If Lowell High has anything going for it, Emma thinks, navigating her way through the crowded halls, it's easy to get lost in. A student population of upwards of three thousand means that no one's noticed the new girl who came in after Spring Break. Her classes are a bit of a different story, but they usually are — no matter the school there's always at least one teacher who tries to conscript a 'buddy' to help her settle in. But Emma's been the new girl often enough by now that she's mastered the "trust me— you don't want us to be friends" vibe.

(She used to try and make friends. Used to latch on to whichever clique was willing to take her in and smile and nod and twist her orphan story to suit whoever she was with. Sometimes it even worked. But she always moved and they never kept in touch and it started to hurt worse than not having any friends to begin with.)

There's a few months left until she's done grade 11 and then it's just one more year until she never has to be the new girl ever again. Emma doesn't know yet what she'll do when she's finally free of both school and the foster system but it can't possibly be worse than what she's had to deal with so far.

She winces at the sudden brightness as she pushes through the door and steps out into the canal side park that runs between the school's buildings. It's the first absolutely gorgeous day of spring and she's grateful for any excuse not to navigate the cafeteria again. Above her, the "tunnels" stretch across Merrimack Canal to Lowell High's other two buildings and she turns down to wander along the grass, eventually picking out a spot on one of several monuments to writer Lucy Larcom. This one is two low concrete semi-circles with a quote carved around the inside and Emma sits with her back to the other students hanging out nearby, putting her bag down by her feet and tucking into her peanut butter sandwich.

It seems like at least half the student population had the same idea that she did, but with no tables it's easier to keep to herself and let everyone else fade to background noise while she eats. Emma should know better — new school, new troublemakers, after all — but it's been so miserable and rainy lately that she can't help it. She closes her eyes and leans back, letting her palms soak up the heat from the sun-warmed concrete. Someone stumbles as they run past her and it's only when she opens her eyes that she realizes whoever it was didn't trip so much as they paused to steal her bag.

Emma whirls and — there. Some asshole is running, just about to turn the corner of the building, her backpack in hand. She's on her feet and taking off after him within a second, chasing him through the alley to the other side of the building and up Kirk Street. He's not great at dodging people and following in his clumsy wake helps her make up ground. Emma catches him by the sleeve, landing a punch to the jaw as he jerks back with a yelp and drops her bag to the ground.

She doesn't get a good look at who steps in then, just registers male and student and assumes it's one of his friends so she spins on her heel and connects with a left hook before whoever it is has time to make a grab for her.

"Ow! Shit! Bloody hell, love," he protests, holding out her backpack with one hand and covering his eye with the other. "I was only trying to return your things to you."

Emma frowns. "I'm not anyone's love," she mutters. He takes a step back when she grabs the bag from him and maybe she feels a little bad for the black eye he'll have tomorrow — he didn't ping her lie detector or anything, but how was she supposed to know he was coming to help her and not —

Emma turns but the thief is long gone and she huffs, slipping the straps of her bag on and adjusting them on her shoulders.

"Scarlet's a nuisance but he's fairly harmless. He won't bother you again."

She looks over her shoulder to see her would-be rescuer giving her something between a grimace and a smile.

"Killian Jones," he says, offering her the hand that's not still pressed to his eye. "And you are?"

Emma just rolls her eyes and starts walking. "Leaving."

She gets detention, because of course she does. Because apparently you can't punch another student in the face by the school steps and get away with it. Emma supposes she should be grateful not to be suspended, but that would imply caring either way. The truth is she doesn't give two shits about Lowell High or the impression that she makes on its staff. She's never made it more than six months in a foster home before and has no reason think she'll be back come September.

Her saviour is there too — black eye and all — and she doesn't know if he caught some of the blame for the fight or if he's there for a different offense entirely. She tells herself she's not curious and determinedly keeps her eyes on her biology homework, not looking up when he plops his stuff down next to her in spite of the half-empty state of the classroom.

A carefully folded note gets slipped under the cover of her workbook less than a minute later and Emma doesn't even look at him as she pushes it back. They go back and forth like that a few times until he frustratedly drops it directly onto her lap and she knows it's either cave and read the damn thing or punch him in the face again.

