A/N: I'll be the first to admit that this fic commits SO MANY TROPES that I can't even count them all. What can I say? I'm a sucker for the whole we've grown up together and have pretty much always been in love with each other and everyone likes to make fun of us for it but obviously we take forever to admit it because we're idiots trope, so here you go. ~9,000 words of Emma and Killian growing up together and failing to admit their feelings. This is unashamedly cheesy and I honestly can't even apologize for it. Next and final chapter should be up in a couple days. Enjoy!
Loosely inspired by 15 by nowforruin from A03, which you should all go read because it is epic and I read it literally every time I need a pick-me-up.
Title from Half of My Heart by John Mayer and Taylor Swift.
Thanks as always to emlovesyouuu for her tireless help editing my insanely long fics. You are a true gem and I'm so grateful for you every day.
You are an island
And my ship has run aground
- All We Are by OneRepublic
Emma Swan is 10 when she meets Killian Jones.
She's been living with Ruth Nolan and her son David for six months; it's the longest she's ever managed to stay in a foster home, and she's finally beginning to feel comfortable in the airy Storybrooke house. Ruth is warm and maternal, explaining to Emma that her husband died a few years ago and that she and David like to fill the void with children who have never had a family. David is the older brother she's never had, ruffling her hair when he tells her goodnight and making fun of her in a teasing way that contains no malice. It's the closest thing to a home Emma has ever had, and she's determined not to screw it up.
David is four years older than Emma, a boy on the brink of becoming a man, and one day he brings home a boy named Killian. Emma sits on the stairs, cradling her knees to her chest and not-so-surreptitiously watching Killian meet Ruth. He's got a British accent, as far as she can tell, and he's got this mess of inky black hair falling over his forehead and these impossibly blue eyes that sparkle in the evening twilight. Emma can't hear much of the murmured conversation, but she watches as David says something soft, his hand gripping Killian's shoulder, and as Ruth's face screws up in answering sympathy, her arms coming around Killian until he heaves an audible sigh and buries his face in the crook of her neck.
The interaction is all too familiar to Emma – perhaps Killian is a lost boy, just like Emma has been a lost girl for longer than she can remember.
Killian and David disappear into the living room, presumably to play video games or do some other male activity, and Emma deliberates for only a moment before scampering down the stairs after them.
"What are you boys playing?" She asks authoritatively when she approaches them, her hands on her hips.
David and Killian look up, and they're both smiling, and Emma suddenly feels embarrassed, although she has no idea why.
Killian pats the spot next to him on the couch. "Why, Mario Kart of course," he says, continuing to smile as she sits down. She feels small and childish, but she doesn't necessarily mind. She's always considered herself fiercely independent, and sometimes, it's nice to feel taken care of.
"Have you ever played this game before?" He asks her.
She shakes her head, shooting a quick glance at David; he's intently maneuvering his character on the screen, his fingers moving like lightning on the controller, but the line of his spine is rigid. She can tell he's listening, can tell he'll jump in if he thinks she feels the slightest bit uncomfortable. As always, he's protecting her.
As always, she loves him for it.
She looks at Killian. "Can you explain the game to me? I want to play!"
Killian grins broadly, bumping her shoulder with his. "Of course, lass."
They spend the next several hours playing game after game of Mario Kart, until Emma can give her older brother a run for his money. There's a lot of shit-talking – Emma doesn't know any curse words, so mostly it's a lot of "I bet you the last piece of Ruth's chocolate cake that I'm going to win this round" – and David and Killian rib each other affectionately like teenage boys do. It's a very typical family afternoon.
Ruth pokes her head in at one point to ask if Killian will be staying for dinner. Killian starts to protest, but David cuts him off firmly, and Emma catches the smile tugging at the corner of Killian's mouth.
She was right – he's definitely a lost boy.
Ruth calls them into the dining room for dinner an hour later. David is up the second Ruth starts yelling – his insatiable appetite is notorious – and Emma is quick to follow. But Killian pulls her down, his hand curling around her waist.
"I'm Killian," he says, flashing her a million-watt smile.
She smiles back shyly. He knows that she knows his name, but she can tell that he wants her to feel comfortable around him. Most people ignore her entirely, and no one ever accommodates her. It's…nice.
"I'm Emma," she says.
She pulls him up, and they go into dinner, and she spends the whole time feeling safe and warm.
She doesn't know it yet, but this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
…
Emma is 14 when she realizes that Killian is a man.
She's always known it, of course. She has a brother, after all, and she may be young but she's not stupid. Killian has been around pretty much nonstop since that first dinner four years ago, and she's learned a lot about him since. She knows that his parents died when he was very young and that his older brother Liam has taken care of him for the past decade, that he lives in the states now because the US government is more understanding of their familial situation than the British government, that his eyes change color as frequently as the tide of the ocean, that he's the best friend David has ever had and that he never fails to bring laughter into their home. She knows that she never wants him to leave and that she's going to cry when he goes to college in a few weeks.
She knows more about him than she does about anyone in the world (except David, of course), but somehow, she has forgotten he's a man.
That is, until she's sitting at the kitchen counter reading a book, and David and Killian come in from a run, and her mouth goes dry.
It's mid-July in Maine, and it's absolutely sweltering outside, the heat unrelenting and unforgiving, suffocating to the point that Emma spends most of her time at the pool down the street. She's hated this summer so far; she feels like she's in a persistent state of stickiness, and she has to sleep naked if she wants to get any rest at all.
But right now, she really doesn't mind the heat, because David and Killian are both shirtless.
