A/N: Special thanks to my beta, OnceSnow, for her input with this chapter. It does contain some Mature content and I know not everyone is comfortable with that. It's near the end and is an extension of a canon scene, so if you would rather skip it, just stop where the scene stops.


"We need to talk."

Anything to leave the festivities, Killian thinks, jutting out his elbow so Swan can link her arm through it. Without speaking, they hustle up the grand staircase and make a right for the library, leaving her parents and the others to celebrate David's, er, knighthood downstairs. From everything they'd heard, David had set out for a toadstool or mushroom that could have enabled them to communicate with Merlin even in his wooden state and Arthur had accompanied him. Lately, any time Arthur so much as opened his mouth around them, Killian's fist tightened, his heel bounced, and he literally had to bite his tongue to avoid unleashing a feral sound and punching the man in the face. How long had all of Camelot been waiting for them? So far, they'd all been poring through ancient texts, trying various spells, questing fter mushrooms—all things the king could have done on his own had he a shred of determination or intelligence...Killian isn't sure which one Arthur lacked.

Backing into the shelves, Swan places a hand on his arm and looks past him at the door. Licking her lips, she inhales and says much too quickly, "SoIamahorribledaughter."

"I know drunks who don't slur that much. Say again?" he chuckles, leaning into her, their foreheads touching. It seems to calm her, at least enough that she takes another deep breath and tries again.

"Okay, I may not have lived in a place like this, but the President of the United States doesn't hand out medals for effort," she says, cringing at her own observation. He doesn't know what a president is, and last he knew, they live in Storybrooke, not the United States, but he thinks he grasps the gist of what she's saying.

"So I'm not the only one who's uneasy about all this business with your father then?"

Swan sighs and grins at him for a split second, validated. "It's just...look, if anyone deserves to sit in that chair/throne thing, it's him, and he's one of the bravest people I know, but...he didn't do anything! I'm terrible. He spent the whole day going after that thing to help me, and it sounds like a pretty dangerous place to go, and all I can think of is that Arthur's just kind of...sucking up to him."

"Robin confided similar worries to me earlier," he says, nodding his head. "Swan, no one's mentioned this Sir Percival since the funeral. It's as if they're all too keen to forget about him. Whenever I punished a crewman, it had to be severe enough so that the other men wouldn't rise up in defense of him. Why haven't the other knights treated us any differently? We should be resented."

Rubbing his arm, she purses her lips together in thought, and he knows she's been taken back to a time she can only imagine, when he had to be the terrifying Captain no one dared cross. He doesn't want to read her face right now, but her jaw clenches.

"What if we can't trust him?" she whispers.

"I don't know." And he doesn't. He doesn't know what to make of this kingdom, how everyone seems happy and well cared for, and yet...off. The way Swan had been when Regina had altered her memories. The way he had been in the storybook. She stands on her tiptoes and kisses him. At least something around here isn't stagnant.

"If we truly can't trust him," he says before he kisses her back, "He'll make a mistake. This isn't the first time we've crossed paths with someone questionable. Between you and me, he'll reveal himself-"

"In due course?" she says in an attempt to finish his sentence, smirking at him.

"In due course."


You can't keep doing this, he tells himself as he rolls onto his stomach in his bed. Pressing down on the pillow with his forehead, he closes his eyes tighter and hopes it will somehow magically put a stop to the headache. You can't keep pretending to be strong for her. At some moment in time, she'll have another inner duel with the Darkness and she'll do something or, hell, merely say something and you won't have it in you to pick her back up and turn her back in the right direction.

And what does she do when she strays from her path, he can't help but ask himself in a sing-song kind of voice that he loathes for being his own thought. She runs away. You've seen it, her parents have seen it, even her beloved child saw it when he went after her before and her magic hurt him. Elsa put it as plainly as anyone could. She hurt him because she was trying so hard not to hurt him. Only it's not her magic this time that's spiraling out of control; it's her, and he's gotten so bloody used to her not running... Not "used to," he assures himself, as ungrateful is the last thing Swan makes him. Rather...if she pushes him away again, can't trust him again, he won't just miss her; he'll crave her, and then he'd be in no state to help anyone.

