"Bloody hell!" Killian Jones wraps his right arm a little tighter around the woman's waist. Her dead weight almost makes him stumble when her knees give in. "Just set one foot in front of the other, will you?!"
But it's useless; Emma Swan is punch-drunk. When they leave the office building, the December cold hits them like a thousand needles, and the slender blonde starts to shake against him violently which adds to the insecurity of her steps. "Wonderful," he grumbles and grips her a little more firmly, half leading, half dragging her across the parking lot towards his car. He props her up against the side of the car while unlocking the passenger door. But she doesn't hold up well and starts to slide to the side, and Killian rolls his eyes. Quickly, he yanks the door open and pushes her inside not all too gently. She whines in protest, and he slams the door with an angry huff.
"Why me?!" he growls.
He's asked Dave the same question when he asked him to see her safely home after she'd shot her lights out completely at the staff Christmas party – David Nolan, his employer, best friend and also Emma Swan's half brother.
"Because you're not drunk and because you're the only one I trust," was the sincere, flattering answer. Well, this was great. Of course, there was no other option than to give in to his friend's request, although he'd rather be anywhere else than here with this woman in his car now.
It's not that he doesn't like her; actually, the problem is that he does like her. She's the one that seems to despise him, and he doesn't even know why. Since he came to work in her brother's marketing company, she's kept side-eyeing him with hostile looks. He's tried a few times to talk to her, open a light conversation – flirty, yes, but always in a polite and respectful way; he believes in good form, after all. Alas, she's shot him down in the most vitriolic way that has nothing to do with bantering. After the third time that happened, he's given up. He has some self-protection instincts, thank you very much. And even if he can see there's something beyond that rash mask of hers, a vulnerability and forlornness, obviously he's not meant to be the one to uncover it, to bring her walls down. So, he's keeping his distance, watches her from afar – and notices with a certain grudge that, obviously, she doesn't put on that rash mask for others. She's far from being a wallflower – she's actually a good flirt. With everybody else, it seems. For him, she seems to have only contempt. Well, that's that for him – he's been bruised often enough to know better than to chase after someone who clearly detests him. So, he doesn't. It's not like he's interested in chasing women in general anyway, although he likes to flirt; he's come from London to Boston only six months ago, and he's glad to have settled in – he doesn't need any trouble or uproar in his life: one more reason to steer clear of Emma Swan, her soft blonde curls and mysterious green eyes. Thankfully, they don't work in the same department and can easily keep out of each other's hair. Until now.
Now, he's stuck with her, thanks to David. He throws her a sideways glance and sees that she's slumped in the passenger's seat in a hazardous way, threatening to fall over into his lap. Well, just what he needs. He puts his right hand to her shoulder and pushes her into an upright position. Eyes squeezed shut, she makes a complaining noise again. Killian huffs and starts the engine.
"If you vomit in my car, you're gonna sleep in it," he tells her curtly.
She shifts a little in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position. "'Sokay…" she mumbles, and her voice sounds raspy, "'slong'syouw'me."
He turns to face her. "What?" he asks sharply, but a snore is his only answer.
After a short drive in welcome silence that gives him space to dwell in his grumpy thoughts, they reach her apartment building. He parks the car in front of it and fishes in the pockets of his coat for the spare keys to her apartment Dave gave him earlier. Turns out the task of unlocking her door isn't easy with her hanging onto his left arm, shaking with cold and trying to sneak under his coat in search for warmth. He wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her close into his body, because it's easier to steady her like this. For a fleeting moment, Killian allows himself the luxury of imagining them like this in a completely different scenario, but quickly he shakes the thought off. Utopia has never been good for anyone. It's better to put some space between them, because right now she's pressing her face into the side of his throat, her cold nose rubbing across his scruff, and murmurs with rattling teeth against his skin: "Yasmells'good..."
"And you smell like a barfly," he growls and finally manages to push the door open and guide her inside. She disappears into the dark depths of the apartment while he carefully enters and fumbles for the light switch. A dull thump announces she obviously knocked something over, and he swears under his breath. Hopefully she doesn't hurt herself, or else David will have his arse. Killian manages to turn on the lights just when his phone starts to buzz. Carefully clicking the door shut behind him, he grabs the phone and sees it's David. He rolls his eyes and answers.
"Did you get her safely home?" his best friend asks with a slight slur in his voice.
"Of course I did," he replies grumpily. "We just got to her place. You owe me one, mate."
David sighs. "Listen, Killian, I know you don't like her, but…"
Killian holds up his hand as if his friend could see him gesticulating. "It's not that I don't like her," he interrupts. "I don't like how she treats me. She's the one who hates me."
"She doesn't hate you," David contradicts.
Killian hears more muffled sounds and a distant murmuring and looks around to get orientation in this unknown apartment. "She sure makes a big point of proving that she does," he replies dryly, his eye scanning the semi-darkness.
"Look, she's not as bitchy as she seems," David continues in a placating voice. "Actually, she's the sweetest, most compassionate girl you can imagine."
Killian snorts. "She's your sister, of course you say that. But sweet is not exactly the word that springs to mind."
"She's just closed off. She's been bruised badly in the past, and I guess she's just guarded with guys," his mate tries to explain. Killian knows – or is sure – the first part is true. The second one... well, she surely doesn't act with others like she's guarded.
"Not with everybody," he replies. "She's a big flirt with Graham and Augie." Killian has never been the one to shy away from painful truths, and he knows that David isn't blind.
His friend sighs again. "I know that… I don't know, Killian. Maybe you trigger something for her. Or..." Thoughtful silence stretches, and Killian frowns; also, because he can't hear any noises from the living room.
"Or?" he prompts and is a little confused to hear David chuckle.
"Or she really likes you."
Killian huffs. "Oh please, mate, you're too drunk for your own good." He scratches behind his ear. "If looks could kill, I'd have died a hundred painful deaths by now."
"You're a drama queen," David teases. "Anyway, thank you for your help."
"I did it for you, mate. See you Monday." Quickly, he hangs up and walks carefully from the hallway into the dim-lit living room.
