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It is a chilly night in Storybrooke, and he would know about that, even if he were not walking back to the inn (like right now) this very late in the evening… or early in the morning, he has troubles telling.
He’s clawed through ice earlier that evening, through a thick barrier of frozen water. But nothing would compare to the grip of cold against his heart with every passing second that she was trapped in that cave. Desperation has constricted him like a vice, making every thought run like there’s a race to anger and immediate hate – something borne from the centuries spent with that atmosphere around him like a fog impairing his vision.
And to think he was so ready to revert to the dark that has always been so eager to receive him… he’s come a long way from there, but apparently not that far, if he cannot detach himself from the shadows of his old persona. He doesn’t deserve Emma Swan, does not deserve the brightest light amongst the dark that is this world, does not deserve to be treated the way she is treating him right now –
“Stop,” she had said in her quietest voice, her throat still raw, and her bones still chilled even under the thick blanket that David has bundled her with.
They were at the backseat of the vehicle, Elsa and David in front. Emma was leaning on the door on the other side, he was keeping a respectable distance between them.
He might have missed that little word if his focus were anywhere but her, but it wasn’t, and he heard it, and it made his heart lurch in his throat. She had looked at him as if she knew what he was thinking about.
“What are you talking about?” he had replied, giving her a tight smile that he hopes to the gods would pass as one.
She had rolled her eyes at him, and there’s a warmth in his chest at that – even like this, even though still half-frozen, full-on tired, she had the audacity to roll her eyes at him… and smile… and scoff a weak laugh at him.
He had watched as she scooted over, as he gave a passing glance at her father through the rearview mirror (seeing his eyes meeting his, but nothing more than that), watched as she lifted his right arm up and over her shoulders, burrowing herself into his side. He did not know he was holding his breath until she said it.
“Breathe, pirate,” she murmured. “I still need you alive.”
And he breathed.
It was not a monumental moment, not a first, definitely. But he breathed, and he felt like the air in his lungs has more meaning now than ever.
Much like what he is trying to do right now. And he is wishing for Emma to be right there with him as he walked, commanding him to stop thinking, and to breathe. But he has not wished for that before because it is a very selfish wish – one that is most enticing to wish for. But not right now, not when she needs her rest and her family.
Thinking of that makes him want to believe he is still the selfish pirate that he once was… still is.
He’s reached the door to his room, not even remembering how or when he exactly reached it, or how long he was standing there, but his hand is turning the knob when he hears footsteps behind him.
He pivots and sees a familiar figure walking towards him – and he freezes. (Ironically so).
“Emma, what are you doing here?”
She stops in front of him, chewing her bottom lip as if she’s finding it very difficult to tell him. But she does anyway.
“You left,” she mutters, and as if gathering the strength she needs, she continues. “You didn’t even say goodbye. I woke up and you were… gone.”
“Sweetheart, you were asleep. I’ve no intentions in rousing you when you need rest the most –
“I can’t,” she says, and looks him in the eye. “Rest, I mean. And I need you. Do you know how I got here?”
He furrows his brows, searching her face for the answer, but her expression is carefully concealed despite the gleam in her green eyes. He pushes aside the feelings in his chest that have arisen at her confession and musters the courage to speak.
“You did not walk, did you?”
And the idea of her walking all the way from their apartment to the inn makes him sick to the stomach because, again, this is his fault. He should not have left if this was going to be the case, and the tendrils of guilt start creeping around his heart until she spoke.
“No,” she replies, shaking her head and trying to hide the sliver of a smile from reaching its peak. “Magic. I poofed myself here… when I woke and noticed you were gone.” There’s a certain pride in her voice, and somehow he knows that she knows how proud he is of this advancement.
She takes a step with every word, her smile growing on her lips. And when she reaches him, she curls her fingers around his collar (something she’s fond of doing lately, but never will she hear him complain about it), and drags him closer – not touching yet, but the warmth of her breath against his lips makes him want to wrap his arms around her and kiss her.
Her eyes dart from his gaze down to his lips, a grin on her own, and it makes his heart beat faster.
“I…” she breathes against his skin, and his eyes flutter shut. “I want to stay. Here.”
“But, your parents –
“Are asleep,” she cuts him off. “And are going to see the note I left in the morning.”
He hums, because that’s all she’s allowed him to do before she kisses him. Softly, just like the one they shared in the forest, but like a crescendo (always like a crescendo), the pull is inevitable, and strong, and consuming. So when he traces the seam of her lips and delves his tongue into her mouth, she welcomes it. He swallows the moan she breathes into his mouth, loves the sound of it.
But it’s late, and she’s tired, so when she pulls away and catches her breath as she leans her cheek on his shoulder, he lets himself wrap her up in his embrace, lets them stay like that for a while.
When he wakes up in the morning, he is burdened with a weight that is definitely not the comforter. Blonde hair tickles his nose, and a palm is resting on his chest, just right above his heart, and there’s an even breathing on the side of his neck.
He smiles at this, doesn’t move. But he does breathe.