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gremma: It's slow-going, but here's another piece!
BossLady: You know how much I love Hunted Believer. Definitely going to be more angst in this fic, but a little happy is there, too, I promise!
GremmaFan: Here's a bit more! I'm glad you're liking it!
Summary: For Emma, giving up is a hairsbreadth away.
Note: To go with the gifset on tumblr for the Gremma Appreciation December event. We're nowhere near done. I'm just chipping away at this idea.
She sits in the corner of the bedroom, rolling the ring on her necklace back and forth.
It is warm now. The weather in the Underworld is strange, from blisteringly cold to tropically hot in the weeks they've been under. Her wardrobe of layers proved helpful to that, and she'd found discarded pieces here and there that sufficed until she could get back to her own land. She wonders a little madly if she should have packed a suitcase for the amount of time they've spent here. For now, she shed her red leather and thin white sweater, but her skin itched in a way that likely had nothing to do with the heat and everything to do with the stagnation.
There seemed to be no progress made in this adventure. She had seen graves and heard stories, but there was no resolution in sight. Her soft vow before entering the boat had not been proven true, and she found that part of her vibrated with the possibility that she was wrong.
If she's wrong, then she came down here for nothing. She brought her family here for nothing. She put Henry in danger for nothing.
She hates to admit it, because it is something so unnatural to this new her, but a very large part of her has already given up. This was not meant to be.
And more than that part of her agrees, resoundingly.
With a strange sort of stillness, she takes the chain in hand and lifts the necklace over her head. It coils in her palm, looping silver strands together. Her mind flashes to the bit of leather that she had protectively stored in the top drawer of her dresser, and her lips press together. She is doomed to this, isn't she? Finding love, and then having it snatched from her fingers?
This desperate act in coming here: was it for him specifically? Or was it to stop the feeling of eternal loss?
Her head aches with no answer to be found. She thinks that this idea has quickened ever since finding Graham's grave. His is the strongest loss in her mind. Every other loss has only been a compound of the first, a lash of pain over the terror and horror that gripped her when he'd collapsed in her arms.
If she saves even just one, she thinks it may be healed. But something in her changed when she saw his grave. Because with the dreaded hope of seeing him again came the idea of saving him, and it makes something flip in her stomach to realize it.
(even though of course she wants Killian alive, oh, God, does Graham alive sound good and right)
Her heart is twisting, knowing that she can love both and want both safe but also delicately reminding her that though she came for one that the other is quickly taking precedence in her determination. But she hasn't found sign of him, either. For some reason, it brings her resignation to a head; this trip was … is … ill-fated.
Carefully, she places the tangled chain on the bedside table. Her mind is so full of defeat that she can't stand to spend another second in the strange mirror of a house she'd thought she could have a life in. She rises on unsteady feet and wobbles down the stairs in a daze.
She needs a second before she can admit her defeat.
She passes her father on her way out the door, and she turns sharply to him. "Keep an eye on Henry."
The kid had returned to the house hours ago, looking every bit as preoccupied as he had when he left. There was something strange brewing behind her son's eyes, and even the sharp, fearful tone she'd taken to reprimand him hadn't changed that. His will to be a hero is destined for trouble, she knows, and she wishes not for the first time that she could have found a way to have him in Storybrooke and known he would stay put. At the very least here she had people to help keep an eye on him.
Her father's brow furrows and he turns slightly to the back rooms where Henry is. "Of course. Emma—"
"I'll be back," she cuts in. She presses her lips together, trying to school her expression but knowing full well that she is failing. "I just … I need a moment."
David places his hands on his hips. Something twitches in his face, an awareness of what's unsaid. He looks at a loss, but after a beat he nods. "Stay safe," he warns lowly, and then reaches to touch her wrist.
She yanks away, but nods stiffly. She doesn't want to be touched, to be comforted right now. It would feel more like her defeat is secure.
The door's slam behind her, however, feels right.
She starts in a fast walk, the slap of her boots against the asphalt resounding and comforting. Soon, though, the steps transform, faster and faster until the ache in her head becomes one in her lungs. Buildings blur, and her chest tightens as she fights to outrun her own emotion.
So many faces flash across her memory, everyone that has ever crossed her path and been lost, both good and bad. She counts too many good.
(not the Savior, can't be the Savior when she keeps losing)
Finally, she pitches forward, a hard sob not quite escaping. Her breathing is ragged, and she shakes her head as her eyes squeeze shut. She has no idea how long she's been running, how far she's traveled in this dangerous place. But for the moment she doesn't care. She just wants to keep moving.
It feels good to be moving physically when nothing else is.
She's barely been walking again for five minutes when the rain starts. It is immediately torrential, and her hair and thin clothing plasters to her skin. She hisses in displeasure and curses her short-mindedness.
She has no idea where she is. The Underworld might mirror Storybrooke, but not enough. Everything is just different enough to make it a maze. The rain is almost blinding, and she swipes at her face as she searches desperately for safe shelter.
