Emma sat just one light shy of making the last left-hand turn on her morning route, tapping her fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. It was one thing to be stuck in morning traffic, but to be trapped at a standstill less than half a mile from work? It was torture.
Another two commercials came and went on her radio, and she still hadn't moved. She'd switched from tapping to quiet grumbling, wishing the guy on the motorcycle in front of her had just run the yellow like he was supposed to. All her life, people had told her to watch out for men on the two-wheeled death traps (their words, not hers) and now, as much as she hated to begrudge her former foster families anything, she could see the living proof. Emma found herself directing all her focus onto the light hanging up above the intersection as her engine idled, brow furrowing further as she willed it to turn green. She breathed a sigh of relief as it finally, finally turned, and pressed on the gas as patiently as she could.
Looking back on it now, Emma thinks, she probably should have checked to see if he was out of her way first.
"Did I mention I was sorry?"
Emma sits against the wall of the hospital room, staring anywhere except for in his direction. She knows the apology doesn't exactly sound sincere, but she's doing her best, considering the circumstances.
"Aye, but I've yet to hear you mean it, love." His voice is equal parts amusement and annoying, and it's the flat chuckle at the end of his sentence that finally makes her look up. The idiot has his arms crossed (or he's trying at least, given the bulky cast he's sporting from the elbow down) in a mirror of her, his expression unfixed, and suddenly she finds herself missing the annoying desk mate who never shuts up.
"Look, Jones, if you had just gone when the light turned green, we wouldn't be in here. I don't know what else you want from me."
"That's a rather defensive tone coming from the woman who mowed me down," he says back, eyebrow engaged and amusement waning. "Your license to kill doesn't include vehicular manslaughter, you know."
She laughs humorlessly, then pushes herself off the wall, trying his annoying habit of invading personal space to let him see how he likes it. (Maybe she bumps the bed, too, just to see him wince in pain.) "We are both missing work because of this, Detective," she seethes, fighting to keep the corner of her mouth from tilting up at the sudden wide-eyed look he was giving her. "And if you won't sit here and accept my apology before your fan club shows up, then it's no skin off my ass. I'm sorry, it was an accident, goodbye."
Emma makes it halfway out the door before she catches the tail end of something he's muttered low and under his breath. Something in her is screaming for her to leave now, before she can give him a chance to get under her skin again, but her feet have already stopped, her hair is already swishing behind her shoulders as she swivels to look at him again.
"What was that?" She demands.
"Nobody's coming for me, love," he tells her, meeting her stare head-on. "I said thank you for the visit."
At first he seems surprised to have said it to her (though not nearly as surprised as she is to hear it) but then his face becomes something softer, almost relieved and defeated all at once. She doesn't know what that'ssupposed to mean, but the memory of her bumper crunching into his back tire and sending him sprawling to the ground comes is taking up too much of her focus for her to linger on it.
"What do you mean nobody's coming?"
"There's nobody for the hospital to call. If it weren't for you here, it would've been me and this charming gentleman right here," he tells her, gesturing at the sleeping man across the room.
Emma understands the surprise on his face when the silence starts growing between them again. He thought she knew, somehow, that he didn't have any family to come for him.
And she wants to ask him why he expects that much from her - how she's supposed to know that much about him when he only ever comes over to her desk to bother her. With him it's always cheeky smiles and stolen pens, leaning too close to her and flicking a single piece of her hair over her shoulder when he thinks she isn't looking. It's always still here, Swan? and take a break, Swan! and see you bright and early, Swan, unless you'd like a ride home. On special occasions, when he's having a particularly good day, she gets a wink across their conjoined desk space and has to kick him to shove his foot away from hers. (On particularly good days of hers, she smiles and gives him a moment before drawing her feet away.) They know each other, but not like this, and all of a sudden the room feels too small for her to be in with him.
She's all the way across the room from him, but she can still see the emotions changing in his eyes when she looks back up at him again. The tips of his ears have flushed pink, he's scratching the side of his neck with his good hand and everything about the scene suggests that he'd be the one leaving if he had the choice. Now's the time for her to make her exit if ever there was one.
Except — except she understands this, too. She knows despite all his bravado, despite his innuendos and despite the fact that this whole accident really is his fault, that the last thing he wants is to be left alone in this hospital room.
It takes nearly all the boldness she has left in her, but Emma takes a few tentative steps back toward his hospital bed, dutifully ignoring the new surprise etched onto his face.
"I'm sorry," she says, meaning it this time. It only brings a ghost of a smile to his face, but it's something, and when she leans against the bed again she takes care not to jostle his body or his arm.
She doesn't know how it happens, but the visit intended to rid Emma of her guilt lasts much longer than she meant it to. Somewhere between her second cup of ("bloody terrible, worse than the station") hospital coffee and his roommate's second visit from the nurse, his lips eventually curl up into that familiar crooked grin. His body shifts to allow her more room on the starchy hospital mattress without note as he makes the call to the sheriff and lets her know why they're both late coming in to work this morning. They both laugh a bit when his own nurse comes in (still here, Swan?) and he winks at her when the woman lets him know he can leave as soon as he's made an appointment to have his cast removed.
He collects his things as she signs him out, not envying the way he'll have to work for a few weeks until he gets control over his writing hand again. It's not much but a leather jacket and a sleek, worn satchel, but the way he looks at them they might as well be pirate's treasure. It takes five extra minutes to get him to accept the check she writes him for the damage (take it, Jones, or I'll staple it to your good hand when we get back to the station) but he does. Later on, when they get back and half the station is waiting at their desk to hear the story, she manages to make a somewhat graceful exit, ducking toward the sheriff's office with some half-muttered words about checking in and official reports. His voice follows her down the hall for a little while, but her name doesn't come up once.
She comes back, and for a moment she's sure she's accidentally walked back to the wrong desk. It wouldn't be much of a stretch, considering the morning she's had, but as she takes in the sight of her computer wallpaper and her nameplate on the top drawer of the desk, she knows she can't be wrong.
Sitting in her chair is a bouquet of flowers that are torn apart on one side and flattened on the other. She has no idea what kind of flowers they were before they sustained their damage, but the petals that survived are bright, the scent sweet and subtle from where she stands. It's only when she goes to retrieve the equally-battered envelope tucked in the side of the stems and she notices the vase is a smooth metallic thermos — one she's gotten used to seeing on the other side of her computer monitor for years now — that she realizes Killian is nowhere to be found.
Dear Emma,
It's two years working together, you and I, and while I know we've hardly gotten off on the right foot I wanted to thank you anyway. You've put up with me and had my back in the field when I needed it, and I can count the number of people who've ever done that for me on one hand. I know it may not sound like much, given the way you're scowling at me as I write this, but I want to make it up to you. Here's hoping you like forget-me-nots — I always see you doodling them on your paper. It was worth a shot.
P.S. Apologies in advance for whatever may come out of my wayward mouth today, love. It's simply hard to resist the smile that comes from you when I do.
"To be fair, Swan," a voice speaks up behind her, sounding just as hopeful as it does anxious, "those looked much nicer before you ran me over."