A/N: Hooray! Thanks to Mel, pandajw, campingwiththecharmings, OnceUponABookworm, Ayyyylmao, Mrs. Killian Jones pureblood, Revenessa, EurekaBeck, Ravengirl07, wendyhookjones, A Weeping Willow, onceuponamirror, YouSaid, Mackie1971, phoward, Colinodonewithyou, imke14, Kaicchan, SolemnlySwearToManageMischief, Kari, Killians-lady, niniadepapa, Lunalove25, James-Padfoot, and shellec013. I super appreciate everyone who takes the time to comment, fave and follow this story :)

Emma tapped the end of her pen against her chin as she considered the maths problem in front of her. Before she could get stuck into it, however, a piece of paper slid across the desk onto her book, courtesy of Killian.

She unfolded it quickly, eyes trailing across the scrawled lines of conversation to the most recent thing she'd written – 'I've never been overseas. Do you have family in England?' – and his subsequent reply.

'Nah. No one close, anyway. Both parents were only children. I don't think I'd want to go back there to live. Although there's better theatre over there'

She smiled as she began to write a response. They had gotten talking in English the period before, and ended up sitting together in maths to continue their conversation via paper. It had quickly devolved away from discussion of the assignment into general chat.

She was surprised by just how much they didn't know about each other – little things you didn't think about when it came to people outside your close-knit circle of friends. The sort of books he read (modernist poets and a surprising number of classics). What he thought about the teachers and classes at their school (liked Mr Jefferson and history the best, Mr Gold and maths the least, was only taking chemistry because it scaled his mark up). Which of the people in his group he was the closest to (Smee and Victor).

They had both consciously made an effort to stay away from more personal topics, which Emma was grateful for. It was hard enough talking about such things with her close friends, let alone someone she had only started talking to a week ago.

Just as she was about to slide the paper back to Killian, a hand slammed down on the desk and she looked up to see Mr Gold.

"What's this, dearies?" he asked, picking it up and raising his eyebrows. "It doesn't look like maths to me."

She felt Killian stiffen beside her, but a moment later he leaned back in his chair and smirked easily up at Gold.

"We're not disrupting the rest of the class," he said.

"You're not doing your work, either," Mr Gold replied.

Killian held up his book and waved it. "But I am! I've almost finished all the assigned questions."

"You haven't checked them yet. And I can't imagine you're putting your full attention into them when you're distracting both yourself and Emma here with passing messages." He sneered. "You know the rules of my classroom. You do your work in here. When you go outside, then you can talk."

"Maybe you should revise your rules then," Killian said. Oh God, thought Emma, stop making this worse. "Every student seems perfectly able to talk and work at the same time in other classes. If you ban talking, people start writing, and that's a lot harder to multitask."

"Watch your tone, Jones."

"Just pointing out the impracticality of it all, sir."

Mr Gold stared at them both with a look of such distaste that Emma felt quite cold.

"Detention," he said. "Both of you. This afternoon. Give me your planners, I'm writing a note to your parents to inform them."

They handed over their planners in silence. Emma felt rather awkward; she didn't get in trouble much at school – or at least, over the last two years she hadn't – and it was always an unpleasant sensation. Especially since she knew Astrid and Leroy would be not angry, but disappointed.

Killian seemed to have no such qualms. He pulled a face when Mr Gold turned his back.

The class was about to end anyway, and when the bell rang a few moments later everyone filed out except the two of them, waiting for Mr Gold to finish writing.

"3 o'clock," he said finally, snapping his pen lid ominously shut. "And Killian, next lesson I want you back in the seat I assigned you." He smiled mockingly. "I imagine it'll be a little harder to get away with throwing paper aeroplanes."

He handed Emma her planner but tossed Killian's to him. The boy fumbled to catch it with one hand before it fell to the floor. Mr Gold walked out without looking back.

"Pretty sure there's a rulebook somewhere that says teachers aren't meant to chuck stuff at students," Emma commented as she picked it up for him and dusted it off.

Killian shrugged. "What am I gonna do? Sue the school? Principal Mills is rich as heck."

