AU: Emma is working as a doctor at the hospital in Storybrooke, when a stranger is rushed in - a stranger accused of attempting to murder the most powerful man in town.
rated k
colorless sunrise
He is rushed in during one of her night shifts, and over the ringing in her ears and the dull pain in the soles of her feet, she barely understands a word when people begin talking about the man in front of her. Suppressing a yawn, her eyes scanning his chart, she wonders who he is. This small town saw strangers so rarely, and she eyes him almost curiously. Dark-haired, weathered face covered in cuts, bruises and scars. Where did he come from? What has lead him here, into this town out of all places?
. .
Hey, beautiful. She rolls her eyes, ignoring his words, her gaze briefly flickering to the handcuffs that restrain him to the hospital bed. His cage. His prison. A nameless man, a man of words, yet not of answers.
The words he utters are drenched in pain, and she knows he feels like dying with every breath he takes.
. .
What draws her towards him, she does not know. All she knows is that she checks on him much more frequently than necessary, an invisible pull that draws her near him over and over again.
Why did you try to kill Gold? Her voice barely above a whisper, lost in the soft humming noise that echoes through the hospital.
He smiles, a crooked smile, mischievous, as if he knows he has drawn her in like a moth to the flame. What if I told you he took my hand, and murdered the woman I loved? Would that make you despise me less?
She does not despise him. Yet, she never speaks those words aloud.
. .
He misses no opportunity for a sneaky remark, carries his self-confidence like a banner leading an army into war, yet when she peels back the covers to examine the stump in place of his left hand, he recoils, eyes – as blue as a cloudless sky - flickering away from hers.
The tattoo on his right wrist - Milah. Goose bumps breaking out all over his skin as her fingers trail the delicate lines, and she pulls back her own hand, confused and taken aback by her own actions.
You came to Storybrooke to kill someone. Not a question. He gives no answers. Only continues to be a mystery.
No one said I came here. Tell me, darling, do many people ever visit this town?
. .
The newspaper in her lap is drenched, raindrops smearing the ink across the thin paper, words turning into shadows and paintings.
How he had managed to get away, she does not know. The bench outside the hospital is cold, icy wind blowing through her hair. Far away, she can see Graham walking back to his car, and her throat feels constricted. Her heart seemingly telling her that she told the sheriff a lie, when truly, she knows nothing about the nameless stranger. Only, she does know. Knows how much he had loved the woman called Milah. Knows he has not told her a single lie. Knows he feels as restless as she does. Knows that he knows something more, something she can not quite grasp.
Soundless over the drumming of the rain, the newspaper falls onto the ground, her fingers frozen, trembling in the cold.
He has answers. Answers to questions she did not know she had.
. .
Emma. His lips brush only barely against her cheek, whispering her name like a chant, and her fingers struggle to find hold around his neck. There is nothing I can tell you.
If you're leaving, tell me one thing. The breath of her whisper warm in between their skin, his hand pressed against her hip. What is your name?
He presses his forehead against hers, and for the flicker of a second, she imagines leaning forward, pressing her lips against his, giving in, ignoring the sirens in her mind, warning her with all their might. I can't ever leave.
She wants to ask what he means, wants to know so many things, wants to kiss him so badly it burns, but she gets lost in the ocean in his eyes, inhales the salty scent he seems to have soaked up. A calloused palm cupping her cheek, lips brushing against her ear. Killian Jones.
He walks away, disappearing back into the darkness of the woods, leaving her no chance to speak, to demand her answers, leaving her behind only with more questions.
. .
Sometimes, she finds herself staring at the horizon far away, the sun scattering diamonds across the surface of the sea, and she can almost feel him next to her.
Perhaps her answers are out there, lost at sea like the man whose face seems to fade from her memory with each passing day.
Title taken from Every Night by Imagine Dragons.