Motions, of a Day
It's late and raining; the day had been calmer than most when she gets the call.

They don't get it, so Emma doesn't give it.

They're in motion—all of them—back and forth, here and there, places lost and stuck right here. A song and a dance; she follows along like how a good daughter should. It's what they want her to do, and need her to be. It's what she'd wanted, once.

Always.

Maybe it's too much, too fast, too soon but they (she) can't seem to stop. It's like spinning, and spinning, and being spun. But she fears that she might stumble soon. She'd never been good with balance before. And these routines are too new for Emma to learn so quickly.

She's not alone anymore. It's new. It's different.

It's family.

Family—was the hope, and a long lost dream—that has become a fact of her life. A reality. It exists, so it's a thing now. But it shouldn't have been this easy. These things never were—because a life full of hard lessons have taught her, at least, that.

But apparently, no one here follows those rules.

So, as it stands, they've all just moved past it—accepted, and embraced (like twenty-eight years alone wasn't a lifetime that mattered) and simply carried on.

But Emma remembers. Remembers the littlest details they've missed over time, like being temperamental and rebellious as a child; lost in the system. And becoming petty and delusional with the world because of it, and then so very, very, angry with it all.

It's still there, she knows, deep inside; that anger. She drowns it though, buries it beneath the surface. She has her ways.

They don't even notice.

Not a damn thing, not anything at all, and Emma has to remind herself—more often than not—that they don't know her. Not really. Not in the ways the mattered.

But that was their fault because they made a choice and a sacrifice; everyone's happy ending or just hers. They choose her, but not in the good way.

Heroes and their greater goods; paid the price and made her their Savior (because victim just didn't sound pretty enough for their stories)

They don't know her.

He had. Or he could have.

Once—almost, maybe—she thinks sometimes when she's alone; which is not all that often nowadays.

He made (makes) her feels transparent—exposed. So she hesitates to be near him now because of it. Afraid of what he could see. And what he would do with it when he does.

Until she reminds herself that Gold's not looking at her anymore. So it doesn't really matter.

Emma wants to be sadder about that. Angry would work too. But it's usually resignation that gripes her in the end.

Because these things happen; it happened (again, and again) to her. So she lets it go, and lets it be. Being left behind and forgotten is more familiar to her than anything else.

And this is how Emma goes through the [e]motions now.

**~~**0**~~**

It's late and raining; the day had been calmer than most when she gets the call.

Something terrible has happened, Emma's told, and so she needs to go. Her mother and father tag along uninvited (she's never formally ask them to play sheriff with her) and the three of them soon find themselves arriving in the aftermath of a precarious conflict. He's there, she's here now too.

It doesn't work. At least it shouldn't.

So she occupies herself with attending to one of the surprisingly familiar faced victims (the sight of the notorious pirate broken and beaten is a curious one, as is his very presence here in town) while she motions for her parents to go and deal with the injured librarian.

Something's different; wrong with the pair. She notices it immediately yet Emma has no desire to invest in their romantic predicament. So she crouches down low, and tries not to admire the view of an old foe taken down too much, while also gauging the extent of the man's injuries.

But then Hook goes wild and speaks up—taunts and revels—and so Gold loses it. He comes at them, rains down on the pirate, all bloody vengeance and heartbreak and she's forced to intervene.

Emma grabs at the raging pawnbroker, and manipulates him with the right words. He stops, she makes him stop. Grabs his arm, and holds it still.

It's déjà vu, or something like it.

His furious eyes, that darkened gaze of his, turns and bores down on her; chaotic and dangerous. And so it's going to be one of those nights, Emma thinks grimly.

She lets go.

**~~**0**~~**

It's only her that does it.

Like a charm; Emma's touch is upon him, around his wrist, yet again. And still, somehow, it manages to sway and calm him down.

Gold doesn't let (want) it (to) show.

There's too much meaning in it; her gesture, with its steady and firm insistence, and his reaction, or lack of resistance, to it.

It shouldn't have this affect anymore. Or suggest what it does.

Because Belle had barely stopped him from killing Hook earlier that day, yet her sweet name dancing softly along Emma's lips has him easily pulling back and stepping away from the feeble and pathetic excuse for a man.

And he simply cannot fathom why.

Then she touches him, and it eases the rage away. Not gone, but grown submissive for now.

It's magic. She is magic.

Only Emma had this power over him. It's an affliction, really. And Gold's tired of it, of her. Because he still wants her, despite everything; he wants her close. And he can't have her near him like this.

