All the admiration and love in the world for lenfaz and katie-dub for the bundle of joy that is csjanuaryjoy ! At 10k this is the longest OS I've ever written and it is also one of the stories that has been living in my head for the longest time and I was genuinely excited to get home to it for the last 3 nights. Hope you like the end result at least half as much as I love showing it to you!

A/N: Ever since Old Hook happened, I've been mourning the lack of AU fics with Emma and an older Killian so if a difference of about 15 years bothers you, this might not be your cuppa.


Just so you know, this isn't one of those… bodice ripper things. It's not a romcom script waiting to happen. It's not one of those stories. It's just Emma's life. And, if you'd asked her just a couple of years ago, she would've bet you a decent amount of cash that it wouldn't have anything resembling a happy ending.

Then again Emma has been known to be wrong. Years of expecting her parents to come back for her. That time she thought she could pickpocket Mrs Gordon. Pink highlights. That other time she convinced herself she'd made a real friend. Neal. That terrifying week when she believed she was in jail and pregnant. Four flights of stairs on crutches. That one perp who punched harder than she expected. That last slice of pizza last night.

Emma has been known to be wrong. But this one time – she might just be right.

/

This isn't one of those stories. So she doesn't (almost) run him over on her way into town. He doesn't come to her aid when she gets a flat tire. She doesn't drive into the harbor either. They are not neighbours. And they don't work together. It seems they don't frequent the same places or, if they do, not at the same time. They don't bump into each other and fall in lust-hate on sight. They don't have friends in common. Not that she has any of those to begin with but Emma's been living in Storybrooke for a week and she has been working as sheriff Graham's deputy for four days so she is cutting herself some slack – it's a new thing she is trying. It feels kinda nice.

Unlike her first meeting with Killian Jones. When she has to get him out of the Rabbit Hole because it's closing time and he refuses to leave.

/

In the days after she doesn't contemplate Killian Jones all the time. But she is not busy enough to not spare him the occasional thought. The evils of being a newbie and entrusted with nothing bigger than the occasional pub fight.

Which there wasn't. Honestly, not having tackled anyone in almost a month, Emma was almost spoiling for a little tussle. Maybe she wanted to show what she was made of. Maybe she wanted people to know she deserved her job. Maybe she was already bored of the small town squabbles.

But Killian Jones took one look at her – she thinks he eventually managed to focus her face and her badge – and looked more disappointed than anything else. He tossed some money on the bar and stumbled his way off his chair, past her and out of the bar.

Now, Emma, being the deputy meant to uphold the peace in this town, followed him. Emma, being a person who can tell when someone is just on that side of too drunk to be trusted to get himself home safely, followed him.

All she accomplished was learning where Killian Jones lives. That and how long it takes him (them) to get there in a slightly zig-zagging pattern. That and how biting the Maine air is right by the sea in the beginning of October. That and how it doesn't seem to affect Killian Jones and his wide open coat and semi-unbuttoned shirt. That and how his shoulders hunch (permanently or just when he is more than a little pissed) against the cruel winds.

It was one of the single strangest experiences of her life. The guy managed to not utter a single word. On a 25-minute walk. He didn't ask why she was following him. He didn't complain. He didn't apologize for dragging her out in the cold. He didn't tell her to go to hell. He didn't hit on her. She was pretty sure he only looked at her once, when he was about to climb the four steps to his tiny cottage.

It was… Well, it nagged at her. It probably wouldn't have, Emma tells herself, if only she had something else to occupy her.

But she doesn't. So instead Emma makes a semi-educated guess that a guy whose name came out of the bartender's mouth with a mix of disdain and old habit would have some of his personal information easily available to a police officer.

48. He is younger than the +20 on top of her own 32 years that she gave him. She chalks it up to the shaggy beard and greying hair.

1.80. Taller than she assumed.

4 misdemeanors. Less than she would have guessed.

Irish. No relatives. No emergency contact.

She doesn't want to abuse her power and dig any further.

/

Storybrooke is a pretty small town. A pretty damn small town. And Emma Swan has been living in it for a month now. And she has yet to run into Killian Jones again. It's not like she actively wants to, she doesn't see what either of them can get out of a silent non-greeting and him probably not even recognizing (remembering) her. But Emma is a cop and she has been trained to spot out suspicious behavior and not being seen like… ever in a town the size of Alice's tea party, by the deputy who is out and about patrolling the streets every other day and gets 60% of her meals and 90% of her coffee intake from Granny's is… suspicious.

"So, Granny, think I've met everyone by now?"

"Why, I didn't peg you as the social butterfly type."

Emma rolls her eyes at the dry reply and sinks back into her seat behind the old woman's bar.

"I'm the deputy. I'm supposed to know who's who around town."

Granny hums, long and testing, and gives her an unforgivably probing look over the rim of her glasses.

"You know, I'd be suspicious of you going around asking about people… if I didn't know you have our handsome sheriff working at the desk right across from yours."

Emma is going to ignore this because she can and because one month has been enough for her to get used to the weird (bothersome) way Storybrooke's citizens plan out everybody's life for them.

"I'm not asking about anyone in particular. I'm wondering if there's anyone hiding up in the woods or if a family of five has been living it up in the Bahamas and will be flying back in for Christmas any day now."

This hum is shorter and less intimidating, more mundane. Granny is used to people asking her about anything they don't know. Whether it has to do with lasagna or their taxes or jilted lovers.

"Only one who could afford to go to the Bahamas was Mr Gold and he packed his bags a long time ago. Though I doubt he went anywhere as sunny as that."

The woman puts down the mug she was wiping and nods towards the coffee pot in question. Emma shakes her head and takes out a couple of bills.