Hauling himself out of bed and throwing on clothes, he staggers through the halls, rubbing his eyes and wondering what he'll do when he sees her making more dreamcatchers. He'll say something this time, that much he knows, but what?

He doesn't need to formulate an answer right now. She's not in her room, and yet the door is wide open. Bloody hell, what now? He won't even attempt to calm down or assume he's overreacting or some such tripe—he knows something is wrong. Quickening his pace, he continues down the corridor, passing banner after banner, room after room, until he catches a glint of light by the far room. Empty as far as he knows, just one of the many sitting rooms in the castle, but he hears her.

"Get out of my head!"

She whimpers like a wounded animal, so he sidles up next to the wall, the cold stone chilling his shoulder even through his coat. Her head. If she had said anything else, he would have his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to corner Arthur or anyone else and coerce them into the truth since she couldn't risk doing the same. Poking his head in, he's just about to call her name when a sickly green streak of light whizzes right by him, sizzling all the way until it hits the opposite wall. Bloody hell, that lightning bolt would have scorched its way right through him.

"Calm down," he says when she approaches, her arm still bent with her fingers tensed. Lowering her hand, she only leans forward, toward him. "There's no one here. It's just us. You and me."

Her entire body droops into his, feeling more like dead weight with every passing second.

"He's inside my head. I can't get him out." So low, so quivering—his eyes can't help but scan the room one more time. But it really only is the two of them...and an opened hutch where the dagger rests on a shelf just below eye level. About to suggest they leave, his mouth clamps shut as she starts.

"He's here. He's always here," she moans. "Go away!"

Thrashing in his arms, the movement seems to suck the life out of her. She stumbles and lays her head on him at such an awkward angle he fears she's passed out.

"Emma. Emma, love. Can you close up that hutch for me?" Adjusting, he tilts her chin up. "Come on. Get your footing. Close that up and we'll take an early breakfast. Together?"

Bracing him, she blindly leans back and taps the door to the hutch just hard enough for it to swing shut, but even that has her tripping over her own feet. Shivering, she curls into him more, gripping the lapels of his coat with such an intensity her fists shake. All right then, he decides, maneuvering his hooked arm around her waist to keep her balanced, he tries to turn them to the door to go back out into the hall. He knows when he's in over his head, magic being the only thing that stumps him nowadays; ergo, Regina. The only question that remains is whether she can make it to Regina and Robin's room or if he has to carry her.

"Come on, love. Let's have a word with Regina about maybe moving that dagger to somewhere more challenging." He takes a step, but the sound leaving her mouth, a hoarse, tired scream—he'll stand in this room with her for an eternity if he never has to hear it again.

"I d-don't want t-to. He's there."

"No, no, no one there, but..." Picking her up, he holds his breath at how limp her arm's gone, too exhausted to wrap around his neck. Peeking out into the corridor, he turns so he can carry her out, her uneven breath hitting his chest. No use consulting her about what story to tell a passing servant, he thinks, widening his eyes at what the situation looks like, the two of them cavorting at dawn, at least one of them too tired to move. He attempts to stabilize her head with his, but it just lolls the way it did right after they'd pulled her from the ice wall, only this time he can't see how close her eyes are to rolling back into her head.

Emma barely utters another sound in the time it takes to carry her to Regina's door. Knocking with his boot, he doesn't care who he has to wake or who has to move, for someone will have to move since come hell or high water she will lie down on a bed and put forth some energy into sleeping.

"Hook? What's...what the hell happened?" Regina's eyes widen as she ushers them into the room, Robin scrambling out of bed and throwing a vest on over his shirt.

"It does smell like pine," Killian mumbles to himself, hustling over to the bed and laying Emma into it. He helps her roll onto her side, and perhaps the first white rays of morning play more tricks on the eyes than he thought, but her hair looks whiter. The peachiness of her skin has vanished, replaced by the cold white porcelain of a doll.

