A/N: Alright readers, we've got a significant time jump here. Eight years have passed since Emma met Killian, and they haven't seen each other since. If you're curious what happened that night or during the intervening years, fear not - we're going to be doing a lot of flashbacks, so eventually the whole story will be told. Kind of like a certain TV show we know and love... Flashbacks/Memories will be in all italics, so hopefully the fractured timeline won't be confusing.
WARNING: This chapter contains a little bit of "smut glitter" and a dash of angst.
Present Day
"So Walsh proposed last night."
Emma hears Mary Margaret's excited gasp through the cell phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. Most friends wouldn't appreciate a phone call at 6:30 a.m., but with Emma busy at the restaurant (her restaurant, though that still feels strange to think about) from lunch time until late at night coupled with Mary Margaret's teaching schedule, early mornings are about the only quiet time that the two of them can have an actual conversation.
After a beat of silence her friend responds with, "Wait - why am I sensing that this is a bad thing?"
Emma sighs heavily. "Hang on."
She fumbles with her keys in the dim light of pre-dawn attempting to lock her yellow Volkswagen Beetle without dropping her cell. She's certainly not stalling for time to answer Mary Margaret's overly perceptive question. Not at all.
Hearing the clunk of the ancient vehicle's door lock sliding into place, Emma decides that maybe a quick but direct answer is better. Might as well just spit it out.
"Webrokeup." The words run together into a single blob. Emma hears Mary Margaret's slow exhale followed by a soft slurping sound. "Geez, are you literally sipping tea and judging me right now?" Emma turns and leans back against the car, swiping a stray piece of hair back underneath her ballcap.
Mary Margaret huffs indignantly, but Emma can still make out the clink of a tea cup being placed back into its saucer in the background. Thought so.
"Oh, Emma, I'm not judging you," she replies in what Emma lovingly refers to as her 'disappointed mom' voice. "I'm just not sure I understand. Walsh is a nice guy. You two were good together."
"Yeah, I suppose so…" Emma uses her hips to push herself off the car and begins walking to the back door of the restaurant. She wonders idly where the delivery guy from the meat market is. He's usually there with her daily order by this time.
Mary Margaret's voice softens and an edge of concern creeps into her tone. "You know I worry about you, don't you? That wall of yours - it may keep out pain, but it may also keep out love."
Emma hums noncommittally. Love, she thinks. That was exactly the problem… In her mind, Emma goes back to the night before.
Table for two. Candlelight. Wine. As she sits down at the table, Emma can see it in Walsh's nervous smile. She knows what's coming, and she's not ready to face it, so she picks at her dinner, hardly daring to make eye contact with him.
When dessert arrives, she can't put it off any longer because there's a diamond ring glinting on the plate amidst the swirls of chocolate, and then he's down on one knee telling her he loves her and loves Henry and loves their life together. The tears that had been prickling at the back of her eyes finally break free to trail down her face. He sees them, glinting against her cheeks in the glow of the candles, and he pauses mid-sentence - his all-important question unfinished.
He cants his head to the side, concern written all over his features. "Emma, what is it?"
Her breathing is shallow as she struggles to keep her composure. "Walsh, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
He reaches up to gently brush a tear from her face, and the softness in his gaze breaks her heart for him. "It's okay…" He swallows hard, seeming to brace himself. "It's okay. Just talk to me."
"I can't." She takes a deep breath. "Marry you, that is. I - I'm not in love with you. Not like that. I want to be…" She runs a hand through her long blonde hair in frustration. "I've begged and pleaded with my heart, but there's no getting through. I guess you just can't make a heart love somebody." She mumbles the last words, her eyes cast down to the floor.
"I see." He clears his throat and presses his lips together in a sad imitation of a smile. "I'm suddenly feeling a little foolish down here on the floor." He stands and resumes his seat across from her at the table. He catches her eyes again for a split second, almost reaching for her hand, but he pulls back. "Emma, please just tell me the truth about one thing, and I promise I won't be angry either way. Is there someone else?"
