Sometimes Emma likes to think that it was all Neal—it's easier to say it was all because of him. Simple, clean cut, black and white—hey. There was a guy. He knocked me up and left me. That's why I don't trust people. That makes sense, that's a line you can lead with. Emma feels comfortable with that.
But in reality, it's not that simple, it's never that simple. Neal was the first, yeah, but he wasn't the only, and part of this whole superpower lie detector thing is that Emma finds it hard to lie to herself, too. (That's the price, right? All magic has a price? All decisions have consequences? Fuck.)
She thinks of her own head like a museum sometimes, like if you cracked her open and laid her out you could see everything in there all tied up and displayed all nice, probably. Maybe organized by era. 1999-2000: The Neal Years. 2002-2003: Harry Fucking Bolton, That Prick. March - June 2005: That Asshole Bondsman in Chicago Who Kept Stealing My Marks. 2008: My Drunk Period. Kinda sad, really. Probably a lot of modern art. Overpriced coffee at the cafe. Not a place Emma would really want to visit.
(If there are sections for Graham, for Neal-the-second-time and Walsh and for every time Henry's looked up at her with disappointment or mistrust on his face, then they're—well. Those are somewhere else, behind the barricades, not up for public display. That wing is still under construction, ma'am, but if you sign up for our newsletter than you'll be the first to know when we're open for business, thank you for coming, have a nice day.)
Anyway, it's a familiar dance, is what Emma's saying. The way it starts—innocuous little things. Turning down your invitations when they used to jump at the chance. The inside jokes disappear. Dead silences where there never used to be. Then, it escalates, as you instinctively move closer, they start to edge away, and that's the worst part, really, because that's when you realize. When you look over at him and realize he's a full three feet away, on the very edge of the sidewalk so that your hands don't touch as you walk, that he hasn't touched you in weeks, that you can't remember the last time he smiled at you, and you think, oh God, this is it, isn't it.
(Fun fact: even when you're waiting for it to happen, it still doesn't hurt any less, and isn't that the very crux of Emma's most constant, plaguing problem: it's inevitable, it's always inevitable. Flinging your arms out doesn't do shit when your teeth hit the pavement, all it does is make you look like an idiot on the way down.)
Emma wants to not be surprised. She wants to be able to think, he is a pirate after all, and should've known, and well, it's not like he turned into a monkey and tried to kill me, he's still here, he's helping us fight, he makes Henry laugh and he'll sit at the bar for hours with David and listen to him talk, he's a good man, he's good, he just, he doesn't want—he's not obligated—
A year is a long time, Emma knows, longer than most people think. She should be used to wearing out people's patience by now, but somehow, it still hurts—every time, every goddamn time.
It's cold as hell out, of course—for some reason it always seems to be cold, when Zelena makes a move. It should be spring, by now, even on the windy coasts of Maine, there should be sun. But Storybrooke isn't in Maine, not really. Storybrooke isn't…anywhere real.
"Bloody fucking hell," Killian says through a groan, and Emma watches the pale cast of David's face, creased with the effort of keeping the worry off his face. He's not doing a great job with it, honestly. "Take it—fuck—take it easy, mate, I'm not made of clay—"
"Oh, shuddup," David mutters, digging out another shard of wood and gritting his teeth at the pained groan it elicits. "You're not making this any easier on yourself, you know."
There's blood just—everywhere, on their clothes and David's hands and the wooden deck of the ship, and if Emma were a braver person she'd move closer and get it the hell off his face, because it's making her sick to look at, the way it's smeared across his chin and neck. But she's not—neither brave, nor welcome. "I would gladly switch places with you, prince," Killian spits, faltering as David digs deep with the pliers, chasing a piece that's embedded itself in his shoulder. "God, but I'd rather be run through with a sword than endure this malignity—"
"Stop whining," David scolds, but his face is paler even still, anxious eyes meeting Emma's over Killian's shoulder.
"He needs something," Emma says quietly. "Painkillers, something—"
"We can't move him," David replies urgently, "and we can't risk leaving the protection spell alone—"
"Don't talk about me as if I'm not here," Killian snaps, irritated. "Just get the fucking things out of me, I can handle the pain."
"We're trying to help you, quit being an asshole," Emma snaps back, and Killian shoots her a dirty look. "Look—these cuts aren't fatal, but they're full of dirt, and we don't have anything to clean them with. We need bandages and antiseptic—there's a first aid kit in the harbor master's office, it's not far from where we're docked. If we go quick, she might not notice—"
"If you'd just run when I'd told you to, you'd be under the Queen's protection by now and this wouldn't be a problem," Killian interjects, sounding thin with tense, pained frustration.
"If we'd run you'd be dead," David replies angrily. "Shut the hell up, Hook."
Killian twists his head around to glare, but quiets down all the same.
There's something heavy pressing down on Emma's chest, a dragging, sick feeling that pulses every time she looks at the jagged wounds in his back, the ugly shards of blood-soaked wood, sitting in a pile by their feet. "We don't know how long we'll be stuck here," Emma says grimly. "If we don't clean these wounds right then they'll get infected and then we'll really be in the shit."
"Okay," David says, "I'll go, it's fine—you stay here and finish. The harbor master's office, you said?"
Killian looks as if he wants to continue his protests, but the twin stares of Emma and David are nothing if not intimidating. With a sigh, he nods. "Just down on the corner there—forty paces west. Old Max keeps it in the desk, I think."
David nods briskly, rising to his feet and handing the pliers over to Emma. "Can you take over?"
Emma falters only slightly, swallowing down the spike of anxiety and stepping forward to take his place. "Yeah."
Killian groans again, letting his forehead fall against the chair he's straddling, cursing under his breath. (Emma tries not to take that to heart.)
