i know i know i knooooow i'm so sorry for the lateness of this update, i'm actually ashamed of myself but as i have explained in several asks on tumblr, a) life has been a mess and extremely busy, b) i wanted the end of this story to be worthy and didn't want to fuck it up c) i wasn't in the emotional mindset needed to write this story without feeling the need to self-insert myself in emma's shoes and it was the last thing i wanted to considering the circumstances. i hope you understand, and that you enjoy the end of this story :)
(and in any case you wanna check out the other stories i've written inbetween updates, they're all posted on archive of our own, because the layout is infinitely better than here on ffnet. same username as here, in case any of you wanna say hi over there!)
"Hey." She cautiously made her way towards him until she could rest her hands on his shoulders and drop a kiss on his hair. He didn't acknowledge her, though, and kept staring at the harbor in front of them as she rounded the bench and sat at his left. "I thought I might find you here."
He still didn't say a thing, the tightening of his jaw the only sign that he had even heard her. "You never showed up for lunch," she added, sneaking a hand inside her purse to take a Mars bars out and wave it in front of his face.
He sighed, finally taking it and playing with the wrapped paper in his hands, wind whipping around them. "I'm sorry."
She patted his arm. "It's okay. Henry wasn't too upset - more pasta for him."
The crunching sound of plastic being handled by shaking fingers was the only thing that could be heard for the next several minutes as Killian made good work of the candy bar, while Emma spent an equal time staring at the calming sight of the water ahead of them and sneaking glances at her husband.
"Anna was asking about you," she said as an afterthought once he finished eating.
He said nothing.
"Do you want to tell me what's wrong, or am I gonna have to guess?"
Killian smiled bitterly. "Is there a third option in which we just don't talk about it?"
"You've been using that card for the past month," Emma countered with an arched eyebrow.
Killian huffed. "You're too perceptive for your own good."
"It isn't too difficult to guess when you're acting so weird."
Sighing somberly, his hand reached out to take hers, his index finger stroking her wedding ring without saying a word.
She knew there was something wrong, but she didn't want to admit that to him. She wanted him to tell her, dammit. They were married for a reason, right? Wasn't that what married couples were supposed to do? Tell each other what was bothering them so they could work on their issues?
Or at least that was what she had always thought how it all worked. How they had worked until then.
She let out a sigh and clamped her free hand around his. "Killian, please. I'm worried about you. Everybody is."
The wind fanned her hair into both of their faces, and she wondered how in any other day her husband would have found this amusing, covertly using blond strands of hair to hide his eyes and wear as a fake moustache just to make her laugh. Today, though, he didn't even seem to notice. His attention solely focused on her arm, and the gentle touching of her wedding band now switched to the scar on her forearm, and she tensed.
He met her eyes for the first time since she had found him sitting on that bench that morning. "Do I have to spell it out for you?"
She batted his arm away, brushing his concerned eyes off. "Killian, I'm completely fine."
"I know you are."
"If that's true, then what is this about?"
Her voice rang out louder than she had expected, making a seagull that had been wandering close to their bench in search of leftover pieces of bread on the ground fly away, startled.
Killian huffed. "I don't know. If you're so goddamn perceptive why don't you tell me?"
"There's no need to use that tone with me."
His gaze met hers, now hard and angry. "You're damn right about that, there's no need. But your beloved husband is so fucked up after what happened that he can't physically bring himself to stop from snapping at the woman he loves."
She inhaled sharply, memories flooding her brain in a wave of pain and fear that she had tried to block for the past weeks. David's panicked voice through her walkie, the frantic search, the open fire, their mark running for his life in the dead of the night through a maze of warehouses.
The pain. Killian's pleas for her to stay with him.
She shook herself back to the present, ignoring the shudder going through her at the memories assaulting her. "Stop Shakespearing me and tell me what's wrong," she snapped angrily.
His tone matched hers. "What's wrong is that you almost bled out on me, Swan."
There was a pregnant pause that Emma was terrified to break.
She broke it anyway.
"But I didn't," she whispered brokenly.
"Yeah, you didn't, but you almost did." It seemed like all the fight left him as he slumped on the bench, hands cradling his head with a look of pure exhaustion. He turned to peer at her inquisitively. "Do you want me to tell you a story?"
Oh no.
"Killian…" she started with no avail.
"You asked me to tell you what's wrong, so here it goes. It's about something that happened to me ten years ago."
"Please, you don't…" she started, but he kept going as if he hadn't heard her.
"The woman I loved before you bled out in my arms. That's right."
The grating noise of a siren in the distance eerily echoed behind them for several minutes, almost mocking them for their conversation, and she had to suppress a shiver. "But I didn't. I'm okay," she finally whispered, trying to catch his gaze. She was trying really hard not to let his words tear her apart, but taking in the way his voice caught and the emotion clogged in it was making it truly difficult.
She remembered all about the story behind Milah's death. It had taken a while for Killian to share it with her once they started dating, but somehow they ended up telling each other everything about their respective pasts. Emma had opened up about her childhood being bounced around foster homes, Neal's betrayal and the struggle once she decided to keep Henry.
She could feel moisture gathering at the corner of her eyes, but didn't bother to rub at her eyes. Killian noticed this, and letting out a heavy sigh, he wrapped his hand around hers.
"You are. But the thing is, it could happen. Any day."
She swiveled towards him, her jaw tightening in annoyance. "Anything could happen every damn day, Killian. You could get hit by a bus, I could have a stroke, someone could shoot David on the chest–anything. We're human, not gods."
"Don't you think I know this? I just can't stop feeling this way, okay?"
He was breathing like he'd run a damn marathon, passing a hand through his hair and disheveling it even more than it usually was. Emma searched something in his expression that would question his motives, but found nothing but distress.
"You're not asking me to quit my job because it's too dangerous, are you?" She asked quietly, and he shook his head, chuckling mirthlessly and giving her a disbelieving look.
"Of course not. For starters, I'd never tell you what to do with your life, I've never done it and I won't stop doing it now." He played with his fingers, as if he had no idea what to do with them now that they were resting on his bent knees. "And then there's the thing that as you so eloquently put, I could lose you no matter how dangerous your job is."
She quietly mulled over his words, staring at him with a frown. "So this is all a crisis over mortality?"
"Don't joke about this, Swan," he growled.
"I'm not," she snapped back. "I've lost people in my life too."
"I know," he murmured quietly. She looked back at his long, nimble fingers. "But the way I feel about you… I didn't think, after Milah, that I'd ever feel the same for anybody else. You don't know what it's like, to see their very soul as life flees their bodies. I would never wish that kind of pain on anybody, not even my most hated enemy." He exhaled loudly, clasping a hand over his face and rubbing it tiredly, and Emma's fingers itched to pry them away. "I wouldn't be able to survive that, Emma," he declared in a murmur.