Emma barely looks at David, naturally. He may not be her biological brother, but he's basically a father figure to her, and even her puberty-addled brain can't manage to sexualize him.
Killian is a different matter entirely.
He's standing by the fridge guzzling a bottle of water, clad only in black basketball shorts that ride low on his hips, and Emma is transfixed by his Adam's apple bobbing. Her brain can't quite keep up as her eyes frantically skate over every inch of exposed tan skin, but boy does she try – she traces the hard ridges of his abs, the patch of wiry hair on his breastbone gleaming with sweat, the muscles in his arms straining when he pulls open the fridge door to root around for food. She can't seem to look away from his sculpted back; she soaks him in greedily, imagining licking that drop of sweat pooling just above the waistband of his shorts, imagining tangling her hands through his hair and getting lost in the warmth of his mouth.
Emma should be appalled by these traitorous thoughts. She's only 14 – she can honestly say that she's never fantasized about a man before. But she's really, really not appalled, probably because she's too busy wishing Killian saw her as anything other than his baby sister.
Because if he did, she'd be within her rights to jump his bones, and as it is, she's just hot under the collar, flushed bright red with embarrassment from her own hormones.
She doesn't realize her staring has been obvious until David flicks her on the forehead.
"Earth to Emma," he says fondly, ruffling her hair. "You still with us?"
Emma blinks, swallowing hard. Killian, thankfully, isn't paying them any attention, but she's been caught in the act of ogling by her big brother. She would really like to be swallowed up by the floor right about now.
"You might want to pick your jaw up off the floor," David says mildly, rummaging in the fridge for the ingredients for a sandwich, and now Killian actually is looking at Emma, and oh god she hates herself.
"See something you like, Swan?" Killian asks playfully, his voice low and suggestive as he waggles his eyebrows.
Emma finds herself literally unable to speak.
(Potentially because she likes the sight before her very, very much.)
David bumps Killian's shoulder. "Don't be gross with my sister, Killian," he grumbles. "She's only 14, don't objectify her."
Killian just laughs, grinning that amazingly addictive smile of his, and turns away to make his own sandwich.
Emma practically bolts out of the kitchen.
(Needless to say, Killian stars in her fantasies for most of the next decade.)
…
Emma is 16 when she gives up the only thing that has ever been hers.
She gets pregnant, and she hates herself for it, hates herself for being the cliché foster kid who couldn't keep her legs closed, hates herself even more because she was stupid enough to get herself pregnant by someone who walked out before she even had a chance to tell him. She hates herself so much that sometimes, she just wants to curl into a ball and waste away.
There's chaos in her house for about a week. David comes home from college specifically to tell her he's got her back and will go after Neal and punch his face in, Ruth lectures her about the proper use of contraception while simultaneously fussing over her prenatal vitamins and promising that she'll support her no matter what she decides to do, Mary Margaret brews her endless cups of tea and forgoes passing judgment in favor of assuring her that everyone makes mistakes and that this will not define her life, and Killian –
Killian takes a week off of university just so he can hold her hand and watch her favorite movies with her. He doesn't ask her about her pregnancy, and she doesn't volunteer any information. All she ever talks about with anyone these days is what she plans to do about her pregnancy (Ruth thinks they should raise the baby together, David thinks she should have an abortion, and Mary Margaret remains carefully neutral). It's a relief to talk about the classes Killian is taking and the cute girl in his geology seminar. Killian has always been an easy presence for her to be around, and now more than ever, she feels inexplicably comfortable just sitting on the couch with him as they wait for David and Ruth to come home from the grocery store.
But they're watching a particularly stupid episode of Chopped when Emma finds herself asking quietly, "What do you think I should do?"
Suddenly, she discovers that she wants to know his opinion.
He turns to look at her, his blue eyes bright and steady. "Does it matter what I think?"
She casts her gaze to her hands, her fingers twining and intertwining in her lap. "Yes."
He sighs, and she knows he's running a hand through his hair. "Emma –" He begins.
"Just tell me what you think," she cuts in curtly. "Don't sugarcoat it."
"Emma," he says again, softer this time, and she raises her gaze, her lower lip trembling when she sees how tenderly he's looking at her.
"I think you should do what's right for you," he offers, and she can tell he means it. "I think everyone has an opinion, but this is your life. I'm sure you've weighed the pros and cons – now you have to go with your gut. So what does your gut say?"
When he puts it in those terms, it's easy not to hesitate.
"I want to give up the baby for adoption."
The moment the words are out of her mouth, she knows it's what she wants. And Killian just nods. "Okay," he says firmly, like the discussion is over. "So that's what we'll do."
Emma lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding in, and just like that, it's decided.
…
Emma's family stays resolutely by her side for the next seven months, accommodating her in every way they can. Emma is lucky that she can finish her junior year of high school; her baby is due in early August, so she can wait out the last two months of her pregnancy at home in peace. During the week, it's just Emma and Ruth in the house, and they take care of each other. Ruth drives her to all her doctor's appointments, gets her set up in front of the TV so she can put her feet up every day after school, holds back her hair when her morning sickness hits her unironically in the middle of the night. In turn, Emma keeps Ruth company; David has been out of the house for a couple years, and she knows Ruth gets lonely sometimes, so they marathon old classics and bake ridiculous cakes.