Almost beckoning, a small dark cabin appears in her vision, just at the tree line. She runs the last few paces to the door and slams on the wood, shivering as the wind picks up. There is no answer, and she is impatient, so she tries for the knob. It unlocks easily and she practically falls into the depths, shutting the solid oak behind her firmly. The wind howls, and part of her feels a tremor of fear.
This is like the beginnings of any scary movie she's ever seen.
The cabin isn't empty, but there is a wrongness to it. It is strangely both lived-in but hollow, occupied yet vacant. She brushes her hands over her arms and turns, feeling the slap of her wet hair on her face. She feels like she is interrupting a life that has never been lived.
She places the palm of her hand over the butt of her gun, carefully surveying the home for something she may have missed. She considers herself at least mostly genre-savvy, so she pulls it from the holster before she calls out, "hello?"
There is no echo, and no response. The sky rumbles above her, and she hears the scratch of branches scrapping the roof. Her eyes narrow and she swallows down her fear. With one hand, she pushes the water out of her face, hearing the drips her drenched clothing is making on the floor. She steps forward, finding a blanket thrown over the armchair. She pulls it over her shoulders in an attempt to soak the wetness off her, and then heads towards the staircase.
She climbs cautiously, bracing herself on the rail with one hand and the other gripping the SIG-Sauer tight. She doesn't want to be unprepared, but anyone else here is already dead, so what will the gun really do?
(She keeps the safety on, the illusion of protection, but it makes her feel fractionally better)
The foreboding color that permeates the Underworld makes it appear even more like a bad horror film. The hallway's window lets in a narrow strip of the light and two doors are ajar, black and red mixing in eerie patterns from the pane. She opens the first door to reveal a bathroom, cold and nondescript. The next, an empty bedroom, with flowy curtains and flannel sheets. The third door is the only one that is completely closed. The same vibrating stillness is there, perhaps stronger. She expects both nothing and everything behind that door.
And yet, she us barely able to stifle a scream when she sees a figure sitting on the bed in that final room.
He turns to her slowly, and any breath she has left drains out of her like a sieve.
The blanket slips from her shoulders and her gun falls from her slackened grip. It makes a soft thud on the carpeted floor, and causes him pivot to face her completely.
But he remains seated. His face is twisted in surprise, something like relief and shock and guilt painted across his features all at once.
She steps closer to him, feeling like she is walking in a dream. Her steps are heavy, like she's underwater, forcing herself forward when all her body wants is to be away. He will disappear, won't he? Like all the times she's pictured this before?
She is suddenly close enough to feel the heat from him, and she quakes with the realization. It cracks something inside her, breaks open a piece that has kept a part of her heart locked. It splinters away, leaving her raw and exposed as she comes to terms with the fact that she is not dreaming.
He hasn't moved. Just like last time, he waits for her.
Years ago, he'd cupped her face and stared into her eyes like she was the answer to his every question, like she was all that mattered. She supposes that's why her hands come up of their own accord, brushing through the scruff of his beard and thumbs softly caressing his cheek. He is real, warm, and his eyes close briefly at the gentle exploration she takes.
She is still soaked in rain and confusion, but she can't break her stare. His mouth parts and a strangled sound escapes, but it takes her a full minute to realize the cry had come from her. His eyes, always so deep, seem limitless in emotion. Somehow, still, there is that one sentiment that her heart hadn't had the capacity to name aloud last time.
She can admit it now. Her lips almost shape the words, and she wonders if they are as glaringly loud in her own eyes like they are in his.
He had tried to kiss her, that last time, right before he'd collapsed in her arms. This time, she is the one to make that bridge, their lips sliding together bruisingly as she convinces herself: this is real.
She can't manage words, vocally or even in her own mind, and he seems beyond them anyway. He is fully intent on drinking her in, fingers tangling in her wet hair, demanding and yet still asking. She bites into him, answering, and taking her own time to discover the things she had never been able to. His palms drag down to her chin, tilting her jaw up to better explore.
He tastes the same. Dammit, he tastes exactly the same.
She breaks out of the kiss, feeling tears collecting on her cheeks and chokes out a low, whimpered, "Graham."
He shudders, and presses his forehead into hers almost desperately. "I'm sorry—"
She pulls him back, and this time while she kisses him her hands grip his tie (that same damn tie, that same knot, the same) and yanks. He pulls back partially, but can't seem to stop his lips from seeking hers. There is a question there, but then his hands are at her waist, pulling her into his lap and sliding up under her tank.
His shirt is damp from the rain she is covered in and her fingers are almost numb with cold, and yet it is easy to loosen the buttons once his tie falls in a heap by the bed. His shoulders roll, letting her drag it from his body. His nails dig into her side before he yanks the drenched white silk from her top. His teeth graze her neck, and the short bursts of air as he pants makes her startlingly aware of how alive he feels.
He's not alive. The fact slams into her, stilling her breath.
"Emma." Her name sounds like a prayer, something sacred, in his soft accent.