And the sad thing was that she understood him. She did, but at the same time couldn't really feel the same. If she did, she wouldn't be able to live her life, to give Henry the life he deserved, to properly let herself feel alive. And that was something that Killian should be able to do, if not for himself, then for her, for them.
"We'll work it out," she promised him, and he gave her a tremulous smile, letting her fingers link with hers and her lips press against his temple tenderly.
Two weeks later found Emma at the station, helplessly punching her keyboard as she studied report after report, names and dates dancing before her eyes. She just couldn't figure out this case, there was too much happening and she felt like she was missing something.
"So, um, how are things with Walsh?" David asked in an attempt to sound nonchalant.
He failed.
"Fine." The words left her mouth before she even had time to question what to say; or even if they were truthful or not. David seemed to catch on that, because he gave her a disbelieving look and frowned.
"That's reassuring."
She huffed quietly, shuffling papers that didn't need to be shuffled but as long as it got her hands busy and her gaze away from David's she didn't mind much. She could always rearrange them back later. "What else do you expect me to tell you? It's not like I ask you details of your dates with your wife."
In response, David just scratched his neck, mumbling something under his breath, and Emma rolled her eyes.
"You guys are such a bunch of gossips. What the hell did Killian tell you?"
He didn't answer her for a beat, until he plopped down in the chair in front of her desk, sighing in defeat. "He didn't say a word. I… heard."
Emma froze. "You heard?"
"And saw," he added, shame creeping into his tone. Emma gaped in horror, and he quickly put his hands up in defense. "It was an accident!"
"You were spying on us? What is this, high school all over again?" She wondered aloud, and David appeared properly chastened.
"You were in the questioning room," he finally explained, and Emma stared at him.
"So what?"
He shrugged. "The mirror."
Her limbs froze, and she sat there, gaping at nothing, thinking back of how Killian had dragged her into the questioning room, where of course there was the standard double mirror from which other agents could see the procedural questioning without being seen.
One would have thought she'd have been prepared for this, but alas, she wasn't.
Huh.
"Oh." She felt her cheeks flushing, and she cursed herself, but if what he was telling her was true, then he may have seen way more than she had been prepared to. "You could have not stayed, you know."
"I only caught the end of the conversation," he told her, and she cringed again at his impeccable timing. "Was what he said true?"
"He said a lot of things."
"That you're not in love with Walsh."
She stayed silent, adamant on not saying anything that might give away her more than messed up feelings about that topic in particular. It wasn't like she had spent the last few days driving herself batshit crazy or anything, no sire.
"I'm not having this conversation," she sighed in the end.
"Who are you gonna have this conversation with then?"
She snorted loudly. "I don't know, with anybody who won't be wearing the 'please forgive Killian' club member badge!"
"That's not fair."
She swiveled on her chair so she was facing him, pursing her lips in an angry scowl as her hands gripped the arms of the chair with a strength she hadn't counted on. "You know what's unfair? Being left behind by your bastard of a husband and not contacted with for three years, have supporting friends who've been for you for all that time and suddenly, when said bastard comes back, you all welcome him with open arms!"
David looked like he'd been slapped. Shaking his head, he stepped towards her, a frown touching his forehead. "Emma, do you honestly believe that?"
"Is it not the truth?" She said as she crossed her arms over her chest. David sighed, rubbing his temples wearily.
"We only forgave Killian after we heard what he had to say."
Emma frowned. "When the hell did you do that?"
David looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there. Emma felt for him. "That trip we had two and a half years ago?"
"Yeah?"
"We actually went to see Killian," he admitted, and Emma felt the tendrils of betrayal grip her hard.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Just in case it turned ugly. And of course we didn't want to hurt you."
"But…"
David threw his hands up in the air. "Emma, we went to get answers."
Emma froze, thinking back to how well-received Killian had been since the moment he had come back. The hugs, the friendly punches to the arm, the recovery of their former banter and weekly routines. "You would have forgiven him no matter what, would you?" she whispered, voice insecure and broken.
David sighed, striding towards her until he could sit by her side on the desk and letting his hand cover hers, just like those days after Killian left and he'd sat in silence, offering her companionship and support in the best way he could - and she would let him. "I can't answer that. We're all friends, but there are some things that one can't just simply ignore. Maybe we would have still been friends, but to be 100% honest? It wouldn't have been the same." He paused, letting out a breath. "Just so you know, we still gave him hell, believe me. I'm not proud of this, but as soon as he opened the door I punched him in the face."
Emma looked at him warily. "Why?"
He shrugged, as if it was no big deal. "Because he hurt you, and it was killing us." He looked at her from the corner of his eye, tapping her knuckles softly with his fingers. "It killed him too." She didn't say anything, so he kept talking as if he hadn't just told her how miserable Killian had apparently been after he disappeared from their lives. "He didn't complain. About the punch, I mean. Not even once. He was expecting it, actually."
"David…" she started, but he went on.
"We're all friends, and we're family. He deserved a chance to explain, and I know you don't wanna hear it, but maybe you should talk to him about it."
She frowned. "We did."
His eyebrow flew up his forehead. "You did?"
"At the wedding," she explained, and at David's frown, she told him about that night. About Killian interrupting her dance with Walsh. About his words, about that day in their bench. About him admitting they both ran.
(She didn't tell him about her confessing she didn't want to run anymore.) (That was better left just for Killian and her.)
David stayed silent through her story, but once she finished, he passed a hand through his face, scratching at the barely-there scruff. "I don't want to be that person, but believe me, that… wasn't really talking," he finally pointed out, and Emma fought an eyeroll. As much as she loved David, sometimes he could believe himself a therapist where he had no business trying to.
"Then what was it?"
He gave her a look. "I don't know, you tell me. Are you really satisfied with that tiny conversation? With that explanation?"
"But I know what he meant," she explained, and this was why she didn't want to have this conversation. It was her and Killian's business, after all, not anybody else's.
She couldn't remember seeing David so out of sorts before. "Sure, but every time you've ever played out that conversation happening in your head for the past three years… was it at your sister's wedding, dancing, and without one single shout and over in a minute?" he asked, and Emma scowled automatically in response, the need to defend herself overpowering her.
"We've screamed at each other enough for the past weeks."
"Maybe. Maybe not," he said, still giving her that penetrating gaze that Emma had always hated. For all his sweet, naive kind of puppy exterior, David could give Killian a run for his money in the therapy business. "I'm just trying to help you out here, Emma."
She sighed, letting her head fall on the table and knocking it on the wood. "I know."
