HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO piratesails (on tumblr)! the prompt was "au where you have a tattoo of a compass that always points in the direction of your soulmate".
She grows annoyed of the girls and boys running around school showing off their compass tattoos pointing in the direction of their soulmate.
It's like that everywhere. Every school she transfers to, ever family she ends up in, any foster home she gets thrown into. It's everywhere, and she literally cannot handle it.
Emma's points north, always north, and she hates it.
Soulmates aren't real, they're fake.
She convinces herself of this until she begins to grow up, seeing teenagers date because they're supposedly soulmates. She catches them kissing in the hallways really briefly, catches them walking around school with their hands linked, and suddenly, she wishes soulmates were absolutely non-existent and only some sort of dumb invention in society.
Except, it's not.
And what blindsided way she's taken to approach this notion, she realizes she's wrong and it's just completely unfair because who the hell could possibly be her soulmate? And whoever her soulmate is, well, he must deserve someone better than the broken bits and pieces she could possibly ever offer.
Every passing year gets more difficult, because people around her are all dating, engaged, or already married, and she sits quietly with a compass that points north.
And theoretically speaking, it doesn't make sense that it continues to point north. Does that mean, because of it being unmoving, that she doesn't have a soulmate, thus a broken compass? Or does it just mean he never leaves from his spot in this world, wherever he is? She comes up with all the possible opportunities, yet she doesn't decide on which one is the real answer, because these are all hypothetical possibilities, not true knowledge.
She is best friends with a person who has already found her soulmate back in high school, and she has several other friends, distant as they are, who have lived a happy life, or so she's been told. Emma's aware that having a soulmate does not distinctly prove as a fact of a life that serves happiness. And she hopes to hell she'll find someone who will just love her for who she is, because after all, that's the one thing she's ever wished for on the days she sees a shooting stars or when it came to the stupid myth of wishing during 11:11 to make those wishes come true.
Once again, there's her problem, she doesn't believe she deserves someone to love a person as shattered as her.
.~.
"Are you sure it always points north?"
"No, I just lie about it to make myself seem like a loner," Emma responds, sarcastic tone and all.
The way Mary Margaret shifts her weight onto one leg and rests her hand on her hips is a priceless look, but really, Emma isn't lying when she states that it always points north. Every time they're out and about in different places, she shows her friend the tattoo and it's unmoving self as a form of justification to the point of her maybe not having a soulmate.
Mary Margaret scoffs, shaking her head. "That's impossible."
"Nothing is impossible," Emma recites accurately from the one time Mary Margaret told her exactly that. "Look, can we just drop the topic? My compass is broken, maybe I don't have a soulmate." Maybe I don't deserve one.
"Fine," grumbles her friend, "only for now."
Emma smiles triumphantly. "And for now I shall cherish."
.~.
Walsh makes her happy.
(Or so she thinks.)
Her compass is still inevitably broken, but she thinks nothing of it because she's told herself, on many occasions, that she's perfectly fine in this current relationship. Sure, he owns a furniture shop and has a weird name (at least in her book), but at least she smiles and laughs and enjoys herself with him.
It's all she's ever really wanted in the first place, and now she has it.
Soulmates don't guarantee happiness, but she likes this relationship, and doesn't mind being invested in it. If anything, at least she's enjoying the time she spends with Walsh, whether it's a day out at the park or a restaurant dinner. He...makes her feel wanted.
(Her brain tells her that, and she does damn believe it because for once she feels like maybe she's worth something to someone instead of just a throw-around ball.)
But life has a cruel way of telling her otherwise when she realizes Walsh is simply a lying bastard who doesn't actually care for her whatsoever. She was just a means-to-an-end, and honestly, why did she even expect the good out of him? Why did she bother?
(- Because she trusted him, and the one time she chooses to trust someone, they turn their back on her and shatters her, once again, to a million pieces and probably tenfold in terms of having to glue herself back to pieces.
From now on, she may as well give up on the 'let's try dating' thing. If anything, this has simply reinforced her belief of her not even deserving a soulmate, let alone a person who loves her for who she is and isn't a backstabbing asshole.)
That's how she finds herself hurdling herself at glasses of tequila at the local bar closest to her apartment, casually dressed, and oh - technically - the grumpiest person there. She's also fairly certain there's about, maybe, twelve questions going around in her head waiting to be answered by no one but her own stupid conscience (not that she even wants to listen to her conscience speak pointless thoughts to make her life any worse).
She also isn't interested in having a one-night stand, and she's sure as hell glad she and Walsh didn't get to that stage in their relationship. Makes it at least less regrettable.
It's safe to say Emma isn't a frequent customer when it comes to a bar, but she's not stocked in terms of strong enough liquor to muddle with her thoughts so she can at least go home with a foggy brain to forget the things that have graced her in a horrible mood.
But, it appears as if the handsome, accented man behind the bar isn't going to allow her to go any further because he's stopped serving her drinks since five minutes ago - and really, she shouldn't be complaining -
"So, you're going to deny your services to me?"
