Guest Comments
peacockgirl: Ahhhhhh, you are amazing! I am so glad you like Henry's determination. He's that way, that awesome kid, and I really like giving him moments to shine.
Summary: Graham never learned to hope.
It's dark out. As close to night as this place gets, the haze of red more violently blackened. The rains have hit again, lighter this time. Another beating of weather that never seems to make sense.
He is still processing her visit, sitting on the top of the stairs and watching the closed door thoughtfully. He is dripping wet, having run through the woods a time after she had gone, piecing through what it all means.
He is used to being in limbo; that's what this whole place is. He is used to being a pawn for something bigger, a cog more than a soul.
Something about Emma and Henry's faith makes him feel like more. He isn't sure if the thought scares or excites him: the idea that he is valued as himself. People care about him as a person … he doesn't think he's ever had that in the entirety of his lives or death.
It's dangerous for them. He doesn't know what plan Hades has for him, but knows his position in this world hinges on something.
He will need to make sure they are safe, and to do that will sacrifice himself. It's nothing he hasn't done before, and nothing he won't gladly do again. For them.
He rises with a sigh and turns back to the cold room he calls his own.
The door to the cabin opens once more, shutting with a slam behind. He spins, catching Emma's eyes as her chest heaves, face twisted in hurt.
"Emma," he says, surprised. She had left hours ago, and it is close to what should be midnight in the real world.
She takes a few deliberate steps forward before leaping up the stairs two at a time. Her hand juts out and her palm flattens over his heart. His eyes snap to her face, watching as her face borders on crumpling. "It's there. It's there?" she asks, her voice winded.
He looks down to her hand and carefully pulls her off, twining their fingers instead. Her hand is cold and wet from the storm, and he rubs it between his palms to warm her up. "I'm dead, Emma. I don't think anything's actually here," he counters gruffly.
She blinks and frowns, brow creasing before she raises sea-colored eyes to his. "No, you're here. I can talk to you. I can touch you. I can kiss you. And I'm alive," she asserts stubbornly.
He barely smiles, the taste of her still lingering on his lips. He licks them and glances down at her own briefly before meeting her eyes again. Finally, he shrugs. "I don't know for sure, then," he says. There is a beating in his chest, but there had been one before. He doesn't know what's real down here any more than he did in the fog of the curse.
Her brow wrinkles and she looks up at him, her eyes more blue than green in the sheen of tears she is just holding back. "Was it gone?" she asks hoarsely.
He hesitates a moment. He pulls his free hand through her damp curls, twisting a strand around his finger. She is in her red leather, the bright color that woke him up and now is dulled by the sheen of this place. But it is familiar and nostalgic … soothing. She is so lovely to look at; it reminds him of the only good things he had in life. "We were looking for it. That last night," he reminds carefully.
She whimpers slightly and ducks her head onto his shoulder. "She crushed it. She killed you?" she asks hollowly.
"Henry said he didn't tell you," he murmurs.
She shook her head. "Today. He explained it all when I got back. He—I … I left him. I left him with her." She takes a moment, breath hitching as she hangs her head, hair covering her face. "After you died, I left him with her."
He must have a heart, since it absolutely twists at her words. He feels tears sting the back of his throat and he swallows thickly. "How was he?"
She picks up her head and a few tears slide down her face. "After you?"
He nods slowly. He recalls sitting at the edge of Henry's bed, the boy lit up from the inside at the idea of someone else knowing and supporting of his theories. Those theories that were unequivocally truth. The boy who knew exactly what kind of person the woman raising him is.
She shakes her head. "He wanted to stop Operation Cobra. He was afraid for me, and for everyone else. He … he was depressed. Absolutely and without a doubt. But he survived it. He was terrified, and he knew, but he survived it."
Operation Cobra?
(it's need to know, Sheriff)
He looks down, eyes closing as he took that in. "He's a strong lad, that one," he murmurs.