David walked closer to her and snatched one of the chairs on the desk behind Emma's, pulling it until it was sitting by hers. "So. Are you in love with Walsh or what?" Before she could know how to even start answering that, he added, "It's okay if you don't know."
She decided to ask a question of her own instead of answering his. "Do you think I am?"
He studied her silently, eyes never leaving hers as he pursed his lips in consideration. "I don't say this to be mean, but..." he started nervously, and Emma gave him some sort of encouraging chin-jerk so he'd go on. "I've only seen you in love once, and it wasn't with a furniture shop owner."
Emma hadn't truly thought the verbalization of her feelings by one of her closest friends would make a big difference in the overall big scheme of things. She had feared the truth, way before today, even way before Killian confronted her in that questioning room. It didn't make her eyes sparkle or her hands shake; it just brought a sort of calmness and resignation over her.
"At least you didn't say anything about him looking like a monkey," Emma murmured sadly.
David snorted, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "Yeah, that's what I imagined."
They stayed like that for a while, just the two of them mulling over their thoughts.
"You know what's the worst part?" She finally asked, and David looked at her from the corner of his eye.
"What?"
"I hate when he's right," she admitted with a sigh, and David's arm tightened around her, dropping a light kiss on her forehead and not needing to ask who they were talking about.
No matter what Pottermore had told her and Henry when they took the stupid quiz, Emma had always questioned her sorting as a Gryffindor. Not that she wasn't happy with the sorting itself, but she'd always kind of doubted herself. Today of all days, she was having one of those days: maybe because she'd spent the last two weeks doing everything but confronting Killian. She came up with every excuse in the book in order not to see him - and if there was no way to avoid him, she kept it short and concise so he'd get the hint.
After her conversation with David, she knew she had to make things right and leave everything on the table.
But anyway, enough with the nerd inner monologue: there she was. No matter how long it'd taken her to put on her big girl pants, she had finally taken the car and driven to Killian's and ridden the elevator up and knocked on his door before she could chicken out.
No time to get out now.
It didn't take long for him to open, dressed in his pajama pants and a t-shirt she recognized from one of their trips to Disney World, sporting a hole near his collarbone.
"Swan? What are you doing here?" Killian asked, bewilderment clear on his face. Emma braced herself, arms coming around her own torso as if by the simple gesture she could hold everything in - every feeling, every doubt, every fear.
"Can I come in?"
"Of course. Make yourself at home." As soon as the words left his mouth he winced, and his hand came up to scratch the back of his neck. Yeah, 'home'. Right. "I mean…"
"I know what you mean," she said, and followed him inside as he closed the door behind her. Curiosity got the best of her as she peeked around his new house, taking in the pale blue furniture, the framed pictures, the artwork and nautical décor he'd die before giving up. "Nice place," she commented, lightly touching a glass bottle with a handful of seashells. Killian smiled fondly.
"Thanks. Though of course I can't take all the merit - everything has the Henry Swan seal of approval, or else."
"Or else," she repeated with a chuckle. He looked at her, lips still curled up in a soft smile. She cleared her throat after what felt like a touch too long meeting his stare, and she thought she heard him exhale loudly before he walked briskly in the direction of the kitchen.
"Would you perhaps want something to drink?"
She hesitated, thinking back on what she had come to talk to him about. Maybe a drink wouldn't be the worst idea in the world.
"By your face I'm gonna go with rum," he surmised, and before she could protest - even though she had silently agreed on the liquid courage - he had picked up two glasses from an upper shelf.
"What does my face have to do with anything?"
As he found the rum bottle under the sink, he gave her a look as he poured them a generous drink. "It's your 'I'm gonna brace myself for a fight' face, love." She didn't say anything to that, because as it turned out, he was right. As per usual. Damn him. He let out a soft chuckle as he approached her with her glass, offering it to her. "I'm also counting on it halting you from attacking me if things go south."
She accepted it with a smirk. "I could also throw it at you."
"I'll take my chances," he shrugged, clinking it to hers.
He motioned towards the couch, and she followed him there, gingerly sitting at his side and sipping from her glass, enjoying the burn of the alcohol on her throat. She caught him staring at her from the corner of her eye, but didn't move, preferring to swirl the remains of the rum on the pretty glass she was sure she'd heard Mary Margaret compliment once.
It didn't take long for him to fire. If anything, Killian had never been the patient sort when it came to confrontation or big talks. He clapped his knee with his free hand and turned towards her. "So. I'm all ears."
She left the glass on his low table, fearing she might knock it down at some point of the conversation slash fight, and stared at it as she uttered her prime question.
"Why."
He frowned. "Beg your pardon?"
She willed her voice not to waver. "Why did you leave?"
That made him pause, giving him time to stare at her square in the eye, something haunted and dark pooling in his gaze. "You know why."
She shook her head. "If I knew I wouldn't be here asking, trust me."
"But.. I told you."
"You actually didn't," she said, recalling her talk with David. She had mulled it over at home since then, in the quiet hours of night once Henry had gone to bed after they'd had dinner and watched a movie together. She had gone through every word exchanged between Killian and her since he'd come back to Boston: at the rehearsal dinner, at the wedding, at the station, with their friends, with Henry. No matter what he had shared with her at the wedding while they danced, pressed together and voice low in her ear, it wasn't enough. No matter how she felt what he had said, how she knew what the point had been, she still needed to hear it.
He bit his lip, considering her quietly. "I thought you understood. Back at the wedding."
She was tempted to gulp back the rest of her rum, but in a surprising move she just whirled on her side so she could stare at him fully. "Killian, I need you to say it. Don't you see?" She passed a hand through her hair, catching some unruly tangles from the ride over with the lowered window as she tried to tell herself it was alright, it was fine, it was just her and Killian talking, and she needed to do it. For herself. For Henry. For them to move on. "I need answers. I've been waiting three years for answers. I've spent three years wondering what the hell I might have done wrong to drive you away from me - from us. If there was something I could've done to make you reconsider, to bring you back. If it was somebody else. If you wondered about me, if you even thought about me at all. If you regretted it. I need to know if you missed me too, or if you ever did at all." Her voice caught, but she still went on, not minding how it shook or how her nose scrunched up as she tried and failed to suppress a hiccup. "If I'm beyond fixing because I'm incapable of being loved unconditionally." She stopped to catch a breath, closing her eyes for the first time since she finally, finally opened herself so he could see how badly she craved a true explanation. "I need answers. The whole story, and not a vague mention of something we addressed at the wedding. It's not enough. Not for me, anyway."
She hadn't even realized she had started crying until he reached out and wiped a tear away from her cheek, the pad of his thumb caressing her skin with a tenderness that made her let out a soft gasp. She closed her eyes, but didn't pull away.
