It's been a few days shy of a year. Keeping track is easier than expected; blatantly reading newspapers over people's shoulders, hours spent watching the news in airports despite never having a ticket, seasons changing without the need to bundle against the chill in the air. As the days pass she ponders ceasing count, but each one feels like an anchor, something to hold on to as eternity threatens to swallow her whole.
The first few months she wandered in places she knew, the diner on the corner that served the strongest coffee at 3am when she had been on a job, the laundromat on 5th with the loud Greek family fighting and laughing from behind and on top of the counter, the lonely bench near the fountain just long enough to sleep on for a few hours, all pieces of a life she never thought would be possible to miss.
But she does.
In an ironic twist of fate, even in death she had found herself alone. Never giving much thought to God or an afterlife, she had been wholly unprepared for whatever this is, this seemingly endless and useless non-existence. There was a time she had sought out churches, hoping other lost souls would seek refuge there as well, spent hours and days waiting for nothing and no one. Hope was dwindling, her will to keep searching almost at its end when she got an idea and hopped on a bus to New York City. In a city of over 8 million living people, the number of the dead walking the streets had to be higher, at least she hoped.
But now, 7 months in this useless city, she's done searching. She's done with all of it. Having not moved for the past 4 days on the corner of 5th Avenue and Broadway, countless people passing through her without notice, she ponders the idea of hell and if maybe she's found herself there. Then she sees him and he, well, he sees her, too.
/
Time has ceased all meaning, years, decades, all just markers for the living, not for him, not anymore. He had expected to find death a comfort, maybe a joining with all those he had lost, a second chance or a third. But, naturally, even in death he somehow managed a form of survival. Walking amongst the living, he felt immortal and forever untouchable, irrevocably disconnected and forsaken until the end of time or longer, knowing his luck. At first, being unseen proved to be a balm to his broken soul, no longer having to deny his sorrow or mask his anger, raging at the masses with clenched fists and words laced with fury. Bellowing to all who could not hear until the ache in his heart lessened, the knowledge that they were all forever lost, never to be his again, anger eventually shifting to hope for a more content afterlife for them all even if he was doomed.
New York has been a refuge, a constant stream of people and culture, his own personal playground to witness all facets of human behavior unfold without need for his participation. Forever wandering, a voyeur, an anthropologist of sorts, he maps the mysteries of what it means to be human, what it could have meant for him if he had ever tried to truly live. Even at dawn, the city is alight with activity. From his perch on the low roof of the bakery, his gaze falls to the window with the mother rocking her baby, tiny hands clutching at her collar in search of her breast, his tiny mouth seeking nourishment and comfort. Sounds in the alley below draw his attention to a couple, stumbling and crashing against the brick wall, hands clumsily searching for pleasure only a night of recklessness can provide. Closing his eyes, he leans back against the chimney as the hollow ache, his constant companion, gapes a bit wider as thoughts of things he will never have again invade his only pastime. He doesn't sleep, or dream, as those are for the mortal, just waits until curiosity outweighs his pain and he can resume his perusal of the world he is destined to haunt.
Seeking a new vantage point, he moves through the throngs of the well-tailored working class, a vast sea of cell phones, technology having succeeded in creating yet another barrier of real human connection. If they only knew what was ahead for them, would they power down, open their eyes? Stopping on the corner, he watches as they pass, wishing he could reach out and shake them into consciousness, show them the world they are missing. But then he sees her, and well, she sees him, too.
/
If she still had a beating heart, she assumes it would be racing as she sees his eyes widen, the people around them merely background noise as she stares back, unable to move or speak, too afraid her voice might be gone after months of disuse. If she found words, would he even be able to hear, and if he did, would he listen? What would she say? In life, she had been a master of never giving anyone the chance to leave her, letting people in not her style, being alone always the better choice. So now, face to face with someone who may just be her salvation, she's frozen in place, unprepared and yearning for him to have the answers.
/
She's a vision. Must be a bloody trick, his mind conjuring her up out of desperation, because the way her eyes seem to be actually seeing him simply cannot bear truth. It's been too long; he's been the only one. Why now? If she's real then there must be others, but where have they been? What could possibly be so special about her? He closes his eyes and counts to ten, by the time he reaches nine his hopes that she will still be there so strong he's almost afraid to crack his lids to find out. Let her be a hallucination, he doesn't bloody care if he means he doesn't have to spend another minute alone.
/
She sees him close his eyes and she almost smiles, assuming he must be going through similar emotions as she, deciding whether to trust what he sees as more than an apparition. When he looks back over, he does smile, wide and bright, as if he's challenging her to reciprocate but somehow knowing she won't. He moves towards her, cautiously but with purpose, paying no mind to the people in his path as if he doesn't even see them at all. Stopping about a foot away, he looks her up and down, his perusal not unlike others she's endured in her life, but different somehow, perhaps because for once she wants to be seen.
"Are you real, lass? If you're not, please do me the favor of lying, as the truth may be more than I can bear."