"As for the woods. Nobody I know living out there… The coast though. All the way at the edge of town. That's where Jones' cabin is."

Emma's heart stutters a bit and she tries not to give herself away. It's little more than the satisfaction of managing to navigate someone exactly where she wants them. Her skills are one of the few things she has and she will let herself fistpump the air as soon as she exits the dinner. For now she decides it's her turn to hum – distractedly, disinterestedly, as she stands up to put on her jacket.

"Won't be seeing him around, I'd wager. And you'd be better off for it."

She tries not to frown at Granny's hard edges. It's not that everybody doesn't know they are there. They are just not usually this visible.

"I already did actually. I got a call from the Rabbit Hole."

Granny hmmpffs in obvious contempt.

"Thought he'd stopped going into town."

"It was just the one time," Emma feels the need to point out.

"Well, as I said, if you are lucky, you won't see much of that man around."

This time Emma does frown. She probably shouldn't, she doesn't know the first thing about the guy and what she has seen was hardly flattering. But she frowns with the part of herself that was always picked last in gym class, with the part that never got a Valentine or a birthday party invitation, with the part that gathered all the nasty looks every time she made her way through an upscale restaurant – target to catch or perp already in toe and wine stains on her too-tight dress.

She frowns and she turns to go.

"Now, you wait a minute, I'll pack you a couple of cookies for that sheriff of yours."

"You give them to him when he stops by."

/

She does her normal rounds that night. But the next she takes her patrol further out, up the coast, to the part that still counts as Storybrooke but just barely.

It's a one-story cabin. Unassuming. Unimpressive. Neither threatening, nor welcoming. Neither well-kept, nor crumbling. There's a light so low she thinks it might be from a fire.

For some reason she stays for a while. To make sure the light grows smaller and smaller and then goes out entirely.

/

We are such creatures of habit and we are silly enough to attribute that same quality to the universe. It makes us feel comfortable – like we know what's going on, know what to expect. But, of course, the universe is no slave to such womanmade rules and enjoys throwing us the occasional curveball – sometimes just for the hell of it.

And somehow it has become such an apparent thing – she never runs into Killian Jones – that when she does, Emma almost gasps out loud like a complete and utter idiot in a zombie movie.

And then she mentally slaps herself because duh, no matter how much of a hermit you are, everybody has to shop. The modern day curse of capitalism, commercialism and consumerism.

Under too-bright, fluorescent lighting, buying rice and what Emma guesses are turnips, Killian Jones looks a lot more… well, normal than she has made him up in her head.

She gives herself another mental slap.

Still no solid proof but it is looking more and more like the man is neither a serial killer, nor a freak of any particularly freaky sort. He is tanned yet pale in a way that makes Emma think of someone who spends a lot of time outside and not a lot of time sleeping. His hair is longer than she remembers, less grey than it seemed under the moonlight. He is wearing the most beat-up pair of Converse she has ever seen and a leather jacket that would probably give him a rock&roll vibe, except his shoulders are still slightly hunched and it ruins the effect.

Emma realizes she is staring when he looks up and she adds the bright blue eyes and the deep lines around them in the mental file she has on him.

They are just a few meters away and she does need to get some sugar so Emma decides to not be a weirdo and pushes her cart towards the sugar. And Killian Jones.

"Deputy."

He gives her a nod of… acknowledgement? Greeting?

Emma is too stunned and he is already wheeling his cart away, one hand in his pocket and his eyes scanning the freezer section to the right.

"You know me?"

He stops and turns back to her, cocking his head to the side in what, she can this time determine quite easily, is confusion.

"We've met," he states simply and his brows furrow and his lips twitch to the left in a small, bitter non-smile.

Her shackles rise unexpectedly fast. Probably because she has been thinking about this elusive man way more than she should.

"I wasn't sure you remembered," she fires back.

It's not necessarily mean. It's almost defensive. He is not the one that has a reason to question her memory.

"Apologies," he says without mocking her but without actually apologizing either and she can see that he is already about to move on from her and this unexpected (first) exchange of words.

Then someone else's cart bumps his and his left hand automatically shoots out to steady it. Or what should have been his left hand but is just his sleeve, tucked around where his wrist must end.

Emma stares like she knows she shouldn't and knows it's inevitable that she would.

Killian Jones steadies the cart with his good hand and looks back at her over his shoulder, as if unsure whether to say anything else, nod or...

Emma's mouth is hanging a little bit, his mental file in a slight disarray. She watches him simply turn his back on her and continue on to the frozen section.

/

It's not one of those stories. But after that she admittedly thinks more about Killian Jones. And consciously restrains herself from snooping around to find out what exactly his deal is. Wild youth? Veteran? Ex-drug dealer? Current drug dealer?

She is supposed to know things. It's her job and it's also when she feels the most in control. Yet learning about Killian Jones is… well, not precisely difficult because she hasn't actually put her skills to it, but it feels kinda crucial. And yet she can't bring herself to do it. To invade this total stranger's privacy. Something she is a professional at doing.

Sometimes she thinks from a purely professional standpoint that if anyone were to disappear, his cabin would probably be the first place they would have to search. Then she thinks it's definitely the first place the people of Storybrooke would want her to search and she gets irrationally angry. Then she realizes she is being morbid.

Sometimes she wonders if Jones is who she might be in another 15 years or so. It would have seemed more likely before she moved to Storybrooke. But Emma is trying new things these days. She is trying to be more open with people, more sociable. It's going… questionably well. She has to stretch the truth to say that she is enjoying herself. Then again she is out of practice. And Storybrooke's population might consist of some of the nosiest people on earth. All in all, not a match made in heaven so far. But she likes the couple living above her well enough and she does get along great with Graham. And Ruby sure is fun when you've had enough shots to not be bothered by the absence of a filter.