"No," she replies immediately, but a deep lilting voice whispers through her thoughts that maybe - just maybe - there is something more for her out there. Her eyes glaze over for a second as she takes a moment to consider her response more carefully.
"No. It's more like…" she bites her lip as she tries to find the words to explain. How do you tell someone that you're still holding out hope for that spark, that elusive magic without sounding like a starry-eyed idiot? "It's more like the idea of someone else."
As Emma absentmindedly unlocks the door, Mary Margaret's voice pulls her back to the present. "We just want you to be happy." Emma notices how her friend has fallen back into the collective 'we' so often employed by those in a happy coupling.
Emma gives a small chuckle. "You and David want me to find capital 'T' True Love, just like the two of you."
"And what's so wrong with True Love?"
"Ugh. Nothing, I guess." Other than the fact that I'm not the kind of person that it happens to. Emma sets her keys on the counter, and flicks on the lights. "But, let's look at the words you just used to describe my relationship with Walsh."
Emma's eyes land on the cash register, and it occurs to her that she left the box of receipt paper refills in her car. She turns and pulls the door open to head back to the parking lot. "'Nice' guy. 'Good' together. Those aren't bad things, but do you really think those are the descriptors of twoo wuv?"
As she begins walking to her car, she can almost hear Mary Margaret narrowing her eyes in disapproval. "Hmmm. I don't think you'd recognize True Love if it bit you."
Emma freezes in her tracks as memories flash through her mind unbidden.
She gasps as the sharp nip of his teeth and scratch of his stubble against her throat spread like fire across her skin. He raises his head, and she's lost - drowning in his too-blue eyes as he moves above her, filling and stretching her deliciously. She bites her lip to stop the moan threatening to escape, wrapping her legs tightly around his hips, pulling him closer, deeper…
The loud thud of the door shutting behind her snaps Emma back to awareness. "Shit."
"What's wrong?" Mary Margaret asks.
"Hang on just a sec." Emma trots the handful of steps back to the door and jiggles the handle. Locked. She growls in frustration, tugging angrily on the brim of her cap. "Really?" she pleads with the heavens.
"What!? What happened?" Mary Margaret's voice is even more anxious now.
Emma kicks the door, which does nothing to help the situation, and in fact actually hurts her toe - not that she'd admit it. "I locked myself out of the restaurant like a dumbass. I'll have to call you back later."
"Do you need any help?"
"No, I can handle it," Emma mumbles, her mind already running through her options for dealing with this situation, "but thanks," she adds as an afterthought.
The two friends say their goodbyes and Emma pockets her cell phone. She could call the locksmith, but that would take forever and cost extra money that she doesn't have. Ashley and Anton won't be here for a few more hours.
Okay then. Breaking and entering it is. Emma kneels down by the door handle, thankful in the moment that the locks are nearly as old as she is and should be easy to pick. She pulls a couple of hairpins out of the neat bun protruding from the back vent of her ballcap, and sets to work. The sun still hasn't crested the horizon yet, but she learned long ago that lock-picking is more an issue of touch versus sight. It's all in the tumblers…
She's so deep in concentration that the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps doesn't even register until she finds herself being lifted by the shoulders in a vice-like grip and pressed roughly against the wall.
On instinct, she brings her knee up fast and hard, connecting with the stranger's groin. She hears his cry of pain as he releases her and staggers backwards. Emma reaches into her pocket, and grabs her phone to call 9-1-1, when -
"Bloody hell!" the man groans and Emma freezes.
That voice. She knows that voice - it's been featured in a number of her best and wildest dreams over the last eight years. But it can't be…
She raises her eyes from her phone screen to survey the man doubled-over and gasping in front of her. He raises his head and their eyes lock. The pained expression falls from his face, replaced one of utter shock.
"Bloody hell," he repeats in an incredulous whisper. "It's you."
Emma blinks rapidly and shakes her head, unable to believe her eyes. "Killian?"
"It's our first day, Rob," Killian grumbles into his phone as the delivery van jostles down the two lane strip of blacktop locals referred to as a highway. "Our first bleedin' day and that rat bastard Smee is late. I'm making the morning deliveries myself." Squinting at a road sign illuminated by the glow of his headlights, Killian curses under his breath. "And now it looks like I've missed my turn. Hold on."
