.
Who knew the decent into hell would be so cold.
Emma burrows further into her down parka as a blast of icy air rattles her bones as she rushes across the dark parking lot, one hand gripping the beanie pulled low over her ears. It's barely dawn and all she wants to do is crawl back into bed, to pull the covers over her head and escape into dreams. But she can't, and everything is terrible, so she mentally works to steel herself, to prepare herself as best as she can for what she is about to experience.
The darkest day of the year.
The seventh level of hell.
Black Friday.
The mall is quiet still when she steps inside, and she hops momentarily in place to restore feeling to her extremities. She desperately needs a new pair of winter boots. But that would require engaging in the one activity she is most loathe to do: shopping. She swallows a sigh. Once upon a time, she had loved to shop. She loved the thrill of the hunt, the spark of victory when she would find the perfect thing for the perfect price. That feeling of wearing something new and shiny, the fun of trying a new style and the little metamorphosis it would bring. But that was before.
Before she was cursed. Cursed to a life in retail
She hurries down the quiet halls of the mall, weirdly relishing in the cloistered stillness of them. She's clearly losing her mind. Soon enough they will be transformed into a waking nightmare; throngs of people foaming at the mouth to get deals and steals, clawing and ripping and grabbing as they clamor to embrace the spirit of giving. Happy holidays, indeed. Approaching her home away from home, Granny's Outfitters, she makes three swift raps with her knuckle on the door, and then Mary Margaret is there, ushering her in with a hug and a cup of coffee. Emma has never loved anyone more.
She waves at David as he counts money into the registers, smiling when his eyes travel past her and land on Mary Margaret with unveiled longing. One of these days, she thinks. Ducking into the small break room, Emma sheds her layers, hanging everything neatly in her locker. She's struggling with the stupid pin of her nametag when he comes in.
"Morning, Swan."
She whirls, cursing when the movement causes her to prick her thumb with the sharp point of the pin. A spot of blood wells up, but before she can reach for something to blot it, he's there. He dabs gently at the small wound with the hem of the scarf he hasn't had time to remove.
"Careful on there," his black eyebrows lowering with worry.
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing. You can hardly go out onto the battlefield with a gaping wound."
"It's hardly gaping," she rolls her eyes.
Killian just smiles, the crooked one that makes his dimples wink and her heartbeat race, reaching for the little first aid kit bolted to the wall. He tears open an alcohol pad with his teeth, and she hisses when he mercilessly swipes her injured thumb with it. "Ahhhh!" she gasps, twisting in his grip.
"Oh, come now. You're a tough lass," he chides, pulling her close again as he unwraps a bandaid. He bandages her up before turning her hand and inspecting his handiwork with a self-satisfied air. "There. That should hold you."
"My hero," her voice drips with sarcasm.
Unfazed, he just shrugs out of his leather jacket. How the man survives in the dead of winter in such paltry outerwear, she'll never know. Not that she's worried about him or anything. Underneath, he's clad in a gray shawl-neck sweater over a mostly unbuttoned black Henley, and the exposed swath of dusky gold skin of his chest makes her swallow thickly. "How was your holiday?" he inquires, seemingly oblivious to her heated gaze as he deftly pins his own nametag on. "Get your fill of food and family?"
"No family to get my fill of," she says absently before snapping her mouth shut, frowning over the slip up. Fuck. She isn't one for sharing, especially when it comes to her pathetic excuse for a life. She's been on her own for as long as she can remember, and that's the way she prefers it. But others never quite understand, and their pity can be suffocating. So she keeps her business to herself.
Why, then, did that just pop out of her mouth?
It's not like they really know each other, not outside of the confines of Granny's. Killian had been there about six months or so, and even though they often have overlapping shifts, they are work friends at best. He tends to work in men's and she at the registers, but there are nights they close together and talk and laugh as they fold sweaters and sweep floors. She likes him, as much as she can like anyone really. But she's just not built for relationships or love or things like that. Not that she wants that with him, anyway. Definitely not.
At his silence, she can't quite stop herself from peering out from under her lashes to gauge his reaction to her reveal. Expecting to see a pitying look, she's surprised when he only looks at her with something that looks a lot like understanding.