She nods her agreement and whimpers slightly. "Why didn't I just believe you two?"
He looks up. She is staring up at him with big eyes and the need to reassure her rushes forward. Of all the things he could be bitter about in this world, blaming her was never one of them. "Because it was too soon, and there was no proof. I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see it when we kissed."
She pulls her lip between her teeth and something in her features change. Uncertainty mixed with anticipation. "You remembered? After …."
He feels his lips tweak up, unable to stop the smile. "Yeah."
She shivers. "What does that …?"
He knows the answer, feeling it bleed through him. But he stays quiet, heart thunderous. She came for someone else, he reminds himself. Just because it's true doesn't mean it's the only thing that is.
She swallows visibly and ducks her head, cheeks brightening pink. "Back then … for that second before … I think I knew."
Her voice is cracked, emotion bright. He feels his Adam's apple bob up and down as he struggles with this knowledge. She knew, she knows. He wishes things were as simple as that.
She steps to him, dark blue-green narrowed on his face. She reaches up to the button at the top of his shirt. She keeps her eyes on him a long moment before looking down and separating the cloth. Her moves are deliberate and slow, methodical. There is nothing sexually charged in the action, though the flare of it sparks behind it still. She pushes the fabric apart and places her fingers feather light across his pectoral. A long moment beats before she flattens her palm across his heart, pressing gently.
"What are you doing?" he asks in a whisper, subconsciously inhaling as her head ducks to examine him. She smells softly of petrichor and other earthy scents, so much like the things he associates with the idea of home.
Her eyes bounce across his chest before she looks up at him again. "It feels different," she says simply.
He presses his lips together and covers her hand. "Maybe it is there, then," he concedes.
She smiles through a sheen of tears. Her hand slips down his chest while keeping a carefully snug contact, blooming goosebumps across his skin in her wake even as the warmth of her skin soothes the memories of before.
He wants to touch her back so much it aches, but he keeps still. He can keep patient.
She is somehow both hesitant and bold, bringing another hand to help explore as she traces the muscles under his skin. She turns her face up to him again as her fingers catch into the waist of his pants. "I haven't made a decision," she warns huskily, her pupils dark and dilated.
He knows this is her way of asking, making sure that he's okay with uncertainty. He's not entirely sure he is, not entirely sure that if he bends to kiss her now, if he takes all she is willing to offer, that he won't be as possessive of her as he knows he could be.
On the other hand, he wonders if this is his only chance. Those barriers that keep him here are strong and towering. How much more would it mean to regret never taking the chance?
He cups her jaw in one hand, watching her expression carefully. "You might feel guilty," he reasons, but uses a thumb to trace her cheek.
She nods once, leaning into his touch. "Probably. I might hurt you," she counters.
He nods and tilts his head a little closer. "Probably," he agrees, a soft puff of exhale over her lips.
Her brow furrows and her lip trembles. He can see the war in her until she leans fractionally closer. "But it feels right, doesn't it?" she asks.
Instead of answering in words, he kisses her. He tries to be soft and undemanding, but the urgency in him doesn't allow it. She responds just as passionately, deepening and wrapping herself around him more fully.
There are no tears to cut her off this time as she sheds his clothes. No more questions to pull them away as he strips her down. No more things unsaid forcing them back as she tastes his skin and he bites into hers.
They are aware of each other's terms, the uncertainty and tentativeness of their bond. They are aware of each other's feelings, where hers also lie.
But they are taking the chance that is afforded to them.
And he has never seen anything as beautiful as ecstasy painted across her face.
He wraps himself around her after, tucking her close until she sighs against him. She is warm and real, every point of her skin on him electrifying.
He holds her close, hand tangling in her hair and smoothing down. They are both strikingly awake. She is stiff at the joints, some part of her fighting relaxing into him, neck craned up and staring at the beige wall near the door.
"Does it seem brighter?" she asks after a long moment of silence.
