A/N: Howdy, ya'll. I saw Snow White and the Hunstman and now I am crazy-obsessed. So, fic!

There isn't a category up yet, but when it is, i'll transfer this over there.

Just to be clear, the pairing in this is Snow White/The Huntsman.

Enjoy!

She is weightless in his arms, only a smear of black and pale against the muddied brown of his leathers. Eric carries Snow through the morning and into the late afternoon, combing the grasslands for some small village, anywhere with a bath house and a doctor.

They were ambushed the night before, by a gang of passing rogues. When, quickly, they had discovered that neither he nor the princess could offer gold, the bandits had attacked, wanting her warm body for company at the very least.

Eric had throwing knives in two of their throats and was working at burying his axe in a third's skull when Snow's gutted cry sounded at his back. Heart in his mouth, he'd whipped around fast enough to take the head clean off her assailant and slash the gut of the last rogue, but it was too late. Snow was crumpled in a heap at his feet.

"Princess, princess." He was on his knees in an instant, hands hovering over her middle, wanting to help, terrified he wouldn't be able. "You are injured, where?"

It was an obvious struggle to give him her eyes. They'd rolled disobediently in their sockets, half-lidded with knit brows, but her soft green met the bright blue of his at last and with great effort she was able to speak.

"Here, right here." Her voice was hardly a whisper, a raw rasp in the back of her throat as she'd lifted one hand to pull at his wrist, to cover her left side with his broad bloodied palm.

Something heavy drops and bottoms out in his stomach; the odds of a simple flesh wound there weren't likely. That coupled with the probability of finding a doctor in time was an outcome he couldn't entertain. Tearing his gaze from her face was a physical blow, but her injury needed his eyes. Squinting through the dark, he tried to appraise the damage without moving her much, but she had been covered in mud - they both were - and telling blood from dirt was near impossible.

Getting her into his arms had been no trouble at all, one slipping beneath legs limp like a doll's, the other curling behind her back. She'd stifled a gasp, for his sake, he knew, and was grateful for.

"You're going to be fine."

His empty promise was a rough rumble against her temple as he set off for the east, camp easily forgotten. She would not die in his care. He owed her that much (and more.)

A small huddle of houses crawl over the horizon just as night sets in, the sun snuffed out by stars. The howling of wolves rustle to life just as he approaches the mouth of the tiny border village.

Snow has been sleeping, or unconscious, he doesn't know. Every half mile he'll check the pulse in her wrist, the limp rolling of her head on her neck and the lifeless sway of her arms terrifying him with every jostling step.

"Point me to your nearest bath or this girl will die!" His voice booms dangerously in the town square, drawing the bewildered stares of its inhabitants. They will need a doctor and healer too, but not before she is clean. Chancing a glance down at Snow, Eric sees that she has taken to shaking in sleep, her teeth chattering loudly in the slow drizzle that more spits on than cleanses them.

For a moment no one speaks. They simply watch, paused in their respective tasks, looking over the two strangers in their muddied clothes, dark hair churned and knotted, skin sallow and poorly looking.

"I will not let you die," Eric promises fiercely, whispering it through a tightly clenched jaw, his hold on her growing desperate. "Someone, please. I beg of you!"

"Alright. Follow me." The huntsman's gaze cuts in the direction of the voice to find an frail old woman gesturing for them to follow.

She leads them to a crooked building in the rear of the square, built from rotting wood, barely standing. But inside, abandoned due to the hour, are two rows of steel tubs.

Once inside, the old woman slips out quietly, leaving them alone. There is a sound of the door latching behind their backs, but Eric pays it no worry, his mind riddled mad with Snow and Snow alone..

"We're here, princess," he speaks more to himself than the sleeping girl, to keep from losing his mind, from allowing the tears that prick hot at his eyes to overwhelm him.

With one hand he pumps the bath full, looking worriedly back to Snow's face with each thrust of his arm. It fills freezing and Eric considers for a moment if the cold might do more harm than good, but when he puts his fingers into the bath to test its temperature, the water is unbelievably hot. Steam rises steadily from its surface, curling towards the ceiling. He can scarcely believe it, but then remembers the white stag from the meadow and the hundred other miracles he'd witnessed in the presence of this perfect girl.

Only at the first glance of his knuckles against her collar does he realize what he must do to access her wounds, caught up in the task of saving her life alone.

"I must disrobe you," he starts, voice rough with emotion, some he can easily identify and others he'd rather not. He scans her face for any sign of recognition, but she remains horribly still, silent.

Despite the knowledge that this alone could save her, Eric feels vile undressing the young princess. His hands shake with the undoing of every button. Slowly more and more of her pale skin is revealed to him, first the water-wrinkled bottoms of her feet, then the lean lines of her legs. Soon only her sodden dress, torn and crusted, remains between him and the half-grown shape of her.