And then sometimes she considers if the very fact that she has yet to find herself a person in Storybrooke is the reason why she is intrigued by Killian Jones at all. He hardly seems like the kind of man looking to make friends. He seems like the kind of man who has lived long and hard enough to decide that people are not something he needs a lot of (or any at all as the case might be). And, anyway, Emma has not had a person ever before so there's really no reason this will suddenly change.

And then, only once, she contemplates the idea that his eyes probably look quite nice when he is outside and in the actual sunshine.

/

Chances of her finding that out don't seem to be improving because the next time she sees Jones is at Storybrooke's tree lighting ceremony. Which, logically, takes place after the sun has set.

The realization that she recognizes everyone at the square makes Emma feel weirdly claustrophobic, less rather than more comfortable. She tunes out Mayor Mill's speech easily enough, makes a point of where Granny has positioned her stall and is selling mulled wine, waves at the Nolan's and eventually makes eye contact with Graham Humbert across the mass of people between them.

Graham Humbert is a very pleasant and attractive young man. Is word for word what Granny said to her no later than the third time Emma ventured into the town's diner. All with the stress on 'attractive' as if Emma didn't have eyes or didn't know the definition of the word.

The thing is Graham Humbert is a very pleasant and attractive young man. And he has asked Emma out about three times now. One of those might have been too low-key to count but the other two definitely counted. Emma would know, she had to find a way to sidestep them like a landmine. She is pretty sure it's against some rule or code to ask out your subordinate and she is definitely sure that it's unethical as fuck. Also she sees no point in going on a date with a man who, within a week, she wanted to set up with someone else (sue her, she thinks Ruby would manage to make the sheriff let loose a lot better than she'd ever want to even try).

But, slightly awkward as things might get with Graham sometimes, he is still in the top 3 of People Emma would like to talk to at a shindig like this, so she doesn't mind the eager way he is making his way toward her all that much.

And then she looks away and sees Killian Jones leaning against an out-of-commission lamppost at the very periphery of the square.

Killian Jones is not in the top 3 of People Emma would like to talk to at a shindig like this. And, yet, she knows it's because he seems to be in a category all his own. A very undefined category where little is known to Emma except for the fact that suddenly she really wants to make Killian Jones let loose.

So Emma forgets that even her more sociable new self doesn't approach people out of the blue, forgets that Graham is trying to make his way through a sea of people with sloshing cups of wine and bottles of beer in their hands, forgets that she is actually supposed to be keeping an eye out for potential wine and beer-induced trouble and forgets that most everyone in this town seems to either hate or prefer not to think about Killian Jones's existence.

She forgets and in another couple of minutes she has two sloshing cups of mulled wine of her own and is heading straight for the man who is probably performing his one and only appearance at a social event this year.

It's only when she is about four steps away from him that Emma realizes she has no idea what exactly it is that she plans to say to him. So instead she picks up her pace and answers the turning of his head and the questioning rise of his eyebrow by thrusting a cup of wine in his sole, blessedly-free hand.

He seems so bewildered that Emma considers explaining the concept of mulled wine to a man that she first encountered slumped over a bar. But Killian seems to get over his confusion enough to take the warm cup from her and Emma sticks her hand in her pocket, leans on the wall beside him and looks out at the people doing some sort of a gig around the tree in quick succession.

"Thanks, deputy... Can't say I was expecting such a warm welcome."

Emma glances at him to make sure this is not a stupid pun or an uncalled for innuendo but he seems pretty damn sincere. Baffled but touched.

"Yeah, well, you show up into town so rarely. Thought I'd open with the good stuff."

She realizes as she says it that the little she knows about Killian Jones points to the possibility that she just handled an alcoholic a brimming cup of wine and called it "the good stuff". But then he doesn't seem bothered by it and Emma decides not to make her assumptions based on a single incident.

"I think our fair denizens might disagree with your suggestion that my showing into town is to be encouraged."

She is, of course, aware of this. But Emma has always liked to think of herself as a non-judgmental person and, as long as he hasn't broken the law, she realizes Killian Jones is good in her book. So she just shrugs and looks back at the monstrosity of a tree instead of delving into things that hardly seem relevant at the moment.

"Killian Jones."

Emma frowns for a second before remembering that they have never actually exchanged names and she feels her cheeks heat up at realizing how often his crosses her mind. And this time when she looks at Killian from the corner of her eye there's something almost mischievous in his expression, almost like a smile. She wonders if he knows her name just as well as she knows his.

"Emma Swan."

"A pleasure, Swan."

His words are nothing special but they come out so measured and serious that she is certain of two things – he is genuine and he did just learn her name.

Which in turn means that he hasn't talked to anyone for the last couple of months because Emma is well aware that she was the "trendiest" topic in Storybrooke for way longer than she is comfortable with.

It makes her want to talk to him even more.

/

An hour later Emma has handled two separate squabbles within the same family unit, made polite and close to excruciating small talk with the town's shrink, a tipsy kindergarten teacher, a sleezy doctor and even the freaking mayor who seemed just as unhappy having to talk to her as Emma was to reciprocate. An hour later Emma is painfully aware of how painfully small the chance that Killian is still around is and yet…

Her eyes light up in the freedom of being unobserved by anyone before she realizes that she now needs a new opening. So instead of approaching him, she hangs back and observes the man, who looks like he hasn't moved since she left him by that same unlit lamppost. A couple of boys, who are out way past their bedtime, bump into him in their wild chase after a redheaded girl and Emma watches Killian gaze after them with a hint of longing and move further back, looking around in obvious contemplation of his exit.