He pauses his lazy action and considers. "It always does around you," he says honestly, and hopes she knows he isn't being foolishly romantic. "But I suppose. Less red, perhaps."
She leans up a fraction and scans the small room. "What does that mean?"
He stops trying to relax and instead rolls his eyes to the ceiling. He knows what he wants it to mean, but that doesn't make it truth. "I don't know," he answers instead.
She sits up and pulls the sheet to her, shivering slightly. He stays still, not wanting to disturb her as she looks deep in thought. Her knees come up to her chest, and she wraps an arm around them.
"It's okay," he murmurs when she doesn't say anything else. "I don't hold what comes next against you."
She turns to him, her face blank but her eyes wide and sad. "I should have been stronger," she whispers.
He leans up, sliding his arm around her waist and pressing his face into her neck. "I'm glad we got this," he murmurs into her skin. "As long as you don't regret it too much."
She cards a hand through his hair and tilts his face up. She kisses him languidly, heat just below the surface. "I probably should," she says when they part. "But I don't. I need you."
He flushes at the present tense still in her words, biting into the next kiss. When it breaks, still pressed close, he touches his lips to her nose and mouth and chin. He doesn't express his own sentiment, the need he has for her as well. She knows well enough.
She touches his face, soft fingertips across his skin. "You know, don't you?" she whispers. Her hand trails down over his heart again, pressing hard. "You feel it?"
He nods and leans his forehead into the crook of her neck. "But I'm not the only one. And that's okay," he replies.
She looks mournful at that, eyes squeezing tightly shut.
He wonders, at least for a moment, if this is meant to be their closure. Before she can move on, before she can commit to the other man.
If he couldn't feel the conflict and overwhelming love within her, he might have let himself believe it. It might be easier than the not knowing.
It might be easier if his heart didn't wish to hope.
"Graham, I—" her words catch, and then she furrows her brow in determination. Her eyes are serious as they set on his, palms on his face. "I love you."
He grabs her waist and pulls her back down to the sheets, hugging her close. He restarts soothing motions down her arms and back, squeezing his eyes shut.
He can't hope. He can't hope.
He feels hot tears collect in his neck, feels his own threatening at the back of his throat. He shudders out a low breath. "We should find a way to get Henry out of here," he says finally, changing the subject completely.
She nods against him, hands tightening around his back. "I tried, but he's so stubborn," she murmurs.
"Wonder where he gets that from," he says wryly.
She doesn't respond to the tease. "He wants to be a hero. And he wants to save you. Graham … you know what you are to him, don't you?"
He ducks his head. He knows what he'd like to be for him.
She shakes her head. "He won't go until we find a way. That's why I came, we … we had a long talk."
He raises his brows and then shudders. "He wants to be like you," he says finally.
She presses her lips together, and then kisses his chest, reassuring. Finally, she relaxes, muscles melting in a way that is almost resigned. "He's right, though. How do I know for sure that he's safe in Storybrooke?"
"He's away from Regina there," he replies flatly.
She's quiet a long moment, but doesn't tense again. "For how long? She'd follow. As much as she claims she's my friend, she wouldn't stick around if Henry weren't here."
"If it weren't for him, I'd make sure she'd stay down here," he says darkly, feeling the heat of the idea itch through him.
She looks up at him, fingers tracing his chest. "We certainly have strange pillow talk, don't we?" she says instead of responding.
"Sorry," he says simply, and almost voices that it will be different next time. He forgot a moment that there might never be one. It makes the anger at Regina threatening to consume him a little brighter. What might they be if Regina never crushed his heart that night?
She rests her head, hands absently caressing his side. "I wish I could let you do that, Graham. For you, I wish I could."
He scratches through her hair, heaving a sigh. "I won't," he reassures. "Or rather, I don't think I could."
She touches his wrists, and then moves to cover his shoulders as she rises over him. With a certain deliberateness, she traces lines across his skin. "Why can I feel it?" she murmurs, then meets his eyes.
