#gremma ff

She felt a low hitch in her breath, adjusting the collar of her shirt as she read over the paperwork. She’d read the same line over several times, with her music playing absently in the background. She’d listened through silly 80s pop and angry 90s alternative, barely discerning one for another as she was engrossed in her work.

But this damn song. The sudden hit of the 60s ballad cut right through her thoughts, curling into the core of her.

“Hey, I don’t recognize this one.”

She sniffed and quickly brushed at her eye as she glanced up. 

Graham strolled into the kitchen, but his focus was distracted. He straightened up to open the cabinets, head bobbing to the music. “Pasta for dinner?”

She blinked and swiped at her nose. “Seriously?” She shrugged in response to his question, and skipped to the next song, Led Zepplin replacing John’s voice. “It was the Beatles. You haven’t heard ‘In My Life’?”

His head was stuck in the upper cabinets, digging through boxed foods. “Nope. The Juke Box of the curse did not grant me the full Beatles library, I suppose.”

She pushed aside the feeling of melancholy the song had enticed and pulled a face. “But … it’s a classic.”

Graham gave a grimace and shrugged. “These memories gave me more of a Top 40 song bank.”

Emma groaned. “Oh, you poor thing.”

He gave her a look. “Like I don’t hear you singing ‘Call Me Maybe’ in the shower all the time.”

Emma flushed and stood with a snort. He grinned. “Hey, never said I was against pop. But you need some variety, babe.”

He raised his brows. “Is that so?”

She liked the challenge in his voice, his accented voice tickling over the words. She leaned forward. “Yes. And while the Beatles might not be the theme the kid and I have taken over the years, they are still required reading.”

He came forward and she leaned in to receive the expected kiss. Instead, he grabbed her phone.

“Hey!”

“I’m proving you right, be patient,” he insisted, and scrolled through it.

The song began replaying, its slow build filling the apartment. Her chest tightened slightly and she frowned. “We can get you the playlist later, you know.”

He shook his head. “No time like the present.”

She rolled her eyes. “I thought you were hungry.”

He flipped through her phone, lyrics popping on the screen for him to follow and he gestured vaguely to the stovetop. “I’ll start the water in a bit.”

She stood from the table and clanked through cabinets to get the pot out, distracting herself from the uneasy feeling the usually pleasant song had caused. “Yeah, well, I can start that.”

He hummed a response and scrolled as the song continued. “I get it; a little too close to home, huh?”

“What?” she asked distractedly.

He reached out and grabbed her hand, thumb catching under the laces on her wrist. “’Some have gone, and some remain’? Not exactly a deeper meaning, here.”

She rolled her eyes, and yanked free. “Sue me for having a moment.”

“No one’s judging, Em,” he replied just as quick.

She looked back. He had sat in the stool, but his whole body was facing her, expectant. 

She bit down on her lip, and pressed back against the counter. “Do you miss anything, Graham?” she asked.

He gave a strained smile, but nodded. “Of course. I had family there,” he said simply. He raked a hand through his hair, his features pulling a bit. “It’s been longer that we have been able to connect, of course, and I know it’s not the same—”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” she protested, waving away his apologetic tone. “I just meant … it’s hard, sometimes. Missing, I mean. And it’s not like I’m glad you miss something, but—”

He didn’t cut her off to finish her statement, but his chair scrapped against the tile as he rose, crossing to her. She shut her lips, and studied the way he approached, the slow pace until he was in front of her. 

        There is no one compares to you.

“Dance with me?” she asked.

He smiled crookedly, and tugged her by the arm, bringing her full into his arms. He swayed them back and forth, surprising light on his feet, but not anything particularly advanced in his steps. 

It was soothing, the movement, his confidence in it. She just had to follow, to sink into him.

“What’s it called?” he asked.

“’In My Life,’” she replied simply.

“It’s pretty,” he determined. “If a little on-the-nose.”

She shook her head at the laughter in his tone. Her phone’s shuffle made for a huge tonal shift, a plunky baseline filling the air instead and she grinned at his raised brows.

 “Got to keep it interesting,” he teased and twirled her out as Lady Miss Kier began singing.

She giggled and let him sway her in the beginning strains of the music. “So it’s throwback songs from the 90s that get you moving?” she teased.

He spun her around. “Oh, unquestionably,” he said, eyes twinkling.

She felt light as he dipped her back, and she screeched with laughter, hitting him half-heartedly until he let her up again. 

When she was upright again, he caught her mouth and all thoughts of continuing their impromptu dance party fled for favor of his taste. She tugged her hands through his curls and he smiled against her lips. “Let me know,” he said, and moved to trace his teeth behind her ear. “Distraction or talk?”

He had let himself out of the shop quietly, his presence unnecessary. He would be there, later, if she needed him, but right now he could better aid her elsewhere. Time was of the essence; in Storybrooke Regina held too much power. Once she was back in town it would be too risky to move against her, not without enlisting aid that would likely not be forthcoming.

He had not been sure how he would be able to confront her outside of town, but Emma had called on her way back from New York, and had unwittingly provided the solution. Zelena was with child, and they were bringing her back with them. It seemed the sisters had more in common than they would like to admit. Emma had asked him to meet her just outside the town border with Pan’s magic dampening cuff so Zelena could safely be brought into town. Which would give him exactly the opportunity he needed.

Which left one thing to do, Henry. This would probably be his last chance to see the boy he considered his own. Keeping him safe would not come without a price. Once this was done he would likely no longer be welcome, in his or Emma’s life. But he could not go without taking one last chance to see him, to make sure he knew how much he cared. He just had to be careful that the perceptive boy did not catch on to what he was doing.

“You are not going anywhere until you tell me what is going on.” Henry had placed himself firmly in front of the door, leaning against it with his arms crossed and a look of defiance on his face. He was so much Emma’s son at times.

It was his own fault, he had been too obvious. Unfortunately, as subtle as he was on a hunt, that did not translate so well to subtlety in human interactions, but he had had to try.

Henry had been bent over the storybook once again when he had got home, still looking for clues, for any information that might help them find the author before ‘Stiltskin was able to make use of his power. He really did spend too much time on things like this, time that should be spent on school, or friends, time spent playing video games like a child his age should be. It might be too late, but maybe after this he would get the chance to be a child again, even if whatever was left of his innocence would be truly lost forever. He deserved better than what was about to happen, but that could not be helped.

Regina had hurt Henry before to get what she wanted, and he remembered what she had done to the very man from whom Henry had got his name. He feared even Henry was not safe if she was allowed to live.

He could refuse to say anything and just leave, but Henry was likely to attempt to follow if he thought something was going on that he was being kept out of. And of all the possible ways this could go badly, Henry witnessing it was the worst. Hopefully if he told him at least part of the truth, he would stay here, where it was safe.

“It’s- it’s Regina.” He had never quite been able to bring himself to call her Henry’s mother. She had not earned that title, so instead he called her by name if forced to refer to her. “She did something. She took Belle’s heart, used her against Gold.”

He watched Henry crumple in on himself as his words sunk in and wished there was something he could have done to spare him this pain. He did not deserve any of this, did not deserve to have Regina in his life, to be hurt by her again and again.

“No! She can’t’ve. I‘ve been trying too hard! Ever since we came back, I have been working so hard to keep her good. To keep her from hurting any of us again. She can’t’ve hurt Belle like that.”

Graham felt his heart break. How could they not have realised? They had wanted to let Henry make his own decisions in regards to her but they had had no idea that he had been taking all this on himself. They should have been paying better attention, but there had always been so much going on, and Henry had seemed happy. They should have remembered how good he was at hiding things.

Suddenly Henry bolted forward into his arms and he pulled the boy close, trying to give whatever comfort he could. His next words were stained with tears. “She just can’t.”

“I’m sorry Henry. But that was not your responsibility. It was not your job to keep her good. And if that was not what she wanted to be, it was never going to work.” He knew Henry’s feeling of responsibility for Regina’s behaviour would not be undone so simply, but he spoke firmly, trying to impress his words into the lad. He could feel Henry shaking, knew he was crying, and if his mind had not already been made up, she had earned what was coming to her for this alone.

“You don’t get it! I even told her it was a good thing that Robin could not save Marian. A good thing! I said that. Just to try and make her feel better so she wouldn’t do anything bad.” He had looked up to all but shout those words at him, anger starting to take over from disbelief, but ducked his head again before going on, this time in a voice so small it hurt. “Why wasn’t I enough?”

“Nothing is ever enough for her.” It was not a good answer, and he wished he had a better one, one that would stop him from sounding so broken, but it was all he had. In the end, she always wanted more than she had. “That is not on you. It is not your fault that she could never be happy with what she had, always wanted what someone else had as well.”

He felt Henry pull back slightly, suddenly thoughtful. He could see his brain working to put the pieces together, and he held his breath waiting to see how close to the truth he would get.

“Wait a second, that doesn’t explain why you were here trying to say goodbye without me realising that you were saying goodbye.”

He should have known he would not be able to fool Henry of all people, the lad was at times too perceptive for his own good. He could see as the realisation dawned and braced himself for his reaction.

“You’re going to kill her, aren’t you?” Henry’s voice was strangely flat as he said the words, and he wasn’t quite sure how to interpret it. He didn’t sound angry, as he would have expected him to; if anything, he sounded resigned. Graham nodded, the words caught his throat. And really, what words were there, what could he possible say to make this anything other than what it was? He was planning to murder someone Henry loved. However good his reasons, it would never be defensible, never be forgivable. And even so, he could not regret it.

Maybe he really was the heartless killer they always thought he was.

Henry was staring at him, studying him, and he wondered what he was looking for. Would he try to talk him out of it? Plead for mercy on her behalf like he had before? If only they had not granted it then, they may have saved so much pain. But Henry’s next question caught him by surprise.

“If she was still willing to do that to Belle, what was she planning to do to you and Mom when she found the author?”

Or to Henry himself, he thought. She would have no qualms about having him rewritten to be more compliant. But of course Henry’s first thoughts were for others before himself. Though maybe he had just not thought of that, and if that were so he hoped he never did.

“I didn’t even ask what she was planning. I just jumped straight into helping her. I was so glad she wasn’t doing anything worse that I didn’t think about what she would do, what her ‘happy ending’ would be. She was going to hurt us again and I was helping her.”

Henry’s voice was bordering on manic by the time he finished, almost tripping over his words, and Graham leaned down so he could look him in the eye, gripping him firmly by the shoulders. “This is not your fault. She fooled a lot of people, many with much more reason to distrust her than you. You should not feel bad for believing in someone you loved.”

“But I didn’t really believe in her, did I? If I had believed in her I wouldn’t have been so worried about what she was going to do. If I had believed in her, I wouldn’t believe you. I knew it wasn’t real, deep down, I knew it, but I wanted it so much I let myself believe it.” Henry’s next words were so quiet he almost did not hear them. “If I believed in her, I would be trying to stop you.”

“I wouldn’t let you.” It might seem harsh, but he would not have Henry thinking he could have done something to stop this, and later start blaming himself. He would accept Henry’s resentment, but he would not allow the boy any part of the guilt.

“Why does this hurt so much? She has done such awful things to all of us, to me, to you, to everyone I care about. And she was planning to hurt us more. Why do I still care?” His words were broken by sobs that he tried to swallow, the tears coming thick and fast.

“Because she’s your mother.” And with that he found Henry back in his arms, sobbing in earnest now.

They must have stood there for over ten minutes, him gently running his hand up and down Henry’s back to comfort him as he cried, and shedding some tears of his own.  As much as it broke his heart to see Henry in such distress, he was not sure this was not both needed and long overdue. He did not think that Henry had ever allowed himself to react to what Regina had done to him, to grieve, too busy trying to believe she had changed. Letting this grief out might be exactly what was needed for him to move on.

The sobs had faded to the occasional hiccough and sniffle when his phone beeped, the noise jarring in the stillness of the room, causing them both to jump. He had a good idea what the message was and silently cursed the timing. The last thing he wanted was to leave Henry alone just yet. He checked, hoping it was anyone else, but it was indeed Emma telling him they were approaching the edge of town. Looking back at Henry he could see he had guessed what it was as well.

“You have to go.” It may have sounded like a question, but it wasn’t one. Henry straightened up a bit, swallowing and blinking back the last of his tears. “Be careful.”

Henry’s resilience in the face of every horror that was thrown at him would never cease to amaze him. “I should call Ruby, have her come stay with you. I don’t want you here on your own.”

“No! Please don’t. I swear, I am not going to do anything reckless. I just don’t want anyone hovering and asking concerned questions. I just want to be alone.” He gave Henry a long look, trying to judge if he was being truthful, and decided to trust him, nodding in agreement. He knew he would prefer solitude if in a similar position, and could understand Henry not wanting to be faced with any questions, however well meant.

“If you are sure? If you need me for anything, I always have my phone.” He did not have to say it, they both knew he did not just mean today. Regardless of how Emma reacted, he would always be there if Henry needed him.

“I know.” He nodded, understanding what was not being said as much as what was. “Now go.”

He took one last look at Henry, knowing that however accepting he seemed now, he may still never be welcomed back here. The reality might be too much for him to live with. He forced himself to turn around.

Stopping briefly outside the door, he wiped the tears from his face as he tried to focus back on the task at hand. This would take all his attention to get right, he could not afford to leave half his mind back here.

With a deep breath, he got back in the cruiser and started out towards the road out of town.

He pulled to a stop a safe distance from the town line, but did not immediately get out. He stayed there, looking over the deceptively simple painted line that marked the border between their town, their world, and the magicless world they had been brought to. This side of the line she was a powerful witch, capable of swatting away most threats like a fly. But cross a few feet over to the other side and she was just a normal woman, no more able to protect herself from him that any of those she had forced him to kill.

He watched them, Emma’s bug parked on the other side of the line, mirroring him. Emma, Regina, and a dark-haired woman he assumed must be Lily, had apparently decided not to wait in the car, and he wondered if that had anything to do with the woman bound in the back seat. That would make things easier, no need to get her out the car to avoid the additional danger, and mess, of shooting her while she was still inside.

To an outside observer, it might seem like he was hesitating, and in a way, he was, if not for quite the reason someone might expect. He had no doubts about his chosen course of action. It had to be done; he would not let her endanger those he loved. He would not regret her passing, or that it would be by his hand. That was not what kept him this side of the line.

What kept him from doing what he had so easily done in the past, and what he had previously longed to do for many years, was that for the first time in his life he had something to lose.

It would not stop him, but things would not be the same after this. Emma had never really seen this part of him, not because he had hidden it, but because they had never before been in a situation that called for it. There had been many a battle, she knew he would not hesitate to kill in a fight, but there had never been the need to dispose of threat in this way, to kill someone who was not overtly attacking them. He did not know how she would react to being faced with that.

He knew Snow and David would be horrified. But he did not care what they thought of him. He had made his peace with them, but he could never forget that they had been given the opportunity to stop her, to ensure she would never hurt another, and had instead chosen to let her go, to pay no price for her crimes, and to continue to terrorise them all. He had let go of his anger for his own sake, but he would not forget that they could not be trusted when it came to her, that they would not protect their people from her. And he would not care of their judgement when he did what they should.

Movement caught his eye, pulling him from his thoughts and drawing his attention back to the other side of the line. Regina had turned towards Emma, and even if he could not hear her words, he could see the impatience written on her face and body, could guess what she was saying. And he saw the pained look that flashed across Emma’s face, the way her spine stiffened.

He waited for her to bite back, except she didn’t, she just took a breath and responded calmly with a tight smile. He recognised that, he had seen that reaction from her before. It was how she had reacted when Henry used to act up, back just after the curse broke, when he was first testing his boundaries with them, pushing back at them to see if they would snap the way she had. It was the same tamping down of irritation she did back then, because Henry was a child who had been through so much and was still trying to adjust. But Regina was no child, and had earned no such consideration from them; she was the one who should be showing patience in the face of their anger.

Was this what it was always like with them? What Emma always had to do? Swallow her own irritation in the face of Regina’s attitude? They had all been so careful to ensure that he and Regina’s paths so rarely crossed, and people avoided talking about her to him. But he had assumed that she had at least changed how she had treated them, that she was no longer so casually dismissive of anyone’s feelings but her own. That was supposed to have been why they trusted her, because she had changed.

