her answer.
She shook her head furiously and blinked back sudden tears. She glanced up to the sky, now deep purple as the sun drifted away. The rush of emotion spilled out, anger so much easier than longing. "You left me," she finally uttered, the coarse words that had wanted to tumble from her lips when she first saw him standing across their campsite five days ago.
When she looked up at him through the blur of her vision, his brow was furrowed deeply, eyes set beyond her, beyond the clearing. "That's not fair."
"I know!" she shot back furiously, feeling the tears finally drip down her cheeks. She inhaled sharply. "It's not! It's not fair! You died! You collapsed in my arms and you were gone! I grieved for you! It hurt, and it hurts so much, and I'm not fucking over it! And it's been months, and now you're back like it's nothing!"
He had tensed completely and opened his mouth but she shook her head furiously.
"No, and then you say nothing's changed? You dare say that to me? And I'm just supposed to believe it, just supposed to fall back into it like it didn't break my heart?" she shouted, and finally moved to shove him back by the chest. The warmth of him broke her tirade, and she balled her hands into fists again, his coat slipping from her shaking shoulders. She needed the anger, she needed it.
"I'm not trying to be flippant," he grit out, eyes piercing through her. His accent was thick in his own anger, the own injustices that he had to live through. "I know I was dead – I felt it. You have no idea what it took for me to remember my life, what it took from me to wake up here knowing everything I was subjected to, everything I lost. You're not the only one who mourned, Emma."
"Then why would you even imply that everything's the same when there is no way it could be?" she shot back.
He stepped a pace forward, and locked eyes with her. "I loved you, and I still love you. That's why nothing's changed," he said firmly.
She straightened her shoulders and fought the instinct that wanted to hit him and run. No. He can't. He can't still. Something cracked inside her, the breakdown she could feel coming. She felt poised to fight still, and couldn't bear to look at him. "You are trying to make this easy. Nothing about this is easy, don't you understand?"
"Of course I understand that." He stepped around the edge of the undrawn circle around her, brow furrowed. "But what you don't understand is that loving you is the only easy thing there is right now," he countered.
Her chest rose and fell in an uneven breath, brow twisted as she processed. They were words that were better placed in some cheesy movie, but the way he shaped them, the power and honesty and conviction in them, shot straight through her. She had to toughen up to it, she thought. "Love is never easy, and if you think it is, you're more naïve than I thought," she said bitterly, dropping her gaze.
His brow furrowed. He stepped cautiously into her space. "So, then, what … you don't believe me?" he pressed.
"You're twisting my words," she dodged.
His brows raised and he seemed to take that in. "Okay," he said carefully. "Then, do you not love me?"
She backed up a pace, eyeing him warily. The answer flitted through her, but she wanted that attachment to anger instead. He had been gone. It doesn't matter what was. "This isn't the point."
He moved so carefully and smoothly that she didn't realize she had backed up into a tree until her spine met the trunk. "It wouldn't change my feelings if you didn't," he said, almost to himself. His eyes were still dark with emotion, but somehow more thoughtful now. She felt pinned by his gaze. He tiled his head. "But … that last day … I thought I saw it. Did I?"
She glowered at him. "It's not the point," she repeated. Her muscles started to shake, aching from the defensive position and wanting to crumble. She had been cradled in his arms once, so briefly that she had almost forgotten. She can feel it all of a sudden, his arms warmed by sun and his shirt smelling of dust and dirt just like hers. The harness that had been abandoned at her waist, half removed, and the relief of the moment sliding her walls down, just enough for him to circle her before she remembered what was going on. She had given up the comfort to focus on Henry.
Henry. Her focus should be on getting back to Henry, she reminded herself. And of course it was, it truly was. She has been fighting to get back to her world and her son with every fiber of her being. She had trekked through unfamiliar terrain and ate chimera and fought princesses and monsters and shapeshifters related to Regina. She was fighting for her son, and her focus hasn't been cut.
And yet right now they were all at this strange standstill, no way to move forward, no progress to be made at this second. They were forced to rest and recover after the betrayal that was Cora, and had days before they got back to the camp they originated from.
