A/N: Sorry for the wait, but I'm also not sorry because I am incredibly happy with this as it is! Thank you for your kind words, your follows and your favorites. I hope you enjoy this extra.
They've never met at her house. Before now, it's never seemed like anything significant to him, but that's because he's usually happy to see her no matter where they are, especially after a two-week stint without seeing her at all.
(It was bound to happen eventually — she had regular evaluations to attend and piles of post-appointment paperwork that made them both cringe whenever she brought it up, so when she did get enough time to meet and work with him, it always seemed to him that she silently preferred to meet in places that didn't make her feel like she was carrying all of her obligations with her.)
But now he wonders as he taps his thumb against the wheel, his other arm resting comfortably in his lap as the late summer breeze twists through the interior of his vehicle, whether there's anything more to it. Now that they've spent the better part of the summer getting to know each other (and the more he learns about Emma Swan, the more he wants to know) he's starting to realize their time together is drawing to a close. Potentially.
Emma's words from the last time they met are still swirling around in his mind. Her "you tell me" has been haunting him for some time now, making him feel like a teenager as he lays awake at night analyzing the lilt and measure of her playful voice. They had to mean something, but whether that something is a thing she wanted to extend beyond their scheduled therapy visits, he still isn't completely sure. Emma opened the door, he thinks, but he has no idea how to step through.
Before, his life had been about surfing and the waves that danced beneath it when he rode. He'd been defined by what he could do between the curl of a wave and the waxed surface of his surfboard, for his strength and resiliency in the water. People had cared about him in ways that were both shockingly genuine and appallingly shallow before the accident, but after it felt like all attention had turned from his skill to pinpoint on the hand he could never get back. He's a walking trauma story, and Emma is one of a handful of people (the cashier at his favorite grocery store, the mailman that comes on weekends, his elderly neighbor who insisted on sending over meals for the entire first week of his recovery) who didn't seem to care about the difference.
A small part of him always tries to argue, saying Emma hadn't known him at all beforehand. It's not fair to compare her to a host of others that drew away from you after the attack had occurred, the voice told him. She might have shied away sooner than the rest, it said.
He finds himself lingering on those thoughts more than the ones of friends and acquaintances he's lost, though. There's a stronger voice from within always reminding him of how nice it is that he would never have to know with her. Emma's almost the complete opposite, the way she'd met him and launched into her mission to help him recuperate with more enthusiasm than even he'd felt at first, and now? Now he's in more trouble than ever, because he's not sure if he wants to miss her at all.
Killian parks right next to her despite the near-empty lot, smiling at how unnecessary it is since no one else's cars are anywhere near theirs. It feels a bit like a parallel to his life now that he lingers on the image of his vehicle next to hers and secluded from the rest of the world. It's not nearly as lonely as it should look, somehow. To him, it just makes sense.
He finds her waiting for him the minute he pushes the door open, fingers tapping against the empty reception desk. It's no small thing to him that she lights up the second she registers it's him walking in, even though she takes a step to retreat further into the building.
"Signed us in already," she explains with excitement in her voice, enthusiasm that seems to exist chiefly for visits with him. "You didn't forget anything, did you?"
"If I have, I don't know that I've forgotten it." Killian shakes off the strange anxiousness that always seems to try to settle on his shoulders when he's around her in favor of enjoying the moment. He shows her the towel resting on his shoulder and shakes his water bottle in his hand as proof. "What strange torture device will you be strapping me into today?"
"That shoulder wheel was not a torture device," Emma tells him with an eye roll that's somehow both endearing and commanding all at once. "I promise that you're going to like what we do today."
"And if I don't?"
"You will."
Her eyes are sparkling, and he's hopelessly lost. She could be telling him anything at this point, really, and he'd still feel the same familiar pull in her direction. As it is, she's literally pulling him down the hall until they find themselves in a large, sun-soaked room. They're two of about five people total in this part of the gym, which is a stark contrast to every other exercise gym he's ever stepped into. He's glad she respects his need to stay secluded from the general public for the time being, given how everyone usually reacts to his arm (Does it still hurt? Can you still feel it sometimes? and the rare but always-dreaded You poor thing, will you ever surf again?) but he can't help but wish he had something to distract him from the beautiful, driven, compassionate woman in front of him.
"You said you'd just signed us in," he says with traces of awe and delight in his voice. "What's this?"
"Told you you'd like it."
She's brought in Indo Boards for the both of them to use today. She's given him a chance to do what he loves without having to go back in the water, in the public eye. She's a bloody mind reader and suddenly the handful of clients milling about the gym vanish from his mind when she smiles.
He shakes his head at her and raises both arms in clear surrender, and then he sets his water and towel down on the floor next to the boards she's procured for them. Shaking off thoughts about the effort she's gone to and the excitement he sees in her eyes, he prods one with his foot experimentally. It feels a bit like coming home already.
"Don't you want to take your shoes off? Get the full effect?" Emma asks.
"We'll need a bit less clothing if we truly want the full effect, lass," he responds, just to see what color her cheeks will burn when she hears it. He's rewarded with a lovely peach-pink and the way her eyes dart toward the ground as she toes off her shoes, and he follows suit.
And then he's laughing completely outright when it turns out she's not quite a natural when it comes to maneuvering the thing herself. She explains that they're fairly new to her practice ("Shut up, Jones, ninety percent of my clients are elderly and would break a hip on one of these things") so he takes the opportunity to teach her a thing or two.
