A/N - Just a very short little thing I wrote on tumblr. I'm going to do like a series of drabble-ish one shots maybe? Mostly CS.
In the silence afterwards, he has time to reflect.
He'd made a joke, some offhand smirking glib comment about how she can really thank him for helping storm Pan's camp, but he hadn't actually expected her to follow up so physically. Such raw emotion was not something to which he was accustomed; if anything, he could probably say with confidence it was one of the many, many things he'd dedicated a vast majority of his long life to avoiding. Emotion gave way to sentiment, and sentiment got you killed, or worse, left you grieving. He had heard it said that without love there cannot be hate and he supposed that was true to a point.
He had loved Milah, and so hated the Crocodile. He thinks he might almost love Emma, so as consequence he finds himself almost hating Baelfire.
The kiss itself is short, maybe a few seconds, but it is more than enough time for him to step inside her, a momentary glance at what Emma hides beneath the stoic gaze and stiff upper lip. He imagines a drawing room, with a large desk at the centre where she might carve the best and worst parts of herself into the wood as ever present reminders of past mistakes and things she would like to keep close.
Bookshelves line the walls, full of tomes - some older and dusty with titles like 'Those Who Left' and 'Those Who Came Back' (one is decided thicker than the other) and some newer named 'Operation Henry' and 'My Life Is Full of Fairytale Characters' (perhaps selfishly, he likes to imagine he might have his own chapter somewhere among the pages) - and pressed between them are loose leaf sheets full of essays on anger, happiness, desperation, devastation, pity and loss, with love scribbled in the margins in shining golden ink.
Everywhere are secret compartments with false bottoms, some barren and some bursting with secrets and rare tales and distance. Of course the room is cold and not well lit. A room in which to dwell is is not. Even for it's owner.
But as it is the very embodiment of her, he thinks he might want to take up permanent residence. Absorb her through the walls, immerse himself in every victory and tragic occurrence until the ink stains his fingers and poisons him dead. Could he carve himself a niche in her desk and insert himself and live there? Would she let him try?