So she was forced to focus on Graham and her feelings for him.
She tilted her head up, trembling. He's asking if he saw it. And it's not the point, and what happened then was not now … but maybe he did see it. Maybe she did love him in that moment.
He moved closer, his face inches from hers but still somehow allowing space. Not space to run, or to hide, of course; the hunter in him didn't allow for that kind. But she could still duck away from any advance, could deny any offering. "Tell me," he said, accent coiling around the words. "And then we can decide what's changed."
His voice was lower, roughened from the forced level tone he had taken before. It twisted her insides, and she wondered what she might lose in giving in. "I was ready to love you then," she admitted, though her tone was harsher than the words conveyed. Then, she reminded herself. Then was not now.
"And now?" he pressed, his chin lowering, breath warm against her lips.
She let out a stuttered breath. Yes, that was the real question. He smelled good and familiar this close: like burning logs and crisp pine, like winter. And she felt encompassed by him, entirely. Like he was inside those walls instead of bricked outside them. Now. Still.
She wanted so much to cling to her anger; it was far easier than anything else she felt for him. She tried to think of the mess she was in: away from Henry, stuck in this realm, her mother six hundred yards away. Wouldn't it be easier to focus on that, instead of remembering just how good it felt, how good it might feel now to bridge the distance?
Maybe she's not ready like she had been then. Not right at this moment, with everything else. But maybe … maybe there was a step between.
She moved her face bare centimeters and caught his lips. He responded immediately, trying to mimic the soft, exploring kiss of months ago. She inhaled through her nose and bit into him, forcing its shape into something new and harsher.
He pulled back and looked into her eyes, gaze smoky. "Is that an answer?"
She plunged her hands into his hair and yanked his lips to hers again, moaning as the taste of him sent a cascade of emotion pulsating through her. Yes, this was an answer to his question: a resounding yes and a firm no all at once. Yes, she loved him. No, she wasn't ready for it. Yes, she needed something physical to wick away from everything emotional.
He seemed to know this even without words, and he pressed her to the tree and moved to capture her mouth from a better angle.
She pulled at his kerchief as she sunk into him, holding it in her grip a moment before letting it fall. She caressed the exposed skin of his chest at the open neck of his shirt, over his racing pulse. He moved his palms under her tank in response, brushing across sensitive skin.
"Emma," he whispered, softly, reverently.
It felt like he was asking for something, reassurance perhaps. She kissed him back fervently, and finally broke apart just slightly. "I know. It's just … I just want to feel you," she rasped, and slipped her hands across the rough material of his shirt and the hard muscle beneath. She caught on his strange belt and figured how to loosen it in seconds, letting it fall between them.
That seemed to be enough, his eyes flashing in the dim of the moonlight. He took her hips in hand and kneeled, burying his face at her stomach and rolling his thumb just under the hem of her jeans.
She was breathing heavily, unsure why she was so willing to be skin to skin with him, out in the wilderness, now. She was so overwhelmed: with this world, with these people, with him. She just wanted something she could distract herself with, something comparatively easy. And this had always been easy, but she also very specifically wanted him inside her, to reconcile the shock and disbelief that struck her when she first saw him.
Distraction, grounding. That was all, right? But at the same time ….
She's had countless one nighters. She knew the feeling of satisfying a craving, the need for a quick lay and an equally quick exit, no numbers, no next times, no emotions: just that baser need. As he looped the button of her jeans through the hole and swept his tongue just underneath, she shivered. This was not one of those times.
As much as this was physical, something about them prevented it from being only that.
Her breath hitched as he pulled down her pants, and she quickly tore her tank over her head. The cold bit into her skin everywhere his hands weren't, and her necklaces jangled faintly. She quickly ripped the longer chain off and let it fall to the ground, then found purchase on his shoulders. She lifted up to let him remove the rest over her feet, and then bunched the coarse fabric of his shirt in her grip and worked it over his head. He let her discard it, and then cradled her hips in his hands. She bit her lip as she looked down at him; she liked him better like this. Stripped down, curls mussed and falling across his forehead, he looked more like hers.