Her voice is cloying, thick as she finally does gain a sudden thought, as her stormy mind finally centers on the realities of what is happening. "I didn't come here for you."
She didn't even think of the other man until the words are out. She should feel guilt, so sharp right now, but her only regrets are that she didn't think of Graham when she crossed the river.
He stops his movements, fingers at her hips strengthened. He looks at her, his curls mussed and cheeks flushed. His dark lashes shade his eyes, but the silver in them glint in the low light. "I know."
Her eyebrows raise, and her stomach drops. "You know?"
He nods. He doesn't say anything, nothing to make her feel better or to feel worse. The guilt, nonetheless, is a hard stone in her belly.
She doesn't know what to say, or what she should feel.
(if this was a test for her other love, she's failed, but the thought is so fleeting when she's looking into cobalt and she knows even if she feels bad that she doesn't feel sorry)
His touches begin again, but they are unhurried, soothing and slow across her spine. It is more like he is memorizing the feel of her, the senses they were previously denied. Her heart physically aches at the soft sparks his fingertips make across her skin, and her eyes flutter closed to relish the feeling. Each brush coaxes something from within her, something she's covered messily in an attempt to heal. She remembers bearclaws and instant faith, slow smiles and electricity.
She doesn't think she understands how much she has missed him until just this moment.
(and, God, did she miss him)
"I was being selfish."
Her eyes snap open, surprised at the soft words. "What?" Him, selfish? When?
She thinks that being so immediately ready to be with him is her selfish act, even if it doesn't truly feel that way (instead it feels right, natural, and she shivers slightly with that realization that more than a small part of her wants to continue).
He trails his hands down, tangling his fingers with her own before he brings it to eye level. He plays with the digits almost nervously, and finally he gives a stiff smile. "I knew, but I just wanted …." He pauses, his brow furrowed. "Wanted to show you that I haven't forgotten."
She takes control of their hands and presses them over his heart. Her own is thunderous, realizing what he's saying. He hasn't forgotten. She hasn't forgotten, either. Suddenly, her reasoning for tucking his shoelace away seems stupid, and she wishes it could still be on her wrist to prove it to him. "I … how I feel. About you, I mean." She is sure she is blushing, her cheeks annoyingly hot. She doesn't finish her thought, but a small smile edging the corner of his lips says she didn't have to. "I don't know what to … how to do this. What to do."
He tugs her forward, letting her curl onto his chest as he scoops her close, skin to skin, but there is none of the raw passion that she felt so acutely in such an act before. An insanely gentle kiss whispers across the crown of her head. There is something to it that feels like a goodbye, feels like him giving up or giving in. The idea slams into her, stealing her breath like a sucker punch.
She squeezes her eyes shut, sobbing hard once as she grinds her forehead into him. "Don't move on. Please. I'm not ready for it." It makes her feel even more selfish. Haven't they found during their time in this purgatory that moving on is a good thing? But another part of her rages at the idea, of him gone to a place she cannot free him from.
He flits a hand through her messy curls, sighing heavily. "Don't worry, Emma. I have plenty of unfinished business. I'm not going anywhere."
Her stomach churns. She thinks about the aneurysm that took his life years ago, and the fog those that remained in this Underworld were in. "Do you suffer here?" she can't help asking.
His jaw clenches, and he is stiff a moment with his hands at her waist. Finally, he pulls back. There is a strange sort of smile on his face as he looks at her. "Not right now."
A sharp bark of a laugh escapes her, dark and out of place. She swipes at her face, catching the tears that came down with it. "I mean it, Graham."
"And I don't think you want the answer, Emma."
Her lips form a firm line and she leans up. "Then I'm getting you out of here. I don't care how. I'm the Savior, and I'm going to get you home."
He looks up at her with an unreadable expression. Finally, he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and heat builds in her stomach again. "You and Henry are just the same, you know."
She knows. Oh, God, does she know. But her brow furrows curiously at him having that observation. "What?"
He winces slightly and pulls back, making her slip onto the bed instead of his lap. To be separated reminds her of when she was trapped in the ice cave: bone-cold. "I know he's here. I saw him earlier, and we talked. He wanted to save me, too."
She thinks about Henry's face when he had returned back to the house, how she thought the determined set of his jaw was about his independence. He saw Graham? He wants to save Graham?
She shakes her head as if to clear it, then looks back at him. There's a certain vulnerability that she's allowing right now (one she knows she's let him see before), and the same is painted along the lines of his face. Slowly, she takes in his handsome features once more. "Kid understands, then. We're going to take you home."
"It's a lot more complicated than that," he whispers.
She cups his face again, needing to feel him between her palms again. "Sure. But Henry would let you know: it would be a pretty boring story without complications."
Despite himself, he chuckles, his eyes crinkling in that way she remembers. She loves someone else, but she loves him, too, and that feeling absolutely consumes her.
And there is much to be done, much to be dealt with, much she will need to decide.
But she has hope, now. And that makes her infinitely better than where she started.