"I'll never forgive myself for hurting you," he whispered brokenly. Emma looked at him through blurry eyes, but still went on. She didn't know what to do with herself - with themselves - anymore but to try to put a stop to this shipwreck that was their emotional breakdown.
"The only way for me to stop hurting is for us to let it all out. For good."
The corner of his mouth tilted up in a mirthless smile, devoid of the warmth it usually had whenever it was directed at her. "You're right, as always." He paused, collecting his thoughts. "That day, at the docks…"
"I remember," she said, voice soft. He looked over at her, and she noticed the way his hand curled into a fist.
"You… You had almost died on me, Emma. And I could do nothing about it, no matter all those years in med school. I almost lost you."
She stopped herself from crying out loud. "But I didn't," she barely choked.
"And I thank God for that every single day of my miserable life." He inhaled sharply, hands curling into fists on their knees as if he couldn't really control them. He dropped his gaze towards them. "It still doesn't change the fact that for the second time in my life, the love of my life almost slipped away in my arms." He paused for a moment, and she saw him swallow, as if his next words were too hard for him to speak. "You know what happened with my mother, with Liam, with Milah."
She did, indeed. She remembered hearing each story, some shared in a dark corner of a pub in between pints of beer, others tangled in their sheets, others under a blanket on his couch, another in her yellow bug when he accompanied her on a stakeout. She had stroked his head while he wept in her lap, soothed him, shushed him, and wrapped her arms around him until he finally caved in and went to sleep. He'd lost so much, almost as much as her: a proper chance at a happy childhood, the love of their respective parents, and loved ones that had either slipped away or been taken away too soon.
Emma's parents had abandoned her barely hours after she was born. Killian's mother died by his side on the bed, when he could do nothing but hug her chest pleading her not to go. Emma had never had siblings, except maybe that boy who'd stuck with her in a dozen foster homes, August, until she found out one day he'd scampered away with some other kids to God knows where. Liam had taken care of Killian for years, had protected him and taken care of him when their deadbeat of a father left them for good, and still, in the end, he also left him when a mission in the Navy went awry. And then, of course, Milah. Milah, whom Killian insisted Emma would have adored, who had brought him out of his shell after his family had been gone, who had loved him back as fiercely as he had adored her.
She knew it all.
"I do," she whispered.
Killian nodded somberly, still not meeting her eyes. "And I… After Milah, I swore I'd never go through that, not ever. I'd never get close enough to somebody to the point that I'd be broken beyond repair If I lost them." He stopped himself, barely able to catch his breath, but seemingly found the will to stare back at her. "I hadn't counted on falling for this brilliant, amazing blonde, though." His gaze turned soft and wondering, his right hand coming up to reverently touch the curl that hung over her face to put it behind her ear. "You were the variable, the unexpected in my carefully-crafted plan. It was impossible to fight the urge to love you and Henry." He paused, hand falling back to his lap as he bit his lip in consternation, grimacing as if in physical pain. "And then I almost lost you, and I… I left."
Emma gaped. And gaped. And then gaped some more. She had never truly believed those 'he left me speechless' sayings, mainly because Emma Swan always had something to say: a smartass response, a witty quip, or at the very least, an indignified snort or an eye-roll. But here she was: quiet, unmoving and apparently beyond any speech capacity.
There was always a first time for everything.
And this, exactly, was one of those times. Because for the life of her, she couldn't recall any other time she'd ever experienced this complete and utter desolation.
And she finally recovers herself, sees light, finds Nirvana, you call it.
"That's the ultimate bullshit I've ever heard in my entire life, and I question criminals on a daily basis," she finally said, and he hang his head in shame.
"I know."
She suddenly leapt up from the couch, pacing back and forth, arms flailing wildly around her. "You just - you left! With no explanation!"
He sighed once more. "I know."
She froze, her hand flying to her throat and tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. "You broke my heart! You… how could you even look at yourself in the mirror after that?" Her voice came out strangled and watery, almost choked with grief, as if the pain of all those years came running back to her in an instant. "Wasn't I worth an explanation at least? Or a goodbye? A fucking note?"
She was astonished to find his eyes equally watery. "You'd have burned it."
"Because it'd still be bullshit," she exclaimed, incensed. "I didn't die Killian! Get over it! I'm fine, alive and kicking, and you left me because you were afraid of getting hurt if you lost me? How is that fair?"
He passed a hand through his hair, and she belatedly noticed that it was shaking. "It's not. It's anything but."
She stopped herself from keeping screaming at him and doing anything stupid. Stepping backwards until her back pressed against the wall so she could steady herself, she met his gaze from across the room. "Then why didn't you stay away for good?"
It didn't seem like he was going to answer her, not at first either way. But then, all the fight slipped out of him, almost tangibly to Emma's eyes, and he slumped on the couch.
"Because I was a moron. A weak moron."
"Moron doesn't even come close to what you are."
On another day he might have chuckled, no matter how full of self-hatred or despair he might have been. Today he didn't even find the will to acknowledge her words. "I was a coward. And I have had three years to mull over how much I'd mucked it all up, since the moment I up and left I knew. But still, I did, and I can't go back in time and change it, tempted as I am." His head raised slowly, until his desperate eyes, full of longing, met hers. "But I came back, eventually."
"Once you grew a backbone," she whispered, and she wouldn't know if her voice shook due to rage or grief. Killian saw this, knew this, knew her: He had been in more than one fight with her to recognize the signs: when she was about to throw something at him, when he'd be able to get away with it once he could spy the smile threatening to pull at her lips, when she was about to break.
Right now? She was about to break, and that brought him to his feet, cautiously making his way towards her.
"I don't expect you to forgive me, Emma. God knows I can't even forgive myself," he declared, face contorted in a pained grimace as he shook his head. "I'm so sorry, Emma."
In that moment, all Emma could think about was how David had been right.
She had needed to hear this. To see Killian and ask these things, hear him spell it out for her, witness how it'd brought him to hell and back to leave her –to leave them– behind, just as it had almost killed her to have him gone from their lives.
What she hadn't counted on - or what she had insisted on telling herself - was what the outcome would be.
Her voice wavered. "You broke me."
Silence.
And then: "I thought I was protecting myself, when the truth is I was just throwing away the best thing I'd ever had."
She wiped away the tear that had managed to run free down her cheek with a quick gesture of her hand. "It was pretty good."
"It really was," he agreed, and she cursed the soft hiccup that trampled the end of his sentence. She bit her lip so hard she could feel the soft skin tugging, followed by a piercing pain. "I'm so mad at you," she whispered.
"You should be," he croaked. In a handful of steps he was right there, standing in front of her, hands hovering over her sides. "At least you didn't throw the glass at me," he commented, a chuckle that turned into a sorrowful sound Emma didn't want to hear ever again. Her left hand wiped her face, smearing her mascara farther, and with the other she laced his fingers with hers.