He made a noise like a growl, nipping and kissing along her pelvis, thumbs swirling across her hip bones.
"Graham," she choked out, and his eyes met hers darkly before his mouth lowered. She brought a fist to her mouth to drown her cries and grasped the other onto the tree behind her. Bark caught under her nails and curses bolted through her brain as she struggled to keep her reactions quiet, struggled just as hard as she was arching into him.
Rational. Shouldn't she be thinking rationally? Something about a camp in the distance, other people, but it was so hard to think when his tongue was so intimately occupied and so very, very talented.
She supported her weight on the trunk and hooked her leg on his shoulder. She could feel more than hear the short chuckle before he sucked, long fingers probing inward to rock and explore. His fingers curled and her mind whited out. She came undone with a long shiver and a moan stifled by her skin.
He had moved his head only slightly, pressing soft kisses into the juncture of her thigh and pelvis. "Better than I imagined," he murmured, and then tripped kisses upwards across her abdomen and breasts and throat. Heat coiled in her again and she dropped her fist just in time to catch his lips.
She still felt boneless and shaky as she circled his neck, rising to follow him as he stood, to spark the kiss into something fiery. "I always pictured your desk," she said breathlessly, trying to joke, even though there were long, boring days in the office where she'd picture being laid out across the files and paperwork to be devoured by her boss. And maybe not just on those days.
He chuckled deeply, capturing her lips in short, teasing beats. "I had a few other places in mind," he said, his voice husky and deep and accent piquing in a way that sent shivers through her. His hand dipped to slide over her center. She tremored and bucked toward him, oversensitive, and hissed back a curse. He smiled cheekily. "But this … the woods … this was one of them for sure."
She breathed deeply and hummed. It was easy to forget that he wasn't just Sheriff Graham when her mind was blinded by ecstasy and he was half naked with her. The clothing he'd been in had definitely spoke to something outdoorsy, even if she hadn't pressed. Was this his home? Was this place even more intimate than she'd considered?
She pushed him back slightly, palms against his chest. He looked startled a second before she trailed her hands downward, tracking over his skin. Small, raised scars marred his upper body here and there, but served to accentuate the lean muscle and the power therein. She ducked and scattered kisses along his collarbone, feeling his breathing grow uneven. He was so beautiful; he was strong and attentive and loving and alive, clear as day right beneath her fingertips. She splayed one hand over the pulse in his neck, that rich rush of life, as she swept her tongue across his nipple.
He cupped her face and then moved a hand lower, circling her once again. She inhaled sharply and set on the last of his clothing. She fumbled a second and then scoffed at the idea of having to untie his damn pants. The differences of this world were highlighted in her mind briefly, and she felt that moment of hesitation.
Then he moved her jaw to face him, and she caught sight of the nervousness in the depths of his irises. She swallowed thickly, but didn't move from the closeness as the clothing fell at his feet. Her chest heaved, and she pressed her lips together. This wasn't just hard for her, she recalled. Whatever gaps in his life that she didn't know, there was something that spoke to the slightest glimpse of fear in him right now. A different sort was still in her belly, but in a moment she remembered why they both might need this.
She offered a cautious smile and covered his lips with hers and his hand at her center. She cried out softly as they moved together, just enough to push them both back into that haze. Then she grasped him, lips quirking into a smile as she felt how ready he was. "Now this," she teased hoarsely, and chanced a look as her fingers slid over. "Is more than I expected." She eyed him hungrily and began to kneel.
He caught her quick and pressed her against the tree again. She winced as the bark scrapped against scratches she hadn't noticed before. "I'd rather—" he cut himself off, but pressed against her and she didn't need the extra words.
She was almost surprised. It had always been expected to reciprocate with other partners, and she hadn't exactly opposed it before. She decided it could wait; her core was throbbing and he wanted to be inside her, and it wasn't like she was going to protest that.
But she would, however, protest the position. She glanced down and noted the damn jacket abandoned on the forest floor. She pulled his hand around her back, across the shallow scrapes. He tightened his hand reflexively, then carefully traced the new wounds. "There, instead," she said, jutting her chin to the space.