"I'll be back," David says, with one last worried glance at them both.
"Be careful," Emma replies tensely, "go fast. Run. And shoot anything that moves."
David nods grimly, kind enough not to mention that bullets aren't going to do much against Zelena's vicious magic, and Emma has to swallow hard as he leaves, gripping the pliers tight to stop herself from running after him.
"Don't do that to yourself, Swan," Killian says roughly, pulling her out of the moment, "he'll be fine. Just focus on that. He'll be fine."
"Right," Emma says, taking a deep breath, grateful for the nudge. "Right."
Killian doesn't reply, still leaning his forehead against the ridge of the chair. They're below deck, in the small cabin that he's obviously been sleeping in, judging by the state of the bunk shoved up against the wall (not like she hadn't noticed he'd left the inn—she's trying very hard not to take this to heart, all of this, but how can she not—), but it's still cold, from the dual effects of the waves beneath them and the wind above. If she thought he'd let her, she'd make him lay down on the bunk, cover him up with blankets, get that stupid metal brace off of him and rub warmth back into his skin—but he wouldn't. He wouldn't let her.
"Are you aiming to stare at me all night," Killian says, sounding gruff and still, that frustration that's lined all his words, for weeks now. "I can't imagine I make that nice of a display at the moment, princess."
"Don't call me that," Emma snaps, irritated at the title, a recent development she didn't ask for and doesn't particularly enjoy. "There's still a few pieces left—are you ready, or do you need some more time?"
"Just do it," Killian says. "Get it over with."
"Right," Emma says, and petulantly thinks, gonna have to touch you to do that, FYI. That's another thing she'd say if she were braver, probably. "Okay, brace yourself."
Emma's done things like this before, but never to someone like Killian, who makes her hands shake and her nerves jump under normal circumstances, let alone something like this, bleeding and flinching and cold and clammy to the touch.
He's quieter, now that it's just him and her. He doesn't even groan, really, when she digs into his wounds with her pliers—just grips the edge of the chair with white knuckles, grinding his forehead against the edge of the back. (She doesn't know if that means anything, but it bothers her all the same.)
"There," she mutters, managing to pull out the last piece, a nasty-looking splinter that had lodged in his lower back. He collapses in relief as she pulls away, breathing hard, and Emma wipes at her brow, feeling like her heart is about to jump out of her chest. "Done—fuck, that sucked."
"Did it now," Killian slurs, "'course it was a grand old time for me, love."
Emma ignores him, wiping gently at the open cuts with her cloth, a ripped piece from what was once Emma's flannel overshirt, a few hours ago. "I don't think she hit anything important. None of them are that deep, either, just—"
"Nasty," Killian says, grunting and flinching away when she runs the rag over the ugliest one, the one on the back of his shoulder blade.
"Sorry," Emma murmurs, wincing. He waves off her apology with a tired sigh, leaning his face into his hand, still hanging over the back of the chair. "Hey, a little advice? Maybe the next time a wicked witch explodes a tree in your face, you should—I dunno. Duck."
"I thought that's what I did," Killian says dryly. "Better my back than my face, I say."
"Be a waste of a pretty face," Emma says, unable to stop the grin.
"Aye," he says, serious and sort of grave, passing rather obviously on her invitation to lighten the conversation. "And better mine than yours."
Emma doesn't even know how the fuck to respond to that.
"Damn," Killian grumbles, gingerly straightening up, oblivious to her resentful silence. "I don't know what's plaguing me worse, the tree or this blasted chair—"
"Don't move," Emma says harshly, stepping around to his front so she can see his face. He doesn't meet her eyes—of course—but he does stop in surprise. "You're an idiot, you're bleeding all over the place, just stay put until we can get them bandaged."
"Stop coddling me," he snaps back, obviously just as close to the end of his rope as Emma is to hers. "I've had much worse than this in much more dire circumstances, woman, and I'm sick of your damn hand wringing."
"You can't—"
"I just want to stand up," he thunders, and Emma snaps, throwing the cloth at his face and letting out the angry growl that's been building up in her chest all night. Longer than just tonight. Days—weeks.
"Fine, do whatever you want," she spits, "you stubborn fucking asshole. God."
Killian shoots her another dark look, rising from the chair rather defiantly and tossing the bloody scrap of fabric away. "Thank you for the assistance, princess."
"I said stop calling me that," Emma bites out, following him with her glare, resisting the urge to yell again when he collapses roughly onto the bunk. "I'm not your fucking princess, Hook."
"No, you're not, are you," he replies dryly. "I am well aware of that, trust me."
Emma almost laughs, staring at the look on his face, bitter and angry and a million different things that he's got no right to feel, not when he's the one who keeps saying no, keeps walking away and gently rejecting her, over and over again. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." Killian goes to lay back, but stops, grimacing and jabbing his hook into the side of the wall instead for support, shaking his head at the ground. "Nothing, never mind. I'm—this is my fault, Swan, I'm…not in the best of moods." He takes a breath. "I apologize."
Emma stands there and stares at the side of his face, thinking, do it, look at me, you bastard, be a man and look at me and just say it—but he doesn't. He just closes his eyes, like the end of a sentence, and Emma is not brave, not welcome, not allowed. Just sad, and hurt, lost for words and covered in blood.
(What else is new, right? Right.)
"It's fine," she chokes out, "it's—it's been a rough night."
"Aye," he replies listlessly, and they don't talk again until David returns.
Some other things Emma would ask, if she were braver: why don't you call me by my name anymore? Why do you look so tired? What the fuck happened to your ship? What's the point of you saving me all the time if I don't get to save you back? What the hell was the point, otherwise?
(Also: What did I do wrong?, of course, but Emma thinks that one is probably pretty obvious. The lying to herself thing—no. It never gets any easier.)