[ It’s panic he feels first, seeing the audio file, then listening as Jack reaches into memory, into hazardous, sealed knowing.
’Be careful, my Dearest,’ he thinks. Panic scraping at his throat as he listens, not breathing, listening intent to every shift in his mate’s voice. He hears Jack taking what care he can. Hears those staggered breaths, the pained intake, and his fingers wrap tight and tighter at his phone, willing, willing his Puppy to hold on.
He hears his Puppy’s words, and he understands. Recalls: “It’s okay. I still have it.” Recalls, “I kept you safe. Nothing to fear as long as I have it safe, you said.”
There are forms of magic - tricky to compose; not improbable, not beyond Rumplestiltskin’s capabilities, and certainly not beyond what he and his wolf might have reached together - that open space beyond its typical dimensions. Magic that can keep an object hidden from sight and seeking. That can keep a nonpareil artifact safe from prying hands and can perhaps, perhaps turn it into a form of protection.
His magic is in part here, in Storybrooke, even if it can’t be reached.
His magic lives in the one place he would have wished it. Oh—Perhaps he has been protecting his Puppy all along.
Just as his Love has been guarding him.
When he’s finished listening, he sends an audio file of his own. Voice low, soothing velvet. Fluttering his fingers through the thought of Puppy’s hair as he speaks, thinking, ’Easy, my Love; be easy.’ ]
Breathe, Puppy.
Breathe for your Desmond.
Don’t think at all; only feel my hand at your hair, my lips at your forehead. Nestle your cheek against my throat, warm, safe. Beloved.
Stay here with me, and breathe.
My Love, I thank you.
It’s safe; you’ve kept it for me.
All these years, I have been within your care, and my guardianship has been in you.
1/2
’Be careful, my Dearest,’ he thinks. Panic scraping at his throat as he listens, not breathing, listening intent to every shift in his mate’s voice. He hears Jack taking what care he can. Hears those staggered breaths, the pained intake, and his fingers wrap tight and tighter at his phone, willing, willing his Puppy to hold on.
He hears his Puppy’s words, and he understands. Recalls: “It’s okay. I still have it.” Recalls, “I kept you safe. Nothing to fear as long as I have it safe, you said.”
There are forms of magic - tricky to compose; not improbable, not beyond Rumplestiltskin’s capabilities, and certainly not beyond what he and his wolf might have reached together - that open space beyond its typical dimensions. Magic that can keep an object hidden from sight and seeking. That can keep a nonpareil artifact safe from prying hands and can perhaps, perhaps turn it into a form of protection.
His magic is in part here, in Storybrooke, even if it can’t be reached.
His magic lives in the one place he would have wished it.
Oh—Perhaps he has been protecting his Puppy all along.
Just as his Love has been guarding him.
When he’s finished listening, he sends an audio file of his own. Voice low, soothing velvet. Fluttering his fingers through the thought of Puppy’s hair as he speaks, thinking, ’Easy, my Love; be easy.’ ]
Breathe, Puppy.
Breathe for your Desmond.
Don’t think at all; only feel my hand at your hair, my lips at your forehead. Nestle your cheek against my throat, warm, safe. Beloved.
Stay here with me, and breathe.
My Love, I thank you.
It’s safe; you’ve kept it for me.
All these years, I have been within your care, and my guardianship has been in you.
Oh, Love, we’ll be okay.
Breathe, my mate, breathe.
Your Daddy loves you so.
I am with you always.