a/n: and here's the final bit, twice as long as the previous chapter - hope you guys don't mind too much. the amount of love this fic has received has been amazing and I can't thank you guys enough for your kind reviews, follows and favourites.
this fic wouldn't exist without Casey - thanks for everything, you precious cinnamon pumpkin.
He insists on dropping her back to her hotel after they eat, texting her throughout the night and asking her if she'd have late breakfast with him next morning. That's how she finds herself entering his apartment again, this time in daylight. This time with only minimum nervousness.
She recognizes bits and pieces of Killian's apartment from some of the pictures he's sent her; she can make out the carpet in the living room, the kitchen countertop, the frames in the hallway, his coffee table. But what really throws her off is seeing Killian interact with his surroundings. It's his apartment and everything in it belongs to him, but to see him clear out the stack of papers off the coffee table or to adjust the tassels of the rug as he walks by, feels foreign. She's seen this place in snapshots, right up to the dog that lays lounging in the bit of light filtering through the curtains, but Killian Jones was not a part of any of those.
"Something the matter, Swan?" He places their second round of coffee on the table and throws himself backwards onto the couch as he watches her with interest.
She shakes her head and sits down next to him, "Still trying to wrap my head around this."
He bends over to the table to pick up his mug and cradle it in his hands. "At least you'd been aware of your visit, you're the last person I'd expected to be behind my front door."
"Sorry about barging in on you like this." Despite his assurances and his obviously excited plan making over breakfast of the landmarks he'll take her to see now that he's closed his last case, she still feels like she's intruding.
"Well, you did interrupt my plans for binge watching the last season of Hannibal," he picks up the other mug and presses it into her hands with a dramatic sigh, "but I suppose I could parade around London with you instead."
"Oh, how noble of you," she smiles into her coffee, the tension easing off her shoulders a little at his jab.
"I am nothing if not a gentleman, Swan."
-/-
Emma's never been good with physical affection. She figures it's natural for someone who grew up as emotionally isolated as she did, as morbid as it sounds; it took years of coaxing from Ingrid and Ruby for her to get used to the idea of a simple arm over her shoulder. She's still wary, of course, because who would want a stranger in their personal space to begin with? It's grounds for murder. She's a sheriff, she would know.
But from his greeting hug, to the way he leads her with his palm ghosting over her back and the way he tugs at her collar when adjusting her scarf, Killian doesn't seem to be the kind of guy that minds casual touches one bit. He seems to be doing it unconsciously and yet every time he gets close enough for her to feel his body heat, there's a little zing of anticipation that goes through her. It's ridiculous, she's a grown woman, she shouldn't feel like this over some man that she met in the most periodically dramatic way possible. And yet-
Killian grabs her hand and tugs her as he begins to cross the busy road. She should feel offended, really, that he doesn't think she could manage something so simple on her own, but somehow she can tell that's now how he means it.
He doesn't let go of her hand until they reach Trafalgar Square, too busy filling her mind with trivia about the city to even realize. She misses the warmth immediately. But then he's smiling at her, dimples denting his cheeks and crow's feet forming at the corners of his eyes and the warmth is back again.
Ridiculous.
"Would the Lady Swan care for a walk around the Square?" He tilts his head, eyes trained on hers.
She shrugs, trying to get a grip on her feelings, "You've already brought me here, I don't really have a choice."
He grins at her, stepping into her space. "Ah, you've discovered my nefarious scheme."
"Isn't Westley supposed to be the good guy?"
"Even good people have a penchant to do bad things, Swan," he steps closer still, an eyebrow shooting up in suggestion.
"And the lawyer in you speaks." She's surprised her voice is coming out so even with how hard her heart is beating.
"Say whatever you'd like, love, but I just heard you admit that I am, indeed, the Dread Pirate Roberts," he lifts a hand and in a move she wouldn't expect in a hundred years, boops her nose. "My work here is done." She rolls her eyes good naturedly before she brushes past him.
They spend a few minutes walking around until Emma makes a beeline towards The National Gallery, walking up a few of the steps as Killian falls in beside her, telling her about the history of the building. At this point, she isn't even surprised that he's got it memorised. But, as he speaks of the press ridiculing the building in the early 1800's because of its size, she recognizes that they haven't had a conversation in person that's en par with the ones they've had on paper. He abruptly stops talking when she seizes her ascent and turns towards him, and that's when she notices him scratch behind his ear. A nervous tic, no doubt about it.
"Sorry, lass, I tend to get rather sucked into minute details about history."
She forgets, sometimes, because of his flowery words and his unbelievably perfect skills when it comes to everything, that he's got just as many insecurities as she does. And it's one thing for him to cover it up in his letters with bravado, to cloak it with a smirk and a flirting line in person - but it's another thing when she sees that little crack in his facade.
The one he covers up immediately with a half grin and a playful wiggling of his eyebrows. "I'm sure your interests stray far from details that are minute."