He sets the phone down in a cup holder next to his coffee, and executes a rather ungraceful U-turn in the middle of the empty road whilst spewing a few choice phrases he'd picked up in the Navy.
When he raises the phone to his ear, he can hear Robin laughing at him. "That's a picturesque suggestion, mate, but I'm not sure Smee's head would quite fit up there. Besides, it'd get a bit messy, wouldn't it?"
Killian turns onto the side road he'd missed before. "Glad my troubles are so amusing to you," he deadpans. Propping up his knee to hold the steering wheel straight, he scrubs a hand down his face and exhales heavily. "I just don't want to lose customers before I even get this mad enterprise up and running. Remind me again why I thought this was a good idea?"
"Damned if I know. Some nonsense about being tired of cities and nightlife," Robin replies.
Killian hums. "There's that. Not to mention the added benefit of no longer having to worry about walking in on you and Regina shagging in my office ever again."
"That was one time, and well - newly wedded bliss and all that." At least Robin has the decency to sound mildly abashed. "You know, if you get bored of being a country gent, I'll happily sell you back your share of the pub at a very modest markup."
Killian chuckles as he pulls the van into the parking lot of his first delivery. "What? After you underpaid me for it in the first place? That's highway robbery. You're a bloody thief, Locksley."
He slowly steers the van around the side of the restaurant, puts it in park, and cuts the engine. He hears Robin's huff of indignation through the phone, but Killian's attention is drawn to a small, shadowy figure crouched by the back door. He can't make out much more than a silhouette, but it looks like the person is trying to pick the lock. Robin starts to respond to Killian's flippant remark, but Killian cuts him off.
"Rob, I'll call you later. I think I've just come across a burglar." Before Robin can respond, Killian disconnects the call. He opens the driver's door as quietly as possible, and climbs out, pocketing his phone.
By some miracle, the burglar still seems to be unaware of his presence. He runs the distance between them and grabs the would-be perpetrator by the shoulders, lifting and pressing the person firmly against the wall next to the door.
In that instant, he's struck by a powerful rush of deja vu. He catches a flash of vibrant (and angry) green eyes, and for a moment he's somewhere else.
He barely hears the hotel room door click shut behind them because he's pinning her to the wall, her fingers in his hair and her mouth hot and hungry against his as though she would devour him on the spot.
That split second is all it takes for her to fight back, and the next thing he knows, he's doubled over in pain, having received a swift knee to the balls. He staggers back, bracing his hands against his knees as he gasps for breath.
"Bloody hell!" he manages to grunt.
Slowly he raises his head, still panting from the pain in his groin, but as he meets his assailant's eyes, his jaw drops. He knows that face. It's the face he's tried to tell himself he isn't looking for in every crowd. The face some part of him always hoped would walk into his pub one night. The face he'd almost convinced himself had only been the rum-soaked imaginings of a lost soul. How is this possible?
"Bloody hell," he whispers. "It's you."
She blinks and shakes herself, and he's mildly gratified that she looks as utterly flummoxed as he feels. "Killian?"
He stands upright, never taking his eyes off of her for fear this is some sort of bizarre mirage. His thoughts swirl erratically through his mind (because how exactly does he talk to the woman he hasn't seen since the best night of his life?), but the one that keeps rising to the surface over and over cries out, She remembers me! She remembers my name! Feigning a measure of rationality he does not feel, he manages to stammer, "What the devil are you doing here? And why are you trying to break into this restaurant?"
The initial shock seemingly passed, the woman's face hardens. She narrows her eyes, shoving her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and taking a small step toward him. There's a clear edge of annoyance in her voice when she speaks. "I guess I should introduce myself. Name's Emma." She removes one hand from her pocket, but rather than extending it for him to shake, she raises it to point at the large yellow sign proclaiming the establishment to be 'Swan's Bar-B-Q' in black and red letters. "Emma Swan."