"I'm denying the services to save you from the worst bloody hangover of your life, aye," he says with a form of enthusiasm, a cleaning towel slung over his shoulder as he looks at her with his stupidly attractive blue eyes. "Come on, lass, tell me what's gotten you into this foul mood."
"What, so you're just going to listen to my problems?" she asks, the words a little slurred in terms of connecting all of them together.
He shrugs. "Business is slow tonight and I've been told I'm a rather good listener."
A man with an ego...attractive, runs a bar. Well, she's seen worse. "I'd rather not discuss it."
"Ah! Bad breakup, then?"
She just stares at him dumbly, blinking.
"Oh, come on, love, I run a bar, I've seen many come in here sulking over their exes. It's not a rare sight for one like me," he tells her honestly. He doesn't last long when someone walks in, the door making that little jingle, before he shoots her an apologetic look to go serve other people.
Not like she expects him to actually care.
Wow, Emma's found herself in a position where she realizes no one in her life actually cares. (Maybe with the exception of Mary Margaret, David, and Ruby.)
"Alright, talk."
His sudden return isn't unexpected, but Emma rolls her eyes before pulling out a wad of cash. "Unlikely," she grumbles.
Slapping the bills onto the counter, she slurs out a string of words in relation to 'keep the change' before slipping off from the stool and heading toward the door so she can just head back to her apartment and tumble into bed and wake up in the morning not remembering what the hell she did the previous night.
"So you're just going to run away!" he shouts at her past the music playing in the background, and she turns around to face him.
"Yeah." She nods. "It's what I do best."
Emma completely skips out noticing the direction his compass points on his wrist.
(Not like she'd remember tomorrow morning.)
Oh, and let's be real, she does collide with a brick wall once or twice walking home.
.~.
Emma knows the next time she goes out for a drink, she's going to tone down on the amount of shots to take because damn, she feels like she could just lay in bed and not move for another week.
Vaguely, she can remember the conversation, well technically lack of conversation, with the good looking bartender.
Was he wearing a white dress-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and - what the fuck - suspenders? The image is fading in her head, and god damn does she want to go back and check him out -
No...no, no, no, she and Walsh just broke up. There's little to go about there.
Shoving those thoughts out of her head, she also shoves herself out of bed and squints at the blinding light through the curtains she only haphazardly drew in her drunk state last night. "Stupid me," she mutters, going into her closet to raid for a new set of clothes so she can shower and get changed out of the clothes she'd been wearing yesterday.
What sucks, really, is the fact that by barely remembering this bartender from last night, she cannot stop thinking about him.
"Ah! Bad breakup, then?" is all she actually remembers from their conversation, and she wishes she knew more, because the last thing she needs is a random bartender knowing of her stupid problems. For all Emma knows, maybe she went on an hour rant about her stupid ex-boyfriend, furniture lover, Walsh, before actually stumbling her way out of there looking like a complete mess...and pathetic, pathetic as much as an emotionally and mentally broken woman could get.
She goes about her day as usual, and despite the pissy mood she's in between chasing her ever-escaping perp and dealing with the emotional turmoil still rumbling about in her after Walsh, she wants to drink. Again.
And so sue her if she considers also going to the same bar because it's closer.
(Sad, sad excuse.)
.~.
Her memory serves her wrong, or so she thinks.
Tonight, he's wearing a red and black plaid, flannel shirt, but his sleeves are still rolled up as he mixes drinks together.
Technically, he's closing soon because it's already past two and there's about twenty minutes left of opening hours' time left, but she doesn't want to go back to her 'home' yet, not while she needs to unwind from a drink or two.
Emma tries to ignore the way he's smiling, and the way his smile widens when he turns his face and sees her.
"You were here last night," he says while he approaches her from his side of the counter.
"Yeah -" she rubs at the back of her neck, locking eyes with him a moment later after lifting her head, "- sorry if I did anything...overly stupid. I tend to do that when I'm drunk sometimes." She shrugs at the statement, realizing she just can't speak anymore because the red and black plaid really compliment his striking blue eyes, and just fuck her why does she even care?
His laughter booms in a soft way, as if he's trying to save any attention from landing on them yet he's also entertained. "Aye? Well, you weren't too embarrassing last night, though I can tell you're rather stubborn."
Emma breathes out an, "Oh, thank god," to her own relief, though he catches that and smiles, the small lift of his lips somehow, as magically as it is, brightening up her day.
"You refused, more or less, to discuss the cause to your grumpy mood last night." His lips are pressed into a straight line, waiting on her to speak further, but when she doesn't, he continues. "I know, for a fact, milady, that it was a bad breakup, and no -" he brings his hand up to stop her from interrupting him, "- you don't need to talk about it if it makes you uncomfortable. I was offering my services to you simply as a way for you to let out your emotions."
She scoffs at that laugh bit, and he's smiling at her again, that blinding, breathtaking, brilliant smile. "Yeah? Did I admit that?"