She would roll her eyes, but she's too busy watching the way his jaw tics just the slightest when she doesn't respond to his joke that is honestly unfit for a public place like this one. She sits down on the stair instead, and catches the sleeve of Killian's jacket in her fingers to pull him down next to her. He complies easily enough, but she can feel his eyes trained on her as she looks straight ahead.
If she inches a little to the left, her knee would knock into his. It's still weird, and she suddenly gets it - gets why he's hesitating from having any substantial discussion with her, because she's doing exactly the same thing. Apart from the ease with which his fingers reach out for hers occasionally, she realizes he's been letting her take the lead here. She's the one that's been joking around, the one who's offered nothing more about why she actually flew across the Atlantic, the one that initiated the almost kiss.
"Why is this your favourite spot?" She turns her head to face him, and he is, in fact, watching her with a questioning gaze.
"I'm sorry?"
"You told me this was your favourite place to come and sit. I get that it's near an art gallery but there's more to it than that."
His eyes shift from her face to his hands in his lap and then ahead at the crowd, a half smile on his lips. It takes him a few seconds to answer. "In all honesty, my favourite spot would be on my boat out at sea. But, aye, this would be the one on land that I'm partial to. There's a certain kind of calmness in this chaos, and in a city so large where I've got only a handful of people to call my own, something about this - well, at the risk of sounding like a sad git, something about being here makes me feel less lonely."
Despite his dejected confession, she can't help but feel a smile form on her lips. She's had conversations like these with him over the phone, but it's something completely new in person.
For one, he can turn towards her and respond with an inviting smile of his own.
She thinks she could get used to sitting beside him, letting her eyes rove over his features as the wind tinges his cheeks red and ruffles his hair in every direction. The thoughts swim to the forefront of her mind before she pushes them back, not wanting to give herself any kind of false hope. He does, after all, still live on another continent.
Killian looks like he's about to say something when his phone starts ringing. He shoots her an apologetic look and then shuffles through his coat pockets. He has to take off one of his gloves with his teeth before he can slide his finger across the screen to answer. "Hello," he mumbles, the leather glove still clenched between his teeth.
She hears a faint voice from the other end of the line, but frankly, she's too busy focusing on the way he runs his tongue along his lower lip after dropping the glove into his hand.
"Yes, I know I was supposed to- No, Liam, I can't just- What do you mean- I think she'd rather not spend her time with the likes of you, you idiot," he huffs exasperatedly.
She turns away to watch the crowd, giving him some privacy, but she's still wearing a half smile of amusement at the way he bickers with his brother.
He sighs again from beside her, one that deflates his whole body rather obviously. "Swan," she turns to him as he says her name, the phone still pressed against his ear. "Liam would like to know if you'd like to join them for lunch. I must remind you that you are under no obligation to say yes and-," he stops only to groan and return to the conversation with his brother, "you git, would you stop babbling in my ear. Bloody hell, I'll call you back."
Emma can't help but smirk at the way he cuts the call and runs a hand through his hair.
"I already told him last night that you'd arrived and that I wouldn't make it to their place for lunch but apparently, my fool of a brother did not comprehend that the first time."
Friday afternoons were for his brother and brother's girlfriend; for the only family he had left. And now that she's here, Killian's decided to spend his time with her instead. It shouldn't feel like such a big thing, and yet it kind of does. "We should go."
"Pardon, love?"
"To your brother's. For lunch."
"Are you sure? Because, the last thing that I would want is to make you uncomfortable."
She hesitates only for a second before nodding. "I'm sure."
And it shouldn't feel like a big thing, but the way that Killian's grin broadens and the way he pulls her up with her hand in his - it kind of does.
-/-
If she thought meeting Killian was surreal, meeting his brother is another thing altogether. At least with Killian, she'd been aware that he knew about her opinions, her habits, her likes and dislikes. But, she's never spoken to Liam Jones, and yet he tops her cocoa with a sprinkle of cinnamon after their lunch, a knowing smile on his lips. He asks her about Storybrooke, and tells her about how he and Elsa have been to the States a few times to visit Elsa's sister in New York, where she lives with her husband.
Emma can only sit there, mumble monosyllabic answers and nod appropriately because for all that Killian's told her of Liam Jones, he's definitely told Liam tenfold about her. Which-
Emma's not complaining, but- the most intricate detail she's told her friends about Killian is how the man likes to read. Which, compared to the way Liam asks her about "that pet duck I've heard so much about" is pretty out of the blue. Maybe Emma should feel more uncomfortable but something about the man's kind eyes and hearty laugh has her at ease, unconsciously cozying herself on the couch, her fourth shortbread biscuit in between her fingers.
"He's not bothering you is he, love?" Killian saunters in with Davy in tow, excited to have been brought along for the visit.
"Oi, don't get jealous, Killian. She's allowed to spend time with me, too," Liam hollers at him as he takes a seat next to Emma. "In fact, I think she prefers my company more, what do you say, lass?"