Most weekends, David, Mary Margaret, and Killian descend on Storybrooke. They each take up a role with regards to Emma's pregnancy, almost as if they discussed it beforehand. David is the resident moral support, reassuring her every time she starts to freak out that she's doing the right thing and that her child will thank her for this later, promising her that this won't ruin her life and that she will be okay. Mary Margaret is the consummate organizer, creating a folder of college applications with complicated spreadsheets (she promises Emma she's going to go to college on time, and Emma has to choke back tears) and calling various adoption agencies with scarily specific questions. And Killian provides much-needed comedic relief – he's the one who makes stupid pregnancy jokes, he's the one who takes her for late-night McFlurry runs because "If you whine about needing sugar one more time I'm going to lose my bloody mind," and he's the one who makes fun of the sonograms (she has to admit her child looks like a peanut for much of her pregnancy).
Overall, Emma's pregnancy is much less traumatic than she expected – except for the judgmental stares that get thrown her way at school, of course. She's still scared shitless, but she has her people, and she's surprised to find that that makes the burden a million times easier to bear.
And then, suddenly, Emma is nine months pregnant, and her water breaks in the middle of the ice cream aisle of the grocery store, right as she and Killian are debating the relative merits of Moose Tracks versus Cookies 'N' Cream.
She must look as panicked as she feels, because Killian's eyes go calm and sure, and he's gently guiding her out of the store and into his car before she has a chance to start screaming at the top of her lungs.
He holds her hand all the way to the hospital, even though she thinks she probably leaves several scars from her nails.
The labor is long, painful, and absolutely grueling. Emma is sobbing the whole time, both from the physical sensation of her body being ripped apart and the emotional loss she can already feel, and she almost thinks she can't take it. Ruth holds one of her hands and Mary Margaret holds the other, and together they coax her through the pushing and the keening. David and Killian wait outside, but Emma feels their presence like a tug in her stomach, and it helps.
But when her son – her son – finally cries out, Emma doesn't even have it in her to be relieved.
"Emma," Mary Margaret says softly, "Would you like to hold your son?"
Emma shakes her head. It's an instinct, a visceral reaction, but she doesn't take it back. If she holds her son, she'll never let him go. And he deserves better than that.
"Are you sure?"
Ruth this time, gentle, without pressure.
Emma nods. "I –" She closes her eyes, feeling brittle, fragile, like her bones might start to crack under the weight of what she's about to give up. "I can't."
She hears some shuffling, but she doesn't open her eyes, choosing instead to pretend that she's in her bed at home, simply having a lazy morning before she heads downstairs for Ruth's famous chocolate chip pancakes. It's easier than trying to make sense of the noises around her – the rustling that must be her son being swaddled in a blanket, Ruth's shushing as her son continues to wail, Mary Margaret's whispers with the scrub nurse.
It's easier than the quiet that sets in afterward, when her son is gone.
Emma must fall asleep, because when she opens her eyes again, it's dark outside, blue light filtering her surroundings in an eerie glow, and she feels disoriented.
"Hey," a voice sounds from the corner, and Emma registers that it's Killian.
"Hey," she says. Her mouth tastes like cotton.
"Ruth and Mary Margaret went to get coffee," he says, his voice low and soothing, as if he's trying not to scare her off. "David went home to grab you some things, and I volunteered to stay with you. I hope that was okay."
Emma bites her lip, nodding jerkily. The truth is there's no one she'd rather be with right now. Killian doesn't ask questions she doesn't have the answers to, doesn't push her to talk about her feelings when all she wants is to shut the world out. He's always been her safe haven, always been the person she could count on to level with her and know exactly what she needs. It's a relief to see him there. It's a relief to hear his voice.
They don't say anything for a long while, and Emma tries to make sense of what has happened. She feels hollow, empty. She wonders if the ache will ever go away.
Finally, Killian stands up, walking towards her bed. He hovers next to her, his eyes kind.
"It'll happen again," he says, smoothing her damp hair off her forehead, and it sounds like a promise. "When you're ready, it'll happen again."
Somehow, he always knows exactly what to say.
…
Emma is 18 when Liam passes away.
The phone rings in the Nolan household at three am one night, but what wakes Emma is Ruth bursting through her bedroom door, her eyes wild.
"Emma," Ruth urges, her voice quivering, "Liam and Killian have been in a car accident. We need to go to the hospital."
Emma bolts upright, her entire world shrinking to the blue of Killian's eyes. She gets dressed in a daze, throwing on the first sweatpants she finds and pulling her hair into a haphazard ponytail, and Ruth is saying a lot of words (they spun out on the highway on the way home from Killian's university, they're both in critical condition, David has a final tomorrow but will be on the first flight out after that) but all Emma can hear is the loud rush of blood in her ears.
The ride to the hospital is a blur. Emma fists her hands in the bottom of her sleep shirt to stop herself from digging her nails into her skin, and she stares resolutely ahead, her eyes dry, her head spinning. Ruth doesn't say anything, and Emma is glad; she can't speak right now. Since she gave up her son, she has often thought that Killian keeps her world turning on its axis, and she does not know how she will continue if he does not make it.
When they get to the hospital, there's no news. Both Jones men are still in surgery, and no one can give them any information. Ruth cradles Emma's head in her lap and cards her fingers soothingly through her hair, her calm and steady whisper of "He's going to be okay" lulling Emma into a restless sleep.
She dreams of the ocean, of that moment when the tide recedes from the shoreline and the water sinks into the horizon. She dreams of Killian, of the day last summer when he took her out sailing – her first perfect day. She dreams of the color blue.