"I'd imagined this going a greal deal differently," he laughs bitterly, thinking back on just how many nights he'd entertained the idea of having her, unable to count. Of course, it was just fantasy. She was a princess, the princess. She had no business with a hired huntsman, let alone the man sent for her life. Still, he coveted the thing that hammered within her chest like he had some wicked claim on it, still beating or otherwise.

The snagged material of her dress clings greedily to her as he attempts to ruck it up her waist, dutifully keeping his eyes trained upon her face alone. But with a little patience, he's able to roll it up her torso and over her head, dragging it down Snow's arms before tossing the vile thing out of sight. How long had she been forced to wear it?, he wonders grimly, squatting to collect her once more. Still he avoids drinking in the sight of her, watching her loosely closed eyes for any signs of life as he slowly dips her into the steaming bath.

Clouds of dirt bloom in the water as she is lowered, tinging it a soft tan color. Eric is grateful for the tinting when he draws back. The water laps at her collar, opaque enough to bar her nakedness from him, growing darker with each passing minute. But it is not only mud that colors the bath. When she is fully sunk, a plume of scarlet winds up towards the surface, violently stark. Like a smoke signal it unfurls in thin strands, pointing him to her wound, mocking him for the piss poor job he'd done protecting her.

Eric kneels at the edge of the tub, and snatches a clean rag away from the wall. He wets a corner in the water and, gently, tends to Snow's face, cleaning first her brow and then her cheeks, until her delicate features are cleansed and pale as porcelain once again. He smoothes a tangle of matted hair away from her eyes and, surprising even himself, leans close to press his lips between her brows. It is then that the first tear spills down his cheek, slips down the hard line of his face and pecks her sweetly on the tip of the nose.

Not a moment later, slowly, like waking from a dream, her brow creases and wrinkles under his mouth, causing the huntsman to pull back, as though burned, to wipe madly at his face.

"Huntsman?" Her voice is thick with sleep and weakened, but it's there, and Eric thinks briefly that it's a wonder his heart doesn't burst free of his chest and join her in the tub.

"I am here, princess," he says evenly, forcing his exterior calm when inside he is singing. He can't help taking her cheek in one palm, to be sure that she is real if nothing else.

"What happened? Where are we?"

Eric smiles because he can't help it, because she's alive and awake, and lays a heavy hand on her shoulder when she tries to move.

"You were injured," he starts, stricken with a sudden fear that she might misinterpret the bath and her being unclothed. "I didn't know where."

Drowsily scanning the room, Snow just nods, staring down into the water for a long moment before turning her head to meet his eyes.

"Thank you," she says quietly, and reaches up out of the water to touch the huntsman's face. It's just the barest brush of fingers down his cheek, but Eric's grin grows and he grips her wrist, turning into her palm and closing his eyes. His lips dust kisses over her life lines, the prints of each of her fingers. He's gone mad with relief, shedding his role of guide to try on another, just for a moment.

He doesn't know how long they stay like that, quiet, connected if only just, but then a gasp cuts through the silence and her hand leaves his face in a rush to cover her middle, remembering.

"People attacked us," she says, and her voice trembles with each word. "Are you hurt?"

Eric laughs because he can't help it, because of course she would be worried about his well-being when she was likely bleeding out in the bath - Oh.

The revelation spurs him into movement and where he was shy before, he is almost brutal in the way he handles her. His hands slip into the water and close around her tiny waist, bringing her top half out of the muddied water unceremoniously to get a look, finally, at the cut in her side.

His suddenness startles Snow, but she does not protest, holds in a cry and grips his arms for support, choosing to watch his face rather than inspect her own injury.

Eric feels the weight of her gaze and masks his expression as best he can, tipping her towards him to look over the wound on its face. He lets out a staggered breath of relief, a small smile breaking on his face as he stares at it. It's wide, stretching over her ribs from side to front, pink and raw, but it is not fatally deep, nothing a steady application of ointments and a bandage won't heal. Shock and fatigue must have played a large part in her fainting.

"It's going to scar," he laments, reaching out boldly to touch just the edge, an action that draws from her a hiss.

"But I'll live?" Her fingers curl around the lip of his collar, in demand of his attention.

He obliges easily, basking in the soft smile on her face. Her lips are pale still, far from the crimson he remembers, but there is fighting life in her eyes.

"Yes, you will live." Eric lowers her back into the water at that, lets the color of it cloud her from view once more, fighting against the disappointment that looms over not having looked her over more greedily. He can make out the ghost of her shape beneath the surface, her body slight, with skinny arms and legs and an underfed belly, but already possessing a beauty unmatched by another. When she is fully grown, a deed that the huntsman will see to personally, not a man alive will stand a chance against falling in love with her. They will come from all over, hearts on platters for the true good queen.