"You don't have to answer that," Killian stage whispers to her. Emma can only laugh in response to being stuck between the Jones brothers and their disheveled hair and twin grins.
"Boys, behave," Elsa chimes in as she enters the living room, wearing a teasing smile. "I'm sorry, Emma, the both of them are nuisances, can't take them anywhere without them embarrassing me." She squeezes in next to Liam and he drapes an arm around her.
"Aye, but you love us anyway," Liam laughs, planting a kiss on her temple.
"That I do."
Killian groans before the two of them can move in any closer to each other, "Would you two please refrain from scarring us and the dog?"
"Oh, sod off," is all Liam says before he kisses Elsa, more to annoy Killian than anything, she guesses.
He groans even louder and buries his face in Davy's fur, who's plopped himself half on Killian's lap and half in the space between the both of them, his paw stretching to rest against Emma's thigh. She sustains another laugh, watches as Killian turns towards her, resting his cheek on Davy's back.
He looks so much younger all of a sudden. She thinks maybe it's because she has his older brother to compare him to now, but there's a soft smile on his lips that makes his eyes twinkle and, God, how did she even get here?
She wonders if maybe she looks younger these days, too. Ingrid tells her continuously, in an effort to make her be more cheerful, that smiling knocks 5 years off a person; and with the way she's been since her and Killian have gotten to know each other (and even more so since she's been in his presence), well-
Emma doesn't have a wealth of pictures from her childhood, but she remembers the feeling of lightness she had once she'd finally settled down at Ingrid's. Killian scrunches up his nose in mock disgust when Elsa giggles, and she recognises that weightlessness in her chest immediately.
Despite their (Killian's) plan to walk around central London in the evening, they spend their time playing Scrabble with Liam and Elsa, and Emma grows increasingly fond of Killian's little family, especially when Elsa steals an extra letter from the bag when she's sure Liam isn't looking, and when Liam calls bluff on every single word Killian puts down, even if they're common ones. She spends a solid ten minutes arguing against Liam's use of a u in behavior, earning him a 34 instead of a 17. Liam, for his part, spends ten more minutes arguing right back, and is this close to pulling up the Comparison of American and British English Wikipedia page on his phone until Elsa chastises him for being so stubborn.
Killian nudges her with his elbow as she snickers, whispering, "I told you that you two would get along, Swan," his breath tickling the side of her face. "Stubborn as mules, the both of you."
His words hold no fire; in fact, they're laced with a fondness. Emma hums in reply, even though she's a bit thrown off by how easily he groups her in with the man who, for most of his life, was his whole world.
(Then again, she just as easily places Killian right next to the people she cares most about.)
(She'd much rather not dwell on the significance of either of those things.)
-/-
"I do hope you weren't too bored," Killian says as he tugs at Davy's leash for a third time to get the dog to keep up with their pace instead of stopping to inspect cracks in the sidewalk.
Emma tugs the collar of her coat a little higher, "It was really nice, thanks for letting me come with."
"I do believe you were the one that dragged me there but you're welcome," she sees him wink at her under the hazy light of the streetlamp.
"He's pretty great," she says after a stretch of comfortable silence between them. "Liam, he's a lot like you said he was, I can see why- that day-," she stops short, shaking her head and trying not to dwell on the man's car crash, on how small Killian had sounded over the phone, on the glimpse she'd seen of the prominent scar that ran down Liam's forearm to stop just above his wrist, on how she's only just met him but she suddenly feels a gaping sadness at the thought of Killian not having him around.
"Aye," he doesn't sound as small as he did but there's lingering sadness in his voice. And now she feels like an idiot for bringing it up after such a blissful evening.
"Shit, sorry, I didn't mean to-"
"Don't apologise, Emma," he shakes his head vehemently, and she thinks if his hands weren't occupied, he might be reaching to comfort her with his touch. "Honestly, if I didn't have you around," he breathes out heavily, "I don't think I'd be half as put together in its duration as I was."
She stares at the way his throat works down a swallow. "I didn't do anything."
He shakes his head again, smiles just enough for his dimples to flash, "You should stop doubting your impact on people, love. If you'd allow me, I'd say you were a bloody hero."
Her mind reels at his confession, and she's suddenly all too aware of the very little space between them as they turn the corner of his street. She's caught between thinking of how some few months after she'd started writing to Killian, David had off-handedly mentioned how nice it was to see her smile more freely and the way she's unconsciously loosened the reigns around her heart.
If anyone's the bloody hero, it's him.
She doesn't tell him that, though - just settles on smiling at him as he unlocks the apartment door, hoping he understands in one way or another, just how much he means to her.
-/-
Emma likes to think she has a pretty good system; likes to think that the three piles of chronologically ordered letters in her top nightstand drawer are a testament to her wonderful organisation capabilities. She also likes to think that Killian Jones is a show-off.
