Author's Note:
A Vignette of the Heart will be my home for a series of one-shots surrounding Killian and Emma. All stories will take place within the same universe, but not necessarily following a given timeline. Canon will be touched on now and again as I see fit, or not at all.
"Lilacs in Spring" is a short glimpse into our Captain's heart and memories as he goes home for the day. I hope you do enjoy, as I very much enjoyed writing this piece. As always, thank you for any reviews/critiques. Enjoy! - Fara
"The true beloveds of this world are in their lover's eyes lilacs opening…"
-Truman Capote
The grocery bag swung idly from the curve of his hook as he walked, his boots beating a hurried staccato along the pavement as he headed home. The waves and wind had been kind to the Jolly Roger today as he and Henry sailed, and there was a warm feeling of contentment in each breath he took, though perhaps content was not a word possessing enough strength to describe the way he felt—in his heart he knew there wasn't one.
When he held her in his arms, it was as if the world itself simply stopped being, just so they wouldn't be disturbed. Every breath he drew when he was near her, he seemed to pull straight from her very skin, so full of her scent was each mouthful of air. There were still days when he woke and studied the lines and curves of her face, laying beside her in silent awe and barely able to touch her for fear she would vanish. In those private moments, he would wonder that he, Killian Jones—Hook—after his multitude of sins, could somehow manage to be deemed worthy by this magnificent woman. Though as much as he preferred to think of them as moments of concealed weakness, Emma could always see the trepidation in his eyes, and taking his rough face in her hands, she would remind him of how he had saved her too.
His pace quickened as the familiar sight of their home came into view, the breeze off the water carrying the faint scent of lilacs to him.
Home.
His smile widened as he climbed the few steps to their front door, the fingers on his good hand gently brushing the vibrant purple and pristine white blooms, as they always did—a small indulgence in the solidity of his world.
Home.
The door swung open and he stepped inside, greeted by the familiar scents that had become uniquely theirs. He hung his leather jacket beside Emma's, his aged with brine and the tang of metal, hers tinged with lingering notes of citrus. As he took off his boots and wandered into the kitchen, he was enveloped by the lilting bouquet of the lavender soap she used, touched with a slight edge of something distinctive. He cast his eyes about the empty room, looking for the faint note he couldn't place. His gaze landed on a new vase perched in the kitchen window, its neck cradling an assortment of roses.
The same roses from all of those years ago.
A small smile tugged at Killian's lips, blossoming into a full-blown grin as Emma rested her chin on his shoulder, her hands linked through the crook of his arm. She returned his smile warmly, sharing in the quiet moment before tucking her head against his neck, the smile never leaving her face.
A sliver of unhappiness intruded as they passed the florist's shop. Emma had slowed their pace, and she lingered, letting go of Killian's arm even as he turned to see what kept her. He watched as she stopped to finger the delicate, velvet petals on display, an indulgent, yet regretful smile adorning her face. He moved to the place he felt most comfortable, at her side, and tucked a wandering strand of hair behind her ear. He said nothing, but merely nudged the tip of his hook between her idle fingers, wanting to give her something to hold onto. His Swan was an open book to him, such as it were, and the longing on her face as she took in the colorful display of domesticity was a familiar companion of his own.
You don't bother to ornament a place that doesn't hold your heart.
The next morning, after they parted ways at the door to the Sheriff's Office, he'd walked back to the florist and lingered over the fragile blooms, picturing the lissome play of her fingers as she trimmed stems and arranged them in a vase. The parcel he acquired that day lay tucked in a much overlooked corner of the Jolly Roger for some time as he waited for the proper moment in which to surprise her.
It was a warm, clear day when he suggested they choose a different direction in which to meander, his steps gently guiding them toward a street overlooking the ocean, the view of the water so unobstructed that he'd often noticed the row of quaint houses from the deck of the Jolly Roger. As soon as they rounded the corner, her eyes caught on the crooked 'For Sale' sign before drifting to the deep blue shutters and cobblestone walk.
"Will you look at that," she muttered, her face carefully impassive as she eyed the house. "I didn't know there was anything for sale on the waterfront. Well, it certainly fits Storybrooke, doesn't it?"
"I suppose it is rather charming, Swan," he said innocently, his fingers reaching upwards to scratch behind his ear as he struggled to contain a pleased smirk.
She missed neither.
It was a few weeks later that he retrieved the parcel from his ship after an early morning moving the last of their sparse boxes. His heart filled with a sense of completeness he hadn't thought possible as he placed it on the kitchen counter before heading out for the day. When he returned home late that evening, the hours between lunch and sleep spent helping Henry complete an astronomy project, it was to the sight of his Emma draped across the couch, her golden curls spilling across the elegant sweep of her shoulders. He bent to kiss her cheek, not wanting to wake her, and noticed the small, red cuts decorating her fingers.
He lifted her hand gently, taking in the tiny nicks with a frown. It was only when he arose that he saw the crystal vase he'd left for her in the window overlooking the sea, a spray of pink roses nestled within its embrace. His footsteps echoed as he crossed the space, still empty save for a couch and a few boxes, his rough fingers trembling slightly as he brushed the delicate curve of petals, tears in his eyes.
Home.
When he woke, it was to the last moments of darkness before the sun rose; his Emma nestled alongside him on the narrow couch. He raised his fingers to the smooth expanse of her cheek, his damaged arm secure beneath her as she slept. Her eyelashes fluttered lightly as awareness came to her, green eyes full of something she couldn't speak when she met his gaze.
He didn't need her words to know how she felt, to understand that for most of her life the idea of a true home was ephemeral and not meant for someone like her—centuries and realms may have separated them, but their hearts had walked similar paths of isolation. To know that for the both of them, after all of those years wandering, they'd found a place to anchor, it was all he had hoped for and everything he'd never thought he would find.
His fingers traced down her jaw and neck, memorizing the rhythm of her pulse before finding her hand and securing it in his own. Leaning into her, their foreheads and noses met, bodies finding solace in the curves and plains of the other—like the ocean finding the earth, two pieces that were always meant to come together. When their lips found each others, the world around them did its part by disappearing entirely.
As the seasons passed, they'd slowly filled the space with their lives—Killian's leather jacket decidedly at home beside Emma's knit cap and Henry's striped scarf in the entryway. His footsteps no longer echoed across empty rooms, and the sea breeze was a constant companion as it played at the curtains Emma had lingered over, teasing free gossamer petals from the flowers that she had never stopped filling their home with.