She doesn't know how much time passes before Ruth shakes her awake, but she knows what Ruth is going to say before she even says it. She's crying as Ruth explains that Liam's internal organs sustained too much damage in the accident and that he passed away during surgery. She never knew Liam that well – he was always so busy, trying to earn enough money to make ends meet for him and Killian – but he is Killian's hero, the only family he has left. Emma's chest is tight with pain and despair, and she clutches Ruth as tightly as she can, her eyes clouding over with tears. She has no idea how Killian is going to survive this.
Then, abruptly, fear clenches her heart. Killian is still in surgery, and he might not make it.
She knows she can't lose him.
Thankfully, it seems like only a moment before the doctor emerges from the operating room, beelining for Emma and Ruth. The doctor's eyes are grim and hard as he walks towards them, his jaw twitching, and Emma steels herself for the inevitable rip of her heart out of her chest, prepares herself for the darkening of her entire world.
But.
"Killian is out of surgery."
Emma's already out of her seat, making her way to the ICU, but the doctor's hand on her arm stops her.
She shakes him off angrily. "I want to see him," she says, glaring at the doctor. "I need to see him."
The doctor hesitates, and there's something off in his voice. "You should wait."
Emma narrows her eyes. "Why would I wait?"
The doctor holds her gaze, his eyes heavy with sympathy, and she trembles.
"Miss Swan," the doctor says carefully, squeezing her arm, as if in comfort. "Killian sustained serious injuries in the accident. We were able to fix most of the damage, but some of it was permanent. Unfortunately, when the car flipped, it pinned Killian down, and the circulation to his left hand was compromised. We could not save his hand."
Emma blinks. "You had to amputate his hand?"
The doctor nods.
Emma is shocked, but it takes her less than a second to adjust to this news. Killian is the most vibrant person she knows, and he will struggle enormously with the loss of his hand. But he is alive, and she will help him get through this. He is alive, and right now, that's all that matters.
Emma starts to move past the doctor, but again, he stops her.
She wrenches her arm out of his grip savagely. "What?"
The doctor looks at her with pity, and she thinks she hates him. "He's in a lot of pain," he says simply. "The surgeon just informed him that his brother passed away and that we had to amputate his hand, and he's refusing morphine. He's not himself right now. You should wait until he's sedated. His entire world has collapsed – you shouldn't be there right now."
She continues to glare at him. "That's exactly why I should be there right now."
She pushes past him one final time, and then she's running, the string that has always bound Killian and her together pulling her relentlessly in his direction until she can hear him, screaming and crying and thrashing. She hovers outside his room, listening to the commotion he's causing. She can't see anything, the curtains blocking her view.
"We should sedate him!" She hears someone – a nurse, presumably – yell.
Emma has burst into the room before she even notices she's moved. "No!" She screams, rushing to Killian's bedside. "No."
The room suddenly goes very quiet.
"Emma?" Killian whispers.
"Killian," she breathes in response.
He just looks at her.
She bites her lip. He looks awful. He has bruises all over that unfairly handsome face, red and purple splotches that swell on his cheekbones and shadow his eyes. He has scratches lacing his chest, angry puckering lines dotting every patch of bare skin. And his hand – his arm just tapers off, wrapped in white bandages, and it dangles uselessly at his side. He looks haunted, destroyed, a shell of a man.
But he's still here. He's still here, he's still alive, and he's still her Killian.
"Killian," she says again, feeling like she might faint with the sheer relief that he will still be around to tease her and hover over her and anchor her and support her. He's going to need her so much after this, and she wants to be there for him for as long as it takes for him to be okay (for the rest of her life).
"Emma, love," Killian says gently, but Emma can hear the pleading in his voice, the trembling that tells her that he is absolutely terrified. "You shouldn't be in here – I'm not the best company right now, I'm afraid. You should go back and wait with Ruth, I'm sure the doctors will come and get you when –"
The words die on his lips, because Emma has launched herself onto his gurney, her hands cradling his face and her eyes locked unrelentingly with his.
"Killian," she says softly, stroking his cheeks. "I'm not going anywhere."
"I'm sorry, miss," a voice sounds from somewhere behind her, but she doesn't turn to look, instead keeping her gaze steady on Killian, trying to give him something to hold onto. "Visiting hours are over. Only family allowed now."
Emma keeps her eyes on Killian, remembering a million things, remembering when she was 13 and she spent the summer sleeping under the stars with Killian and her brother and making ice cream in the middle of the night, remembering how Killian is the one who makes her laugh every time she gets sad that she had to give up her son, remembering that Killian Jones has never, not once, left her side.
She smiles. "I am family."
The nurse doesn't protest, and Killian stares at her with something akin to wonder. But then, his face falls, and it's devastating.
"Liam's gone," he says brokenly, tears leaking from his eyes. But he doesn't look away; he's looking at her like she's the only thing that's keeping him going. "My brother is gone and I don't – I don't know – I can't – I don't know how to be without him. He's been taking care of me most of my life, he was all I had left, and now I just –"
He's crying freely now, his sobs heavy and heartwrenching in the quiet room, and Emma feels something in her give way. She pulls him close to her, wrapping her arms around him, trying to show him that he may have lost his guiding light but she will always be there to take him home.
"Hey, hey," she soothes, carding her fingers through his messy hair. "Your brother is gone, but you are not alone. I'm here, I'm here, I'll always be here. And David and Ruth and Mary Margaret. You are not alone, Killian. I'm with you. I'm with you, every step of the way. Okay?"
He lifts his head to look at her, and he looks so damned vulnerable and wrecked that she starts to cry in earnest. This lost boy of hers has been through so much, and he seems to keep losing – it's just not fair, none of this is fair.