The man has a fucking file organiser. The one's with colour coded dividers, breaking off each envelope by month. And don't forget that each letter is put into its own plastic sleeve, for what she assumes are preservation purposes, before they're put into the designated envelope (which is decorated with a neat group of postage stamps that have been carefully taken off her letters and glued on here). She can only conclude that the man is obsessed with efficiency. Although, she wonders just how efficient it is to make the whole system in the first place when he's already got such a demanding job. They must share the whole bad work ethic thing, then.
She isn't technically supposed to be lurking around the desk in his room, but she'd needed to use the bathroom and it was connected to his bedroom, so she couldn't really help herself when she was drawn to the colourful file organiser that was marked by a simple drawing of a swan on a post-it. (Her eyes also catch on to the series of maps taped to the walls, the endless notes and novels that litter his shelves, even the little ship in a bottle that sits polished on his dresser.) The more she dives into the life of Killian Jones, the more she thinks of just how she's going to go back to her own. Now that she's seen him and hugged him and let his presence become the norm in just a few days, she isn't sure how long it'll be before Storybrooke starts to seem dull in comparison. It's a ridiculous thought, considering the town is the one place she's ever felt safe, at home - especially after the amount of houses and towns and states she's jumped all her life.
She touches the post-it reverently, catching the corner of it between her thumb and forefinger, following the delicate pen lines of the drawing. There were a few paintings of his at Liam's place, some signed with his initials and others that Elsa pointed out - all full of some kind of care and tenderness that she's come to identify with the man himself.
Emma isn't quite sure if coming here was the best or the worst decision she's ever made. She is sure, though, that leaving will be the hardest one.
"Snooping around, are you?" Killian says softly, but his voice still startles her. He's standing in the doorway, running a hand through his hair, and she's certain the tips of his ears are tinging an adorable shade of red. He gestures vaguely, a bit nervously, at the organiser, "It's a tad...comprehensive."
"I think the word you're looking for is anal." She doesn't let the uninviting thoughts of the inevitable keep her from teasing him.
"It comes with the job, Swan, I can't exactly be a messy lawyer," he stalks closer to her, eyes fixing on the drawing she's still thumbing at.
She scoffs. "I see right through your excuses, Killian Jones."
His eyes snap back to hers as he snickers. "Never can pull one over you, darling. Although, I'm rather perceptive, too, and I'm certain at least some of this meticulousness flatters you." He's teasing her right back, but his words ring true.
"I'm actually kind of pissed because they make my drawer of letters look sloppy," she admits instead.
"Ah, Swan, it's not a competition."
She thinks about his painting in her bedroom and the polaroids on her fridge, thinks that if it was a competition of displaying fondness, she just might win.
"Whatever," she mumbles, letting him clasp her hand in his. He runs his thumb along her knuckles and then taps them once, blue eyes glinting under the dull light of the room.
She looks away from him back to the desk and that's when her eyes catch the little box next to it, a small outline of a swan decorating the bottom left side of the light blue paper. She slips her hand out of his and slowly reaches for the box, turning it around a few times in her palm before she asks, "What's this?"
He doesn't speak right away, and she assumes he doesn't want to tell her but when she looks up at him he looks more like he's struggling for words. He moves an inch closer, "That was- uh- it was meant to be your Christmas gift."
She scrunches her brows together. He never sent it and that can only mean he had a change of heart about getting her something. But, the fact that he had even thought of her while buying his gifts was-
Well, she'd thought about buying him something while she was in Boston but she wasn't exactly willing to deal with any of those thoughts head first then.
She picks at the ribbon around it and tugs to let it fall loose, opening the box to a necklace; a pendant of what she could identify as a North Star hanging from a thin silver chain.
"You bought this for me?"
"Aye," he says a bit sheepishly. "I don't mean for you to take this the wrong way but I didn't send it to you because I feared it would drive you away somehow. I presumed I'd be able to find a way and time to get it to you eventually."
The edges of the pendant reflect the light, almost making it seem like it's shining. He's right; if she'd seen this in her mailbox during Christmas time, she'd have shut herself away from him - even though she'd been aware of how she'd felt for him, she wouldn't have known how to handle a gesture like this from him. Now, though -
Now, she sees his nervousness in the way his fingers tug at the hair at the nape of his neck, and all she feels is a flood of warmth.
"Thank you, Killian." She continues when he meets her eyes, "Would it be okay if I kept it?"
He half smiles, and his hand finds its resting place on top of hers once again, "Of course, Emma, it's yours."
Killian watches her for a long stretch of time that she can only determine in the unit of the amount of times his eyes flit from one of hers to the other, the amount of times her heart feels like it's actually being tugged.
"Come on, love, it's getting late," he whispers, pulling her hand closer to his chest, "I'll walk you back."
She nods hesitantly after a beat, wondering if it would be appropriate to ask him to walk her all the way back to Maine and then stay.
