Once Upon a Dream, an once upon a time fanfic

Title: Once Upon a Dream

Disclaimer: I do not own Once Upon a Time or its characters. Mentions of A Little Princess, which also does not belong to me.

Summary: 3B finale rewrite. Emma came alone through the portal, needing to navigate her own way through the past. That doesn't mean that she doesn't get some help, though. Allusions to the titular song and the story of Sleeping Beauty.

Note: Largely inspired by a fanvid by gingerhollands of the same name. Link in my profile.

She sees him the first time.

Sees him, and pretends she doesn't, hides behind the low plants. He sees her, too, she thinks, when he glances up and those cobalt eyes change slightly, as he hovers over the slain deer.

He moves, shifting his weight in a way that seems predatory but also non-threatening (he could never threaten her, not even in this land). Her breath is stolen, waiting for him to walk up, sweep the bushes wide, and pluck her from her hiding spot. She can almost hear the words drip from his tongue (Emma, did you really think you could hide from me? This is my world), and her stomach seizes in anticipation and this dreaded hope.

It takes her a second to remember that no one knows her in this timeline, least of all him. But she wants so badly for him to speak to her in that same rich, honeyed tone, of swallowed consonants and rolling vowels, and her name said in such a gentle caress ….

Then someone else emerges from the tree line, a man dressed in all black. He uses a name that brings a bitter line to Graham's mouth, derogatory from the sound of it. His lashes skim the tops of his cheeks as he is told that he is no longer needed for espionage, and that the Queen wishes his return. The rebel has been caught.

She shrinks into herself, hiding from this new person. It would not do well to catch Regina's attention in this timeline. But before he leaves, she swears those dark blue eyes find hers again, gentle and unassuming, but comforting all the same.

She enters the ballroom in a borrowed dress, feeling on display. The lavender gown skims her body weightlessly, feathered and barely-there like a whisper of cloth. She has a backstory already well-practiced, a technique that lingers from years of entrapping bail jumpers and a childhood of blending into the background.

So, when the King who is careful not to touch a thing asks her name, she smiles gently, preening as she thinks a noblewoman does in every period film she has ever seen, and declares a confident "Princess Sara."

She doesn't mention, as she bows, how thoughts of an old tattered novel and a fictional orphan girl had helped her when she was young and still somewhat idealistic. When she thought someone would choose her, and that this time it would stick (a book torn spitefully down its spine by a tearful girl three years older, with a bitter spit of "don't waste your time, stupid").

The hope didn't linger long, crushed down by years of rejection and abandonment. But still, the book held a place in that little girl who believed in a happy ending, however briefly.

She allows herself to be swept away in an endless stream of dancers. She had never considered herself light on her feet, but she glides through the motions seamlessly. It's almost as if it has been built into her DNA, written by a quick, clever shepherd and a graceful, skilled princess.

She then feels warm hands at her waist, a little lower than anyone else has dared to move, and looks up to find his face. He is dressed similarly to how he'd been in the woods, prominent in cloaks of fur and leather though in richer fabrics, more streamlined to the wealth of the other guests. He smells good, sharply familiar. He isn't as graceful, but his eyes never leave hers, curiosity prominent in those cobalt irises. She can't tear herself away.

"I feel I know you," he murmurs, his hand slipping into hers. She loves the feel of his calloused palm against hers, a shot of heat and a buzz of awareness that lights through her. She knows this is wrong, that he wouldn't be here without a purpose, that she would not allow it otherwise … but she leans closer.

"Not yet," she replies, before spinning away. Her whole body feels like a big flush, and she doesn't dare look back once she is settled with her new partner.

But then she does look back, because she feels a chill. A claw is clamped on his shoulder, the dark gleam of Regina's eyes set on her. She can't even begin to feel worried: his face is downturned, but every etch shows the contempt and fear of the dark woman's presence.

She feels resolve straighten her posture as Regina marches to her.

"I'm sorry."

The whisper falls upon her as she settles in her cell. She looks up, knowing full well who said the words, but he is nowhere to be found.

