AN: Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up! I actually had a bad fall and sprained my back, so I've been out of commission for a few days. I'm doing a bit better but it's still pretty painful to sit up for an extended period of time, so it makes it hard to get much writing done. Thank you, everyone for your lovely, lovely reviews! I'm not sure I much like this chapter, but you've waited long enough, so…

V: Contact

I:

Emma rolled onto her side, coming up short when something jammed dully into her thigh. She blinked sleepily, rubbing her eyes with one hand. Golden light streamed in the window and she closed her eyes again for a moment against it. Rising up on one elbow, she pushed her tangled curls out of her face and took stock of the situation. Her neck and shoulder felt stiff from sleeping cramped on one side. She realized she must have fallen over at some point, bent half-way around the pillow at the head of the bed.

Rumpelstiltskin lay beside her, head on the pallet, arms curled around his chest protectively. His right leg was bent, drawn up high against his side. His knee had been poking into her leg. The blanket lay tangled around their ankles, apparently having been kicked off during the night.

She watched him sleep, surprised by the sudden squeeze of tenderness in her chest. He looked softer in sleep, the lines of his face smoother, eyebrows drawn into a peaceful, neutral expression. He slept with his mouth open, stirring the hair that draped across his face with each breath.

He looked young again, and she found herself wondering exactly how old he even was. She had no idea how old Gold could be, but he did seem younger than the man she knew, though it could have just been his demeanor. She tried to picture him as a sixteen year old boy, being sent off to face monsters, only to find the worst were really his own kind. She thought of herself at sixteen, prickly, tough and mean, and wondered if he had been the same. She couldn't see it.

If someone had asked her what Mr. Gold had been like as a young man, she'd have guessed a punk or a bully, but this man seemed to gentle and too fragile for such things. She'd seen kids like that in the system growing up - it either made you hard or it broke you down. Some girls, some boys, too, were unable to cope with the harshness of their situation and fell apart. Emma had always promised herself she would never be one of those people. She lived her life on her own terms and wanted and needed nothing from other people.

Suddenly, she thought of Henry, with his wide, almost hesitant smile, and Mary Margaret, with her warm hugs and sympathetic reassurances. She wondered when needing no one had changed. She thought of the way Rumpelstiltskin smiled at her shyly before handing her another bowl of stew, and the way his eyes had shone when the boy had offered them aid.

Gently, she reached out to brush the hair from his face, feeling the warmth of his breath against her fingertips. He made a small sound, turning onto his back, his leg twitching as it went slack and stretched down, shoving the blanket away further.

She thought of Graham suddenly, the way his mouth had curved up at the corners, dimples half-hidden behind his scruffy beard. Rumpelstiltskin had a bit of hair on his face this morning, and she realized he must shave somehow before she normally woke.

Once again, she wondered again if she had been in love with Graham, before telling herself that she'd barely known him. She barely knew this man, even less so, for all that she did and didn't know about his counterpart. And yet, again, she felt a bit of her resolve crumbling when she least expected it.

All of her life, she had been alone. She had built up walls around herself because it was necessary, and because it was preferable to having to constantly be reminded how few people really wanted you. But here was another person who clearly knew very well what it was like to be unwanted.

She was no stranger to relationships; bright, shining, physical entanglements that burned hot and burned out fast. It had always proven too hard to balance her life with men involved. There was always that risk, that fear, that pressure to prove herself their equal, their better. She demanded respect and independence and acknowledgement, and there were always too few men willing to give those, it seemed. She wanted to be the strong one, the powerful one, the one who was needed. She was not some fairy tale princess waiting for a prince to rescue her. Henry called her a savior, and that was one fairy tale role she found herself willing to take.

Her impulses suddenly at war with her common sense, Emma rolled closer on the bed, reaching out to brush her fingers over his hair once more. He did not stir this time, merely laid there, peacefully asleep. Before her rational mind could get the best of her, she ducked her head, lowering her mouth just above his. Feeling her skin flush from her throat to her cheeks, she kissed the sleeping man.

Eyes sliding shut, she put one hand beside his head to brace herself, the other still lightly combing through his hair. The position was awkward, but his lips were warm. She could taste the roughness of his lips, chapped and bitten, still swollen and bruised on the side where he'd bit himself in the alley. He tasted of water, of salt, and of something else she couldn't identify.

His mouth opened under hers, and she turned her head in response, kissing harder now without even meaning to. A breath shuddered between them, from his mouth to hers, and she swallowed reflexively, opening her eyes. He was staring up at her, something like wonder and a bit like fear in those wide brown eyes.

Immediately, Emma surged away, coming up hard against the wall, one hand over her mouth.

He curled away from her at her movement, wringing his hands together against his chest. "I'm sorry!" He cried, ducking his head, hair covering his burning face. He pressed himself flat against the pallet, cringing as though he expected her to strike him or shove him out of the bed.

She caught her breath, heart still thudding in her chest, finally shaking her head. "No, I'm sorry... That was... I don't even know what that was. Jesus. I'm so sorry."