"I'll go wake Mary Margaret and David," Robin states, running out of the room right before Regina hurries over to them and kneels down to place her hand on Emma's.

"Her hands are like ice. What was she doing?"

"She was near the dagger," he says.

Regina leaves the room, but it barely registers with him. Holding Emma's hand, he leans down and uses the curve of his hook to push her hair off her face.

"Mom? Mom!" Henry runs in with Regina and Snow right behind him, the latter's paleness almost matching her daughter's.

"What happened to her?" Snow asks, leaning against the bedpost.

"I have no idea. She hasn't said a word," he lies, Emma flinching at it. Looking away from her, he tightens his lips. It's not his place, and even if it were, it's not as if he can properly explain it or give them any guidance. Why, your daughter was trying to attack her imaginary enemies...who may or may not actually be imaginary. Aye, that sounds like sanity.

"It's getting worse, isn't it?" Hearing David behind them, all he can hope for is that Arthur isn't behind him, wondering what the fuss is all about and if a royal surgeon should take a look at her.

"David! Where have you been? I was looking all over the castle for you!" Snow hisses, marching over to him.

"With Arthur." Marvelous. "It turns out he might have a way to help Emma."

Absolutely not. That man can't help a bloody tree, let alone a human being. Twisting so he can see them out of the corner of his eye, he watches Snow react with a horrified expression and loves her all the more for it.

"We can't!"

"If we give him the dagger-"

"David, listen to me. We can't trust Arthur," Snow interrupts, and if anything could tempt him to leave Emma's side only for a moment, it would be the urge to run to her mother and kiss her cheek. Give Arthur the dagger? If it were any other Dark One, he'd be inclined to laugh.

"What are you talking about? Who told you that?" David asks.

"Lancelot."

"Lancelot? Lancelot is dead." Aye, he thinks, nodding to himself in disappointment. He buried him himself. Snow's urgent sounds of disagreement, however, prove difficult to argue with.

"That's what he wanted Cora to think, but he outwitted her," Snow tries to explain.

"Hey! Not in front of the patient," Regina warns them, crossing over to them. Glancing back at Emma, he sees her eyes have closed, trying to fall asleep, but to no avail. "Given the state that she's in, anything could set her off. She needs rest—somewhere quiet and away from prying eyes."

"I know the perfect place," Henry speaks up, his panic from earlier transforming into strength.

"Perhaps me and the boy should take her there," Killian says. Gods know they all could stand to leave the castle grounds for a while. No progress in weeks and Arthur's only checked in on them out of what appears to be courtesy; no impatience no proposals to attempt drastic measures to free his Sorcerer. Ridiculous. Emma's eyes flutter open and glance from him to her parents and back.

"Come on, love," he says, managing a smile. "Let's sail away."


"Come on, Mom! Keep going! We're almost there." Ahead of them, Henry swings his arms and saunters along a well-worn path where more and more supplies come into view, a wagon wheel here, a hoe there. Every few seconds, he glances back at his mother and smiles at her, shuffling along and then running ahead a few paces like a much smaller child would do, so keen to forge ahead and yet unable to do so without checking back with mum now and then.

Swan, albeit still holding onto his arm, keeps up, her worn and sullen demeanor from earlier completely given way to curiosity about where Henry might be taking them. The horse harnessed just ahead of them should be something of a hint, he thinks, raising an eyebrow. A private stable, belonging to someone in the village. Ah. Breaking and entering. Quite the peaceful family getaway.

Henry lifts the latch to the wide doors with the ease of having done so a few times before. Sure enough, he's led them to a stable. Well kept, it smells of fresh straw, warm rays of light breaking through the slats in the walls.

"It's nice here, right? A good place to rest. You'll feel better in no time," Henry assures Swan with no irony whatsoever. Clearly the place means something to him. He watches Swan exhale and look the place over, probably wondering how it's come to mean something to the boy, and he'll be the first to admit the situation is a bit, well, odd.