"Right. Well. I suppose we should get on with it," he nods solemnly, and she is grateful to him for not pressing the subject. Heaving a dramatic sigh, he begins rolling his neck and swinging his arms as if preparing to run a marathon, teasing a reluctant smile from her. "Once more unto the breech, my fair Swan!" he declares and he nudges her out into the store, and he's so ridiculous she can't help but laugh.
.
.
.
Chaos ensues.
The next several hours pass in a blur, her mind and body shifting into autopilot. She's thankful to be stuck behind the registers, somewhat protected behind the solid barrier of the cashwrap. People tend to be less chatty here, ready to be on their way, and Emma is infinitely thankful for that. She is a master of small, impersonal talk, and most of her transactions become so routinely similar they could be scripted.
Did you find everything alright?
I'm sorry about that.
Was anyone helping you today?
I'm sorry about that.
No, that is the price after all the discounts.
Yes, it's returnable.
No, we don't giftwrap.
I'm sorry about that.
Have a great day!
She bids a sweet older gentleman a happy holidays as Killian approaches, pile of sweaters tucked in one arm, the hand of a middle-aged woman tucked through the other. The woman is chattering away, and Killian nods along gamely, blue eyes dancing as they lock onto hers.
"Here you are now, Mrs. Mills, our Emma will get you all fixed up and on your way."
"I couldn't have done it without you, you are the real gift, Killian," Mrs. Mills all but purrs as he places the sweaters on the counter. Emma reaches for them at the same time and their fingers brush, sending sparks dancing along her skin. He jerks, as if he felt it too, before quickly recovering himself.
"It was my pleasure. Ladies," his smile is tight, nodding farewell to them both, his gaze lingering an extra second on Emma before he turns away, scratching behind his ear.
"If I was 20 years younger…" the older woman whispers conspiratorially to Emma as she scans the final sweater, hungry eyes following Killian's dark form as he ambles back to his side of the store.
Emma just heaves a sigh and shoves the sweater into a bag.
.
.
.
Granny orders in lunch for all of them under the guise of generosity, but Emma is fully aware it just means they are all barred from fleeing the premises. They are trapped in this cursed hellscape, no hope of escape.
Her stomach starts rumbling dangerously about an hour after the pizzas are brought in, the delicious scent wafting from the back and making her mouth water. When she finally manages to extract herself from the clutches of a woman who needs to ship 50 different presents to 50 different states, she makes a desperate beeline for the break room. Her eyes dart to men's on the way, noting Killian in deep conversation with a father and son, and she sends up a silent thanks. She is weirdly frazzled where he is concerned today, and it's something she needs to think through. Later. Much later. Certainly after pizza.
Twenty minutes later, she reemerges, happily stuffed on the four slices she practically inhaled, when Ruby catches her. "Emma! Will you cover my section for an hour and I'll take registers? My feet are killing me." Emma glances down at the ridiculous heeled boots her friend is wearing before fixing her with a bland look.
"I wonder why," she deadpans.
Ruby laughs. "I know, I know. All my fault. But Victor pissed me off last night, so today I'm making him suffer. And these things make my ass look great. Not that he's allowed to touch," she slides a flinty eye at the man in question, who is helping a man shrug into a bright orange parka. He looks up to find them studying him, his salesperson smile souring immediately into a petulant expression.
Emma laughs. "Alright fine. But you owe me a drink later."
"You got it."
A half hour later, she regrets her choice deeply. No drink is worth this.
"Why would you bring me this?" a woman heaves a blouse at Emma as she exits the dressing room. "I am NOT a large! Are you trying to say I'm fat?!" she screeches.
Emma steps away from the flannel shirts she's folding. "Well, ma'am, you said the medium was too tight in the shoulders. Large is the next size up. So I brought you that. We unfortunately do not carry medium-and-a-half.
Oblivious to her sarcasm, the woman rolls on. "I don't own one piece of clothing that is a size large. What kind of store is this? Why don't you use normal sizing?"
"I'm sorry you feel that way, but I assure you we do use standard sizes. Do you maybe want to try a different style?" Emma grits her teeth, working hard to keep her own temper on a leash.
"This was the only decent thing in this whole backwater store, so no. I will simply take my business to somewhere that can properly size their clothes." The hideous woman storms off, leaving Emma staring after her, clutching a flannel as she takes a moment to calm down.