-/-
They spend the rest of the days either walking around London, seeing the sights and the places Killian had gathered memories of while growing up (like his childhood home that they'd had to give up when they couldn't afford it any longer, the park bench where he'd had his first kiss and the shelter him and Liam had adopted Davy from), or at Killian's apartment swapping stories over the background noise of the television.
Emma feels like she's been in London - within touching distance of Killian - for months rather than a week. She isn't sure if the thought is more happy or sad.
A day before she's due to fly back, he takes her out on his boat. Simply because he had to prove that he did, indeed, have a boat. Emma isn't used to sea travel but she adjusts well enough, especially considering Davy refuses to stop running dizzy circles around her in excitement.
"You're a natural at this," Killian grins, sauntering over to her once he's laid anchor. "It took Elsa a while to get used to being out on the water, even longer to trust that I was a good captain, which," he scrunches up his nose in mock annoyance.
Emma can hear the hardwood creak beneath her feet as she shifts her weight. "How long have you had this?"
He leans against the railing next to her, "Give or take, five years. Liam and I saved up for her, and I'd assumed that we'd be sharing because it was a joint investment but my brother had a different idea. Gave her to me on my birthday," he runs his palm over the railing in contemplative silence. "She still technically belongs to the both of us, but he rarely goes out on the sea unless he's going out with me and Elsa."
"So, you're out here with Davy a lot?"
"Aye," he smiles, "it's calming, the water. Always has been."
Emma turns away from his profile, taking in the gentle ebb and flow of the waves, the multiple shades of blue and green and the way it does, in fact, lull her into a calmer state. Still, there's that uneasiness in her gut, in the way she can't keep her hands from fidgeting. (She's been trying not to think about leaving.) (So far, the only way she's managed to refrain from it is by telling herself that it isn't happening; she's always been pretty great at denial, after all.)
"Swan," he starts, and when Emma turns to look at him his mouth is half open, like he's halfway between a thought that he isn't sure he should vocalise.
"Yeah?" She asks (a bit weakly, she'll admit) as he takes half a step towards her.
"I was-," he pauses abruptly, lightly shakes his head before saying, "I was wondering if you were hungry?"
Emma knows that's not what he wanted to say but she lets it slide, tries to not let the intense look he's giving her overwhelm her. Instead, she places her hand in the crook of his elbow and lets him lead her to the deck where he unwraps a few sandwiches and fruit, pouring a bit of wine for the both of them, and letting her fill the silence with the story of the first time Ingrid had taken her to the beach and they'd collected seashells.
It's early evening by the time they're done eating, Davy curled up on the edge of the blanket on the deck, having decided that the lack of ducks culminated for little entertainment. Somehow, she finds herself leaning against Killian, her head resting in the crook between his neck and his shoulder, his fingers tangling with the ends of her wind-blown hair while she thumbs at her necklace.
"There's the tale of Coma Berenices," Killian says softly, his lilting accent continuing to lull her into a dreamlike state as he continues telling her the stories behind the stars that they can't actually see yet. "Berenice's hair, in other words. An Egyptian queen who cut off her hair to pay of the deal she'd made with the goddess of love, to keep her husband safe during the wartime. That may be one of my favourites, an honest sacrifice for love, and all."
"Stories about love are always so dramatic," she hears herself mumble.
Killian's quiet chuckle vibrates through her body, all the way down to her toes. "I believe that's the point, Swan."
Emma hums noncommittally, pressing her nose further into his neck.
There's a small part of her wondering if the last few days have even been real. (They have, she's got the selfies on her phone that Killian insisted on taking to prove it.) It's getting colder the longer they stay on deck and even though she has her arms folded, trapping the heat in as much as she can, and a very warm body next to her, she can still feel a shiver run up her spine.
"Are you cold? Shall we make our way back to shore?"
She leans back a little - she's close enough to make out the tint of ginger in his beard, to know the exact angle of the slope of his jaw, to lean forward just a bit to eliminate the distance between them. When she notices that his eyes are fixed on her lips, she scoffs to break the tension, says, "Scared of a little cold, Captain?"
He smirks at the nickname. "I only mean to save you from getting hypothermia, love. But we could stay out here if you'd rather I be the one to warm you up," he raises an insinuating eyebrow.
She rolls her eyes as she pushes herself up and off him, offering her hand to pull him up. She's so used to touching him now, either unconsciously or otherwise; Emma has never been one to develop habits as quickly as this, but everything she's ever known has been flipped in over its head when it comes to Killian Jones, so, really, she isn't that surprised.
He stumbles a bit as he's getting up and almost crashed into her, steadying himself at the very last moment. But, he still ends up barely an inch away from her, his puff of breath fanning her lips.
And she's staring at his mouth again, every damn bit of her manners and restraint fallen through the gaps in the floor and straight into the depths of the sea. His hands find the sides of her face, cold fingers framing it as he leans closer and closer. Her anticipation is like an excited puppy, not being able to contain itself as she pushes herself on her tiptoes and surges to meet his waiting lips.