He has fulfilled his duty and kept his promise to Dave, he could calmly go home now. But he just wants to check on Emma once more before he leaves, because bloody hell, if she gets sick now she could choke on her own vomit. He half expects to find her crawling across the floor to her bedroom, but he finds her slender frame slumped down on the couch, passed out, her coat discarded on the floor. Her head rests on the backrest, her hair a little wild. No vomit, thank God. She snores lightly. He's standing in front of her, looking down at her sleeping figure, his jaw set tightly and his arms folded. Even now, with her skin paler than usual and her coral lipstick and mascara a little smudged, she looks breathtakingly beautiful.
"Swan," he says tentatively. "Wake up. Go to bed." As he feared, she shows no reaction. "Swan." But she's literally dead to the world; not even her eyelids flutter. Killian rolls his eyes and slumps down beside her, the sudden movement shaking her body a little. "Way to spend a Friday night," he grumbles to himself, curls his fingers around her bare upper arm (no wonder she was freezing in that flimsy little black dress) and shakes her none-too-gently. "Bloody hell. Wake up!"
Emma stirs a little in her slumber and mumbles something unintelligible; a lock of her disheveled hair falls over her face, and suddenly, with her features soft and relaxed, no flaring anger sparking from her eyes, she looks very young and innocent and vulnerable... and damn, why does she have to look like that? Unexpectedly, he feels a string of tenderness tug at his heart, and he remembers why he felt attracted to her in the first place. Stripped bare of all her tough-lass attitude, she looks like the untold tale of his dreams, fair and lean, headstrong and gentle of heart, and he feels the urge to protect her from all evil and harm.
Gently, he brushes a wayward strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear, and murmurs softly: "Emma."
"Killian?" she slurs. "'Sdatyou?"
"Aye," he replies and turns to her to check if she's drifting into consciousness at least long enough so that he can get her to her bedroom. "Come on, I'll…"
"'Sgood," she mumbles and laces her right arm through his left, her other hand blindly fumbling for the lapels of his vest. "Closer."
Well, this is awkward. "No, wait a mo-"
"Hmmhmm," she hums and slips her left hand underneath his vest and around his torso, resting it warmly (and almost possessively?) against the side of his ribcage. "'Sbedder." She snuggles close into his side nestling her head against his upper arm. Wonderful. This is not what he signed up for, this was supposed to be a quick in, drop her off and out. Why the hell is she so cuddly? Even if she's not really in control of herself or really conscious, she seems to know she's with him. She's never shown anything but contempt towards him, so what in blazes is happening here? David's voice echoes in his head: Or she really likes you... He shakes his head to himself and looks down at her. He can see only a part of her face, but she seems to smile in her slumber. "Killian," she sighs in a voice that sounds contented somehow, and not like she expects an answer.
"What?" he grumbles and she murmurs something unintelligible in response.
He's had enough. This is too confusing, too much, too close. Carefully, he tries to manoeuvre his arm out of hers, but she grasps him only tighter and sort of whines in protest. "Don'go'way."
"Bloody hell, Dave," he growls, "you shall pay for this." If Killian Jones hates one thing, then it's being in a situation where control is taken away from him or where he can't internally distance himself from. And he is getting the vague feeling that this is far beyond his control. Emma's answer is more unintelligible murmuring, and he feels her fingers curl against his side through the fabric of his shirt; she's obviously determined not to let him go.
"I have to go," he utters in frustration, more to himself than to her, because she can't hear him anyway, obviously. Alas, her reply tells him she can.
"Don'go'way," she repeats, "I love you. Don'urpme."
He freezes. "What was that?" he inquires sharply, but her only answer is silence. She's passed out completely now, her weight resting heavily against his side, but somehow it feels like that's how it should be. She asked him to stay. Obviously, he can't leave now, so he sighs and lets his head sink against the backrest of the couch.
Emma Swan doesn't wake up the next morning, it's more of a painfully slow struggle back into consciousness. She hears a weird buzzing in her ears, her head is pounding and heavy, and it hurts like a bitch. With some effort that increases the throb behind her closed eyes, she tries to recall what has happened. She knows only one thing for sure, that she got punch-drunk at the staff Christmas party, and the last thing she remembers is... oh God. The first groan of the day escapes her throat. Because the last thing she remembers is a pair of angry blue eyes in front of her face, and a sarcastic "watch your step, darling – you wouldn't want to end up at my feet now, would you?" Of course, him of everyone she had to stumble across in her drunken state, the biggest asshole she'd ever had the displeasure of working with – Killian God's-gift-to-women Jones. She shudders at the thought. "Keep dreaming," she replied in a slurred voice and stumbled on – and after that, everything is blurred. She has not even the slightest idea how she got home, but she is definitely home.
She tries to sit up and manages just-so, but it doesn't feel good; it feels awful, actually. The pounding in her head swells to a goddamn jungle drum solo, and the foul taste in her mouth isn't destined to make her feel better either. Obviously, she has passed out on the couch, that much is clear. Emma has the strange sensation that someone has been with her... her eyes pop open when suddenly she has a clear image in her head, but the pain makes her squeeze them shut right again. Her fuddled brain tries to grab hold of that image, and when she manages, she buries her head in her hands an groans. What a nightmare, she's never going to touch tequila again. She must have words with her brother; the stuff David had provided for the Christmas party must have been the cheapest booze if it conjures dreams of Killian Jones in her slumber. For a moment, the image was frighteningly clear in her head: she was curled up at his side, had her arms wrapped around him and told him that... oh God. She groans again. In her dream, she told him that she loves him and begged him not to hurt her. She shudders again; nothing could be farther from the truth. She loathes that man. Truly.
He came to work at her brother's company about half a year ago, and when she first laid eyes on him she was intrigued. His blue eyes were spectacular and his eyelashes not from this world; the mostly unruly dark hair and the slight ginger scruff he sported were eye catchers, and so was his butt in those skinny jeans he liked to wear. Hearing his low voice speak in that distinct accent did unspeakable things to her, but just when she thought he looked good enough to eat (and planned to do exactly that), he made one big mistake: he smiled. It wasn't a suggestive smirk or a flirty grin like she was used to, no; he looked her openly in the eyes and smiled like he meant it – like he meant her. Not her pretty ass, her blonde hair or her boobs – her. Too good to be true – and if she'd learned one thing from her various experiences with men: if a guy looked too good to be true, usually he was neither good nor true, and those were the ones one should better steer clear of. She just shot him down with her sarcasm, and as it turned out, she was right, of course. Because in no time he was the cock of the walk, a flirt with everyone, and every female of the company – and a few males too – were drawn to Killian Jones like moths to a flame.
