Footprints on Hearts

Disclaimer: I wish, but no, I don't own the characters/show.

Author's Note: Let's call this fic "me branching out" instead of "me finding new ways to torture myself." Deal? Deal.

Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Some stay for awhile and leave footprints on our hearts. And we are never, ever the same.

She hadn't seen it before, well, before everything. There really hadn't been time, something she tries her best to forget because they have time now, and she's determined not to waste it.

So she uses this as a reason for being unable to stop herself from reaching out, tracing the scar with tender fingers. The muscle under the puckered tissue twitches, a chuckle reverberating from within that chest, and she meets his eyes with a sheepish grin.

"What are you doing?" he asks, that cheeky smile on his lips as one eyebrow disappears into those brown curls. Curls which have been thoroughly raked by her, making them stand out even more, and make him look plain ravished. Which he has been, she reminds herself, delicious pride coiling within her among other things as she considers further those lips of his. They really are way too kissable, and she's long overdue for another sample.

But as she straddles him and leans down, her goal apparent, he stops her just as she's about to pounce, those hands carefully cradling her face in an echo of that one night at the station she'd rather forget.

"Graham?"

"I didn't have it before."

"What?" she huffs, eyebrows scrunching together.

"The scar," he explains, letting go of her face to take her hand and place it over his heart again, "In the Enchanted Forest, I didn't have it after- Well, you know. I suppose in this world the price of magic is a mark."

"I did this?" she gapes, her fingers tracing the scar this time with a stab of guilt in her gut. They still weren't sure how she'd done it, but at the time she hadn't looked a gift horse in the mouth. But this-

"Emma. Hey, look at me," she hears him, but doesn't meet his gaze until his fingers gently grip her chin, insisting.

"I have many scars, but this one, this one I accept gladly. You know why?"

She has a good idea, but damn if the lump in her throat, which has to be her own heart, won't let her answer. And why are her eyes suddenly stinging?

"Because this one," he places his own hand over hers, "this one means the one I love is the bravest of them all."

"Don't you mean the 'fairest?'" she smirks, resisting the urge to squirm at the way he's looking at her, at the word "love." When she'd jumped him tonight this was not how she'd expected them to end up. Earth-shattering sex yes, conversation concerning their feelings for each other not so much. That she'd planned on coming up later, much later.

His look tells her he knows what she's trying to do, and it's kinda ridiculous how well he knows her considering he'd literally been dead to her not long ago, but her life isn't exactly "normal" anymore either.

"That would be your mother," he shoots back, playing along but sitting up and wrapping his arms around her to keep her against him, pressing wet, whiskered kisses against her neck.

God, now this is more like it, she groans, shuddering at the sensation and pulling him closer.

"And what I feel for you," he whispers against her ear, "is definitely not what I feel towards your mother."

She cackles, pushing back just enough to punch his arm, hard, "If you did I think we'd have something else to talk about!"

He takes the blow with a grin, a grin she happily makes disappear with her own lips. And he responds, but instead of matching her passion he slows it, and the kiss is just as sweet as it is sensual and damn if she doesn't feel her toes curl.

But she also feels that scar, her hand still against his chest, the scar she'd left on him. And before she can stop herself she breaks the kiss and leans down to press her lips against it. Pulling back just as quickly, however, she takes a deep breath before meeting his eyes. Now or never Emma, she thinks, and takes the plunge.

"I think the bravest of them all just might love you too."

He doesn't say anything, he doesn't have to, the way he holds her is all he has to do to make her breathe again. Because he's still here and the world didn't fall out from under them because she'd said the words, and it's perfect. And Emma Swan doesn't believe in perfect, in happy endings, but Emma, just Emma, might be starting to, and speaking of fairy tales-

"Ya know, it must be a 'like mother, like daughter' thing."

"What is?"

"Leaving a lasting impression on our men. You've seen the scar on James' chin, right? How do you think he got it?" she smirks.

"Does this mean I'm yours then?" he smirks back, cradling her face once more.

"Only if I'm yours too. In case you've forgotten I'm big on gender equality."

He laughs, and she smiles, and his eyes twinkle at her and god who'd she been trying to fool this can't be anything but love.

"Agreed," he nods, sealing their pact with a searing kiss.

And this, she thinks as she pushes him down, has got to be the best deal she's ever made with her Huntsman.

Not to mention he tastes way better than any bear claw.