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Stay With Me
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It's late when Henry shows Emma the circles around the few apartments he's found. She's tired and completely drained and that's probably why it leads to a fight, the two of them shouting over each other about what home is and what really is best for both of them. When Henry walks out of the room with a, "Well I better stay at Regina's then if you're going to take me away from her," Emma finally starts to see that she can't run away from this, that she can't hide from herself.
And apparently she can't hide from Killian either because, in addition to having his voice in her head asking her just who she's running away from over and over again, she finds him in the diner when she pushes through the door in search of a stiff drink.
She pauses for a moment, seeing him sitting there all forlorn and lost looking and staring at his flask. When he doesn't look up, she rolls her eyes and strides towards the bar, slipping her hand over the edge and pulling up the first bottle that her hand touches. Rum. Great.
With a huff, she sits on one of the barstools, twists off the lid on the Captain Morgan's and takes a long pull from the bottle, relishing in the burn, feeling like she deserves the punishment. It doesn't escape her that they've been in this position before, him in the booth, her sending hot chocolates across the room with magic. It had been fun then, in the midst of all the battles, they had found a moment of fun.
And now, now when it's resolved, when everything should be happy, she's finding it harder than ever to smile.
"You know, you can sit near me. I'm not going to try and ambush you with kisses now that I can."
It should be funny, but there is no humour in his voice. It's flat and upset. Kind of exactly how she feels. She almost wishes he would just be his usual innuendo wielding self, if for no other reason than to ease this thickening tension between them.
"I'm not running away." She blurts before she can think about it. It's just been sitting there, on her tongue, for hours, days even. It's the first time she's said it out loud though and hearing it makes her cringe. She can't hide in her lies.
She hears him approaching her, his footsteps soft and slow on the old linoleum floor, "I merely suggested you sit by me, lass."
She shakes her head, the anger in her dissipating, a sense of hopelessness overtaking instead, "You have said it. You have thought it. I'm not running though, not from you."
He frowns, coming to sit on a stool as well, swiping the bottle of rum from her and taking a swig himself. "I would argue that it's worse to be running from yourself," he infers her meaning from her words.
She finally faces him, "I can't run anymore. Henry's right, we need to stay here. This is his home."
He's closer, she thinks and his eyes are that rich blue of desire that ensures she can't look away, "And what of your home?"
They say your life flashes before your eyes when you're dying, but Emma had seen her own flashes this afternoon as the pirate had lain in front of her without breath. She had seen a future she'd never have, a man to love and a daughter in his arms. Their child, their family, their home. She'd seen it all ripped away in a split second and she couldn't let it happen. Wouldn't.
It might not be love, not yet. Her walls are battered, but they're still somewhat functioning and it's going to take time to see if anyone can truly get behind them.
Killian Jones is a good chance at it though.
"I guess I'm still figuring out the whole home thing," she says, taking the rum back and putting the cap on it.
He smiles at her, then leans in a little further, taking a chance, "I would say that it's right where your heart is."
She wants to roll her eyes at that, but it's exactly the kind of charm she'd been wishing for just moments ago. So instead, she grasps the lapels of his coat and draws herself in slowly, her feet touching the ground and carrying her into the cradle of his legs, "Sometimes I feel like that could be right here."
"Then stay," he whispers, breath warming her lips before they touch against his in the softest of kisses.
She doesn't vocalise an answer, but tilts her head in a way that deepens their embrace and he knows she's giving him the best answer she can. Her hand grips the back of his neck, holding on tighter than she ever has. It's been too long since she's taken a moment for herself and she doesn't want to let go, doesn't want it to end.
As his arm comes around her to anchor her to his body, she can't help but think about the list of properties that Henry had shown her earlier. And she can't wait to tell him that the apartment by the water would be just ideal.
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Thoughts?