"Excellent show of patience, love," comes a soft voice at her ear. She turns her head without thinking, and her cheek brushes Killian's. She pulls back slightly, eyes wide in surprise over his nearness, not having noticed his approach. But she doesn't move away. Instead, she glances down at the mouth that hovers inches from hers, and a warm ache blooms deep in her stomach. The sounds of chaos are muffled and far away by the wall of flannel they are tucked behind, insulating them in their own odd little bubble. She wets her lips as his dark head moves fractionally closer, hesitantly, his warm breath fanning lightly across their damp surface.
"Emma," he murmurs, but the sound of his voice breaks her from the spell. What the hell is she doing?
"I, ugh—it's time for me to get back to the registers," she mumbles and flees before he can say anything else.
.
.
.
She neatly avoids him for the rest of her shift.
The doors finally shut, and the staff hoots out a chorus of exhausted cheers, shoes immediately being toed-off as they begin their closing duties with a desperate urgency to get the hell out of there. Mary Margaret switches the music away from the mind-numbing holiday rotation Granny insists on playing, and another round of cheers erupts.
Emma sits in what was once their tidy shoe department and now more closely resembles the aftermath of a hurricane. Finally finding homes for the scattered boots and moccasins, she piles them into a precarious tower. She attempts to lift the whole thing, shifting frantically as it tips back and forth like a Jenga tower.
"Need a hand, love?"
Her cheeks flush traitorously as Killian steps close and lifts half the stack from where they threaten to topple. He's taken off his sweater, and she tries not to stare at how his forearms flex as they adjust to balance the boxes. Shaking herself mentally, she mutters thanks and walks into the shoe storage closet as he follows.
She slams to a stop.
Ruby and Victor are twined together, making out like a plane is going down. Propped on the small table that hold the various store signage, Ruby's legs are hitched high around Victor's waist as he presses close, his hand dancing up and under her skirt. The flush on Emma's cheeks deepens as she takes in the private scene, and she reflexively steps back and into Killian.
"I see they've reconciled," he notes, his voice low in her ear.
"Dammit, she owes me a drink," she mutters angrily, suppressing the shiver that the feel of being pressed to him elicits.
"I have a sneaking suspicion her plans have changed."
"You think?" she drops her pile of boxes and huffs out of the closet.
"So let's go get one, a drink that is," he clears his throat, his smile uncharacteristically shy as she turns to face him. "I know I could use one after today."
She wants to say no, mostly because she desperately wants to say yes. But the way he looks at her scares the living shit out of her, and after all the sparks that flew between them today, she really needs to put some space between them.
Before he sees that she can't give him what he wants.
"Did someone say something about drinks?" David calls from where he's closing registers, nosy as ever.
Killian rolls his eyes, before studying her for a moment. As if sensing her fear of being alone with him, he surprises her by answering David. "Aye, I was just offering to numb the Lady Swan's Black Friday pain with one, yes. You want to join, mate?"
"Damn right, I do. Maybe we can see if Mary Margaret wants to join, too?" his face is a picture of hopefulness. Emma sighs, because she knows exactly where this is going.
As if on cue, Mary Margaret's dark head pops out from behind the scarf wall, pathetically obvious in her eavesdropping. "I'll go if you go, Emma." Dammit. But at least this way they had a buffer–she could handle drinks with him with a buffer.
"Drinks it is," she agrees.
They close the store down, bundling up in their layers of winter gear to head across the street to the Rabbit Hole. Ruby and Victor bid them an enthusiastic farewell as they dash off to further 'reconcile', as Killian so politely put it, and David and Mary Margaret chatter close together, exchanging stories from the day. Happiness spreads through her as she watches their animated happiness together, and she decides she might just need to buy a round of shots tonight to give them a little boost of liquid courage to finally confess their feelings.
And to give herself a little liquid courage where Killian is concerned.
No, she can't think like that. He is just a guy she works with, that's all. Even if he turns her insides to mush when he looks at her, that's all they can be. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, maybe she should just go home.
But then she looks up and he's standing there, looking at her in that exact way that makes her heart race. He holds out an elbow patiently, giving her the chance to run. Giving her the choice. And she can feel her resolve crumble.
Maybe just this once.
She tucks her arm into his as the four of them step out into the cold night, and doesn't mind when Killian pulls her in a bit closer when the winter wind whips by. Maybe just for the night she can let herself have this. Maybe just for tonight she can pretend.
She can hope.
.