Emma gave him an odd look. Yes, Cora Mills was rich – but so were practically all the families at the school. Either rich or very well off. You had to be, to afford to go to Queenhart Grammar. It was a rather posh school.

"Sorry about getting you in trouble," he added as they walked out.

She shook her head. "It wasn't your fault. I was writing notes too."

"Aye, but if it hadn't been me sitting next to you, I guarantee you'd've been let off with a warning at most."

"It's fine," she assured him. "It's not like it's my first time getting a detention."

He stared at her. "Really?"

"Yeah, man. Year nine I used to get them all the time for skipping class and stuff."

He grinned wickedly. "I knew you weren't the total goody-goody that being in the company of Mary Margaret all the time made you seem to be."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. Goody by association? Really?"

"Well, you help her with all that extra stuff she does. Organising birthday gifts for teachers. Social justice meetings. Planting trees for the environment committee."

"Yeah, but only cause she's my friend." They paused as they reached the end of the hallway. Their homerooms and lockers were on opposite sides of the school.

"Will your parents – guardians? – be mad about the detention?" Killian asked her, looking concerned suddenly.

"Parents is fine. And no, not mad. Well, Leroy might be a bit annoyed. But it's fine, stop worrying about it. I guess I'll see you this afternoon then," she said.

He nodded. Sidney had just walked out of a nearby classroom, and looked curious to see the two of them talking together, but he walked off with Killian and Emma was left to go find her own friends.

Ruby had a lunchtime debating meeting, so it was just Mary Margaret and David sitting at their usual table.

"Hi Emma! How was your class?" Mary Margaret asked as she sat down.

"Maths, and I may have gotten a detention," she replied. "So I can't come study with you guys this afternoon, sorry."

They glanced at each other, looking concerned more than anything else. Emma could understand why – as she'd told Killian, she had rarely gotten in trouble since Neal left – certainly never enough trouble to warrant a detention.

"A detention?" David asked incredulously. "What for?"

She decided that playing it cool was probably the best way to stop them making a fuss about it. "Passing notes, whatever."

"Passing notes?" Mary Margaret looked tremendously confused. With good reason. It just wasn't something Emma usually did now. "With who?"

"Uh, Killian."

They exchanged another look, the sort of look that Emma always despised. The we're-concerned-about-you look. She knew that, objectively, it was because they cared that they worried about her, but at the same time she always found it a bit embarrassing. Perhaps because she'd gotten by for so long on her own that when someone took the time to look out for her, she never quite knew how to react.

"We've been meaning to talk to you about Killian," David said slowly.

"What do you mean, talk to me about him?" Emma asked, wary.

"Emma..." Mary Margaret leaned forward. "We're worried you're getting too close to him."

"Too close? What the hell is that supposed to mean? What, like he's some sort of disease?" She lowered the sandwich she'd been unwrapping, appetite suddenly vanishing. "Do you guys honestly think I could misjudge someone to the extent that you should be worried about it?"

"That's not what we're saying," Mary Margaret said, a pleading note in her voice. "Just – remember Aurora? She kept saying the exact same things you keep telling us now. He's not that bad, he's nice really, he's different. He cares about me. He's my friend. And all the time he was just reeling her in for Regina to suck dry and then spit back out once they got what they wanted from her!"

"That's not- he's not- ugh!" She couldn't find a way to articulate what she felt – wasn't sure she wanted to.

Because it hurt, that her friends could think she would let Killian in close enough for him to hurt her in any way.

They were treating her like she was a child. Like they were forgetting just how badly she had been burned in the past – both before, during and after Neal. Like they'd forgotten exactly how deeply that had affected her, and dismissing the fact that it was still affecting her. That this friendship with Killian – and it was friendship, by this point, to call it anything else would be denial – was just an ordinary friendship.

Even if she wanted to let him in deeper, she couldn't. Her walls were built too high and too strong.

And Mary Margaret and David should have known that. Should have considered that before they broke out the lectures as though they were her parents.