Killian squeezes his eyes shut and can feel the tips of his ears burning in embarrassment. "You're the owner." He says it as a statement, yet still tentatively opens one eye, looking to her (Emma, apparently) for confirmation which he receives in the form of a grim nod.
Oh, well done, Jones, he thinks. Not only did I just attack my biggest customer, it's HER. Actually, literally HER. After eight sodding years of wondering… He groans inwardly. Is it possible that I pissed off some vengeful demon in a past life?
Killian opens both eyes and plasters on what he hopes to be a charming smile. "Right then. Since I've practically assaulted you and made a proper arse of myself, I believe I owe you a name as well." He pauses, tilting his head slightly as he considers. She remembers me, an overly hopeful voice chirps in the back of his mind. "Or, rather a last name, that is."
A lovely flush colors Emma's cheeks. Well, that's encouraging. His smile deepens into a smirk and he raises one dark eyebrow. "It's Jones. Killian Jones. Proud new owner of Killian's Meat Market."
He extends his hand to her, and she stares at it warily for a second or two, before tentatively stepping forward to accept the handshake. He swears he must be imagining the little prickles of energy he feels sparking up his forearm at the slight contact, but then he sees her eyes widen like a spooked animal as she pulls abruptly from his grasp. Did she feel that, too?
"So you're my new meat supplier," Emma begins, then stops herself, turning her head sharply to the side. After a second of pained hesitation she tilts her head back toward him, looking up at him through her eyelashes. "That came out weird. Sorry."
Killian barks out a laugh. "Oh no, love. Don't apologize. It sounds much more exciting your way. In fact, I'd be more than happy to slip some extra sausage in your box each morning, if you're interested," he purrs, punctuating the proposition with a waggle of his eyebrows.
He fears her eyes will become lodged in her skull from the vehemence with which she rolls them. "You did NOT just say that," Emma grumbles, but Killian can tell that the ice of awkwardness between them has finally begun to crack.
"Aye, but I did." Unable to stop himself, he winks at her and is rewarded with the barest hint of a smile. Not wanting to press his luck too far, he adds, "Speaking of your order, lass, I should probably go retrieve that from the van." He hikes his thumb at the vehicle behind him.
"Right," she replies, turning back toward the door of the restaurant. "And I should get back to trying to pop this damn lock. I almost had it before a wannabe vigilante slammed into me." She cuts her eyes at him pointedly.
He purses his lips. "About that. Might I inquire as to why you are breaking into your own establishment?" Unconsciously his hand reaches to scratch a spot behind his ear.
Emma is already on her knees by the doorknob resuming her work, and from his vantage point at her side, Killian can't help but admire the curved profile of her shapely arse in that position. Suddenly, another rush of memories assaults him.
She's kneeling in front of him, looking up at him through long, inky lashes with a wicked grin on her face. Her deft fingers make quick work of his belt and zipper, as his cock strains against his boxer-briefs, rock hard and begging to be set free…
Seeming to sense his eyes on her, she turns to him with a raised eyebrow of her own. "You couldn't have asked me that before you plowed me?" She freezes, the smirk falling from her face, and Killian valiantly attempts to stifle his laugh. "Over. Plowed - into - whatever. Nevermind." Her voice drops into a mumble, and she averts her attention determinedly back to the lock.
She gives the hairpins one final twist and the door clicks open. She looks up at him as a genuine smile breaks across her face - the very smile that had so dazzled him that night eight years ago. She rocks back on her heels and stands. "Boom. That's how it's done." A mixture of pride and sass laces her tone.
Emma's smile is contagious, and Killian finds himself grinning back at her. She catches the edge of the door before it can shut again. "To answer your question," she continues, "I left to get something from my car, forgot my keys on the counter, and managed to lock myself out. I'm gonna find something to wedge this open so it doesn't happen again, and then I'll follow you to the van to help you carry in the order."
Killian shrugs. "No worries, lass. I can manage."
Emma huffs and grabs a chair from inside to prop the door. "Hey, buddy. I'm a lot stronger than I look, and there's no sense in you making multiple trips. Lay it on me."
Killian's tongue swipes across his top teeth, and he takes a step closer to her, edging into her personal space. "Darling, I'd be more than happy to lay it on you any time you like."