It's a hundred different things and it's also just one, small, simple gesture. He moves his hands further into her hair, the cold tips of his fingers pressing at the base of her skull. It's gentle and soft, the way he kisses her. Compared to him, she thinks she might be too eager with how much she's leaning into him, how closer she's tugging him by the lapels of his leather jacket. His fingers glide down to the back of her neck, and even though his skin is freezing, she feels a pinprick of a flame everywhere it meets hers.
He leaves her with one soft nip at her lower lip before he moves away, but only enough that their lips aren't touching anymore; their foreheads are leaning against each other, almost every part of them from shoulder to hip still touching.
She squeezes her eyes shut as she lets the weight of her decision was over her (coming here, or kissing him, she isn't sure), and tightens her grip on his jacket. She was already dreading leaving and now that she knows how he kisses, God, she can still feel all of it down to her toes.
"What are we doing?" She whispers it against the winds that are picking up more each minute, and it's laced with pain and longing and an overwhelming sense of clarity. Emma is head over heels about this man, and she's certain she has no idea how to let him go.
"It's called kissing," she can hear the smile in his words, but they're strangled as he says them.
"That's not what I meant," Emma opens her eyes to see his still closed, his lips swollen and his tops of his cheeks a light shade of red.
He sighs and opens his eyes, "I know." She sees a longing there that she knows is a mirror image of her own.
"We should stop before -"
"Before what, Emma? Before one of us does something awful like get too attached?" His words should sound harsh but he speaks them gently, one hand tracing the line of her jaw from ear to chin. Emma wants to nod, wants to tell him that she's already in too far and letting herself fall farther would only mean potential heartbreak, but he doesn't give her a chance to speak. "Because I think I speak for the both of us when I say we are far beyond that point."
She exhales shakily and weakly argues, "You live here, and I'm half way across the world."
"We'll make it work."
"Killian," she moves to step back but his hand tightens in her hair, unwilling to let her go.
"Tell me," he swallows heavily, "please, just tell me that this is what you want, and I'll never leave your side."
There's something that pulls her towards him, has been pulling her towards him since the minute that website matched them together. It could have been a sequence of program codes that gave her a random result but it could have also been something bigger. Emma doesn't believe in fate, not really, but she does believe in how right it feels when she places her palm on his cheek and he leans into her touch. His forehead is creased with worry lines and her own breathing is shallow at best, but she knows she's happier when Killian's in the picture.
So, she slants her lips against his in a soft invite, and mumbles, "I want this."
When he kisses her again, it's harder and deeper, his bubbling laughter and her own grin threatening to break their kiss countless times. But not that, and not even Davy's excited barking pushes them away from each other.
-/-
"Maybe you should extend your stay," Ruby says over the phone, before she hushes Mary Margaret, who Emma can hear faintly in the background.
"No," Emma sighs, fingers gripping the necklace that fits perfectly between her collarbones. "I don't think that would be a good idea, it'll just make it worse."
"I want to say I told you so, but I know now's not the best time. So, instead, I will tell you that you should trust him and you should trust how you feel. The odds of any of this happening were slim to none, honestly, if I went and signed up for a pen pal, I'd probably get stuck with some pervert who can't spell or some girl with a Hemingway fetish," she makes a disgusted sound, "but what I'm trying to say is that you guys have already beat the odds once, and you can most likely do it again."
Ruby, for all her dramatic flair and annoying quips, can sometimes be really helpful. "Yeah," Emma says, "yeah, probably."
"See, I'm always right." Emma scoffs. "Now, tell me, is he as good of a kisser as I think he is?"
-/-
The next afternoon is a melancholic affair, the both of them standing with their arms wrapped around each other tightly as the airport around them bustles with activity. He presses a searing kiss to her lips, his hand gripping her waist enough to keep her in place. It's not like she wants to leave, anyway.
"I'll miss you," Emma says, thumb stroking the edge of his lower lip.
"And I, you. But I will see you soon, my love."
"I'm holding you to that," she shuts her eyes and presses her nose into his cheek, stubble scratching her skin.
"I'm a man of my word," he replies, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and bringing her closer. "It won't be long before we're together again."
She leaves him with a parting kiss that's two parts sorrow and three parts hope.
(I miss you already. The text arrives while she's waiting for her flight to board.
I know how you feel. She replies with shaking fingers, her heart sinking straight down to her stomach.)
-/-
Killian -
It feels a bit weird to write to you right after I've just spent a whole week with you. And what a week it was - my phone's still recovering from being overloaded with pictures. I'm sitting here imagining what you'd say after each line I write like we're having a proper face to face conversation.
(I would suggest Skype but, we're both on different times now and there's something about these letters that's grown on me - it's probably the extra I pay for postage stamps but now that I know you collect those it makes me feel a little better.)
Storybrooke is exactly how I left it, can't say I'm surprised. But, I did find a broken window near the pawn shop. Turns out it was a raccoon - I didn't know we had raccoons. But we have ducks and wolves, so I guess anything's possible, right?