"It's a quiet and isolated little nook," Killian approves. "How did you turn up such a refuge, lad?"

There's a heavy pause before Henry speaks, a telling heavy pause.

"Well, there's this girl."

Swan's head snaps toward Henry.

"Is there indeed?" He's heard stories about younger Henry, blissfully unaware of the fact he'd walked in on his own grandparents' post-coital repose, and here he is losing his heart to a young lass. It must be the sweet girl who spends so much time tending to the castle's horses, a contemplative little thing, eyes always darting around like she's on the lookout for someone and now he knows who! "Well, I like this tale already!"

"I-it's not like that," Henry insists. Ah. Of course it's not. "Her name's Violet. She brought me here. The stable belongs to her family."

They've been out here together on more than one occasion! And here he'd thought that, for all of Henry's exceptional qualities, he was still a little too bookish and shy to take an interest in girls. He looks over at Swan just to make sure he's not the only one who finds this utterly adorable, but she looks downright scandalized.

"So you two are getting close." It's not a question. That's the bail bondswoman tone.

"N-not at all. We're just hanging out." Henry stammers. Killian can't resist grinning and nodding at him. Go on. Go on, tell us what you two talk about. Why hasn't he brought her to the castle more? Introduced her to his mothers and the rest of the family? He should. After today, when Swan's fully reenergized, he'll suggest the girl come up and live like a royal guest for an hour or two. She's a hardy worker, that much he knows from observation.

"Hello? Who's in there?" they all hear from the other side of the door. Recognizing the voice, he beams at Henry, debating whether he should bow to the young lady or offer Storybrooke's less formal handshake.

"That's her," Henry nearly cries. "Hide. Hide! Go on! Go on!"

Swan scurries away behind one of the stalls right away, but he lingers just for a moment. He wants to talk to them! Did they meet at the ball? How long was it before she brought him out here? Have her parents met Henry? They must have been instantly fascinated with him; the lad's truly something. Aye, he should hide. Running back to the stall, Swan scoots to make room for him and ducks her head under as Violet storms through the door with a pitchfork in her hand, poised to do battle to protect her horses. Plucky as well as hard-working. Killian likes her already.

"Henry!" she says, smiling at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I was wondering if you'd be interested in taking me riding."

He didn't miss a beat! Quite the smooth operator, this one. Hell, Killian wasn't this good talking to the opposite sex when he was twenty, let alone thirteen.

"Yeah, I'd love to." She'd love to! "Come on. I'll introduce you to Nicodemus."

"Is that your dad?" Henry asks her, wavering a touch.

"No. It's my horse." So precious, how the lad breathes a sigh of relief. So he hasn't met her father yet. Well, any man who can't find anything impressive about Henry could do with a few lessons from the king and queen's guests, he thinks.
"I hope you're ready to get your heart racing!" Violet continues. And...right there, Henry finds himself dumbstruck. "Come on!" In a mad rush, they hurry out of the stable together, presumably toward the horse they'd seen on the walk over. As soon as it's safe to leave their cramped little hiding place, Killian swings past one of the posts.

"Well, you can hide buried treasure or a winning poker hand, but you can't hide the bloom of first love."

"Yes, he has a crush, and he straight-up lied to my face and I'm the Dark One!" Swan rants, flabbergasted.

"You're his mother." What did she expect? And what's all this "I'm the Dark One" about now?

"Which is scarier?" she counters.

"To him? That's up for debate." Resigned to the fact her boy might start keeping a few harmless secrets from her, she sighs and gazes up at him.

"Speaking of your Dark One-ness, don't you think it's time you tell me the truth of what happened?" he asks, knowing full well he's posed it as a challenge. He would like to think he could take it on faith she won't turn around and walk away as she always did before. That she'll trust him this time. Her eyes go wide, and he can read her expression in one of two—that either whatever she hears taunts her even now, or she's forming the words to confide in him.