She glances at the dancefloor – teeming with people ever since Graham gave the OK for the music to be turned up. It's not like there's anyone to bother – everyone is at the town square. Even Killian Jones. And he is about to run away. And Emma is about to buy the bullet.

She knows she has taken him off guard by the way he jumps slightly when she is suddenly just a couple of paces to his left.

"I always thought dancing like that was something we left in the 17th century."

"I think you'd find Storybrooke… slightly more old-fashioned than most towns."

Emma nods. He is not wrong there. And Emma knows full well the size of the can of worm she is about to open. Yet, that has nothing to do with how nervous she suddenly feels.

"Looks kinda nice though. Can't remember the last time I saw people dancing in a way that wasn't grinding in a night club."

She feels his gaze on her but keeps hers resolutely on the couples on the improvised dancefloor.

"I didn't see you take a spin."

She bites her tongue so she doesn't go for the immediate response about observing her.

"Maybe I haven't been asked?"

Emma raises her eyes to his and knows that she is lying and that he knows she is lying as well.

"I find it hard to believe that a stunning young woman has difficulty procuring a partner."

He says it so gravely that Emma is reminded of a Jane Austen novel she once read. Except she'd hardly be considered 'young' by 18th century standards. And she can't seem to remember anyone ever calling her stunning.

But despite the flattery Killian seems no more willing to offer his services and Emma is running out of subtle ways to nudge him to do so.

"And yet, it looks like I do," she states – less than subtly, what with the pointed look that comes with it.

He doesn't look scandalized (it's not actually the 18th century) as much as extremely confused. And somewhat frustrated. And Emma begins to doubt his reluctance is anything more than him trying to let her down easy.

"I'm certain you would do much better with a younger, more capable partner," he replies tersely, gesturing slightly with his left forearm.

It's the push she needs to stand her ground. Which in turn seems to break through his own resolve and Emma is already trying not to grin triumphantly at his heavy sigh and the way he nervously runs his hand through his hair.

"Would you like to dance, Swan?"

"Why, if you insist!" she smirks at him and feels a surge of pride at the almost twitch of his lips that he tries to smother with his narrowed eyes.

Seeing as he did ask, Emma has few qualms about taking his hand (there are no sparks or jolts of electricity – it's not one of those stories – but his skin is rough and dry under hers in a way that makes her want to explore and Emma hasn't felt like exploring in a really long time) and she pulls him forward. Except Killian only goes two steps before he stops and Emma lets herself be pulled back and accidentally a lot closer to him than she was before. He smells a bit like smoke and sea salt and his salt and pepper beard has some ginger in it as well.

"We can stay here."

Emma looks at his frown and thinks that if he was offering for himself, she would have agreed.

/

Killian Jones has moves for a man nearing his 50's. More moves than most men she has danced with. But then again, Emma can't remember ever slow-dancing with anyone so that probably isn't a fair comparison.

He is incredibly tense throughout the whole first song but when the second one rolls around and people seem to have had their fill of staring at them as if they were fucking on top of the Christmas tree rather than dancing with a generous amount of space between them at the very edges of the makeshift dancefloor, and Emma shows no desire to discontinue their swaying and occasional twirls (it's kind of exciting, she has never been twirled either), Killian almost seems to relax.

"I have a confession to make."

"Most men do."

He doesn't mind the teasing if the tiny chuckle is any indication. It's nothing close to a proper laugh but it sends a little trill through Emma's insides.

"Shoot," she says, keeping her expression open and her mind the same way.

She has a feeling that Killian Jones is about to try to make her not like him.

"I don't need the law enforcement to escort me out of our less reputable establishments these days."

He stresses the 'these days' part with a sour look and Emma gets the implication but she is much more focused on the other part.

"Except from time to time."

"No," he says firmly, looking her in the eye and then glancing away almost guiltily.

"Ummm, I'm not sure what exactly you are confessing here, Jones."

They are barely swaying in place now and he looks around for a few seconds before swallowing and replying.

"I heard there was a new deputy in town."

Emma frowns. So the gossip mill did run all the way to him. And her gut instinct was wrong – he did know who she is. She isn't sure why that makes her feel so shitty. Except she really doesn't like being wrong and she has enjoyed the vague feeling of being right about Killian.

"So I wanted to…"

"What? Test me out? See how the girl cop would handle your drunken ass?"

His head whips around as if she slapped him toward herself and he doesn't look hurt by her sharp tone so much as confused.

"What? No, 'course not. I didn't know you were a woman. Let alone…"

"Let alone what?"

She stares at him, hard and challenging but he just shakes his head and looks down and she almost feels bad but she doesn't get what he is even-

"I just thought you'd be someone new."

"I am someone new."

But he doesn't say anything else and sways them a bit more energetically even though his hand is barely holding hers now and she didn't feel his left arm on her waist to begin with.

And Emma is confused. Because she is someone new and he knew that. And he apparently went and did something he doesn't do these days just to meet-

Someone new.

Emma looks up sharply and finds Killian gazing in the distance again, unconsciously leading her into the simple steps.

He wanted to meet someone new. Because he and the whole town seem to avoid each other like the plague and Killian Jones is lonely. Just like Emma was when she decided to come to Storybrooke and actually give meeting some new people a shot.

Killian Jones is lonely. Just like Emma still is, if she is being honest.

And he wanted to meet someone who didn't know him or about him. He wanted to make a friend.

"I am someone new."

He looks back at her and this close to the brightly lit tree his eyes almost look blue again rather than the inky black they take on in the shadows.

He twirls her around and she thinks maybe, just maybe, he got it.

/

"Now that you have such a nice relationship with Mr Jones-"

She is the sixth, sixth, person and it's only 11:34 so, yeah, Emma snaps.

