She clutched the mug tightly in both of her hands, and stared down at the amber liquid. It wasn't good tea—not by a long shot; it was that crappy instant stuff—but it was the strongest thing she had in the cupboards.
He had offered her rum, producing a flask from some inner jacket pocket, but she wasn't desperate enough to start taking alcohol—or anything ingestible, for that matter—from strangers who showed up on her doorstep, proclaiming to know her.
At least, she wasn't desperate enough yet.
With a sigh, she dropped her forehead down into her hand, feeling the beginning stirrings of a migraine behind her left eye. Idly, she rubbed at the spot, trying to wrap her brain around everything that had happened in the last half hour.
"Mom?"
She glanced up automatically at the sound of Henry's voice, to see him standing at the edge of the hallway. His eyes flickered from her, seated at the table, over to the man—Killian Jones—who was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest. He hadn't spoken a word since entering the apartment, choosing instead to stand and watch in silence as she bustled around, heating water and riffling for the tea bags.
"What's going on?" Henry took a hesitant step forward. "Who is he? What's he doing here?"
Her head throbbed particularly violently at the questions—I'm just as confused as you, she wanted to say—and she held out a hand to her son, who obligingly slid into her embrace. She rested her forehead against his narrow shoulder—Jesus, when had he gotten tall enough for her to be able to do that?—and rubbed a hand soothingly over his back.
"I think maybe you should go next door for a little bit," she said softly, tilting her head up to look at him. His face crinkled into an are-you-crazy? look, and she couldn't help but smile.
"It'll be fine." She straightened up, squeezing his arm before gently nudging him towards the door. "You'll be close enough to hear the screams," she joked weakly.
He cast her a look that said he very definitely didn't approve of what she was doing, but he headed grudgingly for the door. She had to stifle a laugh when, as he passed the man, he shot him a lethal glare.
The man, at least, had the decency to look somewhat abashed.
Henry reached the door and turned back to face her. "I'm giving you thirty minutes."
She took a sip of her tea to hide her grin. "Fair enough."
The door snapped shut behind him, and Emma felt all the energy drain from her body. She slumped against her chair, head dropping down into her hand again, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that she was very much alone in her apartment with a man she didn't even know.
Or maybe she did—it was all very confusing.
What the hell are you doing, Swan?
"He's a good lad."
Killian's voice was soft and strangely reminiscent; she rolled her head over to the side to look at him, only to see that he was already watching her.
She tried to ignore the funny thrill that shot through her.
"Yeah," she agreed belatedly. "He is. Don't know where he got it from."
"Well." He took a cautious step towards the table, and when she didn't protest, he sunk down into the chair opposite her. "It seems to me that you've got a good lad because you've been a good mum."
Her stomach twisted uncomfortably—she'd never been very good at taking compliments.
Not that she'd been paid that many, either.
She shrugged, rather noncommittally, and took another sip. "Or he's just a good kid."
"Aye," he said after a moment, mouth twitching up. "Could be that, too."
She swirled the dregs of tea around in the bottom on her mug, briefly considering making another, and just as quickly deciding against it. She wasn't a fan of beating around the bush, but she didn't quite know where to start. She didn't get the feeling that he meant her any harm—he'd had ample opportunities to try to pull something on her, and he hadn't—but something about him set her on edge.
She wasn't sure if that was a good thing, or not.
"Yesterday," she finally said after a beat of silence, "you said you were an old friend." She glanced up to see him still watching, electric eyes seeming to drink her in in a way that made her stomach squirm again. "What's that all about?"
He hesitated just a second too long, and she felt the warning bells go off in the back of her mind. He opened his mouth, and she braced herself for the lie.
"You and I, we were…acquainted," he started slowly, and she frowned when the familiar tingle never raced down the back of her neck. Whatever story he was telling, at the very least, he believed it to be true.
At best, it really was true.
She shivered again.
"There was trouble," he continued. "Your boy was in danger, and I helped you get him back. Along the way, we grew close." His voice grew softer over the last sentence, expression filling with something she didn't quite recognize—something not quite sorrow and not quite regret, but something that was definitely pained.