Never got your name.

It takes effort not to roll her eyes and Emma thinks about giving a sarcastic reply but she knows this guy's type, knows that stubbornly digging in her heels will only make her seem mysterious. And Killian Jones looks like he enjoys the challenge of a good mystery.

She answers quickly, folds it back up, and leaves it in the open space between their books. It's back on her biology work not two seconds later.

Emma-what?

Emma Swan, she writes, deciding that's the end of it, she's not indulging him anymore. In her peripheral vision she can see Killian read her note and then bend over so close to the desk that his cheek is practically pressed to the graph paper. Whatever he's doing is more involved than some follow-up question that's just designed to pester her so she figures he's finally picked up on the fact that she's not interested in passing notes in detention. She's just about to switch to her English assignment when the paper gets pushed back towards her.

He's drawn a swan under their little conversation and it's kind of… adorable. Emma chances a glance over at him and he scratches behind his ear and flashes her a quick grin. The teacher supervising detention hall chooses that moment to clear her throat and Emma jumps, quickly hiding the paper in her backpack as she pulls out her copy of Hamlet. They don't talk when they're let go and she forgets all about the note until later that night when she's back at the Carrolls' and it falls out as she's rooting around for something else. She means to just throw it out, she does, but instead it winds up tucked into the pages of the agenda she's still using from her previous school. And if she looks at it again before falling asleep there's no one around to know.

Within a week Killian discovers that she lives basically around the corner from him and before she knows it they're walking home together in the afternoon and she's being regaled with Lowell High's latest gossip. Emma hides her smiles and pretends to follow along, tells herself that they're not friends, that friends see each other outside of school and walking home together doesn't count. But she's grasping at straws and she knows it.

It was never in the plan to get attached. It's only ever made it harder for her to leave.

For all that he loves to tell her stories, Killian's never said much about his family so she's a little surprised when his brother stops her one day as she's headed to the drug store. She's less surprised when he tells her to stay away from Killian, that his little brother doesn't need her kind of trouble in his life.

"You don't know me," she spits out, shoulders tight as she stands her ground and gets ready for a fight.

"I don't need to. My brother might have a little crush but you're just like all the other kids the Carrolls have taken in over the years. It's my job to keep Killian out of that life so I suggest that you find another route home."

"Or what?" she snarks, crossing her arms over her chest but Liam just raises an eyebrow and walks away and it makes her furious — that he thinks being Killian's brother gives him the right to boss other people around. To threaten her because it's so easy to make life even worse for the foster kid. He could tell all sorts of lies about her if he wanted, could convince the Carrolls to send her away after barely more than a month.

Emma doesn't think he would, not really. It seems pretty drastic given that her and Killian are literally just walking home together most days. But the thought still keeps her fuming for the rest of the evening and all through the next day to the point where she skips Math to meet Killian outside of his shop class, not willing to take the risk of waiting until after school, not when Liam might have gotten to him already.

"Swan!" Killian grins when he spots her through the crowd of exiting students. "I was just heading to—" he stops mid-sentence when he notices her body language — scowl, crossed arms, anxiously tapping foot — "Is everything all right?"

Emma sighs, the knot in her stomach loosening a little at his genuine concern. "I talked to your brother."

It's Killian's turn to scowl and he pushes the hair out of his face, fingers catching on the too-long locks. "What did Liam say to you?"

"He said I should find another way home. That you don't need me causing trouble in your guys' life."

He said other things too. Little crush has been playing on repeat in her mind just much as everything else but she won't think about it. Can't think about it if she wants to get through this.

"Bloody hell," Killian huffs. "He's so bloody paranoid, like the system is catching and the social worker will send me away at even the suggestion of an offense."

His frustration softens her a little and she smirks. "Well, we did meet in detention."

"Aye, after you punched me in the face and I mouthed off to Litner when Scarlet somehow got away scot-free."

Emma's eyes go wide. She hadn't known that was why he was there that day, had never thought to ask. But it's not… it's not what she came to say and she takes a deep breath before turning the conversation back on track.