But then again, wasn’t that the entire reason he was doing this, because she hadn’t changed?

He briefly wondered why Emma was putting up with it, before shaking his head. Of course, for the very same reason he had put up with her presence in their lives, for Henry.

He really could not delay anymore, and he did not want to leave Emma facing the brunt of Regina’s anger, presumably over how long he was taking. He quietly stepped out of the cruiser, carefully pushing the door shut. He did not think sound would carry over the town line in this direction, but he did not want to risk them hearing him just yet. He checked his pocket to make sure he had the cuff, and the scroll that would allow them passage back into town. It would not do to get trapped outside with them. And finally, he took a moment to check his gun. He could not afford for this not to go right first time, there were too many things that could go wrong if this turned into a fight.

He moved closer, still invisible to them, and he briefly wondered if he could shoot her from here or if the magic of the town border would interfere. Another man might have taken the chance, taken the opportunity to have no witnesses, for her death to become an unsolved mystery, too many suspects to isolate just one. But that was not him, he would not hide, would not lie about this to Emma or anyone else, would not be ashamed. And he would look her in the eye when he pulled the trigger. One small part of this that would be for him, rather than for them.

He stopped just short of the line, taking a couple of deep breaths, his eyes closed, pushing all thought other than his target from his mind, letting the man recede as the wolf came to the fore. When his eyes opened, he was eerily calm, motionless as his eyes locked on his prey, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. It soon presented itself as she stepped away from the others and started to pace in exasperation.

Without conscious thought, he started moving, crossing the line, his steps quiet and graceful. There was no need for stealth but instinct had taken over. He heard her snapped comment, her tone communicating her sentiment even if he did not discern the words themselves.

Raising his gun, he hesitated for the barest second, just long enough to see the realisation dawn in her eyes, to see her hands twitch ready to call on the magic that did not exist here, before he pulled the trigger, his aim as true with a gun as it had ever been with a bow. She fell to the ground with a quiet thud, dead before she even had a chance to cry out, and he watched as a small pool of blood began to form on the tarmac beneath her.

He found himself transfixed by the sight, unable to tear his eyes away, unable to truly comprehend that it was over, that she was dead. There was a sudden feeling of lightness, as the weight of fear was lifted, a feeling he had lived with so long he only really noticed it as it faded away.

The commotion his actions had caused was nothing more than a buzzing noise as he continued to stare at his monster, the woman who had caused so much pain and fear, now nothing more than a body, all life gone in an instant. It was too quick, decades of suffering should not be so easily ended, but they were.

She was gone.

It took Emma grabbing his shoulder to finally break him out of his trance, and the rest of the world came rushing back in as he turned to look at her, meeting her gaze unapologetically. He stood by his actions, and he would not cower from the consequences.

“What the hell Graham? What was that?” She may not have quite been shouting, but there was the anger he had expected, but not received, from Henry.

“That…was what needed to be done. What we should have done in the first place.” And that was the crux of it; this was something that should have been done before she was even born.

“So, what, you were just pretending to go along with it until you had an opportunity to kill her?” Her scathingly voiced question took him by surprise, it had not actually occurred to him that she would think this was part of some long-held plot to kill her, and he rather hoped that if he had had such a plan it would not have taken him so long to find a way. But it made sense that the woman who found it just as hard to trust people as he did would first jump to the conclusion that he had been lying all this time. “I know what she did, but she was trying to change, she was helping us.”

“No, she wasn’t.” She was the one who had been pretending and biding her time. “She may have been helping when it benefitted her, but she was not trying to change. As long as I believed she was trying, I was willing to stay my hand. I wanted to believe she was changing more than most, for Henry’s sake at least, but she had not changed at all. She had just got better at hiding it.”

“How can you say that? You have barely seen her in years. How can you say she has not been trying, you don’t know.” Her words hurt, even if he knew it was anger fuelling them, prompting her to say things she would not otherwise. But it still hurt to have her deride him for not having been around Regina.

“She took Belle’s heart.” He saw the shock as the words sunk in, saw the disgust that crossed her face as she quickly glanced back at Regina’s body. “That is what she has on ‘Stiltskin.”

“So you thought the best thing to do was kill her?” There wasn’t as much anger in her voice now, but knowing Regina’s crime was not enough for Emma just to accept his actions. She still seemed to struggling to believe what he had done. Had he hidden his true nature from her that much, or had she just not understood that this was who he was?

“Yes.” Maybe not the answer she was looking for or expecting; she probably expected him to start trying to justify himself, or make excuses, but it was the truth, plain and unvarnished. Regina had proved herself to be too much of a danger to be allowed to live, and for him, it was that simple.

“That was not your call.” His blunt response seemed to have thrown her off for a moment, but she was partially right. Really it was her parent’s responsibility, but they had abdicated it too many times. And he, too, had claim to that responsibility.

“It became my call when no one else was willing to make it. I was elected Sheriff of this town, I was trusted to protect the people here. She was a danger, and I dealt with it.”

No-one had been willing to do what was necessary, too scared of the danger, or the reaction of those who should have protected them but had chosen to protect her instead. He had stepped up to do what no-one else could or would do.

“That’s not how it works, we have rules, laws, ways of…” She lifted a hand to stop him from responding. “No, don’t, just don’t right now. I can’t deal with this, deal with you.”

She turned away, using a hand to push her hair back, stopping it briefly at the nape of her neck before she turned back. “I have to get home; did you even think about how I was going to break this to Henry?”

“He already knows. I went to see him before I came here. When I told him what Regina had done he worked out the rest.” He expected another outburst, and she did not disappoint. But he was not going to leave her going home worrying about having to explain everything to Henry. He could at least let her know that she would only have to tell him it was done.

“What! You told him? What the hell were you thinking?” Once again, she cut him off before he could respond. “Don’t bother, clearly you weren’t thinking. Did you at least remember to bring the scroll and cuff?”

He reached into his pocket and silently handed them to her, and he watched as she stomped over to the car, leaning in to put the cuff around Zelena’s wrist.

Emma gestured at the third woman, Lily, he reminded himself, who had remained a few yards away watching their argument. Lily followed the silent instruction with a wary glace at him that he met unflinchingly until she looked away, climbing into the passenger seat. He knew this woman held some animosity towards Emma’s family; let her see how threats to his family were dealt with.

“You.” Emma turned, pointing at him and gesturing vaguely in the direction Regina’s body lay. “You are going to deal with the body. With respect. And since I now need to get home as quickly as possible after getting Lily to Maleficent, you just became responsible for Zelena as well. Think you can manage that without murdering her?”

He nodded in agreement, thinking better of saying anything aloud. It took a little coordination, made harder by the fact Emma would barely look at him, but eventually they were all back over the town line, Zelena handcuffed to the front passenger side door of the cruiser, Regina’s body in the back.

As soon as Zelena was safely secured, Emma was back in her car, door slammed behind her, and she drove off without backwards glance, leaving him to watch her go.

He was not exactly surprised. If anything he had been expecting her to react worse, but however prepared he had thought he was, it did not lessen the pain of being dismissed by her like that.

He had let himself think that he might get to have this, get to be happy. Have a family for the first time since the wolves. Belong somewhere, be wanted.

But instead, the price of protecting his family would almost certainly be to lose them.

Emma opened her eyes and found herself in a forest, a babbling creek in front of her, and a warm, gentle breeze caressed her face.  The gentle hum of wildlife around her, the singing of the birds, all of it combined to form an idyllic setting.

What the actual hell?

“Emma, it’s been a long time.”

Emma turned abruptly, her eyes going wide. She’d recognize that Irish lilt anywhere.

“Graham?” she asked, seeing the man himself in his jeans, his bomber jacket, his sheriff’s badge prominently displayed on his chest. “What?  How?  Is this a dream?”

He stepped forward and cupped her face in his hand, caressed it gently and smiled.  “This is no dream, Emma, although you might say you’re in an altered state of reality.”

“Are you in the Underworld?” Emma asked.  “Have we arrived?”

He shook his head gently and dropped his hand. “No on both counts.  You and your family continue sailing.  It will be a few minutes yet before you reach your destination.  And as for me?” He looked around, and Emma saw a deer step up to the stream and begin drinking, “I’ve moved on.”

“Moved…on?” Emma asked.  “On to where?”

He led her to a fallen log and gestured for her to sit.  When she’d done so, he spoke again.  “It’s rather difficult to answer that question.  Suffice it to say, I have no remaining unfinished business and so I’m at peace.”

They were silent for a moment, and then Emma turned back toward him, feeling the guilt that plagued her every time she thought of the former sheriff of Storybrooke.  “Graham,” she said finally, “I…I didn’t get a chance to say this to you before…I mean it all happened so fast.  I just…I wanted you to know that I’m sorry.”

He shot her a startled look.  “Whatever for, Emma?”

“For this,” she said, “for getting you killed. “If I’d just left well enough alone, not butted into your whole weird deal with Regina, maybe you’d still be alive.”

Graham turned toward her, looking intently into her eyes.  “Is that what you think, Emma?  That you harmed me?  That you caused me pain?”  He shook his head.  “Nothing could be farther from the truth.  Emma, you saved me.  You gave me courage to break free and you helped me remember who I truly was and who I wanted to be.  I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

“Really?” Emma asked.  “That’s really how you think of our friendship?”

He smiled.  “Of course!  And look around you.  I’ve reached paradise, a land where there’s no fear, no loneliness, no pain, no villains. Just joy and peace and freedom as far as the eye can see.  Don’t trouble yourself on my account.  I’m happier than I’ve ever been.”

Emma felt the tears well up, glad to have an opportunity to cry for a happy reason for a change.

“I know where you’re headed, Emma,” Graham said, looking suddenly grave.  “You wish to save your love from Hades’ clutches.”

Emma felt the panic well up again thinking of what Killian might be enduring.  “I have to Graham!  It’s my fault he’s dead, and then Gold took away his self-sacrifice.  I can’t just leave him there.  I can’t!”

“Sh,” Graham said, smiling gently once again.  “I’m not asking you to, Emma.  It’s quite the noble thing you’re doing and I wish you the greatest success.”

“But?” Emma asked, seeing the reservation in his face.

“The Underworld is a dangerous place,” Graham said. “Hades has all sorts of horrors prepared for the people in his domain, and he won’t give up one of his souls easily.”

“Never expected it to be easy,” Emma said, “but he’s my True Love.  If there’s anything I can do to save him, anything, I have to do it.”

“And I would never suggest otherwise,” Graham said. “I’ve no doubt Hades has met his match in you.  All I ask is that you be careful.  I’d love to see you here again one day, but I’d rather it not be anytime soon.”

“That I can promise you.”

Emma woke abruptly and sat up in the boat, disoriented in the sudden reddish light.

“You okay, mom?” Henry asked, looking over her carefully.

Emma panicked for a moment, running her hands over her hair to make sure it was behaving. She caught sight of herself in the mirror over the mantle place though and stopped, rolling her eyes at how ridiculous she was being. She followed after Henry who was letting Graham through the front door.

Her mouth went a little dry at the night of him, though he hardly looked different from the day before. Maybe it was the simmering desire in his eyes that she could see clear across the room.

"Hi," she said quietly.

"Good evening," he responded, and they stood there for a moment just looking at each other before Henry reminded them that he was still there.

"Sooo," he said, looking between them with a grin on his face, "I'm just gonna head to my room. Homework and stuff."

"Okay," Emma replied, though she knew he had no homework since he hadn't gone to school that day.

Once they both heard his bedroom door close, they surged towards each other, mouths colliding and hands grasping. His cool lips felt wonderful against her heated ones, and she lost herself in the kiss for a minute.

Finally, they pulled away, and she smiled at him. "Hi again."

His echoing smile was a little fangy. "I could get used to being greeted like that."

Emma led him into the living room, sitting on the couch and pulling him down next to her.

"So, you mentioned needing my help," Graham said.

Emma nodded. "I think Belle French might be possessed."

Graham looked non-plussed. "Well, her husband was a demon, so it's definitely not out of the realm of possibility."

Emma quickly explained to him what had happened that day, how Belle was acting completely unlike herself, and what she'd seen outside of the diner earlier that night.

"Sounds like possession to me," Graham agreed when she'd finished. "Normally though, the demon's spell would be broken with his death."

"So, what does that mean?" Emma asked. "Is it permanent?"

"I don't think so," he said, albeit hesitantly. "It's possible that Gold kept Belle in his thrall using a particular object, like a talisman, and until that talisman is destroyed, she'll remain under his spell."

"Okay, so then all we have to do is find the object," Emma said. She stood up. "So, let's go."

Graham looked up at her in surprise. "What, right now?"

"No time like the present," she told him.

Graham stood up as well, smiling fondly at her. "Emma Swan, woman of action," he said. "I assume you have some sort of plan?"

"Well…" She'd really just intended to make it up as she went along.

"She might not, but I do," came Henry's voice, and they both whipped around to look at him.

"Seriously, kid?" Emma groaned.

In true Swan form, he shrugged, smiling innocently. "Do you want to hear my plan or not?"

Emma narrowed her eyes at him speculatively before caving. "Alright, cough it up."

"Well, if you need to search Belle's house for the object, you're going to need her out of it, and for that, you'll need a distraction."

"That seems like a lot of work when I could just glamour her," Graham pointed out.

"No," Emma said instantly. "No glamouring. She's already being mind controlled or whatever, we don't need to add to that." She turned back to Henry. "Let me guess, you already have a distraction in mind?"

Henry nodded. "You're not going to like it, though."

"Wonderful."

.

.

"I don't like this," Emma muttered, scanning the deserted street in front of her.

"I told you," Henry said from the back seat of her squad car.

"Tricking my own officers, though, it feels so wrong," Emma continued, letting her head slump against the window.

"It's the only surefire way," her son reasoned. "You want to help Belle, don't you?"

"Of course," Emma sighed. If this worked, not only would she have her friend back, but she hopefully wouldn't be getting sued anymore.

The scanner in the patrol car burst to life suddenly, causing Emma to sit up straight again.

"We have a possible robbery in progress at 270 Main Street," the dispatcher reported. "I repeat, a 211 at 270 Main Street."

After a moment, Freddy's voice came over the scanner. "Copy that, Officer Fa and I are en route."

Emma almost whimpered, feeling like the worst sheriff in the world. Here she was staging a fake break in, while trying to commit a real one. Maybe she did deserve to lose her badge.

A couple of minutes later, Graham appeared at the passenger door to her car. She unlocked the door and he got in.

"Anything?" he asked.

"They're on their way to the pawn shop now," Emma told him. "What'd you do?"

"Broke in the front door, moved a few things around," Graham said. "I moved fast enough that any cameras would just record a dark blur."

"Good," she said, hands gripping the steering wheel. "Now we wait."

Sure enough, about 15 minutes later, they saw Belle's car pull out of the French's driveway, which they were parked 2 houses down from. She turned in the opposite direction from them, heading towards town, and she and Henry breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Alright, here we go," Emma said. She turned to Henry. "Are you going to okay here, kid?"

"Yes, Mom," he answered, with just a touch of exasperation. "Someone's got to be the lookout."

Emma frowned deeply but nodded and handed him her spare walkie talkie, tucking the other into her coat pocket. "Channel 5, okay?"

"Roger," Henry said, smiling. She never seen him so excited. "Operation Horucrux is a go."

Emma paused. "I thought it was Operation Exorcist?"

Henry shook his head. "Operation Horucrux seems more fitting now."

"Emma, we don't have much time," Graham warned her gently.

"Right," she said, trying to focus on the task at hand. "Let's go."

They left the car with one last reassuring nod from Henry and headed towards the French's house. They lived in the nicest part of town, the classic three-story antebellum putting Emma's single-level ranch style to shame. Part of her had always wondered where Mr. French had gotten the money for such a house, since the pawn shop hardly seemed like a gold mine. Her eyes narrowed as they crept up the driveway. Her rent was definitely higher than it should be, maybe Gold had been overcharging everyone in town. Now that she thought about it, who was her landlord now that he was dead? Was it Belle? If so, she was probably lucky not to have been evicted in addition to being sued.

