A/N: Hi^^ Apparently I've fallen in love with this ship and felt the need to write something for it. So please enjoy and I hope you can follow my train of thought and forgive me for any grammatical mistakes =_= As always, the characters belong to their respective owners.
He's not dead. In fact, he's perfectly alive, alive as alive can be, and virtually scratch free—save for the several pieces of glass in his left arm and a nasty backache—but being drop kicked out of a second story window can do that.
And he's all prepared to pick up his hat and run, except his hat is nowhere in sight. There isn't anything in sight actually, except black, but he thinks nothing of it because black is an exceptional color and reminds him of felt and a very shapely tank top worn by a very shapely savior.
The darkness envelops him like a hug and he grins a wide grin because it tingles up and down his body like piercing jolts of electricity. It sends hot flashes of warmth over the expanse of his skin, but he doesn't mind the burn because it's like a lovers touch, soft and sharp all in one—and he hasn't felt anything in a long time, and it's nice to feel things—
And suddenly he's laughing because he realizes where he is, can feel the sharp tug-a-war of magic whirling around him, and the only reason he's here in this vibrating magical place between worlds is because she believed. He made her believe.
The void around him reacts magnetically to his victory, jumps and crackles over his skin like tangible energy and it feels so good, this magic; it's warm and piercing and just a little bit dangerous and he likes it. His arms move out and he's floating, like an ethereal being (if ethereal beings floated; he's not sure on the technicalities), and it feels like his bones have been set ablaze with gasoline—as unsafe as that sounds—and he laughs once again because this isn't just magic, it's the savior's magic. After all that's the very reason he's here. She made it work. She believed.
The warm emptiness around him begins to shift and stretch and he feels the heaviness return to his body and in one collective breath the darkness morphs and the intense sensations sever and dull. He feels the solid weight of ground push against his chest and the rough grain of fabric beneath his cheek; he opens his eyes and sees a very elaborate rug, so elaborate it's crude with its flourishing patterns of blues and golds—reminds him too much of that House, and that House he would very much like to forget.
He tries to stand up, but stumbles and before he knows it he's on the floor—and that's the second time he's fallen today, and he would very much like to stop so he makes do with just sitting up. His eyes flit across the room and all he can make out through his still swimming head is a kitchen island, a popcorn ceiling, and a set of terrible floral curtains hanging slightly slanted over a kitchen sink. Whoever lives here has horrible taste, he thinks, as he frowns between the rug and the drapes. But then something else catches his eye and he can't help but let out a small laugh of surprise because sitting on the kitchen island is his hat—still pestered with dirt and small pieces of glass from his earlier fall, and oh she kept the hat, how kind—
And then there's a small bubble of apprehension that settles in his chest as he realizes where he is and as if on cue he hears the rattle of keys and the door on the other side of the room squeaks open —he sees her, the savior, stark in her red leather jacket—the one he's become quite fond of, although not quite as fond as that black tank top, the one that reminds him so much of his hat.
She closes the door behind her and latches the locks, and he's a little preoccupied with the way she handles the bolts with such delicate hands that he doesn't realize she turns and spots him until she plasters herself against the door with a thud.
"You!" she screeches, finger pointing in disbelief. Before she knows it, he's on his feet and across the room in a matter of seconds, but stops short a few feet when her hand begins to hover over the gun resting at her hip—and ah yes, there's our Sheriff Swan, all grit and determination.
"Emma," he says, hands up and out. "I'm unarmed. " He knows where her mind is going because he technically did threaten her with a gun earlier—it was an empty threat, he thinks, motivation to coax her into making his hat, but with the way her jaw sharply sets he doesn't think she cares to hear it. He will have to apologize for it later, if she doesn't shoot him first.
Her eyes set like steel on him and she jerks her head in his direction. "What are you doing here?" she bites out, and it's all he can do not to smile, and that's probably a really bad move, seeing as her hand pulls the gun out of the holster. "I asked you what you're doing here. How did you get in?"
He twists, hands still raised, and points over his shoulder. "You made it work," is the only thing that comes out of his mouth as he grins. Her eyes follow the invisible line of his finger and she stiffens as she spots the hat delicately placed on the counter, exactly where she left it.
"That's a lie."
"No it's not," he grits out sharply, irritation suddenly bubbling to the surface threatening to boil over. His hands fidget and he runs them through his hair to give them something to do—if only he had his scissors to sharpen, he thinks, although Emma probably would not appreciate that.
He takes a deep breath as he sees her shift defensively. "You did it. You made it work, Emma. You believed." And suddenly he's ecstatic again, because she's the savior and the savior believes and he can finally go home with Grace and—
"You need help."