"No...however, you neither agreed nor disagreed, so I made an inference that it was what I thought it was." He shrugs before bringing up an empty, clean glass. "Now, perhaps you'd like to talk tonight? With a drink."
"Don't you close soon?"
"You're not inconveniencing me, and staying an extra half an hour won't do any harm."
He is Killian Jones, she is Emma Swan.
For the next ten minutes, he tells her about the girlfriend he had in high school and the failed ones with another few in college because they never really 'worked out.' That's how he puts it, but the way he explains it, it seems like they never were really serious, so there's that. Emma, on the other hand, finds it so at ease in the moment, she tells him about the guy he dated, the "furniture lover" asshole, and Killian laughs his way through her descriptions - he laughs up until the part where she describes how he was never intending to take things serious with her.
His eyes almost darken with this rage, as if he understands, but Emma's instinct is to ignore that and just let him have his own opinion over the matter.
Half an hour turns to an hour while he finishes wiping off the tables and the bar.
"Do you believe in soulmates?"
She almost spits out the last bit of her drink at the question. "Uhm, well…" Emma just shrugs, feeling like she doesn't have an answer to that question. She certainly cannot deny that soulmates are real, that people around her have found their soulmates, but then she doesn't believe she has one or deserves one. "I don't know."
His eyebrows exchange different positions, one raising and the other dropping. "You don't know?" he asks, curiosity sticking to his words.
"I mean, I know for a fact they're real and out there," she begins, tapping her finger on the side of her empty glass, "but...believing I have one is difficult."
The fact that she's just admitted this to him is something huge because really, she's only ever admitted it to the few of her best, most trustworthy friends. Yet, it's only been over an hour of really knowing Killian, and she's decided she'll tell him one of her darkest secrets?
Wow. Maybe it's the friendly looking flannel.
"I think you do."
And if her heart flutters in her chest and she sees a spark of light at the end of the tunnel, that's her issue.
.~.
Maybe she's stupid for thinking it, but Killian sounds like a man she can have a fling with -
It's stupid.
In every side of things, he's like a friend to her, and she can't betray him for a one-night stand and never see him again, that's simply unfair to the both of them, and Emma knows it.
She knows he like sailing on his spare time, she knows he had an older brother who he looked up to dearly, she knows he opened a bar because he loved his alcohol and wanted to serve it, she knows his favourite colour is green, she knows he has a schedule of alternating clothing for his work days, she knows he has a best friend who gets absolutely pissed whenever they're out to drink -
The list can go on forever if she's given the opportunity.
But, then, he knows just as much of her as she does of him.
He knows she's an orphan who's never felt loved properly in her life, he knows her favourite colour is between yellow and blue, she knows her favourite drink is hot cocoa with cinnamon sprinkled on top of the whipped cream, he knows she chases bail jumpers for a living, he knows she wants to find a house by the sea one day, he knows of her bad relationships, he knows everything her friends know about her in the time span of less than a week and -
There's no complaining from her. He understands her wholeheartedly, and that's all she's ever wanted, someone to understand her but not pity and sympathize. She knows love is too much to ask for on her part, but understanding isn't.
Whatever deity has given her this man, she will be forever in their debt.
Sometimes, her sirens go off - he is a man who seems kind, but then he will betray her. But then, her heart tells her otherwise. The look in his eyes are too much like the ones she has, he just does a far better job at hiding it.
"You're something of an open book, Swan," he says one day, the words hitting her straight in the chest.
"Yeah?" Emma asks quietly.
'"Aye. But don't worry, I'll keep your secrets safe."
She trusts him, and as much as her brain tries control her otherwise, she doesn't care.
.~.
The bar is closer.
Her perp was an asshole tonight, and knows for a fact she will not be able to make it back to her apartment without crumbling down in exhaustion. After an intense fight of swings and kicks, she know she'll drop dead if she exerts too much energy. Her adrenaline has drained a long time ago, and so the least she's able to do is break into Killian's bar.
Not the front, though. She goes through the back, and his alarm goes off and she curses to herself because of course he has an alarm, but she has a solid reason to breaking in.
The police arrive and look at her with puzzled faces, and there's also Killian sprinting down the stairs in sweats, messy hair, and a white V t-shirt.
Emma's curled herself up on the floor with her fellow colleagues standing around her, and Killian's here and probably hating her for causing such a ruckus and ruining his night. But her eyes feel heavy, and even though he's kneeling next to her, trying to coax her to stay awake, her eyes fall closed and the shuffle of feet and chatter zones out.
Waking up is potentially one of the hardest things she's done so far. For one, she's in the hospital, two, her bones ache and her head pounds and she just wants to sleep, and three, one of her hands are really warm while the other is cold, and her forehead and nose burns.
The first humanly noise she makes is a grunt. The warmth of her hand is not just warmth, but there's weight, and it squeezes her hand a little bit and then there's a soothing, deep voice next to her.
"Open your eyes, love."