At the front door, Emma took out a bobby pin and began working on the lock.

"Done this a lot, have you?" Graham asked. She could hear the amusement in his voice.

"You'd be surprised," Emma said lightly. She gritted her teeth as she fiddled with the tumblers. "Almost got it...ah ha!"

The lock clicked open and Emma turned the knob, pushing the door open. She entered the house first, Graham following after her and closing the door behind them. The sheer magnitude of what they had to do swept over her as she took in the large foyer and grand staircase. Looking for a needle in a haystack would probably be easier.

"Where do we even start?" Emma asked. "What should we be looking for?"

"It will be an object of some sentimental value, I believe," Graham told her. "Something Belle would see and interact with everyday, so it would be in a prominent part of their home."

"Okay, let's start in their bedroom," Emma suggested, and they quickly climbed the stairs to the second floor.

"How will you even know if we've found it?" Emma asked as they started searching the bedroom. It could be anything in here, couldn't it?

"Well," Graham said in such a way that made Emma stop inspecting Belle's jewelry box and turn to look at him. He grimaced and she gave him an expectant look. "I thought that maybe you would be able to tell. With your powers."

Emma blinked at him. "With 'my powers?'" she repeated. "What do you want me to do, 'Use the Force?' Who do I look like, Luke Skywalker?"

If he didn't think he was too dignified for it, she knew Graham would have rolled his eyes. "Emma," he said. "You have a raw power inside of you that has been untapped until now. Yesterday, it saved your life and your son's. I know if you try, you can do this."

Emma sighed. She'd been trying really hard not to think about her "powers", especially after yesterday, but Graham's words made sense. "Fine, I'll give it a shot."

She breathed deeply in and out and shut her eyes. She could feel Graham staring at her and blocked that out too, focusing instead on the buzzing of energy that she had felt inside of her for as long as she could remember. As a child, she had tuned out the buzzing until it was only a dull white noise. It had never been magic to her, only a nuisance, something that made her different from everyone around her when all she'd wanted to do was fit in. How did she access it now after so many years of forcing it down?

Emma focused her senses completely, and was surprised to find a tendril of magic easily. It seemed to branch away from her, and Emma mentally followed it, thinking it would lead her to Gold's talisman, but it brought her in a completely different direction. She saw Killian's prone form, laying on a bed in a dark room, glowing slightly as all vampires did in Emma's eyes. He appeared to be only slightly better than when she'd him the night before. Most of his burns were healed, but the lacerations from Gold's silver sword were still visible.

Suddenly, Killian's blue eyes popped open, as if he could sense her, and, startled, Emma severed the connection, opening her own eyes.

Graham was looking at her in concern. "Are you well?"

"Yeah, fine," she said shakily. She shook her head to clear away Killian's face from her mind. The last thing she needed right now was a distraction. The clock was ticking. "Let me try again."

She found her magic much quicker this time and focused it on the room. A feeling of coldness seemed to emanate from it, and she shivered involuntarily.

"If I understand it correctly, all magic leaves some sort of trace," Graham said quietly as not to break her concentration. "Can you feel it?"

"I think so," Emma said. It was a bit dull, but she could feel the magic in the air. Something burned brightly with magic though, just outside her periphery. She opened her eyes. "The talisman's not up here. But I think I know where it is."

Emma led the way out of the room and down the stairs to the first floor. The talisman was somewhere down here. They walked through the living room, but nothing stuck out to her there or in the dining room. Finally, her instincts took her to the kitchen, where she stopped, gazing around at the pristine granite countertops and stainless steel appliances.

"It's here," she announced confidently. The magic felt so strong in the room that the hair on her arms was standing up. "Let's spread out."

Graham started at one end and Emma at the other, the latter doing her best to hone in on the object. It kind of felt like she was playing hot and cold but her magic kept going in and out. She needed to focus. Taking a deep breath, she cast her gaze over the kitchen, feeling the clear pull of magic to the cabinet about the stove. She walked towards it and was just about to pull it open, when her walkie talkie crackled to life.

Henry's voice came over the radio, but so garbled that she had no idea what he'd said. Her and Graham exchanged uneasy glances before Emma brought the radio up to her mouth.

"Henry, repeat that, over."

His voice came again, just as distorted, and Emma shook her head in frustration. "There must be some kind of interference."

"Magic perhaps," Graham suggested. "Emma, we should get out of here. He was probably trying to warn us that Belle was back."

"But it's right here, I can feel it," Emma said stubbornly. They'd come this far. She wasn't leaving until the talisman was destroyed. She reached for the cabinet handle and pulled it open.

"Emma, I can hear her," Graham warned behind her. "She just got out of her car. I can still glamour her."

"No," Emma said firmly, jerking back to make sure he saw how serious she was. "I told you: no glamour."

Turning back to the cabinet, she felt her pulse quicken as her ears strained to pick up Belle's footsteps coming up the walkway or her keys in the door. The cupboard was full of regular china; plates, glasses, and tea kettles. And nestled right in the middle of them all and practically glowing was a chipped tea cup.

"Look!" Emma said, pointing to the tea cup. "Do you see that?"

"See what?" Graham asked, peering into the cabinet. His attention shifted between her and the foyer rapidly. "Emma, she's coming inside."

"This is it," Emma told him, eagerly. "The tea cup! It's glowing! That's the talisman, that's what's controlling Belle!"

She picked it up and almost immediately dropped it. A sensation like an egg being cracked over her head crept all over her body, from her fingers to her toes. This was magic, but not the light, buzzy kind that flowed through her. This was dark and seemed to seep everywhere like sludge, and she had to struggle to keep her grip on the tea cup. Vaguely, she could hear Graham hissing her name, his fangs out at her failure to respond.

"What the hell are you doing in my house?!"

The question, uttered with the utmost hatred and shock, finally broke through the fog that threatened to engulf her, and she looked up to find a livid Belle standing in the entrance to the kitchen.

"I, Belle, I can explain," Emma started, but Belle had already spied what Emma was holding in her hand.

"Don't touch that!" she exclaimed, starting towards Emma. Her eyes were transformed until they were black again as she lunged towards Emma. "How dare you!"

Graham intercepted her, wrapping his arms around the petite librarian's torso. Belle screeched and struggled, but was no match for his vampire strength.

"Don't hurt her," Emma urged him, even as the woman cursed at her.

"I should have known you would stoop so low, Emma Swan," she said, her voice shrill and almost unrecognizable. "You may have this whole town fooled, but once a criminal, always a criminal, right?"

"This isn't you, Belle," Emma told her, trying to ignore the tears forming in her eyes at her friend's harsh words. "Your husband has you under some kind of spell!"

"My husband loved me, but what would you know of love?" Belle spat at her, still struggling against Graham's grip. "You're nothing but a friendless orphan, and that's all you'll ever be."

A tear made it's way down Emma's cheek, but her mind was clear and determined. "You're wrong, Belle," she said calmly. "And this ends now."

Emma would never forget the scream Belle let out as she winded back and threw the chipped tea cup with all of her strength against the tiled floor. The cup shattered, and the impact knocked all three of them off of their feet. Emma's head was ringing, but when it cleared, the trace of dark magic permeating through the room was completely gone. Strong arms suddenly helped her up, and she looked up into Graham's concerned face.

"Are you alright?" he asked, as she got to her feet.

"I'm fine," Emma said. A groan came from across the kitchen, and she saw Belle on the floor pressing her hand to her forehead.

"Belle?" she asked hesitantly, moving closer, but still keeping her distance.

Her friend looked up at her, and her beautiful face crumpled in despair. Her eyes were their usual shade of brown, no red or black, and they were filled with tears.

"Oh, Emma, I'm so sorry," Belle choked out.

That was all it took for Emma to rush to her side, enfolding the other woman into her arms. Belle's whole body shook with sobs as Emma whispered words of comfort and forgiveness to her, almost crying in relief herself.

Her friend was back.

.

.

The following days were a bit of a blur for Emma. Eventually, Belle settled down enough, and Emma had the unfortunate task of explaining to her that her husband had been a demon. The dark haired beauty didn't take the news very well, but both Emma and Ruby were there to support her. Belle had retracted her law suite, for which Emma was very grateful. The media about had a conniption over the sudden 180 flip of the grieving widow, but no one reacted worse than Albert Spencer who stormed into the bullpen at the Sheriff's Station the moment he heard.

"What have you done?" he demanded the moment he saw Emma.

Emma smiled. "Hi, how are you?" she asked with false cheer. "Nice weather we're having today, isn't it?"

The man only glared at her. "Don't play games with me, young lady," he practically hissed. "You had no right to speak to my client, but Belle just told me she's dropping the suite. I know you spoke to her. Pressured her to change her mind somehow."

Emma said nothing, only kept her smile, it might have become more of a smirk, planted on her face.

Spencer's eyes narrowed further and he shook a finger in her face. "This isn't over."

He spun on his expensive Italian shoes and left. Emma smiled and waved. "Bye, now!"

She probably should have been worried about what he was going to do, but she was too relieved that it was all over to care. Granny's murderer could no longer hurt anyone, her friends and son were all safe as was the town that she'd sworn to protect. There was only one thing that was bugging her, and try as she might, she couldn't get her mind off of it.

A few days after she'd broken the spell on Belle, she found herself driving down the highway to Shreveport. Henry was having a sleepover at Nicholas and Ava's house, so she had the night to herself. Realistically, she knew that Killian might not even be recovered enough to be at the Dead Man's Chest, but something told her, she refused to believe it was their 'bond', that he would be there.

When she arrived, Emma was carded at the door by a vampire she didn't know. The hour was still early, so the crowd was on the campy side, but Emma ignored the tourists taking pictures and focused her attention on the vampire sitting on the stage. Killian, though pale as ever, looked much better than when she'd gotten a flash of him the other night. He was wearing the same pirate getup he'd been wearing the night they'd first met, and she only had a moment to appreciate the way the black leather hugged his body, before his eyes zeroed in on her.

They shared a inscrutable look across the bar before he was suddenly in front of her, sweeping her into his arms and rushing them into his office in a matter of seconds. Her back hit the door of his office with a thud, and she looked up to find him gazing down at her in awe.

"Swan."

"Hi," she said breathlessly, too stunned to protest his actions.

"You saved me," he whispered, inching closer.

"You saved me first," Emma reminded him, remembering the way he'd risen from the ground to come to their rescue. "Thank you."

Killian drew back a little at that, scratching behind his ear almost self consciously, she thought, like the praise had made him shy. He bounced back a second later, using the same finger to tap his lips, drawing her attention to them.

"Well, perhaps, gratitude is in order," he said, throwing her a lascivious look.

Emma grinned. "Yeah, that's what the thank you was for."

"Is that truly all you and your son's lives are worth?" he asked, his tone playful.

Emma shook her head, and the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. "Please, you couldn't handle it."

"Perhaps, you're the one that couldn't handle it," Killian countered, arching an eyebrow at her.

Emma didn't know what came over her, but one second she was looking at his smirk and thinking she'd like to wipe it from his face, and the next she was grabbing the collar of his ridiculous pirate coat and hauling him to her. Their lips crashed together, mouths open, tongues battling for dominance. She felt his hand in her hair, and she let out a breathy sigh, pulling him closer, wanting to feel his cool skin against her own. How could someone who was dead make her feel so alive? Was it like this with Graham? She couldn't remember.

Suddenly, she felt like she'd been doused with ice. Graham.

Emma pulled away from Killian, though he followed her, their foreheads still touching. He wasn't breathing hard like she was, but his fangs were down, and he looked thunderstruck, his eyes still closed.

"That was—" he breathed.

"A one time thing," she interrupted, causing him to pull back and open his eyes. They were clouded with confusion, and his expression was almost hurt. She needed to get out of there right away. "I have to go. Don't follow me."

"As you wish," he said, and she avoided his gaze as she slipped out of the door and back into the hallway.

She berated herself the whole drive back to Bon Temps. What had she been thinking, going to The Dead Man's Chest like that? If she'd wanted to make sure Killian was okay, she could have just called the bar. Over the phone he couldn't smolder at her with his too blue eyes and she didn't have to see his stupid kissable pink lips.

It was the blood bond most likely, she reasoned. The bond had drawn her to the bar, to him. Graham had said Killian would be able to feel her emotions, so no doubt, he knew exactly what she was feeling right now as she fled from Shreveport. The thought made her bang her hand on the steering wheel in frustration.

When Emma got to Main Street in Bon Temps, she made a quick decision. Instead of taking the turn to her house, she followed the road to the outskirts of town and found herself pulling into Graham's driveway. She'd never been inside his house before, but she had dropped him off a couple of times, so she'd known where he lived.

Shutting the engine off, she sat there for a moment. Despite the fact that he'd probably heard her pull up, Graham didn't meet her outside. He was waiting on her, of course, letting her decide what she wanted to do, and after a minute, she unbuckled her seatbelt and got out of the bug. The front door opened just as she arrived at it, and Graham greeted her with a smile.

"Emma, I didn't know you were—"

"Kiss me," Emma interrupted him, stepping into his body and wrapping her arms around his neck.

Graham's brow furrowed in confusion. He inhaled suddenly, and his body went rigid, his expression clouding over with anger.

"You've been with Killian," he stated, his fangs dropping down. "I can smell him all over you."

Damn vampire senses, Emma cursed mentally. She sighed and let her arms fall back to her sides. "I went to see him, to make sure he was okay," Emma admitted. "We kissed, but it didn't mean anything."

"And now you want me to, what?" Graham scoffed. "Make you forget him?"

"No!" Emma protested, before immediately backtracking. "Yes? Maybe. I don't know! All I know is I can't myself around him. Are my feelings real or are they just a side effect of the bond?" She took a chance and took his hands in hers. "But I can and I do trust my feelings for you, Graham. You're the one I want to be with."

"Truly?" he asked, and she couldn't blame him for being hesitant.

"Yes," she stressed. "Now, kiss me."

He drew her to him, wrapping both hands around her waist, and their lips met, a bit roughly at first, but gradually their kiss transformed into something more tender, but no less passionate. Graham pulled her inside, shutting the door behind them, never breaking their embrace as he pressed her back into the door. It reminded her too much of her moment with Killian though and she pulled back from him.

"Bedroom," she gasped out.

He suckled his way down her neck, lingering at her pulse point before picking her up and zipping them into his bedroom. Once she was back on her feet, his presence left her for a moment, and pricks of light appeared around the light tight room as several candles were lit. Emma took a moment to strip off her leather jacket, tossing it on a nearby chair, and toeing off her boots. Graham came back to her after a moment, his face awash in light and dark thanks to the glow of the candles. Cupping her face with both hands, he searched her eyes.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said after a moment, and Emma had a feeling he wasn't just talking about sex.

"I'm not easily broken," Emma assured him, pulling him back to her and pressing her lips to his once again.

Her hands moved to unbutton his vest and pushed it off his shoulders. Eagerly, she pulled his button down out of his pants and started unbuttoning that as well. Her mouth sucked on his bottom lip, and he groaned when she raked her nails down his bare chest. He moved quicker now, making short work of Emma's shirt and pants before tossing her with ease onto the bed. He stared down at her with pure want in his eyes, as well as a perfectly sized bulge in his pants.

"You're so beautiful," he told her, and she felt the trail his gaze left over every inch of her body. He looked like he wanted to devour her every piece of her, and there was nothing Emma wanted more.

She crooked a finger at him. "Get up here," she ordered. "And take off your pants."

Graham gave her a fangy smile before complying. He crawled up the bed, stopping to kiss his way up her legs. She squirmed, close to pushing his face right where she wanted it, between her thighs, but let him do as he wished. He paused where she was aching and wet with arousal and breathed deeply. Giving her a sinful grin, he placed a kiss on her over her underwear before moving on.

Up he went across her body, kissing and caressing her lace clad breasts, and she reveled in the attention, needing more. Her bra came off with a flick of her fingers, and she shivered with pleasure as his mouth and tongue encircled one of her nipples. She could feel him hard against her and moved her thigh to rub against him. He growled, lips descending on hers once again.