"Mayor Mills, my personal relationships are of absolutely no concern-"

"Miss Swan, I couldn't care less about who you choose to spend your time with or how. But, seeing as you seem to have a somewhat amicable relationship with our harbormaster, I'd like to-"

"Who?"

"Mr Jones."

"He is what now?"

The mayor sighs and gives her a look that tells Emma exactly what a waste of Regina Mill's time she is.

"For a minimal wage Mr Jones fills the archaic but very occasionally necessary position of harbormaster of Storybrooke."

"Oh… OK."

"And seeing as you two are on speaking terms…"

Regina gives her the most fake, politely questioning look in the history of pretense politeness and Emma rolls her eyes but nods.

"It would be of use, if you could ask him to sign these."

The brunette opens her bag and pulls out a small pile of papers.

"Whoa."

Emma pulls the sheets closer and wonders, not for the first time, what is everybody's deal with Jones.

/

"Two grilled cheeses with onion rings, to go."

"Sheriff Graham prefers fries."

Emma grits her teeth and swallows the first, second and third reply that knock from inside. Granny is among the quickly-diminishing number of people who have not, as of yet, tried to give her some variation of "the talk" about Killian Jones.

"Two grilled cheeses with onion rings. To go."

The old woman gives her a look that tells Emma exactly how displeased she is with her. Emma gives her one in return.

/

Killian offered to walk her home last night, something about 'returning the favour' and 'gentlemanly behaviour' which made Emma snort in very non-ladylike amusement.

So really she is just taking her turn to return return the favour.

Killian offered to walk her home last night and then he did so in the same complete silence Emma had walked him home a couple of months ago.

So maybe she just likes having a friend she can be silent with, without her feeling awkward or them feeling uncomfortable.

And friends brought their friends lunch so – there.

/

She heads for the cottage, keeping to the docks until she spots him on the beach, in a little boat which has definitely seen better days.

It takes her shuffling steps on the cold sand to alert him to her presence and she sees the way his shoulders immediately tense up. He turns around – a guarded and downright suspicious look in his eyes.

And then he recognizes her and she swears he is this close to actually smiling at her. Damn.

"Deputy."

"Harbormaster."

He raises an amused eyebrow.

"I didn't even know that was an actual thing," she adds.

"It hardly is," he says and steps out of the beached boat. "Especially during the winter."

"Well, apparently it's real enough to accumulate a whole lot of paperwork. Which I was so kind to lug all the way here for you."

"Joyful. How would I ever thank you," he says drily and Emma grins.

"And you haven't even seen what's in here," she lifts up her bag from Granny's.

/

Killian Jones likes onion rings so he really can't be all that bad.

They eat on a bench far enough from the water that the wind doesn't completely freeze off Emma's limbs. Killian's lack of scarf, hat or glove suggests a lack of concern with the cold that is only betrayed by an occasional shiver.

He explains what being a harbormaster entails and what being Storybrooke's harbormaster entails. Apparently the smaller the harbor, the less his responsibilities, which makes sense to Emma's nautically-pure mind.

He is probably pretty familiar with what being the sheriff's deputy means but he listens patiently and attentively to the jog down of her own duties.

"So is that your thing, deputy?"

"My "thing"?"

"Philanthropy, humanitarianism… charity cases."

He gestures somewhat wearily and she follows the movement with furrowed brows. For a guy with one hand he sure uses it a lot when he talks. Which doesn't help her get what he actually means.

And then Emma looks at his face and realizes maybe the gesticulating is just a distraction. So she'd pay less attention to his face where everything is laid out, plain to see.

Also – his eyes do look quite nice in the actual sunshine. Which doesn't stop her from giving him a hard look and grinding her teeth – she's been doing a lot of that today.

His chuckle is low and weary. She is starting to think that there are few things he does that don't bring the word 'weary' to her mind.

"Honestly, lass, at this point I'm not even complaining. It's…"

She wants to interrupt him and tell him how far from a philanthropist Emma Swan is. But she also really wants to know how that sentence ends, if given the chance.

"Nice… Aye, it's nice, I suppose. To talk to someone. Even for a bit."

Her eyes sting a little and she follows his example and turns her gaze to the sea. It's like he is talking to the waves and just trusting them to carry his words back to her. She decides to give it a try.

"I'm not even a people person, Jones."

/

Purposefully or not, she left the paperwork with him. Really, neither of them had a pen on hand so she had to. So now she has to go back to get it.

She brings some hot chocolate with cinnamon this time.

He is in the middle of painting the pathetic little boat and she can tell that he recognizes her steps because he tenses up only the normal amount – the amount displayed by most people who rarely socialize with anyone and are about to do just that.

Emma assumes you can hardly become anything resembling a hermit, if you aren't at least introverted. But Killian Jones, she decides, would be an introvert even if he wasn't such a hermit.

Even when she is around – even when she can tell that he doesn't mind her being around (dare she say, he might even enjoy it) – he still doesn't talk to her all that much. It's almost like the silence is a different means of communication, just as deserving of their time as conversation.

Emma finds she quite likes it. Then again, she has always had her own 'keeping to yourself' tendencies.

And, contrary to what people say about watching paint dry, watching Killian paint the little boat in silence is kinda cool. But it's way cooler when he lets her have a go.

It's less cool when she ruins her semi-new jeans. The ones that make her butt look really nice as well. Damn.

/

He brings her grilled cheese and onion rings. Return of a return of a return of a… whatever. Emma doesn't know if she is more shocked that he brought her lunch or that he must have gone to Granny's to get it.

He doesn't linger and they don't eat together but he got her order right and she is self-aware enough to know her smile is kinda smitten.

He doesn't seem bothered by Graham. Not the way Graham is bothered by him.