He flinches.
"And you need to open your eyes!" He yells quickly, and he's across the room within a split second to grab the hat and make his point that it does work, when suddenly a weight that smells distinctly like strawberries and adrenaline tackles him to the ground—and that's the third time he's fallen today, he notes.
She's on him so suddenly that it knocks the breath from him, and in the precious seconds that it takes for him to catch it, he realizes she has one of his hands in handcuffs—her and that damn sheriff tool belt— He notices the gun back in its holster, and she's silently pleading with him not to force her to use it, the way her big blue eyes keep jumping to his, but he has to make this point. She just needs to see the proof.
The fingertips of his free hand are tugging at the brim of the hat and he just needs to spin it just so, but she grabs at his wrist and refuses to let go. And he tries to not involve himself with this fight because their physical confrontation did not end well for him last time, so instead focuses his energy into grabbing the hat.
"Jefferson!" she screeches, and he stops for a split second because that's his name, and it's been a long time since he heard someone say his name.
And he begs with his eyes, just like she did, and he chokes out "Emma please" because he desperately wants her to listen, but mostly because her forearm presses over his throat and is choking him. In the moment of hesitation when her limbs stop digging into him, he flings her off and twists the hat as hard as he can—and smiles because he knows it works and she will see the proof this time—
He sees it, black felt spinning in one fluid motion, and he grins because the hat continues to spin even after he lets go and the purple haze of the dervish twirls out and around them. And he just wants to show her the magic she created, the proof that she so desperately needs to see, but then the weight of her crashes on top of him again and he wonders why she keeps tackling him—and oh yeah, she thinks he's a raving madman—
He hears her yelp, because she just now sees the purple fog of magic flying up out of the hat but it's too late, and the momentum of their bodies hurtle them toward the magnetic gate of the portal, and they're both a twist of tangled limbs around each other as they fall fall fall into the black void where tangible becomes intangible and magic crackles over their skin like lightning. It swirls around them like a sweltering heat and it's so much stronger than before and he thinks it might be because of her. The buzzing of the magic stings his ears and thrums through his body, and he winces because Emma frantically clings to his neck and where her skin touches his it feels like hot bolts of electricity—of magic—
And then there's a hard crack as his back makes contact with the ground and she lands on top of him, elbows first—ouch—and he's struggling to breathe when he hears her shuddering voice against his chest exclaim, "That did not just happen." He mentally laughs at her skepticism, but can only concentrate on the fact that this is the fourth time he's fallen today and how he doesn't think he's going to survive a fifth.
She lifts her head to look around and she's all tangled blonde hair and wide blue eyes above him. He watches her face, watches as the gears turn and shift in her mind and he's wondering exactly what she's thinking when her gaze flicks back to his and he gulps because this is the savior—but mostly because her hand is dangerously low on his waist.
Emma pushes herself up and runs both hands through her hair as she takes in the tall trees around them, and he's pretty sure she's trying to find some stream of logic as to how they managed to get from the floor of her loft to this massive forest. The trees groan and creak in the wind and the leaves crunch and break under her feet as she spins and racks her brain for what he assumes some semblance of rationality. And then she turns on him so suddenly that her movements remind him very much of his hat, spinning, twisting, and full of magic but he doesn't dare say so because of all the social awareness he lacks, he does recognize anger—and she is very angry—
"What did you do?" she shouts, trekking over to him and he holds up his hands in innocence, although the pair of handcuffs dangling from one of his wrists negates some of the effect.
"Like I said, you made it work," he says from the ground, still catching his breath from the fall and her rather hard elbow to his chest.
"Jefferson," she groans, hands flying up in exasperation, clearly displeased with his answer, but he can only focus on how sweet his name sounds when someone besides himself says it. She fists her hands at her sides in what he hopes is an attempt to stay calm. "Fine, fine," she snaps, momentarily accepting his answer. "Where are we, then?"
He stumbles up and looks around already recognizing where they are—the trees, the dirt, the sky—it's been many years since he's been here, but everything is just as it was. He walks beside her and smiles and she's briefly thrown off guard, although her hand still hovers dangerously close to her gun. He clears his throat and with a flourish of his hand that he's sure she finds irritating he says, "Welcome to the Enchanted Forest, Emma Swan."
And it's all he can do not to grin manically when she blurts out "You have got to be kidding me?!"
A skeptic to the very last it would seem. He laughs.
A/N: That wasn't too bad, was it? I don't write very often, so if you enjoyed please review. I'd like to know if it's interesting enough to continue. Thanks^^
