Today, of all days, she forgets her rain coat and her umbrella. It's raining buckets and hail out there, and after more than an hour of playing solitaire and checking the online news, she resigns herself to a run in the deluge.
She doesn't need to be close to the wall of windows at the police station to see that the parking lot is quickly flooding. There's about two inches of standing water, and rising, surrounding the tires of her beloved yellow Bug. She watches as a rather large spider heads for cover in the corner of one of the windows. Even the outdoor creatures don't like this weather.
Why she didn't bother checking the forecast is beyond her; it figures she'd choose this day to wear a pencil skirt and flats instead of her usual jeans and boots. She searches her disheveled desk for an old newspaper or file folder to shield her head from the elements, but it seems David has taken to recycling for her, and she grimaces.
Her stomach growls, just another reminder of why she needs to get gone now. When was the last time she ate a decent meal, anyways? The fact that she can't recall says something she's not willing to give a moment's thought to. As she's slowly gathering her things, a dark shape grabs her peripheral vision, and she whips her head to find him standing there, legs crossed at the ankles, all casual-like and watching her with a trademark smirk.
"You seem happy – no, smug – about something," she remarks as she packs her cell phone, sunglasses (no use for those at this point), empty coffee mug, and Chapstick into her bag. She says nothing else to him. There's no point; he can't stand silence, so she's in no danger of being unanswered.
She hears the smile in his voice. "Well, I happened to notice you have neither an umbrella nor a coat with you, and I couldn't help but wonder how it is that our fine sheriff was not informed of today's weather."
Since Killian Jones joined the Storybrooke Police Department last year, she's tried to be nice. She's tried hard to welcome him like the others have, tried really hard to smile at his corny jokes and god-awful pirate references (she has no idea what the deal is with his obsession). Largely, though, she's failed in her efforts. He swaggers. He smirks. He waggles his damn eyebrow (she swears it's suggestive, but he's a detective in the SCU, for christssake, and so it must just be her over-reacting). He occasionally calls her love and his other fellow officers mate. If he didn't do it all in such a disarming, genuine way, she'd have good reason to discipline his ass. Oh, and that ass, well that's another thing entirely, and it's really been too long since...
Emma shakes her head to dislodge that insidious thought, instead opting for her usual snark. "Well, I thought it would be a great day to take a shower with all my clothes on, outside, on my way home from work. Convenient and quick. Mission accomplished, it looks like. Please don't let me keep you."
His chuckle isn't surprising, but she'd meant for it to be a "get lost" message. Instead, he walks into her office and plops down in the worn office chair on the other side of her desk, throwing a whiff of leather, Irish Spring soap and what she assumes is pure Killian Jones, her way.
Irritation bubbles again to the surface. "Doesn't your shift end" – she checks her watch – "seven minutes ago?" She grabs her bag and shuts off her desk lamp, trying to be subtle-but-not-really, and what is his problem? Why is he still here? With a quiet growl, Emma heads for the door.
"Swan, wait!" She doesn't look but hears the hurried scuffing of his boots against the linoleum and rusty metal joints protesting as he rockets out of the chair, and then warm fingers wrap around her forearm and she fights the reflex to defend herself. Being proficient at Krav Maga is still the best thing she ever did for herself, but it's been so long since someone touched her. Another uninvited thought, filed away for never, and she takes a deep breath, calming her nerves and telling herself to just relax a little. But his hand is burning her skin, she thinks.
Emma pointedly stares at his fingers around her arm, then meets his blue eyes, and then goes back down to his fingers. It has the desired effect, and Killian releases his hold on her with a clearing of his throat and a nervous scratch behind his now-reddened ear. She takes the split second to study him, and realizes that this really wasn't the desired effect – she makes him nervous, and now he's very likely regretting whatever it is that made him lag behind.
She sighs, a habit meant to interrupt her brain's self-destruct countdown (likely yet another off-putting thing), and lightly rests her fingers on his arm to get his attention. "What is it?" Even she is surprised by the gentleness in her tone.
He looks at her, suddenly puppy dog eyes turn into bottomless blue, and she immediately regrets even stopping. This whiplash happens to her a lot around him, which only makes her angrier in his presence. Not that that's very fair to him, but still. There it is.