When she does, she wants to punch him for how unprepared she was for the brightness.
And for things that could get any worse, she's somehow lost her voice and she can only wheeze and whisper. Knowing of this, she clenches her eye shut and huffs a breath from her burning nose, the air coming out just as hot.
"You have the flu, Swan," he says quietly, his thumb brushing across the back of her hand. It's the hand with her compass on it and Jesus, she hopes he hasn't seen her broken compass. "And two broken ribs, though they've already wrapped you up for that."
Of course she wants to ask him why he's here, tell him he'll get sick, ask him about the bar, but no words comes out and he seems to read her mind anyways.
"Your well-being is more important than the bloody bar, Emma. I thought I was being robbed, but then I found you curled up on the floor in the storage room with police surrounding you," he explains, hand tightening around hers. "I was worried."
For once in her life, she has someone beyond her original friends who does more than understand.
He extends to caring.
.~.
He refuses to leave her alone, so he forces her upstairs into his little home above his bar. It's got that homey feeling to it, the warmth and the decorations tenderly placed about the place. Every hour or so he comes up to check on her, but all she's doing is sleeping or watching the TV, though her having to laugh at some stupid jokes on the shows she's watching causes her to wince in pain because she coughs right after her laughs.
Next time, she needs to not get whacked with a god damn wooden plank. How the hell did her perp even get that?
Best she doesn't think about it.
And however the hell she got the flu despite feeling perfectly fine previously is also a mystery to her. Her immune system has always been on top of its game, but not this time.
The sound of a door closing causes her to rise from the slumber she's been in for the past two hours, and even after blinking away as much sleep from her eyes, her eyelids still feel heavy. It's the flu talking. The lights flicker on in the kitchen, the living room being joint with the kitchen and dining room, and she wants to get off his couch, but it's sinfully comfortable and she's really god damn warm with the blanket on her.
A jaw cracking yawn later, she sneezes (what a combo). She hears the pit-pat of Killian's feet across the wooden board, and then he's towering over her and she blinks up dumbly at him.
"Did you enjoy your sleep, Swan?"
"Very," she whispers, knowing better than to use her voice. Right now, she can only whisper her words quietly.
"Still tired, though?"
She nods and wipes the tears from her eyes because of her second yawn, and he chuckles. Before she can complain about how this is even funny, he's bent down, brushing hair away from her forehead so he can press the back of his hand to her forehead. He sighs, and then he's suddenly picking her up, and she whacks his chest and he elicits a little playful groan. Clearly, he doesn't care about her refusing his help by this point.
It's dark, the remainder of the walk down a hall, but he kicks a door open, and then she feels the comfort of an actual bed beneath her -
"There, now you can rest properly, not on the sodding couch."
His couch is sinfully comfortable, but his bed?
Wow, she's going to have to upgrade her definition of sinfully comfortable now.
As much as she wants to deny him this, that he belongs in his own bed, she has no voice to complain, and if she does, she knows she won't last very long before the coughs start to attack, and the last thing she needs is to make him sick, too. It takes her all of her power to not cough all over him or sneeze on him.
His voice is quiet in her ears. "Rest well," he wishes, and he's out the door, only the moonlight lighting up the room through the semipermeable-looking curtains.
It almost feels like she could just get used to this life. The one where she has this person she can rely on, the one who she can go to when she's having issues.
And maybe, just maybe, she might like him a bit more than a friend. Not that she'll ever admit that whatsoever.
.~.
"He literally had you spend your sick days at his place," Mary Margaret says. "You still think you're undeserving of love?"
"He's being a good friend, does that equate to falling in love?" Emma crosses her arms over her chest, pushing her weight onto another leg. "Because I don't see it that way. Sure he's a guy, but he's a nice guy, and the last thing I need is the best thing that's happened to me in the last decade be ruined because I had some thought about getting together with him!"
Mary Margaret shakes her head. "Hey - hey, I was just suggesting you should think about it. You did just admit to having a thought about getting together with him, and who knows, this 'Killian' may like you back."
"No."
"Emma -"
"Can't we just -"
"Drop the topic? Isn't that what you always want us to do when we come to the discussion about love and soulmates?" Mary Margaret interrupts, her attitude beginning to show. When Mary Margaret rear-ends with her attitude, things never end the best way. "Say he doesn't like you in that way, it doesn't change the fact he's been willing to be a part of your life by being a good friend, right? He doesn't love you romantically? Okay, but I bet he'd love you as a friend, and that's still love. When will you see that you do deserve love?"
Her head drops and she sighs, rubbing her face. It's been two weeks since her recovery from the flu, but her ribs aren't fully healed yet. They still hurt once in a while, but it's better than how she first felt after being hit with a stupid wooden plank.
Mary Margaret does hold a fair point to Emma's head, but Emma is Emma, and that means she is stubborn, and given the amount of foster homes and families she'd been in as a child and teenager, her hope was dwindled and dimmed, so who can really blame her for not trusting the fact that maybe she does deserve love? All of her life has been smoke clouding her vision when it comes to love and any sort of affection, whether it be familial or intimately, and none has ever ended well.
