His lips are raw, the back of his ear scratched, the line of his cheek bruised, all welcome remnants of the fervor of her embrace and the kisses that followed. Looking at himself in the mirror of his old rented room, he takes stock of the scars, proof of life he is still reeling in the face of. He's here, in Storybrooke, mere feet above his love, his Emma, his friends and his family. Reaching her side would only take a few strides, not the will of a God or some magical miracle. He hopes she is standing tall, the weight of all she takes upon herself undoubtedly heavier than it has any right to be. Her wish to have his return remain between them tonight is right, considerate, but he can't help the ache knowing she is so close and yet still out of reach.
He will wait for her. He will try to rest.
Peeling the wet clothes from his skin he lets the black fabric fall to the floor, wishing he had one of Regina's fireballs to set the clothes aflame. The wet mass of his darkness ends up in the wastebasket by the bed to be disposed of at his earliest opportunity. Drying himself with the hand towel resting atop the small basin sink, he winces as new bruises are discovered, finger shaped marks along his ribs and bicep. He can't help but wonder if her body is similarly marred, a line along her back from where his hook held her too close, roughened skin along her throat from the brush of his beard. Injuries once made with fists and jabs now left in the wake of overwhelming joy. He smiles as he thinks of how much he prefers the latter.
Plugging the talking phone in the electric socket by the bed, he faces it so he can see the display before sliding beneath the cool sheets. It hits him again that he is back in a place where she could call him if she needs him, that he could be there in a moment's time. Thoughts of time and realms and white lights and Emma begin to mingle as he drifts off to sleep, the many days without slumber finally taking its toll.
He barely stirs at the rumble, the chain on the lamp vibrating against the base and the wood behind his head creaking in distress eventually urging him back into consciousness. It takes a moment for him to register that something is amiss, but the yells begin to filter from below and he's on his feet in a flash. He's in a fresh pair of pants and working his arm through a shirt when his phone begins to buzz, sending him vaulting across the mattress towards the sound.
"Emma, love, what's happening?"
"I don't know. Regina and I are going to investigate. I think your resurrection can't be kept between us anymore. I need your help."
/~/~/
It's two more days, one new realm and two portals until he sees a bed again, this time with Emma pressed tight against his side. Sleep comes to them both only after he worships her as he has longed to do, soothing her now healing bruises from their reunion with his lips and words of passion whispered into her skin. The irritation left behind on the sensitive flesh between her thighs, that may become a permanent mark, the taste of her a new found addiction more potent than the strongest of rum. The half moon shapes gouged into his neck he will wear with pride, formed by her fingernails as she repeatedly fell apart against his tongue.
These scars, and the many that are to come, he sees as evidence of a life well lived, a body well loved. His only wish now is to keep one piece of themselves untouched, their hearts, the scars upon which their love has managed to heal not in need of reopening.