Emma's legs opened to cradle his body with hers, and Graham took the opportunity to snake his hand downwards, fingers sliding underneath her panties. She gasped as he easily slid a finger inside of her, and he laughed against her lips.

"I've wanted to do this for some time, Emma," he said, inserting a second finger and moving them in and out at a languid pace.

"Me too," she breathed, pushing off Graham's boxers with her foot until he was gloriously bare. "Please, Graham."

"What do you need?" he asked her, rubbing his thumb against her sensitive clit. "Tell me what you need."

"You," she gasped, writhing against his fingers. "I only need you, please."

Graham removed his fingers from inside her, ignoring her whine of protest, and hooked them around her underwear, dragging them down her legs and throwing them somewhere off to the side. Settling his weight between her legs, he grasped himself in hand and lined his cock up to her entrance. He sought her gaze one last time, and she gave him a fervent nod. He pushed forward, and she took him inside her inch by inch, one hand digging into his bicep, the other grasping the sheets.

Finally, he was sheathed all the way inside her, and the sensation of his cold hardness inside of her heated center was unlike anything she'd ever experienced. He stopped to let her adjust, but she wasn't some blushing virgin, and instead, urged him on, wrapping her arms around his back.

Taking her hint, he began thrusting in and out, and the drag of him along her walls had her digging her fingers into his skin. Their pace became faster and faster, and Graham's hands and lips were everywhere all at once, caressing and pulling and suckling. The combined sensations threatened to overwhelm her, and sooner than Emma had thought possible, he was coaxing her through her first orgasm, her whole body spasming.

He didn't let up though, continuing to pound into her, the sound of their skin slapping against each other quickening as his thrusts did.

"You are mine, Emma," he grunted out, curling her leg around his hips, and the new angle driving him even deeper inside of her.

"Yes," she gasped, eyes rolling to the back of her head as he hit that special spot that made her see stars.

"Say it," he urged her, wrapping his arms around her lower back and lifting her off the bed, so he was fucking her in the air.

"I'm yours!" Emma cried out, so close to reaching her peak again that she would have said anything to make sure he didn't stop. "Only yours. Please."

He gave her a bruising kiss before burying his face in her neck, and Emma could feel the tiny pinpricks of his fangs against the delicate skin there.

"Emma, I—," he started, still thrusting up into her.

"Do it," she interrupted hastily, before she lost her nerve. "Bite me." He pulled back from her, a longing, though hesitant, look on his face. Keeping one arm anchored around his neck, she cupped the side of his face with the other. "I trust you, Graham."

Her back hit his firm mattress again, as he lowered them back onto the bed without losing his rhythm. She could feel her orgasm building within her, and it hit her all at once as he sunk his fangs deep into her neck. It was painful for only a moment as pleasure swept through her, radiating out from her center. Even the pull of him sucking her blood was somehow erotic, and the abounding sensations made her cry out in ecstasy.

She felt Graham come undone as well, taking her blood seeming to be the trigger for his own climax. His hips continued to thrust for several moments before stopped and pulled out, though he continued to feed voraciously from her neck.

"Graham?" she asked hesitantly, though she was starting to feel a little lightheaded as she came down from her high; whether from the extreme pleasure or the blood loss, she wasn't sure.

He pulled back to look at her, fangs still down, blood, her blood, smeared all over his mouth. His face was flushed as she'd never seen it, and his eyes had taken on a dreamy expression.

"Your blood, Emma," he said, shaking his head as though in a daze. "It's—"

"Intoxicating, I've heard," she said dryly, smoothing down her wild hair. Honestly, these vampires were like a broken record.

"Well, yes," Graham admitted, eyes shifting to her neck, which she was sure was a mess. Finally, they met hers again, serious now. "In all my years, I've never tasted anything like your blood before."

A trickle of fear went through her. "What does that mean?"

He stared down at her for a moment before shaking his head. "Nothing," he told her. "It means, nothing."

And Emma didn't need her superpower to know he was lying to her.

Using his tongue, he licked up the last remains of blood around her neck before scooping her body up effortlessly and sliding her underneath the covers. He left her side for just a moment, and when he came back, his face was clean and his fangs were retracted. Sliding under the sheets with her, Graham wrapped an arm around her, hugging her to his side. Emma rested her head on his shoulder and her hand on top of his chest. The absence of a heart beat was a little unnerving, but she'd just had sex with a vampire who had sucked her blood; at this point, his dead heart should have been the least startling factor.

"I will protect you, Emma," Graham said suddenly, causing her to pick up her head to look at him. "You are mine, now. No other vampire can touch you or feed off of you without my consent."

"Without your consent?" she asked incredulously, sitting up all the way now. "And what about my consent?"

"Most non-mainstreaming vampires could care less about getting consent from the human they've chosen as their meal," Graham pointed out, sitting up as well. "By claiming you, I can protect you in an official capacity that is recognized by all vampires."

The more he spoke, the more uneasy Emma became. "I'm my own person, Graham," she told him firmly. "If this is about becoming your property or whatever, I'm out."

She moved to get off the bed, but he pulled her back to him gently. "Emma," he chided, smiling at her in that fond way he did. "That's not what it's about. This world, this supernatural world you've become a part of, is a lot bigger than you realize. All I want to do is be with you, Emma, you and Henry, and protect the both of you. If you'll let me."

Emma searched his eyes for an ulterior motive but found none, and since her superpower didn't work on vampires, she needed to trust her instincts. Graham had been by her side, helping and encouraging her through everything the last few months. Besides Ruby, there was probably no one she trusted more. Was she really going to throw that away because of some old-fashioned vampire bullshit? No.

"Okay."

Graham nodded, clearly pleased, and resettled them back down on the bed. She nestled her face comfortably into the crook of his neck.

"We really need to work on your pillow talk, though."

.

.

An overwhelming amount of townsfolk showed up for Rupert Gold's funeral when it was held two days later. Whether it was to discern for themselves if Belle and Emma had truly made up or they wanted to see what name was going to be on the tombstone, Emma wasn't sure. She was there for only one reason, though, and that was to support Belle.

Though she understood that she had been in her husband's thrall, Belle insisted it hadn't always been like that. They had been in love when they married, Gold taking Belle's last name because he had said he'd wanted to start over after the loss of his first wife. But in the past couple of years, and shortly after the vampire's Great Revelation, Belle started noticing her husband's strange behavior, and when she'd wanted out of their marriage, that's when he had put her under his power.

It was a very simple ceremony and the only tears that were shed were Belle's. No one gave a eulogy or spoke any kind words about Gold, and the pastor only read a short psalm as the casket was lowered into the fresh grave site; thankfully as far away from Granny's as possible. Emma couldn't imagine a stranger funeral, but it was what Belle had wanted. Afterwards, many guests came and gave their condolences to Belle, their eyes shifting curiously to Emma who remained firmly by her side.

She was keeping an eye on Henry nearby talking animatedly with a couple of kids from school, when she spied a figure standing just in front of the grave. He was about her height, maybe a little taller, with scruffy brown hair, and her heart almost stopped beating in her chest.

"Excuse me," Emma said quietly to Belle, not taking her eyes off the man.

She walked through the rows of chairs up to where he stood, her heart now pounding loudly in her ears. He must have heard her approaching through the grass because he was hastily wiping tears away from his face. When he turned to her and she saw his face for the first time in almost 11 years, she couldn't help her gasp.

"Neal?"

TBC

*

A

Alive

               She never knew what a beautiful word it was before: alive. Alive. Alive. It was like a breath of cold air in a snowstorm, stingingly clean and relieving, shaking her to her core.  

               She pushes past Whale to see for herself, and those cobalt eyes meet hers from across the room.

               She wonders how the word makes her struggle for air, but also makes her need it less.

               He is alive.

               Cracked ribs and sunken eyes, but alive. Scratchy voice and weak grip, but alive.

               “Savior,” he accuses, but playfully.

               She squeezes, and thinks she’ll accept the title for once.

B

Blame

               She shouldn’t blame him.

               Of course she shouldn’t; he didn’t ask for this, no more than she.

               She dreams of dark and damp, leaves and dirt and rot climbing her throat until the pain is real and fresh and she is screaming the last of her fear into her pillow.  

               A worn bit of leather bites into her wrist, and she catches storm-filled eyes across the room in a corner too dark to make out any detail, wonders why she is buried with him.

               She can only blame him for the feeling of being just as gone as he is.

C

Confession

               The first confession is in a low breath, almost soundless.

               She didn’t mean for him to hear it; his eyes are closed and his breaths had been even for several minutes.

               Still, its echo weighs heavily on his tongue, demanding its own declaration to hers. But the penance for hearing it is his silence, he knows, and so he does not shift as she nestles against him, sleeps on.

               He knows she finds love a scary thing, and cannot claim not to be frightened of its depths himself.

               But now that he knows, he can wait, tend, let it grow.

D

Doctor

               He never cared much for doctors. Healers or medics, they were called, back in the old world. He never had the means to hire one back then, and they were humans, anyhow. He wouldn’t have trusted them.

               Here, he just had Whale for scale; he was not one to instill much faith in the profession.

               But when the blond steps out from the operating room, hands clean and smug smile tugged across his face before a sharp nod of a yes, he could kiss him.

               Emma is fragile like he’s never seen, but her eyes are bright.

His mind changes.

E

Estate

               The estate is sprawling, majestic, cold.

               Emma isn’t used to the narrow halls, the winding staircases, the rooms made of stone. It feels hollow, unnatural. The shadows get too thick at night.

               She first sees him on the grounds, far from the echoes of the manor, an illusory image in the fog. He is a ghost to mock and mimic the gothic terrors she grew up with.

               She knows him all at once, as if she always had and always will.

               Their lips first meet where the trees meet the air, and she feels at home for the first time.              

F

Fuel

               It doesn’t take much to ignite.

               The thing between them had always had a spark, waiting for its tinder. They had each desperately hung on to a piece, until he didn’t care anymore to keep his grip.

               Lust, that she was used to. In those cases, the fuel burned out quickly and she could move on.

               She didn’t expect the stores to only grow within her, until the flames were indistinguishable from her own fire.

               She didn’t expect to want it to consume her.

               Instead, it warmed and cast its light like a beacon, until it augmented rather than destroyed.

G

Graze

               Her fingers graze his arm, just touch enough from the callous of her fingertips to catch his attention.

               He looks up, finding the crest in the ocean of her eyes and the worry buried inside them, and doesn’t need the whispered words that utter from her parted lips.

               He captures her wrist loosely, finds the storm that lies behind the concern.

               “Just a scratch,” he barely jokes, a piece of trivia from half a memory.

               The starburst of color under his covered chest bellies that, but he stumbles forward, persists.

               If it means her safety, it is a mere scrape.

H

Hypnotize

               The blood is vividly red as it spiderwebs outwards and across pale skin, hypnotizing.

               She traces the path with her eyes and then her hands, calling upwards to the wound that never quite heals. The heart that pulsates and beats out more of the viscous pain stutters but does not falter, cannot quite meet the looming darkness it wishes to retreat to.

               This game has been played before, will be played again, splayed to define the past in mere trickles of horror.

               It’s all she can do to hold the pieces together, to right them so they may fight again.

I

Ignorance

               Sometimes, he wishes for ignorance.

               Prays to a foreign god that he could be wiped clean of the memory once again, to remove the ache in his brain and heart and soul.

               He wonders if she wishes that, too. There is an effortlessness to ignorance, one they haven’t had since curses broke.

               But in the early morning, the strands of gold fall across his skin and they drink in each other’s warmth, feeling that truth acutely but managing to heal each other from it through touch.  

He supposes the price is worth the reward, finds that love trumps the pain.

J

Jump

               She is at the edge, crumbling stone and crashing waves waiting for her with just a step.

               He is at her back, and her fingers have flung back to catch his shirtfront in her grip.

               She could jump. It wouldn’t be an effort. She could let go, and the past would be behind her.

               She can’t loosen her hold, though, and instead falls back into him, waiting for him to catch her. He disappears into the mist just as quickly as she leaps into him, and she wakes gasping and drenched in her bed.

               She knows then it was love.

K

Kid

               “Kid.”

               They are grinning at each other, mother and son, and the term of endearment slips from her as easily as any. They seem mirror images, matching eyes and grins, and his heart never felt so full.

               It’s just a start, and he can only watch from the shadows of the in-between, but it is at least a start.

               Maybe once the pieces fall back into place, when the curse is done and the evil defeated, he can find his own corner in which to fit with them.

               But the beginnings of this beautiful relationship can only bring him peace.

L

License

               The license lives in a manila envelope on a plain, unassuming shelf, tucked in between other important files and miscellany. It gathers dust, and is only yanked free on occasions it is called for, but there is no other indication of the piece of paper anywhere else.

               Bodies fit together as one on a faded couch and loose, empty left hands hang from the backs of armrests. A house is filled with children’s voices and laughter, loneliness a distant memory.

               The paper is forgotten, sits stale, even as the passion and the adoration never does.

               Only they know it exists.

M

Map

               He likes to map her out.

               His hands and mouth will trace routes made over and over, finding new trails to discover, places of interest to linger on. Scars become stories, ones to press into some guidebook he builds in his mind.

               She knows the difference from his touch and his patience, the seduction versus the exploration even when the two might meet from time to time.

               He knows before her any time her body changes through the years, but she feels the worship of it before she can be self-conscious.

 *

                The actual wedding was a blur.

                She had expected it would go quick, but it was like a gunshot how fast it went by, almost like a joke. She barely even registered it until the sun was low in the sky and she was getting final photos with her new family in.

                She is married. She has a husband. She has a family.

                She stands with her hands clutching her bouquet, held smile aching, her in laws over each shoulder. Once the last flash ends, Mr. Gold rushes off to his colleagues. Mrs. Gold squeezes a hand on her shoulder. “Dear,” she says sweetly, her voice more softly accented than her husband’s. “You are doing amazingly.”

                Emma feels a buzz of excitement, and she almost kicks herself out of how eagerly she laps up compliments from her mother-in-law. “Thanks. I think I’m keeping it together. Glad I don’t have to get used to it,” she replies, to which Milah bristles and shakes her head.

                “Well, the Golds still get a lot of attention on an everyday basis, and you are marrying my golden child,” she says with a laugh. “But if you stay in the right circles, you are correct. You won’t have to keep that frozen smile quite so long.”

                She turns and catches Neal’s eye briefly, and he lifts a glass in acknowledgement before turning back to his sister. The redhead is relaxed next to her brother, smile easy. “I’m just glad to be gaining this family,” she admits softly. She needs Milah to know how much this means to her, how much she loves her son and how eager she is to fit in. She’s never fit in before.

                Milah tilts her head and studies her with a smile, hand reaching to touch her chin. “Your vows were beautiful. Neal didn’t tell us you were brought up in foster homes. Not that he tells us much of anything these days.”

                She freezes, and meets her green eyes head on, trying to see there was any judgement there.

                “Ah,” Milah says simply, and chuckles. She winks at her. “I see. You think your blood isn’t blue enough. Don’t worry; they said the same thing about me.”

                “They did?” she asks. She feels oddly unmatched next to Milah’s sophisticated demeanor, and couldn’t imagine her being anything other than this composed, no-nonsense, elegant woman.

                Milah smiles, incisors sharp and bright white. “Stand tall. And fuck ‘em,” she says simply, and then nudges her arm as she leaves the staged area in front of the fountain.

                She plays with her rings, waiting a little anxiously for the next family member. Her brother-in-law hops down the stairs, drink predictably in hand. He sets it on the ground, loose curls falling over his stubbled face, before he joins her. His suit is immaculate and his posture straight despite the sharp smell of whiskey clinging on him. He rests a hand on her spine gently to turn her towards the photographer before dropping it just as quick, and a familiar tingle shoots through her at the action.

                She glances up at him quickly, eyebrow quirking. The Golds are not an unattractive group, but Graham is just … a lot. He looks handsome today, just as handsome as she’d first noticed when Neal had first introduced them weeks ago. It was too bad he leaned so heavily on his vices or else something in his sweet, genuine personality may have changed her mind about which brother she preferred.