He must be handling his affairs well, she'll give him that, because she hasn't ever heard of any trouble, bitch fights or gossip, but she still gives him the side eyes whenever she comes across him – which doesn't happen often, luckily. David has tried a few times to suggest she should go out with his best friend, but she was adamant that she just didn't do British.
What venomous booze has made her dream of a cuddling session with Killian Jones, she doesn't know, but she'll make sure to never touch it again. She's still cradling her head in both hands and contemplating whether to lie down again or go to the bathroom, when a low voice floats through the cotton that is wrapped around her head. "Look who's back from the Underworld."
Emma's head snaps up, and the movement doesn't do her any good at all. For a moment, her vision is blurred, but then she sees clear. Killian Jones is standing in the middle of her living room, wearing the same black tight jeans and navy blue shirt like the evening before, hair disheveled and scruff a little darker than usual – and how the hell does she even notice all this, her freaking eyeballs are hurting when she moves them in their sockets! It's like she fucking summoned him by recalling her stupid dream.
"Jones," she manages to croak and struggles to sit up. It feels like she's speaking through layers of dirty cotton in her mouth. "What are you doing here?"
He saunters nearer. "I was your knight in shining armor," he replies in a soothing voice that holds only the slightest bit of amusement. When her face contorts into a grimace of confusion – and that hurts too – he adds with an explanatory wave of his hand: "I brought you home."
"Oh..." Her head is spinning, and she licks her lips. Just when she thought it couldn't get any worse. Surely, this was David's fault. "I suppose I should thank you then," she murmurs through gritted teeth, and she wants nothing more than to disappear into a hole in the ground.
"Don't worry," he waves her off nonchalantly and runs his hand through his hair, messing it up even more, and then it hits her: he looks like he's slept in his clothes. Which means...
"Did you stay here all night?" she asks incredulously, and when he just sheepishly tilts his head instead of an answer, she blurts out: "Why?"
He scratches behind his ear. "I promised Dave to get you home safely."
"Oh... of course." She closes her eyes again because the daylight hurts, and for a moment she's absolutely baffled because suddenly a wave of disappointment washes over her. What stupid fuckery is this even? Why else would he stay, and, what's the question of the day: why the fuck does she even care? "Anyway..." Quickly, she swings her legs down from the couch and gets up, trying to make her voice sound haughty. "You can go now and enjoy your weekend, I'm fine..." But the abrupt movement makes her dizzy head spin even more, and for a second her vision is blackened. Emma takes a step away from the couch, but she stumbles and falls. His strong arms catch her before she hits the floor and pull her safely to her feet again.
"No, you're obviously not," Killian replies dryly, "but it's nothing a strong coffee and a few pills can't fix." His hands are still steadying her at her waist and her left arm, and he's looking at her with a weird expression that makes the skin at the base of her neck prickle. Their stares lock and she doesn't know what's transpiring here. But before she has even a chance to gather her wits, a wave of nausea washes over her.
"I'm going to throw up," she whines.
Immediately, he gets down to business. "Alright. Where's your bathroom?"
The hell is he going to the bathroom with her. "No," she protests and tries to wriggle her arm free from his grasp, but he isn't having any of that.
"Swan," he cuts her off sharply, "bathroom. Now." His no-nonsense voice doesn't permit objection, and frankly, she doesn't even have the energy to argue, because her stomach is raging, and it's urgent. She points in the direction of the bathroom down the hall, and Killian grips her firmly around the waist and steadies her stumbling steps. "That's a good girl."
She bursts into the bathroom with him closely on her bare heels, and she tries weakly to protest again. She will die from embarrassment if Killian Jones of all people witnesses her downfall. "No," she chokes, but then she's forced to slump down before the toilet bowl, her body already convulsing in spasms. Before she throws up all the mess, he's at her side, and she can feel him pulling back her hair and holding it together at the back of her head so she won't dirty herself.
"Easy there," he murmurs to her surprise and gently rubs her back while she bucks and gags and empties her stomach.
When she's done, he helps her up and she stands still a little unsure on her feet, the paleness of her cheeks slowly being replaced by the burning blush of mortification as she awaits his sarcastic remark that's surely to come. Instead, he just takes the towel hanging on a small hook beside the sink, wets it under the faucet and hands it to her. "Here. If you freshen up a little and brush your teeth, you'll surely feel better," he says in a casual voice, as if she hadn't just emptied the entire contents of her stomach and about 95% of her dignity into the toilet bowl with him holding her hair back. He isn't even looking at her, not giving away so much as an ironic twitch of his damn eyebrows. It's almost as if he deliberately tries not to embarrass her any further. As if he's being really nice.
Wordlessly, she takes the towel, and after a short nod, he leaves the bathroom and closes the door behind him, giving her privacy.
Emma stares at the closed door for a few seconds until her vision starts to blur again, trying to wrap her mind around what just happened, but her head hurts too much. No, but really, was that just Killian fucking Jones in her bathroom, helping her while she was throwing up? Without even so much as a sarcastic remark, not even before, when she literally almost ended up at his feet? That look he gave her when he held her just that moment longer than necessary... the sudden flutter of her stomach was due to the hangover-induced nausea, sure (or wasn't it?), but still... it was the strangest feeling.
Her eyes dart to her own reflection in the mirror, and she closes them with a groan of frustration. Skin pale and clammy, strands of hair plastered across her sweaty forehead, dark shadows under her eyes and her eyeliner and mascara smeared so that she looks like Jack Sparrow on a bad day. Honestly, she looks like chewed up and spit out, and not that she cares to look pretty in that man's eyes, – because hello, why would she care? – but holy crap. She remembers the towel in her hand and dabs it over the back of her neck, enjoying its soothing coolness that almost immediately makes her feel a little better. How thoughtful of him. What? God, this was so confusing.
