you make me happy (when skies are gray)
(rated T for sensuality; spoilers and spec for 5X04.)
Little baby bit, because that promo broke me in the best way.
It's late—well into the wee hours of the morning—when he sees her.
She floats past the doorway of his room, and the flash of white catches his eye, the torchlight shimmering off the beads sewn into the bodice of her dress. The way she moves—the strange, trance-like quality of her steps—prickles the hair at the nape of his neck, coils a thick ball of dread in the pit of his gut.
This isn't his Emma.
This is the Dark One.
He slips out of the room after her, keeping to the shadows as she moves silently, ethereally through the corridor. She reaches the door to Regina's room, and the ball of dread begins to expand outward, little fingers of ice bursting through the veins.
The dagger.
It wants the dagger.
Panic spurs him into motion, reaches down into his chest and pulls up frantic words that get caught on the tip of his tongue when he sees the flash of blinding light, hears her gasp above the crackle of magic, and her voice, not seconds later.
"I can't."
His brow furrows as he takes a step closer, eyes seeking out another form in the darkness, but there is no one. And then he remembers.
What are you doing here?
"Leave me alone. Stop. Get out of my head!"
Her words—broken, cracked, desperate, pleading—bring him back to the present, and he takes another step, another, resolve steeling—
He ducks, only narrowly missing the brilliant jet of light, following it as it shoots just over his head and disappears into the darkness. He hears her sharp inhale, and he turns, focus shifting entirely to the woman in front of him.
Her face is a mask of terror and horror, eyes wide in her pale face, and he holds out a hand as he eases closer, afraid the smallest unexpected movement will cause her to run.
"Calm down." His voice is ragged, rough when he speaks, casting a quick glance around to ensure they truly are alone. "There's no one here."
She drops her gaze to the ground, eyes flickering back and forth as the line of her mouth hardens, as she draws back into herself, and something inside of him aches, breaks, at the sight of her, of his strong, fiery, stubborn Savior, unable now to even save herself.
"It's just us." He reaches out, brushes his fingers over her shoulder, and while the tension doesn't leave her body, she sways forward, leaning into him. "You and me."
His hand slips down the ridge of her spine, drawing her closer still, resting his cheek against hers.
"He's inside my head. I can't get him out."
Her words are barely more than a rasp, and they grate at him, scraping over the tender place in his chest where the weight of his love for her rests.
He hears her quick intake of breath, feels her stiffen even further in his arms. "He's here. He's always here."
Her words hinge on a sob, her voice small and frightened in her ear, and he would do anything—die a thousand painful deaths, be cursed to live without her for eternity, pay any price—to take her pain as his own.
As it is, he clenches his jaw, forcing back the anger rising in his throat—the rage, the hatred for this bloody demon—and turns farther into her, nose skimming against the line of her jaw. His hand finds the ends of her hair, and his fingers tangle in the silky strands, anchoring him, her, them.
"Emma." Her name is naught but a breath, the syllables caressing the delicate flesh of her neck, and it isn't until he speaks, isn't until she begins to tremble, clutching at him with desperate fingers, that he knows it's passed, that it truly is just him and her.
Her body rocks forward, pressing up on the tips of her toes as she slips her arms up around his neck. He hears her words, her murmured, broken apologies, feels the warmth of her tears wetting his shirt, and he thinks that he might never have felt quite so helpless in his entire life.
His lips find her temple and the flushed skin there, and his arm settles more firmly around her waist, holding her still-shaking body against his even as he turns them, maneuvering carefully out of the room and back down the hallway.
She doesn't say a word as he leads her back to her bedroom, not even as he presses her back towards the bed, only reacting when he begins to pull away, her fingers tightening around the lapels of his jacket.
"Don't go."
Her eyes are haunted, glassy in the candlelight, and he smiles a small, sad smile as he passes his thumb over the curve of her cheek.
"Don't be daft, Swan," he murmurs as she leans into his touch. "Haven't you figured out by now that I don't plan on going anywhere without you?"
The curve of her lips is a weak, tremulous thing, but it's beautiful—she is beautiful—and it only makes it that much easier for him to lean forward and press his mouth against hers, to kiss her long and deep as his fingers find the laces of her dress.
He eases the stiff bodice down over her hips, grips the satin slip of her chemise as she repays the favor, working her fingers over the fastenings of his vest. Her touch, her lips, her love—just her—is enough to drive him down into madness, and it's a hell he'd gladly welcome if it only meant she could stay, as well. When she sinks back down onto the bed, pulling him with her, he doesn't hesitate, covering her lithe body with his, settling into the cradle of her thighs. He rests his forehead against the ridge of her shoulder when he finally breaks away, their breath hot and heavy in the space between them, cooling on exposed patches of bare skin. Her fingers trace idly over the lines of his back, dipping and gliding easily over the scars that mar his flesh.
"Emma." He nuzzles into her, pressing another line of kisses down to that place behind her ear, and he knows she doesn't want the words on his tongue, not yet, but he can't help it, can't hold back the sentiment when she's beneath him, around him, consuming him, when he knows they can stave off the demons, if only for a while. "Emma, you are so loved. My beautiful lass. My strong lass. You are so, so loved, darling."
Her fingers tighten around the hair at the nape of his neck, bringing him back up to her lips, and this time, it's more languid, less frenzied.
He kisses her once, twice, a third time before he comes to settle against her breast, tracing a path from elbow to wrist, basking in the way her body responds to him.
He knows she can't sleep, knows it's a vain attempt to ask her to close her eyes, so he doesn't.
"Shall I tell you a story?"
She hums softly, her touch light against his jaw. "Pick your favorite."
He glances up at her, at the face of his Emma, lines smoothed away and smile content, and he grins.
"Once upon a time, there was a princess, born to beloved King and Queen…"
She may well hear the voices, the silky whispers of the darkness, but she'll damn well hear his, too, guiding her patiently back to the light.