Suddenly Killian's eyes are wary. "Emma," he says again, short, clipped. "I'm not sure how much the doctor told you about my…situation, but there's something you need to know. When the car flipped over on the freeway, my left arm got pinned under the wreckage. The doctors tried to save it, but they had to amputate my hand."
He pulls back the blankets to reveal bandages wrapped tightly over his stump, and she sucks in a sharp inhale. She's not shocked or disgusted – she just feels this strong sense that she will be tied to this man forever, no matter what happens in their lives.
Emma tips Killian's chin up with her fingers, looking at him steadily. "It's going to be okay," she says authoritatively, and for once in her life she believes it, believes that she's going to make sure it's okay. "I'm going to take care of you, and it's going to be okay. I promise."
He nods, his shoulders shaking with barely suppressed sobs, and leans his forehead against hers.
…
Somehow, Emma ends up Killian's main caretaker. It makes sense – under any other circumstance, Liam would be helping him through this, but Liam is gone. David is at school – he had offered to come home, but Killian had growled at him over the phone that he better "bloody well finish college, mate" – and Ruth works most days. And so it's just Emma, in her last year of high school, struggling to put her best friend back together.
Killian's recovery is slow, halting, and all-around awful. Emma had known it would be difficult to rehabilitate his arm and get him used to wearing a prosthetic, but she isn't quite prepared for the emotional toll it takes to see her favorite person in the world so weak, so beaten down, so hopeless. It doesn't help that Killian is potentially the world's worst patient – he grumbles constantly, essentially refuses any help, never thanks her for anything she does, and refuses to believe that he can get better.
Emma gets it, honestly. No matter what has happened in his life, Killian has always been healthy and strong. She can't even imagine how strange and foreign it must be for him to literally be missing a vital part of his self, of his ability to get around and live his life.
She also gets that nearly everything about his situation is emasculating and infuriating. At first, he can't even put on his clothes without her help; she has to pull up his boxers, studiously avoiding his nether regions even as her cheeks burn. The first couple times, he makes a joke about how it's only fair that she get undressed now, too, but soon enough, he simply goes blank, letting her help him as he stands there with dead eyes, his arms limp at his sides. It breaks her heart to see him like this, but she bites her tongue. He doesn't want her sympathy – it won't bring his brother back, and it certainly won't change the fact that he no longer has a hand.
But even though she understands how incredibly humiliating this must be for him, and even though she can't begin to imagine the depth of his pain at losing his older brother, she can't quite stand how cruel he has become. She could fill a notebook with all the colorful ways he's hurt her feelings since his accident, and it hurts. It hurts so much that she almost walks away.
(She doesn't, obviously.)
She snaps about three months after his accident. His physical therapist has him practicing writing – of course, he had the misfortune of losing his dominant hand, because nothing about Killian's life has ever been fair – and he's been swearing creatively for about an hour, insulting anyone who will listen. He's in a foul mood, as he almost always is these days, and Emma has just about had enough of his crap.
"Look, if you're trying to push me away, it's not going to work," she says sharply, her attention focused on positioning his prosthetic so he can try to write some cursive.
The physical therapist's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, but Emma ignores him. The poor man has been present for nearly all of Killian's acerbic wit since the accident – this can't actually be shocking to him.
Killian, meanwhile, doesn't say anything immediately, so Emma knows she's stunned him into silence. Good. Let someone else be the asshole of the day for a change.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Swan," he finally says, stiffly, like it takes effort for him to get the words out.
She looks up at him, refusing to let him get away with this. "Oh, really," she says flatly, holding his gaze with as much fire as she can muster. "Like you haven't been a complete and utter asshole since this happened? If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're actively trying to get me to leave you alone, and you should give up on that, because it's not going to happen."
Killian glares at her, his eyes full of rage, and maybe Emma should be scared, but instead she finds she's glad. She'd rather he fight with her than give up – she'd rather he put everything he has into this recovery than make disparaging comments all day long and never actually try to get better.
"I think I'm entitled to being an asshole," he says, cold fury flooding his words, "Considering I lost my brother, if you forgot. And my bloody hand, so don't tell me that I'm not allowed to be an asshole."
She shakes her head vigorously. "Of course I didn't forget," she shoots back, feeling like she simply has to get through to him, even if he hates her for it. "Your life sucks, I get that. But that still doesn't give you the right to be an asshole. You're not allowed to be an asshole to the physical therapist who is just trying to make your life easier, you're not allowed to bark at David when he calls to check in on you, and you're certainly not allowed to bite my head off every time I so much as try to help you. You're not allowed to alienate everyone who's trying to get you through this."
"Well, Swan, the problem is I don't need anyone's help," he grits out through clenched teeth, but his eyes have softened a bit, and she knows she's winning this one.
Thank God.
"You do," she points out, and maybe she's being a bitch but at this point she doesn't even care because they can't go on like this. "And look, you can bitch and moan at me all you want, but I'm not going anywhere. You might as well let me help you, okay?"
Killian just looks at her for a while, his gaze giving nothing away, and she squirms a little under his intensity. She's not used to him looking at her like this – whatever this is.
But.
"Okay," he says finally, softly. "Okay."
She blinks, somewhat shocked that he's conceding defeat this easily. "Okay then."
Things get much, much better after that.
