Hook and Emma + Rum
Her eyes burn with unshed tears and her throat is raw from the words that won't come so she keeps her eyes focused on the empty shot glass in front of her. She nudges it forward with her pointer finger, closer to the half-empty bottle and the fingers that grip it.
"Another." She whispers and she winces at how she sounds – desperate and needy. But she is desperate and needy. Everyone needs too much – everyone takes too much. She has nothing left to give, not anymore.
He doesn't say a word, just refills her glass. She keeps her eyes on the wood of the table and throws the shot back as soon as the amber liquid hits the top. She plunks the small glass down heavily and slides it back towards him.
"Another."
Again, he says nothing. He just refills her glass because he knows what this is – knows how she burns and twists on the inside – suffocating without a word because they need her – the savior. She had shown up at his door in the dead of night and he had said nothing, just got the glasses and started pouring, blue eyes blown open wide in their understanding.
Because he understands - he sees her.
A whimper bubbles up in her throat and she slams her eyes shut, shaking her head hard. Her hand blindly grabs for the glass and in her haste she knocks it clean off the table, glass shattering on the floor. Something in her shatters along with it and she falls to the ground, shaking hands trying to pick up jagged shards.
"I'm sorry, I didn't – "
Warm fingers close over her wrist, hand hovering over the broken glass. Her chest heaves on a desperate inhale and she looks up.
"I'm sorry." She whispers and she hates it when her lower lip trembles.
His lips tilt up slightly, eyes so knowing and sad and blue, god damn him. What is she even doing here? What is she even doing?
His fingers tug on hers gently, hooked hand guiding her up and over the broken glass. He sits her back in her chair and gives her shoulder a firm squeeze. His eyes are serious as he looks down at her, putting the bottle in her hand.
"You've nothing to be sorry for, love." She takes the bottle and his hand comes to cup her cheek, skin warm and rough and warm and god – her eyes close.
-/-
She looks up at him from the small table as he mills about the quarters, nervous energy making him twitchy and apprehensive.
And while his nerves at being alone with her should make her equally as nervous, it doesn't. Instead, it makes her calm. It makes her feel special and wanted and cherished and all of the other things she sees when he looks at her.
He ducks down into a chest as she takes a sip from her glass, rummaging about for god knows what – only to stand up abruptly and slam his head against a low-hanging shelf. She snorts into her glass as a string of creative curses leave his mouth and he turns slowly on his heel, giving her a muted glare.
"Something funny, Swan?"
She leans back in her seat and takes another gulp of rum. The rough warmth and spice of it coats down her throat and she feels light. She gives him a small smile.
"Just you."
He rolls his eyes and saunters over to the table, fingers rubbing tenderly at the back of his skull. She snickers as he falls into the seat across from her.
She doesn't miss the way he grins into his glass.
-/-
She turns over in bed – fingers searching, eyes opening on a small gasp when she finds nothing but cold sheets. She bites her lip and fingers the edge of the pillowcase – pushing away the crushing disappointment and irrational hope that had flared in her chest when she let him stay.
She thought it would be different – she thought he was different.
Flashes of tangled limbs and panting breaths flash through her mind. Delicate promises whispered in the heat of the moment - tender touches and soft kisses.
Of course it meant nothing.
Of course of course of course.
She stills when a loud crash sounds from the kitchen – already reaching for the gun on the bedside table. She moves quickly and quietly, the open air of the loft cold on the bare skin of her legs. A Sherriff really shouldn't try to take anyone out in nothing but a faded band t-shirt and a pair of lace boy shorts, but her options are pretty limited at the moment.
She stills completely when she sees him in the kitchen.
Dark jeans slung low, chest bare – she watches as he scrubs at the floor with a towel. She blinks at the steaming mug on the counter and looks back to him.
He wasn't leaving – he was making her breakfast.
Another feeling entirely seizes her chest and she lowers her gun, placing it on the counter. He looks up at her and, jesus – is that a blush- gives her a sheepish grin. He stands up abruptly and leans casually against the counter.
She crosses her arms over her chest and he makes an appreciative sound, low in his throat. He takes a step towards her, lips finding her neck, fingers ducking under her shirt to find the bare skin of her hip.
"I thought you left." She whispers. He tenses against her, pulling back fractionally. His nose rubs along hers.
"Do you wish me to leave?"
She sighs at the vulnerability in his voice. Even after everything – even after battles and bruises and promises kept – they are still so broken. She pauses and then lets her fingers slide along his collarbone, drifting up to anchor in his hair. Her lips meet his in a chaste kiss and his fingers tighten their grip on his hip.
I was afraid you left.
She doesn't say it. Instead she hums into his mouth when he naturally deepens the kiss. She pulls back and looks over to the mug.
"What's this?"
He scratches at the back of his head in what she's come to understand as a nervous tick. "Ah, I attempted to make us some coffee. But only got away with one, I'm afraid."
She picks up the mug and holds it close to her chest, letting the heat of the coffee warm her cold hands. "More for me then."
She takes a sip and almost spits it back out. She looks up at him, incredulous.
"Is there rum in this?"
He grins.