It doesn't take her long for her back to start aching and her feet to start feeling the cold from the wooden floor, sitting as she is pressed up against the hard wood. It hurts, but it almost feels like punishment for herself, for slamming the door in his face. He probably was full of apologies and explanations and she wanted to hear every last one of them just so she could turn around and throw them in his face.
She felt horrible, like every ugly vindictive ex-wife stereotype she hated. And worst of all, she didn't have any good reason for it. She'd seen their arrangement through to the end and done her part. There had never been any promise of being faithful or anything ridiculous like that, both of them knowing it was all just for show. She had only done exactly as she'd promised.
And she felt like shit for it.
Fighting him had been one of the hardest things she'd ever done, forcing herself to not be swayed by all the beautiful words he'd spouted to try and keep them together, like he wanted everything both ways. It had confused her then, thinking he should have been happy to leave her if the letters were anything to go by, but she'd known plenty of men who were more than happy to have two women waiting for them.
It had never felt like his style, and part of her wanted to believe it had all been one big misunderstanding, but she still could see his face when she'd said the woman's name, the way he'd looked like she'd slapped him across the face. The way he'd closed up then, pulling himself into a tight ball of whatever he was feeling.
The way he hadn't really fought her after that. The way he'd disappeared into their room and she hadn't seen him again until they'd said goodbye on the steps.
It still hurt, if she let it.
She really, really tried not to let it. Hell, she'd made (mostly) casual conversation with him at the bar last night, and she'd felt pretty proud of herself at the time. Only Ruby's probing had sent her over the edge, and she already knew she would have to fess up eventually to her friend.
It was good for her to be alone, and him returning to her life was as good a reminder as any why she was alone, why she didn't trust anyone anymore.
She can see the bottle of whiskey she'd rejected before from here on the floor, but the urge is gone, replaced by a weariness she hasn't felt in a long time.
Slowly, she pulls herself to her feet and grabs her phone, bringing it and her water with her as she takes the stairs slowly, going up past the rooms on the second floor and further. The attic door moves with a squeak, and she makes mental note to get some WD-40 on it. Across the room, lit up in what little sunlight comes through the windows, is her bed and the half-finished book she'd laid on the nightstand last night after she'd finally given up on sleep and gotten out of bed.
The wood is cool under her bare feet, and so she makes a detour, dragging herself over to the chest of drawers to pull out a pair of socks. When she finally settles on the bed she's as toasty as she'll ever be, and she leans back against her pillows.
She's sure Ruby will be calling as soon as her shift is over, but in the mean time she's going to find out exactly what happens next to her intrepid heroine, allow herself to sink into the fiction and forget about reality.
If Killian wasn't such a hardened military veteran, showing up to work with Ruby would probably have scared him.
To be honest, it still scared him a little.
The woman was a force of nature all unto her own, all red lips and fingernails and tiny little skirts no matter the weather.
Speaking of the weather, it was absolutely freezing, and regardless of if he wanted to or not, he needed to get inside. He swung the door open and prayed. Above his head, the little bell tinkled, alerting her to his presence, but thankfully she was with customers and only shot him a hard look before returning to the elderly couple sat in front of her.
It distracted her long enough for him to get to the back and start shucking his jacket, swapping it out for an apron.
The day cook, Leroy, harrumphs at him and shakes his head, but Killian knows better than to pursue whatever is bothering the older man. Likely Ruby, if he's honest, and he'd rather not think about her this afternoon.
"Good afternoon, Hook," she says, appearing as if on cue, summoned by his thoughts. "Sleep well?" Her far-too-chipper grin grates on him, and now it's his turn to mumble out a response that sounds vaguely like 'fine'.
And as though nothing is different, she launches into the table's order, rattling off the ridiculous shorthand that had taken him months to learn correctly. He starts prepping the order while Leroy is putting his stuff away and getting ready to leave, a quick "See ya, sister," thrown over his shoulder for Ruby before he disappears out of the kitchen.
Leroy still hasn't quite warmed to him, and odds are he never will. The world is getting colder outside, fall fading into winter, and by Christmas Killian will be gone, preparing for classes and organizing his notes.
Ruby, on the other hand, had warmed to him rather instantly. They had flirted back and forth relentlessly, until Granny had yelled across the empty diner at them, and that had toned it down a little bit. She'd given him his ever-present nickname; Hook, after the terrible pirate impressions he did at two in the morning to an empty restaurant. She was the one he was closest to by far here. Or had been, before last night.