It drives her crazy that she can barely remember a thing from yesterday. Normally, she doesn't drink that much, she really doesn't. And actually she was in a good mood yesterday. Okay, she was maybe a little tipsy when David and Mary Margaret told her about this year's arrangements for Christmas, but no way was she drunk. She saw a few of the office's happy couples getting all christmas-y, which got a bit on her nerves, and then she recalls... oh fuck. She was talking to her friend Ruby when the brunette giggled and looked over Emma's shoulder, tsk-ing. Emma turned around to see the quirky blonde IT-specialist whose name she keeps forgetting walking up to Killian Jones; everyone just called her Tinkerbell because she could fix just anything computer-related. She waved a mistletoe above his head, grabbed the lapels of Jones' vest and pulled him down for a hearty smooch. Emma rolled her eyes and shook her head.
"Good luck with that one, Tink," Ruby commented under her breath, "Mr. Sex God's not interested, trust me." When Emma raised a questioning eyebrow at her, she added with a shrug: "You know me. I had to try. Go ahead and judge me. I mean, just look at him."
"No, thank you," Emma huffed. "Where's the booze?"
She throws the towel on the floor. Why the fuck does suddenly everything lead back to Killian Jones? She curses her brother for putting her in this situation, sending him of all people to take her home in that desperate state. David knows that she despises Killian Jones. He briefly even tried to set her up for a date with the guy, but she made it clear that she didn't approve of any meddling with her love life – and that she wasn't interested in cheeky assholes with blinding smiles who thought they were heaven-sent, even if David assured her that Killian wasn't like that. Of course they're best friends, so Mr. Perfect couldn't say no, but why the hell did he stay all night? To delight in her misery, to see her at the deepest bottom the morning after? So far, he hasn't shown any trace of glee, she has to admit. Then why – to take care of her? Her eyes dart back to the towel he handed her, and the soothing tone of his voice when he held her hair hums in her head. This was more than confusing.
At least his presence explains the dream she had – well, part of it. Surely not... that other part. She opens the faucet and starts to splash cold water into her face, hoping to cast away weird memories, startling dreams and confusing feelings by anchoring back again in reality.
When she leaves the bathroom twenty minutes later, she feels already a little better; the raging headache kept at bay after two aspirins, the foul taste in her mouth gone and her stomach still irritated, but that's manageable. She feels clean, the last smudges of last night's makeup removed, freshened up and comfortable after she slipped out of her little black dress and into a comfortable set of sweatpants, a sweater and fluffy socks. She just wants to slump on the couch again – her bed would feel too much like being sick – and snuggle deep into the cushions and a blanket, dozing off in the hope of pushing the weird thoughts of Killian Jones taking care of her to the back of her mind.
Alas, when she shuffles back to her living room again, she finds him there, sitting on the couch, flipping through a magazine. He looks tired. When he sees her, he slowly rises to his feet, a slight smile playing around his lips. She tries to detect a hint of mockery on his face, but she finds none. With a voice that's still a little croaky, she remarks unnecessarily: "You're still here."
He scratches a spot behind his ear and motions vaguely towards the low table in front of the couch. "You haven't had your coffee yet," he comments, and only now Emma notices a steaming mug. She swallows and doesn't reply, doesn't know what to reply. She doesn't understand why he's acting like that – all caring and kind – and she's afraid of what she doesn't understand. Especially when men are concerned. Especially when Killian Jones is concerned. She'd rather have him behaving like an asshole; that would be something she could deal with.
She stands there for a few seconds without moving, before she blurts out: "Are you going to make me the joke of the office on Monday?" She raises her chin, and the look she throws him is almost defiant, and she's pretty sure he's planning to do exactly that, because duh. He's a guy.
She's a little surprised to see his face fall. "Why would I do that?" he asks calmly, not taking his eyes off her.
Suddenly feeling sheepish, she looks down at her feet. "Well, you wouldn't be the first," she murmurs.
He snorts. "You're not used to people being nice to you, are you?"
"I'm not used to men being nice," she admits and fixes her gaze firmly on him, "not without expecting something in return."
A muscle in his jaw clenches. "Well, that's a shame," he comments almost curtly and adds: "Think of me as you wish, love, but whatever you think I am – I do believe in good form, and taking advantage of someone's vulnerability surely doesn't qualify as part of it." He waves again in the direction of the coffee mug on the table. "You should drink it while it's hot." He turns around and heads towards the door.
Instead of being relieved to finally get rid of his company, she calls after him, before her brain can forbid her to do so. Stupid brain, still hungover. "Jones?"
He stands rooted to the spot and just throws a look at her over his shoulder, a quirked eyebrow marking the question.
Emma draws a deep breath. "Thank you," she says sincerely and much to her own surprise.
He just tilts his head in a nod – or is that a bow? – and replies in that stupid diction of his: "At your service." And with that, he turns on his heel and leaves the house. She stares at the closed door for a full minute. Then she shakes her head to herself – very carefully, because it still hurts – and finally shuffles over to her couch to settle down. The steaming mug sitting on the coffee table seems to mock her somehow, and it's a very frustrating feeling. For a moment, she contemplates taking the mug to the kitchen and pouring its contents into the sink, but then she tells herself that would be ridiculous. She takes a sip, it's still hot and tastes good; it's black, strong and sweet, just how she likes it, and she wonders how he knew. But then, probably just coincidence. An old saying – she doesn't even remember where she heard it – pops up in her mind: good coffee should be black as the devil, hot as hell, pure as an angel and sweet as love. She puts the mug down with a sharp clank. Probably not good for her stomach anyway.
She wraps herself in a blanket and snuggles deep into the pillows on her couch. When she tosses and turns for a long time even though she's drop-dead tired, she blames it on the tequila before she falls into a restless sleep.
When she wakes up some time later, she's confused at first – it could have been twenty minutes or twenty hours of sleep that engulfed her. It's dark outside, she sees now, so it has to be early evening. With a sigh, she throws back the blanket that is crumpled around her waist and sits up; she doesn't really feel refreshed, but at least her headache is gone and her stomach seems okay again. Then she hears a noise and jumps up.
Killian Jones is standing in her hallway carrying a plastic bag and grins sheepishly. "Sorry, Swan."