Then again, Emma thinks it's more her body language rather than Killian's presence that's the sheriff's issue.

/

Graham Humbert might pick up on body language (2 weeks without a low-key date invitation and counting) but Killian Jones certainly doesn't.

It's not that Emma doesn't want to be friends with the man. She does. He has quickly climbed Emma's personal social ladder (not that there was anyone on it that could give him much of a challenge) and emerged on top with barely a handful of lunches and a paint job on her apartment that Emma decided he was perfectly qualified for despite all his protests.

And, honestly, if she was being smart about this, Emma would keep it this way. She knows Killian is only starting to realize that maybe, just maybe, she actually does enjoy hanging out with him. That this isn't some elaborate prank or misplaced kindness or philanthropic urge of hers that Storybrooke's non-existent charities have left unsatisfied.

He is getting there. But there's no way in hell he is making a move on her in the next two years.

Which – rather than making her feel calm and safe – is making her more and more frustrated. Just like the way he still looks surprised every time she seeks him out.

Frustration is basically the story of how she shows up at Killian's cabin at 8pm on a Friday with a bottle of red wine and the disclaimer "We are sharing tragic backstories tonight."

After his utter stupefaction wears off, Killian gives her a long, searching look – an edge she has never seen from him before peeking through it. It is the first time Emma feels the full weight of more than a decade of life and experience that he has on her.

She waits patiently despite the snowflakes melting in her hair, aware of the fact that sharing wine in his home is different from having cheesy sandwiches by the beach. Aware of the fact that her nose is red and running and her eyes are kinda wide and probably even a little anxious from the scrutiny he is putting her under. Aware of the fact that it's Christmas Eve and that she was all alone irked her almost as much as the fact that he was as well.

"Is that a usual precursor to presents and Die Hard?"

He opens the door wider and the warm air inside makes her feel even more like she just passed a test.

/

His place is very sparsely lit. If Emma was a different kind of person, she'd call it romantic lighting.

"How the fuck am I supposed to find a corkscrew in this cave?" is the kind of person she is.

"Don't be overdramatic, Swan. Eyes get more sensitive when you get to a certain age."

"Actually I'm pretty sure lack of proper lighting is the worst for your eyesight, grandpa."

"We'll talk again in 20 years."

"When you are asking me to read the newspaper to you."

"You can start practicing right now."

Before she can formulate a snarky reply she feels what is definitely an honest to God, rolled up newspaper swapping her lightly on the ass. Emma whips around, corkscrew brandished like a sword.

"Would you like to lose an eye as well?" she tries for threatening but it's really hard to pull off when she is so busy enjoying Killian Jones actually responding to her teasing slash borderline-flirting.

"Nay," he answers seriously as he goes to retrieve a couple of glasses. "Don't think an eye-patch would sit well on this face."

It's a bold move but she sneaks up on him and when he turns around with the glasses in one hand she is right there – on her tiptoes and in his face, their noses almost touching.

"Mmm, I don't know…"

She does a masterful show of looking over his shaggy beard, his pink, slightly chapped lips, the scar on his cheek, the straight line of his nose, the deep blue – almost lost in the black of his pupils, the white hairs in his eyebrows and the deep creases in his forehead.

"I can think of few things that won't go well with this face."

They stay like that for a few seconds, just breathing together and she thinks maybe now…

Then Killian blinks and looks out of the window, the way he does, as if to clear his mind of her. She can't say it doesn't sting a bit.

"We shall test that theory."

It's the night she learns Killian Jones wears glasses – big glasses with thick, black frames and a diopter that makes her head hurt. (But they are so damn cute, how on earth is a grown ass man so fucking cute with glasses on – that makes her heart hurt as well).

It's the night she learns Killian Jones's lips get really purple when he drinks red wine. (And he has this whole lecture about how wine gives you such a headache the next day, even at his most indulging rum never made his head pound like a couple of glasses of wine do and really, if she was just trying to get one up on him, she should know there was nothing worth stealing at the house and he can be real grumpy is the point she is trying to make and yet…)

It's the night she learns Killian Jones's childhood traumas rival her own. (And she has never been one to 'weigh up' disappointments – sometimes you bounce back from freaking tragedies and then the smallest pebble turns your whole world upside-down and that's just life they say – but Killian's make her ache in a place other people's drama never gets to.)

It's the night she learns Killian Jones's big crime was trying to start over, falling in love and getting dumped. ("She wanted adventures… I knew that. I was just foolish enough to believe I was one. Maybe I was. One of those impulsive getaways that never last.")

It's the night she learns Killian Jones's unforgivable sin against Storybrooke was making the biggest real estate owner gather his bags and his wife and hightail it out of Storybrooke, demanding everyone either buy the places they were renting from him at the time or find a new roof to sleep under.

"You might have noticed… people in Storybrooke haven't entirely entered the new millennia. Shackling up with a married woman was bad enough but having to choose between one of their most successful businessmen and the foreigner that fixed up rust-crusted boats… well, if only it was their choice. They certainly would've chosen like she did."

It's the night she tells another soul that sometimes, once in a blue moon, when the loneliness really bites at her heels, she almost regrets that her pregnancy scare was nothing more than that. ("Almost" is the key word but it doesn't make it hurt any less, feels like just another in a whole life of almosts.)

It's the night she learns to build a fire. ("I can do it" has always come easy to Emma but when it turns out to be a lie, it's kinda nice to have someone show her how until it's true.)

It's the night she admits that she came up with her surname all on her own and still doesn't feel like she deserves it. (It's not as magical as Andersen made it sound but it does seem possible when Killian looks at her and tells her she is simply wonderful and the surely most beautiful swan he has ever seen.)