Every time she's tried to open up, to try and be free to the idea, it turns against her and it's an ending she's seen and experienced once too many times. It's like a part of her wants that feeling, the one where someone would want to spend the rest of their days with you, but she's too scared to have it end the same way as it always does.
Maybe she's just stuck.
Her stupid compass pointing north and her constant belief that she doesn't deserve any love ruining her chances more than they should be ruined. It's all in her mind, and she knows, but a matter of changing is a big deal for Emma. She hasn't been entirely fond of change, but the last few weeks have been a change due to Killian bursting into her life and becoming one of the most reliable people she knows.
And considering the fact she doesn't care about the way Killian has been introduced into her life and has been such a huge influence on her, that must mean something.
And that must means Mary Margaret is absolutely correct and Emma is being just a pain in the ass to deal with.
Emma eventually mumbles, "You have a point."
"That's right, I do," Mary Margaret grumbles. "You - you deserve love, Emma Swan, and one day, sooner or later, you will realize it. Soulmate or not."
One day.
.~.
It's about to close, but she stumbles in anyways after a day of paperwork (being stuck to her desk after the injury and recovery stage), and his head snaps up, a smile overtaking his face immediately. God damn it does she like his smile, his dopey grins, his devilish smirks. God damn it does she like the blue of his eyes and the way he wears suspenders and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up on the odd days of the week and wearing the flannel plaid shirts with those sleeves rolled up on the even days of the week.
There is something about Killian Jones that is different, and whether or not she'd like to admit it, she can say, that in her mind, she is very much attracted to him. Not just for his stupidly handsome (or dashing, as he puts it) looks, but for his personality. He's a smug bastard a lot of the times, but he's a man who's caring and kind and knows how to empathize with her because, he, like her, is very much an orphan.
"Swan, to what do I owe the pleasure? Coming in the thwart my work hours again?" he asks enthusiastically, slinging a towel over his shoulder.
It's a Tuesday. He's wearing the flannel plaid today with the sleeves rolled up. Oh, he's wearing a black v-neck under it. The buttons of his flannel are essentially undone. There's a fine line between checking out one of her good friends and checking out one of her good friends who she may have the slightest crush on. (She may or may not be crossing that line right now.)
"Could I get a drink?"
There's the grin again, happy and giddy and ugh -
"What'll it be?"
She contemplates her choices. If she really wants to admit that she has a crush on him, then she'll need something heavy that'll get her inebriated enough to confess that. If not, then she just wants to have a drink then leave.
Neither of those seem like options seem pleasant enough.
Tapping her fingers on the counter, she shrugs. "Whiskey?"
"Ice?"
She shakes her head. "Nah."
He nods before stepping around behind the counter like the professional he is. (She knows he is super organized and hates being messy.) The whiskey bottle is on the counter in less than ten seconds and he flips an empty glass into his hand before popping the cap to the bottle of whiskey and pouring the alcohol into it.
For those few seconds, she just stares at the stream of tinted orange flow into the glass.
In another few seconds, he's got the glass slid in front of her, and she has her fingers wrapped around it like they've done this a million times (maybe they have). The drink swirls beneath her eyes, and she looks at it for a good while before lifting the glass and taking a sip, feeling it slide down her throat and into her stomach. The entire time, she can feel Killian's eyes burn into her, and she doesn't know if she should take that as a good sign or not.
"So, love, I don't reckon you came here this late for only a drink," he says, voice lower than it was a second ago. "Are you upset over something?"
"Upset? No, no." She licks the side of her lip, feeling as if there's a bit of the drink sitting there and bothering her. "Maybe I did just come for a drink tonight."
"This late?"
"I was running late in the first place."
"Horse shite," he boldly claims. He's leaning forward now, his elbows resting on the counter while his fingers tap away. "We both know that you're telling lies, Swan. Have I done something wrong that bothers you?"
Good lord how could he possibly make that assumption?
(Although him being attractively good looking with a one-of-a-kind personality is the reason why she's lying.)
"Look, it's nothing - really, Killian, I swear. I'm just exhausted and…" She yawns then, mucking up her entire plan. "Yeah, I'm sleepy and stressed," she explains, deciding she's not going to tell him tonight. Taking another drink from the glass of whiskey, she sighs after it. "Between the recovery of my ribs, sitting and nearly passing out over the boredom of paperwork, and having no real social life, it's a real boring, but draining life."
Every one of those aren't technically lies, but she is omitting the fact that she originally came here to maybe tell him of the bottled up feelings she has.
But she's come to realize there's no way she'll be able to say it. After the amount of heartbreak she's suffered, she knows that if she suffers one because of Killian, she really, really, won't recover from it. He is like her best friend, even if they've not known each other for as long as she has known Mary Margaret. Maybe that doesn't dictate what a best friend is, maybe it's about the things they've done, the information they've shared, the level of trust between them, the strong bond that's connected them.