"It's Rumpelstiltskin. Or at least something that looks like him," she says with the hint of a question in her inflection as she comes closer to him. "I've been seeing him in my head ever since we got here."

Ever since she got here, she means, he thinks. Ever since she became the Dark One, having to listen to the Darkness itself poke and prod around in her brain, twisting everything so she'll do what it wants her to do.

"He was there when we first found you, with the flame-haired Scot."

"I almost crushed her heart because of his voice." Mouth agape, her eyes slowly veer over to the wall behind them. It's there. Maybe not speaking to her this time, but there, wearing her down, incessantly stalking her until she believes giving into it is the easier option. He'd been able to drown it out before; she chose to listen to him rather than the Darkness in the case of Merida and had fallen into an exhausted heap in his arms.

You won't always be there to reel her back in, he warns himself.

No, but at least he can make her feel less alone, less mad.

"I've spent many years battling demons in my head, and I was able to purge them on the prow of the Jolly Roger...riding the ocean's waves," he trails off, the sight of a spare saddle catching his eye. If ever anyone was in need of a distraction it's her, he thinks, remembering the ball. How relaxed Swan had been then, before the whole thing erupted into chaos. They could have that again, only without Arthur's bungling of the whole thing. A date. Not like their first, when they'd both been playing at being normal people with normal lives, but one more suited to them. He feels her hand wash over his, a look of deep sympathy reaching the corner of his eye.

"Too bad you can't have it shrunk in your pocket right now," she sighs. While taking it out somewhere here would be a day well spent, as lovely and diverting as the first time he'd taken her out on it, he knows of a vast, natural sea with its own kind of beauty just on the outskirts of the kingdom. He'd nearly felt enchanted by the flowery meadow, and more and more he finds they're on the same page in most ways.

"Well, we may not need it. That girl promised to get Henry's heart racing astride a horse. You and I are going to do the same," he promises her.


The beast alternates between nuzzling him and recoiling from him, always curious, always cautious. It would be much easier if he knew its name, but some oats, laying his head down on its snout, and time had assimilated the horse enough to allow Killian to at least walk it. Swan studies his every movement, probably wondering if she will be expected to do the same. Well, if she fancies riding enough, he's sure he's seen signs for a stable back in Storybrooke somewhere. He smiles at the ridiculous image of converting that storage shed into a stall for a horse of their own. Glancing over with an expectant look on her face, he covers up his amusement with comments on the horse's beauty, that he couldn't have found a better horse to steal for the day.

"I thought the plan was to ride the horse. This feels a lot like walking," she notes, stepping out ahead of him, smiling back at the horse.

"This isn't like driving that yellow contraption of yours. You can't just turn a key. The horse has to trust you." Or else you're just about to throw your leg over it when it bucks and sends you to the ground with your jackass father laughing the whole way, he remembers. Stopping, he tugs on the reins so that the horse almost faces her.

"So, go on. Introduce yourself."

Swan hesitates, just drinking in the horse, letting herself become taken with it before she holds her hand up. Fingers curled, she extends her arm. It whinnies and shuffles back before she's even had a chance to touch it. Steady there, lass, he thinks, throwing his hand up onto the mare's head, rubbing tiny circles into the space between its ears. Its breathing back to normal, he climbs up and straddles it. Opening his mouth, he snaps his head up to ask Swan if she's taking notes, but she's looking in the other direction. At Rumpelstiltskin. Leave it to the Crocodile to gloat about making bad first impressions. He'll give her a minute.

Or two. Gods damn it, ordering it to go away would be the first thing he would do if he could see it right now.

"Go away," she growls at it.

"Swan." She whirls around and grimaces at the horse, her eyes twitching with fear. A harsher, more commanding tone takes control of his voice. "Stop talking to the demon in your head. Get on the horse."

"This is pointless!" she argues. "I'm the Dark One. What is this going to do?"