He shouldn't be so sad about that, or so angry. He's already made his choice; happily, and without a moments hesitation.

'She's gone, she's gone,' he thinks over and over.

The unending motion of those two words turning around inside his head is harrowing and too piercing to handle. It causes him to step back and away but he quickly finds himself feeling lost and alone because of it.

He can't decide where to go, or where he wants to be. Now he's caught in the middle. Both Emma and Belle have turned their backs to him.

Gold can almost feel the cracking.

**~~**0**~~**

Emma comes soon enough to reason with him once more.

Alone in his dreary little shop the two of them stand; together again after far too long. But it's pointless really, Gold decides then bitterly.

"You have to help protect us."

She said firmly, insisted, but has a mind to maintain a small level of distance between them as she does. Wise of her to do so; he was too unstable emotionally at the moment and that made him unpredictable and a liability to his own impulses.

Still, she tries to reason with his empty compassion, "It's what Belle would want most—for you to do the right thing."

"And yet, so rarely have I ever conceded to her wishes and lived up to her expectations of me." He said coolly, "why change that now? There's nothing to be gained for it."

He's actually being rather candid with her for once and disarmingly honest with himself as result of that. And Emma falls silent against the harsh truth of his omissions. He takes a moment to reflect on that, and then her, and then abruptly breaks focus; needs to turn his head away.

He doesn't want to look at her.

"We all mean so little to you." She mumbles the statement quietly; too matter of fact, and with just a hint of sheer and utter amazement at the sad reality of that. So he doesn't bother affirming nor denying it. But still, he keeps his gaze turned firmly away from her.

He really can't let himself look at her. Not now, not anymore. And especially not in any way he may want to.

Look at her like she matters (to him).

Because she does, she does. But he doesn't want her to. He can't afford to. Not after everything he's already lost (her amongst the lot of them.). He's lost each of them too soon, and too quickly. It's all too much, really.

He wants her to leave now; expects her to, actually.

So his strayed attention deviates back to her somewhat when he hears her exhaling heavily; clearly deflated, her righteous momentum having been diminished at this point. There's a slow but steady movement coming from her then; she's in motion.

He waits frigidly, breath held in close, but surprise soon follows along. He rapidly suspects that she's decided to go and do something unexpected when he doesn't hear the familiar chime of his bell signaling her exit. But there are distinct sounds invading his sense so curiosity gets the better of him; he glances back over.

Only to find himself coming face to face with Emma.

She's managed to slip right past his notice, made her way around, and stepped in close; so closely this time. And to Gold, she appeared anxious but sad; maybe its heartbreak showing there.

But he wants to reject the foolish thought immediately because something as simple as that would be considerably too meaningful between them now. So disappointment (in him, always) is what he thinks instead. And only because it's the more accommodating and less tragic description for the ways she's looking back at him.

Then he notices what else she's done; of what she's got clutched in her hand. Its familiar and it hurts.

Knowing that she understands (him.)

"Stay a moment," he says desperately without thought.

Emma half smiles, long since defeated, and hands him his chipped cup. Then whispers closely before she goes, "at least don't kill him."

She knows when to walk away.

**~~**0**~~**

He doesn't look at her. Not once. Not while he does it.

Ruthlessly and over dramatically threatens her whole family.

It's why she doesn't hesitate when going after him. And why she forces back David with a sharp glare and steady wave of her hand when she walks out that door. And it's how she's able to dismiss and ignore Snow's ongoing pleas for caution as she marches down those stairs.

Emma finds it strange, this feeling, but she actually feels a little bit like her old self again when her resolute and daring green eyes finally catch sight of Gold.

"Only through me," she declares when she's sure she's gotten close enough to be heard perfectly clear.

"But you had to have known that."

He stops. And that's it. He doesn't turn around, or look at her in any way. But he does offer an answer. "Of course I did, dearie"

Emma visible stiffens; having long since become weary and hateful of that particular tone of voice he seemed so inclined to use with her these days. With its unnecessary attempts at being hardened and disdainful towards her whenever they're speaking anywhere out in the open like this.

It wasn't real. And she's come to internally despise all their shifting and false representations; putting up a front and a show for all the world to see.

So she plays it straight when asking Gold point blank, "So why even bother with the empty threat?"

He too goes rigid, back straightening and grown taut. There's a heavy silence—there usually is between them—until it seems he decides to play along with her on the honest front; pulls down the curtains, as it were.