But then she sees her spoon, a wire looped around it several times. She sighs as she unwinds it, the shoelace feeling weightier on her wrist, her pulse racing. Of course he would help. He helped in Storybrooke, defying Regina for her so many times she can't even count (and then defying her for himself, and losing his life because of it).

She fumbles with the lock, smiling to herself as she remembers letting Neal "teach" her how to do it. She had known how to break into cars and hotwire them before they had even met; she's kind of surprised he fell for her guileless act. She learned from an older boy at her second-to-last foster home, the one that taught her so they could break into the safe to get money to live on their own (she had been caught the first time; the second, she had succeeded).

The pins come together, the lock snapping open.

She quickly works on her new companion's cell. The woman grabs her in a thankful hug, sobbing against her chest. She holds her stiffly as the woman murmurs about her husband and son. Emma nods, knowing she must do anything to help this woman whose only crime was helping her mother.

They race down the halls, sneaking past corridors and long hallways. She falters as she turns a sharp corner, an arrow right in her face. But the black-hooded guard stops, lowering his weapon. He pulls off the helmet, and it is him (of course, he wouldn't only give her the means, he would facilitate the escape).

"Run," he says simply, angling away from them. "Quick. She doesn't know."

The woman rushes by, but Emma hesitates. Her body practically sings in awareness whenever they are near, a strange wash of magic she's never felt. "Come with us?" she asks.

She feels his refusal even before he shakes his head. "I can't."

She looks down to his chest, remembering that last day (you have a heart). It was true, wasn't it? Regina stole it, pulled it from his chest.

She steps forward, feeling the heat of his body close. He stares down at her a long moment, his gloved hand hovering over her cheek. Finally, he balls it into a fist and drops it to his side. "Go," he commands.

Annoyingly, she feels a sudden swell of emotion, a sharp sense of wetness pooling behind her eyes. "Thank you," she breathes, and then runs before she does something decidedly stupid.

Marian helps her build a fire, and it crackles lowly as they set up camp. The brunette watches her thoughtfully, breaking off chips of a twig and into the dancing flames.

"A friend?" she voices after some time.

"Yes," Emma replies hoarsely, ignoring the tears streaming down her face.

That night, she hears a branch snap near her makeshift bed. She sits up quickly, shaking off sleep as she grabs for a weapon.

But then there he is.

"I thought you couldn't –"

"Shh," he replies, kneeling beside her. He holds a hand to her mouth. His eyes darken as they touch, but he is silent as he waits. Finally, he nods. "She sent a group to search for you. I've steered them away, but you need to find a new place before they come back around. Leave by afternoon and you should be fine."

"If they're not near here, why are you here?" she asks, feeling she knows the answer already.

He studies her a long moment, and she watches the play of emotion on his handsome face in the light of the full moon. "Princess Sara," he murmurs, but shakes his head, giving her a look that shows he doesn't believe the name she'd given. He leans closer, into her space. "I know you. I need to know why."

"Why does it matter?" she insists. Because he can't know her: her own mother doesn't. The flares of recognition behind his eye makes no sense, because he hasn't lived a life where they ate bearclaws and made paper planes and drank bad coffee and traded worse jokes (they haven't yet had those kisses). It shouldn't matter to him. She shouldn't matter.

"Because I can feel around you," he finally confesses.

She sucks in a sharp breath. "You … you can?"

He nods, and he rests his forehead against hers as his eyes squeeze tightly shut. "Why? I haven't felt anything in years … why with you?"

She breathes against his lips, a soft sigh. "I'm not sure," she admits. It could be that she's a Product of True Love. It could be that she was with him at the moment of his death. It could be … it could be how much she still thinks of him even this long after he collapsed in her arms.

He takes a ragged breath, and then his hands rest on her face. "You feel so … it's like a dream," he mumbles lowly, then presses his lips to hers.

She kisses him back, as deeply as he lets her, letting her mind swirl with memories and weightlessness and rightness.

Finally, he pulls back, and he looks even more confused. "Emma?"