"I just… I wanted to say that I get it. If you decide you need to stop hanging out with me, I mean." She blurts the last words out in a rush and her gaze falls down to her shoes and the scuff marks on the floor when he furrows his brow at her, confused.

"I'd never—" Killian stops and she doesn't need to see his face to know he's pushing the hair out of his eyes again. "I know what it's like to be on edge and angry all the time when life's not fair. I'd never hold that against you. And Liam shouldn't either."

Emma's head snaps up and she stares at him, mouth hanging open, until her body catches up to the rest of her and then she's crossing the hall and pulling his face towards her and it's… well, it's awkward, mostly. She's never really kissed anyone before and Killian seems more surprised than happy about the whole thing so she ends it abruptly and retreats, keeping her eyes glued to the floor again, her hands shoved in her pockets.

"Sorry," she says, trying not to think about how he smells like sawdust. "That probably wasn't any good. I don't know if you—"

"I thought it was good," he interrupts and Emma blushes, chancing a look up at him.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Killian starts to grin but then seems to catch himself and looks away as he scratches behind his ear. He's red too, she realizes, and the knowledge makes her bite her lip.

"Could we, ah, could we do it again maybe?"

"Maybe," she teases.

Killian smiles at her and she smiles back and it feels like they stay that way for an absurdly long time, just grinning at each other like idiots. So long, in fact, that when the bell goes again to make them officially late to class she starts laughing and then they're idiots who are laughing at each other, or with each other, or whatever, and it's so stupid but Emma's not sure she's ever felt so happy.

They're not dating. Because dating means going on dates and neither one of them have the money for that. Dating also means actually having a boyfriend and usually when Emma thinks she has something is exactly when it gets taken away. No, there's nothing official about them and Killian (mostly) humours her and the arbitrary line she's drawn.

Their relationship pretty much just consists of a lot of movie marathons. Well, movie marathons and making out. There's a lot of that too. They spend nearly every spare minute together over the summer, in and around Killian's days at the hardware store and Emma's summer school and her twice-a-week shift at the icecream shop.

(Ingrid Fisher pays her under the table and sends a letter home with her the first day telling the Carrolls that it's an unpaid internship, not an actual job. Emma doesn't know who would ever intern at an icecream shop, but if the Carrolls don't know she's getting paid then they can't demand money from her on top of what they already receive from the government. And she likes Any Given Sundae. Likes her boss, likes her co-workers, likes the free icecream that she brings over to Killian's at the end of every week, testing out Ingrid's new flavours.)

Emma finds out very quickly that Killian's hands do not ever stop moving. If he's not tapping out a rhythm on whatever surface is available (usually her leg) then he's doodling nonsense in her textbooks, on the table, on her arm, anywhere he can. He's always got a pen or a sharpie on him and Emma takes to wearing long sleeves even in the July heat after Mrs. Carroll makes her scrub off the pirate ship he drew on the inside of her forearm before letting her eat dinner one night.

Not that she spends much time with the Carrolls if she can help it. They're not the worst foster family she's ever had but they're not great either. Really, the best part of living with them is that they mostly stay out of her way so long as she stays out of theirs. And with Killian having the apartment to himself while his brother pulls double-shifts at Beer Works, well — she's got a lot of reasons to stay out of their way.

"We should make a bet," Killian announces one day out of the blue. They're lying tangled together on his futon couch watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail and it's so hot and humid that they're basically stuck together. Emma would kill to be anywhere with air conditioning but Killian's tracing idle patterns on her back through her tank top and she's not sure she has it in her to get up.

"What sort of bet?" she asks, lifting her head to look at him.

"If you're still here in September, we should go on a date." He smoothes the little furrow between her brows with his thumb and drops the casual pretense he'd opened with. "That's why you don't want to, right? You're afraid you'll be sent away?"

Emma frowns. "I don't really see how that's a bet," she deflects. "What, you win we go on a date but I win by… leaving?"

