Emma sits on the floor of her apartment until her stomach finally gets the better of her, forcing her to get up and eat some damn food.

It's only noon, and she's supposed to be sleeping, catching up on all those missed hours of blissful slumber that she'd forfeited due to her night shift, but she can't. Can't do anything but replay every single little detail of her...encounter with Killian. She is so, so fucked.

Things with Killian had finally been going right, but now, well now they're all sorts of fucked up. She's not even sure who initiated the kiss, all she remembers is staring into his eyes, waiting for him to react to the words that'd she'd just spoken, when the next thing she knew they were kissing. Lips on lips kissing, and there's no way for her to spin that as platonic. This wasn't a kiss on the cheek, or a gentle swipe of lips against forehead, this was an actual, earth-shattering, full force, electrified kiss. It was the kind of kiss they'd shared before, all those years ago when they were young, naive, and inexperienced. They knew better now, knew more. They had time to learn about sexual tension and how to drive someone crazy with just the lightest brush of their lips, but this was more, this kiss was something Emma's never experienced before. She wishes she never had.

"Fuuuck," she groans, letting herself fall back onto her bed, a fruit rollup and a bag of Goldfish clutched in her left hand (very healthy food choices, Emma. Very healthy.) She's not one for moping around, but today she's giving herself this respite, letting her mind wander into places it probably shouldn't, focusing on the way Killian's lips felt against her own. Soft and gentle, yet hot and demanding all at the same time.

It's in that moment, while her mind is busy cataloging the way his breath hitched and his jaw moved beneath her hand, that there's a quiet, gentle knock on her door.

Emma bolts up immediately, some of her goldfish flying across the room and usually she'd be much more preoccupied with the unfortunate loss of such a delicious snack if it wasn't for the knowledge that there is no one but Killian who would be knocking on her door right now. David's working and Mary Margaret's out of town for some kind of conference.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Emma mutters under her breath, over and over again because honestly, she's not sure she could form words more eloquent at the moment, not when her ex-boyfriend turned landlord turned neighbor turned friend turned ex-boyfriend-landlord-neighbor-friend-that-she-just-kissed is standing outside her door.

"I can hear you cursing in there, Swan."

Shit. Fuck.

She doesn't say anything, just sits back down on her bed, resting her head against the soft plush pillows and just hoping and praying that he leaves.

She hears him sigh through the door and she feels a twinge of guilt at that, but before she can examine and cross-examine that feeling he's speaking once again.

"Listen, lass, I don't mean to put you on the spot here, I just-" He pauses, probably taking a moment to scratch behind his ear or run his hand through his hair and Emma smiles at the thought. "I don't want to pressure you into anything here. If you want to talk about what just happened, my door's always open, but if you want your space and time, and would rather forget about it all, then I understand that as well."

He's quiet for a few moments, and Emma's sure he must have left, said what he wanted to say before heading back down to the bar, but his voice rings out clear and quiet once more just a few moments later.

"Though I fear that I must tell you I prefer the former."

Emma's breath leaves her in a sharp gasp, one that she desperately hopes he doesn't hear. He wants to talk about this? About the kiss? It was a mistake clearly, doesn't he see that?

She doesn't respond to him, just lays prone on her bed, her eyes wide and staring at the ceiling, waiting for him to say more or to retreat. Eventually, she hears him sigh once more before she hears the distinct sound of footsteps on stairs, and she knows that he's heading back down to the bar. He's still got a window to fix, and earlier Emma had thought that maybe she would have helped him, swept up the glass or made the phone call for repairs but now, well now she's just going to lay in bed, desperately wishing that she'd never been the one to answer his call of distress in the first place. Maybe then none of this would have happened, maybe David would have dealt with this better, maybe Killian would have settled down after a few minutes alone in his office with his flask.

Instead, she'd kissed him. She answered that call, drove down to the bar, asked her questions, listened to his story, and then she'd kissed him, or he kissed her, it didn't matter. They'd kissed, and now everything was ruined.