He glanced downwards and then caught her eye again. God, something about his soft blue eyes made black by desire and shadow was fully arousing. She kissed him hungrily, pushing back from the tree in the same motion.
He tumbled back first, but quickly rolled to cover her. She licked her lips and collapsed against the fur, widening her stance to receive him. He sank on top of her, mouth attentive at her jaw. His hips rutted against hers, but he didn't enter her. Instead, he continued to lave her neck and nip at her shoulder, making her burn with want. "Graham, please," she insisted, looping a leg around his waist.
He kissed her, sweet and slow, and she felt her toes curl in the anticipation. "You want me?" he asked huskily.
She pulled her hands through the short curls at the nape of his neck and nodded furiously. "Yes. Graham. Yes. I want you."
He smiled, then brushed her hair back from her face with a tender slowness. She knew that it was too dark to really see, but it felt like he was staring at every piece of her in that moment. Her heart stuttered, and she realized that it was too late to stop it – she was still in love with him.
She adjusted them slightly, so he was pressed right against her. "Make love to me," she whispered into the shell of his ear.
He shivered and finally, finally moved to bear down into her. Her eyes fluttered as he filled her with aching slowness, and she clawed at him for purchase. Oh, yes, definitely more than she expected.
He rested his forehead on hers when he had finally sunk into the hilt. His breathing was erratic and heavy, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Her lips curved upwards, and she felt a profound wave of something intense. She only had a moment of it before her mouth dropped open, the slightest shift sending shockwaves through her. "Fuck," she mouthed, tossing her head back.
He started moving at the word, brow furrowed and chest rumbling in a growl that was every bit as stimulating as the strokes within her. She arched into him, and buried her face into his shoulder, biting down. Her own moans were muffled into him, and her eyes rolled back.
She bit down harder, the pulse beneath racing hard and the taste of salt sharp on her tongue.
Alive. He felt so alive. Yes, this was what she had needed.
A wave started within her, her stomach tightening. She dug her nails into his back and her breathing sharpened.
Just before she could come, he paused suddenly. She dug her nails in harder, "don't stop" sharply falling from her lips.
He exhaled harshly, and instead he rolled them until she was on top. She scrambled to steady herself and her hands set on top of his chest, the right just over his heart. His eyes were onyx, shining deep. She trembled, mouth parting as she whiplashed past the physical to the connection between them once more.
He nodded once.
She rose slowly, the change in position forcing the breath from her body as her core shook. She looked down at him to find his eyes set intensely on hers. Hypnotized, she began to ride him, slowly at first. She rocked a few times, getting used to him like this, and kept their gaze locked. Somehow, some way, she knew that this was what he needed – the connection, the eye contact. She raked her lip through her teeth and found that she needed it too, and then set the pace like a crescendo.
He barely smiled, a flash of teeth in the darkness, and pleasure built into his expression. She felt it coil at her center again, but with his eyes on hers and her hand on his heart, it was more.
More connected, more passionate, more real.
Her eyes watered, and she choked out a sob as her body grew taut. He leaned up, pulling her tight against him and grasping a hip to direct her movements as she felt her control slip. He replaced her teeth with his, the kiss every bit as raw and emotional as the sex. She moaned, left hand moving over his jaw as her right pressed tighter to his chest. His heart was wild beneath, and she shook as she chased her orgasm.
It finally washed over her, head falling back as she slammed their hips together in short, stuttering moves. She cried out sharply, uninhibited, stars flying past her vision. He grunted, guiding her, teeth gritted but staving off his own as she rode through it.
When her head had mostly cleared, he was kissing her again, thumb rolling as he moved inside her more intently, dragging over ultra-receptive areas and sending shockwaves in their wake.
Her gaze was foggy, but she managed to kiss him back, messily, sloppily. She clung to him, and resolved to let him know. "I love you," she admitted hoarsely. He needed to know, needed to hear it. Needed to know for sure that it wasn't just sex, as much as she had wanted it to be.
