A/N: Written as a response of sorts to 3x16 and the sneak peak for 3x17.
Emma doesn't even attempt sleep that night.
Too many thoughts, feelings – regret, panic guilt – and she's just drowning in them, sinking fast, gasping for air and it's one of those nights where no amount of deep breaths can calm a panicked heart rate.
She simply waits until she knows Henry's asleep – not long, considering he spent another day with him – climbing out of bed and slipping on a hoodie and some leggings.
Storybrooke was always quiet at night, even more so now. The whole place just seems to be swimming in melancholy; it's a feeling that seems to live in the concrete of the roads and in the gentle ripple of the puddles that have come as courtesy of the recent rainfall.
For a while, Emma simply walks. She has a bottle by her side – something she grabbed in the hopes that it's strong – and takes a sip – although it's more like a gulp – every now and then, constricting worries and qualms fading into numbness as the alcohol settles in. It burns its way down her throat and somewhere down the line silent tears do the same to her cheeks, tears that glisten with the guilt and the regret and secrets shared in echo caves – the deeper the lie the more truth in its echo.
She lets them fall – no one can see her after all – and for what seems like ages and nothing at the same time she just walks.
She should have known it was too good to be true.
She feels more than sees Hook – Killian, whatever – come up beside her and she doesn't even bother cleaning her tear stained cheeks. Maybe it's the whiskey. Maybe it's something else.
"You alright?" He asks in a quiet and tentative voice.
Her answer is by default. "Fine."
His scoff is quiet, but still there, and she wonders if she should have bothered at all. Probably not. "Are you actually fine?"
Emma lets out a shaky sigh. "No."
There's a pause, quiet and completive, and then he speaks again. "You will be." He assures her, and for the first time, she actually believes him. She will be…just…not here.
"I know." She says quietly. She goes to take another swig of her drink, only to find the bottle empty. With another sigh she lets it drop to the ground, watches it roll away into the gutter.
"I mean here, Emma." He says, practically reading her mind and she supposes she was always an open book to him.
All she can do is shake her head and mutter a quiet no because he doesn't understand, he can't understand. She needs to go back – for Henry, for herself – and after the witch is dead there's hardly a reason why she shouldn't do just that.
"You're still set on getting up and leaving, then." The hurt in his voice is there – laced through every syllable – but she can't focus on that. She has to leave for Henry. For Henry, for Henry, for Henry.
"I don't have a choice." She says, looking to the ground.
"Everyone has a choice, Emma –"
"Well then this is mine." She snaps because god, will he stop just pressuring and suffocating her because it's not fair.
"You can be pretty bloody ungrateful sometimes, you know that?" He says with an underlying tone of bitterness and she stops walking, looking at him with an incredulous expression on her face.
"Ungrateful?" She says and he nods.
"I gave up so bloody much to get you here – back to your family – and you're just going to sodding leave again?" He shakes his head, looking up to the clouded skies that hang above their heads.
She doesn't even bother asking what it exactly he'd given up, knowing it's fruitless and maybe she's been shut off to many times to actually want to bother, too busy focussing on how fucking unfair he is.
"I never asked you to bring me back." She spits. "I was happy, for god's sake."
"I had to, Emma, you're family needed you – needs you – you're the saviour –"
And it's like something in her just snaps because why, why is she the saviour, why is it her job to fucking save everyone. "Yeah – well – I quit."
"You quit?" He repeats and she nods before whirling around and stalking off in the opposite direction to him, fuming because can she get a fucking break –
"You can't just bloody give up!" He calls after her and she turns on her heel, eyes blazing, fists clenched.
"Why not?!" She screams back to him, borderline hysterical by this point. "Why shouldn't I give up?! I've tried to save everyone – to do my job – but I can't! I couldn't save Graham, I couldn't save Neal – " A choke escapes her, burning at her throat as images of sandy curls and dying on the floor of the sheriff station swim before her vision, dark brown eyes slipping shut on the forest floor.
