Author's Note: Well, this is Killian's chapter, as mentioned, but there will be three parts to this now, because I'm just that hopeless. P.S. Here be angst.
He finds himself standing in the middle of Granny's for at least a full minute after telling Emma Swan that he'd see her later that night. That night, on a date. A date for which she had expressly sought him out to arrange.
Admittedly, at least thirty seconds of that moment had been devoted to admiring the curve of her lovely arse as she'd walked towards the front door, but he can't deny this unexpected turn of events has left him feeling more than a little taken aback, and not just because he's now responsible for organising the kind of evening that will prove to Emma Swan that she hasn't made a mistake in choosing him.
"Bloody hell." Grinning (taken aback he may be, undaunted he remains), he makes his way back to the dart board and hastily retrieves his last shoot gone astray from the floor, earning himself a grudging nod of approval from the proprietor, who is holding court as usual behind the counter.
"Your aim seems a little off this morning, Captain."
He can't deny he's come to enjoy their ritual of quasi-antagonistic banter (they both know while he's appreciative of the lodgings, the Window Lucas is even more appreciative of his doubloons) and he can't help giving her a smile. "A man can't be expected to hit the bullseye every single time, surely?"
"I guess not." She studies him over the top of her glasses. "Looks to me like you managed to score just fine, anyway."
He's not entirely certain of her meaning, but given the gleam in her steel grey eyes, he can certainly hazard a guess. Not for the first time, he can't help thinking that the young she-wolf Ruby takes after her grandmother in more ways than one. "Tell me, milady, are all the establishments in this fair town as accepting of gold in exchange for goods and services as yourself?"
Granny shrugs, as if she doesn't care to discuss her business competitors. "Only a fool would knock back that kind of coin," she tells him, and he feels his heart lighten. "Why, you planning on blowing the budget with a shopping spree?"
He can't keep the smile from his face, and he's not sure he cares. "Something like that."
There are some (a certain dwarf comes to mind) who might suggest he's spent far too much time idling about this town lately, but Killian prefers to think of it as learning the lay of the land. Today, he's especially glad of the time he's spent exploring Storybrooke, as there are several chores he needs to complete.
The thought of taking Emma to dine at Granny's sends a shudder of distaste running through him. The lights are too bright, the radio apparatus too intrusive, and the ratio of family to strangers all too unbalanced. One evening last week, he had ventured past a well-heeled eating establishment, close to the water and smelling deliciously of spices and roasted meats. Storybrooke's Finest Italian Cuisine had been the bold claim on the outdoor signage, and even though Killian suspects there actually is no other establishment offering such food in town, he's prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt.
Of course, there's also a lot to be said for reconnaissance.
The restaurant opens just before midday, and there are only a few tables occupied when he slips through the front door. A dark-haired, portly gent dressed in black and white walks to greet him, his face split in a welcoming smile. "Table for one, sir?"
"Actually, no," Killian begins, noting with satisfaction that the air is redolent with intriguing cooking smells (quite different to those that scent the air at Granny's) and while there is music playing, it is unobtrusive. "I wish to procure a table for this evening at eight o'clock. For two," he adds, rolling the words on his tongue.
They've been a long time coming.
The man's dark eyes light up. "A special occasion?"
"Indeed it is." An understatement if ever there was one, he muses.
The other man's smile widens, as if this is exactly the kind of answer he likes to hear. "In that case, sir, we can offer you a choice of several finely situated tables. Perhaps you'd care to see the wine list in advance as well?"
Killian claps the man on the shoulder. "My good man, it appears we are indeed in accord."
Ten minutes later, he leaves the restaurant, his pockets substantially lighter than they'd been on arrival. As Granny predicted, his doubloons had been gratefully received, and he learned a long time ago that nothing ensures attentive service like a handful of gold coins. The bartender (who'd swiftly introduced himself as Anthony) had been a vintner in the Enchanted Forest, and had confided that he much preferred Storybrooke's wide selection of libations.
"Oh, I quite agree, mate," Killian had told him, and had received a smiling nod of approval. Feeling as though he'd just passed some kind of test, he'd asked the man if it were at all possible to dispense with the tawdry business of payment in advance. (He knew Emma Swan, after all, and if the customs of this realm had taught him anything, it was that the person who did the asking quite often did the paying, and he was more than willing to live up to her assertion of being old-fashioned on this point.)
His new friend had been most agreeable on this point as well, giving him another nod of approval. A sum had been agreed upon and paid (with a gentleman's agreement that any shortfall would be recompensed), and a receipt of sale issued. His business concluded, Killian had slipped back out into the bright sunshine, still warmed by the sight of the words 'Jones/Swan, party of 2' inscribed in dark blue ink in the thick book that stood on its own pedestal inside the front entrance.
He would have happily paid twice as much for the privilege of witnessing such a thing.
The clothing proves a simple task, and again, it seems his choice of currency eases the pain of small talk with curious townsfolk.