He could tell that Emma and Ruby had gone way back; Ruby was always mentioning her friend Ems, and her constant quest to set her up with the right man. But not as far back as Emma and Killian, apparently, because she knew nothing about their relationship. He wasn't sure how it made him feel, really, to know that Emma had probably forgotten all about them the day after they weren't a them anymore. Well, he knew it hurt. But he didn't know if he was quite allowed to feel hurt about it.
"So," Ruby began, interrupting his thoughts, her red nails drumming out a pattern on the steel in front of her. "Tell me about you two."
He's got two options; play dumb and only extend the inevitable, or cut her off at the head.
He goes for the latter, sighing as he flips the pancakes on the griddle in front of him. Only old people order pancakes at four in the afternoon, he's discovered, either them or college kids who are so high they're not even sure where they are.
"There really isn't a lot to say, Ruby." He hates talking about this. For all that Emma clearly hasn't told anyone about them, he really hasn't either. It all went in a box in his head and only came out when he was too drunk or too sober, and never around anyone else. "We got married quick, I guess we really didn't know each other. It just...didn't work out."
Ruby's eyes narrow. "Emma isn't really the type for a quickie wedding."
"You're right." But he can't exactly admit that it wasn't because they were in love, but instead because he really needed to stay in the country. "But it happened anyways."
The woman is still squinting dangerously at him when the bell tinkles and a man wanders in.
"I'm coming back for you, Jones," she mutters under her breath before turning and plastering a bright smile on her face for the customers.
He merely sighs and returns to the bacon sizzling next to him. He's only trying to keep things quiet because Emma had seemed like she didn't want to tell the story last night, and to be honest, he's not exactly sure what story he should tell, because he's pretty damn sure Ruby isn't buying what he's selling.
Despite all that's happened between them, he doesn't want to sabotage Emma's friendship, and he doesn't want to reveal anything she'd be uncomfortable with. It's never been a problem before, people almost always nodding sympathetically when he'd been forced to bring up the topic. But this is Ruby, and she can see right through the both of them.
Thankfully, more customers arrive and they're both kept busy until her shift is over and she's throwing her jacket across her shoulders.
"Don't think I'm finished with you yet," she tells him, poking him with one perfectly manicured finger. All he can muster is a tight smile and a goodbye before she's out the door, and he finally breathes a deep sigh of relief.
It doesn't occur to him until he's finishing his own shift up in the wee hours of the morning that once she knows the truth, she'll probably hate him too.
True to form, her best friend is on her doorstep at just past four, one hand wrapped around a bottle of wine and the other on her hip.
Emma lets her in quietly and makes a detour to the kitchen to grab a couple glasses before joining Ruby on the couch.
"I brought plenty of libations, so it's time to spill, princess," Ruby begins, already pouring two hefty glasses. "And none of the 'we had a quickie wedding and grew apart' bullshit tall dark and handsome already tried to feed me."
The mention of Killian sends a pang through her chest, and she wants to ask about him, but bites her lip to keep her mouth shut. Ruby notices, of course, but doesn't say anything, just takes a generous sip and leans back expectantly, one eyebrow raised in query.
Yeah. It was only a few hours ago that she'd been desperately wishing she could tell Ruby the story, but now that she's here her throat has closed up and she feels absolutely wrecked. Her book had ended on a cliffhanger, the heroine safe but her fake-lover in the hands of the enemy, and it had done nothing to make her feel better.
She swirls the wine in the glass and takes a big a sip as she can manage, enjoying the tang and warmth that immediately settles in her belly. Liquid courage is about all the courage she's going to get, so she tucks her feet up under her and starts at the very beginning.
The arranged 'date'. The awkward meeting, and then the bomb of why he was interested in her (Ruby had gasped appropriately, questions bubbling that Emma had shushed with a hand, promising she'd get to it). The papers and the moving and then...them. She left out all the nights she'd fallen asleep scared he was going to get up and walk away, that he was going to go back to his room and pretend it never happened. When she gets to the letters, she hesitates, but Ruby presses her ("Seriously, why the hell would you give that up, Emma?") until the whole thing spills out, the letters and the divorce until she's back exactly where she was before, just with a house to hold all the emptiness this time.
Her friend is quiet for a long time, the bottle of wine long gone.
"Oh, Emma," is all she says at first, and then, as though it explodes out of her, "I'm going to kill him." She even stands, as though she plans to go do it right now, but Emma drags her back to the couch and they collapse in a pile of bodies.