"What…"
He raises his free hand in a defensive move. "I'm sorry," he repeats, "I didn't mean to intrude… I thought you might still be asleep and didn't want to wake you up, so I let myself in." Her face mirrors her confusion, and he continues hastily: "With the key your brother gave me yesterday. I figured you'd be hungry when you wake up, so I brought you this." He raises the plastic bag. "I was going to leave it in the kitchen with a note. Sorry if I woke you."
Emma frowns. "What's that?" she asks almost harshly.
"Chicken soup."
"Really?" She can't help but smile. "You bought me chicken soup?" He doesn't reply, instead fidgets with the plastic bag, and she sees that the container doesn't look like a ready-made one; it's a blue Tupperware box. She frowns. "Wait…" When it dawns on her, her eyes widen. "You made it?"
He tilts his head and throws her a challenging look. "Are you going to make me the joke of the office on Monday now?" he quips.
She presses her lips together and smiles sheepishly, averting her eyes for a moment. "Point taken," she murmurs, and she realizes it's kind of an apology she's offering here.
He scratches behind his ear, not further commenting on it. "Where do you want your soup?"
"Kitchen, please." She leaves the living room and follows him when he carries the container with his chicken soup – his fucking homemade chicken soup – into her kitchen. Although she totally doesn't mean to, she gets a close look at him, and she can't help but notice the way his black jeans hug his backside so tightly, and yes, he does look damn fine. Well, his looks have never been the problem. Him being an asshole has been the problem. On the other hand, today he behaved really decently, she has to admit.
"There you go," he says and sets the plastic box on her small kitchen table. "You shouldn't..." he waves his hand vaguely, "it's best eaten while still hot." He nods, more to himself, and then turns toward the exit again.
Before Emma can stop herself, she blurts out: "That's an awful lot of soup for one person." He tilts his head in a questioning manner, and she doesn't even know what's gotten into her, but she continues: "Would you like to join me?" He blinks and scratches behind his ear again, and she scolds herself mentally: what the fuck were you thinking? before she adds hastily: "That is, unless you don't have other plans. I mean, surely you have other plans, it's Saturday and..."
"Actually, no," he cuts off her stammering. "I'd love to."
"Uh... okay then." She turns her back on him to rummage in her kitchen cabinets, her hands shaking and her mind racing, and she asks herself again what she was thinking. But the words are out, and now she'll have to deal with it, and if it means that she'll eat chicken soup in her kitchen with Killian Jones. Chicken soup made by him. Nope, not being an asshole at all today, which is really, really confusing. With some effort – where's the fucking flatware again? – she finally manages to set the table with two soup bowls and two spoons, and Killian opens the container. The soup is still steaming, and he fills both bowls, waiting for her to sit down before he follows her example.
Emma doesn't know where to look and smiles a little awkwardly at him before she picks up her spoon and tries the soup. It tastes delicious, and her eyes widen in surprise for a moment. She looks at him and finds his gaze resting on her with the slightest hint of a smile.
"It's... it's good," she says and feels a little stupid.
He accepts her compliment with a tiny nod and replies: "It should be good for your stomach." He takes his spoon and starts to eat, not making any further fuss and obviously not expecting her to make any small talk. But the silence makes her nervous, because she's not used to that kind of quiet company just for the sake of company, as in: not being alone. Except for when she's with her brother and his wife, she's always been alone. She continues to eat, but suddenly her stomach feels awkward again.
"Normally, I don't drink that much," Emma finally says.
Killian shakes his head. "Look, you don't have to explain..."
"No, I know," she interrupts hastily. "But I just thought you should know, since you were so kind to look after me..." She swallows before she continues: "...even if you were just doing David a favor." She doesn't even know why she added that, sounding like she wants to complain. That's ridiculous. She doesn't care.
He draws a deep breath and puts down his spoon. "I wasn't," he answers after only the slightest hesitation. Her eyes widen, and he goes on: "Even if Dave hadn't asked me to get you safely home – if I'd seen you leave the party by yourself in the state you were in, I'd have gone after you." He looks down at the table where his fingers are playing – nervously? – with his spoon, his expression otherwise being unreadable.
"Why?" she blurts out.
A trace of annoyance flies over his face, and when he turns his eyes to her, they are of a quite stormy blue. "Because I'm a decent human being, unlike what you seem to assume of me." His voice is low and controlled, but there's a hint of anger bubbling underneath the surface. "Although I have no idea what I've done to make you dislike me so strongly as you obviously do."
Emma feels both her defense and her defiance kick in, and she raises her chin when the image of Tink smooching him under the mistletoe flashes before her inner eye. "What I dislike," she replies pointedly, "is a womanizer." The moment the words are out, she wants to slap herself because she knows she sounded far too concerned. She is not.
He looks at her like he's taken aback. His eyebrows shoot up in indignation. "That's what you think I am?" he asks incredulously. "A ladykiller?"
"Every woman in the office is lusting after you," she snaps, "and you encourage them!" God, she just made it worse, and why the fuck does she sound like she's jealous? She is not!
Killian stares at her, trying to read her, David's words in his head again: Or she really likes you. He runs his hand through his hair and sighs, his rightful anger evaporated into thin air. Has he started to dismiss her drunken confession of last night as a mere stupidity of no importance – or perhaps he has even imagined things that weren't there – , so her reaction now shows him that his ears actually haven't deceived him. Because if that little outburst wasn't jealousy, he's never seen the green-eyed snake raised its head. Jealousy! He can't believe it. She likes him. Drunks and children speak the truth. He feels almost elated, even if she's glaring at him right now – he's used to that, and now he knows what to make of it. "Just because I like to tease and joke," he replies calmly, "that doesn't mean I take another woman to bed every weekend." He leans back and watches her, waiting for her reaction.
Emma blushes under his scrutiny as his words conjure inappropriate pictures in her head and raises her hands in a defensive gesture. "That's really none of my business." She tries to backpedal and feign indifference, but fails miserably. Too vivid is the image of him engaging in... slippery activities in his bed. Her blush deepens, and she curses inwardly.
"No, it's not," he deadpans and, when her face falls, adds in a more serious tone: "But – just like you didn't want me to assume wrong things about your drinking habits, I wouldn't want you to assume wrong things about my..." – he pauses and runs the tip of his tongue along the inside of his teeth, and her stomach churns even more – "...womanizing habits." He tilts his head. "Not that I had assumed anything wrong about your drinking habits."