"I know—" He leaned forward abruptly, tongue darting out over his lip in a nervous gesture, "I know that you don't remember. And I have something that will make you remember, but I will not give it to you without your consent."
Her head spun—I know you don't remember. But I can make you. "Why couldn't you have said that yesterday?" she asked, what little humor that was in her voice falling flat.
His wry smile looked oddly self-depreciating, and she immediately regretted the jibe.
An awkward silence settled over them, and after a few moments, he stood, reaching for her mug. She let him take it without argument and watched as he walked over to the sink and rinsed it out, fishing the tea bag out with a finger and tossing it down into the garbage can.
She frowned, cocking her head to the side. Something about the way he moved, the way his left arm stayed stiff and rigid—
She remembered the previous morning, shoving him back and catching a glint of metal.
A hook, attached at his wrist where his hand should have been.
Abruptly, an image came to mind of the helm of a ship, the sleeve of a leather coat stretched out in front of her, a metal hook holding the wheel steady.
Remember what I told you. Hands here, and here.
She shook herself. Of course she was being ridiculous. She'd never been on a ship like that before. Her imagination was just running wild, must've been something she'd dreamed—
"You said you had something that would make me remember." Her voice cut through the silence, loud, abrupt, and he glanced back at her. "What is it?"
He set the mug on the edge of the sink, taking the time to dry his hand before answering. "A potion."
One of her brows edged up of its own accord. "A potion?"
"Aye." He ambled back over to the table and took his seat again. She stared in disbelief.
"And you didn't think to just slip it in my tea?"
Hurt flashed across his features, and she felt another pang of guilt.
"If there's one thing I believe in, it's good form," he said quietly. "That, love, is most decidedly not good form."
Her chest clenched at the way the endearment slipped from his lips so effortlessly—as if he'd done it a hundred times before.
Don't fight it, love. You'll be back, quick as a flash.
The words came to her unbidden, and she nearly huffed in frustration. Why were these—these things popping into her head, these things that sounded like memories and felt like dreams?
Where were they coming from?
Her head gave another painful throb.
"This is too much," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. She was going insane. There was no other explanation for what was happening. Why else would she let some stranger—some stranger who claimed to know her, who said he had a potion that would make her remember, no less—into her home? Why else would she entertain a conversation with him?
"Emma?"
But damn if he wasn't right there, leaning over her, so close that she could smell him—leather and salt and spice. His voice was in her ear, soothing her in a way that she hadn't been soothed in a long, long time, telling her that everything was going to be okay and she could trust him, please, and please, please don't push him away again.
His fingers brushed her hair over her shoulder, skimming over her skin, and she reeled back, twisting away so that she wouldn't have to see the rejection crease his face.
"I think it's time for you to go now."
Her voice was shaking, and her stomach burned with the shame of appearing so weak.
"Emma, please." She heard the scrape of the chair legs behind her as he stood. He stepped around the edge of the table, and she braced herself for his touch, but it never came.
"I just need to know you're all right."
She let her eyes fall closed as his words brushed over the back of her neck, coaxing chill bumps up along her skin. His voice was so raw, so open, so concerned, and she relished in the feeling for a moment.
Whoever Killian Jones was, he wasn't lying about caring for her.
Squaring her shoulders, she turned back around to face him, and his proximity was like a punch in the gut. She forced a breath.
"Do you have a place to stay tonight?"
He looked appropriately confused. "Yes, but—"
"Good," she cut him off, sidestepping around him to head for the door. She opened it, and looked back at him expectantly. "Then you can go back there and just wait until I've had time to think about all this."
He stared at her for a moment, and she could almost see his inner battle pan out across his face. He wanted to stay, but he also wanted to respect her wishes, but he also wanted to stay.
"You can come back tomorrow," she said, the words coming out before she had a chance to think. She found, though, after she'd spoken them that they were true. For whatever reason, he had dropped into her life, and she intended to find out why.
His expression cleared some, and he nodded once. She watched as he took slow, measured steps towards the door, stopping just in front of her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hand twitch, fingers straining out towards her, but at the last moment, he pulled them back into a fist.
"As you wish," he said quietly, and without another backward glance, he was gone.
She stood at the door for a long time after he left, listening to his footsteps pound out three flights of stairs.