"This isn't about the bloody horse, Emma. This is about you putting your faith in me. In our future," he adds. What if she... No, he banishes that train of thought. She believes in him, loves him, and she will show him that by getting on this horse. Neither one of them can sit in that castle any longer and just wait for some book to spell out the answer to them. All that ever does is deteriorate her more while he stands by and watches. Informing her about the house tantalizes him, the invitation for the two of them to scout it out when they get back right on the tip of his tongue.

"You still think we can get back there, to Storybrooke and some white-picket-fence life?" she asks. Grinning, he knows he can hold it in a little while longer. How Henry knew about the fence, he'll never know, but the lad was spot-on, which means everything else will be, too.

"Yes. I'll never stop fighting for us. All you have to do is trust me." And with her, all it takes to earn that trust is a few trips to other realms, some time-hopping, and half a dozen life-threatening villains to overcome. Looking down at her right as she's on the verge of allowing a smile to escape, he wouldn't have had it any other way. "This'll work."

Nearly gliding around the animal to avoid touching it, she holds onto his arm, steps into the stirrup, and hoists herself up behind him, taking hold of his waist. The entire back portion of his body can feel her every move, how she jumps and twists around to check if Rumpelstiltskin is still there watching her, expecting her to fail, most definitely not a situation that calls for light trotting. Instead, they take off already at a cantering pace, and her breath hitches.

"I've never been horseback riding," she calls, wiggling closer to him so that perhaps whatever she might say next can slip right into his ear. He doesn't answer her, but, with a grin, pulls the reins back for the horse to leap over some brush.

He steers them toward the rose meadow, the air itself feeling purer the farther from the castle they go. He even hears Swan inhale deeper, as if she'd been holed up in the brig of a ship and only now released to the open air and sunlight.

"Killian? Can y—can you change the pace?" she asks into his ear, her chin on his shoulder.

"Slow down?" he calls back to her. "Scared?"

"No! Gallop!" It's the giggle on the edge of her voice that compels him to do it, sending the horse into a full run along the riverbank. The horse seems to know the area well enough on its own seeing as how it doesn't zigzag in some lost fashion. It enables him to twist just enough around to seek her approval with a smirk. Mirroring it, Swan holds him tighter. Oh, this horse can do just a bit more, he decides, encouraging it to sprint the rest of the way. Its hoof beats beneath him, Swan's excited little scream behind him—just as good as riding any wave. If he could, he'd throw his arms into the air and see if he could actually soar like a graceful bird of prey, fully convinced he could just take off and ride on the wind to the horizon line and beyond, heart racing all the way. He felt that way climbing the rigging of ships...or beanstalks...during the heat of battle, any time Emma Swan so much as looked at him...

Rounding the bend, he needs to show her the rose meadow now and see if it takes what's left of her breath away. With a poise and flair humans just don't have, the horse slows itself down and eases to a stop. Swan heaves as he helps her down first, her hands opened and tensed at her sides like she's fighting the urge to let them flail all over the place. Cheeks glowing the same pink shade as the roses, she beams up at him as he makes his way down.

"That was amazing! Thank you."

"Well, I had a feeling you would like it," he says, taking her hand and stepping into the taller grass with her, as soft as he imagined it would be. Not that there is anywhere to tie off the horse, but it looks so calm and ready to relax for a few moments, he can't foresee it running off. Instead, he takes one more look at Swan, smiling away and taking in the scenery. He's sure no imaginary imp is part of it.

"Tell me—what do you see?" he asks her, leading her further into the meadow.

"Lots of flowers," she says with a short gasp, clearly not having noticed them before.

"Very good." Bending down, he pulls one up, feeling the soft petals against his wrist, and holds it out to her. It only took this long to bestow the lady with flowers, he thinks. "Now what don't you see?"

Bloody hell, he'd thought she was radiant at the ball, but the bright, warm sun shining down on her after the rush of riding, the astonishment on her face that her demons have well and truly left her for the moment, how her eyes sparkle at all of it—how is he supposed to take his eyes off her when it's finally time to go back to the others?

"Rumpelstiltskin," she breathes. "He's gone."