Fucking night shift.


Emma doesn't see Killian for two weeks after the incident. She's spent the past decade learning how to avoid people she didn't want to see and she has that shit down to an art by this point.

For three weeks she tiptoed around him, leaving her apartment either fifteen minutes earlier or later than he did. Eating all her meals on the go until she could sneak into the bar while he was working and make it up the stairs to the relative safety of her own apartment.

He started locking his door again. She heard the bolt slide into place every night, and she heard his whimpers and cries just about every night as well, letting her know that his nightmares weren't getting any better. She never went back over, though, and not just because she knew that his door was locked, but also because she was scared of what that meant. What comforting him meant now that she'd gone and kissed him.

Instead, she just ignored him. Using her job as an escape and spending more and more time over at David and Mary Margaret's. Helping them paint the bedroom, or reorganize the coat closet. Anything to get her away from Killian for as long as possible.

Eventually, David caught on, as brother's do.

"Why are you avoiding Killian?" David asks while they're eating dinner.

"David!" Mary Margaret chides at him, her spoon halfway into a bowl of broccoli.

"What?! You agreed we needed to talk to her about it!"

"Yes but maybe with a bit more tact next time!" Mary Margaret scolds, her spoon clattering against the edge of the large ceramic bowl as she glares at her husband.

"I'm not avoiding Killian," Emma says matter of factly, looking down at her plate because while she's always been great at knowing when others are lying to her she's never been good at lying to others.

David scoffs and Emma's eyes flash up to catch him staring down at his plate, patiently cutting the pork chop that rests there.

"What?" Emma asks, mouth full of bread, some crumbs falling onto the table.

"Emma you helped me reorganize my pantry this week after spending three hours watching me knit a new scarf for my stepmother." Mary Margaret says, her eyes trained on Emma.

Emma shrugs, "Your point?"

Mary Margaret sighs, biting into a piece of broccoli before continuing. "Emma it's obvious you're trying to avoid Killian by spending so much time here, so we just want to know why. What happened between you two?"

"Nothing happened, and I'm not avoiding him, so can we just drop it please?"

David mutters something under his breath, and Emma glares at him across the table, her appetite suddenly lost. She hadn't realized she was being so obvious with her avoidance of Killian, but she should have known better, Mary Margaret and David never miss a thing when it comes to her. Hell, they knew something was wrong with her last relationship before even she did (and God, does she wish she'd seen it sooner).

She decides she should probably just come clean, knowing that the two of them will just drag the truth out of her eventually, whittling away at her willpower with cookies and well-placed questions.

"I kissed him."

A fork clatters to the table before David lets out a "You what?!"

"You kissed Killian?" Mary Margaret supplies, mouth slightly agape, and dinner long forgotten.

Emma nods, "Or he kissed me, I don't know, it's a little blurry, but regardless we kissed."

"When did this happen?" Mary Margaret asks, her husband sitting silent beside her.

"A couple of weeks ago. It was after the vandalism call. David told me to go and make sure that Killian was okay," David's jaw clenches at the mention of his name, "and he ended up telling me the whole story of his past after we all left high school." Emma shrugs, "I guess emotions were running high and we just, well, we kissed."

"And how do you feel about it?" Mary Margaret asks, putting on her teacher slash therapist hat, hands folded demurely in front of her.

"Like shit."

David frowns and Mary Margaret tilts her head to the left, one eyebrow raised.

Emma realizes how that must sound and rushes to explain, "I mean, not like about myself, just I don't know, I can't do it again. I can't be with Killian again because the last time he broke me and I can't let him break me like that again." She can tell that both her brother and sister-in-law are about to say something, reassure her or ask her another question and she just can't deal with the third-degree tonight. "And I'll always have feelings for him, of course, I will, but being around him now just makes me more confused about all of this, and I just, I don't know what to do anymore."

A silence follows her confession and it's long enough to get her fidgeting in her seat, second guessing everything she just said and wishing for the life of her that she could just learn to keep her mouth shut about all of this personal shit, but she doesn't get far down that road of self-loathing before Mary Margaret pipes up again.

