Just a little post 4X12 ficlet. I loved seeing Emma supporting Killian and I needed more…
He isn't there. He'd been there every morning at this same time for the past few weeks, but today, he wasn't there. She waited, her hip resting on the cold hood of the bug, eyes searching the street in front of her, attempting to ignore the panic rising in her chest. He was always there. They never spoke of it. He was just there one morning, greeting her with coffee and a kiss, starting their day together. It became a routine, one she had grown to love, much like him. But he wasn't there.
She calls his phone and it rings and rings and rings. He had never learned how to set up his voicemail and she kept on forgetting to show him how. He was always there, so it never seemed all that important. She pushes herself from the hood and walks slowly towards the library, feeling cold without him by her side, his smile not there to warm her from the inside as it always seemed to do. The missing weight of his arm around her waist was making her feel as if she would float away like a boat without its anchor.
She sees Belle and her steps quicken, desperation beginning to take hold as she meets the librarian's questioning eyes. His presence was a part of Belle's routine, too, a newly forged friendship built out shadowed hearts and overwhelming regret. The brunette gives her a tremulous smile, opening the door to invite her in, neither speaking their fears aloud. He wasn't there and they both need him now.
They find him together. The research board on the floor again, photos and notes scattered about the foyer, pins crunching under their shoes as they walk. The trail of books leads to his sleeping form, head buried in his elbow amidst a pile of old tomes, pages crumpled and wrinkled in anger and frustration under his fingers. The photo of the old man's house is displayed in front of him, looming as a reminder of what he has still failed to achieve. She feels Belle's hand touch her arm and she turns, seeing her nod before disappearing to the back of the library, thankful for the silent understanding of who he needs now.
His hair is soft under her fingertips as she strokes him gently, kneeling down to press a light kiss to his forehead as he begins to stir. His eyes open slowly, the dancing brightness she's accustomed to seeing in his blue depths is muted, searching for something she hopes he can see in her. He lifts his head, leaning into her palm as she cups his cheek, frustration and fatigue pouring out of him in waves. She stands, holding out her hand to him and waits. The waiting is new for her, but she does it, for him.
His eyes turn back to his task, fingers gripping the edge of the table, knuckles turning white with the force of his grasp. His sigh is long, but he stands, knees cracking and leather rustling as he stretches. He takes her hand, his gaze locked to their entwined fingers as he allows her to pull him in her wake out into the street. The sun is bright and he hides his eyes behind his wrist, the metal of his hook reflecting the rays of the morning light like a beacon. Her arm is tight around his waist now, and he grips her side like a lifeline, allowing his body to sway into hers as she leads him. She's always leading him.
She pushes inside his room and steers him towards his bed, peeling his jacket from his shoulders as he finally lifts his gaze to meet hers. There are always new emotions when he looks at her now, the strongest he believes his love, but he's still afraid to hope. This time he sees strength. It's not the savior strength that comes naturally to her, but strength for him, for them, silently asking him to let her take his burdens as her own. He wants to. He will.
She pulls back his covers and he sits, toeing off his boots before sliding under the sheet she is holding up for him. His head rests on the pillow and she sits by his hip, her fingers once again finding their way to his hair as he looks at her with tired eyes. She smiles a small smile and he feels another piece of his heart fall back into place. Lifting his hand from under the sheet, he stills her hand in his hair, pulling her palm to his lips. He leaves a small caress there, before pulling her down, silently asking for what he needs and hoping she understands.
She does. Her boots end up beside his on the floor as she curls against his side, his hand still clasped with hers between them on the small bed. Her lips find his forehead as he begins to drift to sleep, her whispered promise the last he hears before she enters his dreams.
"I'm here."