His lashes fluttered. "Thank you," he replied, thick with relief, and he caught her lips in the same motion. He moved down the column of her neck, beard scratching pleasantly along over-sensitive nerves.
She moaned loudly, finding that her thoughts were falling back again, nothing rational capable. "Please, please," she muttered and thrashed, trying to find purchase against him as she attempted to get the strength and leverage to speed up, to feel him more.
He pushed her back and she followed wordlessly against the furs as he laid her out, pulling her leg over his side as he entered her fully again. All control was lost, but it didn't matter anymore, not when she felt her peak almost there. His thrusts were timed by the sharp breaths expelled against her mouth, the deep tones reverberating in the depths of his chest. She undulated with him, as much as she could. He kept seeking her skin with his mouth, sucking in at her pulse and nipping at soft areas. She arched once more, but then could do little but hold him as her toes curled and she came, muffling her cries against his shoulder.
His hips stuttered once, twice, and then bit back a long groan as he pulled out. He sunk his forehead on hers and breathed heavily against her.
"Shit," she murmured, heart racing. She blinked the sweat away from her eyes, and gasped in a deep breath. She plunged her hands through his curls, hands shaking as she tried to express thanks in touch alone. "That was—"
"Unexpected?" he finished breathlessly.
She laughed, her heart and soul light as she did so. "Yeah, that," she agreed. She pieced through his hair slowly, brow creasing as she let the implications hit her.
He nudged her nose and then gently kissed her. She shivered and arched into him again, tugging him closer. He made a pleased sound, deep in his chest, and kissed her harder.
She pulled back briefly, breathing hard. "I meant it, you know."
He hesitated. "I know you did," he said, even if there was a slight bit of uncertainty in it.
"I missed you," she whispered, and leaned in to connect their foreheads again. She wanted him to believe it, to truly understand what she was feeling. She opened her eyes wide on his to speak her own hesitation. "Don't do that again."
He let out a huff of a laugh and rocked his forehead against hers. "I'll try," he promised.
She couldn't stop touching him, tugging her hands up his spine and back through damp curls. He followed her movement and kissed the pulse at her wrist, his cheek dimpling noticeably even in the faint light.
He took her hand and moved it over his heart again, pressing. "Good thing this is here this time."
She hummed. It took her a beat in the haze to remember the words from a lifetime ago. She caught his mouth again, languidly. "So you found it?" she said playfully, trying to follow his humor.
He sighed against her lips, jaw tensed as his face took on something serious. "When I woke up, it felt more … real. I think it's actually back."
She cocked her head to the side and slid her hand up his cheek. "Hey, not following the metaphor, here."
He shook his head. Intensity overtook his expression, and he pulled back just enough to cast long shadows over his face. "Not a metaphor, Emma. It never was."
She processed that a moment and then her head clunked back onto the forest floor. "Ugh, right. Fairytales. Just when I was beginning to forget."
He gave a bare shrug and rolled to the side, into a patch of moonlight that pieced through the leaves.
She traced his body with her eyes, surprised to find the heat spark again even as she could see him swallow back, distance himself. "Sorry, I didn't mean it like that," she said roughly.
He reached over and caught her hand, weaving their fingers as he looked up into the starlight. "I know it's a lot for you," he said, then turned to look at her. "I wish I could have been around since I've remembered to help you through it."
I remember. She shivered, the words washing over her. "You did? That night?"
He nodded. "Yes," he said simply.
She slid that through her head, back and forth. "And then you died."
He winced. "And then I died," he agreed softly.
She bit down on her lip, already puffy and sore, and then leaned up. Flashes of that night threatened at the back of her mind, ones she fought to keep at bay. She felt cold again, starting from the very core of her, and it quickly drifted over cooling sweat. She pulled her arms around herself.
He followed a millisecond later and grabbed a discarded piece of clothing. He took something from his belt and she heard the sound of water. "Here," he said, then wiped the damp cloth across her belly, cleaning the evidence of their coupling with gentle motions.
Something about the act, simple as it was, was strangely erotic. She looked up at him with heavy eyes, chest heaving. She found herself wanting to say something crude, something to break the heaviness. Instead, she offered a small smile at him. "This … this helps."