"Don't tempt me," she managed to say, and then she broke.
But, as he had always done before he left, he was there to catch her, hugging her to him with the care and warmth she had craved since the first time he held her. And they cried. Cried until their voices almost went out, until their chests heaved and hurt, cried for the broken promises, the lost years and the gone dreams.
Emma hadn't counted on the awkwardness haunting her during the date she had that following weekend with Walsh. She still hadn't really come to terms with the fallout of her tête-à-tête with Killian –if you could even name it that, instead of emotional rollercoaster.
That being said, awkwardness withstanding, the date itself wasn't going half bad. 68% awkwardness, 32% nice, maybe. And that if she counted her appraisal of the awkwardness, because who knew, maybe Walsh hadn't even noticed, right? The dinner had been nice, the conversation hadn't gone too stilted, and they were having a glass of wine together on the couch while they watched some Friends reruns on the TV, so, all in all, not a complete disaster.
Maybe this was all in her head. Maybe it was all her, period.
...Maybe she needed more wine.
"Do you want something else to drink?" Emma asked him, standing from the couch where she had sat not quite that close to him just in case he wanted to get handsy. Maybe he could have not done anything, but she did anyway. Instead she moved out of the way, and as she approached the fridge she heard him swivel on the couch so he could follow her movements.
"I'm fine. You, on the other hand, are clearly not."
She frowned as she poured another round on her now empty glass. "What?"
The corner of his lips tilted up in an unhappy smile. "You're literally crawling away from me."
Fuck.
"I'm not," she countered, and inwardly cringed at the childish retort. Seriously, Emma?
He chuckled. "Okay. Let's say you're not skittish as hell around me - even if it is the truth. Let's talk about Henry then." He paused, and settled his unwavering gaze on her. "And Killian," he added, almost challengingly.
She sat beside him once more. "What about them?"
"You called him to drive him to football practice when you were in New York."
"So?" And before she could think about it she corrected as if on autopilot: "And it's soccer."
He cocked an eyebrow, almost as if her last comment proved his point, and shook his head. "You usually call me."
"It was a one time thing."
She almost cringed at the expression, which instead made her mad, because, as it were, there had been nothing between Killian and her since his return. A lot of verbal lashing, a proper argument, an emotional breakdown, and an almost-something in the interrogation room, but nothing more, nothing else.
But then, even after talking to David… she still was here, in a date with a man who she wasn't in love with. So.
Huh.
Walsh observed her, a frown marring his forehead. "It doesn't look like that to me. He still is doing stuff for you, and not just because he offers, but because you ask him to."
"Walsh…" she started, thinking back to the times she had actually called Killian, texted him for help, begged him to stay with Henry, help her to find the perfect gift for Mary Margaret and David's anniversary.
Walsh went on as if he hadn't heard her - or hadn't wanted to. "...and it's funny, because it's the stuff that boyfriends are supposed to do, not ex-husbands. But what do I know, really." He stopped, fingers gripping the edge of his empty glass with a focus that almost freaked Emma out. "Unless you don't want it to be your boyfriend's job anymore."
An unfamiliar sensation gripped the edges of Emma's mind. She felt too guilty to admit to herself that it was relief - relief that he had brought it up instead of herself, relief that this was going to end soon, caput, finito, fin, because she was not going to fight for it to go on.
"I'm sorry," she muttered, closing her eyes, unable to meet his gaze. She heard him sigh, leaning on the back on the sofa.
"I'm sorry too. I thought we had something good here."
She willed herself to look at him, and poured as much honesty as she could into her confession. "I thought so too for a while."
(And she had. For a while, she did. Walsh was a great guy: he was kind and attentive, and seemed to genuinely care for her and Henry.
He just wasn't the guy for her. And it had taken her a disastrous re-encounter with her ex-husband to admit it to herself.)
"So. This is the end, I guess." He splayed his hands before him, sounding resigned but, dare she say, with a bit of amusement. Maybe he had reached to the same conclusion as she a long time ago, but had clung to it just as mightily. One thing she and Walsh had always had in common: they weren't quitters.
"I guess it is," she said, slumping against the couch with a sigh. Walsh turned his head so they were staring right at each other, and with a final nod, he inched closer, pecked her on the cheek, and stood up. He picked up his coat, shrugging it on in a graceful movement, and walked out of the living room, pausing at the front door. He looked back at her.
"Have a good one, Emma," he said, and she smiled wistfully.
"You too, Walsh."
So, here's the thing: After the whole ordeal with Walsh, Emma was, understandably, upset.
What did Emma Swan do when she was upset?
Call Ruby and Elsa.
What did Ruby and Elsa suggest they do whenever one of them is upset?
Under the chant of "That's it, we're going out and you can't say no", Emma found herself being dragged around her place, picking up her phone, wallet, keys, beanie, scarf and coat all in one go and out of her door in record time after explaining to her friends what had happened the last two weeks: from her talk with David, her conversation and breakdown at Killian's, to Walsh breaking up with her the previous night.
To be fair, it was a lot of crap that she'd had to put up with lately. Way more than she was used to deal with.
There was too much she had had to put up with, God knew she did, and she hoped he'd give her a reprieve after a while: it was a slippery slope for her at that point, whether it was about her disastrous romantic life, her job or whatever.
Which brought us back to one Ruby Lucas and one Elsa Arendelle, roaming around her closet to pick out a lace white shirt and a pair of leather black pants. Giving the latest touches to her makeup, she walked out of the door with a heavy feeling in her chest that she couldn't really name yet. She was upset for how things had ended with Walsh, but she was also having a really hard time admitting that she was kind of relieved for not being the one to bring up the imminent breakup and 'we need to talk' conversation after being in denial for so long. And then there was this huge space that took up her feelings of not belonging, of not being safe, of staying alone for the rest of her life.
Things didn't just work out for her.
Maybe these things happened for a reason, she told herself. Maybe that was what had happened to her - it was all karma, luck, blown candles on your birthday and wishes made upon a shooting star. What did she know of that, anyway? Nothing. Nothing until way later in her life. Not until she found friends, until Ingrid adopted her and her new-found family took her in, until Elsa and Anna, Ingrid, David, Mary Margaret and Ruby, Graham. Until Henry.
Until Killian.
(But not until Walsh… wasn't that the biggest red flag she should have noticed by then?) (She was hopeless.) (And that's another thing that Mary Margaret had always insisted that was key in life, and that was something that Emma had never really cared for, ever.) (Yeah.)
She definitely needed booze.
Ruby wrapped a blue scarf around Emma's neck, fluffing it around and moving strands of hair this and that way as if she had been born to do so. "We're definitely going out," she announced, and Emma fought an eye roll.