It's the night she watches Die Hard with someone else for the first time. (And Killian is very good at keeping his respectable but no unfriendly distance, except he has no control over his head falling on her shoulder when he falls asleep.)

It's the night she kisses the top of his head and wishes him a Merry Christmas. (The night she falls asleep a little more in love than she woke up.)

/

She got him a hat and a scarf.

He got her a thermos with little ducklings on it.

/

It's not one of those stories. And she tries not to be disappointed when the 1st of January arrives and he has yet to kiss her.

/

"I just don't see why you wouldn't go out with Ruby. She accused me of "hogging" you."

"Oh, so now you talk to Ruby?"

"People are always more than willing to acknowledge me when they have something to yell at me for."

"So I have to go out with Ruby to get her off your back?"

"You don't have to do anything. Wouldn't you like to have some fun?"

"I was having fun before you started trying to kick me out?"

"Watching Stardust on my couch?"

"You have a problem with my movie choice now?"

/

"I mean, what's the logic male brains come up with? 'Oh, I know you didn't like me like that a week ago when I last asked but now that we are the exact same people in the exact same situation, I think things might have changed'?"

"I think it's more about sheer disbelief."

"Disbelief?"

"Strapping, young lad like sheriff Graham. Probably thinks he dreamed up your illogical rejection."

"Five times? And "lad", really? You sound like Granny."

/

"Well, excuse me, Mr Health Expert who didn't own a scarf before I came around."

"A scarf has absolutely no bearing on one's health, Swan."

"And broccoli does?"

"Yes!"

"…"

"…"

"I'll get the broccoli, if you write me down as your emergency contact."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Broccoli. I don't have any. Emergency contract. You don't have any."

"One. I don't have one."

"…"

"Do I want to know how you know that?"

"Don't change the subject."

"It is within the subject of my emergency contact. And, contrary to your obvious belief that I have inhabited earth along with the dinosaurs-"

"I don't-"

"I'm not about to keel over and die any day now."

"Not if you know I will know the second you do something stupid like go on the water when it's storming-"

"Drizzling at best."

"…"

"…"

"I'll throw in some spinach to "sweeten" the deal."

"Bloody hell."

/

"Emma, would you just eat your food?"

"No. Not until she serves you as well."

"Perhaps it takes a bit longer."

"We ordered the same thing."

Killian lets out a deep sigh and Emma keeps glaring at Granny with everything she's got.

"Emma-"

"This is bullshit."

She gets up so quickly his reaching hand misses her arm completely. She storms up to the counter and feels something feral and primitive and possessive ignite inside her at the woman's frankly unapologetic look.

"I can count you three violations in this food establishment from right here. Wanna see if I can rack up enough in the back to close you down?"

"The people might just lynch you for that one, deputy."

"Do I look like I give a shit?"

Somewhere in the back of her mind she knows, if she wins this starefest with Granny, she wins this, period. But that's rational thought and way in the back, and at the forefront, she is nothing but the raw menace of a bear with its teeth bared.

And Granny seems to sniff out just how serious she is.

"Mr Jones's order will be out in a minute."

/

It's not one of those stories. But… the first time she hears Killian Jones laugh – really laugh, from the very bottom of his heart, with his eyes alight on her, she feels a part of her heart that she didn't even know existed jump up to attention to listen.

/

By the end of January Emma is long past frustration. She is about to blow a gasket. Or whatever it is that people say when you are five seconds away from brutally attacking the guy you are in love with with your mouth and your hands and your everything.

The perks of being in her 30's are supposed to include not feeling like a teenager with a hopeless case of unrequited love.

And honestly, she doubts how unrequited it can really be with the way Killian looks at her from time to time. It's a solid leap past 'deprived of human contact' and dangerously close to 'we should have all the contact humanly possible'.

Emma is no idiot. Either their jaded personalities and starved hearts or the simple overabundance of estrogen gathering up inside her, have her convinced that Killian Jones must be her freaking soulmate or something. But she knows he might not see things the same overly sentimental way.

And better yet, she knows that even if he does, he will willfully ignore every sign of her feeling the same way in favour of thinking he is too old for her, too damaged, too inconvenient in some way.

And she realizes signs just won't cut it about the time she fully accepts the fact that it wouldn't make a difference if he was the most ancient, most damaged and most inconvenient person in the world. Just as long as he agreed to be her person.

/

"Are you blind?"

"You are aware of my poor eyesight, Swan," he says without turning around from his newest restoration job.

It incites her even more.

"Are you dumb?"

That earns her eye contact and some indignation.

"Wha-"

"Are you genuinely unaware of why I'm here, why I always want to be here, or are you just too comfortable ignoring it?"

His face closes off in a way she hasn't seen it do. But then she recognizes it. It's the expression that met her the first time he laid eyes on her.

"You don't knowwhat you want, Emma."

"Well, that's patronizing."

"It's a request."

"A request?"

"For you to know your own mind before you speak it."

His cool demeanor makes her ire burn even hotter.

"Fuck you! I know my own mind, Killian!"

"If you don't want to be here-"

"I want you!"

"You want me," he closes his eyes and nods. "I'm the guy you met at the bottom of a bottle. I'm the one-handed guy that the whole town hates."

It's a wrong move on his part – closing his eyes, and he should know it by now, should now how she can sneak up on him and take him by surprise.

Like she does when he opens his eyes and she is kneeling next to him in his muddy backyard.

"You're not… Killian… you're my adventure. And not the weekend getaway kind, the lifelong kind."

His eyes widen and his face finally melts and she can finally see his trepidation, plain as his longing.

"Emma-"

"Do you only care that you weren't hers?"

It's not what she wants to say or what she wants to hear but it comes from some of her own insecure pieces that have been uncharacteristically quiet around Killian Jones until now.