"Because that's who I am. And it's all I have left. So I'm going through the old motions of it."

Emma shakes her head, frustrated; her annoyance palpable in the visible clench of her fists. Because all she feels like these days is that she's stuck going around in pointless circles.

"This isn't the Enchanted Forest, Gold, or some fairytale story being told. Why can't any of you see that? There's no need for the villain here."

"Nor the good hero of the tale, by that simple logic," he said, "yet here you are playing the part perfectly. Brave and true and willing to die for them all if need be. And why is that exactly?"

And it does strike her, his well aimed words, and she's stumbling momentarily on them. But only because she finds herself actually taken aback by his skewed and shortsighted outlook on the whole matter.

It gives her a sudden and unexpected sense of clarity.

Because it was obvious to her now that he preferred the clichés and their allusions, and needs them as much as the rest of them do; of the familiarity of the tried and true.

And she has no place with him in that.

But she's known that for a while now. Still, that doesn't make this hurt any less.

And so to appease the character of the man standing there in front of her with his back already turned Emma answer his question exactly how he wants her to, "I guess...it's just who I am now."

"Yes, it is. So you understand how this works." he moves forward; continues walking away, "that's a good girl."

Emma purses her chapped lips and says nothing else. Stares dejectedly at Gold's retreating form listening to that slow tap, tap of his cane and thinks with mild disappointment;

'You really have no idea.'

**~~**0**~~**

He walks away and finds an empty space.

Conflicted, raging emotions get the better of him. Something inside of him has snapped. So his hand's now bleeding, and his magic is lost. But the pain is there; screeching loudly amongst his fears and anxieties. Resonating inside of Gold like a burden, like the haunting of old memories.

Push it away, push it away—force it, if you must.

He needs to breathe. Focus. Refocus. Breathe again.

Emma finds him there—like that—standing in the aftermath of his own bitter and violent madness. She's situated herself at the door of the cramped stall staring—teetering so dangerously on the edge then. But she doesn't know that (or maybe she does. He used to be better at reading her) and he thinks there are other (rougher, passionate, and more loving) ways to release this built up tension and frustration.

Her keen eyes swiftly catch sight of his bruised hand. It has her stepping over the threshold, and causing her to fall in closely. Too, too close. He's suddenly using his other hand to guide and urge her body firmly against the wall.

He drops his cane.

It's quick, raw, and to the point. She keeps him centered, and he sighs in her hair. Emma's somehow become a comfort—he should be more concerned about that.

(He is, isn't).

Afterwards, her nylons lay torn and abandoned in the trash. His leg is feeling that familiar burn viciously while she mutely tends to his injury. It baffles him—why she would bother or even care—but still he lets her go about it. Stands there obediently as she gently washes away the dried blood and assesses the extent of damage he's inflicted on himself.

Neither says a word to the other; they simply flow through the motions of the moment silently. Still, he watches her reflection in the mirror intently; her head is bowed, face hidden by the downcast angle and her long hair, so for the time being she's lost to him. But he wants to see.

She's not letting him. He doesn't push.

So instead Gold thinks on obscure things; like puppets and snapped strings, and of faithful devotion. He doesn't know where she fits. She's been all, then none, and sometimes some. She has layers, or maybe too many to grasp.

It's an attractive quality, but a frustrating one as well.

He has (had) certain schemes and perceptions of her; for her. She's been and done everything he'd foreseen and yet he finds that she follows no logic to him at all.

It's given her a certain appeal. He'd always favored the complicated ones. It seems ironic sometimes that his one love is so simple at heart.

"Why did you not stop me," he asked her bluntly then—shattering the over stressed silence—as the words slip free and loose from his lips unintended. Gold doesn't need to elaborate further, "You could have."

It seems you're the only one who can.

He would have liked to have told her—given her that small and pivotal detail—but he doesn't. He never does say everything he wants to her.

"You're missing the point," she turns to him, briefly, eyes as avoidant as ever, "I came looking for you."

He doesn't know what to say to that. She's just stolen away his words and that's all he has.

Distantly, they hear the announcement for final boarding. It's time to go. Emma slips past and away, and he clenches his fingers into his palms. It stings. They're stuck in patterns now—predictable—he didn't want that.

He already misses her.

**~~**0**~~**

She says nothing, knows he hates her silences.

He likes to cheat with his words, but she's beginning to understand the mechanics of his tricks. It's an advantage—a temporary shift in the balance—so she takes it. Emma needed the satisfaction of a small victory.

