A/N: so it seems as though this season is going to be so ripe with angst and pain and heartbreak. so, you know, why not jump on that bandwagon and revel in the possibilities a bit.

just a little tiny drabble that takes place in the diner, right after Emma makes her appearance as the Dark One, and goes from there…

(originally posted on tumblr-i'm now back as amiserable-love)

He wants nothing more than to reach out and touch her.

Stroke her pale and cold cheek, catch her hardened gaze, and will her back to him.

Instead he stands still; frozen in a disturbing combination of disbelief, rage and grief as he watches her—graceful and regal and stunning—turn her back to him. Listens, past the rush of voices screeching in his head, as she damns and curses them all for failing her in a silky voice that's disguised as hers but isn't, can't be; the quiet tone soft and seductive and dangerous.

"Emma?" Her name feels heavy in his mouth, his tone gravelly and edging on broken; a chill slithering its way down his spine as she turns to him suddenly, focusing her cold icy stare directly at him. "Why are you doing this?"

The softly uttered question, pathetic and desperate, slices through the roar of voices that are still screaming and clawing at his brain, sounding weak and pitiful in his ears as her eyes continue to cut through him; seeing past him, so heedlessly and deliberately disregarding him while silently putting him in his place.

He is beneath her.

He is nothing.

He has failed her.

Mutely he pleads with her some more in his head; the frantic words of love and faith and hope stuck in his throat and lost on his tongue as he watches through heavy-lidded eyes as her lips curl up ever so slightly—a soft unspoken threat, an aloof and sinister smile—before she calmly, almost serenely, condemns herself to the evil inside of her, embracing and calling herself by a name— I am the Dark One— that has his entire body tensing and going cold, before the air is sucked out of him and his knees threaten to give out on him and—

And then she's gone.

Her magic swirling and bursting in front of him, he watches, fingers belatedly twitching and reaching for her, as the cloud of darkness evaporates slowly, leaving in its wake wisps of black and gray smoke, the curling tendrils reaching out and beckoning him—luring him, tempting him—before disappearing entirely.

She's gone.

….

Henry has faith.

His belief is strong and unwavering.

The boy smiles—a touch of sadness rounding his young features—and catches his eye every so often; nodding his head in fierce determination (the action mimicking his mother's, back when she was Emma, back when she hadn't succumbed to the evil inside of her) while bearing an unwavering mask of composure and poise and wisdom; the look well beyond his years, appearing almost out of place on his innocent and youthful face.

"We'll get her back. We'll win. Good always wins."

Killian wishes he could believe him, wants to believe him. His desire to fight for her, to win her back, to gaze into her clear green eyes and stroke her long golden hair while holding her close, so strong it nearly cripples him on the spot.

He wants to have hope.

Instead he finds himself swallowing down a sharp and scoffing retort, knowing words of doubt and uncertainty, woe and misery, are the last thing Henry needs.

"Aye, of course we will lad…of course we will."

….

Often he finds himself alone, walking around the broken and divided town.

Aimlessly he wanders, his thoughts a hazy and muddled mess as he shrinks further into himself, shuffling down the quiet and deserted streets, shuddering as a cold and near paralyzing darkness looms and hangs over him.

Seductive and familiar in its bleak and hopeless despair, it pulls at him, gradually luring him back to a way of thinking—living, being—that he's all too accustomed with.

Loss

Grief.

Pain.

Rage.

Sorrow.

Footsteps heavy, body chilled to the bone, he never knows where he's going, is often unsure where he belongs, uncertain if there's even a place for him in the godforsaken town anymore.

For so long, for what feels like a lifetime; he's been following her lead. She the one, sudden, and unexpected bright spot in his doomed and vengeance-seeking life. And now that she's gone, her light snuffed out and taken away from him, he's lost.

Alone.

A pathetic and broken man.

….

Her parents and Regina and even Henry plot and plan and prepare for a fight. Pushing the lingering feelings aside for the woman buried beneath the evil, they scheme and conspire against Emma all the while trying to retain some semblance of normalcy in the wretched and cursed town.

And he does what he can to help them; offering his skills and expertise, while willingly giving his rarely sought after advice.

(Bites back words of loyalty and allegiance, his devotion still irrevocably tethered to her. Always, always, to her.)

Eventually they rebuild the diner; eventually they try to go on with their lives, meeting in secrecy, while feigning progress.

Under a cloak of deceit and carefully woven lies, they pretend that she isn't aware of exactly what they're doing, acting as though they aren't mere pawns moving as she pleases under her dark and terrible reign.

….

Every night he dreams of glassy green eyes, porcelain white skin, and a voice as smooth and soft as silk. The ache in his chest spreading and gnawing and consuming as images of her—distorted visions of his soft golden savior and his cold icy queen—cloud his brain.

And every morning he awakes in his bed, chilled and empty and alone, biting back the words to summon her, refusing to give in to the mounting temptation.

(He ignores the sound of her laugh, contemptuous and mocking and pitying, in his head as the battle rages on inside of him.)

….

He sees her occasionally.

