Let Me Photograph You In This Light
Tags: Emma/Ray, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Songfic, Spoilers, Post-Canon, One Shot, Bittersweet, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending
Published: 08/03/21
Words: 1070
Summary: It was hard for Ray to remember that this Emma wasn't the same one he'd grown up with, that this Emma didn't remember all the things they'd been through together. Because she was so exactly like herself.
Ray watched as Emma ran through the field grinning wildly, a trail of their younger siblings chasing after her, their laughter bubbling through the harsh wind.
Like this, under the bright blue sky, parked under a large oak and the wind tousling their hair, it was hard to remember that this Emma wasn’t the same one that he grew up with, that this Emma didn’t remember all the things they’d gone through together.
It was hard, because she was so exactly like herself.
She still spoke in that excited babble, a cheerful chatter at a thousand miles an hour, the joy of being alive in every syllable, determination to keep it that way in every breath.
He called her a dolt, an idiot, because she could be so dense, but they both knew that she was so, so clever. At least they did. Before.
He never called her a dolt anymore. The tease wasn’t the same when she couldn’t remember a childhood filled with that kind of friendly ribbing. It would just be rude now.
She even moved the same. The way she moved was paradoxical. She was clumsy in that she barely watched where she was going, tripping over her own shoelaces and walking into walls. But she was so athletic, so graceful somehow. Her legs were long and powerful and, once she was paying attention, she would run and jump and climb and never so much as stumble.
He had thought that perhaps the sheer surety of her step was the result of of years of being chased and hunted by things so much bigger and scarier than themselves. Maybe that was it. Maybe her feet, her body, remembered the training that her mind had forgotten. But that would just be Ray fooling himself, Emma had always been like this. It wasn’t time or training or practice, it was just pure, inexplicable, beautiful Emma.
She fell to the ground under a pile of laughing, screaming kids. She’d finally let them catch her. He knew that, because if she didn’t let them then they would never, ever win. When she was really trying, no one could ever catch her. No one but Norman.
The boy in question wandered over and sat next to him under his tree. Norman didn’t say anything, just watched Emma and the others play.
There was an odd kind of pressure around her. The whole family felt it. She was so like herself, so much the same as before, that everyone had to catch themselves before saying things they shouldn’t. References to old wounds, long gone adventures, lost family members, every conversation was a minefield that they kept forgetting they were standing in.
Whenever someone slipped, Emma got an odd look on her face, pain and guilt and regret, like somehow it was her fault that she couldn’t remember. Which, it was. Ray absolutely blamed her, she had made him promise over and over not to go sacrificing himself, not to risk himself, and then she had gone and done exactly that.
But he would do anything to stop that horrid, pained look on her face. They all would.
And she didn’t remember doing it anyway. But she was still the same. She felt like home.
Watching her, the wind in her hair and her long legs pulling her across the horizon, her eyes so bright and warm... it was like watching a dream. A beautiful, wonderful dream.
He grabbed his camera from where it rested beside him. The light like this was just right.
“Hey, Emma!” he called out.
She turned to face him, smiling big and bright and open, her orange hair sticking wildly in every direction even before the wind got to it, the sunlight reflecting through her gorgeous green eyes just so.
He snapped a photo, heart aching and pounding in equal measure.
He remembered the first time he had taken a picture of her and Norman, both of them blinded by the flash and flailing. He smiled at the memory, feeling fond and nostalgic and so wistful that it hurt.
For all that they had discovered the truth at the time, they had still been so young, so innocent. And now Emma was innocent once more.
His Emma was gone. The one in front of him was a simulacrum. And he was in love with a ghost.
Sometimes the nights were long and cold. Sometimes it was too quiet to sleep, even in a house filled with noisy, cheerful children.
The silence just brought images of nights spent on the lookout for demons, watching each others backs on too little food and sleep.
Sometimes it made him think of Emma, brushing against death as she bled out on the cold pavement, a hole in her torso and children screaming around her. If there was one thing Ray could say he was truly glad she could not remember, it was that.
He huddled further under his covers, trying to block out the chill. He turned over. Norman lay to his left, Emma to his right. Just where they should be.
He swallowed. How long had they been searching for her? How long had he wanted, needed, to find her, pushed ever forwards by a fervour that ached in his bones?
Sometimes it felt like he was still searching. But how could he be? She was right there.
He would do anything for her. He already had.
So had she.
Everything she did took him back. She ran into the dining room for breakfast, Phil on her back. She helped Anna restock her first aid kits. She loved and touched and lived and breathed and...
...and Ray was drowning in her.
She didn’t remember.
If Ray was honest with himself, actually honest, he wasn’t quite sure who he was protecting with that statement anymore. He told himself it was her he was protecting, over and over. That he didn’t want to hurt her with the wisps of memories she would never get back. But that was wrong, wasn’t it?
She looked up at him, eyes bright and sparkling and filled with such love.
“Good morning, Ray!” she chirped, as she always did. As she always would.
He leaned his forehead against hers, noses touching. Emma beamed that gorgeous smile of hers. Maybe it was time to stop worrying about what Emma didn't remember.
Maybe it was time to start making new memories.