"What's the point?" she grumbled as she followed her and Elsa down her hallway and into the elevator. After pressing the button, Ruby turned towards her and pinched her cheeks.
"So we can drown our woes in booze and cheap shots?"
"We can drink ourselves to death in your place."
Ruby scrunched up her nose as if the idea physically disgusted her. "That's lame. We're going out."
Elsa bumped her shoulder against hers encouragingly, which made her feel minimally better. They let themselves inside the elevator, and while Ruby checked her already flawless lipstick, Emma pointed out: "Just so you know, I'm caving in so you guys will act as my guardian angels."
Ruby snorted. "Please. Let Elsa be the angel, I'm the demon on your shoulder. I'm even wearing red," she added, pleased as punch as she signaled her blood red short. Emma and Elsa rolled their eyes.
"You always wear red."
"Exactly my point."
Elsa interrupted them impatiently. "What is exactly a guardian angel's job, just to get it out of the way?"
"Rule number one: don't let me call Killian."
"Copy that," Ruby said.
Emma put up a second finger in the air. "Rule number two: don't let me text Killian."
"Right," Elsa nodded.
"Rule number three: don't let me have any kind of contact with Killian."
"This is getting boring."
"Rule number four: don't let me embarrass myself."
"A toughie," Elsa murmured, and Emma scowled briefly at her before finishing her list.
"Rule number five: we don't mention anything from tonight, ever, no matter what happens."
The elevator door opened and they let themselves out, and Elsa gave her a pitying look as she followed them into the street. "I fear we're gonna be busy angels tonight."
"I hear you," Ruby complied, and Emma acted as if she hadn't heard her while she searched for a cab to take them to a bar.
Spoiler alert: they broke all five rules.
When she woke up, the first thing she noticed was that these were most definitely not her sheets. The second thing she observed was that she wasn't even wearing her pajamas, but the shirt she had been the previous night and her panties.
(At least she was wearing her underwear, thank God for small mercies.)
The third thing –apart from a pang of panic stabbing her chest– was that this was not her apartment, and that she most definitely was going to kill Ruby and Elsa.
She didn't recognize the bedroom until she saw a stack of old pictures resting on a bedside table. There was an empty frame beside them, and Emma gingerly picked the one laying on top, almost jumping in surprise when she realized it was one of Henry, Killian and herself. It had been taken during Henry's birthday, her son sitting on Killian's lap as he helped her blow the candles on his cake while Emma hugged them both from behind, kissing the top of Henry's head.
Emma's heart beat mournfully in her chest. Her idiotic ex-husband was trying to pick one of several photographs of the three of them to frame it and put it beside his bed.
She fell down on the bed, making a strangled noise at the violent pounding inside her head. The noise must have alerted Killian, who knocked on the door and after her muffled 'come in', peeked behind the door.
"Morning," he said, cautiously making his way towards the bed. He sat at her feet, smiling down at her. "How's your head?"
"Throbbing like hell, but it was to be expected after chugging those stupid drinks Ruby ordered."
He chuckled softly. "Yeah, and hitting the doorframe wasn't really helpful either, I'm guessing."
Her eyes widened comically, and she gave him a crazed look. "What?"
"Here," he said and leaned over her, picking her hand in his and guiding her fingers to a bump in the side of her head that she had somehow missed until then. She whimpered softly as she touched the tender skin, and he withdrew his hand as soon as the sound left her lips. "You hit my door while you tried to race me to the apartment."
She cursed. What the hell? "What did actually happen last night?"
He scratched his stubble, as if weighing what to tell her and what leave out. "What's the last thing you remember?"
Emma tried to make sense of the flashes and brief memories she still retained from the previous night, frowning to herself. "Elsa teaching me a tongue-twister that I can't for the life of me remember right now. Every time I got it wrong, I had to drink." She gave him an unamused look. "It didn't end well."
He laughed softly, shaking his head but refusing to comment. "Well, I woke up to a handful of very interesting texts and voice messages."
"I'm going to murder them," she grumbled under her breath, but Killian heard her, looking surprised.
"Why? They weren't theirs."
Worst guardian angels ever. They'd pay for this, that was for sure. Not that she was going to tell Killian any of it. He had seen her at her lowest as it was. "On a scale of one to ten, how embarrassing were those calls and texts?"
The tip of his ears turned a bit pink, and she fought another embarrassed curse. He stuttered a bit, and finally told her: "At one point you started rambling about how you wanted to have chocolate fondue, then cracked up for two entire minutes hiccuping something about 'and we should fondue too'".
"Jesus," she spat, hiding her face behind her hands.
"I will spare you the details of the part where you claimed I was an elf and I should wear a flower crown because, and I quote, 'all elves wear flowers crowns. And braids'".
She kept her smile hidden behind her fingers. "They do though."
"I'll have to wear one, then." At the warmth in his voice, she finally let her hands fall to her lap, sighing loudly at the situation. She met his gaze, glad that he wasn't laughing at her or, worse, pitying looking at the mess she had made of herself.
"Then what?"
He shrugged. "I was worried, so I asked for your location and came to pick you up. I got you three a cab, but you insisted in coming with me. You were pretty determined about it, so I drove you here."
"And I hit my head."
"That you did." He smiled fondly. "You went out like a light after that."
She realized that he had done more than that. She had slept in his bed, whereas he surely had taken the couch for the night. He had even helped her out of her pants, as embarrassing as it was, but knew deep down that he had only done that because he hadn't forgotten about her long complains of sleeping in tight-fitting clothes so she'd be comfortable in her comatose state.
From the empty glass and ibuprofen on the bedside table, he must have given her one before falling asleep, which made her realize that the the horrible headache attacking her at the moment was probably less than she could have been suffering.
"Thanks. For taking care of me," she said, flitting her eyes in his direction as she played with the sheet bunching on her lap. He nodded, lips curling in a smile.
"My pleasure."
She suddenly frowned when a thought crossed her mind. "Did I by any chance say anything about why we were drinking ourselves silly?"
Killian appeared uncomfortable for a second, but shook his head. "The word 'monkey' was mentioned more than once. I connected the dots."
She flinched. So he had guessed what it was all about. "Sorry."
"It's okay Swan, I'll tell Walsh whatever you ask me to," he said, waving a hand in the air as if it wasn't a big matter.
"What?" She stared at him confusedly. Telling Walsh what exactly? She hadn't talked to him since their breakup.
"I gathered you had a fight with him and that's why you were upset?"
She flushed. Of course he hadn't heard about that. For all that he knew, she was still with Walsh, but it stung a bit that he'd think she'd just go, get drunk as all hell, drunk-dial him and then insist on accompanying him home. "We didn't just fight - we broke it off," she explained, and a heavy feeling crept upon the room as the words hung in the air and Killian absorbed them.