She looks at him firmly, a stubborn determination and an unspoken challenge in her eyes; the soup is long forgotten. "And what did you assume about me?" she wants to know.
"You're bruised," he replies without hesitation, and she cringes a little, "and on your guard. Especially when..." he falls silent and licks his lips again, as if he's suddenly realized he said too much. But then he sees the eager, almost pleading expression in her eyes, and he musters all his bravado and finishes: "...when you like someone."
For the fraction of a second, Emma's eyes widen, and he half expects a sharp response, but then she leaves his allusion uncommented – undenied – and looks down at the table before asking: "If you'd watched, say, Belle getting punch drunk and leaving the party, would you have done the same for her?" Her voice is a little husky, and a fine shade of pink tinges her cheeks.
"Of course," he answers immediately, not taking his eyes off her face for a second. He's stupidly elated about the hint of disappointment that ghosts over her features and continues: "Not to all extents, of course."
Her eyes fly to his face again, a frown making her confusion evident. "What does that mean?"
He tilts his head again. "Would I have taken her home and seen her safely to her rest? Yes." He can't help an amused eyebrow quirking up. "Would I have stayed over night, barely dozing in the most uncomfortable position, and let her snuggle up to me? No."
Before she can get her features under control, Emma's jaw drops and her blush deepens. "Snuggle up?" she echoes and shakes her head with a snort. "I don't snuggle."
"Oh, last night you bloody well did, Swan." Although his blue eyes are twinkling with mischief, she believes him.
Remembering her dream, she sighs a nervous laugh. "Can it get any more embarrassing?" When Killian just keeps scrutinizing her in a quite unreadable way, she groans, "Oh no," and covers her eyes for a moment before she braces herself and looks up at him again. "What did I do?" The mortification settles in when she remembers her dream... and silently prays that it was only a dream and not her drunken self actually confessing feelings to Killian Jones she didn't even know she harbored.
He doesn't even contemplate for a second to tell her the truth, because he knows her walls would go up for sure that same moment. Briefly, he shakes his head. "Nothing. Let's just say you were being quite..." he pauses for a moment, licking his lips and looking for the right word that hints at the picture, but doesn't betray everything, "...cuddly."
"Oh," Emma makes, her mind racing as she tries to really remember anything, but damn, her whole memories are way too blurred. She only recalls vaguely a warm feeling of comfort and security and that she seemed to be holding on to something – or someone? – determined to not let go, not this time, never again. The seconds are stretching, and she feels his gaze resting on her once more, calm and steady. She has been cuddly with Killian Jones, well, great. At least the rest of her stupid dream didn't turn out to be true, thanks very much. She feels a fresh wave of blush creep up her neck when she recalls that dream so vividly again, and why does he have to look at her like that? Quickly, she throws a quip his way. "Now I feel bad that I didn't even offer you a coffee before groping you."
She tries to make her voice sound nonchalant while hastily getting up and busying herself with taking the half-emptied bowls to the sink; the meal is obviously over and besides, any excuse is fine to hide her face from him now: too many feelings are probably mirrored there right now, feelings even she herself doesn't understand.
"Well," his smooth baritone caresses her ear, and she jumps a little, because his voice is quite near; she turns around. Killian is but a few feet away from her, and he smiles the tiniest smile, just a barely perceptible curve of his mouth... his very kissable mouth... (and where's the mistletoe when you need it and what the fuck are you thinking, hold your horses, Swan!) but his eyes are sparkling. "I guess that will have to wait until next time then."
Instinctively, she tries to retreat, but she can feel the kitchen sink pressing against her lower back. On second thought, that's not quite an uncomfortable position. "Next time?" she echoes feebly and swallows, her mouth forming words before her brain can stop them from tumbling from her lips. "Is that you asking me out on a date?"
He blinks slowly, and his smile widens a little. It's appreciative, like he's pleasantly surprised that she went out on a limb like that. He tilts his head once in a nod and answers her in an almost solemn voice: "Aye. It is."
Emma raises her chin again, and he finds that stubborn gesture of hers being a quite adorable trait. "Tinkerbell won't like it."
He frowns in confusion, completely thrown off track for a moment. "Tinkerbell?" he echoes.
The slight pink tinge of her cheeks deepens. "The blonde IT fairy," she says, and then it dawns on him. "I saw you kiss her yesterday."
An amused eyebrow shoots up when he tilts his head to the side. "She kissed me," he corrects, "she can be a bit overbearing." His tongue darts out to moisten his lips, and she's distracted for a moment. "I'm not interested in her," he clarifies, any teasing gone from his expression now, and bores his stare into her eyes before adding: "Or anyone else."
Emma has never felt so out of control of a situation in her entire adult life; what happens here is clearly nothing she has ever planned or even thought possible, she doesn't understand it, any of it, and it's all going way too fast. Barely twenty hours ago she considered Killian Jones her nemesis, and now she's encouraging him to ask her out on a date. Feeling jealousy. Revealing herself to him. Making herself vulnerable. This is not who she is. Why the hell does she trust him to live up to his promise and not take advantage of her vulnerability? She tells herself she shouldn't. Anyway, this is a bad idea, and he's probably come to this conclusion for himself by now.
"I'm... I'm still your best friend's sister, you know." There it is. She's offering him the easy way out.
He nods again, once. "I'm aware of that." His gaze is unfaltering, resting on her face steadily, and she's asking herself why that doesn't make her feel uncomfortable. On the contrary, the way he looks at her so calmly has a soothing effect on her.
She averts her eyes for a moment. "If we go on a date and it doesn't go well..."
"We shall make it go very well then." His voice is low and warm, and damn, it makes her stomach flutter. And this time, it's definitely not nausea.
Emma licks her lips before she swallows – her nervousness, her resistance and her objections. "Just so you know... I don't offer coffee on the first date," she tells him.
Killian's mouth twitches into into that tiny smile again. That's because you haven't been out with me yet, he wants to reply, but he bites his lip just in time. The balance between them is very fragile, and he doesn't want to scare her off by throwing an innuendo her way that could make her think maybe her assumptions about his habits with the fair sex were right after all. So he just raises his eyebrow and tilts his head a little in question. "Is that you saying yes?"