…
A couple months later, David calls Emma. Her brother doesn't call her very often, and it's pretty late, so she can't help but be concerned. Maybe something has happened to Killian, maybe he has fallen and aggravated his stitches, maybe he's having one of his panic attacks, maybe –
But no. It's just David being David, checking up on her, seeing how everyone in Storybrooke is doing, asking her if Ruth has made her trademark key lime pie lately and if Killian has made any progress with his prosthetic (he has, thankfully, and Emma thinks it won't be long before he doesn't need physical therapy anymore).
Then, suddenly, David's voice is gruff with emotion. "I wanted to thank you for taking such good care of Killian," he says, and Emma feels her chest tighten because oh boy, does she want to take care of Killian for as long as he'll let her. "I hate that I can't be there to help him through this, but it makes me feel a lot better that he's got you."
Emma softens. What a sap her brother is. She's touched, honestly – she knows David considers Killian one of the most important people in his life, and she's honored that he feels like she's up to the current challenge.
"Of course, Dave," she says gently. "And don't beat yourself up for not being here. You know Killian would kick your ass if you didn't finish out this year."
"No, I know, just – you're good for him," he says seriously, his voice so familiar and comforting, even over miles of phone lines, that a wave of peace washes over Emma. "You've always been good for him, but right now more than ever."
Emma blushes, and suddenly she's glad they're having this conversation over the phone. "I'm just doing what I would do for anyone," she says, and of course it's not true, of course she wouldn't go to these lengths for pretty much anyone else, but it feels pointless to tell her big brother that she thinks she's nursing a pretty significant crush on his oldest and truest friend. "He'd do the same for me."
"He would," David responds promptly, and Emma tries to ignore the unwelcome flip of her heart in her chest. "But still. He needs someone like you right now. He might bitch and moan about all the physical therapy and everything, but he needs it, he knows he does, he's just stubborn, and it helps to have someone there to make him go. Just don't –"
He breaks off, as if he's hesitating, and Emma perks up curiously.
"Just don't what?"
David sighs theatrically, and Emma can almost see him squinting in his patented good-guy glare. Oh, David. Her big brother is such a cheeseball, and she adores him for it. He couldn't hurt a fly if he tried, but he is the most protective person she's ever met.
"Just don't hurt him," David says finally.
"Hurt him? How would I hurt him? Why would I hurt him?"
David makes a frustrated noise. "Don't make me spell it out for you," he says sharply. "You're important to him, okay? Just be careful."
"Of course I'll be careful," Emma shoots back, feeling her hackles rise. As if it would ever be possible for her to hurt Killian. In what universe? "He's important to me, too. He's like family, he always will be. I'll always take care of him."
"Good," David responds, and Emma knows she doesn't mistake the note of satisfaction in his voice. "Now go do whatever annoying thing it is girls do these days."
Emma giggles, they say their goodbyes, and then the conversation is over. But she can't quite process what has just happened.
You're important to him.
She knows those words are going to stay with her for a long, long time.
…
Emma is 22 when she realizes she's in love with Killian.
David is getting married (to Mary Margaret, of course, and their story makes Emma want to believe in love), and Emma has flown back to Storybrooke for the wedding. Mary Margaret has asked her to be her maid of honor, and obviously Emma has accepted. She adores Mary Margaret, always has, and ever since she and David started dating, she has seen her as the sister she never had.
Emma's old house is in a frenzy when she arrives, and she smiles fondly as she drags her suitcase through the front door. David wraps her in a bear hug as soon as he sees her and twirls her around like he used to when she barely came up to his knee, Mary Margaret kisses her on the cheek and promises her they'll go to the dress fitting later before disappearing in a cloud of lavender perfume and fairy dust, and Ruth hands her a steaming cup of hot chocolate prepared just the way she likes it and ruffles her hair. And then Emma simply stands there, cocooned in the warmth of the only place she has ever called home.
Killian suddenly appears in the hallway, and somewhat unexpectedly, Emma's mouth goes dry. He's dressed in his trademark outfit of plaid shirt and dark jeans, but he's not wearing shoes, and something about his sock-clad feet makes her heart turn over in her chest.
"Emma!" He exclaims jovially, apparently oblivious to her flushed cheeks as he walks toward her and folds her into a breathtaking hug.
She sighs in relief, letting herself be calmed by his familiar smell of salt and seawater. She hasn't seen Killian in months, and she's missed him. She loves college, she does, but it doesn't feel right for her to be anywhere other than Storybrooke, and she knows that as soon as she graduates she'll move back home. She and Killian keep in surprisingly good touch, texting most days, usually snappy things like "Swan, I do wish you would come back to Storybrooke and kick my ass at Mario Kart, I've missed having a worthy opponent" and "Please, Jones, you couldn't handle it." She Facetime's him on the way to class, sends him postcards when she finds funny ones, squeals in delight when he mails her drawings of David, of Ruth, of the sea at dawn. But all of this contact is no substitute for the undeniable warmth and safety of Killian's physical presence, and she leans into him.
They break apart, and he tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, smiling softly when she stifles a yawn.
"Go take a nap, Swan," he suggests, his fingers tracing her cheek. "The rehearsal dinner isn't for a few hours, and you must be exhausted from your travels. You'll need your energy to keep up with Mary Margaret."
Emma giggles and nods. Mary Margaret is an absolute whirlwind when she gets going – she has an itemized itinerary printed for the four days Emma will be in Storybrooke – and Emma knows she should take her rest while she can.
So she heads upstairs to her childhood bedroom, and she puts on her comfiest pair of sweatpants and fuzzy socks, and then she curls into a ball beneath her comforter and lets out a contented sigh. She's out in less than a minute.