                She’s kidding, of course.

                At least mostly.

                “So,” he says, accent tickling her ears. “You’ve decided to stay.”

                His words from the bedroom, as she was practicing her vows, come back to her. Not too late to flee, you know. You don’t belong in this family. And I mean that as a compliment.

                She actually believes he meant that; he was always a little self-loathing, and loved to jump with an insult or two when it came time to mention the entirety of the Gold clan. And he had almost looked mad at his older brother for choosing to marry her, though she must have imagined that. As much as Graham seemed to loathe his family, he loves his older brother a whole lot. But he’s told that joke before, something along the lines she should run screaming from their family, and sometimes it didn’t quite feel like a joke.

                “Observant,” she replies with a nod. Her fixed smile turns to a smirk, and she looks up at him. They’ve always had an easy banter, and she needs a little of that right now. She still feels like a frayed nerve around the rest of the family, too afraid she’ll screw something up and they’ll see just how broken she is. “You look pretty lucid, all things considered,” she states.

                Graham presses his lips into a firm line, those soft cobalt eyes more haunted than amused.

                “Mr. Gold, Mrs. Gold, please look here!”

                She flinches at the technically correct but strangely stated titles.

                Graham’s lip quirks up and he is almost back to his old self. He nods toward the camera. “Quick, smile pretty.”

                She blinks and wants to smack him or something to get him all the way back, but instead does as asked.

                She feels eyes on her as the camera flashes, and she turns her head to find one of the relatives, Aunt Cora, she thinks, staring daggers at her. Shivers unnervingly light up her spine, and Graham shifts to catch her expression.

                “Oh, don’t worry,” he says matter-of-factly under his breath through gritted smile. “She’s just trying to figure out if you’re a gold-digging whore. Y’know, like my wife.”

                She makes a sound half-way between a giggle and a snort, shaking her head with the realization that he is probably drunker than she first assumed. “Don’t let her catch you saying such flattering things,” she admonishes, teasing in her tone.

                Graham smirks and the back of his hand brushes hers as he gives a mock wave in the direction of his wife, who is currently staring down her nose disapprovingly at them. “Oh, she knows exactly how I feel about her,” he says coolly.

                Her brow knits a second and she’s a moment away from pressing further before she remembers: pictures. She smiles once more, but ponders his statement a little. Truly, there seems no love lost between Graham and his icy wife. She wonders what put it there. She’d never met the woman before today. Graham … he seems to be completely sickened by her presence. With how distant Milah and Rupert are from each other as well, she wonders if it is just the strain of the very institution of marriage.

                Neal and her will never be like that, she vows silently.

                Neal didn’t seem suited to the Gold legacy when she first met him, even though he stands to inherit it all. He had been distant from his entire family, except Graham, for almost two years. She guesses that’s what drew her to him in the first place. His outsider-status met up with hers, even if his wealth put them on different tiers. Now she sees just how nicely her groom meshes with the station and tradition. He is laughing with his sister and mother, easy smile on his face. His family loves him, and he fits.

                She wants to fit, too.

                It had been a whirlwind of only three months, and now his ring sat on her finger as he welcomed her to the higher echelon. She didn’t care about the money, but the big, traditional, perfect family … that was something.

                Now that she sees them all together, she can see that Graham, on the other hand, still doesn’t seem to belong. The alcoholism aside, his features and mannerisms and personality are just intrinsically different, enough to be noticeable. And the way the rest of them interact with him: distant, cool. He is definitely the black sheep.

                Neal had said that his brother takes after his mother, and that was the problem. Rupert Gold had married three times, but Milah was both first and last. His lovely second wife Belle had died just after their wedding, from what Emma understood. Graham had been lucky enough to be born just before it, though scandalously just after the first divorce was finalized, as Neal would whisper with a grin.  

                She idly wonders if Graham thinks it an insult the way his wife seems to blend into the darkly pristine family.

                She won’t put a strain on their relationship by mentioning how much she likes that difference in Graham, and how vaguely disappointed she is that she doesn’t see it anymore in Neal.

                “You look beautiful, by the way,” he whispers.

                She looks up, but he isn’t looking at her. He still looks sad, and she wonders if it is just the drinking. She ignores the way the compliment bolsters her. “Thanks. You’d clean up nicely, if you’d lay off the whiskey for a bit.”

                He huffs a laugh that doesn’t meet his eyes. “Well, guess you’d just have to imagine, then.”

                She poses for the last couple pictures, and doesn’t startle when he takes her hand for a few. Part of her remembers the warm feeling when they’d first locked eyes, and how her grip on Neal had faltered. She remembers the easy way they meshed, the silences that were a little heavier and more meaningful than they should be.

                She loves Neal. She is married to him. She will spend her life with him.

                She needs to stop thinking about his brother.

  *

                  “Your little school-boy crush is starting to wear thin.”

                Graham doesn’t glance up at his wife, and instead continues watching his brother and his new bride posing for the last photos. He doesn’t rise to her bait, though irritation flickers through him. He loves Neal. He would never do anything to hurt his older brother, and that includes hiding his affection for his wife. At least, anything that would be considered inappropriate.

                He’s not surprised that she sees it, though; to manipulate someone, you have to know how to read them.

                She sniffs and leans over the terrace, lips pursed. “She’s pretty enough. In that ‘last call at the dive bar’ sort of way.”

                He half rolls his eyes and picks up his drink, finally turning away. He doesn’t need to defend her. Emma is stunning in her wedding gown, just as she has been in leather jackets and blush pink dresses and flannel pajamas.

                He knows he likes her too much. Beyond just the physical attraction that couldn’t be helped, something in her was just … she matched. And she was such a good person, despite the past that she believes makes her unworthy.

                Which is why he is absolutely pissed at his older brother right now.

                He has always loved Neal. He was the only good one in their dominion. The naïve one maybe, but the good one. Graham had bent over backwards to get Neal away from the family, helped him move as far across the country as possible. Helped to remove him from the sacrifices it meant to be a Gold. Even married first, so Neal wouldn’t feel obligated to add to the family line.

                The less they add to this family, the better.

                For him to do all this and Neal to still bring back this beautiful, strong, innocent woman with the intention to be married … he doesn’t know where he went wrong.

                He wishes he were more callous. Maybe he’d have made a move on her, stolen her away, given her another option. He’d seen it once, in her eyes; if he gave her the option, she might have made another decision.

                But he could never do that to Neal, and he could never do that to Emma. Good matched with Good, and he definitely wasn’t that. No, he likely deserves the marriage he has. And Emma deserves much more than any of them.

                He’d hoped Neal would tell her before the wedding. Graham knows he should have told her, too, but he needs Neal to. There’s still has a chance he will; Neal has until midnight to get her out.

                Prove it to me. Prove to me you’re still the good one.

                “She’ll never be one of us, you know,” Regina says, breaking his thoughts. She plucks the drink out of his hand. She takes a swallow, then stares down at her with her penetrating gaze.

                He sneers. “Of course not, dear. She has a soul.”

                Regina certainly does not.

  *

                  Just past midnight, Emma finds herself with a black box in her hands, at the edge of a strangely shaped table, in between her husband and his brother. Across the table, dark eyes measure her up from every angle.

                She swallows and doesn’t jump when the side pocket clicks out, and she quickly scoops up what was inside.

                Emma looks down at the card in her hand, Hide and Seek in a loopy script. She turns the card to show her new family, a smirk on her face. “Seriously?”

                She’s a little taken aback when her husband doesn’t chuckle along with her. Instead, Neal has gone white as a sheet, staring blankly at the card in her hands before his gaze seeks out his father at the head of the table.

                “Everything … okay?” she asks, a little confused.

                “Ah, yeah,” Neal says, and scratches the back of his neck. A stiff smile suddenly plants on his face. “Of course.”

                Mr. Gold rises with a pleased expression and claps his hands together. “Ah, Hide and Seek!”

                The chair creaks beside her and she turns to her new brother-in-law, expecting at least his weird sense of humor, especially in light of the liters of whiskey he’d been ingesting all day. Instead, his face is grim and resigned, the only time Graham has ever refused to look at her.

                Her brow furrows and she shakes her head, wondering if she’s imagining the anticipatory look on the others’ faces. “Are we really going to play that?”

                Gold smirks. “Those are the rules,” he says jovially, tongue trilling against the ‘r’ slightly.

                She was feeling a little ridiculous as she slides the card back and forth between her fingers. She just wants to tear her designer dress with the million layers off, fall into bed with her new husband, and learn what it means to be a married woman. Everyone is looking at her expectantly, though, and she knows she can’t beg off. At least not yet. “So, then … who hides and who seeks?”

                “It’s your initiation, dearie,” Gold says and stands, grabbing his cane along the way to approach her. “You get to be the one to hide.”

                She doesn’t love his tone, the too-eager glint in his eye. She hates this Games room with the animal heads glaring down on her. She hates the designated chair by the fire that no one can sit in. She especially hates feeling everyone staring at her with bated breath (except for Graham, who still can’t look).

                But she guesses she’s playing hide-or-freaking-seek.

                Hopefully the game will be quick.

                She shrugs and follows her father-in-law. “There’s no way to win, then, right?” she asks.

                Rupert grins. “Stay hidden ‘til dawn.”

                She sniggers and shakes her head. “Ah, no thanks. I get a head start?”

                He follows her chuckle, but it seems darker. “Certainly. Count of a hundred.”

                “Oh, wait,” she says before she leaves, and turns back with her champagne to the others. “To Mr.,” oh, what was his name again, “Uh, Deash?”

                They raise their drinks and grin as they toast back, though Graham is staring blurrily at the table. “To Mr. Deash!”

                *

                  She feels numb when Clara falls to the floor, sputtering from a half intact face. Her breaths come sharp, and her fingers are ice cold as Neal grips her hand.

                It could have been her. It should have been her.

                She hears someone skid into the room, triumphantly screeching, “I did it! I got her, Daddy!”

                “Zelena, you shot the maid!” Gold sharply fires back. “And what were you thinking, aiming for the head? She must be alive for the ritual!”

                “Does she look like she’s in a giant wedding gown, Zelena?” Graham’s voice cuts in sardonically from somewhere further away.

                “Oh,” Zelena says, and Emma can hear the frown in it. “Well, it still counts, right?”

                Emma’s breaths sharpen further. Dead. She’s dead. She was right there, and she’s dead.

                She hears not-too-steady footsteps enter the room. “Yeah, let’s be done with this shit,” Graham says, voice tinged with relief.

                “No.” The venomous voice could only be Aunt Cora. “It has to be the bride. Those are the rules.”

                Those are the rules. The bride. Her.

                She doesn’t pay attention to the rest of the clipped jabber. She just knows now that everything she was expecting, the fitting in, the family, is now gone.

                When they leave, dragging the body away, and Neal ushers her into the servants’ corridor, she turns big eyes on him. “What?” she breathes, unable to form any other syllables. She feels sick.

                Neal’s eyebrows jump up. She sees calculation behind his expression before he begins pleading.

                Tradition. They have to kill you by morning. Babe, I’m sorry, but you wanted to get married. If I told you before, you never would have married me.

                The more he explains, the more her heart sinks. She thinks she has already lost all her love for him in those words, even when she tries. She tries to press her lips to his and feel that same passion she’d felt just hours earlier.

                Did you ever love me at all, she wonders, when he leaves her to turn off the security cameras.

                She doesn’t think she wants to know the answer.

                The bottom of the dress rips under her shaking hands, and she stands on sneakered feet. Stay hidden ‘til dawn, right? Neal is helping her escape. That has to count for something.

  *

                  When she enters the study, she is alone. The fire is roaring, and she hides behind a column as she tries to listen out for the Golds. She took a wrong turn or something. She needs to find the service kitchen, wait for Neal to disable the security system.

                What she doesn’t expect is the hidden door at her side opening, Graham coming face to face with her.

                Her chest is rising and falling rapidly, and she knows she must have a crazed look in her eyes.

                His sister just murdered someone, and she thought it was her. This family is trying to kill her.

                Graham’s face is surprised, to be sure, but strangely impassive. His tie is undone and he is holding the strap of a shotgun over his shoulder. He hesitates a beat, and then steps into the room.

                “I just came to get a drink,” he mumbles, and moves slowly to the pool table.

                She can’t steady her breathing, but something in her relaxes. Graham. Her Graham, he tried to tell her, didn’t he? Not too late to flee. He’ll help her. She knows it.

                He crosses to where the open bottle of Wild Turkey is resting. He blinks, lashes skirting across his cheek, and doesn’t look at her as he pours a fifth of bourbon into a crystal glass. “I have to call the others,” he says softly, his accent pooling regretfully around the words.

                “No, Graham, no. You don’t,” she whispers forcefully. Her nails dig into the wallpaper, refusing to move. “No, Graham, please. You can help me.”

                He sighs, such resignation in his whole body. He takes off the gun and leaves it on the table. “This doesn’t end well for you.” He pours a separate glass. “I just don’t want to be the one to serve you up.” He holds it out in offer.

                She is glued to the wall, and her eyes widen even more. No. Graham … he likes her. She can see it all the time. She had almost coaxed the words from him once, in a too-cramped almost-inappropriate space when she had wanted to hear it. Even if he won’t admit it, he likes her. And it’s not just some creepy ‘lusting for his brother’s girlfriend/wife’ situation. It’s real. He likes her. “Graham,” she says forcefully. He’s drunk. He needs to snap out of it. “I’m begging you.”

                He stares downward, the glare of flames flicking across his face and highlighting the perspiration coated over his angular features. He briefly looks at her, before turning his gaze to the painting of his father on the wall. “I’m really sorry about all this,” he says mournfully. “I can give you a ten second head start.”

                She inhales sharply. No. “Graham.”

                He refuses to look at her, but he also refuses to count.

                She wants to scream and shake him. She almost does, but changes her mind last minute. Fuck this, fuck him, fuck everyone. Does she actually know anyone? She runs out the door.

                “One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Two and a half one-thousand.”

                The numbers fade as her sneakers pound against the polished floors, as fast as her feet can carry her. Is he really going to call them to her?

                “She’s in the study!”

  *

                  Regina rushes in with her gun on the ready, but slumps when she only sees her drunken husband.

                “You lost her?!” she exclaims, disgust in her tone.

                Graham swirls the alcohol in his glass and barely nods. He doesn’t look at Regina, bile filling his throat. He swallows it down with the liquor. He sighs. “Indeed.”

                Regina lowers her gun and sneers derisively at him. “You’re pathetic.”

                He raises his empty glass in a toast and nods sharply. “Indeed.” He rises and walks to the decanter, not even glancing back at his wife.

                “You failed. And do you know what happens when you fail, Graham?” He says nothing, and she sets her hands on her hips. “Can you at least pretend to care?”

                He pours another drink and squeezes one hand into a fist. “Do you remember,” he begins, and makes sure his glass full. “When I told you about this?”

                Regina pulls her shoulders back, dark eyes gleaming with loathing.

                He wants to laugh but refrains, and his smile is feral. “You didn’t even blink. You couldn’t wait to sign your soul away.”

                Regina had wormed her way into his life, through lies and guilt and ploys and outright blackmail. But he’d prepared her, told her everything about his family and the game they’d have to play for her to be part of them. He’d told her of the chance, the possibility that they’d hunt her down, sacrifice her to the God of the Underworld to retain their wealth.

                There had been more than a small part of him that hoped she’d pull the wrong card, and he could admit to a flicker of disappointment when she’d pulled chess instead.

                The game has only been drawn twice in his lifetime. He’d only seen it in action once, too young for the actual participation, but he knows full-well what happened that night. Even still, he had hoped to see that loopy script when Regina had turned her card over.

                He knows, ultimately, that he could never be the one to end her, even if he had been prepared to see it through. Maybe that’s why he’s resigned himself to being locked to the woman for life; penance for his past deeds and dark wishes.

                He isn’t prepared to see it through for Emma.

                Regina smiles, cold and sure. “I’d rather be dead than go back to what I was. And you, the fuck-up-lesser-Gold, were an easy out.”