"You should talk to him."

"What?" David and Emma say at the same time, both turning wide eyes towards the other woman.

"You need to talk to him about this or you'll never get past it, Emma! You can't live in an apartment building and avoid your landlord and next door neighbor for very long. Actually, I'm surprised you've even been able to for this long, which makes it pretty clear that Killian is trying very hard to give you your space when it comes to this matter."

"I can't talk to him about this Mary Margaret."

"She's right M," David says, turning to his wife, before refocusing his gaze on Emma. "You can just move out Emma, come stay with us, you can take the loft."

"David!" Mary Margaret exclaims, glaring at her husband.

"What?! You can't honestly expect her to live in that building with him? Where he practically accosted her!"

"He didn't accost me, David, and also when did you start using vocabulary from the 1800's?"

David rolls his eyes, "Listen, Emma, all I'm saying is you don't have to live there, you don't have to deal with this, you deserve better, you deserve to live somewhere you feel safe and happy at."

Her brother continues to ramble, but Emma's too busy thinking about the words "safe" and "happy" to listen to him any longer.

Didn't she always feel that way with Killian? When they were younger she definitely did. She always felt safe when she was with him, always felt truly free to be herself. And she absolutely felt happy, pure unadulterated happiness. If she's being honest with herself she felt safe and happy even before, even three weeks ago when they had a routine and they were friends. She felt safe in her apartment, in his apartment, in the bar. She felt safe talking to him and being around him. She felt happy whenever she saw him smile, or made him laugh, and she just wishes desperately that she could get back to that, back to their friendship, squash her feelings down, whatever they may be, and focus on maintaining something as close to normal as possible with Killian Jones.

"I'll talk to him."

Mary Margaret squeals in delight at Emma's sudden decision, and David just looks at her, jaw slackened and surprise lingering in his eyes.

They don't talk about Killian for the rest of the night, Emma waving off any more of their questions or suggestions, instead focusing on finishing dinner, helping to clean up, and spending another hour or so drinking coffee and talking to her brother and sister-in-law about all the baby names they have picked out for when they finally conceive.

She drives home with a sense of calm, knowing full well that talking to Killian is the right decision, but just not knowing how she's going to find the courage to actually do it.


She doesn't have to wait very long.

She's not come home this early in a long time, and she should have realized that leaving Mary Margaret and David's apartment before 10 p.m. on a Friday would mean getting back to the Jolly Roger during peak hours.

After the incident with the window, the flow of customers to the bar had increased, if only slightly. Seems like no one in this small town can deny themselves from gravitating toward the center of any drama.

Killian's usual patronage of about fifteen per night had increased to about thirty or so, and so it's been harder and harder for Emma to sneak past him on her way to the back stairs. Usually, on a slow, or even a regular night, Killian would be in the back, reorganizing stock or dealing with finances instead of constantly manning the bar, but now, with the double increase of patrons he's practically always behind the massive oak counter, taking drinks and punching in orders.

Coming in between 9:00 and 11:00 p.m. (especially on the weekend) was her practically begging to get sighted by him, and it was only 9:48.

She stared at the clock on her dashboard for five minutes before heaving a sigh, grabbing her purse and coat from the passenger seat and trudging her way into the bar.

The moment she steps into the threshold of the building she's assaulted by the hot smell of liquor and sweat. The bar is packed. Practically overflowing with patrons and Emma's not sure where to look first, but she quickly gauges that Killian is in over his head. He doesn't have a second bartender on staff. He told her once that he hires one or two of the older college kids during summer to help with the rush but it's November, and she knows he's got no one but himself.

Emma pushes her way through the crowd, feeling bad about how she's just going to make a beeline for the stairs when she hears her name being called (being called in a frighteningly familiar accent).

Fuck.

"Swan, could you lend a bloke a hand please?"