"It's a bet against the universe," he says, flicking his wrist as if the one bedroom apartment he shares with his brother is somehow a suitable stand-in for the cosmos. "We win by going on a date — a real, official one — together."

"I haven't had very good luck betting against the universe," she mutters. "Murphy's Law has kind of got it out for me."

"We can just make it a deal then, not a bet."

Emma sighs and pushes herself up onto an elbow. "Killian, I've never stayed six months anywhere, let alone longer."

"It's gonna work out, Swan," he assures her. "The Carrolls will keep you around, we'll graduate together, and our biggest fight will be over going to prom or getting a head start on the after parties."

She snorts — neither one of them could afford prom even if they did want to go — and Killian flashes a grin and a wink at her.

"Let me take you dinner in September, Emma."

She presses her lips together as she looks down at him. It's a lot of trust he's asking her to have in something that's never worked out before but… she wants to. Wants to try, at least.

"Okay, fine. But only after the first day of school."

Killian's face goes from patient and hopeful to beaming in less than a second and he squeezes out from under her, nearly falling off the couch in his rush to flip their positions.

"Excellent," he declares, righting himself and looming overtop of her. "Now, how do you think we should seal the deal?"

Emma laughs and cups the back of his neck to bring his face down to hers. "I've got a few ideas."

August comes and goes and while Emma eyes the calendar with suspicion she wakes up on the first day of school still with the Carrolls and still registered at Lowell High. She's been an anxious wreck the last few weeks as she waited for the other shoe to drop, but somehow, despite her horrendous track record, she's made it.

They've made it, she corrects, squeezing Killian's hand before he drops hers to hold the main door open for her. He's practically bouncing on his feet as he follows her inside and she knows that his excitement has nothing to do with finding out his schedule or teachers.

"So, Friday night?"

Emma breathes out a laugh and shakes her head. She never really thought they'd make it here, never let herself think about it. But now…

"Yeah, Friday sounds good."

He kisses her on the cheek before heading off to homeroom and after a month of not letting herself get lost in daydreams, a date with Killian is suddenly all she can think about. With school starting mid-week, Friday is only two days away and his excitement must be contagious because she's suddenly, inexplicably giddy.

A date. An actual, honest-to-god date. Emma wonders what he's got planned — he's been waiting long enough, he must have something up his sleeve. Killian talks a good game around most people but he's a sap at heart and she can picture him wanting to check off all the clichés. Buying her flowers, pulling her chair out for her at dinner, complimenting her on —

Shit. What is she going to wear?

Her drawer of clothes is all goodwill and hand-me-downs and nearly everything is either too big or too ill-fitting. Her jeans have all got holes and rips in various sizes, she's not sure she's ever owned a top that could be called nice, and she's just… she's screwed, basically.

In the end, Emma does the only thing she can think of. Friday afternoon she throws herself on the mercy and generous nature of the only other person in Lowell she can reasonably call a friend — Elsa, her co-worker at the icecream shop and their boss' niece.

Elsa's more than happy to let her come over after school and try on stuff to borrow for her date. There are an abundance of blue dresses in her closet and the first one Emma puts on makes Elsa clap her hands together and sigh wistfully but she feels like she's trespassing in someone else's skin. She doesn't see Emma when she twirls in the mirror, no matter how pretty she looks.

She winds up choosing a simple, dark blue denim skirt and a light blue tank top with sequined lace trim on the bottom and along the neckline. She spends the next hour chatting with Elsa and taking turns doing the other's hair and nails. By the time Elsa pushes her out the door so that she can make it back to the Carrolls' before Killian gets there Emma's just about ready to believe that it's actually happening, that this is actually something she gets to have.

It's a nice thought, until it isn't. Until she rounds the corner and sees a Child Protective Services van parked outside the Carrolls' brick row house. Her stuff is oh-so-conveniently already packed up for her, apparently, and neither the Carrolls nor the social worker will give her any answers to why. She's been good. Stayed out of trouble, passed her summer school classes, not ran away or gotten into fights or mouthed off almost at all.