My mom and friends keep asking me about London and about you, and do you know that feeling where you have so much to tell that you don't even know where to start? It's like that but multiplied by ten. I've told them most of it but Ruby's nosy that way and Mary Margaret's been on my back about seeing the photos. I think she wants to make a scrapbook, Killian. She'll probably decorate it with glitter and heart stickers. (You can't see me but I'm shuddering.)
I don't want to end this on a sad note but, I miss you. I wish you were here.
Hoping to see you soon,
Emma
-/-
Dear Swan,
There's so much that I want to say to you but nothing that is meaningless enough to be scribbled down on a piece of paper. (That's not to say that what we write to each other is meaningless, simply that there are more important words than just the ones about my raging heathen of a mutt and our adventures in the sun starved city of London.) (But I'm sure you know that already.)
I want to tell you that I miss you beyond belief, that I turn around while I'm preparing coffee thinking you're perched on the stool, only to be terribly disappointed. I want to tell you that Davy misses you, too, keeps barking at the space on the couch that you'd claimed as yours. It's been close to three weeks - a long stretch of time in dog years, and an even longer stretch for a man who knows how you kiss - but with every passing day, I only wish to see you more and more. I want to tell you that four days ago I walked into Robin's bar and saw a flash of blonde hair in my peripheral vision. I also want to tell you that I had to knock back two tumblers of rum before the disappointment of her not being you dulled down.
I want to tell you all of this, and then some, but I can't, Swan. Not unless you're here, in front of me. Or I'm there, in front of you.
The latter, I must confess, seems more plausible. I have enough free time on my hands now, and enough in my financial account for a flight ticket to Boston. Nothing is confirmed as of yet, love, and if, by any chance, you've changed your mind and decided you don't feel the same as I do, then I will leave you be. But, I'd like to hope that we are on the same (if not a further) chapter as where we were when you'd left, as where we were up until your last letter to me a week ago. (Speaking of which, I apologise for not writing to you sooner, and only texting you sporadically - work has been a bloody nightmare.)
Tell your mum that I wish her the best with her expansion endeavour, and do let me know what you think of Pulp Fiction. Really, Swan, I'm rather crestfallen you haven't seen a classic such as that one.
Yours,
Killian
-/-
She nearly drops the letter in her excitement, calls him up right after even though it's 6am his time. He mumbles a sleepy greeting into the phone before asking her if everything's okay, and she feels like an idiot for a split second because she didn't consider the time difference or the fact that he's been working more these days, but all that fades away when she glances at the letter on the table again.
"Of course I want you to visit," she says without any preamble, and with probably a little too much force.
"Forgive me, darling, I was just making sure. I didn't want to book my tickets and fly there to have your face fall as you opened your door to me," comes his gravely reply.
"Hey, I had to take that risk, you know," her fingers find the pointed edges of her necklace.
"And I'm eternally glad for it." There's a rustle of his sheets and then, "Is next week too soon?"
She has to bite her lip from grinning too hard. "Not soon enough." She waits a beat before saying, "Ruby's going to flip."
Killian's answering laugh is rough with sleep and she thinks it's a sound she'll never get tired of hearing.
-/-
The week goes by slow, even for Storybrooke standards - a town that moves at least five times slower than any other she's ever been to. Initially, she'd found it easy to settle down in for that exact reason; after being moved around constantly, quickly, and without much warning, Emma was given a chance to let her muscles rest and to find a monotonous routine that, albeit she complained about, loved nonetheless. The easy pace is a luxury she'd never imagined having at 17, but right now, it's the last thing she wants.
Killian hadn't told her what time he'd be landing, saying something about wanting to surprise her like she did him. Which, kind of ridiculous, really, because she knows the day he's coming and she could just check the flights coming into Logan from Heathrow on that day. She's also about thirty percent sure that he's going to get lost on his way to Storybrooke, because even though it does exist on a standard GPS, there are still a number of shortcuts and backroads that would be useful to know about. But, she lets him have this, as dorky as he makes it sound.
She spends all of Sunday morning lounging around her apartment, trying not to seem to eager. (Maybe lounging is the wrong term, nervously adjusting and readjusting the couch cushions might be a better one.) Ruby's called her twice already, David's texted her once and she even has a message from Ingrid flashing on her screen; none of that is helping. It's a strange mix of happiness and anxiety that takes over her. She switches her attention to Netflix and some mindless paperwork that she'd brought in from the station, hoping to drown it out.
It works for the most part.
Until there's a knock on her door, and her stupid stomach decides to flutter again.
She breathes in once, brushes off imaginary lint from her shirt and tucks her hair behind her ears before throwing open the door. His wind tousled hair and those dimples hit her harder than she'd thought they would.