                “Love you, too, honey,” he says sarcastically. Then, with more conviction, he levels his gaze on her. “She doesn’t deserve to die.”

                “That’s not your decision.”

                He chuckles and swallows back his drink. “I hope she kills us all.”

  *

                  “Well, she’s out,” Milah says flatly, watching the dark of the garden from her window.

                Graham smirks and places his gun on the table. “Ah, so. It’s been fun. What do you say, we divvy up the wedding gifts at brunch tomorrow?”

                “Do you think this is a game?!”

                He is slammed into the wall by his father, and he has a flash of fear before he settles back into the detachment. Rupert Gold is usually in control, cold and horrific, perhaps, but rarely quick to act. He sees a sort of madness in his gaze now, and wonders just how far he can push it. He stares into his father’s eyes and can’t help but bite out, “yeah. Hide and Seek, right?”

                He pushes him again and Milah only looks on with her deep green eyes. She pities him, maybe, but she doesn’t speak up. He is not her son, and he is certainly not her golden child.

                Neal and Zelena walk through the door, called by the commotion.

                “Don’t you realize, boy?” Rupert bites out. He gestures to the window. “If she lives until dawn, we all die!”

                He smirks, and shakes his head. He looks to Neal, trying to see if he can discern how safe Emma is by his expression alone. Neal refuses to look at him, and Graham prickles. “That’s what we deserve.”

                Gold levels him with a cold stare. “I want you out of the way. Go take the bodies to the pit.”

                “Zelena, go with him,” Milah urges. Not surprising, since his little sister is the reason the two maids are dead.

                “Ah, clean up duty for the fuck-ups,” Graham mutters, and wonders if he should drink more. He’d probably feel a hell of a lot less. It’s certainly an attractive option when what you feel sucks.

                “But—Daddy,” Zelena whines, but he shushes her.

                “Listen to your mother,” he says dismissively to his youngest, but places a hand on her shoulder and guides her out of the room. “And dearie? Try not to kill anyone else along the way.”

                Graham closes his eyes, wondering if ‘sickened but not surprised’ is his usual state with this family. When they open, his brother is staring. He nods to him, lips in a firm line. Neal will help keep the others away. Emma will get the chance to escape.

                Maybe he actually didn’t fuck it up this time.

  *

                  “Do you really believe that?”

                Graham turns his head to his sister, away from the body of the woman she killed. He feels completely impassive, and he knows without follow-up what she is asking. “Yes,” he says simply, and lugs the body into the pit. “We deserve to die. All of us.”

                “No,” Zelena says roughly. “I don’t. My kids don’t. My kids don’t deserve to die, Graham.”

                For the first time, conflict stirs in him. He considers it a long moment.

                He loves his nephews.

                He doesn’t doubt the curse is real, so, yes, they deserve to be destroyed, all of these damn adults. Generations of this game has passed, and their debt is long overdue.

                But what about the boys? Felix is nine, and Peter is only seven. They are innocent in all this.

                And yet, so is Emma.

                He sighs, unable to say anything to his sister’s point. Then, there is a rustling from one of the stalls. “Peter?” he calls, watching as his nephew pulls himself from the hay, swaying, a welt over his right eye.

                “Peter, baby, what are you doing up?” Zelena cries, and kneels next to him. She rests a hand on his forehead, inspecting the forming bruise.

                “I followed her here,” he says proudly. He lifts his chin. “I shot her with the gun I found.”

                “You—what?” Graham stutters, his blood freezing, horrified. What was Peter thinking? Is she already gone? His mouth goes slack, and he doesn’t know how to process this. He’s seven. “Why would you do that?”

                He frowns and pouts. “That’s what you all were trying to do!”

                Zelena grins and hugs him to her. “Oh, baby, I’m so proud of you.”

                “I’m so proud of you, Graham.”

                He is instantly six years old, shaking and frightened, Milah’s hand on his cheek. Neal is behind him, safe and locked in the closet. He can only stare as his new uncle is dragged into the Games room by his father and grandfather, his screams echoing off the walls. He catches a flash of the man with the blue-flamed hair in the chair by the fire, and his Aunt Cora is drying tears off her cheeks as she abruptly straightens, grip on the dagger tightening by the side of her satin skirt.

                He hadn’t cared, had he? He had seen the bolt lodged in his uncle’s stomach, had heard him begging him to keep quiet. And yet, Graham had still called for the others, told them where he was.

                He let them sacrifice him. It was his fault.

                It was the only time Milah had shown any gentle affection towards him, just like now is the only time he’s seen his sister with any maternal instinct.

                His stomach churns violently, and he has to look away.

                What shade of fucked up is his family?

                “Graham, Zelena!” he flinches at the sound of his father bellowing. “Get back to the house. We’re going to need to start the ritual. Sidney’s found her and is bringing her back.”

                *

                  It’s closer to dawn, she thinks. The stars are still visible and it’s still dark out, but it’s been dark for hours.

                All things considered, she’s been productive if not successful in her attempts to escape.

                She has managed to crash a pot of boiling tea over the butler’s head so she could break out the kitchen door. She has managed to sock that little shit Peter in the face after he shot a hole in her palm. She has managed to crawl out of a pit of dead goats and human skeletons, a nail through her injured hand for her efforts. She has managed to tear through the wrought iron gate and run to the street with only a ripped slash through her side, even if the only result was a tirade of swears at the damned fucker that didn’t stop his car for her. She’s even managed to wake from the tranquilizer dart Sidney hit her with, managed to flip his car into the woods.

                She certainly hopes it’s closer to dawn, with all the shit she’s been through.

                Her head is throbbing as rips herself from the wreck, and feels herself scream more than she actually completes the action.

                Fucking Sidney.

                She has a half second to breathe before there is a rustle in the trees.

                Shockingly, it’s Graham. He is stumbling a bit, hand on his shotgun, cobalt eyes wide in the glare of the headlights. He pauses, and takes in the scene. “Déjà vu,” he says, exasperated.

                “Graham,” she replies, breathless.

                He shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know, I came out here to get away from the madness, to get some peace and quiet. Thanks for crashing into it. Kinda shocked, given your shy, delicate sensibilities.”

                “Graham,” she repeats, uneasy smile crossing her face. She can’t even respond to his lame attempt at humor. She remembers the swell of affection that could have been more and knows she isn’t wrong about him. She knows she isn’t. “You don’t want to kill me.”

                He pauses and looks at her seriously, suddenly very sober. His gun is still pointed down, nowhere near facing her. “No, I don’t.” He looks distressed. He shakes his head. “I like you, Emma.”

                He admits it, for the first time. She blinks back tears, and she fleetingly wonders what may have happened if he admitted it before she was married. All his thinly veiled warnings are suddenly clear in hindsight, and she wishes so hard that she had pressed for more detail, either from him or from Neal. She reaches forward, and then immediately drops her hand. “So … so, let me go.” She nods, he will, he likes her. “Okay?”

                “I’m weak,” he says with such conviction, something he’s obviously been told a million times over. He shuts his eyes and gives a short shake. He raises the gun. “I can’t.”

                Her blood runs cold.

                “You’re a good guy, Graham,” she says vehemently, pleadingly. He is, isn’t he? Always. An alcoholic, a little dorky, but good. Glaringly, exceedingly good, she’s felt that. “You’re a really, really, really good guy,” she continues, as if trying to convince him of it.

                “It’s the curse. I—I can’t let my entire family die because of you,” he says earnestly.

                “What, Graham, no. That’s – you can’t really believe that’s true! No one is going to die. It’s bullshit. This whole curse, the whole ritual, its bullshit!”

                “No, it’s not, Emma. I’ve seen it,” he says plainly.

                She wants to rip her hair out and scream in his face. “You’re better than this, Graham!” she argues.

                He looks pained, then almost angry. “I am not who you think I am.”

                She swallows, but doesn’t dare take a step back.

                He chuckles humorlessly and rolls his eyes up. “Neal was the one who got out. If anyone was to save you, it wouldn’t be me. It would have been him.” He stares at her, and his deep eyes are swimming with tears that don’t dare fall. “Just ask my wife. She’ll tell you how heartless I am.”

                The muzzle is at her shoulder, but he isn’t pulling the trigger, and the kick of the powerful weapon would put the bullet in the trees anyway. It’s as if he’s afraid to hurt her. It’s ridiculous, to be fair: she is hurt enough, blood loss making her faintly dizzy, and the dress that she had painstakingly chosen is ripped and stained with violence and dirt and smells strongly of past sacrifices, and that’s not even mentioning that his whole family is trying to kill her. “Graham,” she tries, one last time. “You have a heart.”

                He shakes his head, so utterly mournful.

                Then the shotgun swings instead of fires, and she almost welcomes the blackness.

  *

                  He looks down at the blood-splattered bride, chest heaving. She almost looks peaceful, and he wonders how she can still look so lovely after all that has happened. He swallows thickly, and wishes that things were different. He wishes he was different. But he can’t take the time to consider any of it. His shoulders slump. “You can come out now.”

                His father moves around the trees, looking surprised. He is leaning on his cane, but he doesn’t limp despite the uneven terrain. “You knew I was there?” he asks.

                Graham barely shows his teeth as he puts his gun back over his shoulder. “I’m drunk, not blind.”

                His father grins, shiny and manic, and looks down at Emma. “I do apologize if I startled you during such an … intense conversation, son.”

                He says nothing, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He’s been in this family long enough; he knows when to shut up and play his part.

                “You did well, for once. Let’s bring her back for the ritual.” Rupert pulls out a coin, heads or tails, to determine how to drag her back up to the house.

                Graham shakes his head and pulls her up in his arms, letting her head rest against his chest. She settles against his heart, her breaths only slightly labored. Her left hand is wrapped in lace, dripping blood, and a gash is visible on her side. He presses his lips together, subconsciously pulling her tighter to him. He grimaces and looks up at his father. “Tradition, right?”

                Gold stares at him a long moment, that deep stare that says he is not seeing his child but someone else. “You’re doing the right thing, son. I always knew you had it in you.”

                Graham raises his brow and gives him a long look but says nothing.

                His father could never lie so well.

    *

                                  She wakes on the table where the game started.

                She is lashed, ropes tied at all limbs. She pulls, and fights against the bonds, but she is properly strapped down and can’t squirm enough to get any leverage. A muffled scream tears through her, and she knows that she is trapped.

                All the Golds stand above her, save Neal. They are cloaked in hooded robes, the patriarch chanting something in Latin. They look unnatural, not the people she’d seen earlier today and had been so willing to let into her heart, flaws and all. These couldn’t be the same people that were going to be her family.

                A silver chalice is being passed around, and she watches as Regina licks a thick line of dark red blood from her lips with anticipatory delight across her face; she looks the most eager to see her dead.

                She finds Graham’s eyes in the midst of it all. They look hollow, the depth of them suddenly endless. He brings the chalice to his mouth, and doesn’t break his stare before it is passed along.

                She wants to scream again around the gag in her mouth, but the ache in her chest says more.

                She had believed in him. Even more than Neal, she had believed in Graham. That realization breaks her heart more than anything else.

                What’s worse is some traitorous part of her that is still screaming to believe in him.

                Gold’s chanting is reaching a crescendo, a call and response from the others. He begins to raise the dagger above his head, and thunders, “hail Hades!”

                Graham is watching with dark eyes, suddenly a bit of life in them. She has only a moment to register it before Gold bubbles up with vomit, blood staining down his fancy clothing. Milah quickly follows suit, and the rest grab their bellies, eyes wide.

                “Poisoned!” Cora shouts accusingly before she doubles over herself.

                “You son of a bitch,” Gold growls under his gagging.

                Graham smirks as he unlaces her binds, and barely ducks away from the weakened swing of his father’s last ditch effort to punch out at him. Everyone else is still retching, diving into corners to keep away from the ceremonial table.

                She goes to work as soon as her hand is free, helping loosen her injured arm as he moves to the ankles.

                He helps her up with an embrace around her waist, hoisting her until she is steady on her feet and they are both running.

                “Did you …?” she asks breathlessly. Did he just kill his family for her?

                He shakes his head. “No, I just gave them a nip. I googled it. They’ll shit weird for a week, but they’ll live.” He pulls her into an enclave beside the staircase and they crouch down to listen for the rest as she watches one of the hooded figures run through the hall, gagging as he went.

                She stares at him, heart tugging. Soft locks curl across his forehead and she has an urgent need to sweep them back. Instead, she smiles. “I knew you’d help me,” she whispers.

                He looks back down at her, as if looking at her for the first time. His face softens, warms, and she falls a little in love with him. “I didn’t,” he replies softly.

                She shakes her head and smiles at him. “See? You have a heart.”

                He cracks a small smile back to her, more genuine than any before it. He shrugs. “All I knew was that someone, at some point, had to burn it all down.”

                She takes a sharp breath, and looks down at her injured hand, wrapped up in lace.

                “I’m glad it’ll be you,” he whispers.

                She’s in his space, gaze locked with his. She wants to tell him that she’s glad it’s him, that he’s the only one with a soul in this damn family, that she wishes she met him first, something.

                He closes his eyes and chuckles slightly, and carefully takes her broken hand in his. “I would have never married you.”

                Maybe it’s the most romantic thing she’s heard in her life.

                *

                    It doesn’t matter.

                In the end, it doesn’t matter that she thinks they made a wrong decision.

                They turn the corner, on the way to the exit, and Regina is at the ready, a gun in her hands.

                Emma freezes, and Graham moves quicker than either woman can think, quickly trading places with her.

                “Graham,” Regina utters harshly, accusation and anger on her breath, dark hair matted to the side of her face.

                Graham shifts quickly, carefully, to block her fully from the brunette’s aim with his body. She disappears behind him, and Emma leans back against the door frame, feeling exhausted and panicked, and she wants so much not to fight any more. She just wants out.

                “Regina, Regina, no,” he demands, though his tone loses its edge with the desperation behind it.           

                “Move,” she demands. Regina stares a long moment, and shakes her head as she glares at her husband. “She has to die.”

                “No,” he repeats and holds one hand out as if the action itself could stop her. “Things have to change, Regina.”

                “You’re leaving me for her.” Regina’s eyes damn with realization. “You really don’t care if I live or die.”

                He holds up his hands, and takes a step forward. “You really don’t have to—“

                The shot rings out and the bullet clips through his neck. Emma isn’t even sure if she cries out as he stumbles to the ground.

                All she knows is that she is enraged, and she leaps forward before Regina has the chance to pull the trigger again. Three shots fire harmlessly into the walls and ceiling before Emma gains control. Coldly, she turns the barrel back to Regina and pulls the hammer. It clicks hollowly, out of bullets, and Regina lunges, but Emma is faster. She slams her with the pistol once, twice until she is on the ground.

                She raises her chin, proud, until she hears a choked gasp behind her. She spins and the gun clatters. "Graham.”

                She falls beside him, fingers going to the thick, warm blood pumping from his neck. She can feel the life draining out of him. “No, Graham!” she says, panicking.

                He has just the right amount of worry, of love still in his eyes but he can barely speak beyond the blood filling his lungs. “Go.”

                “Graham,” she cries, and presses harder. Maybe if she keeps the pressure.

                He weakly grasps her wrist and tugs. “Go,” he chokes out again, barely able to make out the syllable.

                She nods once, hot tears spilling over her cheeks. “Thank you,” she cries and leans her forehead against his. She wobbles to her feet, forcing herself to remember the danger. She leaves him behind.

                She doesn’t look back, but feels like part of her is missing when she rounds the corner.

                So of course that’s when she sees Milah, barely ducking away from the arrow shot her direction. “You don’t deserve this family,” she grinds out, colder than she’s ever been.

                It’s not near over. And now every cell in her body is demanding that she fight.

  *

                  Neal’s face is … lost.

                Emma watches as he approaches her, her good hand soaked with the mixed blood of his mother and Graham and her own. She is still panting, feeling crazy. She drops the box on the ground, and it clatters loudly next to Milah’s body.

                She rises, but doesn’t walk towards her husband. “Neal … I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” It was deserved, but she did just kill his mother.