A sob threatens to wrench from her throat at his words, joy and sadness mingling together hearing his voice, his words meant for her and her alone. Unsure if any sound will come out, she forces herself to try and speak, hoping she still remembers how.
"Real, but what that means, I'm not entirely sure anymore."
/
If he believed in magic, he would swear that she possesses it, for the world around him feels forever changed as her words meet his ears. It's as if an hourglass has been flipped and the sand that had run out now has a new path, starting things anew, a beginning instead of an end. Wondering if she senses it as well, he ventures a step closer, both afraid and excited to see if the ability to touch her will be a part of this new reality.
"I must admit, you are quite the sight for sore eyes. I'd given up hope…"
"So you've been alone, too? How long?"
"Stopped counting long ago, love. You?"
"A year, well almost..."
He finds himself feeling thankful that she hasn't be suffering as long as he, the years of torment he's endured not something he's wish upon an enemy, much less a beautiful woman such as this. At this short distance he sees that her eyes are green, flecks of gold dancing amidst the jade like sunlight breaking through a lush forest, her flaxen hair the only thing brighter. Swearing he sees her cheeks redden at his perusal, he reaches his fingers towards her, needing to know if he will be able to feel the softness of her curls against his skin.
/
His eyes are too blue, his jawline too sharp, his hair too thick and unruly for him to be real. The more he speaks, the more convinced she is that he is merely a figment of her imagination, a dashing hero she's conjured up to save her from her melancholy. So when he reaches for her, she has to step back, unwilling to have him pass through her like the rest and crack the façade of her fantasy. It will break her, He will break her. She can't, not yet, she needs more time.
"Don't…I mean, I don't even know your name."
She sees his face fall momentarily at her retreat, his hand moving back to his side, digging into the pocket of his leather jacket as if to keep from reaching out again. When he speaks, it's almost as if he's talking to himself, the deep timbre of his voice dropping almost to a whisper as his gaze falls from hers.
"It's been so long since I've spoken it aloud…"
"I'll start then. I'm Emma, Emma Swan."
A light chuckle rumbles from his chest as he looks back up, his head cocking slightly to the side as he regards her with a curve of his eyebrow and a slight smirk curling his lips.
"Swan, huh? Must say…the name suits you, love."
Ah fate, allowing her to create a companion, but making him a cocky flirt, too handsome and full of bravado. At least he's the kind of guy she's had lots of practice handling back when, well, when she was alive.
"Oh…how original. Okay, pony up, and your name is?"
"Killian, Killian Jones."
/
Seeing her recoil from his touch had stung momentarily, rejection something he had forgotten the feeling of, the pain of it stronger than he remembered coming from her for reasons he's not able to ascertain. Hope blossomed just as strongly, however, when she made an attempt to connect, showing herself in bits and pieces as she took the lead and held up to his flirtations. Despite her reluctance, he's finding that he can read her quite clearly; sensing all too keenly that the thing she fears most may be the one thing he must convince her to do.
"Killian, is that Irish, English?"
"A bit of both, my history is long and somewhat forgotten, or put away depending on the memory."
Understanding flashes behind her eyes and he's thankful for the thickness of his pockets, his fingers clinging to the leather instead of reaching for her as they are so want to do.
"I suppose our pasts don't matter much now?"
"Aye, perhaps not, considering I've had no one to speak of mine until now."
He watches as she takes a step forward on the sidewalk, motioning with her head for him to follow, which he does.
"Do you want to?"
"Not particularly, if I'm being honest, Swan. I take it you may feel the same?"
"How'd you guess?"
"You're something of an open book."
/
Stopping briefly, she turns to look over at him, the tone of his voice not quite matching his words succeeding to throw her a bit off balance.
"Am I?"
"Aye. I sense you and I may have a great deal in common. What other reason can you think of for us finding one another after all this time?"
"I'm still not convinced that we have."
"Pardon?"
Cursing herself for speaking that last statement aloud, she realizes she's revealed too much, that real or not she won't be able to hide her fears from him much longer. Perhaps it's a fool's errand to even try? Drawing out the inevitable will only hurt her more when he's gone, so she might as well get this over with and allow him to be revealed for the well crafted charade he has to be.
"I'm having trouble believing that you're really here."
"I thought we covered this already, love?"
"You asked if I was real, which I am, but I never asked the same of you."
"Ask me."
"Words make up lies, Killian. I've learned not to trust them."
He steps a bit closer to her and she freezes, the leather of his jacket mere inches from her arm, his sky blue eyes sweeping over her face as he rakes a hand through his hair, pulling lightly at the strands in apparent frustration. Heaving a small sigh, he drops his hand and locks his gaze with her, the muscle in his jaw twitching slightly as he seems to search for the right thing to say.
"Emma, I'm going to need you take a leap of faith."
"Killian, I can't…I don't want to be alone."
Just like that, everything changes. Warmth spreads from her fingertips up her arm, tingling sensation across her shoulders and through her chest like a sparkler on the 4th of July. Looking down, she sees his fingers entwined with hers, his palm rough against her skin as she clings tighter, hoping he won't mind if she never lets him go.
"You won't be, Emma, never again."