As much as they aren't soulmates, she feels like they're two mingling souls that have found a safe haven in each other.
She didn't have this with Walsh, she's realized. Walsh was...safe, but he wasn't a safe haven, he wasn't someone she could confine herself with when she was struggling with something. Sure, he made her happy temporarily, but that temporary happiness blinded her from the other more significant things in her life. Walsh didn't know her deepest, darkest secrets; he didn't know of her old, broken dreams; he didn't know the real her. He knew a version of her.
"In that case -" he clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth, "- we wake you up."
"Killian," she groans, lolling her head back before bringing it back forward. "What the hell do you think you're gonna do? Dump a bucket of freezing, ice water over my head or something?"
His laughter is a rumble as he rounds the counter separating them, pushing up the entrance and exit and setting it back down slowly before locking the door and shutting off the neon lights sign outside. "No," he finally answers when he returns. "Though I do intend to do something, as you put it."
"Ugh."
"Don't 'ugh' me, darling, I haven't even told you what we're doing."
"I already know you're gonna make me sing or dance."
He raises a brow, offering her a hand (which she oh so stupidly takes on instinct). His hand is warm, god, so warm, and hers is freezing as usual. "Quite spot on, love." He grins. "Dancing, that is. Unless you'd rather sing?" He leans forward and she almost thinks for a moment he's about to kiss her. "Because I'm sure you have a lovely voice when you sing," he murmurs closely.
"I'm flattered you think I can sing." She laughs. "But I suck. Literally. At one of the new schools I was in as a kid after a transfer, I couldn't sing when they had all of us in some choir."
"I can't see that." One hand settles on her lower back and her breath hitches; he notices, clearly, because he smiles that breathtaking smile again, lifting his eyes up to look through her soul. "I imagine a young, innocent little girl who's shy over her own singing voice; a loud, booming singing voice."
Emma blushes and she tries to ignore the fact her cheeks must have turned a fair share of red. He laughs, connecting her hand with his left, dragging her toward the door that leads up to his room. He shuts off the lights, then, passing by the switches.
"There's something I haven't shown you, yet."
Curiosity gets the best of her, and she follows along with him. There's another set of stairs and then a ladder, and it leads up to the roof of his bar.
He pauses his climbing to look down at her, and she pokes at him constantly to keep moving. Eventually they he gets to the top and he pulls her up with him by the last climb she needs to make, and wow. It's a lovely view from up here, even though it's not as high as the other buildings here in Boston.
"It's a hell of a climb," he huffs, "but the sight is worth it. Don't know why they hadn't installed stairs instead of a ladder, but it's exercise, I suppose."
Suddenly, his hand is with hers again, their fingers tangled together and palms pressed warmly against each other's. Her hands aren't so cold anymore, even though there's a chilly breeze from up top.
"Can I have a dance, milady?"
Her face is probably a look of bewilderment, she can't tell for herself. "Up here? Without music?"
"Did you think I was bringing you up here for no reason?" He laughs, pulling her hand up so he can press his lips to her knuckles.
And that's when she notices his compass.
Well, of course she's noticed his compass plenty of times in terms of catching glances of it, but she's never really paid actual attention to it. It's not like it's some large tattoo in the first place, but the direction it's pointing to, that it what catches her off guard.
"Killian?"
"Aye?"
"Your compass."
She can't tell if her voice feels tighter, but she's frozen as she looks at him with furrowed brows. Is...does his compass tell him she is his soulmate? Is that why he's been trying to be a good friend? Has this all been a ruse to just...get together with her?
"Oh, yes, that." He shrugs. "Is...is that okay, Emma? I mean...I would have told you, but you didn't believe you deserved a soulmate, I wanted to prove you wrong," he explains slowly, making sure his words are clear-cut so she's actually taking in his words. (She is, really.) "You're a strong woman, love. Beautiful, courageous, strong-headed, and I can admit, somewhat frustrating at some times, but...you're a one-of-a-kind. Even before I knew you were my bloody soulmate, when I laid eyes on you, there was this glow hidden behind a wall, and I wanted to see that glow for myself."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Emma feels like her voice is small, like she's shrunk and she's lost power and she's completely at his mercy now. She has a soulmate?
No.
"You told me you weren't sure about believing in having your own soulmate, Swan. What did you want me to do, admit it straight to your face? I thought you would have known, given you have a compass on your wrist, too."
She gulps, her brain still trying to register the fact that she has a soulmate -
"No, I wouldn't have known, Killian! My compass has been broken since I could understand what the hell it was!" she yells at him, pulling away from his hold.
"Emma, hey, I'm sorry. Okay, love? I didn't know, God, had I known I would have just been more honest." He steps forward, but he's slow, as if he's afraid of scaring her off. "I promise that won't happen again, should you forgive me for my wrongdoing."
That look in his eyes and face tells her he isn't lying to her, and she'd know if he's lying because she's always known if someone lies to her.