"Oh."
"I broke it off," she added, to further clear things up, just so there would be no misunderstandings and meeting his blue gaze, willing herself not to look away. She saw a myriad of thought swirling in them –doubt, regret, and above all, hope. It made it easier for her to keep her eyes trained on his, hands itching to lay the sheet beside her and close the space between them. She could see the same desire in his face, the same elation and expectation, and still neither of them moved, content to stay there, in an impasse that set them silent and in peace.
In the end, he broke it, standing from the bed. "I should get you home, love."
She nodded, and he gave her time to shower and do some damage control to her appearance. He finally accompanied her downstairs and insisted on driving her home, seeing as she hadn't brought her car the previous night. They rode in silence, the music from the mixtape that he still carried around and had owned for years lulling her to an almost dreamlike state.
When he pulled up beside her street, she curled her fingers around the hem of her shirt, steeling herself. "You could come up."
"I could," he said. She turned to look at him, the same expression he had worn earlier taking over his features.
"But maybe you shouldn't."
He nodded. "Then I shan't."
She bit her lip. She had no idea what she was doing: they had all but admitted that, with Walsh out of the picture, Killian's confession and apology for leaving, and the rather spectacular insistence with which Emma had wanted to see Killian in her inebriated state, he could guess she still had feelings for him and was quite partial to the idea of…
Of what exactly? Sex? Cuddling? The whole package?
"I need some time," she finally said, afraid of what she'd see when she looked at him. To her surprise, there was honest understanding in Killian's face as he nodded, as if she was not the only one needing some time to figure out what they wanted of each other.
(Even though a voice in her head told her it was rather easy: each other. That was what they wanted.)
"You definitely do," he said, and smiled. Before Emma could question herself, she leaned over the console, and briefly brushed her lips over his in a whisper of a kiss, full of promise and patience. Killian didn't move, but she could feel the sigh leaving his lips as she leaned back and left his car, entering her building with a small wave in his direction.
And if she rested against the closed door and let a smile split her face, then nobody but her doorman, Leroy, needed to know.
Henry and she were piling the rest of their dinner on the counter before putting the dirty dishes and glasses in the dishwasher when he asked out of nowhere, "When are you seeing Killian again?"
She was lucky the glass she had been holding was already stacked inside. She hadn't really told Henry what had transpired the other night after her massive binge-drinking night with the girls, but he had heard her explanation about her breakup with Walsh and had just hugged her, asking if she wanted to watch a movie and stay in all day eating junk food.
She loved her kid to pieces.
"I don't know - probably brunch on Friday. Why?" she asked nonchalantly.
He shrugged. "What are you going to say to him?"
"About what?" she frowned, picking the fork and spoon she had previously used to put it inside with the rest.
"About getting back together."
The fork and spoon cluttered to the floor. She didn't even spare a glance towards them, instead shaking her hands in the air at her son, face flushing in record time. "Woah, kid, slow down."
Henry gave her a knowing look that she absolutely dreaded as he knelt on the floor to pick the cutlery and put them in their place. "Don't you want to?"
Fuck.
Her kid was the best, indeed, but it was at times like this when she absolutely resented the fact that he saw too much. And yet, she couldn't for the life of her lie to him, so she leaned against the counter, an arm hugging her chest as her free hand itched towards her neck, scratching it nervously.
"I… I guess, but it's too soon."
There was a huff, and Henry gave her a disbelieving glance. "It's been three years, it is everything but too soon."
"Since when did you become a smartmouth?"
Henry ignored her jab, as the mature thirteen year old that he was, unlike his mother, apparently. "Isn't that why you broke up with Walsh? Because you still love Killian?"
"Things weren't working with Walsh, that's why we broke up," she corrected him.
"And because you're in love with Killian," he amended, and Emma bit her lip, sighing loudly.
"Henry… it's not that simple."
He cocked his head to the side, staring at her, and stepped to her side to mimic her pose but sitting on the counter instead of leaning against it so he could rest his head on her shoulder. "Isn't it?" he asked softly.
She paused, thinking of her son's words, about everything that had happened in the last months. From Killian's return, the dissolution of her relationship with Walsh, the tentative attempts at friendship and rebuilding the trust that she and Killian had had before everything went to hell.
She thought about the last time she had seen Killian, not that long ago after that morning she had left his apartment, still hungover and looking a mess and with the echo of a soft kiss on her lips. He had come to the precinct after David and she had finally had a breakthrough on their case and found the gang they had been searching for so long. It had been a tough case, one of the most difficult ones she could remember going through, and she knew as soon as she saw Killian there that it had brought up painful memories for them all: the danger, the risk, the possibility of being offed in the search of so many criminals.
(All that blood. The gunshots and the cold seeping through her like a chill blanket. Killian's panicked voice.)
But, when he came in to congratulate them and offer his services to evaluate the members of the gang, she only saw relief and pride in his eyes. Whatever the memories, he had managed to get through it, just as her.
Things had changed.
Emma fought a curse. Damn them all. "Ugh," she grumbled, and Henry laughed.
.
When she got to brunch the next Friday, she wasn't that surprised to find Graham whistling when she got there, smiling like a goof. "Good morning, sunshine."
Great. She hadn't seen them in a couple of weeks, and of course asking Ruby and Elsa to 'please keep everything to ourselves from that night' had meant 'tell literary everybody in our group'. Even Santiago had put a hand on her shoulder when she had entered, reminding her that he always had that hangover remedy in case she needed it.
"I'm still mad at you two," she declared as she sat, jerking her chin at Ruby and Elsa, who were huddled together. Anna smiled gently in her direction, whereas Kristoff and David laughed along with Graham.
"You can't be mad at your guardian angels, it goes against the rules," Ruby said haughtily, and Emma glared at her.
"You really want to talk to me about rules? Really?"
Kristoff patted her arm. "Don't be so harsh on them, Emma. They even ordered fondue for you."
Everybody bursted laughing, and she plopped down on her chair with a groan. "I'm gonna kill you in your sleep."
"I'm so sorry I missed it. Jones' so lucky," Graham commented, eyes twinkling with mirth. "Where's he, either way?"
Emma noticed then that Killian's chair was empty. The sight of it made something inside her twinge. She had grown accustomed to him sitting there before she came, and the feeling that the space on his seat those three years haunted her.
David frowned, looking down at his watch. "I don't know. He is usually here earlier than me."
"Has somebody called him?" Anna asked, and Kristoff shrugged, searching through his phone's texts.
"He didn't answer my text earlier."
That haunted feeling that had somehow crept over her settled somewhere inside her, and she caught her breath.