His brows furrow painfully and her hand automatically reaches to smooth them out the way it does more and more often these days. But he catches her wrist mid-air and pulls – not enough to drag her closer but enough that her fingers find his chest while his press at her pulse point.

"People have never thought much of me but you can't think so little as to believe I still hold a candle for a woman who couldn't run fast enough when she realized I would never make what her husband already had."

She opens her mouth probably with something only slightly snarky and a whole lot honest about exactly how much she thinks of him but his gaze softens over her face and the words stay on her tongue, heavy like her fingers on the fabric separating them from his skin.

"Surely you can't think so little of yourself as not to realize that the very moment I met you… I told you, Emma… I just wanted to meet someone new. Thought I might luck out with some solid bloke or a hardened old cop who hasn't let the town get to him yet. And instead…"

He drops his gaze and furrows his brows again and this time she raises her other hand, pauses millimeters from his face, just because he can't capture it, just to give him a chance to pull back, then softly runs her thumb over the deep wrinkle between his brows until it smooths out almost completely and lets her palm frame his cheek, fingers tapping gently at the crow's feet beside his eye. It focuses on her.

"Instead it was you. Young and beautiful, flushed and looking like you rushed to the bar spoiling for a fight. And… I suppose I have had some bad breaks but I swear I've never thought so clearly…"

"…what?"

"'I wish I could turn back time.' To before… Bloody hell, before so much. Just watch the arrows fly… before all the years in this cabin, before Storybrooke, before the Navy, I could see it so clearly. I'd shake it all off and just stand there in front of you and ask about your name."

"You did eventually."

"Yeah, eventually," his smile is melancholic but it loves her even in its melancholy. "You wouldn't stop pestering me."

"And I don't intend to."

"No?" he swallows hard and she feels herself gaining that inch, bunches the fabric of his sweater between her fingers.

"No. We're both right here. Right now. And you don't have to turn back time… You don't have to change anything."

His eyes grow more watery the longer they stare into hers. But she needs a little something for the last push. And then his gaze slips to her lips.

"Nothing at all?"

"Well… we could be a bit closer in the here and now."

She barely hears his hum of agreement as her arm flexes and pulls him towards her, his lips landing a little to the right of hers and his forearm meeting the ground to stop him from falling on top of her. Emma twists her head just a little and finds his mouth – warm and uncertain and ready and yet so tentative, and she takes all that and gives him back the taste of her certainty and her need and yet her newfound patience. He puts it to the test right away – caressing her lips, little more than breathing against her before she hand slips into his hair and his nose finally digs into her cheek as his tongue comes out to taste her lower lip.

It's the hottest thing that's ever happened to her. And in the next second her leg slips where they are basically kneeling in the mud and Killian kicks over a can of yellow paint in his attempt not to fall on her and she knocks over the boat's oar which knocks him on the head and it's the messiest thing that's ever happened to her as well. But even as she rubs at the back of his head, asking if he is alright, and feels the mud and paint seep into her jeans (they are not new but damn, now that this is sorted maybe she can stop wearing the ones that make her ass look the best around him), she thinks it's the most wonderful thing that's ever happened to her as well.

/

It's not one of those stories.

So their love doesn't exactly win over the residents of Storybrooke. If anything, it makes them hate Killian even more and Emma just enough. So eventually Emma says fuck it and spends three weeks working Killian over until he admits that yes, he was being kinda masochistic by staying in Storybrooke (no matter how much he points out that it worked out for him pretty well in the end) and there's really nothing holding them here.

It's not one of those stories.

So Emma goes back to bailbonds in Boston and Killian hates how much more dangerous it is compared to sleepy old Storybrooke. And he tries this and that but eventually decides he should stick to what he knows and manages to get an only-slightly-shitty job at the harbor. And eventually, once she has earned back her reputation, Emma concedes to monitoring her cases so she mostly goes after losers rather than hardened criminals, and occasionally she misses the thrill of bagging a real asshole, and sometimes she takes a hard case just to spite Killian and his overprotective grumbling but mostly… mostly she basks in the knowledge that she has someone to come home to, someone who worries and someone she doesn't actually want to worry. And twice, then three times, Killian manages to convince people to let him restore their old boats and it never amounts to much money and she knows it nags at him but it always manages to get him excited and each boat ends up prettier and so full of new life and she knows he loves it and she only helps so she can strategically get some paint on her face because she loves the end result there as well.

It's not one of those stories.

So Emma finds out that being in a relationship with someone who is older than you can be quite scary. In the very real and very terrifying way of realizing that you don't want to live without that someone but that eventually, even if that moment is way off in the distance, you might very well have to. And Killian certainly doesn't appreciate her making him get all kinds of check-ups, and drawing lists upon lists of things that he should eat more of and others he should eat less of, and getting them an exercising plan that is borderline torture. And then they end up yelling and he ends up telling her that she wouldn't have to worry about any of it, if she got herself a fit 30-something and she ends up fainting. And when she comes to Emma gets to experience the weirdest mix of terrified of what's wrong with her and relieved that Killian now seems to get what had her going mental with all the healthy living and he claims to have discovered new reserves of selfishness in himself and she is so not getting herself any fit 30-somethings and Emma decides not to point out the selflessness of that when it seems it's her there might be something very wrong with. Except it turns out there's nothing wrong with her. There's something very right with her and inside her. And, bonus, Killian is on board with all the healthy living now. To the point where she knows in a few months – when she is craving peanut butter and pickles – she will be the one grumbling and he better be prepared. He doesn't seem too perturbed. Then again, she did warn him that he was her adventure – the lifelong kind. And lo and behold, this time Emma was definitely right.

Maybe it is one of those stories.