"First off, relax your shoulders," he tells her, rolling his own as he stays steady on the board to demonstrate. "and bend your knees a bit more."
"Shouldn't I be the one doing the instructing?"
"I'll shut up as soon as you can steady yourself."
Eventually, she does, and it's then that she slips back into the Emma he's gotten to know, asking him for the stories behind the trinkets on his shelves at home and why he always orders the same thing at the drive-thrus they make a habit of visiting after workouts. He shoots back, telling her she has no right to complain when she always makes him park in the same spot while they eat ("I like being in the shade, Jones, it's not that weird") and that's when he realizes how comfortable he is.
It's not exactly news to him, that he feels like himself in her presence. It's just that this specific day had been the most daunting out of everything they've tried to do and he doesn't feel insecure at all. He feels like life could stretch on like this and feel normal, almost better than before, and suddenly he wonders if he's ever taken the time to really thank Emma Swan before now. Not the passing thank you's he offers her after each of their therapy sessions end, either. A real one. It sticks in his mind after they step away from the boards and move on to other exercises, ones she's especially modified for him to be able to do with one hand gone.
(He wonders how he ever got by without her when she leaves to refill their water bottles.)
"A word, Swan?" He asks her after they sign themselves out and he carries both Indo Boards for her under his arm. It's late afternoon, so golden sun completely drenches them both as she stows them in the trunk of her car and looks back his way.
And damn him, but he chickens out, despite the encouraging smile she's sending his way.
"I just wanted to remind you to cross that one off of our list, when you get home. It's with you, right?"
"It's not—" Emma opens her mouth to say something in reply, but furrows her brow and seems to think better of it. He gets the impression she's remembering something she's forgotten, but it only takes her a second to come back to him. "Don't worry, Jones. You're not the only one who doesn't usually forget things."
He leans against her car again when they eat, both of them stealing onion rings out of the greasy cardboard box sitting on top of her Bug. The shady spot definitely is better than the full sun, he reluctantly admits with a roll of his eyes that matches her earlier reaction. He can tell when she recognizes the movement by the way she laughs and says told you so, and now he's wishing he'd done something that took longer to respond to. She tosses their trash in the garbage and says see you later (never goodbye, he's noticed) and then it's him in the shade, wishing he had half a clue of what to do with himself.
Emma calls him early one morning, waking him up by the ringer on his phone. He's sure they don't have anything planned for the day as he rubs sleep from his eyes, asking her if everything is okay and bracing himself in case it isn't.
"I'm fine. I just need a favor."
"At this hour?"
"Has to be before I go in for my morning shift," she explains. "Come outside."
"What?" He gets up from bed and peeks out his window, but there's no yellow Beetle parked out on the curb. He can't see her, which makes him more confused, and had he two hands he would have pinched himself to make sure wasn't really still in bed.
"Just open your door," she adds impatiently. He can practically see her foot bouncing with anticipation. "It's not going to take long."
"All right, Swan, just give me a moment."
"Fine, but only one. See you."
Killian pulls the front door open and is greeted by his scrubby front lawn. Confusion settles deeper in his brow as he leans out and looks around the porch. It isn't until he takes a tentative step out into the morning air and stubs his toe on a small cardboard box that he fully accepts his consciousness. He's definitely awake, and she's left him a package.
It's asking him to OPEN ME in what looks like orange highlighter, so he does. When he finally rips the extensive amount of tape from the joint of the package he breaks the morning silence with confused laughter. She's given him a pair of colorful, adult-sized arm floaties. Their little list of goals is sitting on top of it, too, and he thinks it's a reminder of how far they've come until he looks properly.
One - Dress shirt buttons.
Two - Shaving.
Three - Modified gym workouts.
Four - Hold Emma Swan's hand.
And there, under his own handwriting, is a new one. One he's probably seen before, he realizes, but never paid attention to, seeing as she'd always scribbled little doodles and notes to herself on their goals list before.
Five - Get back in the ocean.
His phone buzzes with a text almost seconds after he reads it and processes what it means. "Did you open it?" She asks.
It's been months since he's touched open ocean, and he hasn't even told her how scared he is to do so, but all of a sudden with this paper in his hand and a set of small, adult-size floaties in his arms, he thinks he's ready.
"I did."
His surprise at the gift and the note is nothing compared to the surprise on her face when she finds him waiting for her when she clocks out of work. She looks amazingly happy to see him, which gives him boldness he didn't have while he was tossing his keys to himself like an idiot in the middle of the parking lot.
"Hey," she tells him, tugging her long hair out of its ponytail. "Did they fit?"
"I didn't try them on," he says, feeling a strange mix of seriousness and joy spread over his face as she gets closer. He needs to get it out now, before she turns his thoughts to addled nonsense. "Thought you might want to be there for that bit."
She looks at him with a bit of wonder then, stopping just short of being able to stand in his shadow. "I didn't know if you were ready yet. I know it might not have been that funny of a joke because of how all of this happened, and I didn't want you to feel like I was pressuring —."
He kisses her, and his heart roars in victory when it only takes her the briefest moment to respond. His keys clatter to the ground next to his feet as his hand slips up and cups the side of her neck, fingers playing at the edges of that sunshine hair he's been waiting to feel. She's soft and inviting and completely perfect, and the kiss breaks as both of them smile in tandem.
"I know," he breathes, shifting so his thumb swipes at the dent in her chin. "I'm ready when you are."