Killian isn't. And he's giving her a choice.
It takes three steps before she collides with his chest, her arms wrapping around his neck, and she's clinging onto him for dear life because she actually has a soulmate and he's real and he's here. It's taken her far too long to realize she does want love, she does deserve it, and maybe, just maybe she does deserve a soulmate. Killian Jones is a much better man than she is, but he treats her well and she likes that. She likes him.
Emma hates crying, really, she does. After all the foster families and failures in ever finding a family who would ever want her, she'd balled her eyes out and eventually just stopped having any hope and expectations so she'd not cry. But she has a fucking soulmate, and once the tears start, they don't stop.
Killian's arms snake around her waist and to her back and he holds her tightly, his lips pressed to the side of her head, one hand rubbing up and down her back in a manner that is, frankly speaking, soothing as hell. She's needed this, she's needed someone like this in her life, and perhaps after all the pain she's put herself through, she finally, finally deserves the love and happiness she's been lacking since...forever. As much as her compass may not point to him, his points to her, and he makes her happy, so that's it, that's all she needs as confirmation.
"Am I forgiven?" he whispers.
She nods, sniffling, and then she groans because right, her ribs, and he's hugging her closely and tightly, yet she doesn't care.
"Apologies," he mumbles, loosening his hold on her. "But, Swan?"
She blinks the remainder of her tears from her eyes and looks up at him.
"Can I have that dance now? Under the September stars?"
"You can't see the stars," she mumbles.
He smiles softly at her. "It doesn't mean they aren't there."
.~.
This time, waking up is more pleasant than before. She wakes up with the knowledge of knowing she has a soulmate, and she wakes up next to said soulmate.
He's warm. She's tucked against his chest, his face in her hair, arm draped over her middle, and calf stuck between her legs, and it feels so natural, as if they've already been doing this for a long time. But, this is their first time in bed together. They haven't' even kissed yet, and they're sleeping in the same bed, in his home, above his lifelong dream of opening a successful bar. Though, Emma doesn't care about that because she's sure they'll kiss sooner or later, and that his lips are probably soft and that he's a hell of a kisser.
("It's called a waltz, Swan. There's only one rule - pick a partner who knows what he's doing."
She rolls her eyes. "It's not like I have a choice on partners."
"Oh, shut up and let me dance with you.")
There is a beauty of their growing intimacy that she really loves.
She also may just really love him, too.
"Are you awake?"
She laughs softly.
"I'll take that as a yes," he murmurs.
She likes this about him too. Quickly, it's grown to be one of the best things about waking up with him; his voice. It's lower in the morning, his accent deeper while it's coated with a sense of sleep. She feels him shift behind her, his hand searching beneath the covers to find hers, lacing their fingers together with a squeeze. He then does this thing where he forces her onto her back and he's on top of her, hand pinned at the side of her head, looking down at her with his blue, blue eyes.
Then there is his smile, soft and lazy. Another thing she can add onto his list about things she loves about him and mornings.
"Hi." Smooth work, Emma, smooth.
He quirks an eyebrow up with amusement. "Hello, love."
It feels like this is a routine to them, but it's only the beginning of many, she hopes.
That is when he leans down slowly, his lips nearing hers every little second, and he hovers above her, as if he's waiting for her permission, but she lifts her head just slightly so her lips can meet his. His lips are soft, but his scruff scrapes deliciously across her skin, and he sucks on her upper lip in a gentle way that makes her shudder beneath him; she definitely isn't wrong about him being a good kisser. Their first kiss is definitely a memorable one, and Emma looks forward to many others.
She shamelessly chases when he pulls away, but there's this grin split across his face like he's just won the lottery or something just as grand that's celebratory. It doesn't take long before he's leant down again, capturing her lips for short, little kisses that leave her wanting to stay in bed all day.
But he has a bar to run.
"Emma?"
"What?" she asks.
He smiles in return, bringing their joint hands up and she literally gasps when she notices the needle of her compass move. It's moving, it's actually moving.
"But - what? How?" Her words stumble out of her mouth as she's dumbfounded, so speechless to see that her compass works, and it's pointing right at him.
Killian kisses the compass on her wrist. "You just needed to believe, Swan."
.~.
She twists the ring around her finger over and over, but it's not like she wants to remove it. Emma simply stares at the piece of jewelry...but it's more than jewelry, it's a promise, but God, it's more than a mere promise, too. There isn't enough words in her vocabulary to describe the feelings she's currently experiencing. Happiness is too little and pure contentment doesn't get the message across enough.
"You are thinking too much for a woman who just got married a day ago."
There is no need for her to turn around, just as arms wrap around her waist and a head is at her left shoulder, nose pressed against the side of her throat.
"I am thinking too much for someone who just got married, though if you had told me I was going to be here like this, I would have laughed at your face and probably punched it, too," she counters, leaning her head back onto his chest. "But, hello to you, too."