"Emma, we just don't want you to be disappointed. To end up getting hurt." Mary Margaret looked so earnest that Emma really couldn't be mad at her. She knew her friends weren't lying. That they were genuinely worried.

It was just... frustrating.

All this time and they still didn't understand her.

"It's fine," she said stiffly. "But you really don't need to worry about it. I'm not gonna let my guard down and go all BFF with him. But right now he's being half-decent and I actually enjoy his company, so..."

"Okay," Mary Margaret said. "Just be careful."

David hadn't spoken, but he was watching Emma with an almost fierce look that she appreciated. He wouldn't get involved, she knew – but he would be there to have her back if things did end up going down messily.

That afternoon Emma was reminded of exactly why she hated detention so much. She had a study period in her last class of the day, and normally she would have been allowed to go home, but in this case she had to hang around until 3 o'clock.

When school finally ended she trudged through the playground to the demountable where detentions were held. She shoved down the feelings of nostalgia that rose up – year nine and scorching summer days, heat and dust rising off the concrete plaza, Neal by her side bemoaning how they'd gotten caught sneaking off during lunchtime or skipping out on PE.

The demountables weren't air conditioned, and when she stepped inside she was hit with a wave of muggy heat that almost made it hard to breathe. Killian was already sprawled at a desk in the corner, blazer slung over the back of his chair. He was folding a sheet of cardboard into a paper fan.

"Greetings," he said, and wafted some air in her direction.

She came and sat beside him, stripping off her own blazer with a groan. When she turned to hang it over her chair, she saw Killian had been watching her, and he darted his gaze away almost guiltily.

A spattering of other students who had gotten into trouble trickled into the room – mostly junior boys, probably caught vandalising the bathrooms or using their phones in class. To her relief, it was Mr Jefferson who walked in moments later, rather than any of the stricter teachers.

"Alright folks," he said, clapping his hands together for silence. "You know the rules. Get some homework done, no talking, no laptops."

"Sir," Killian called out, waving a hand.

"What?"

"Emma and I have a group project we're working on, can we do that? We can work outside if the talking will distract other people."

Mr Jefferson flapped a hand. "Yeah, as long as you stay near the door and don't talk too loudly. And I'll be checking at the end to make sure you got some work done."

Emma packed up her books and sighed with relief as they left the humidity of the demountable for the marginally cooler outside. "He was surprisingly laid back."

"Nah, it's Mr Jefferson. Besides, he's had me for detention heaps of times, he knows I actually get some work done."

"So this has now become more of an extended English class than a punishment."

"Don't tell Mr Gold," he said with a wink. "Besides, I thought spending any more time with me than necessary was a punishment in your eyes?"

She opened her mouth and promptly realised she had no idea what to say. Admitting that she had come to see him as a friend was... well, she wasn't sure what it was, except that she'd feel a bit awkward doing it.

"Most repulsive specimen of humanity in the entire school, I believe were the words you used," he teased, and she flapped a hand at him.

"I may have revised my opinion, but I could be persuaded to change it back."

"Yikes. I'd best behave then." He settled down on the ground, his back resting against the demountable wall. "Shall we get started?"

They had already done quite a bit of work in their English lesson earlier that day, and were now mostly just fleshing out what they had brainstormed.

"Lack of connection," Emma mused after a while, as she finished up a paragraph.

Killian looked up. "Sorry?"

"Just thinking out loud. Hamlet and his father... he obviously looked up to him a whole lot, given the way he goes on about him. But I get the feeling that there wasn't a whole lot of actual connection there... especially since Old Hamlet puts all that pressure on him to avenge him. I mean, I know it's in-context and everything, but what sort of father does that? And all of the things Hamlet says on him are about how great he was as a king, and his connection with Gertrude – but nothing about the relationship with Hamlet himself."

Killian nodded, but didn't say anything.

"Same with Ophelia. There's no connection with Polonius at all – not a truly loving one, anyway. But when their dads die... well, Ophelia snaps and Hamlet goes into existential crisis mode x 100. It could be a line of argument that the desire for connection influenced their behaviour – intensified it, if you will."