He seemed confused by her apology, sitting up with a wince, rubbing a hand through his hair, tucking it behind his ear. She'd never seen a grown man so red in the face. "...No, you don't need to... It was..."

He turned away abruptly, feet hitting the floor. Reaching for his staff, he looked down and realized that he was still not wearing his pants. When he clutched down the bed for the sheet, she crawled around him, getting off the bed, glad she'd fallen asleep fully dressed. "I'll just let you get dressed, then..." She said quickly, nearly stumbling over one of the bags of wool in her haste to escape the cabin.

Outside, she leaned her arm against the sun-warmed stone of the house, bowing her head as she blinked back surprising moisture in her eyes. "What the hell was that?" She snarled at herself, clenching her fists. "Get a hold of yourself!"

She felt as though she'd betrayed his trust, and his apparent rejection hurt her as much as her wounded pride over her own weakness and stupidity. Angrily, she turned and stalked off in the direction of the woods.

II:

Emma stalked through the woods angrily, kicking dried leaves and tree branches out of her path. She crossed her arms to her chest, wishing she'd thought to grab her cloak. The chill of early morning still hung lazily in the woods, the sun too low and weak to penetrate the thick canopy. Around her, she heard leaves rustling sleepily, and water running in the nearby stream.

Taking several deep breaths, she leaned against a large rock off the path, letting the sounds of nature calm her. She was embarrassed and annoyed. "What were you thinking?" She snarled at herself, raking a hand through her matted curls. Her hair felt oily and frizzed and she hated the weight of it on the back of her neck suddenly.

"Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?" She shouted suddenly, tilting her head up to look at the gnarled branches overhead. "Is there some kind of lesson I'm supposed to learn here?"

A flock of birds exploded into flight on her left, wings fluttering against one another as they fled the sound of her voice.

"Whatever it is I'm here for, I wish you'd tell me, so I can go back to where I belong!" She didn't know who she was even talking to, and there was, of course, no response.

Finally, she dropped her arms to her sides with a sigh, staring at her new boots, already caked in dried mud from the journey the day before. Shaking her head, she turned and began gathering fallen branches for kindling. At least that way, she'd have some excuse to have been gone so long.

III:

When she returned to the cottage, the sun had climbed higher overhead. Her stomach growled, but she ignored it, nodding at the people she passed on her way into the hamlet's edges. Inside, the cottage was cool and dark; the only sound the gentle creak of the wheel.

He sat on his stool, not looking up when she entered, his rhythm never faltering as he carefully fed more wool into the orifice. She watched him for a moment, cataloguing the slight movement of his head, the way his throat muscles worked as he counted silently. His fingers flitted over the wool, delicate and feather-light. The skein was half-full, so he must have started not long after she had left.

When the wool in his lap ran out, she turned and headed to the fire, dropping her kindling beside the hearth.

"You came back," He murmured finally.

She stood with her back to him, staring at the stones leading up from the hearth, hands on her sides. She wished she had pockets to jam them in - it would be easier to look casual if she had any idea what to do with her hands.

"I just needed some air," She replied eventually, taking her hands off her hips for fear of looking too aggressive. She crossed her arms experimentally, but that felt angry too. Finally, she turned, leaning one elbow against the hearth stones, letting her other arm dangle at her side. "I'm sorry if I worried you."

He shrugged, picking at another pile of wool, eyes in his lap. "You're free to do as you please," He said softy.

"Are you angry?" She asked curiously, recognizing the clench in his jaw from his counterpart.

"Why should I be?" He deflected, expression and tone mild.

"Because I..." She raised her hand and let it fall back to her side with a slap against her thigh. "I made things awkward between us."

"Things have always been awkward between us," He answered.

"You're being curiously unhelpful in resolving this issue," She said, voice cross.

"Is that what we're doing?" He began to curl the wool onto the leader string, pumping the pedal to start the wheel going.

She watched it turn for a moment, feeling her annoyance rise with each revolution. Finally, Emma stopped and crossed the space to stand in front of him. Leaning into his personal space, she grabbed the wheel in one hand, stopping it.

He immediately pulled off the pedal, looking up at her with actual anger in his eyes. When he met her own expression, his gaze faltered and he looked away, that downcast expression overtaking his features again.

"Don't do that!" She protested, making him look up again, started, "Don't shut down like that. That's not a solution, that's running away!"

She regretted her choice of words as soon as they came out of her mouth, but the look on his face made her wish the floor could swallow her up as punishment for them. Emma took a step back, letting go of the wheel.

He sat there, hands clenching and unclenching in his lap. He looked as though he might cry again. Finally, he let out a deep, shuddering breath and got to his feet.

Emma stood her ground as he limped around the spinning wheel. His left leg still seemed swollen, and he moved slowly, in pained, deliberate steps. His expression was closed, jaw tight, eyes narrowed with determination.

For a brief moment, she wondered if he was going to take a swing at her when he shifted his weight onto the staff to raise his left hand. Instead, it curved up and around her head, where it tangled in her hair. He pulled her forward and she went with him, eyes sliding closed when she registered his intention.

He kissed her fiercely, unguardedly, like a man who had been waiting for her mouth his entire life. In some ways, she guessed he had.