This day has taken it toll on her. She's too tired to think any more, and so contemplates taking a nap during the flight.

But then Gold goes and prudently snatches up her hand with his own.

The abrupt and jolting motion of the startling gesture immediately irks her and so she considers taking her hand back forcibly. It wasn't his to hold. Hadn't he taken more than enough from her already?

Emma had nothing else left to give. And yet, seeing him sitting there next to her flustered and completely out his depth and character has her offering him what little words of comfort she can muster up instead.

But he doesn't seem to be listening to them; his strong grip only tightening as his fingers stubbornly slip through her own.

He won't let go, it appears.

She sighs irritably but then loosens and readjusts her arm. For once, she's just too exhausted to bother fighting back.

So she just closes her eyes.

**~~**0**~~**

"I lost him," Emma tells him.

Her breathing is deep and labored as she tries to catch it while he stares back at her accusingly—tries to at least—but all of it; her, him, this, here, now, was all in vain and suddenly the weight of that is just too much for him to bear anymore.

Gold's bad leg gives out from under him and he collapses against the wall. Emma barely has time to react, she just manages to latch on to his arms and stop him from crashing down completely. But they fall into one another in an awkward sort of embrace.

"I'm sorry," she whispers futilely, though awkwardly, against him; unsure what to say or do beyond that, "I really am sorry."

And all Gold wants to do in that pitiful moment of utter defeat is despise this woman for failing him when he needed her the most.

But, "no, it's not your fault," is what he tells her instead.

It surprises him; that he actually means it. And the slow motion of his arms slipping and wrapping around her alongside his assurances is instinctive and unprompted by any rational thought.

He holds her close. And Emma lets him.

But only for a little while.

**~~**0**~~**

That evening she steals a car.

Easily, with a swift and trained motion of her once thieving little hands after they'd elected it the best solution; neither wanting to tempt or risk the possible repercussions of another airport security check.

But it's a dreary and sullen affair—sitting in that car together—as not one single word is exchanged between the two of them for hours as Emma drives back to Stroybrooke.

It's dark, and late, and this particularly tumultuous day has nearly run its course. It's almost over—this, them, whatever it had been and has become today.

It's nearing the end of the road for them. Literally, and perhaps a bit figuratively as well.

They can't stop it.

"I actually met Henry's father in car I stole," Emma confesses eventually—conversationally, even— having finally decided to break the heavy and uncomfortable silence plaguing them throughout the long ride.

And after a prolonged beat, Gold looks at her and asked, "What happened to him?"

"He ran away. I guess we have that sort of thing in common too." She smiles at him sadly, and he gradually does the same for her.

This is what they had with each other now; common ground. But still it won't (shouldn't) really change anything so they don't speak of it anymore after that.

Because there's already too many unfinished endings built between them and, despite what's happened, this one will be no different from the rest.

So they go home. And leave the day at that.

For good

(or maybe just for now.)

Author's Notes:

Hello there!

I bet no one expected me to update this series (sorry to those reading Seeing is Believing ) but I did.

I had started writing this piece months ago in a much more abstract manner and decided to revisit it when I begun struggling with the latest chapter of SiB but found I could not get myself back in the same mind frame and writing approach I had originally intended for it. I think it'll be easy for readers to figure out which sections were part of the original draft of the story and what was brought in when I started re-writing it. I like the way this story turned out in the end, but I also really liked what I had done originally so this story was an interesting challenge for me to write overall.

My approach for this story was for it to be influenced and based around the unintentional but instinctive actions and reactions of Gold and Emma. Both are struggling here, for various reasons, and trying to make sense of things and events that have happened and are occurring within the story. And both are convinced that nothing can come out of their mutual and repressed feelings for one another anymore and yet it is seemingly beyond them not to react to one another while the other is in conflict, or they themselves are. Obviously, it's not the healthiest approach to dealing with one another or their emotions as certain events in the story portray but still they can't seem to help themselves.

And I think I wanted to try writing it this way because right now my biggest frustration with the show (amongst a multitude of other problems with it lately) is that it's become way too much of the characters saying and telling each other how they feel in really inorganic and unbelievable ways while their action conflict with their pretty words. When it comes to the romantic aspects there's virtually none of that important 'show, don't tell' style in the writing or storytelling.

But anyways, canon irritation aside, I truly hope that you all enjoyed this new story of mine, and thanks for taking the time to read it :)

xoxox