"That's why Ophelia agreed to spy on Hamlet? Seeking her father's approval?" Killian asked.

Emma nodded. "Yeah."

"It's a solid argument." He glanced at her, hesitated as though unsure, then said, "the desire for connection can be a strong motivator."

"But it all ends in tears," Emma said, suddenly hit with a wave of melancholy.

If it had been anyone else – Mary Margaret or David or just some random from class – she might have switched the subject. Brought up another theme or turned back to her work.

But Killian...

Seeing him sitting there with the same look on his face that she was sure was mirrored on hers – as though he'd just been hit with a wave of memories and sensations from long ago that he simultaneously recoiled from and wanted to work through – like he'd gotten his head stuck too deep in the play and the past and was struggling to pull it back-

He understood.

And that felt... almost comforting.

"Maybe things would have gone better if that connection wasn't there," he said quietly. "I mean, it's probably not what Shakespeare was trying to tell us, but one lesson you could get from this is that alone is-"

"Safer," she finished, and he nodded.

There was a moment of silence as they both stared at their books.

Finally Killian snorted. "Makes you realise why it's still relevant to the modern day, doesn't it?"

She nodded. "Yeah. I guess for a text to survive for so long, people have to keep identifying with it."

"Hamlet's a good one for that. We've all got a bit of Hamlet in us." He scratched idly at the dirt ground with the end of his pen. "Which makes looking at this stuff intriguing, but also kind of... I don't know."

"I guess you could call it cathartic."

He looked up at her. They were sitting quite close, and the day was so bright that his pupils were constricted and she could see her reflection staring back at her in his eyes. She was surprised by how relaxed she looked, how calm, considering what they had just been talking about.

"Yeah," he said, and gave a crooked grin. "Cathartic. You should try Plath, actually," he added, and then gave a considering nod. "Yes – I think you'd really like Plath."

"I don't read poetry much," she admitted.

"She has one novel. But I think you'd like her poems. Try Ariel."

"Okay," she said curiously.

Someone cleared their throat above them, and they both jumped, looking up to see Jefferson standing on the demountable steps.

"You guys get much work done?" he asked, eyebrows raised, and they held up their books to show him.

"Great. You can go then."

They scrambled to their feet and collected their belongings.

"I'll walk you home?" Killian offered.

She shrugged, realising she wouldn't mind the company, and set off down the road. Killian's phone trilled, and he checked it. He cursed suddenly, and Emma glanced at him.

"Alright?"

He paused for a moment, reading off the screen, before shoving it back in his pocket. "I may or may not have just lost one of my jobs."

"What?!"

"Yeah. I mean, I kinda suspected that it was coming since I missed a few shifts because of detentions. Still a bummer." He turned to her with a grin, but his shoulders were hunched and he'd begun kicking a crushed can of coke along the road.

Emma shifted, unsure what to do – he was obviously upset but hiding it, and she had enough experience with that to know that some people preferred not to talk about it. She certainly did, and Killian was probably the same, so she just reached out and squeezed his shoulder. He turned towards her and gave her a small smile.

"It's fine," he said. She was unsure if he was reassuring her, or himself. "I think there was a job offer at the convenience store, anyway, although only the bumshifts are left. Still. Sleep is for the weak!"

She frowned a bit as Archie's words came back to her. Falling asleep in class.

"You should be careful not to rack up any more detentions," she informed him. When he turned to her with raised eyebrows, she added, "Dude, not being judgey, just pragmatic."

"I know," he said, and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He opened his mouth as though to add something further, then seemed to change his mind, instead kicking the coke can off the footpath and into the gutter.

"Hey, Killian!" a voice called out suddenly, and Emma froze.

No. It can't be.

A cold shiver ran through her, like icy fingers running down her spine. For a moment she couldn't move, couldn't breathe. It was the voice she'd never wanted to hear again.

Neal.

Killian had stiffened beside her. Funnily, instead of turning in the direction of the voice, he turned to Emma instead, eyes wide with panic and concern, before he spun around.

"Neal," he called. "Hey mate."