There's the tiniest hesitation on her face, and his heart skips a beat, but then she presses her lips together in a tentative smile. "I guess it is." Her voice sounds a little breathless, and he's sure her heart is beating a little faster, too. What a huge step that must be for her.
"Good." His smile brightens. "Would you like to have breakfast with me tomorrow?" he asks a little unexpectedly.
She raises her eyebrows. "Breakfast?" she echoes. "Is that your idea of a proper date?" Her tone is light and teasing.
He takes a step nearer, invading her personal space now. But Emma doesn't seem to notice; her eyes are glued to his lips. He shakes his head. "No, it's surely not, love." She blinks at that oh so stupid term of endearment, and he tilts his head before he explains: "But my idea of a..." – he pauses for a moment to run his tongue across his bottom lip this time, and her toes curl in her fluffy socks – "...proper date doesn't go well with a Sunday evening." He gives her a moment to contemplate what his idea of a proper date might involve, before he goes on: "And I don't want to wait until Monday in the office to see you again."
Her eyes pop open in barely veiled delighted surprise at his – actually quite sweet – confession. "Oh..."
Killian's left eyebrow shoots up in question. "Pick you up at ten?"
At ten on a Sunday morning, Emma usually snuggles really deeply into her sheets and blankets again and sleeps for at least another hour; she hardly leaves the bed before noon on Sundays, that's her guilty pleasure. But maybe... maybe she could find another one. "Ten is fine," she hears herself say.
"Good." He smiles down at her and adds in a soft voice: "You should get a little more rest now."
Emma notices how close he stands. Normally, she would feel trapped, but strangely enough, she doesn't. His nearness isn't imposing, it's... reassuring, somehow. "Is that you telling me I look awful?" she jokes, a little nervously nevertheless.
He raises his right hand tentatively and puts two fingers to her hair, smoothing a wayward lock from her face. When his fingertips brush across her cheekbone in the process she holds her breath without even noticing. Her eyes dart to his lips again, enjoying his almost bashful smile before he says: "No, that is me looking after you."
He's so close now that she can smell him; it's a faint mix of a spicy cologne and something heady she can't define, but boy, does she like it. She's leaning against the edge of her kitchen sink, and the only escape route would be to the side, if she were inclined to back away. There's not one moment she even contemplates it. Their stares lock, and she's simply mesmerized by his blue eyes and their expression, there's no other word for it. The fine skin around them is creased a tad, and it's that ghost of a smile she's seen before. She finds tenderness, sincerity and something else... a little bolder, a little darker... something that matches that indefinably alluring scent and makes a ball of warmth coil deep in her belly. Emma blinks and drops her eyes for a moment to his mouth, she can't help it, and suddenly her throat is very dry and she has to swallow. When she looks up into his eyes again she sees more tenderness and longing and the hint of an unspoken question. Instinctively, she tilts her head back the tiniest bit, maybe just an inch or so, and parts her lips without even noticing. Killian leans forward in slow motion almost, bracing the distance between them inch by inch, his eyes never leaving hers for one moment, reading in them, reading her. And instinctively she knows: if he sees the slightest trace of reluctance in her eyes, he will pull back. She just knows. How did he call it? Good form. In her whole life, she's never felt so terrified and so safe at the same time like now: trapped between her kitchen sink and Killian Jones's body, about to be kissed by him. She watches him come nearer and holds her breath, and when the tips of their noses brush against each other she closes her eyes.
The kiss is brief and very soft, just a gentle touch of his lips to hers, warm and dry and absolutely promising. She has really no idea what this means, what it's supposed to be, but she knows one thing: that it feels right, and so she raises a little on her tiptoes and responds with the lightest of pressure. When he pulls back, she has difficulties opening her eyes again and focusing on his face. The fine lines around his eyes have deepened, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth now – that mouth that just has caressed hers, and she still can't believe it.
When he speaks, his voice is a little husky. "Good night, Emma."
He takes one step backwards, then turns around and walks towards the door. It takes Emma a few seconds to wake from her haze, and she calls after him: "Good night... Killian."
When he hears her say his name for the first time while she's sober, he looks over his shoulder and smiles, and it's a full smile this time, butterfly-rousing and heart-stopping, and just how has she not noticed the sincerity in that smile before? She can't help but return it – a little shyly, but she does. He tilts his head, and again, it looks almost like a little bow. "I'll see you tomorrow."
The next day Emma sets the alarm clock for 9 am which to her feels like in the middle of the night for a Sunday morning, but she is ready and radiant by a quarter to ten, and by the time Killian shows up, she's worked herself already into a state of nervousness (what am I doing, why am I doing this and what the fuck we'll be even talking about?!), but also some kind of eager anticipation. But then, he's there and kisses her on the forehead before scrutinizing her closely and asking if she's all right, and suddenly everything's easy and relaxed. He takes her to his favorite diner, and they have a long breakfast that turns into a brunch and leads to them spending half Sunday together; later, she doesn't even remember where they went and what they did... she just remembers the talking was easy and the company enjoyable. She doesn't even remember when it happened, but at some point she noticed that their hands found their way to each other, fingers intertwining, and the best thing is – it doesn't feel awkward at all, although she cannot explain to herself why. In the afternoon he drops her off at her place with regret but tells her on Sunday evenings he's always volunteering in a social center where he spends time with traumatized orphans – he calls them lost boys, and the look in his eyes tells her there's more about that than he's yet ready to reveal, and she finds she wants to know more about it. He doesn't drop her at the door of her apartment building but accompanies her to her apartment door and kisses her on the cheek before he says goodbye.
Monday, she's a little nervous because this is work territory, and she has no idea how to act around him; but she relaxes when he gives her an open smile and behaves completely naturally with her. No one throws her a square look, and when David asks her a little sheepishly if everything went alright after the party, she replies with a smile that evidently surprises her brother. Later, she accidentally sees Killian running into one of the female accountants, and her belly ties involuntarily into a tight knot when she sees the pretty girl smile and throw some obviously saucy remark at him, judging by her smile and the batting of her eyelashes. She draws a deep breath and braces herself for Killian's reaction and her reaction to it, but he just presses his lips together into a polite smile and replies without raising an eyebrow or pursing his lips into a smirk. The woman's smile withers a little, and Emma can't help but feel stupidly satisfied.