He realizes exactly what she's finding, the invisible wounds all over him. It stuns him slightly, but more so that she doesn't ask what they are. She just knows, and his heart breaks a little more. "I don't know," he admits. "But it's why I can't."
She places a palm to his stomach, the gash that had ripped him open before stitching neatly back as if it never happened. "From her?" she asks solemnly.
He swallows. "Some. But also from here."
The furrow deepens, and he just barely catches the protectiveness in her gaze. "You would kill her, given the chance?"
He doesn't want to lie to her, even if he can plainly see her struggle with the idea. He supposes it feels counter to everything he was before. He had been timid as Sheriff, hesitant. It wasn't all the curse; years with Regina made him that way, too. But he is still the wolf, somewhere in him, and he still craves that vengeance. "Yes."
She gulps and braces herself on his shoulders again. "Even with Henry?"
"More like for Henry," he asserts gently. "For you. For the girl I let run all those years ago. For the woman in the tower. For everyone else she killed or hurt or threatened, and then for me, too."
She takes that in, then falls against him once more, nudging into his chin. "I don't agree. But I also agree, if that makes sense."
He nods. "Yes, Emma, it makes sense." She comes from a family that wouldn't kill, so he understands. He wouldn't ask that of her. That is his burden. Had he the chance, he'd do it for her.
"I killed someone. She wanted to hurt Henry, so I killed her," she admits in a hoarse whisper.
"Good," he replies truthfully.
She swallows. "I wish I felt like it was good. I had to do it, and I'm glad I did it to save him. But it doesn't feel good."
He takes her hand, linking their fingers in and out, piecing through the words. "I don't know that I ever felt good after killing anyone. Before her, I mean, when it was my choice. But I never regretted it, either. I would feel relieved that I was able to protect my family."
She turns her face to him, and she reaches to rest her fingers against his jaw in a way that feels reverent.
He presses his lips together before finally venturing, "But in the end, I think I would find some satisfaction in killing her."
She squeezes her arm reflexively, winces. "I'm glad you're honest about it," she says. She considers a moment, and then a look of guilt washes over her. "I wanted to kill her … several times, in fact. Something always stops me."
He doesn't answer her, doesn't think she needs it. He kisses the side of her head, cuddling her closer into his body.
"Will you follow me, if I needed you to?" she asks, her voice a whisper.
He nods. "You should know that much now. You, Henry … you're the only ones I'd follow at this point."
He can feel her smile into his skin, fleetingly. "Even—even if I didn't chose you?" she asks haltingly.
His heart twists and his throat narrows, but he manages a sharp nod. He will always fight for them; they are his pack, whether or not they will ever be together. He bites down something self-deprecating; he doesn't need her feeling sorry for him.
They are silent, no words needed any longer. He listens to her breathing, the long patterns that show no signs of sleep.
"I need water," she says in a breath.
He nods, and feels a heaviness. Leaving this space will mean their easy intimacy is over, could mean that it's the end of it forever. "Let's go to the kitchen."
She stops him with a hand on his shoulder as he begins to rise, and she cups his face. She leans in, kissing him deeply, tongue sweeping against his. The heat flicks within him and he responds with equal fervor. "Again, first?" she asks heavily against his lips.
He nods rapidly and presses her down, grasping her wrists to pin over her head as he loses himself in her again.
If anything, he is determined to be sure her choice isn't easy.
The place he stays in, always an empty house with vast empty rooms, actually feels lonesome when she finally drags herself away as the light begins to slip back into the sky.
The red is more vibrant, more threatening now.
He feels empty when the door slips shut.
He swallows and turns back to the kitchen, feeling as if in a fog. Why does he want to hope, wants that flicker of optimism back in his heart? He shouldn't; she isn't sure what she wants and he cannot force her to choose.
But he still hopes.