"Do you ever stop?" Emma scoffed, but Killian had heard the catch in her breath before she spoke.
He hummed in response with a flicker of a smirk before turning to walk toward the van. "Come on then, Swan. I've no doubt you're a tough lass."
They work in tandem retrieving and unloading her order into the restaurant's industrial cooler, their movements seamlessly coordinated as if they've been doing this dance for years. It should surprise him, seeing as how this is the first time they've done anything so normal together, and yet it doesn't. It simply feels natural.
She walks him back to the door and he can't help but playfully nudge her shoulder. "I don't mean to upset you Emma, but I think we make quite the team."
She doesn't answer, but he does catch her giving him a side-eyed glance, a twitch of a smile playing at the corner of her pink lips.
"So," she finally says as they reach the door, "I suppose I'll be seeing you tomorrow morning?" Killian dares to believe her voice actually sounds the tiniest bit hopeful.
"Sadly no," he replies, his hand scratching the phantom itch behind his ear once more, "I'm only playing delivery boy this morning as my employee was late. Though for you, lass, I might make an exception."
He grins at her, his eyes flicking briefly down to her mouth. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and the gesture sends his blood rushing southward. Killian leans ever so slightly closer, and Emma tilts her head incrementally to one side. "Is that so?"
"Actually, love, now that I know you're the proprietor here, I shall have to make a point of coming as often as possible." Killian's voice is lower now - softer - and he doesn't bother to stop himself from placing a lascivious emphasis on the word 'coming'.
Bloody hell, this woman brings out the very devil in me. Better rein it in before I do something idiotic like plundering that exquisite mouth of hers. I wonder if she still tastes like - NO! Snap out of it, Jones.
Furrowing his brow, he clears his throat and leans back against the door frame (further from temptation). "Seeking your advice, of course."
Emma blinks at the sudden change in tone, her expression turning quizzical. "My advice?"
"Yes, Swan. You see the Miner brothers from whom I bought the meat market had a section of the premises dedicated to taxidermy. Apparently they not only processed deer and other game for hunters, but also stuffed and mounted trophies. That is not a part of the business I intend to continue, and it leaves me with unused space. I'm thinking of turning that part of the market into a kitchen and selling barbecue as take-out."
Emma's face falls and she crosses her arms over her chest protectively. "You're what?"
Confused by her sudden defensive posture, Killian answers slowly. "Opening my own barbecue stand. I'd appreciate any words of wisdom you could offer, since barbecue is apparently your area of expertise."
Emma narrows her eyes and Killian can practically feel invisible walls snap into place around her. "So, you thought what exactly? That you could just show up here and flirt with me to get me to spill my secrets?"
Still a bit stunned by the sudden shift in the conversation, Killian's own hackles begin to rise. He juts his hips forward slightly to pull away from the doorframe and moves closer into her space, crowding her just a bit. "Nothing of the sort, love. A little friendly competition is good for the blood. Or don't you think you can handle it?" He gives a deliberate pop of emphasis to the final 'T'.
Far from retreating, Emma steps even closer jabbing him in the chest with her pointer finger. "And what makes you think I'm the one who couldn't handle it?"
Killian's eyes widen at the challenge, and he finds himself in equal measure both angry and aroused. Before he can snarl a response (or pin her against the doorframe and kiss her senseless), a new voice draws their attention.
"Mom, who's this guy?" The voice belongs to a young lad, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, with shaggy brown hair and his mother's chin.
Killian freezes and instantly he's transported back in time to a very different doorstep.
"Momma, who's that?"
A mop of brown curls and two wide grey eyes peek around Milah's legs as she stands, arms crossed and scowling at Killian from her doorway. "It's no one, sweetie," she replies, looking down at the little boy and tousling his hair affectionately. "This man just has the wrong house. Now go back to your playroom, while I give him directions."