Her eyes widen, searching his face. "Wh-What?"

He shakes his head, like he's trying to clear it. "I don't … it's true, isn't it? You're Emma. I know you. How do I know you?"

She can't answer that; she knows it. She has changed too much already, and she can't let him know about sheriffs and curses and death. But he looks so lost, those wide eyes so full of confusion and loneliness, then benediction raised only to her. Her head swims with his lips so close, pupils blown so wide. So, instead of explaining, she shakes her head. "Just kiss me."

He pulls back, just a touch. "What if I didn't want to?" he asks.

She feels a blush rise in her cheeks and she sits back, rubbing her arms. "Sorry. I didn't mean … of course. Stupid of me."

He yanks her back, cutting off her rambling with another kiss, stronger than she was expecting. She moans into it, feeling his tongue sweep inside her mouth, stealing her breath and calling forth a slew of memories of this taste. Her hand reaches out to press against his chest, and she whimpers as she feels no beats pound against it. She winds her arms around his neck instead, trying to soothe her own worries and his with the glide of her lips. His hands find the small of her back, pulling her flush against him.

Finally, he releases her, panting heavily. "I've never wanted. You make me wish for things I can't have," he says.

She feels a brush of sadness, of reality peeking down on this illusory moment. She shakes her head, breathing in his spicy, warm scent. She has missed him too long, and she doesn't want to waste this time on being miserable. "You're right. You will know me. Not yet." She hesitates only a moment before letting her hand trip over the stubble on his jaw. Her eyes follow the movement before she brushes his swollen lips with her thumb. "But I want this time with you now, while we have it. However you want it."

He stares down at her, and she wonders what he is seeing. He hovers over her before sinking down against her neck, sucking down on her pulse, drawing a low moan from her lips. When he returns to her eye level, his eyes are near-black. "What if I want you in this time?" he wonders, and then he cradles her face in his hands.

She bites down her emotion, of the reflection of that last second that threatens to collapse her whole calm façade. She realizes what he's saying, how important it is to him that they both say what they want. She doesn't want to consider what she knows about here, what she knows about Storybrooke. But she can't help knowing that this is him at his most vulnerable, allowing her to see it. She nods with a jerk, and brings his hands to her bodice. "I'd want it, too."

She watches him as he sleeps, feeling reality finally settle in low in her belly. One lone finger traces above his scars, the raised white marks that cover almost everywhere she looks. He doesn't look peaceful in the moonlight; he looks on guard, even with his lashes fluttering across his cheeks, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.

She looks skyward and presses her hand over her heart, finally letting a steady stream of tears release down her face for everything. For seeing what she thought was her mother dying. For watching her parents fall in love. For seeing the empty look in their eyes as they saw her. For the pain so heavily in his. For the coldness with which Regina regards her people. For Marian's family believing she's dead. For herself, lying in the woods next to a man she knows she loves and knows she will never return to.

Desperately, she tries to call upon her magic, to push through to her heart, to split it wide and thrust half into his hollow chest. But it doesn't come; despite vivid memories of Cora's hand wrapped in a vise around the organ, she can't even manage to plunge through the skin.

Finally, she rolls to her side and places her palm over his pectoral. She stares a long moment, wishing (I need you alive, I need you with me, I love you). She wishes so hard, it hurts.

But she doesn't voice it.

She just continues to watch the pattern of his breathing, and finally falls asleep herself.

She wakes cold and alone, and wraps her arms around herself. She aches, and not just through her body.

If Marian heard anything or notices the marks on her neck, she doesn't mention them. She just smiles warmly, offers her breakfast, and then agrees to the plan to take her back.

She doesn't speak when the portal opens, but Marian grabs her hand tightly. She offers a look of sympathy. Emma focuses on the fact that the woman is giving up her husband and son for more than twenty-nine years, rather than change the past. Marian is grateful, sad but resigned (I will see my family again).

Emma wishes she can say the same.

A spark flares in her stomach, and she fights a wave of nausea. She is leaving a lot behind, but she reminds herself that she will have her family when she goes back. Graham would understand her leaving him behind for Henry.