He takes her out for an after-work dinner on Tuesday evening. At her doorstep, he reaches for her right hand and brushes a feather light kiss on its back in an endearingly old-fashioned gesture, slowly running his index finger across her palm before releasing her. The goosebumps spread on her wrist and run up all the way to her shoulder, and that night she dreams of his fingers following the trail of gooseflesh up her arm and across her collarbone, up her throat to her chin, lifting it a little before he kisses her again, like on Saturday afternoon.
Wednesday evening, she's at David's and Mary Margaret's place for dinner, and when he tries to poke a little about the evening of the party and if Killian has taken good care of her, she just answers vaguely and brushes him off quickly. She's sure he's suspecting something, but she's not willing to share anything yet. Stir in your own juices, bro.
Thursday, she has to work late. Even if she's the boss's sister, there are deadlines to meet, and Killian surprises her by showing up at her desk when she thinks he must have already left; he puts a paper bag on her desk with a triumphant smirk, and when she curiously opens it and finds a grilled cheese with onion rings – her other guilty pleasure – she's baffled at how he even knows that. But then he also knew how she likes her coffee. He waits for her and takes her home when she's finally finished, and when he reaches for her hand this time, she doesn't let go but curls her fingers around his with determination and pulls him a little closer, just enough to make him understand, and he does. He leans in and kisses her softly on the mouth. Following her instincts, Emma parts her lips a little in a silent invitation, and the tip of his tongue strokes across hers in a very brief but nevertheless electrifying touch that sets her heart aflutter.
And then comes Friday. Finally, he takes her out on a proper date. They go out for dinner in a fancy restaurant, not over-the-top but romantic enough, and he brings her a single pink camellia when he picks her up. Afterwards, he takes her to his favorite place, the Skywalk Observatory, where they look up into the clear night sky and he explains the stars to her. Not one minute of it is boring. By the time they have reached her apartment, she has made up her mind. He's already a little more bold and leans in for a good night kiss, and this time she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him close, closer – until their bodies are flush against each other, and it's amazing how they seem to fit so well. She is tucked in between he solid wood of her entrance door and the solid lines of his body, and again she feels anchored and safe in his embrace. His left arm is around her waist, and she can feel his warm palm on her back through the fabric of her clothes; his right hand cups the back of her head while he kisses her – carefully at first, but then a little firmer, a little more demanding. Even if Emma feels that she's in charge of the situation and is dictating the pace, it's not like Killian's afraid to handle her – just like he wasn't afraid to call her out on a few uncomfortable truths. Weirdly enough, that doesn't scare her off; it gives her a feeling of safety, and she lets herself fall completely into his arms and into the sensation on his mouth firmly taking possession of hers, his tongue invading but also welcoming. The kiss is slow and languid and very, very thorough, and God, he tastes good.
When they finally pull apart, she's out of breath and has barely enough of it left to ask: "Wanna have breakfast with me tomorrow?"
Only their lips are apart, their bodies are still molded together and their foreheads leaning against each other, so he can nuzzle her nose with his. "Sure," he replies, not less breathlessly, "pick you up at ten?"
She shakes her head, "Too early," and delights in the trace of disappointment on his face.
"Eleven then," he murmurs in a low voice and brushes his lips across her jaw while his fingers are caressing the back of her head, sending shivers down her spine.
"Afraid not," she answers, and this time Killian groans I frustration. It's a growl deep in his chest, and Emma's toes curl in her boots.
"Swan," he protests, "if it's past noon, it's not called breakfast anymore."
She giggles under her breath; it's a very girlish sound. "What do you think about breakfast in bed?" she finally inquires and looks up at him from under her long eyelashes, her green eyes glittering with glee. His own grow a few nuances darker at her words, and when he speaks, his voice is low and rough, obviously he fights hard to keep it under control.
"Is that you offering... coffee?" His tongue darts out to swipe across his lower lip, and Emma has already come to love that gesture of his; sometimes, she suspects, he does it on purpose. Right now, there's definitely mischief in his eyes when he adds: "On the first date?"
"I know, I said I wouldn't," Emma replies and runs her fingers through the soft hair at the base of his neck, "but well, that was because I hadn't been out with you yet." His lips curve into a delighted smile, almost like a child at Christmas which is downright adorable, and she raises her eyebrows in question: "Coffee?"
Killian grins. "With pleasure." The deeper meaning of his words isn't lost to her.
Much later – quite an amount of pleasure has been mutually given and received – she's only mildly surprised to find herself wrapped up in his embrace, their limbs a tangled mess, while she's about to fall asleep. Emma Swan barely ever went farther than one-nighters, and she surely never let anyone stay overnight. At this point, she isn't even trying anymore to pretend this isn't completely different. Her left arm is wrapped across his stomach with her wrist resting at his hipbone, while her forearm is tickled by his body hair that's still a little damp with sweat. She can feel his fingertips paint lazy patterns on her bare back, paying special attention to the dimples at the base of her spine. She has thrown her left leg over his, trapping him at her side, and her head is tucked in the space between his scruffy chin and his shoulder. She doesn't mind at all that her nose is brushing against the side of his long neck; she is engulfed in his intoxicating smell she's already gotten so familiar with in this past week. It does feel a lot like in that dream she had in her drunken haze – was that only a week ago? – and her lips curl into a involuntary smile when she remembers how one week ago she still cursed Killian Jones with all her heart. She's just about to drift into a comfortable slumber when she hears his low voice mumble a few words into her hair.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Emma," he whispers, and her eyes fly open when she realizes what it means... that he's basically answering the plea she thought she'd made only in her wild, alcohol-induced dream a week ago. She realizes that her dream hasn't been a dream, and for a second a wave of embarrassment washes over her as she recalls how she drunkenly confessed her feelings for him. But then she feels how he kisses the top of her head, and the gesture is absolutely endearing and reassuring.
So, instead she just smiles and turns her head a little to the side to press a kiss to his collarbone, runs her hand up his side and snuggles a little closer into him. She must remember to thank David for his ominous tequila.