…
She wakes to the low murmur of voices. Blue light is streaming through the windows, and she shoots a glance at her alarm clock. 5:30 PM. Perfect. She has an hour and a half until the rehearsal dinner, just enough time to take a shower and curl her hair.
She pulls herself out of bed slowly, stretching her limbs and padding downstairs while rubbing her eyes. She feels like a little kid again, shut away from the rest of the world, hair thrown up in a messy ponytail, face scrubbed clean of make-up. She feels safe, inexplicably, warm and understood.
But as she nears the kitchen, she hears something unfamiliar. Is that…arguing?
No, it can't be. No one ever argues in this household. Even when Emma was 15 and hormonal and hated everyone, Ruth and David never dignified her with answering screams. They just let her rant.
But sure enough, as she hovers outside the kitchen door, she hears Killian and David unmistakably in conflict.
"She's married, Killian," David hisses. "She has a kid. What the hell are you thinking getting involved with this woman?"
"It's not that simple," Killian fires back, and Emma knows he's moving a hand through his hair and vibrating anxiously. "I love her, Dave. I love her and she's not happy. You should hear the way she talks about her husband. He's a tyrant, he's controlling, he's awful to her. I can't just –"
"Is she going to leave him?" David cuts in. His voice is cold; Emma shivers.
Killian hesitates, and the room is quiet for a long moment. Emma holds her breath. Truthfully, it has never occurred to her that Killian and David could have secrets that don't include her. But they're four years older than her, and they're men – of course they don't tell her everything.
She isn't sure she wants to know about this anymore.
"I –" Killian hesitates. "I don't know, mate. All I know is I can't walk away. I've never felt this way before, and I can't let it go."
Emma can practically hear David soften, and she knows her brother has moved closer to his oldest friend. "I know you love her," he says quietly. "I know you want to save her. But Killian, she's married, and she has a child. Unless you're worried about their safety, I think you need to stay out of this. This is wrong, Killian. I know you know that."
Killian sighs, and Mary Margaret suddenly appears at Emma's side, arching a delicate eyebrow when Emma nearly jumps. Emma wonders if Mary Margaret will chastise her for eavesdropping – the petite brunette is literally a paradigm of goodness – but Mary Margaret instead presses a finger to her lips and leans her ear against the door, her expression mischievous. Emma has to resist the urge to giggle. Her brother is far too serious most of the time – he needs a little mischief in his life.
"Dave, of course I know it's wrong," Killian says plaintively, his voice breaking, and Emma aches to reach out to him. "It's just not as simple as it sounds. Not all of us can be as lucky as you, mate. This is who I've fallen in love with, and I can't stop it. I have to be with her."
"Then please, just be careful," David pleads. "I don't want you to get caught up in something bad here."
Inexplicably, Mary Margaret chooses this exact moment to grab Emma's hand and unceremoniously pull her through the kitchen door. Emma keeps her eyes trained on the ceramic tiles as she stumbles over the threshold, but is forced to look up when David laughs heartily.
"Are you two alright?" He asks, clearly amused by their clumsiness, faked or no.
Mary Margaret grins sunnily, tugging Emma towards the stove. "Yeah, we just really wanted some tea," she says, brushing a kiss across her fiancé's cheek and squeezing Killian's shoulder. "Emma's about to fall over, and I need to make sure she's awake for the long night ahead of us."
David nods in understanding, and the four of them fall into easy chatter, like they have countless times before. If David notices his fiancé's obvious maneuvers, he doesn't show it. But Killian's eyes stay resolutely on Emma, and her cheeks burn under his steady gaze, because she can just tell that he's seeing right through this. Through her. He knows she knows. She knows he'll bring it up later.
She swallows, hard.
…
Emma cries when Mary Margaret walks down the aisle, which isn't all that surprising. Mary Margaret has been a godsend for Emma's family in every way possible, and she makes her brother so happy. It's nice to see their fairytale ending.
The ceremony passes in a blur; Mary Margaret and David say their incredibly romantic vows, both of their voices trembling with emotion, and exchange rings, David's hand steady as he slips the simple gold band onto his wife's finger. Emma watches in rapt attention, trying not to cry as she catches Killian's eye over their best friends' heads. He's looking at her intently, his blue eyes soft and full of an emotion she can't name, and he's smiling.
She feels a sharp pain of longing and has to look away.
…
Naturally, the best man and the maid of honor have to share a dance. Killian had suggested they take ballroom lessons, but Emma honestly hadn't had time to come home from school, so they're going to have to wing it.
"Don't worry, Swan," Killian whispers, looking up at her through his midnight-black eyelashes as he twirls her effortlessly into his arms. "There's only one rule in a waltz."
She smiles at him warmly, trying to ignore the hiccup in her chest as every inch of her body presses up against his. "And what would that be, Jones?"
He grins at her, wide and tantalizing, and she's hit with a rush of Oh.
She's so screwed.
She probably always has been.
He leans closer to her, his hand dangerously low on the small of her back, his other arm outstretched to catch her hand. "Pick a partner who knows what he's doing," he whispers conspiratorially in her ear, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
She stares at him, dumbfounded. Is he...flirting with her?
She doesn't have much time to ponder the possibility, though, because suddenly, they're dancing.
Killian, true to his word, knows exactly what he's doing. He moves her seamlessly to the beat, sweeping her around as if it takes no effort at all. She's tucked flush against him, their faces close enough that she can see the flecks of grey in his eyes, and he's smiling at her the whole time, the kind of unrestrained smile that reminds Emma that he's the first guy she was ever attracted to.