He's spent enough time with the Prince and his family to know what style of costume they personally favour, and he keeps this at the back of his thoughts as he walks through the display racks in the various clothing establishments. The trousers and shirt and vest are easy decisions, but the finishing touch eludes him until he is delighted by the discovery of a short black jacket that feels exactly like his old coat to the touch. It also feels to be several pounds lighter (perhaps he's exaggerating), and that seems appropriate, given the lightness that seems to have taken up residence in his heart since Emma's visit to the diner.
He adds a generous gratuity to the asking price, earning himself a grateful smile from the elderly male attendant. It also manages to stops the man from staring fixedly at his hook, which is gleaming beneath the soft lighting overhead. As his new jacket is carefully wrapped in tissue paper (this realm will never cease to astonish him), Killian fights the urge to swing his left arm behind his back, the lightness in his heart evaporating somewhat.
He takes his now wrapped jacket from the other man, hoping his smile doesn't look as brittle as it feels. He thinks now of the casual remark from the attendant in the last shop, something about his vest having a lot of buttons and would that be a problem for him? He'd paid no attention at the time, intent on finding a new pair of boots in his size, but now he can't shake it from his thoughts.
His doubloons might be able to buy him new clothing and a table full of food and wine, but they cannot mask the fact that he is not the man he once was. He will never be that man again, no matter how many new shirts or waistcoats he procures.
He walks slowly back to his lodgings at Granny's, his spirits waning. It appears he has gotten ahead of himself, blinded by the promise of Emma's company. She deserves a man worthy of her. Someone who can hold her as she deserves to be held. She deserves someone whole.
I have magic, he's got one hand.
He's long forgiven her for those words. She'd been angry. Afraid for her son, her mother and her unborn brother. Afraid of her feelings for him. And yet the rebuke had stung, lodging deep in the darkest part of him, the part that fears she will also see him as he has so long seen himself.
A one-handed pirate with a drinking problem.
Reaching his lodgings, he slings the various parcels onto his rumpled bed, then casts a longing eye towards the bureau drawer where he keeps his flask.
Clenching his jaw, he turns his back on his rum supply, shrugging out of his coat and sinking down to sit on the edge of his bed. Taking a deep breath, he does something he rarely does. Unclicking his hook, he puts it to one side, then unstraps the brace on his left wrist. Once it's bare, he rests his elbows on his knees, and forces himself to regard the blatant discrepancy he's long taught himself to ignore.
His hand was not the only thing the Dark One had taken from him that day. Milah's memory pains him still, as naturally as taking breath, and he knows he will never forget her, not her laughter, nor her tears of pain as she died in his arms. The gleaming hook he wears is a constant reminder of everything he has lost that day - Milah, his bone and flesh, his rationality – and the fact that the Dark One is currently enjoying matrimonial bliss with a woman seemingly blind to his machinations sticks in his gut like a sour burr.
The imbalance must be redressed.
The thought comes to him unbidden, but once it has burst into life, there is no turning his back on it. He knows now what he must do. Getting to his feet, he pulls on his coat before donning his brace and hook once more. If he succeeds in this little venture, he muses, a dark excitement weaving itself though his thoughts, perhaps it will be for the last time.
He takes one last look at his reflection in the mirror above the bureau, then goes to make a deal with the Devil.
Many hours later, the warmth of Emma's kiss chases away the dark dread that is curling through his heart. His left hand tingles briefly in her grasp, as if in protest, then all he feels is her skin against his. This kiss is her answer, her promise that this is only the beginning for them, and his hunger for her (always present, never dormant) begins to burn through his blood.
They both know this kiss can go no further tonight, and perhaps that's what makes them bold. She nips at his bottom lip, her tongue delicately tasting his, and he swallows a groan as he wraps his arms around her. His hands (Gods, his hands) are flush against the curve of her spine, pressing her closer, his body stirring into life at the feel and taste and smell of her. She makes a soft sound of pleasure in the back of her throat, her hand trembling as she touches his face, her body pressing softly against where he is hard and aching. He slides his left hand upwards, his fingertips finding the soft fall of her hair, and the tingling sensation beneath his skin begins again, a faint fluttering like a minnow darting through shallow water.
His blood chills, despite the heat burning through the rest of his body, and he's only vaguely aware of Emma's breathy sigh of frustration as she pulls back from their kiss. "Okay."
His heart is hammering, and he wishes with every part of his being that it was only because of her kiss, yet he know it is not. She smiles at him, her eyes glowing with happiness, and the sight pulls him back to her. "Goodnight, Killian." Her voice is soft, inviting, beckoning him closer even as she bids him farewell.
His left hand curled in a fist at his side, he smiles, hoping she can't see the fear in his eyes. "Goodnight."
The door closes behind her, shutting out the light, leaving him in the darkness, alone in the place where magic always comes with a price.