His eyes flicked up to hers with a smirk, and he leaned down to swipe his tongue between her breasts. She trembled, and caught him in a kiss. He seemed to know just when to ground her with lust, helping to stake the physical from the emotional fog that tended to threaten her as she grasped with her new reality. He wrapped around her, warmth covering just as easily. "Glad to be of service," he teased against her lips.
She blinked slowly, as if expecting him to disappear. Instead, they were both still naked and entwined, together. Real. "It shouldn't be this simple," she murmured. "You're Graham, but you're not. You've got this whole other … life."
He looked down at her, eyes dark and thoughtful. She curled closer, almost subconsciously, seeking the warmth and comfort in him. "I'm still Graham for you, no matter what. The other … it's like having a past. You have something like that, I think," he said finally.
She supposed she had to concede to that. "I guess we have to take some time to learn that about each other, then, huh?" She considered briefly the lack of birth control. She trilled fingers over the small lightning-bolt scars on her lower stomach, thinking about Neal and foster homes and jail cells. "I have a lot. It's not so easy."
He wrapped an arm around her back and held her to him. One of his hands traced that same scars, fingertips calloused and rough against the soft skin, wiping worries away just as quickly. "Maybe easy was the wrong word before," he mused. "But it's close. You're the only part of my life that just … makes sense. And that's including all this mess that was."
"I'm a mess," she blurted out.
He slowly smiled at her, and he tucked her hair behind her ear. "So we figure out our messes together, right?" he said hopefully.
She couldn't help smiling back at him, and turned to press a kiss to his jaw. He seemed to take that as her answer, his touch idle and comforting across her stomach. She looked up into the night and sighed. "And we still have the mess of this place to get through," she reminded.
He looked up and leaned back. "This was my home, once. And I thought that it was all I wanted when she stole my heart. But now," he hesitated, looking down at her. "I want to get us back to Henry. I want to learn what this means … us in that other world."
She felt her heart tug, and she grabbed him to her, catching his mouth in a deep kiss. There were things in his statement she didn't understand, of course, but the force of his words made everything else drift away. She remembered how depressed Henry had been after he died, the hollowness and fear in her son. She caught the protectiveness in his tone, and wanted nothing more than to bring them together again. She could learn the rest later. "The kid missed you, too," she said simply when they parted.
His cheek dimpled beneath the scruff, and she grinned back. They stared at each other a long moment, excitement running through her that was almost startling. Was she really starting to picture a future right now?
The only other time she came close was also the reason for the keychain that was abandoned somewhere in the brush of the forest floor at present. She's been burned by hope before, as recently as when he'd held her face between his palms and thanked her. She swallowed thickly, but cautiously decided to trust it, him, for now.
She leaned her head against him and he threw an arm around her waist to bring her closer. She hummed. "We should think about getting back. Mary Margaret is a worrier." And the last thing she needed right now was her roommate slash mother to come find her naked with her former boss.
He made a low growl of protest, but released her after a tight squeeze. "I'd prefer to just be with you. But I guess I don't want her to come looking, either."
She smirked and looked around for her things. "We're on shaky enough ground as it is before adding in that kind of embarrassment."
"Your mother," he murmured softly, and then shook his head. "It's still hard to wrap my head around that."
"It's hard for you?" she asked incredulously, and then jumped up to pull on her jeans. "Try living it."
He got to his feet with her, lacing the strange pants that she had scoffed at earlier. It was still strange, but she found herself appreciating them a little more now, burning it into her memory. "It's all going to be interesting to come to terms with, I'd imagine," he conceded.
"Someday," she said, and leaned to press her hands over his bare chest, sliding on tip toes to reach his lips. "We'll figure out everything we need to come to terms with, right?"
"I'd love nothing more than spending every second of my life trying, Emma," he vowed softly in return.
She looked away, and swallowed that in. "Let's just focus on getting out of here for now, okay?"
She would figure this out. She'd figure him out, just as she'll figure out how to be a daughter and a mother.
Somehow, she found herself believing it might be easy.