Emma forced herself to turn and look. Neal was crossing the street towards them. He looked like he'd just come out of school as well, backpack hanging from one shoulder, dressed in the Storybrooke High uniform. He was grinning, but it dropped off his face when he noticed Emma.

For a moment he looked very sick. The colour drained from his face and he froze in the middle of the road.

There was a moment of horribly tense silence as they stood staring at each other.

"There's a car coming!" Killian yelled suddenly, and Neal sprang into action. He leaped into the air, dithering momentarily as though considering whether to go over to them, or turn tail and run in the opposite direction. Finally he sprinted to their side of the road, just as the car zoomed past behind him.

"...hi," he said, sounding rather strained.

Emma felt as though she was being torn in two. One part of her was panicking internally and she couldn't quite get it to shut up – what is he doing here?! What will you say to him?! What does he think of you?!

The other part was cold, and still, and apathetic.

Killian shifted by her side. His arm bumped against hers, and the warm contact snapped her out of her daze instantly.

She decided that the only way to survive this with her sanity intact would be complete nonchalance, and fixed a careful expression of absolutely nothing on her face.

"Hi Killian," Neal repeated. He glanced between them. "Uh, hi. Emma. I didn't realise it was you with him."

"Neal," she replied. Her voice shook a little, but she quickly ploughed on. "I heard you were back."

"Yeah, I, uh, I came back a few weeks ago. I'm at Storybrooke High now." He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Yes, the uniform kind of gives it away."

More silence.

"I, uh, didn't realise you two were friends," Neal said then.

"I could say the same thing," Emma replied.

Killian stepped in then. "We have some mutual friends who go to Storybrooke," he explained. "I only met Neal last week but we've hung out a few times."

Neal nodded, and Emma suddenly wondered if he knew that Killian was good friends with Regina.

"I'll leave you guys to it," she said, turning away. Killian took half a step forward as though to say something, but she was already walking off. Her hands were shaking and she quickly folded her arms.

Seeing Neal had shaken her. His thoroughly awkward demeanour hadn't helped either; now she had no idea where she stood with him. She couldn't even bring herself to be angry right now – that would come later. For all her trying to avoid him, seeing him in the flesh less than a metre away from her had brought back the flood of feelings she'd been pushing down since he left.

God.

Astrid was the only one home when she arrived, and instantly caught on that something was wrong. Emma still felt wary around her adoptive guardians; for all that they had proved themselves over the last five years, she still wasn't quite comfortable enough to talk openly about personal things with them. She knew they were disappointed, and hated herself for it – but still couldn't quite get over it.

At least she looked upset enough for Astrid to let the detention slide, especially when she explained what had happened, and Emma retreated to her room where she remained for the rest of the afternoon, pottering about unable to focus on anything in particular.

The email arrived at about six that evening. She was checking her school email, having sent an essay to her economics teacher for marking, when the message from Killian popped up. For a moment she just stared at it, quite confused – it had no subject – before she finally clicked on it, feeling oddly nervous for some reason.

Hi Emma,

you left rather quickly! I don't know what happened with Neal (all I know is he's your ex from that english class that we won't speak about if you don't want to) but you seemed upset, with good reason I guess. He did come out of nowhere. And nearly ended up as roadkill. In fact if he'd gotten hit by that car that whole situation would probably have been less bloody awkward ayo

Like I said, we don't have to talk about it, just hope you got home safe and that you're feeling okay :)

~ Killian

ps here are some virtual flowers since those ones I gave you are probably dead by now

.~* .~* .~*

Emma stared at her laptop screen.

He had checked up on her.

He had gone to the trouble of going onto the school email and checking up on her.

It was just so unexpectedly sweet. For the first time that afternoon the distress of Neal faded away, replaced by a warm, pleasant sensation in her stomach.

She closed her laptop, and when she rose to cross the room and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she realised that she had unconsciously started smiling.

A/N: I had nicer virtual flowers, but then got too paranoid that they wouldn't show up on FFN, so... ay

Thanks for reading! Hope you liked it, and any comments or criticisms are great appreciated :)