                But he doesn’t look towards the smashed ruin of his mother’s face. He is like a lost little boy as he aimlessly steps forward. “Yeah, I’m sorry, too,” he says weakly. His eyes shine with tears. “Graham’s dead.”         

                She stares, wondering if it hurts worse to have seen him dying or to have his demise confirmed now.

                Neal finally looks at his mother, and he shakes his head a little. “You won’t be with me after this, will you?”

                She feels stricken. No. Of course not. Your family is trying kill me, and Graham was the only one really helping and now he’s dead. But she doesn’t answer, not sure where he’s going with this.

                He takes a step forward, and cups her cheek in his hand. She wants to remember what it was like, to feel loved by him, but leaning into it does not make her feel that warmth.

                Cobalt eyes and a gentle squeeze was more than she had ever felt with Neal.

                But maybe this is goodbye, and he is letting her escape like he has promised all through the night, and he is letting her go.

                But then his other hand reaches to her other cheek, and he presses. Hard. Harder.

                “Neal, Neal, you’re hurting me,” she hisses out.

                She watches the exact moment he changes, and he flips around, holding her tight to him. “She’s in here!”

  *

                  This time, there are no hoods. No bindings. No gag.

                Somehow it is even worse to see Neal standing above her, chanting, in the remains of his tuxedo, Graham’s blood splattered across the white of his expensive dress shirt.

                She is held down by the remaining family, even Zelena’s two boys have taken hold of her leg. She should be weak with blood loss, but when she sees Neal raise the dagger, ready to pierce through her heart, she gets the sudden energy to move and the dagger plunges through her shoulder instead.

                She barely registers the pain, too much in too short of time, all on the same damn arm, and she uses the leverage and the shock to yank it out of her. She leaps onto her feet and turns on the family with it raised in challenge.

                She thinks Gold looks the most surprised, mouth open and eyes wide.

                “But—“

                She screams in rage, poising the weapon at a better angle. The family all look perplexed, and Neal’s face is still colored in frenzy.

                “Dawn!” Cora calls suddenly, and they all look out the window in fear.

                The light of day falls on them all, and they cower for a moment until … nothing.

                “Nothing?” Victor asks, then looks around. He points to his wife in accusation and self-righteousness, and Zelena only cowers over the kids. “I knew this was all bullshit!”

                “What do we do with her, then?” Regina bites in.

                Rupert looks confused, and glances to his sister with a shrug of bewilderment.

                Cora shakes. “I know it’s too late, but I won’t fail him. The girl still dies!” she screams and raises her axe.

                And she immediately explodes.

                Emma begins to laugh. She feels like she can’t do anything else as she watches as one by one the family just … combusts. She is soaked with blood and viscera, and can’t stop the hysterical laughter escaping her. Victor, Zelena, Rupert.

                It is an extra feeling of righteousness to see Regina burst after she pathetically pleads for her old life. Emma’s eyes close as she grins at the justice in it.

                Was this winning?

                “Emma, no, Emma.”

                She turns to her husband, the only one left.

                His eyes are wide, crazed, pleading. “No, Emma, I don’t want to die.”

                “Neither did I, you selfish fuck,” she bites out.

                “No, see, you made me better! And—and he’s not taking me! Don’t you see? We can leave together! I can get a do over, and it’s because of you, right?”

                “Oh, Neal,” she says and shakes her head. For the first time since the game began, she feels pity for him. He looks pathetic. She slips off her rings. “I want a divorce.”

                He explodes as soon as the platinum hits him, but she barely looks. She braces herself on the table, and wonders if she should feel more than this … numb.

                She survived. But this doesn’t feel like winning.

                She stumbles out of the room, and then falls, cross-legged, into the middle of the floor. Graham’s body is still in the hallway, hand slack at his neck. She stares a long moment, then crawls to him, cradling her useless arm to her chest.

                He looks asleep, save for the drying blood across his cheek and half-hidden under his fingers. She pushes back the hair on his forehead. “Thank you,” she whispers again, and tears track down to cut through the gore on her face. She has saved herself, ultimately, but would she had even gotten this far without his help?

                “Graham … you have a heart. You’re the only one in your family to claim that,” she says, and brushes back his hair soothingly. She can’t do anything more than that, wrath and betrayal and pain hidden beneath the actual sorrow she feels as she looks down on his face.

                She hears footsteps shadow her into the hall, the smell of ash and sulfur following. She looks up, and there is a figure with blue-flame hair and a nasty grin.

                She stares at him blankly a heavy beat. “Mr. Deash, I presume?”

                His grin widens, and he looks down at the wrecked body in her arms, considering. “Want to play another game?”

  *

                  She wakes back in the Games room, card flimsy but solid in her hand. Her dress is pristine, lace sleeves intact and pure white again. Neal is beside her, Zelena and Victor opposite, Gold at the head, Milah smiling at his side, Regina cool and sneering.

                She looks up, and lastly catches Graham’s eye next to her.

                He has that look, that look of dread and realization, but he is looking at her this time.

                “Emma—“

                “Oh, Hide and Seek!” Rupert exclaims.

                She stands, grateful not to wobble, and squeezes her left hand open and shut a few times. “Those are the rules, right?”

                Her mouth forms a firm line. She will put on a show for Hades, but she will right her wrongs. She’ll win this time.

                Fuck you, Mr. Deash.

  *

                  When the hidden door opens in the study, she is ready.

                She fists her hands in the collar of his shirt and pulls him close. “You remember,” she accuses.

                He swallows visibly and nods.

                “You die,” she says.

                “Yeah,” he answers.

                “They die,” she admits, unsure if he knows. He was gone before it happened. “Neal tries to complete it. I escape. I live ‘til dawn, and they all die.”

                He looks down at her, cobalt eyes catching the reflection of the flames. “Yeah.”

                There is silence a few beats. It feels like a final question. He had been ready to save her before he knew that his family – his parents, his sister, the boys, Neal – they all would die violently. Would he still be willing to save her knowing that they will be wiped out?

                He shakes his head, haunted. “He should have told you before he asked.”

                She nods, quick to agree. They could have avoided this whole night if Neal had told her before he bent on one knee, and they could have all made it out in one piece. “Yeah. You could have tried better to, too, you know.”

                He barely nods, though she can see some doubt in him. “He was always better than me. I wanted to give him a chance.”

                She waits through the heavy silence, grip unfaltering in the heavy fabric of his dress shirt.

                He swallows visibly, and leans down fractionally. “We need to get you out of here,” he says softly.

                She feels her heart twist and swell, affection swirling in her belly. She steps on tiptoes to press a kiss, solid and firm, on his lips, like she hadn’t the chance to the loop before. She falls back to watch his face.

                He is stiff a moment before he takes in a ragged breath, and then his hands press at the small of her back, over untarnished lace and silk, as he yanks her lips to his again, holding her close as he deepens the kiss to shape something more desperate and longing.

                “Do you need a divorce,” he ponders when they part. “When your wife murders you?”

                She inhales and exhales a short laugh. “I don’t know. Do you need one when your husband tries to sacrifice you to Hades?”

                His winces, mirth suddenly gone from his face. She supposes it still feels wrong; he put Neal up on a pedestal for so long, his perfect older brother. She closes her eyes and rests her head on his chest, hoping he takes the apology for what it was.

                “I still wouldn’t marry you,” he murmurs over her head.

                “I wouldn’t marry you,” she counters and peers up with him. She rests her hand over where he bled out, rubbing softly against the whole, unblemished skin. “But I’d be willing to spend some lifetime with you. Like, a lot of it.”

                He smiles at her so gently, and takes her left hand in his, skipping past her rings and brushing over where her bullet wound had been. “First we have to win.”

                Oh, right.

                Murder-family.

                Need to deal with that first.

  *

                  This time, they watch the sun rise over the trees together, on the steps of the sprawling mansion. They share a bottle of scotch, passed back and forth between bloodied hands. She lets him mourn, and she allows herself to mourn a little, too. She can’t cry yet, and she suspects that he can’t quite manage either. It’s fine; they have time.

                She expects they’ll be doing a lot of that: mourning. Shared trauma has a reputation for being long-term.

                 “Shouldn’t I have combusted at this point?” he asks artlessly as he squints into the daylight.

                She sniffs and shakes her head. “That wasn’t the deal,” she answers simply.

                He rests backwards onto the steps with one arm draped over his eyes and coughs hoarsely. He has a bullet hole in his shoulder now, but she likes it a hell of a lot better than one in his neck. “You didn’t tell me why we got a do-over,” he says without accusation.

                She takes a final gulp and then settles next to him. She tugs an arm over his stomach and pulls her body inward, and he takes her automatically closer. She rests her head over his heart and presses her injured hand over his wound. “I didn’t sell my soul, if that’s what you’re asking,” she says dryly.

                He laughs, deep and effortless, and then rocks his forehead on her temple. Sirens scream in the distance, slowly approaching, but neither of them pay it any mind. “Ah, my guess would have been the first-born.”

                She snorts and sighs. She looks up at him, catching his dark blue eyes made darker with the blood of his family covering his face. She uses her thumb to smear off some on his cheek, as delicately as she is able. For all the horror of it, he’s here. So all she can offer is a shrug. “He likes the game. It gave him a second chance to be entertained, which he wouldn’t have had with all the Golds dead.”

                “And you? You won. Why play it again, risk it again?”

                She sits back up and he half follows, leaning up on his good arm.

                It’s a fair question.

                She’s a little worse and a little better this time. Her leg is sliced open from the swing of Cora’s axe, but her side is unscathed. Her hand is still blown through and she still has the wound in her shoulder, mirroring his almost exactly, but she’s without any head injuries from the car crash. Things didn’t happen quite the same, and it was indeed a major risk.

                She stares down at a ring hand that never had time to leave a tan line. “Surviving at this level is different, obviously, but surviving isn’t new for me. All my life, I’ve learned how to survive,” she says softly. She turns to him and sees the light and life in his eyes, and she smiles. “But this time I wanted to save, too.”

                His eyebrows shoot up, and she can read every bit of why me in his gaze without him saying a word.

                “You saved me. I wanted to save you back,” she asserts softly.

                He grabs her hand and pulls her back down into his embrace, waiting for the storm of police to invade the lawn. “That make you my Savior?”

                “Might make you mine,” she counters, and he grins and pulls her down for a kiss laced with iron.

                Maybe she’s found her family after all.

*

                It starts of dreams of warm.

               He wakes, puzzled, wondering why his skin feels sun-kissed whilst in the depths of his tent, in the middle of a snow-filled forest. The strange feeling lingers, through all wind-swept days and bitter nights. It goes like this for days.

               He doesn’t often dream. That’s not exactly true; he has dreams now and then, but they are more memories tied with his fears. The peace he gets from sleep is from the dreamless nights, and the best are when she is in his arms and he doesn’t have the need to dream at all. This is why it has been disconcerting these past few weeks in the middle of a battlefield, his subconscious mind slowly blurring strange visions for him to ponder through in the daytime.

               After awhile, the dreams evolved. They had shaped into feelings, contented and soft and loved. Foggy and unnatural but comforting, he had woken to the feeling that something intangible was slipping through his fingers. It is similar to when he reaches for her; something about her magic makes her presence available for his to seek even from a distance. So, he will wake and connect with her, feeling her search for him in turn, and it is almost the feeling he has when asleep.

               But not quite.

He’s spent days fighting as if he were fighting for that feeling. He sought the connection to her that lays deep within him as he drifted to sleep, comparing. At least with this he can always feel her safety and he can be contented with that. The dreams are close, indeed, enough to know they connect to her, but not the same. There was something he was missing in being separated from her physically.

               Slowly, the visions shaped, hazy at first. Always the same, never quite reachable. Greenry and warmth, the smell of dew, and above all else love. It makes him yearn for sleep during the day when all he finds in the light is bloodshed and anger.

               Last night had been the clearest yet. Again, he found himself at the riverbed that Emma loves. He used to associate it with Fionn, with his childhood. Now, he sees her smile and her mussed curls and her sparkling eyes whenever he imagines it. It is no wonder that he sees blonde whenever this place appears, but his vision had finally cleared to full view.

There had been the small blonde child on its banks, just as there had been all time times before. She was in a pale yellow dress in expensive fabrics, colors of the earth painting the hem as she fished rocks from the mud and then laid in the tall grasses and wildflowers, the sweet sound of her laughter muted by the rustling wind and flowing river. He had thought her to be Emma in all his other dreams; perhaps imagining her as she was, in an innocent time, a fleeting wish against the death and destruction of battle. But finally on this night he could see that her eyes did not match, not the same chin nor the same nose. But as she stretched her arms out to reach for him, her smile … it was Emma’s smile exactly.

               He stumbles to his feet, breaths hard as he glances wildly around the empty tent. He sucks in a deep breath and braces against the table next to his cot. He is no stranger to magic, but he has never had it touch on him this way before. It is pure but fragile, its fingerprint barely noticeable but enough that he is sure it is not just fantasy.  

               He is certain, as much as if he had been told. The child … the child is Emma’s. Emma is pregnant.

               He waits, his face wet with tears as he blinks rapidly, grappling with the knowledge. He inhales a long breath, and he waits for the regret and guilt to fill him.

The things are inevitable, right? After all, he’s put Emma, put this precious child, in danger just by allowing the treason to go on for so long. It is his fault for allowing it, for continuing to love his princess and to lose himself in her as often as he did. He should have known better, to insist on the distance and let her find someone more suited. It is what he’s been sure of through the entirety of their relationship: that though he loves her with every fiber of himself, theirs is not one for a happy ending. Now that he has given her a child, something to tie her to him for life, he must feel guilt.

               Instead, he feels as a softer, outlandish feeling makes his heart swell. Theirs. They created someone new out of themselves. No matter what happens to him next, there will be a little girl that is half of him, that is half of her. The part of his soul that can feel Emma can now recognize the tiny imprint of their child as well.  

               She must know now, too, must’ve known well before. It has been at least ten weeks since they last saw each other, and she must be at least that long pregnant if not further. How must’ve she reacted? Do her parents know well by now, would they know of him? The last thought should snap his focus, but instead he warms. He pictures how Emma must look, how her belly must round to accommodate their baby, and his heart squeezes.

               A smile crosses his face, slow and steady, and he trickles out a laugh as more tears slide down his face. He is happy. For all he shouldn’t be, he is happy.

               He hears a distant shout from outside, followed by a quick burst of laughter, and he sobers immediately. Right. It is morning. The men are awake and preparing for another round of battle. The men he leads that hate him, fighting against the men that believe in Regina.

               He growls to himself and drags his hand over his face. He suddenly feels a dagger of worry pierce him: Snow’s progeny. His daughter … she will be Snow’s granddaughter, the stuff of prophecy. Regina will use everything in her powers to be sure that child will never be born, will hurt Emma to see to it.

               White-hot rage piques within him, until he cannot see straight. His feelings of happiness are covered by the instinct to protect, to eliminate all that may threaten the only two beings in this world that he loves.

He will kill her first. Before she has a chance to even turn her eye towards Emma, he will kill her. If he needed another reason to see her dead, this is more than enough. The tent is stifling, and he wants to tear through the entirety of the rebellion to get to the Usurper.

               Another part of him insists that he needs to be home. He needs to be with Emma. He needs to hold her and press his lips to hers until she is breathless, needs to tell her how much he loves her and how much he loves their daughter already. He needs to be there to protect them, to fight back anyone that so much as looks at her with ill-intent.

               And he cannot do either of these things, not in a timely manner, because of these imbeciles that believe in a monster.

               He can’t seem to get a handle on his emotions. He hasn’t had this little control since he was young, and knows it is not smart. He needs to get his head on straight before he can think of charging into battle once again.

               He rips out of the tent. The cold wind scatters across the tears on his face, and he ducks his head as he shuffles outside. The sky is still dotted in stars, dawn barely approaching. He rushes to the tree line, away from the bulk of the garrison gathering in the meadow. He leans his head against the trunk and rocks his head back and forth, willing himself to calm down.

               They are safe for now. He reminds himself of that a few more times, over and over. For now, they are safe.

               “Huntsman?”