Once the warmth of the bath has soaked the life back into her limbs, has gifted back a bit of the pink in her cheeks, Snow scoots up the rounded back of the porcelain and rests a hand against her huntsman's forearm. Upon the realization that she would recover, Eric has grown aware of how truly tired he is. Walking through the day with the princess limp in his arms had been both physically and emotionally draining. In the time that she had taken the sponge to leisurely wash the mud from her skin, he has folded both arms along the rim of the tub as an acting pillow.

Cheek slumped against the top of his arm, eyes closed, half-way in a dream, he is understandably startled at the sudden touch of a sponge to his temple.

"You're filthy."

Snow is grinning from just inches away, her spare hand curled over his muscle for balance. Eric opens his mouth to speak, but then the sponge is there, scrubbing over his mustache and lips, cleansing and playful in equal measures. His face screws up in some semblance of annoyance, but that too she scrubs at, and coaxes a booming laugh from the huntsman.

He indulges her, lets her wash his beard and tips his head back when she asks, struggling to suppress a groan when she sweeps up and down the length of his throat, lingering at the triangle of skin visible above his collar. He's perfectly capable of washing his own face, intends, in fact, to have a bath when they find her a suitable place to rest, but seeing her up and moving again, with a smile curving her lips, he humors her. (Loathe as he has been to admit it, the fleeting touched of her fingertips aren't entirely horrible either. Silently, he memorizes how they feel against his skin, tiny blooms of warmth that burn and fade in a half-breath.)

Only when she wrings out the dirt and dives back in to swab behind his ears, her laugh like bells, does he stop her with a loose hand around her arm.

"Enough," he chides, but his voice is fond, the tail end of a laugh. She stops and drops the sponge to the floor in surrender, but he does not release her.

There is a stretch of silence then, wherein they both realize their close proximity. Eyes bounce nervously (hungrily) from eyes to lips and back again. Snow's mouth is parted slightly with breath, teeth peeking out. Her hand flexes in Eric's grasp.

The air around them is heavy from her bath, and something else, something that leaves them both drunk and dizzy with wanting.

She seems unable to tear her gaze from the huntsman's chapped mouth, ensnared, wetting her own lips in consolation for what she plainly desires.

"Princess..." the huntsman warns, voice rough and thick with an emotion he's carried and smothered for too long.

Snow nods minutely without lifting her eyes, a motion that she's heard him and nothing more. Doesn't he know her at all? That she's wreckless, that she's unafraid? His secret fears are as visible as brands over his forehead. You are no prince, he reminds himself when he thinks he might snap, when she huffs out a shaking breath and does not back away.

The hand on his forearm curls, fingernails biting possessive crescents into his skin, and a smirk touches her lips, newly red again.

"Huntsman," she purrs, an imitation of his low, scottish lilt. There's a fire in her eyes, a determination he's seen before. It's what's brought him through the dark forest and into no man's land with her, for her cause; it will very likely be his undoing. Shackled in her gaze, helpless, Snow lets out a small noise like victory, and then, before Eric has a chance to spin away from the tub, she sweeps forwards to touch her mouth to just the very corner of his mouth.

The press of her lips leave him spinning, unmoving and chaste, but an impossible warmth that burns him right down to his bones. She doesn't ask for more, her kiss like a question, there at the edge of his sanity. And his answer's been the same for days, for weeks. Releasing her wrist, Eric's hand slips around the curve of her neck and sinks into her wet hair, holding her still, loathe to lose the innocent touch of her mouth.

Despite his greatest efforts, Eric's eyes shutter closed and the defenses he'd built up for so long, defenses she's been picking at for weeks, collapse in a heap at her will. Driven by so much want, so much stifled need for this girl, not because she is a princess or even because she is beautiful (because she is fearless and kind and gentle where others are not, for so many reasons), the huntsman's mouth slides hesitantly over Snow's and their lips slot together in a real kiss.

At the barest prodding, she opens for him with a soft sigh, cupping his face in her tiny hands, their mouths working together in a languid kiss, building a slow heat. He devours her like a man starved, cradling the back of her skull in his wide palm, stroking along the delicate curve of her jaw with his thumb, tasting her bottom lip with the pointed tip of his tongue before sinking inside to do battle. Quickly, they are taken by want, teeth clashing and biting, leaving marks that will fade but never truly disappear.

They part only when Snow shudders in his arms and pulls in a sharp breath, clutching wildly at her side.

Eric leaves her mouth but does not let her out of his space, one hand still sunk into her hair.

"I'll find the doctor," he says quietly, voice so rough it is barely recognizable, and she nods, but not before towing him back in for another kiss, sweeter this time, the simple brushing of lips, but with an edge, a promise for more.

She is breathless, speaking with eyes closed as she covers his hand with her own, slips her fingers into the spaces he creates for her.

"Don't be long."