#grace and daniel are emma and graham I don't make the rules

[arianakristine]

So, I really did not except Ready or Not, horror-comedy that it is, to hit me with a ship. 

But I suppose with a blonde bride who grew up in foster care and is kickass, with a weak but self-preserving groom, and his stubbly curly-haired self-loathing brother? This was only inevitable.

@skagengiirl, I also was taking into account letter L of this prompt, but it turned into something a lot longer to get to that point.

Title: Ready or Not  Summary: AU. On her wedding day, Emma thinks she has finally found a family. But  her groom is a mess of nerves, her new brother-in-law is distracting, and her in-laws are requesting a game at midnight. If this is what it takes, she can deal with a game of Hide and Seek, right? Note: Strong language, blood, violence, death, and attempted-sacrifice tw? I guess? Also time resetting. This is so not my usual gremma feels kinda fic (but it also kinda is). Taking a little from OUAT, a lot from Ready or Not, and then throwing in a fix-it because why not. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

*

 *

                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.

 end.