               He turns sharply, finding a single man huddled next to a small fire several yards away. His shoulders relax somewhat, and he inclines his head. “Roland. I—I was just collecting myself.”

               The other man shakes his head and gestures to the stone opposite the fire. “Go ahead.”

               He hesitates, and then sets himself down. At least in this company, he is welcome.

Both the younger and the elder Locksley have been strangely kind to him. The best he has ever been shown before has been wariness, with Snow and David included. It remains foreign to find the trust so simply earned in another human, let alone two. The elder had made some crack about always trusting fellow archers, even though it was clearly not the end of whatever caused his inclination. Roland had followed his father’s intuition, and in the past weeks they had found a comradery despite everything.

               If there are ever any humans to be around for his emotions to settle, it will be him.

               “Nightmares?”

               He looks up, startled by the ventured question. He reaches up and feels the tears still on his face. “Oh,” he murmurs simply, and sighs.

               Roland pokes at the fire with a stick and bobs his head. “There is enough fodder for that, I think.”

               “No, no, it’s not that,” he denies, and rubs the back of his neck. He swallows. “Just … dreams.”

               Roland’s dark eyes raise, and he tilts his head. “Dreams?” he questions.

               He tosses a handful of bramble into the fire. He stares into the flames and, despite himself, can feel a smile edge along his lips once again as he pictures her. Again, he reaches for them within himself, finding the swell of their presence in him. “Dreams,” he confirms, and then rubs the spot over his heart. “A future.”

               Roland relaxes and levels a piece of meat over the flames. “Ah, I see. I have heard of these kinds of dreams before.”

               He looks up, and his brow furrows. He is sure he was being vague enough. “What do you mean?”

               The other man smiles. “You are a hard one to read, Captain, and I would assume that it would take a certain kind of dream to pull such emotion from you.” He grabs another stick and begins to thread the meat over it, but Graham shakes his head.

               “I thank you, but I find myself not hungry this morning.”

               “Nonsense,” Roland protests and continues without pause. “We are nearer to the towns today and so the battle will be fierce. You need fuel if you expect to take them on.”

               “I—” he pauses, and finally nods. “Thank you.”

               He gives a short nod in response. “I think that the codebreaker has a better handle on the intel,” Roland continues, his dark eyes reflecting the flames in the bare dawn. He raises his gaze to him and offers a weak smile. “We might have the chance to steal back the hearts, if not today then tomorrow.”

               Graham is silent a beat, considering. The news is promising, but he remains cautious. “I do find your optimism refreshing,” he offers. They had been pushed closer to Misthaven’s borders, something that had kept him out of his mind with worry. But if Roland’s optimism is to be matched and they are able to turn the tides of this battle so soon, then he should be home to her in a few days’ time rather than the weeks it took to get to the front.

               Roland smiles fully and rocks a hand back and forth through his wild hair. “Optimism it may be, but not for long. I have a good feeling on this,” he says ardently. “It should be key in swaying favor. Once hearts begin returning, they must see how we fight for them, how the Usurper does not. The war could be ended in days instead of months.”

He smiles at the man, and considers him a moment. Sometimes Graham reminds himself that this is the type of man Emma should be with. Roland is closer to her age and he is kind and passionate, willing to fight for his beliefs. He is a good man and a good match, and Graham would even be happy to see him with her.

               At least, that’s what he’s tried to convince himself of. He’s less willing to try and persuade himself of that today, knowing that he will be coming home to more than he expected.

               Roland hands him over the food and grins slyly. “We could be on our way to our future as soon as then.”

               Graham warms, but says nothing as he takes the offered meat.

               “That is what you dreamt of, isn’t it?” Roland asks seriously. “The future that will indeed come to pass?”

               He freezes and meets his gaze warily.

               “My father used to speak of these dreams, of ones he had when my mother was alive.”

               Graham takes in his words a long moment. “You assume too much, here,” he says lowly in denial.

               His smile changes slightly, a little more knowing. “Perhaps. But I think you will know what I am speaking of when I say that my father began to dream of a future, of a very specific, very handsome child, just as his love learned of her pregnancy.”

               His jaw tightens. He doesn’t say anything to confirm or to deny, but he feels the stir of alarm.

               Roland seems to notice his tension, and his posture opens, nonthreatening. “They had true love, my parents. They were both as committed to justice as they were to each other, though, which was the cause of her ultimate demise,” he says softly.

               Graham stiffens, and he remembers the lovely woman who shared her son’s eyes. He hadn’t been the one to execute Regina’s command, but he had tended to her in the prisons. She hadn’t a name then, just another prisoner in the long list Regina kept. It was only after piecing together stories from the King, Queen, and the Locksleys that he knows that she was Marian.

               Without a heart, he couldn’t admire her the way he can now, but he had felt something akin to that, mutedly. She had stood strong throughout her imprisonment, her lips sealed even at the ledge of the stocks. She had resolve, and would not be moved by Regina’s threats and actions.

He knows he would do the same as she, to lay down his life for his family, for Snow White’s family, so he cannot think of her as anything but heroic. He wonders, morbidly, if this path will be as optimistic as her son believes, or if he will only live on in his child as his mother does in Roland.

               He finds that he is again too selfish to hope for it. He does not want to die for them; he wants to live for them. And this time, he doesn’t merely wish for a few heartbeats of more time with her, he wants a lifetime with them. It is the first time he allows himself such a hope, even if there is part of him preparing to witness her happiness from a distance as he had always assumed he would.

               Roland shakes his head, and takes a bite of his food. “I know what they say about you, Captain. But I think if there is enough in a dream of ‘a future’ to cause that much emotion, I believe it must be because you love someone back home as much as my father loved my mother.”

               His face heats, and he wonders when he became so easily read. Again, his hand shifts over his heart, rubbing the spot carefully. “I cannot say for certain,” he says simply, not quite a lie. While he can barely admit it to himself and certainly has not confirmed it to anyone, he knows he shares true love with Emma. But he knows nothing about the love Robin and Marian shared.

               Roland leans back and chuckles slightly, a knowing grin on his face. He doesn’t press further, and instead raises his gaze past him. The soldiers are steadily rising, the sun cresting over the hill. “It appears our breakfast time is nearing its end. Are you prepared for another bout?”

               He shifts and drops the skewer to the side of the pit. “As ever,” he says, and then meets his gaze seriously. “Keep to the trees. The villagers are not adept in hand-to-hand battle, but some should be hunters with enough knowledge of weaponry. Be sure you know your angles, know what spots will keep you protected.”

               He nods and rises. He hesitates a moment before dropping a hand on his shoulder. “You as well. We have our futures to meet, Huntsman.”

               He inclines his head and pats his hand in acknowledgement. He makes his way back to his tent, ready to don his armor and level another command over his garrison.

               Maybe his future will be met sooner than he thinks.

*

               Hours of battle later, and he feels no closer to the end of this war. The hearts are not to be found per the intel, and thus they are running after rebels without an end goal other than to stamp the rebellion.

               He has seen men on both sides fall at an alarming rate, but he is somehow still fighting. He doesn’t acknowledge exhaustion or pain or the odds. He knows he is the first line of defense for his family, and so his whole heart is thrown into the fight.

               And then he sees her.

               He knows immediately it is her, feels the chill of her presence along his spine like ghostly fingers. Just a flash, and then she is gone into the fog like a specter.

               He flies another arrow into the rebels, and yanks free another from his quill, scanning the field for another glimpse. She is here. They must be close, must be nearing the endgame if she has chosen this battle to show herself.

               Swords clash to his right, and he whips to find that the skirmishes have closed in. He looses the last arrow into the rebel grappling with one of his men.

There, again.

Slipping further away, the rebels closer must only be a distraction. It has been decades since he has seen her, but she is burned into his scars. There is a hint of magic along her skirts, hair darkened and skin smoothed by some glamour as not to show her age, making her unmistakable.  

               He spins past the peasants fighting her battles, pulling his sword from his belt. He ignores his bow and his position as he stalks in the direction she took. He slashes through threats along the way but barely sees them, focus narrowed.

               He has a chance. He could end this today.

               He could keep his family safe.

               He trips into a clearing, a dark swath of hair and a ridiculously embellished gown catching the light through the trees. He takes a breath, and silently crosses the tree line to approach her. He feels anticipation curl into his gut as he desperately tries to temper the fury so he can see straight.

She is headed away, but she is slow and fettered. All the threat she had once posed is muted by time. She is unprepared, doesn’t see his approach. His heart hammers within him, caution warring with the feeling that he will win.

The sword he never trusted himself with suddenly the only answer, and he wields it over his head with a strength he didn’t know he possessed. He pictures Emma spinning gracefully through her forms, but knows his is more monstrous than the ones she took.

               Regina turns just in time for his blade to pierce through her middle, and her eyes startle wide. His eyes flash with contentment to see the surprise in hers, as her mouth drops in a silent scream. He twists the blade, hoping that she feels every second of the pain.

               His heart drops when her scream turns to a smile, and her dark eyes sharpen. “Oh, pet. You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?”

               The sword disappears, dissolving to atom. He stumbles back, hands now empty. He grabs the bow from his shoulder and aims instead, but finds his quiver empty.

               Her lips twist, and her teeth are bright as she grins. She steps away from the tree, hips swaying. “I know it’s been some time, but have you forgotten all that I can do? I’ve waited a long time for these days. There is only one way to be rid of me, and it is not by your hand.”

               “Regina,” he growls, and tightens his grip to turn the bow into a club.

               “Now, now. You are not the one I want, dear,” she purrs. She has that look she used to always have, the one that said that she had the upper hand and would do what she wanted with it.“

               He swings, even knowing it will be useless, a last-ditch effort to keep his future safe. She raises a hand to stop his effort, his whole body frozen as he watches the amusement in her dark gaze. She traces his form with those eyes and her lips curl.

               “But, I will admit, you will be a useful tool in getting me my prize.”

               Her hand comes forward, and his last thought before black encroaches his vision is of his family.

*

               “Thecurse is real.”

               Shetilts her head to look at him, still feeling the drowsiness of sleep tingeingaround her senses. She frowns slightly. “What?”

               Hesighs, rubbing the small of her back. She feels lazy, that drunk feeling ofcoming down from ecstasy. Her mind isn’t fully functioning, she knows, so hecouldn’t possibly be saying what she thinks he’s saying.

               Grahamtilts her chin up with his index finger, pressing delicate kisses to herswollen lips. Finally, he gives a wry smile. “Henry is right.”

               Hermind is in overload, trying to process the idea that tempering the sexualtension is doing nothing to stamp the feelings in her belly, but his words areoffering a distraction. “Henry’s an imaginative boy,” she ventures.

               He humsan agreement, wrapping her naked body closer to his own. “Yes, that’s true. Butthe book he’s been reading is completely true, if perhaps a littleromanticized.”

               “Soyou’re saying you believe in his fantasies,” she asks bluntly. Her body isstill vibrating, more so when he touches her skin oh-so-delicately, butinternally she worries. He went to her boy for help just this afternoon; whywas she encouraging this?

               “I’msaying they’re not so fictional,” he says matter-of-factly, then dips his headto press wet, whiskered kisses into her neck. Her eyes nearly roll back as shetries desperately to cling to her sanity.

               “Thisis unfair,” she whines, and rolls her thighs so that he can fall nicely betweenthem. Her heart rate is slowly increasing, and her lips curve into a smile ashis hand cups her waist.

               He humsan agreement, and then finally returns to her eye level. His gaze is soft,adoring. “You are the Savior. But you’re also another thing to me,” he says.

               Sheprickles slightly, that title that Henry wants so much to bestow on her. Italmost yanks her from the haze, but then he’s kissing her again, and herstomach clenches. She is barely able to catch her breath once he releases herlips for her jaw, and her head lolls to the side to follow him, breaths heavy.

               “You,”he says thickly, his accent buzzing against her skin. “Well … only one thingsbreaks curses like this, Emma.”

               She can’tconcentrate, not when his tongue is laving her pulse point and his fingertipsare tracing her hipbone. Not when she knows how it will feel when she archesher back and takes him in, not when her soul is fluttering with somethingdeeper. “Graham,” she insists, and tugs on the strands of hair in her grip.

               Hemakes a gorgeously needy sound, but only continues to nip at her throat. “I can’tbelieve I almost lost this,” he murmurs, and then nuzzles into her.

               Fearpits back into her stomach, and she brings his head back up to her face. Shecrashes her lips into his, inhaling through her nose as she drinks him in. Shealmost lost him. She doesn’t want to think of what that fall could have cometo, what might have happened if he hadn’t taken that sharp inhale after herfirst rescue breath. She wants him again, maybe several times after that, justto prove to herself that he is okay.

               Hischeeks are stamped pink and his gaze is smoky, breaths hard and sharp againsther lips. “It’s going to be hard,” he mumbles, distracted, and kisses heragain, short, staccato. “You’re going to need help if you’re going to break itfor everyone else.”        

               “Shutup,” she replies savagely, and lifts her hips to his. “Please.”

               Hesmirks cockily, but distances himself a touch. She growls in frustration, andhe pins her hands on either side of her head. “Emma, do you understand what I’msaying?” he asks.

               Theheat of his lower body is hovering tantalizingly close and his eyes are dizzying.What did he want her to say again? She bites down on her lip and tries to roll herhips closer to him. “What you’ve been saying since yesterday,” she answersdistractedly, arching her back.

               Henudges her nose with his but doesn’t let any other part touch her. “Emma … doyou understand?”

               Sheswallows. She can’t really see past the point where she is pumping her hands upand down on his chest, out of order in her freaking A-B-Cs but the CPR class sodistant, tears clouding her vision and losing count quickly. He came back tolife. He had been cold in her arms, but then he opened his eyes on her andmelted her right back into a kiss that had been as desperate as it was terrified.

               He isright here, now, lashes thick and close enough to count, faint frecklesscattered across his cheek that she’d never noticed before, lips warm andcurved and quickly memorized through all senses.

               So, no,she can’t understand. She can’t when all she can think about is crawling intohis skin to imprint herself there, to meld them into one so she can be sure hecan’t leave her again.

               Hetakes pity on her, easing up his grip and dropping his weight on her. He holdsher close before swapping their places, until she is balancing on his lap. Thesprings of the cell bed squeak nosily as she settles. It would be ease to sinkonto him, to take what she has been so desperate for again, but she hesitates. Hisdark blue eyes are urgently serious.

               “Thecurse … you think it’s real,” she finally bites out.

               “No,Emma,” he says, and reaches up to cup her face. “No, I’m not saying ‘I think.’I’m saying it is.”

               Herforehead creases. She doesn’t want to get into this. “Can we—“ her breathhitches, and she hates the part of her that feels like breaking down again. “Just… can we just—“

               “Emma,”he says again, and she doesn’t know how he can just say her name and she is atall attention.

               Thethought of the curse turns her stomach; she relates it too much to his closedeyes and still body. She presses her hands to steady her weight over his chestnow, right hand moving over his heart. She stares at the center of his chest,where her compressions had shakily begun. Idly, she wonders if she cracked hisribs, and a hysterical laugh escapes her. “You were dead.”

               “Iknow,” he says evenly, and moves one of his hands across her jaw and down herarm, settling over the one on his heart. He shows no signs of pain, not a winceor a hesitation. “I’m here.”

               Shefeels the build of a sob but doesn’t let it escape. She nods rapidly. “You’rehere,” she echoes.

               “Why?”he implores, dark eyes wide.

               Sheswallows again, harder this time. She begins to shake her head, and then ripsher gaze from him. Bits from that damn book, some in Henry’s voice, some inMary Margaret’s, some in her own encroach her mind. She almost sees a clash ofswords before she suppresses it down. “Please,” she whispers, and her visionhazes over. She blinks back the tears before they can fall and shakes her head.“Please, just … show me?”

               Heseems to see the way some of her resolve has crumbled, and meets her in a forcefulkiss. His hands wander again, distracting rather than directing. In relief, hereyes slip close and a couple tears bead down her cheek.

               Maybe …maybe tomorrow she can think about this. Maybe tomorrow she can follow cluesand make connections. Maybe tomorrow she can believe in the curse.