His laughter is muffled into her hair, pressing a kiss into it and pulling her back, deeper into the bedroom of his apartment above the bar. "We are on our honeymoon," he mumbles, "therefore any insignificant thinking must be forgotten and left to the depths of the sea as we enjoy ourselves."
The dramatic way he speaks sometimes always makes her roll her eyes at him. "Yeah? Well I suppose you're just gonna have to excuse me once."
"Fortunately for you -" he hoists her up and she squeals like a child (a damn child - how times have changed drastically), "- I am so in love with you, you'll always be on my list of 'can always be excused no matter what is done'."
"You sure about that because…" Emma trails off, snickering to herself as she remembers the last time she accidentally screwed up some of his laundry and ruined his favourite shirt, which resulted in him pouting and whining all day and mumbling I'm never going to forgive you for this, Swan. "You know...there've been times I've screwed up and you say you have to get back at me because you couldn't excuse my mistakes."
When he pinches her side, she jerks up and slaps his chest playfully. Yeah, past Emma would have never guessed she would be in present Emma's position. It seems too good-to-be-true, even though it really is true.
None of this is a dream.
And even if it is a dream, she never wants to wake up from it - it's a really, really good dream.
So their honeymoon isn't exactly a trip to Hawaii where the sun shines and the waves roll, it's nothing of the luxurious, rich vacations, but the important thing, she knows, is that they're happy - and really, they are. Emma can spend her night curled up to his side on the couch, his hand tangled in her locks of hair, half-asleep and half-awake because she doesn't want to sleep, and she'll be (obnoxiously, as Ruby has said) happy.
"I was only joking then," he said in his own defence, pulling her down on his - their - bed with a quiet oomph.
"Uh-huh."
"I was!"
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head at him before burying her nose between his shoulder and neck, into the mattress beneath them. "I'm happy, Killian."
All the snarky remarks are now thrown out the window, his hand resting on her lower back, the warmth radiating from him to her. "I know, my love, I'm happy as well," he mumbles closely to her ear.
Eventually, she flips around and rolls off of him, sitting up on the bed. (Still sinfully comfortable.)
She stares across the room at a framed photo on the dresser. Killian's in a simple t-shirt and boxer shorts and she's in one of his stupid oversized shirts, the morning to their first anniversary where she didn't even get to wake up properly because of her friends barging in. (Ruby and Mary Margaret insisted taking a photo after consistently yelling she's wearing one of his shirts, oh my God that's so cute! Take the photo!) His arms are wrapped around her, a dopey grin on his face, but the moment is a memory she can so vividly remember every night before bed and every morning when she wakes up.
She remembers him refusing to get out of bed that morning, insisting that it's our bloody day, love, we're staying in bed. But, then again, she refused along with him so they ended up sleeping in an entire hour later than usual, and sure, Robin was down running the bar for him that morning, but apparently he didn't care about having Mary Margaret and Ruby rush in disregarding any bit of privacy.
"Emma."
Killian's voice brings her out of her thoughts, rolling her head to the side to look at him. "Yeah?"
"You're my wife."
Emma rolls her eyes dramatically at him before laughing. He tugs her closer, bumping her nose with his.
.~.
Apparently, he refuses to stay inside all day, so they manage to head up to the roof of the bar. He's got that one warm blanket out, and though the breeze is cool, he goes back down then returns with a beanie, slipping it over her head and kissing her temple.
He tells her of the many constellations, though it's not visible whatsoever from light pollution.
"You can't see the stars," she mumbles.
He smiles softly at her. "It doesn't mean they aren't there."
Yes, that's right...she can't see the stars that surely litter the night skies, but it doesn't mean they aren't there - right above their heads.
But, right now, that doesn't matter to her, because the only star she needs is right there behind her, his arms wrapped around her shoulders while she presses into his chest between his legs.
He is her north star.
"I wish we could see the stars," he says quietly, his breath tickling her ear with warmth.
Emma grins and shakes her head curtly, yawning and leaning her head back against his shoulder, angling her head to look up at the one star that is visible, the moon. "It doesn't mean they aren't there," she responds later, her voice quiet, blending in with the distant buzz of traffic below and around them.
"Someone remembers what I told them on a special night."
"Of course."
"Do you remember what else we did that night?"
"Hmm? Oh…" she trails off for a second, remembering that they had danced the night away. "Yeah, we danced much to my chagrin and to your joy."
Kilian's laughter rumbles her from behind since she's leaning against his chest. "Aye," he murmurs, "what do you say about a repeat performance?"
Emma starts to pull away from him to escape but he has the advantage since his arms are still around her, tugging her right back into his chest until she's laying on top of him.
"Oh no," he says, "you're not running away from me, Emma Jones."
Cursing to herself, she just flips over and buries her face to his chest. "Fine," she eventually concedes.
"You're a natural anyways, love, and besides -" he stands up and pulls her up with him, dropping the blanket onto the floor, "- you've got a partner who knows what he's doing."
Of course.
He's known what he's been doing since day one.