Another dream drifting through her fingers, another hope dashed.

She steps through the portal without looking back.

It is a shock to be back, and she feels the loss of a greater hang of magic when she steps into the Maine forest.

When she sees Regina again, she feels anger, white and hot, itch through her veins. But she remains coolly aloof, explaining the new person's presence. Regina hasn't changed; she still seems a bit uneven, makes the same promises, the same sad looks. But now Emma wonders what's behind those looks, just how far locked away the woman that would kill on a whim is (how far the woman that made those marks all over the man she held in her arms the night before, the reason he flinched every time she reached for him).

Regina turns on her once Marian is introduced, welcomed with open arms by her husband and son. Emma is surprised, watching Robin's rapturous face as he leans against his wife. But it is Regina's cold, calculated anger that rips away the last bit of tolerance for her.

"If I could have saved everyone you killed and still ensured Henry's life, I would have done it," she hisses to the Queen. "I thought you would have liked having a few less murders over your head."

Regina's eye twitches before she turns away, storming out of the diner and slamming the door behind her. Emma glowers at the shut door; everyone has a right to be upset now but that woman.

Not after what she's seen.

She fists her hands in her hair later, trying to quell the storm racing through her. Her emotions are turbulent, more so than ever before.

Henry comes to her, leaning against her side in silent support. She pulls her arm around him, tight to her chest, and lets a single tear fall into his hair (She's more angry than upset, she tries to convince herself).

"What did you see, Mom?"

She doesn't answer. She doesn't want him to know.

Two days later, she goes to his grave.

She's never gone before. Not even for the funeral. It hurts more than she wants to admit, the stone lonely and cold above the earth.

She remembers how it felt, wrapped in his arms, his voice in her ear, his heat permeating through her. She never wants to forget.

"I miss you," she says simply. She touches the plaque gingerly before noting the grime accumulating on the lonely grave. She digs angrily with her nails, scrapping back dirt and dust until his name clears, a pit clawing at her stomach. She remembers her wish, how loud it sounded reverberating through her head, as her hand warmed against his chest.

"He's not there."

She looks up, tensing as she sees the woman, her arms wrapped around her body. Regina's mouth forms a purse, not looking directly at her.

"Where?"

Regina turns, gesturing to the crypt a ways down from her father's. "He didn't deserve to be beneath the ground." Silence fills the air as the two women stand stiffly. Regina's mouth parts, then she grimaces. "I needed to … I had to do it. You don't understand."

Emma folds her arms. "No, I don't. I won't."

Regina looks away. "Pay your respects to the right grave, then." She walks away, and Emma wonders what brought her here in the first place.

Emma feels the anger build behind her eyes again, but lets it dissipate as she walks cautiously to the door. She doesn't hesitate in breaking it down, entering the small room with its slanted stained-glass light casting a multitude of color across the marble coffin.

She doesn't know what possesses her to move the lid. It is solid and heavy, and rationally she knows what to expect from a year-dead corpse.

But she also isn't surprised to see him intact, as if in repose. Some inkling of a feeling surrounds her, the knowledge of magic but the certainty of something else in her heart.

Before she fully knows what she's doing, she leans down, her lips caressing his gently, her hand over his chest where she is certain she feels a piece of herself (but how, she hadn't managed to remove it).

She pulls back, watching with almost no astonishment to see his lashes flutter, cobalt eyes meeting hers reverently.

"Emma."

A few months later, she sits at the window seat, staring at the blankets of snow covering the terrain. A pad of paper and a thick book her mother lent lay untouched beside her.

He pulls his arms around her, looking down only briefly at the items in question. She can feel his smile into her skin, a warm certainty to cast away the chill that seeps through the windowsill.

"Sara?" he asks knowingly, placing his palm on the swell of her belly.

She nods, and rests her hands over his, feeling their heart beat between her shoulder blades. Her lips quirk up as she lets her fears go for the moment. "A good name for a princess with a happy ending."

End.