The boy nods and runs back inside. Milah steps forward onto the small porch, closing her front door behind her. Killian can only stand stock still in utter shock, his heart hammering in his chest with such force his ribs may break. He feels like the very picture of a fool, standing there before her in his best dress uniform, with a bouquet of flowers in his hand and a diamond in his pocket. A very redundant diamond, now he sees she is already sporting one on her left hand that somehow had never been there before.
"Milah, what's going on?" he finally manages to stammer.
"I should ask you the same thing! What the hell are you doing here? You never said you'd be in port today!" Milah's hands are on her hips and he's never seen her look so angry.
"I - I wanted to surprise you. My discharge went through a couple of weeks early, and I thought we could celebrate…" he trails off lamely, still struggling to process what is happening before his eyes.
Milah rubs her eyes in frustration. "Killian, you can't be here. This is my home. My son is here. Thank god my husband's at work or you might've ruined everything."
Killian blanches at the word 'husband', but Milah either doesn't notice or doesn't care. She sighs heavily and looks him in the eye. "I thought you understood our arrangement. You were fun and handsome and exciting. A fantasy. Why the hell did you think I never invited you here? We always met at your base or at a hotel." She scrubs a hand down her face. "Nevermind that now. Whatever this was-" she gestures between them "-is over. This is my real life, Killian, and I can't have you getting in the way of that. Now please go before any of my neighbors notice you."
She turns on her heel and storms back into the house. Before the door closes, he calls out, "Milah, wait! Milah, I-" the door slams shut behind her "-love you," he finishes in a whisper.
"Hey, kid! Shouldn't you be walking to school by now?" Emma's voice brings Killian back to the present. The boy trots the rest of the way over to where Emma and Killian are standing, and Emma casually throws an arm around the lad's shoulder, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
No. NO! Not her, too. Killian clenches his jaw as he takes in the picture of mother and son. His eyes dart down to her left hand, finding the ring-finger empty. That doesn't mean there wasn't one eight years ago…
"Mom!" the lad grumbles with the dramatics of adolescence, and pushes Emma's side as she chuckles. "I was on my way, but I remembered I left my math book in your office last night. I just came by to pick it up." He pauses, turning to Killian and giving him a once-over before smiling and extending his hand. "I'm Henry."
Forcing himself to move so as not to be rude (it's hardly the lad's fault), Killian manages to turn the corners of his mouth up into a semblance of a smile that doesn't begin to reach his eyes, and shakes Henry's hand.
When Killian looks back up to Emma, her expression is hard as stone, her lips pressed into a grim line. "Henry, this is Killian Jones. He's the new owner of the Miner Brothers' Meat Market."
"And I was just leaving," Killian interjects.
"Yes, you were," Emma confirms as Henry looks perplexedly between the two adults.
Killian nods a terse goodbye and strides back to his van. He drives back to the market with a lead foot on the gas pedal, parks the vehicle and marches straight back to his office, tossing the van keys to a befuddled Smee along the way. The blighter will just have to handle the rest of this morning's deliveries himself.
He shuts his office door and slumps into his desk chair. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk and dropping his head into his hands. His fingers bite angrily through his hair into his scalp. He's had about all he can take for one morning. He'd found his mystery woman here of all places in the middle of bloody nowhere, and for a few shining minutes it seemed like eight years of "What ifs?" and fantasies were about to come to glorious fruition.
Then, she'd turned on him suddenly for reasons he still didn't understand, and worst of all he'd discovered that the woman that saved him, that brought him back from the brink of a self-destructive maelstrom was in fact exactly like the woman who had set him on that dark path to begin with. All these years he'd believed that his night with her (Emma, he forces himself to use her name) had been so much more than a one-night stand. That they'd shared a singular magic, shining all the more brightly for its brevity, a little piece of their souls blending together along with their bodies.
But no. Once again, he is nothing more than a handsome face and a good fuck. A little adventure to tide her over. Once again, he is a fool.
Emma Swan is just like Milah.
A/N (continued): Oh, don't worry. I won't let them hate each other forever. Just a little while longer...
Talk to me people, tell me what you think? What happened in the past? What's going to happen in the future? I'd love to hear your comments and theories!
Special thanks on this chapter go out to amagicalship for being an amazing (and really fast) beta!