"No you're not. It's not a big deal, Ruby. Seriously. We never said wedding vows or anything like that. We didn't promise to be faithful," she says, and can't help the venom packed into that one little word. Not that she resents it, not that she cares, all she ever cared about was that he didn't tell her, didn't even care enough to try to fix it. That he had no excuse or explanation.
Ruby looks at her like she's grown two heads.
"Uh, it doesn't matter. You don't act married to one person and keep sending love letters to someone else," she says, like it makes the most sense in the world. And it does, but it's not right. It would be easier to call Killian a con, a liar, a cheater, all the things she'd thought at first, but it's much harder to face the actual truth: she agreed to be the means to an end, and there was never an expectation of anything else. She wasn't enough, one way or the other, to make it work for real.
She doesn't say any of that, just shrugs.
"It doesn't matter, Ruby. It was years ago, and we said our goodbyes a long time ago. It's not a big deal."
The woman in question snorts as though the very idea of it offends her. "Yeah, whatever. He's fucking pining for you, you know. You can see it in his eyes. I tried to set him up so many times and he turned down every one of them except for you, Emma. But all this time he'd done that and just left. Who does he think he is?" Ruby fumes, apparently all affection for the man long gone.
"This is why I didn't tell you. I knew you would've stalked him all the way across state lines just to give him a piece of your mind. But it's not worth it. The past is the past, and trust me, it's not about to become the present again," Emma says. She wants her to understand, to try to convince her it doesn't matter, but it's clear it's not exactly working.
Her head hurts, from the wine and the topic of discussion, and she takes a deep breath, easing it out gently.
"You need to promise me you're not gonna go assault him, Ruby."
Her friend snorts, but raises her hand and says in a sing-song voice, "I pledge not to tear the skin from bones on one Killian Jones."
The ridiculousness makes Emma giggle just a little bit, enough to release some of the tension built up in her shoulders. Judging from the quiet smile Ruby wears, it was exactly as she intended.
"But on to better topics, now," Ruby begins. "How's the tiling going?"
Emma's answering groan is all the response she needs.
"Killian Jones, I swear if you don't start cleaning the hell up after yourself, I'm going to stop cooking you breakfast," she yells across the house when she finds the dirty sock behind the couch.
There's a distant laugh from somewhere upstairs, and soon there's a mop of dark hair peeking down the staircase.
"I think the fact that you're only finding it now when I left it there a week and a half ago speaks to my cleanliness, Swan." He tosses a wink her way before disappearing again, and the sound of the vacuum on the second floor resumes.
She rolls her eyes to herself and chunks the offending article of clothing across the room, towards the stairs. He can pick it up when he comes back down again.
The domesticity of the whole thing is charming, and it warms her heart a little that they've managed this, two very different people with very different lives living under one roof without destroying each other. Even if it is what it is, it's still nice.
She's never had a roommate before(unless you count jail, which she doesn't), and it had taken some getting used to at first. The blaring sound of his alarm clock across the hall when she'd only gotten in from chasing a skip two hours before was their first test, but he'd apologized profusely and promised he'd turn it down. She was mostly just glad they didn't have to share a bathroom; she kept the one in the master suite nice and clean and perfectly organized, but the one down the hall from his room was a mess most of the time.
But aside from that, it was good. He did the dishes when she cooked and knew where the trash can was. He bought his own groceries and did half the chores.
Hell, it was better than good. It was great. It was something Emma had never had before.
Sometimes, when they're both curled up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and Netflix, it feels like it could even be more maybe. His fingers press against hers for just a heartbeat longer than they need to, and it's hard to watch the screen more than him as he scarfs down the popcorn and offers commentary on every movie they watch.
It's frustrating, the little spark they share, because some days she swears she just wants to climb him like a tree. But other days she knows better. Nothing good could come from going further, from being this to being that.
The line is blurred even further when they get junk mail addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Jones and she finds herself realizing she doesn't mind it so much, especially when his eyes crinkle and the corners of his lips turn up in a smile as he teases her.
The low rumble of the vacuum directly overhead disturbs her thoughts, and she shakes her head. No point in thinking about it. Everything is going well, and they've still got eight months to go. She's not going to jinx herself and risk all of this just because he's grown on her.
No, this is what they'll be. Roommates, husband and wife, whatever they had to be, but above all, friends. She could handle being friends. It didn't hurt when friends amicably parted ways at the end of their time together.
Friends is easy. Friends is simple. Friends is good.
She tells herself that until she's pretty sure she believes it.
