The strident bleat of the clock alarm shocks her out of a catatonic sleep — 8:15 AM and Storybrooke’s one radio station playing, of course, the eighties — and she groans. She’s only been asleep for a few hours and her body still feels heavy, dreamy, weighted down, sprawled out and charted across the map of the sheets, the covers tangled around her waist, hair loose, can’t remember if she put on a top. Though she has to admit that getting up for a nice, normal, boring day at work — the sheriff’s station has never looked so appealing now that there’s not a witch to throw a bucket of water on — has its advantages. Not that she’s rushing toward it. She rolls over, fumbling for the snooze button, swearing —
Then someone else reaches out and hits it, and rolls toward her, half on top of her, pulling her against him, and Emma can’t help it, she smiles, she feels like she can’t stop, nuzzling into him, kissing the corner of his mouth, then his lips, all the time they’re catching up, every moment they have for the moments they thought they couldn’t, would never again. Ridiculous pirate. But she doesn’t mind, nestled into his solid bare chest, the strength of his arms around her, the smell of him, the way she’s still pleasantly sore in unaccustomed places.
Doesn’t mind at all.
"Good morning, Captain," she murmurs mischievously, running her fingers through his thick, sleep-tousled dark hair. If there is anyone else who can look as effortlessly good as he does before the hour of 9 AM and several cups of industrial-strength coffee, she wants a word.
She can feel his joy fizzing through him, overflowing, in the way his hand comes up behind her head, the warmth of his breath against the shell of her ear, the way he has to kiss her first, deep and long and thoroughly, a different kind of magic altogether, her still pressed flat beneath his weight and her arms around his neck, their hips rising and riding in a slow easy pattern, legs a Gordian knot beneath the bedclothes, and the damn alarm starting to chirp again and neither of their combined three hands free to get it. Finally he reaches out, seizes his hook from the side table, and just puts it straight the fuck through it, which obviously is a rather effective method for silencing it. Apparently that thing about Captain Hook hating clocks isn’t so far off.
Seeing her raising a mildly censorious eyebrow, he grins.
She melts all over again.
He looks at her like she hangs the moon.
"Good morning, Swan."