"He may be busy," David commented, and before Emma could suggest something else to contact him, even facing endless jokes from her friends, he had picked up his menu and flipped it open, as if he needed it to know what he'd ask. "Should we order? I'm starving."
Everybody agreed, and before she knew it, Santiago was settling dishes around the table and conversation resumed, with stories about Kristoff and Anna's honeymoon shared and jabs at Emma, Ruby and Elsa's drunken escapade thrown around.
Nobody noticed when she picked her phone under the table and subtly sent a text to Killian, reading you'd better have a good explanation to miss this. santiago's asking after your sorry ass
He didn't answer.
She hoped to find him at the precinct, but he didn't show up either, and it shouldn't have freaked her out that much considering he didn't really have to come in today. But still, knowing Killian it was weird of him not to text his apologies for being late or even try to make sure he made it no matter whatever had happened to him.
She spent the entire morning restless, checking her phone every three minutes, to the point that Victor had to ask her if she was feeling alright and she made up some lame excuse about Henry being under the weather.
At lunch time, she gave up and ran out of the precinct without giving any explanation to David or her team, instead jumping into her bug and driving like her life depended on it to Killian's place. She knew she was being irrational and there could be a hundred explanations of Killian's radio silence: his phone had been stolen and he had gone to report it to the police, he had fallen asleep and had it silenced, he was dead and lying in a ditch… you name it.
And yet, the only thing crossing through her brain was something along the lines of 'not again'.
She made it to his building in record time, and she only slowed down her pace to let an elderly woman slip away from the elevator in order not to run into her. But as soon as she reached his door, all bets were off: she beat down on it like a madwoman, knocking relentlessly and failing at hide her panic.
She almost passed out right there in the hallway when Killian opened it.
He stared at her, baffled. She must have been a sight alright. "Emma? What are you doing here?"
She wasn't proud of her greeting.
"You fucking asshole."
He stepped back inside his apartment, staring at her warily. "What?"
She pushed past him inside, violently kicking the door behind her and jabbing her finger in his chest as she crowed him against the wall. "Don't you ever do that again."
His confusion morphed into worry, and he gripped her upper arms, eyes widening with concern. "Emma, what's wrong?"
She startled herself as she fought a panicked shriek, voice almost breaking as she screamed at him. "Why didn't you pick up your phone? Why weren't you at brunch? Where were you?"
The fingers clasped around her arms brushed over her skin, loosening their tight grip as he answered. "My battery died and I've been here the whole time. What's this about?"
The tears she had fought against since she realized he wasn't at brunch fell helplessly down her cheeks then, and she did nothing to try to keep them at bay or hide them, she just closed her eyes and let her forehead touch the hollow of her neck as sobs wracked over her.
"Emma, love..."
"I thought you left," she croaked. "You were supposed to be there, and you weren't, and I - I thought you left me again."
It was easier to talk to the skin of his neck, to the pale freckle at the base of his throat and not to his face, to his eyes, to his understanding gaze. Before she knew it, his arms had wrapped around her, and she let herself hold him closer to her, bunching the front of his shirt in his hand as if that would stop him from trying to go. "Emma, I'm never leaving you again. I'm gonna stay right here, as long as you want me."
She sniffled, memories of the Emma of three years ago swimming before her eyes. The shell that Killian's absence had made of her. "You broke your promise once."
"And I'm never making that mistake again." He felt him pulling her back, and his finger tapped her chin up until she could meet his eyes. "Living without you isn't worth it, Swan. I'm afraid you're stuck with me, if you want to keep me around." More runaway tears escaped the corner of her eyes, and he wiped them away tenderly with the pad of his thumb. His forehead tipped against hers, and she could see the corner of his lips curling in a small grin. "Do you want to know why I didn't show up to brunch?"
She didn't trust herself to make a sound, so she just nodded.
Some kind of stifled sound escaped his lips. "I didn't want to tell you, but I - I never stopped wearing my ring," he admitted, and he sounded so embarrassed that she had to huff a laugh, the memory of finding it that day making her smile.
"I know. I saw it in the bathroom when you stayed at home the night of the wedding."
He shook his head, laughing along with her. "As perceptive as always." He inhaled slowly, as if bracing himself. "Anyway, I took it off last night while I was doing some cleaning and I can't find it anywhere. And I know it sounds stupid, but I can't function if I'm not wearing it, it's like breaking that promise all over again..."
She didn't allow him to say anymore, choosing to let her arms snake around him, one slinging over his neck and the other around his waist. He hugged her to him, laughing softly against her hair, a relieved noise reverberating against the shell of her ear as he breathed in and out slowly, savoring the feeling of having her in his arms again.
She let the hand behind his back roam, and bit back a laugh when her hand purposely searched the back pocket of his jeans and he jumped slightly, taken aback by the sudden intrusion. She smiled against his shoulder, memories of the day he had proposed and so many others where he had been looking for whatever it was he couldn't find and she had had to go looking for it alongside him to help.
Her grin widened when her fingers touched cold metal.
Holding out the ring for him in between her thumb and index finger, she pulled back to show it to him, cocking an eyebrow and not withholding the amusement on her face. "You're a fucking idiot," she declared, and he just grinned, smile so wide it actually hurt her to look at. He shook his head in disbelief, picking it up from her fingers and slowly slipping it on his ring one.
"I really am."
As if she couldn't really stay away from him now that she had been pressed against his body, she laced her fingers behind his neck, playing with the hair at its back. "You're a mess. How you've made it three years without me is a mystery."
"You're so right. What do you plan to do about it?" he said, nose grazing hers teasingly and eyes twinkling in the dim corner of his room.
She pretended to roll her eyes. "Ugh. I guess I'll take you home with me."
"Fine," she stated, shrugging.
She mimicked him. "Fine."
And before he could say another thing, she kissed him then. She pulled him closer to her if it were possible, the hands at the back of his head pushing him down so she could reach his lips, kissing him like there was nothing else she'd rather be doing.
(There wasn't, except maybe kissing him with noticeably less clothes on.)
His lips melted against hers, salty, moist and hot, and the heady sensation coursing through her almost makes her stumble, and the back of her head hits the wall she had been leaning on. They both sniggered, but it was short-lived for Emma as Killian's lips started down the curve of her neck, following to her chest and the tops of her breasts, nosing at the strap of her bra.
Things were, as they said, escalating quickly, and she couldn't care less.
"Can we at least christen the consult?" he murmured as he dragged his lips along the shell of her ear. She growled under her breath.
"Shut up."
"Is that a yes?" he said as he pulled away, piercing eyes full of dark desire and the very same glinting amusement that had made her fall for him all those years ago.
And, because it was what every ex-husband/boyfriend?/husband once more/whatever wanted to hear, she huffed, "Ugh. Fine."