Emma keeps her head down and her arms crossed as the social worker introduces himself and explains that she's being moved to a group home just outside Boston and that there's already a bed set up for her so they need to get a move on if they're going to make it there before lights out. She climbs into the back seat without a word and normally she'd be angry but she's just… defeated. She should have expected something like this, should never have let herself hope that she could hold onto something for the first time in… in ever.

The van reverses and turns to head towards Merrimack Street but they slam on the brakes suddenly and Emma nearly jumps out of her seat when Killian comes around the side of the van and starts pounding on the glass with the flat of his hand. He's pleading for them to just wait, damn it and she rolls down her window, trying to keep her lip from trembling, to keep from crying over how upset he is.

She never should have let herself get attached.

"You look really pretty," he blurts out and she can see that he's dressed up a bit too, wearing his nicest pants and one of his brother's too-large dress shirts, his usually messy hair neatly combed and tamed.

"Thanks," she manages. "You should tell Elsa you thought so since she's probably not getting her clothes back now."

His face breaks and she looks away quickly down at her hands. He's just as upset as she is and seeing it only makes everything worse. Her fingers fidget with the lace edging on the bottom of her top and she opens her mouth to apologize but he beats her to it.

"I'm sorry."

"Please don't," she croaks, swiping at her cheek and the tear tracks that have made their way down to her chin.

Killian bites his lip and any minute now they're going to drive away, she's surprised they've been given even this long with the way her social worker is glaring at them. Her breath backs up in her chest and she can feel herself start to fall apart because it's not going to last, it's not going to —

"Give me your hand."

Emma stares at him for a solid second. "What?"

"Give me your hand, Swan," he insists.

She twists to stick her left arm partway out the window and he pulls a sharpie from his back pocket, immediately setting about drawing the looping petals of a flower on the inside of her wrist.

"Too cheap to buy roses, Jones?" she cracks. Her voice cracks too though, and only the corner of his mouth twitches in response.

"It's a forget-me-not," he explains, squeezing her fingers once he's finished. "Just… okay?"

Emma nods through her tears and hurries to undo her seatbelt, leaning out the window and reaching for him. He meets her halfway and she sucks on his lip until his mouth opens to hers and she can't stand the thought of not ever kissing him again so she squeezes her eyes shut, digs her fingers into his jaw even as the social worker leans on the horn and the van lurches forward a touch.

"I'm not saying goodbye," he breathes, stepping back.

"Me neither."

But she knows… they can not say goodbye all they like, it doesn't change the fact that it is. And it doesn't make it any easier for her to stop crying, or make her feel any better when Killian stays standing in the middle of the road and watches her leave.

Eleven years later.

Emma texts a quick reply to David and slips her phone back into her clutch. Her boss' brother had been incredulous to learn that she'd planned a set-up for the night of her birthday and had insisted on coming along as back-up despite the fact that a) she doesn't need it and b) he has a very pregnant wife waiting for him at home. How the Nolan brothers are even related, let alone twins, has baffled her since the moment she met them. James is an ass who boasts about not being the kind of boss to sit behind a desk all day even as he leaves her to do all the grunt work. David, on the other hand, is kind and respectful and consistently goes out of his way to help her out even though he's got enough on his plate with his actual job with Boston PD and a baby on the way.

They're both hard-headed though, she thinks, checking her make-up one last time in the mirror. Probably why they get along so terribly.

Not that she's not grateful for David's help. Without his and Mary Margaret's friendship she probably would have left Boston months ago. But valuing their friendship and knowing what to do with it are two entirely different things. Ten years out of the system and she's still not used to the idea that she doesn't have to leave, still doesn't really know how to have friends.

Which is part of the reason why she'd planned on working on her birthday, she muses, glancing over at the cupcake sitting next to her. Emma tucks it underneath the seat for safekeeping and gets out of the car, grabbing her wheel clamp from the trunk and crossing the street. She'd seen the guy — Ryan Lawrence — head into the bar a few minutes ago and knew that David had eyes on him. Walking over to his car, — how this douche bag's BMW didn't get put up as collateral for bail is beyond her — she slides the clamp on the rear driver's side tire and locks it in place.

