Sebastian Stan One shots

Jefferson Hatter

Here a jefferson chapter. Because i didn't done one in a while

Enjoy❤️❤️😘

I'm like the water when your ship rolled in that night

Rough on the surface, but you cut through like a knife

And if it was an open-shut case,

I never would've known from that look on your face

Lost in your current like a priceless wine

Condensation slipped down the side of the glass almost as smoothly as the moonshine in it slipped down Jefferson's throat. His eyes struggled to stay open, blinking so blearily when he faced the dim lights of The Rabbit Hole. The crowded bar drowned out his sorrows, loud clamor and exhaustion filling every one of his senses as he ordered another round of drinks, all for himself.

Any of the locals of Storybrooke would've said that his scruffy appearance was his norm, bloodshot eyes and a light stubble peppering his sharp jawline and chin, rosy pink lips in a constant smirk while he bubbled out strings of nonsense. To them, he was just the creepy, drunken man who sat in the second seat on the left side of the bar, drinking himself silly like he wanted to die.

Honestly, that last part couldn't be closer to hitting home.

Jefferson couldn't blame the townspeople for his poor reputation. But he also couldn't say that any of them wouldn't be in the same position if they had gone through nearly half the loss he did.

He was tired. He was tired of clinging onto alcohol as a lifeline, of late nights at the bar and walking home at night, cursing the sky for something that couldn't be changed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd even let the blessing of sleep overtake his system. His hands were worn and scarred from three years of non-stop sewing, grasping onto the old habit to create some sense of familiarity in his bones. Every flaw on his body served as a reminder far too painful of everything he had lost.

His late mother remained on his cut fingers, and each time he pricked his thumb with a needle he could hear her incessant screaming to continue sewing garments to sell at the market the next day. It was during these moments that if he closed his eyes, the memory of a greyed out, stressed woman counting each dime and penny he laid out on the kitchen table played like a movie.

The weakness in his knees had Priscilla's name written on it. From the moment he first caught her trying to steal the king of Camelot's treasure, to giving birth to their dear Grace, to the moment he held her dying body in his shaking arms, his wife had been the one to take his breath away and feeling like a love struck idiot even years after her death.

But his neck, that angry, maroon line of scarred flesh that surrounded his throat, was the most painful of all. It was the result of a strike of vanity within him, when that feral need of going out to get more than he needed prevailed over his own satisfaction. The consequence of what good being greedy got him at the cost of the last good thing left in his life.

Grace was waiting for him. Grace was the one who sat patiently at a cedar table, chopping up vegetables at the neighbor's house while his head was being chopped off. His darling daughter, who wanted nothing more than his time and his love, the girl who he had dedicated his life to making nothing but joyous, and yet in the end it was him who took that joy away. It was the moment Regina stepped through that magic portal; he finally knew what he had lost. He'd finally lost everyone he'd ever loved, just as he always feared.