Deep Breath
She can't get over the light here. The day ended hours ago, the sunlight long since faded, and she sees only by lamplight, but her eyes, so long accustomed to seeing everything through a burning red haze, are oddly dazzled by it, by its warmth and softness, by the way it reflects off surfaces, by the gleam of it on the floor, the countertops, the table before her. She marvels at the shine of it on his dark hair, at the glint of it in his eyes. He is illuminated by it in new ways, new angles of his face brightened, others cast into shadow. She sees him differently, back here in Storybrooke, and she is unsure whether to be saddened by it – by yet another thing that has changed – or grateful. Grateful that she can look on him at all, changed or not.
It isn't so much that he is different than that they both are. Because after all, how could they remain unchanged by what happened? She knows the memory of it, the weight of it, rests heavy on them both, and this evening she thinks she can see it in his tired demeanor, in his weary eyes, but then again perhaps it is only the dim light and the lateness of the hour and the still-fresh novelty of being home that colors her perception.
Granny's is all but empty. The town welcoming committee left ages ago, followed not long after by her parents and Henry, and the remains of their dinner have been long since cleared away. Somewhere, Granny herself is no doubt itching for them to leave so she can close up and get to bed, but Emma doesn't see her behind the counter and she's too tired and too comfortable to rouse herself just yet. Just a few more minutes, she tells herself. Just a minute or two more in the snug corner booth, warm and safe, with his arm around her and her head on his shoulder.
Marvin Gaye is singing Too Young on the jukebox and cars pass every now and then on the street with a gentle whoosh, but otherwise it is quiet and still and it takes ages before she understands what this means, what this feeling means. It is peace. She finally – finally – feels herself at peace. She knows she is because she can feel her part of their heart beating low and steadily, feel the calm and the slowness of their breathing. It has been so long that she cannot even remember the last time she felt this way and she chides herself for her short memory, shaking her head at herself, ever so slightly.
"What?" he asks.
"I think I've already forgotten how it was, before... before Firebird. Before Camelot."
"How it was?"
"How we were."
"We were just beginning."
The question rises and hovers in her mind a moment, two, before she voices it.
"Do you wish we could go back? Just erase everything that happened and go back to that time, back to that beginning?"
He does not immediately reply, and after several beats pass she wonders if she made a mistake in articulating such a futile thought, until he says at last,
"No."
"No," she agrees. "Me neither."
"Why would I want to go back when I have now? Thanks to you, I have now. And this is a beginning too."
She takes a breath, noting the freshness of the air – that behind all the diner smells and linoleum polish there is no whiff of brimstone or smoke, and behind the crooning of the jukebox, in that stillness, there are no drifting cries, no moans of souls in torment. Yes, there is peace in these absences, peace to be found here in this empty, small-town diner, in the arms of this man. This man she faced Hell for, whom she gave half her heart for. This crazy, brave, wonderful man whom she loves more than life itself.
It isn't that I've forgotten, she thinks to herself. I can't remember feeling this way because I never have. Not until this moment.
"Killian?"
"Yes, Love?"
She had been going to ask him, one more time. Not because she thinks he has changed – not in this, at least – but just to be sure, just to hear him say the words, to hear them ring out in the silence of the empty room. But she stops herself. He has already said them, and she already knows beyond a shadow of a doubt they are true. She will have another chance to hear them, she knows he will speak them again, and so she decides to let the words come in their own time. Because they both have that now: time.
She sighs, and in her sigh is relief, and gratitude, and faith: faith in their tomorrows, in this new beginning.
"What is it?"
"Nothing. I thought I needed to ask you something, but I already know the answer."
"That's alright then."
She nods, and relaxes more deeply against him. When he speaks again his voice is low and soft and resonant in her ear.
"Well, can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
Her head rises with his chest as he takes a long, deep breath, and she feels something in her own chest expand with it, feels tears prickling in her eyes at the mere fact that he breathes, that he lives. He lives, and in that simple truth lies the greatest joy she has ever known.
"Emma..."
She listens as her name forms the beginning of a long-awaited question, and before – well before - all the words have been spoken, before the question can hang in the air, her lips part in a smile, her lungs draw in a breath, and her tongue curves in her mouth to form the word "yes."