"I hoped he might be. By trusting me with your burden, you've left no room for him in that head of yours."

Speechless Swan. Eyelashes fluttering, mouth agape, she gazes at him so damn lovingly as she searches for words. She loves you, he reminds himself, savoring how her hand drifts from his collarbone to his heart, flattening itself against it so it can feel every beat. How he's even alive, how they're even right here, together, at this moment...he tries to hold in a shaky breath.

"Well, now that we're alone..." she trails off, leaning into him. She kisses him with all the reckless abandon she had in Neverland. It's going to happen, he thinks, holding her closer as she sweeps her arms onto his shoulders and closes them in over the back of his head. They will get back to Storybrooke. They will have their happy ending together, and the thought paralyzes him at the same moment her head dips down to kiss his neck. Two can play that game, he decides, stifling a moan to cup her cheek and draw her head back so he can run a stream of kisses down her own throat. His hooked arm doesn't know where to go so it wraps around her waist and doesn't stop wrapping, bending her backward a little. Everything suddenly feels tighter, constricted, and she's the only release.

His mouth travels back to hers, home, and her hands are inside his clothes, unbuttoning, fingers dancing down to the waist of his trousers. Her fingers on the bare skin there a delirious, maddening sensation. He doesn't know who moves first, just that she's sitting in the grass and he's on top of her, closing his eyes tighter so magic can never make him forget how it feels to gather the skirt of her dress and bunch it up around her waist. His hand slides up her leg and stops at the inside of her thigh so he can breathe.

She has hold of him—gods, she has hold of him, stroking and pumping and doing gods know what else to him since his ability to think is a bit hindered at the moment. Emma, Emma, Emma...it's every beat of his heart. Kissing her again, he centers his hand against the warmest, most intimate place he's fantasized about going to since the day he'd met her. A short gasp leaves her mouth and she answers his touch with more of her own.

"Killian," she breathes, right into his cheek lest he believe he's imagining it. Hearing his name, so low and desperate—his fingers need to slip in deeper.

Positioning himself better on top of her, he rests his forehead on hers as they explore, her other hand under his trousers and pressed against his tailbone to keep him there, as if he had any intention of ever standing up again.

Her breasts, still unfortunately covered up by her dress, heave in time with her hips. His body can't help but answer back, bucking and tearing moans of pleasure from him as she has her way with him. Yours. Body, heart, and soul, he promises her in his head over and over again, closing his eyes only so he can really listen to the soft grunts and mewls he's not sure she's even aware she's making. Then, everything around his hand tightens, spasms, and he has to watch. He pulls his head back to watch her come apart and it's better than any dream he's ever had of her—her hair a tangled mess, the muscles in her face completely independent of her will, a nigh-incoherent gasp of his name before she collapses back down onto the grass panting.

Everything around them begins to spin. He's close, so close. He writhes and burrows into her as she continues to render him completely undone, insisting his nose and mouth breathe in her hair.

Then his own climax takes over, only a hoarse cry, not even her name, heralds him spilling himself into her hand. Everything goes black after his last shudder, except for her other hand running through his hair and then resting on his back, so soothing he could fall asleep on her.

It takes every ounce of his energy to roll off of her onto his side, but she curls into him, wiping her hand with the hem of her skirt without a word, just a contented sigh. Snuggling into him, he catches just a glimpse of her tired, loving eyes before she closes them and lets out a sigh.

Asleep. At last. After all this time working through the nights on those infernal dreamcatchers, Emma is out like a light in a field of flowers, lying in the crook of his arm, breathing into his neck.

He lays awake, playing with strands of her hair and tracing her hairline with his fingertips. Someone has to keep watch, he thinks with a smile. All too soon, she blinks herself awake and groans as she props herself up onto her elbows. Staring at him for a moment, he holds his breath until she leans back in and kisses him. It turns into an awkward hug since they're both still on the ground, but he doesn't care. Nothing, nothing will keep them from their happy ending now. He swears it to himself as much as he does to her.