She floats in and out of town as she pleases, her smile cruel and severe (but beautiful, still so beautiful) as the townsfolk quiver and cower in her wake; turning from her in panicked dread, their hearts heavy as they fear the very same woman they had once believed to be their savior.

Not so secretly, he craves those days…

When she glides into Granny's, the temperature dropping, the bustling atmosphere chilling, as she zeros in on her next victim; disregarding her father's outraged pleas and her mother's defeated sighs as she whispers quiet cursing words and murmurs velvet warm threats; her voice always so soft, so deceptively soothing, as she mocks and damns and punishes them all without so much a blink of an eye.

And he hates himself for reveling in her magnificence, for being awed by her all-consuming power.

Hates the way he can't take his eyes off of her even when she's at her worst—destroying lives while tempting fate. Hates the way he feels as if he's on the verge of falling apart. Hates how his body twitches any time she's near, wishing that she'd choose him, touch him, curse him with her brutal magic and painful, biting words.

She is his weakness.

His eventual demise.

And sometimes he wonders, when her eyes, hard and unrelenting jade, seek his and hold them—searching, probing, finding—with a curling self-satisfied smirk, if she knows it…what she's doing to him.

Wonders if maybe she couldn't have planned it any better, his drawn-out punishment, his ultimate ruin.

(On the days, when he can barely pull himself out of bed for the longing and yearning that's rendering him near useless, there's not a doubt in his mind that yes, yes, she most certainly does know.)

….

There's a savage beast inside of him, anxious to rear its ugly head, waiting to pounce on the torment and anguish building and growing and threatening to set him aflame.

(He couldn't save her, he failed her, he wasn't enough for her.)

Without her he is nothing.

A coward.

A defeatist.

Broken.

….

They come up with a plan.

Regina launches an attack on her; pouring over dusty books and long forgotten scrolls, she conjures up an ancient spell. The old magic lurking somewhere between light and dark, bursts from her trembling fingertips and quietly blankets the town.

It's supposed to take her by surprise.

It's supposed to render the Dark One neutral and buy them some time.

It's supposed to allow them to get to the dagger.

(If they could only control her, if they could only keep her in check while they try to save her.)

Really it's no more than a last ditch effort, a fool's attempt.

Battered, beaten, on the cusp of defeat…

They come up with a plan.

And they fail.

She's ready for them, nearly giddy over their sorry attempt, maliciously laughing at their efforts and throwing it back in their faces tenfold.

Her wrath is immediate, painful, and unrelenting.

She reminds them, in no uncertain terms, exactly who she is.

What she is.

She reminds them that while she may wear the face of the one they all loved so well, she is no longer that person and never will be again.

She reminds them that she is the Dark One, persuades them with torment and hurt, sorrow and grief, to never ever forget it.

It's a lesson, a warning, they will carry with them always, burying it deep in their hearts and locking it away in the darkest corners of their souls.

But even so, even with the burden, the painful knowledge of what she truly has become, he sees the love and perseverance glowing fiercely in Snow's eyes, the pure unadulterated hate flashing bright across Regina's face, growing stronger still as the town burns and falls around them. The flames licking the sky, the screams echoing in the night, he knows that they won't learn from it, knows their resolve is only that much more renewed.

He wishes he could say the same for himself.

Weary and exhausted, a shell of the man he used to be, he turns away from them before they can read what flickers in his own tear-misted gaze, before they can see what he's sure is stamped, plain as day, across his taut, over-tired features.

Acceptance.

….

Eventually he stops resisting.

Eventually he goes to her.

She's waiting for him when he shows up at her door; her lithe figure, pure and white, wrapped in night and shadow, her red-lipped smile curling on her lips, her eyes, dark and ancient, holding his unblinkingly as she silently conveys her pleasure.

(And he thinks for an instant that perhaps he sees her soften; her features relaxing slightly, a flicker of light, a flash of relief.)

(Pushes the thought out of his head just as suddenly as it came.)

Dropping to his knees, he surrenders himself over to her, shuddering when she reaches down and places a slim pale hand to his neck, welcoming his death if she so wishes it.

The gasp, turned sob, turned moan, is one of despair, reprieve, and need, when her touch turns gentle, stroking the column of his throat before stepping back and welcoming him into her domain, whispering dark praises and encouraging him with her cold tender caress.

He is, has always been, hers.

And he is finally, finally home.

….

The next time Killian sees the others, he can't deny the looks of anger and betrayal that ignite in their stares, merely flinches at their cutting words of contempt and screams of treachery and deceit as he stands next to her, by her side, right where he should be, where he was always meant to be.

(Can't help the way he leans into her, closing his eyes as she laughs at their pain and delights in their suffering while purring gentle evil-tipped words lovingly into his ear.)

Secretly he bids the rest of the town good luck; silently he hopes they succeed in vanquishing the darkness from her. But for now (for always) she is his mistress, dark and beautiful, magnificent and terrible.

And he is but her servant, loyal and humble, ready to serve.

His heart belonging to her, always, always, to her; he is helpless to stop her, unable to refuse her, hopeless to deny her…

Anything.