"Swan," he grins. She opens her mouth to respond but he doesn't give her time to get anything out before he drops his bag and purposely surges forward, framing her face in his palms and crashing his lips down on hers, all in one smooth motion. Emma inhales sharply and her hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders, pulling herself as close to him as she can possible manage.
He tilts her head with his hand to deepen the kiss and she sighs into his mouth, tasting a hint of coffee when she runs her tongue along his lower lip.
"Apologies," he exhales when he pulls back, lips still brushing hers, "I've been wanting to do that since the minute you left."
She presses a quick kiss against his lips, "Same here." She smiles, her stomach fluttering for a completely different reason now as Killian smooths his fingers against her cheek. "Do you wanna come in?"
"Aye, but," he breathes in heavily and steps back half an inch, "before I do, I must tell you something."
He goes from a grin that's all teeth and dented cheeks to a thin lipped smile that's barely there and she tries to not let her expression fall - really, she does. "Okay," she replies hesitantly, even though she's unwilling to believe that he'd come all this way to let her down.
"I haven't exactly been completely honest with you in the last few months," he starts, which - not really a good start by her standards. "Don't panic, love, I promise I'm not a fugitive or anything," he amends quickly, but it does little to actually stop her from panicking, "I just- to put it simply, I haven't exactly been busy with my job in the last few days because I've quit my job. I've been planning to do that for months now because," he pauses to exhale and run his hand through his hair, meeting her eyes as he says, "because once I had grasped what my feelings for you were, I didn't want to not try."
She swallows the lump in her throat, "Not try what?"
"This, any of it, I- I haven't told you this but before we started writing to each other I wasn't in the best of places. I was mentally drained and emotionally exhausted. I believed that even though I was alright at my job and in a stable family situation, that there was nothing beyond that for me; but then when I began communicating with you, all of it just somehow started to fall back into place.
"I've lost a lot of myself as I've grown older, Emma, but in the last few months, you've helped me better myself." He jerks his chin toward the pendant she's clasping in her hand subconsciously and it clicks; the North Star; the guiding light. It's overwhelming to say the least, so Emma latches on to the only thing she can somewhat make sense of.
"You said- you said you quit your job?"
"I did."
"Why?"
"Because I'd like to try this for real. I don't want to regret not having put my all into it, only to lose you somewhere down the road." His hand covers hers where it still rests on her necklace and her other one lifts up to cover his in kind. "I can't lose you, Emma."
She squeezes his hand, and squeezes her eyes shut, too, scared she'll do something stupid like cry in front of him. "I still don't-,"
"I'm moving here, my love. I found a job a half an hour's drive away, gave an interview on my way over, in fact, even though they'd already confirmed I had it over the phone three weeks ago." And fuck, for all her attempt, she feels her lip trembling, anyway. "If you'd rather I didn't, I could-"
"Shut up," she buries her face in the crook of his neck, "God, just shut up." She huffs out something between a laugh and a sob and his free arm immediately comes up around her shoulders. "Of course I want you here, I just didn't ever think you'd do something like this."
She leans back immediately as the words come out of her mouth and continues, "Are you sure? Killian, it's your whole life that you're giving up, your family, your home. I can't ask you to do that for- for something that's so uncertain."
"My home, I'd decided the night you'd walked into my apartment, is wherever you are." She shifts her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp lightly. "Besides, Liam and Elsa are rather excited about this prospect because it gives them more of a reason to travel, which they adore doing."
"I can't believe you'd do that for me."
"You're my bloody hero, Swan, remember? I'd follow you to the ends of the earth, give up everything I could if I had to."
She shoots him a watery smile and leans her forehead against his, her finger tapping once against his neck, "Does that make you my Berenice?"
Killian snorts as he runs a thumb against her cheek to catch a stray tear, "Is that all you garnered from my speech? You know I practiced the bloody thing all the way here, it-," She cuts him off with a press of her lips against his, insistent and demanding. He responds in kind, wrapping both his arms around her waist until they're pressed together from hip to knee.
"You do have to assist me in finding an apartment, though," he smiles down at her.
"I'm only going to help if you promise me that Davy's moving in with you."
"Bloody hell, love, I should have known that all this time, you were using me for my dog. You're both traitors."
Emma laughs as she sways into him, fingers ghosting over the V of his shirt. "What can I say? I'm a sucker for those dark haired, pirate types."
He captures her lips again, their teeth clashing messily as they both grin too hard and attempt to compress every single immense emotion they're feeling into one kiss.
She doesn't realize they're still standing in the doorway of her apartment until she hears Ruby squeal from the landing of the stairs. Emma has to break the kiss to bury her face in his chest, a groan guttering out of her throat. It's a lot to process, sure, but here, in the simple domesticity of their actions, in the ease with which Killian chuckles softly and presses her closer to his body, she think she's never felt lighter.
(When Killian asks her what her friend means when she calls him Mr. Darcy, Emma pretends she has no idea what he's talking about, instead, pressing her lips to his in a welcome distraction; one she thinks she is most definitely already used to.)
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