Matilda's, the bar he'd chosen to meet at, opened up just a few weeks ago. She knows because her apartment is four blocks away and she'd gotten multiple advertisements for its' grand opening in the mail. Despite its proximity she's never actually been and stepping inside she can see why a guy like Ryan picked it for a first date. The bar's previous incarnation had been a dump but now it's all craft brews, exposed brick, leather booths, and reclaimed wood. The place practically oozes with carefully constructed atmosphere.

Emma spots David sipping a beer near the entrance and he catches her eye before letting his gaze slide down the bar over to where her bail skip sits waiting in a corner booth. Which means it's show time, she guesses. Throwing her hair back over her shoulder she checks her posture before making her way over, walking carefully across the hardwood floor in her heels.

Ryan stands to greet her and Emma gives him her well-practiced I-hope-you-like-me handshake before sitting down across from him. Thanks to the internet, she's pretty much perfected the art of the fake date over the past couple of years. Real dates… not so much. Despite Mary Margaret's best attempts, she hasn't agreed to a second date with a guy in years. Hell, her most successful relationship was back in high school and it wasn't really a relationship at all, just two teenagers messing around until she got moved to a group home.

She'd been so stupid back then, not calling it what it was. Wasting what little time they had thinking that it would somehow give them more of it, or make it easier when she had to leave. Not dating Killian hadn't done either of those things. If anything, it had made her leaving even worse.

Emma traces the lines of the flower tattooed on her wrist with her thumb and puts a smile on while Ryan gives their drink order to the red-headed waitress that comes by. Once she's gone, he immediately launches back into talking about himself and Emma's barely been in the booth for five minutes but already she's sick of hearing him boast about his own success.

As if embezzling from your company, not showing up for your court date, and cheating on your wife are the markers of a true catch.

He runs when she calls him out on it. Most of them do. Nobody who skips town before their trial is just going to politely sit still and let her take them back to jail. But Emma's out of the booth just as fast as he is and she's closer to the exit so it's easy enough to block his escape. The swing he takes at her is too wide by half and simple to dodge but it's still the stupidest move he could have made. He's not lacking in confidence despite the miss which leaves her even more of an opening than she needs to grab him by the shoulder and land a swift knee to the groin. She knows before coming around behind her doubled-over mark that David is already up and heading towards them but in her peripheral vision she notices someone else approaching and instinct has her fist connecting with his face the moment he gets close enough.

"Ow! Shit! Bloody hell, love, do you punch everyone who comes to your aid?"

She recognizes his voice before she does him and the shock of it hits her like a blow to the chest, almost making her let go of the arm she's got pinned behind her skip's back. Emma feels like she's fallen back in time, like it's not real, because what are the chances that the only guy she kind of dated back in high school would be here? That they would run into each other again in almost the exact same circumstances. That…

Shit, she just punched him in the face.

Emma stares, half in horror and half in stunned stupefaction as Killian turns his head to the side and presses a hand to his eye.

"Just you, apparently," she finally answers.

He frowns and tilts his head like he's trying to place her and she looks away, embarrassed but not totally surprised at not being recognized. They only knew each other for a few months, after all, and it was over ten years ago now.

Still, she's glad for the distraction when David takes a cursing Ryan from her hold, snapping the cuffs on his wrists and starting to lead him away. That would normally be her cue to leave too but Emma stays stuck to the spot, twisting her hands together and trying to figure out how to introduce herself without sounding like an idiot.

He looks good, she thinks. Quickly blooming black eye and all. But then, Killian looked good when he was a lanky, under-fed teenager wearing his brother's hand-me-downs and in constant need of a haircut. It's not really a surprise that he grew into his looks — or the facial hair that he'd been so determined to grow at sixteen.

"Emma?" David prods, waiting for her with her mark. "You good to go?"

"Emma?"

She turns back to Killian at the sound of her name on his lips, not sure what she's hoping for, exactly, other than maybe a hint of recognition.

(God, it's like he's a ghost. Is it possible to be haunted by someone when they're standing right in front of you?)

Then his eyes land on hers and everything else falls away.

"Swan."