Emma's gaze shifts to the bar before she spots Killian. He's standing at the tap pouring a beer and there're at least a dozen customers waiting for an order to be filled.

She sighs, making her way toward him, and silently cursing herself for leaving Mary Margaret and David's so early.

"I don't know how to bartend, Killian." She says before he can even get a word in, peeling off her leather jacket and setting it on a stool behind the bar.

He flashes her a quick grin as he transports the freshly poured beers to a line of clearly just turned twenty-one frat boys.

"I just need help handling the money and maybe pouring a few beers. I can handle the rest." He's wiping down the counter vigorously, no doubt trying to put off getting another order from the long line of waiting customers until he gets her answer.

"Why is it so busy, anyway?" She asks in lieu of an answer.

"Some kind of bloody debate tournament in the next town over? I don't bloody know, all I know is that there's a huge flux of college aged kids coming to me for all of their alcohol based needs, and I'm standing on one leg here."

Emma sighs, before muttering a "Fine." in reply, surprising even herself. Killian lets out a whooping cheer, and the smile on his face, full teeth, and lips stretch skyward, has her insides melting and her heart beating erratically.

She is so, so fucked.


The rest of the night goes by in a blur, and she's lost track of a number of beers she's poured, and most of all she's lost track of a number of times she's caught Killian staring at her.

Whenever she catches his eyes on her he looks away quickly, and usually if she'd catch a guy ogling her while she's trying to work she wouldn't hesitate to give him a piece of her mind (and maybe a piece of her fist) but Killian's not looking at her in a leering or lecherous way, he's looking at her in awe, with a small smile ever present on his lips.

His lips. She's thinking about them constantly. Thinking about the way they felt against her own and the way they moved. She's thinking about every kissed they've ever shared (and there's been many).

She's so angry at herself. So angry that she'd let Killian kiss her or that she'd kissed Killian, or however it happened, she's just angry that it happened, because now her long dormant, always tingling under the surface feelings for him have been brought back into the light. Now she's thinking about the way he smiles and he way he speaks, about how her name sounds when it leaves his lips. She's thinking about the hair on his chest and the way he looked at her during their previous intimate moments. She's thinking about it all, and that's not what she wants. She needs to remember that he broke her and that nothing is worth experiencing that pain again, no matter how much his smile makes her stomach turn or how much she wants to kiss him again.

She'll always love Killian. She just wishes she wouldn't.

Around two in the morning the chaos finally tapers off, and Killian's yelling out for last calls as the drunk and disorderly file out the door (she made sure everyone had a DD because honestly, she is the deputy).

When it hits 2:30 the bar is blessedly empty, and all Emma wants to do is take a quick shower and fall into bed, but she feels bad leaving Killian with this huge mess to clean up, even if it's not really her job.

"You don't have to stay to help, Swan, I've got it covered." He smiles at her, almost shyly, as he picks up an overturned chair.

"It's no problem," she says, shrugging him off. She starts to go around and collect empty bottles of beer, throwing them into the already full trashcans. The bottles clang loudly together and she sees Killian flinch at the sound.

"Sorry."

He looks over at her, shocked. "Nothing to apologize for, lass. Afraid I haven't been very good with loud noises since my time on duty."

"That must be hard." She says in way of response, and she immediately berates herself. That must be hard? What kind of response is that?

"Aye, though I've gotten much better since my original diagnosis. Therapy groups, weekly one-on-one sessions and the like."

She doesn't respond for a few minutes, leaving the trash bag and going to pick up fallen napkins and misplaced beer caps. She thought he might have PTSD, what with all his constant nightmares and his insomnia, but it's a different beast to think about when she gets the confirmation.

"Sorry, Swan. Didn't mean to get all personal on you there." He's got a hint of self-loathing to his voice and Emma feels struck by the vulnerability in this man. He puts on such a bravado front, but when he really opens up he's just as broken as her.

"I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder." She says quickly, wondering if she'll regret revealing this part of herself once she see's his reaction, but what she gets is a look of respect and understanding from Killian, not one of judgment or pity.