They don't talk for a while, Killian no doubt concentrating on making sure Emma doesn't step on his toes, Emma doing her best to forget that she craves him in ways she didn't know it was possible to crave someone. It's not so easy right now, not when she can feel the hard planes of his stomach, not when she can see his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows, and certainly not when she can hear his low intake of breath when a nearby couple bumps into them and Emma falls forward, even further into him, her breasts threatening to spill out of the bridesmaid's dress that in hindsight is a smidge too small.
The tension evaporates, though, when suddenly the music switches to something slower, more dreamy. Emma automatically steps back, but Killian just as automatically follows her, his arm firmly around her waist, keeping her from stumbling.
She looks at him quizzically and he just stares back, his gaze smoldering.
"One more dance, Emma?" His tone is light, but he's calling her Emma, which he never does unless he's trying to be serious.
Emma hesitates, but she steps toward him again anyway, twining her arms around his neck. She's caught off guard by the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips. She looks anywhere but at him, her gaze falling on David and Mary Margaret, who are lost in their own little world, identical blissful expressions on their faces as they sway in place.
Emma sighs. "They look so happy."
Killian chuckles, his hand tightening at the base of her spine. "Aye, they do, love," he says, his mouth impossibly close to her ear. "You'll have that someday, that I can promise you."
She still doesn't look at him, instead resting her head on his chest, letting the rhythmic beat of his heart lull her into calm. "And what about you?" She asks, trying – and definitely failing – to keep her voice casual. "Is a fairytale ending in the cards for you?"
He pulls back abruptly, putting some distance between them so he can look at her. His gaze is shrewd.
"You heard me and Dave in the kitchen."
It's not a question.
She shrugs, determined to brush this off, even though she's pretty sure the burning in her chest could be accurately described as jealousy. "What can I say? I'm an eavesdropper."
He sighs, scratching that telltale spot behind his ear, and it occurs to her that he might not necessarily want to have this conversation.
"It's okay," she says hurriedly. "We really, really don't have to have this conversation."
He makes a frustrated noise. "No, no, it's not that. I just –"
"You just?" She cuts in, and now she can't help herself, she's very curious.
He sighs, heavy. "It's not – it's not exactly something I'm proud of," he admits, and she realizes for the first time just how tired he looks. "Not exactly my finest moment, I'm afraid."
"Killian," she says fiercely, because all of a sudden it's really important that he understands this, "I'm never judging you. You didn't judge me when I got pregnant, did you?"
He doesn't say anything, his face unreadable.
"Did you?" She pushes.
He sighs again, then shakes his head. "No, of course not."
She nods. "No, you didn't judge me," she says with satisfaction. "And I'll never judge you. You are my family, and I'm always here for you, okay?"
He looks at her, and she can tell he's shocked. "You're not…you're not, I don't know, disappointed in me?"
She scoffs, shaking her head in disbelief. "Of course not," she promises him, and she means it, and her mind is reeling from how obvious it is that he couldn't bear it if she were disappointed in him. "It sounds like a complicated situation, and I'm sure you're doing the best you can. And you must love her a lot to be doing this."
"I do," he says softly, firmly, with such conviction that she blinks.
(It's traitorous and awful and wrong, but a bigger part of her than she would like to admit wishes he were talking about her.)
"Well," she falters. "There you have it. I knew you wouldn't be doing this without a good reason, and so I'm not going to judge you. But I am with David on one point."
He arches an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
She nods, shuffling a little closer to him and hiding her face in the stiff collar of his dress shirt so he can't see the tears beginning to hover in the corners of her eyes. "I want you to be careful," she says, soft, and it pains her to confess it because a different kind of ache is possessing her at the moment, an ache she's been ignoring for years, an ache that has seemingly decided to make its existence known at the most inopportune of times. "I worry about you, you know? I don't want you to get hurt."
"I won't," he promises, just as soft, and there's nothing but sincerity in those tauntingly familiar turquoise eyes. "It's like I always tell you, Swan. I'm a survivor."
She giggles, and they start talking about something else, and before she knows it, the party is coming to a close. But the whole time, she can only think of one thing.
She's in love with him.
And it's so clear, so obvious, that she knows she has probably felt this way forever and has just been afraid to face it. She loves him. She's in love with him. He's in love with someone else, but that hardly matters. She thinks she might always love him, no matter what happens between them.
Of course, she doesn't say that to him. She just smiles up at him, his blue eyes impossibly dazzling in the twinkling lights, and whispers, "You're going to be okay."
He grins at her, warm and fond. "Yeah," he says, pulling her a little closer so she can rest her head on his chest as they sway to the music. "We're going to be okay."
She closes her eyes and just breathes.
…
She goes back to school, and she throws herself into her classes and her friends and her social life. She goes on dates, sleeps with people, pretends she's capable of falling for someone. She fields exasperated phone calls from David, who keeps trying to get Killian to break it off with Milah (to no avail, of course), chats with Ruth about all the Storybrooke gossip, lets Mary Margaret talk her ear off about the renovations she and her new husband are doing on their house.
She barely talks to Killian. It's a two-way street, and they both drop the ball. He doesn't reach out much, presumably because he's wrapped up in Milah, and she doesn't try either, because he's with someone else and she needs to move on.
Of course, not being in contact with him doesn't help. She's still in love with him. And it doesn't just go away overnight. If anything, it only gets stronger, until she's resigned herself to one undeniable fact.
She's in love with Killian Jones, and he's not in love with her.