Tears stream down her cheeks and she raises her hand, wiping them away only for more to take their place, burning their way down her face, but she continues in a broken whisper. "I can't save anyone anymore. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't give up?"
He rubs at his temples in a gesture that screams agitation – it's etched into the creases in his brow and the looking of aching in his eyes – then he's stepping towards her, invading her personal space until their foreheads are almost touching and god someone has to teach him a fucking lesson in personal space because she's a little drunk right now and plain distraught to be honest and –
"Me." He says quietly. "I'll be your reason."
God how she wants to just lean in, to close that gap – she always does, because it's always there, heavy and humming and fuck – but she can't, she never can –
"You?" She repeats, taking a step back. "I don't need you."
It's something she's repeated to herself over and over – trying in an adamant cycle to convince herself that she's fine on her own, she always has been and she always will be – thinking of cold hard rejection and flying monkeys in those weak moments when all she wants to do is sink into his arms.
He grimaces at her words – pure frustration radiating from the way he grips at the ends of his hair – and then shakes his head to the floor before looking back up at her, raw emotion swirling in his blue blue eyes. "And have you ever considered the possibility…" He takes another step forward – keeping the gap forever small – and she feels her breath hitch in her throat "…that maybe I need you?"
Her lips part unintentionally and she finds herself completely and utterly lost in the expression on his face – the pure longing that pours out – and the plain answer is no. She hadn't – to busy thinking about what she needs – no one – and what her son needs – a normal life – to even consider anything beyond –
"I need you." He repeats, and his hands find their way to her hips and she doesn't even flinch or stiffen because it feels right. His eyes slip shut, his forehead falls against hers. "I need you healing me, making me want to be a better person, making me want to live again. I need you, and…I don't know what I'd do if you left."
Her hands find his where they rest on her hips and she covers them gently, holding them there because, maybe, just nosw, she needs him too. "I can't keep doing this." She whispers, feeling completely and utterly on the breaking point of her entire existence, every muscle and thought and memory simply aching and she just wants to go, to leave the pile of crap that is her life, with people dying every other day, god dammit.
"You can." Comes his murmured reassurance.
"How?" She whispers, lip trembling, voice breaking and she feels on the very brink of a mental breakdown. Her knees feel weak under the weight of her body, her body feels weak under the weight of her title – saviour, saviour, saviour. It's one she's accepted – but it's still heavy.
So heavy and if she doesn't pull herself together she is going to sink to the ground in a mess of chokes and sobs and tears –
But then she feels a hand slide away from her side, a warm finger under her chin, lifting it up to her face is level with his. His hands – one real, one fake – slide up to cup her cheeks and for a second they just stare – eyes locked and pure emotion is seeping out of his, and hers too, she imagines. Then she hears his voice, quiet and slow and lilting.
"One step at a time, darling." His hands slide down until he's taking hers in each. Her starts to walk backwards, leading her down the desolate, puddle ridden Main Street. "One day at a time."
He continues to lead her, slowly walking and she slowly follows, biting her lip in a vain attempt to stop the stubborn tears, but they slip past anyone. "I know it hurts, love, but if you can get through to the end of this day, you can get through to the end of tomorrow."
"Will it get better?" She asks in a tiny voice.
His smile is sad and sorrowful, and he nods. "One day at a time."
She sucks in a deep breath – sharp and cold – and then slowly and hesitantly, she nods. "Okay."
"You'll stay?" He says, halting in their path. She nods again, and surprising herself – and him, no doubt – she lets out a breathy laugh.
"Someone's got to take care of this shit-storm we call a town, right?" He lets out a short sigh of relief and then he's smiling too and before she even has time to re-asses his arms are around her, enveloping her in his warmth.
She lets him hold her – head slipping into the crook of his neck and her arms finding their way around his waist. She feels his lips against her head and she smiles – small and content – before slipping out of his arms.
She feels his fingers entwine with hers, his palm flat against her palm, and it's okay. And if when they walk down Main Street in a comforting silence, her head falls onto his shoulder, maybe that's okay too.
It's all okay.