"I used to be scared of talking about it, like acknowledging my disorder somehow made it more real. I remember getting diagnosed and thinking 'well, look at me, just one step further toward being completely and irreversibly fucked up.'" Killian smiles at that, his blue eyes earnestly gazing into her own and usually in this type of encounter she'd feel like she was being put on a stage, with one giant halo of spotlight shining down on her. She'd feel like an act, like a puppet in a show, but right now she just feels heard.

"Then I realized it's nothing to be ashamed of." she shrugs, "I'm not any lesser of a person because of this, and I don't mind talking about it anymore, to some extent at least."

She didn't realize that both she and Killian had slowly been making their way closer to one another, but by the time she's finished telling her tale he's standing right in front of her, bar rag slung loosely over his shoulder.

"You're bloody brilliant, Emma Swan."

Emma's cheeks flush red and her whole body feels hot, and as with every ounce of praise she receives, she tries to direct the attention off herself.

"I'm no survivor of PTSD or anything, it's just a general anxiety disorder and-" Killian cuts her off, hand and prosthetic placed firmly on her shoulders, and her eyes meet his, wide and panicked, and he looks angry, practically livid.

"Don't ever sell yourself short like that, Emma. We both had different journeys, that doesn't mean yours is any less important than my own."

She can feel her eyes welling up a bit at the earnest tone in his voice and no one has ever told her those things before. No one has ever really stood in front of her and forced her to listen while they praised her, and spouted her name like it's something incredible, like it's something meaningful. She's had love in her life, sure, with David, and Mary Margaret, and Ruth, but she's never had this, never had someone who understands her so fully.

(She did. She had him. Once.)

She wants to kiss him. She wants to kiss him more than she's wanted anything, but she can't.

She leans forward a bit anyway, out of instinct and want rather than conscious decision. His lips are just millimeters away from her own, and she can feel his breath against her cheek, can feel his nose against her own, and both of them are breathing heavy like they've already gotten to the kissing portion of this ordeal.

"Emma," he whispers, and there's warning in his voice, and she feels like a fool.

She's backed away from him quicker than she thought possible, across the room, hands braced against the bar, eyes wide and staring at him.

"I'm sorry," she says, all hot breath and barely any words. "I-I'm going to go now." She makes a beeline for the stairs, her face red and she feels like she could cry, like she could break down right here. She's never felt so idiotic. He doesn't want her, he didn't want to kiss her. Now he knows how truly broken she really is and he wants nothing to do with it. All the pretty words he'd just said fly from her mind and the only thing she can remember is the way he said her name like he didn't want to hurt her feelings with his rejection.

He catches her by the arm before she can reach the stairs, pulling her toward him, her chest hitting his own.

"I want you, Emma." He's breathless, and so is she, pressed up against him like this. It brings back memories, the kind that makes her blush. "I want you so bloody much I can't think half the time. I want to kiss you more than I've wanted bloody anything, so please don't misunderstand my reluctance as repugnance."

"What-"

He kisses her then, softly, and it's over before she can react, just a brush of his lips against her own.

"I want you, but I need you to want me too. I need you to not just want me right now when I'm saying pretty words to you. I need you to want me without regret and anger and resentment clouding your heart. I need to explain things to you about our past, and I need you to forgive me before we take this any further."

She can't speak, so shocked by the way he can read her so easily.

Bastard.

"So if we just need to be friends for a while, if you just need a bit of distance from me that's fine, I'll give you anything you want, but you need to know that I do want you, Emma Swan. I've always wanted you, and I'll never stop wanting you."

It's too much, this speech. She needs to get away, she needs to go and shower and think about everything that's just happened.

She needs to be away from him.

He releases her before she gets the chance to say any of this, and she knows that he's letting her go, letting her leave, he's not holding her here under an obligation to reply.

So she leaves, trudges up the stairs, and doesn't say another word to him.

He says a few more, though, his soft voice drifting up to her as she makes her way to her apartment.

"Goodnight, Emma."