Lumière
(rated K; spoilers and spec for 4x04)
She finds him at the harbor when it's all said and done, leaning against the railing of the dock. He glances up as she approaches, offering a wan smile, and she's almost too tired to offer her own in return as she slumps next to him.
"So," she says, wincing when she shifts her weight, the movement tweaking what she's beginning to think could be a sprained ankle. She toes off her heels, sighing audibly as she sinks down several inches, the cool wood of the dock soothing her aching soles. "Interesting night."
He snorts, lifting his flask to his lips and taking a short draw before offering it to her. "To say the least."
She turns to face him, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the muscle ticking in his jaw. They look a right mess, the pair of them, him with his disheveled hair and untucked shirt tails and her with her dirt-smudged dress and a pattern of tiny scrapes crisscrossing her bare arms. She hands the flask back to him, and for the first time, notices the split knuckles of his left hand, the bruises blooming there.
Frowning, she reaches out for his clenched fist, her fingers tracing delicately over the abrasions. "What happened here?"
He clears his throat, free hand finding that spot on his neck. "I don't rightly recall. It was—already there."
Comprehension dawns suddenly, and she feels her eyes widening. "Ah."
A silence falls between them, not quite comfortable but not quite awkward, and she peeks over at him out of the corner of her eye, watching as he stares off across the water. Her heart constricts painfully in her chest; his eyes are glazed over with unshared memories, and in that moment, he's never before seemed quite as old, the weight of many, many lifetimes settling into the lines of his forehead and tugging the corners of his lips down.
"Was it worth it?"
The question's been on the tip of her tongue all night, forced back for the sake of pretty roses and flickering candlelight, but now it's just the two of them, standing shoulder to shoulder on a dock at the old pier, and at some point in the last four hours, she lost the innocence of her elegant coiffeur, and he turned the collar of his new leather jacket up against the world.
They tried for dewy eyes and shy smiles, but nothing about either one of their lives has been delicate, and they fall back into being bruised and battered so easily that it's almost scary.
He turns to face her, expression unreadable, and lifts his left hand to trace a line down the side of her cheek, down the column of her throat, over the curve of her shoulder. His fingers slide back into the tangle of her hair, and she swallows compulsively.
"This?" he murmurs, tugging just the slightest bit on the ends of her long strands before smoothing his palm down the expanse of her back. "Absolutely. Everything else?"
He pulls her closer with a gentle pressure at the base of her spine, and she goes willingly, leaning against his chest as he presses a kiss to her forehead. "That remains to be seen."
It's the answer she feared—Rumplestiltskin is a known collector of souls—but she knows it's the truth, so she nods mutely against the ridge of his collarbone, her arms finding their way around his waist.
"It would've been okay," she says softly after a moment. She feels him tense beneath her cheek, and she tightens her embrace reflexively in response. She thinks, idly, that it's the first time she's held him like this, voluntarily, and not on the heels of any possibly life-threatening tragedies, and it makes her heart thrum a little quicker. "It is okay. You don't have anything to prove to me."
His fingers move to the straps of the dress she'd borrowed from Mary Margaret, and he rubs pointedly. "Neither do you."
She leans back to look up at him, and he's giving her a wry smile. She can't quite help it when her own lips curve up at the corners, head shaking slightly, raising up on tip-toe. He meets her half way—just like he always does—his mouth warm and firm, tongue languid against hers, and she doesn't remember a time when she last did this, kissed someone for the sake of kissing.
It could be seconds or hours that pass, but when they finally break apart, her breathing is ragged, and if she thought her heart was pounding before, well…
He lowers his head, nuzzling into the crook of her neck and pressing a series of kisses down to the point of her shoulder. "I do like the dress."
She grins as he straightens, his hand slipping dangerously low on her hips. "I thought you might. I seem to remember a penchant for uncomfortably tight and inappropriately low-cut."
He hums in agreement, the first genuine smile she's seen since she found him lighting his features. "A cross I'm all too willing to bear, my love," he quotes in mock solemnity, and the air catches in the back of her throat at his newest term of endearment. Her hand moves slowly up his chest, over the buttons of his vest, to play with the pendant that hangs from his neck. His skin is warm beneath her fingers, and she wants to press harder, feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm, and the strength of the sudden desire to see all of his defenses stripped away has her swallowing back emotion.
"The jeans are nice," she admits, glancing up at him from under her lashes. "And the jacket."
He merely chuckles, angling himself so that his other arm can come around her, and it's such a foreign feeling, two hands tracing up and down the length of her spine instead of one, and she almost says something—some stupid joke or quip—but then he's leaning down to rest his forehead against hers, eyes falling closed, and the expression on his face is so bittersweet that it makes her chest ache.
"We'll figure it out," she whispers, and when his eyes flutter open a moment later, she doesn't think she's ever seen them quite so bright.
"Aye," he replies. "That we will."
She smiles softly, hands sliding down his arms to take both of his—both of his. Their fingers lace together like it's the most natural thing in the world, and the most infectious grin she's ever seen in her life splits wide across his face.
Yes, she thinks, it was absolutely worth it—whatever the cost—for him to have this one moment of pure happiness.
She leans forward to press a kiss—hard and quick—to his mouth, and then she's bending down to collect her shoes, leading him back up the dock by the hand. "Come on. Let's stop by Granny's on the way home."
Granny has long since left the diner when they arrive, but she pulls two pins from her hair, and in a handful of seconds, they're tripping over the threshold. His lips find her bare shoulder, and she laughs at some lewd comment that he whispers in her ear, shoving him down onto a barstool as she rounds the back side of the counter.
She grabs two mugs from a lower cupboard, and by the time she turns around, he's juggling packets of coffee creamer, tongue poking out from between his teeth in concentration.
She fills the mugs with milk and sticks them in the microwave before snapping her fingers, teleporting the creamers to a table in the far corner.
He cocks an eyebrow, expression a mixture of pride and amusement, and she winks, tugging him closer to murmur a description of what else she can vanish into the side of his neck.
He pulls her, quite bodily, up over the counter, and her mugs of cocoa are forgotten as she straddles his lap, fingers finding purchase in the silky strands of his hair.
There's a time and a place, she thinks, for linen napkins and crystal goblets and salad forks, and there is definitely a part of her that can't wait to get dressed up again, to curl her hair and put on another killer bra and panty set.
But, as they squish into one of the single booths, her legs thrown carelessly across his lap, his thumb rubbing circles into the throbbing skin of her ankle, each of them nursing a lukewarm mug of cocoa, she knows that this—this—is what it's all about.
Her cheeks hurt from smiling, and she knows eight o'clock is going to come way too soon, and he keeps interrupting the story she's trying to tell with kisses.
She wouldn't trade it for the world.