"Ah, I just was hoping you would be so kind as to give me a lift to the bus stop." He scratches his scruff, and it's distracting. "I rode my bike here this morning, and, well…"
"Oh, so I wasn't the only one who ignored the forecast, huh." She can't resist teasing him a little. And sure, he's ridden home in the rain plenty of times, but there's hail involved tonight, so she smiles. She should do this. "Sure. Not a problem." He answers her smile with one of his own.
On the count of three, the two of them burst out of the station, but it's silly because he stops short to get the leather satchel and helmet off his Harley, and she has to unlock her car door with her key and the damned thing is jammed again. The rain and hail sting her skin through her now-soaked shirt, and then labored breaths behind her signal his presence, and she drops hey keys into the lake at her feet.
"Shit!" She curses for a few reasons, bending in a sharp movement that matches Killian's, and their heads collide. Emma starts to fall backwards, cursing this storm, the lump she's going to have on her cheek, and what will be a really uncomfortable ride home with a wet ass, when rough hands grab her elbows. He's squinting in the rain (and probably in pain, given the redness on his temple), and the hail keeps pelting them, but he steadies and helps her up before reaching down for the keys.
"You all right, Swan?" She nods. What was the question, again?
Rushing is moot now, but Killian deftly opens her door and then sloshes around to the passenger side, tossing her the keys before throwing his messenger bag and helmet into her trunk. Emma is shivering behind the wheel, her hands sandwiched between her legs, willing the car's heat to get going already when his door slams heavily and her little car gets abruptly smaller.
He's panting from his exertion and from the cold, and Emma reaches across to point the heat vents on him. She does it all the time for Henry, so it's a habit, but Emma catches herself halfway back to her spot behind the wheel and cringes with her own sudden discomfort. It's just Killian.
"Thanks, Swan." His voice is low and quiet, and if the car weren't so claustrophobic, she'd laugh at him. Instead, she nods and turns the wipers on full blast.
"Welcome." She glances back to the motorcycle. "I hope your bike won't be ruined." He chuckles and shakes his head, and she feels a bit like an idiot for saying it.
"Oh, she's been in rougher seas than this, love. Besides, a dent here or a scratch there adds character, I think." His eyes are too clear, too focused on her, and she turns away again to turn on the headlights and get them to the damn bus station already. "I'm far more concerned about your cheek. Did I do that?"
Injury momentarily forgotten, Emma touches her cheek and winces. Yup, swollen already. His temple looks pretty nasty, too. What a pair. She maneuvers the bug out of the lot-lake and eases her car onto the main road, keeping her speed down.
"It was my fault. Are you okay?" He dismisses her concern with a wave of his hand, and then his fingers are on her cheek, and what the hell did her stomach just jump into her throat for? She keeps her eyes on the road in front of her, thankful for a reason not to look at him. When she winces, he withdraws.
"It's okay," she says. "Nothing a bag of frozen peas won't fix." It hurts when she smiles, but that's exactly what she plans to do when she gets home – plus a glass of wine, some cheese and crackers, and her fuzziest slipper socks.
"Sorry to delay your quiet evening in with vegetables," he says quietly, but she hears the humor he's trying to convey. She shrugs as they pull into the bus terminal.
"I'll wait here. Go check the schedule." Killian nods and with a lopsided smile, ducks out of her car and into the rain again. She watches him jog into the old building, getting soaked again in the process. She holds her hands up in front of the heat vents while she waits, wiggles her wet toes inside her shoes, craving the warmth of wool socks, her fleece throw and the wood stove in her living room.
The passenger door opens again, and Emma shields herself from the elements as Killian flops into the seat. He shivers in his wet leather jacket, then cups his hands and blows into them.
"Next bus is at midnight. I'll just wait here, Swan." She glances at her phone – it's 9:35. Emma looks at him, the hail still pelting her car and every other surface, then looks past him into the dimly lit terminal, and makes a decision.
"You're soaked. And that's too long to sit with the, how do you say it, vagrants." A chunk of his dark, wet hair flops into his eyes when she says it, making him look impossibly adorable, and she did not just use that term in conjunction with Killian Jones. Damnit. "Why don't you spend the time waiting at my place? It's a few blocks from here. I have wood."
He squints at her. "Wood, Swan? Apologies, but how would that help me in my current condition?"
She laughs aloud. "Sorry – I have a wood stove. And blankets. And libations."
The seconds that pass before he reacts stretch out to infinity, but then he grins his ridiculous grin and Emma knows he's on-board. "Sounds like a much better prospect. Thanks, Swan." They drive the distance to her house in silence, and when she pulls the bug into the driveway, her mind races over the current state of her house. Did she clean those dishes in the sink this morning? Remember to put on a new roll of toilet paper? Clean the mail off the entryway floor?
Nope. Who's she kidding?
The hail's stopped, but it's still pouring as Emma pushes her front door open, kicking aside the mail as she goes. As she frees her key from the deadbolt, she takes a deep breath. There is no reason to be weird around Killian, and her hands are absolutely not shaking.
"Come on in and make yourself comfortable." The two of them stand in her entryway, dripping onto the small Oriental she found at a garage sale two years ago, and she realizes she can't stay in her wet clothes. Killian looks particularly miserable. Leather really is no substitute for a raincoat. Emma grimaces and steps closer to him, grabbing the lapels of his jacket.
"Here, take this off. You must be freezing." As soon as she invades his personal space, Emma realizes she's made a mistake again. These gestures of familiarity work with Henry – though he's getting to the age where it embarrasses him – but not with someone like Killian. She gets another whiff of leather and soap, and promptly steps back.
Killian, to his credit, does not show any discomfort, and shrugs out of his coat. He holds it in the space between them, a question on his face. Emma takes it and runs it into the spare bathroom off the living room, draping it over the tub and using a towel to dry it off. She returns and he's still standing in place, a small puddle under his feet.
"Okay, let me run upstairs to get out of these wet things, and I'll see what I have for you, okay?" Before he can answer, Emma's bounding up the stairs and throwing her closet door open. She strips right there, leaving her clothes in a sodden pile, and pulls on leggings, wool socks, and her favorite big sweater. She arranges her wet hair into a messy bun, and then runs across the hall to Henry's room. She stands on her toes and grabs a small unmarked box at the top of her son's closet. After Neal died, she put a few of his things in here – things she just couldn't throw away at the time – and she's pleasantly surprised to see that his college sweatpants and sweatshirt might fit Killian. With her prize in-hand, Emma returns to her houseguest.
"Here. I have these. They might not fit perfectly, but they're dry and-"
"Thanks, Swan. They'll do just fine." His fingers brush hers as he takes the clothing, and Emma ignores the heat she feels on her neck and ears and shows him to the bathroom to change. While he's in there, she checks the wood-burning stove, happy to find warm embers from this morning. She adds more wood and lights a new fire. She's in the kitchen when he finds her opening a bottle of red.
"I always figured you for a spirits kind of woman," he says, looking completely out-of-place wearing something other than denim and animal skin. Emma smiles.
"I am, but we have to get you back to the bus station later, and rum is not a good idea tonight." Killian comes to stand next to her, taking the proffered wine glasses, and following her into the living room. She plops down on the couch with two bags of frozen veggies – peas for her, carrots for him – and they trade and sit back. Emma sips her wine and sighs as she holds the peas to her cheek, content to just be. Neither of them speaks.
"Maybe next time, then?" Killian's voice is barely audible over the crackling of the fire, but she jumps. He's been so quiet, just sitting a foot from her on the couch, but even in the silence and with the peas blocking her view of him, her own body feels heavy with his presence.
"Hmm?" Emma can't help it. She plays dumb to his question.
"I'll bring the rum." His voice lowers an octave or two. She must be imagining things. But then warm, slightly calloused fingers touch hers, lowering her pea-wall. It's much easier not to look at him. Those ocean-eyes of his see too much in hers. Emma turns to him, heart hammering. Damn Killian Jones and his eyes that see too much and his simple words that mean so much more than she can handle. She meets his gaze.
He looks at her like he's reading a book – a great adventure novel, with swashbuckling heroes, vile villains, sacrifice, saving the day, and true love. He's devouring her pages as she sits there, unable to stop him. With each turn, she's bearing her secrets to him. It's not against her will. Oh, no. But it's entirely foreign and completely disconcerting. She blinks, he clears his throat, and the spell is broken.
She bites her lip as she regards the wannabe pirate sitting on her couch wearing ratty NYU sweats, sipping wine and watching her like she might run out the door, weather be damned. Maybe it's the warmth, the wine, and the company, but an adventure sounds like the very thing she needs in her life.
Emma realizes she still hasn't replied.
"Well, I don't pillage and plunder on the first date, just so you know." She wonders if he'll get the joke, hopes she hasn't shown her hand too soon.
But Killian laughs, a rich, deep sound that warms the blood in her veins.
"Well, that's because you haven't been out with me, yet."