April
Killian
Liam was not happy, to put it mildly.
The staff meeting had not gone well. In fact, to call it a fucking fiasco wouldn't have been too far off the mark. Normally, Killian was content to doze through the daily briefings, only too happy to tune out as his colleagues attempted to outdo each other in a race to churn out the cheesiest puff pieces they could. It was a race to the bottom, as far as Killian was concerned.
Alright, so his own copy was not exactly what you would call hard-hitting. Friendless Americans were hardly in the same realm as child soldiers, or Ebola. It certainly wasn't going to win him any awards any time soon. But at least he didn't spend fifteen minutes that morning boasting about bagging an interview with a second-tier novelist who was still content to tread the same tired ground Ian Rankin had first broken… thirty years ago.
No, Killian's usual method of coping through the morning briefing was to drink his subpar coffee in subdued silence, wishing he were still in bed. Or better yet, dead. And he might've continued in that vein, if he hadn't been busy scanning the newest copy edits to drown out the droning, and seen the hatchet job on page 7.
What came next, well... perhaps Killian could have handled things better. But in summary, no, Liam was not happy.
"For chrissakes, Killian," he said, one hand pulling his office door closed behind them, the fingers of the other pinching the bridge of his nose. "You can't keep doing this."
"Me?" Killian asked in disbelief.
"Aye. You. When I said I wanted you to become more engaged in the staff meetings, this is hardly what I meant!"
"I didn't-" Killian began, but Liam cut him off with defeated sigh.
"Did you really have to call her a dopey bint?"
"Three different misspellings of the word 'bureau'!" Killian countered. "Three! In an article that's barely 500 words long! Not to mention what she did to the title of the Edwards piece-"
"It's not about the typos!" Liam interrupted, slamming his palms down onto his desk with such force that the ornamental cup of pencils on his desk rattled in their container. "It's about the conduct. Your conduct. And honestly, I'm sick of making excuses for you!"
Liam rarely shouted. His weapon of choice was usually a look of quiet disappointment, one which he wielded with deadly intent. To see him properly hot under the collar… Killian felt like a chastened child, the first stirrings of shame warming his cheeks.
"Is that what you've been doing?" Killian responded softly, the words tripping off his tongue with a vulnerability that made him cringe inwardly.
Though he regretted his tone, it did at least seem to take some of the wind out of Liam's sails, his brother's expression morphing from anger to something more stricken.
"I didn't-" Liam began, holding his hands up in a placating gesture, "I didn't mean it like that."
"No?"
"Dammit, Killian," Liam groaned, sinking into his office chair with an audible squeak against the leather. "I'm trying here, okay? You think it's easy, running this place? With all the sniping and poor formatting, and Ingrid breathing down my neck 24/7, just waiting for an excuse to close us down?"
"Close us down?" Killian repeated, momentarily sidetracked. He knew things had been difficult, but... "I thought the entire point of a family enterprise was she wouldn't do that?"
Liam's laugh was hollow as a drum. "Maybe if we were remotely profitable…" he responded bitterly. And then, as if realising for the first time the significance of what he just uttered, he straightened, and gave Killian a meaningful look. "You didn't hear that."
"Of course not," Killian scoffed.
"Look," Liam began, pasting on what Killian liked to think of as his reasonable face. "I know this isn't what you want to be doing. And I know Lindsay can come off as a barely literate braggard. But honestly? She's the best we can afford. So can't you just work with me here? Swallow your pride. Apologise to the lass. I don't have the budget to send you out for workplace sensitivity training, and I doubt it would take anyway. So can you do that? For me?"
Momentarily stunned at finding himself drawn into his brother's confidence, Killian could only nod at first. "Aye," he said, when he'd finally recovered himself. "I'll do that."
He could almost see the physical weight of it lifting off Liam's shoulders as he said the words. "Thank you."
"Anything to keep the ship afloat," Killian said with a mock salute to his captain.
At the flippant gesture, Liam's eyes narrowed. "You will make the apology convincing, won't you?"
"Of course."
"It will require a little more than your usual flowery language and empty platitudes, brother. I'm talking about a sincere apology."
Killian tapped his temple with his prosthetic fingers. "Leave it to me."
Did you get my email? KJ
I'm not joining a mariachi band, Jones. ES
It wasn't a mariachi band. It was a flamenco dancing class. KJ
Yeah, either way I'm not coordinated enough for that. And then there's the ruffles... ES
Oh? And pray tell, what did ruffles ever do to you? KJ
Homecoming, 2003. ES
Oh really? KJ
Goodwill dress. Body glitter. Crimped hair. The works. There aren't any pictures. I know you would have liked that, but my foster brother burned them all. In hindsight, probably the nicest thing that little shit ever did. ES
...So ruffles are out. KJ
Ruffles are out. ES
He was nearly home, the train just leaving Haymarket when his phone began to vibrate in his inside pocket, the chorus of American Woman bursting out through tinny speakers. Ignoring the woman opposite scowling at him over the top of her copy of Metro, he answered it.
"This is a surprise. Are you rethinking the ruffles, lass?"
At first there was just silence, and he wondered if the call had dropped out. But then at last, there was a deep intake of breath. "Uh, hi. Look, I know this is really weird to ask, but is there any chance you're, I don't know, nearby?"
Killian thought he'd seen Emma Swan in a few different modes by now, but the voice on the phone was an entirely new proposition. Small. Uncertain. If he didn't know any better, he might think she sounded apologetic. Not a setting he thought Emma Swan came in.
"Nearby to... where, exactly?"
"Oh, uh, my place. In Newington. Next to the old Jewish cemetery?"
"I'm not familiar. Is that near The Meadows by any chance?"
"A couple of blocks South. I'm sorry. You're probably busy. I'll just figure it out myself. I'm sorry to bother you."
Two sorries in as many seconds. Second guessing herself aloud. Alarm bells were ringing in Killian's head. Something was not alright with Emma Swan. Without giving it much thought he made a grab for his laptop bag beside him with his false hand and looped it over his shoulders.
"Just text me your address."
She was sitting on the curb out front of her building when his taxi pulled up, hugging her bag to her chest. She made for quite the pitiful looking figure, illuminated as she was by the sickening yellow glow of the streetlight.
She looked almost surprised to see him emerge from the back of the black cab, as if she'd never called him in the first place.
"You didn't have to come," she said, rising to her feet, her eyes not meeting his. "I'm fine."
But whatever else she was, Emma Swan didn't seem fine. In fact, she seemed to be shaking.
Killian had his jacket off in a moment, draping it across her shoulders. It was harder for her to avoid his scrutiny at this distance, and he could see the quiver of her lip. The tell that meant Emma was only just holding it together.
"My apartment," Emma said, gesturing vaguely at the building in front of them. "They tossed it."
"They?" Killian doubted very much Emma had been the subject of a visit from law enforcement, but it was good to be sure.
She just shrugged, and it was the most helpless gesture he'd ever seen from her. Just your garden variety criminal, then.
"Have you phoned the police?"
She shook her head, fingers reaching out to pull his jacket tighter around herself. "I tried to call 999, but then I remembered it wasn't an emergency, and I tried to google the right number but my fingers felt like jelly and I just-"
She was almost in tears by this point, so Killian did what anyone in his situation would do. He took a step forward hugged her.
She resisted at first, her spine stiffening and he couldn't bring himself to be entirely surprised. Whatever else Emma might be, she did not strike him as much of a hugger. A childhood in care would do that to you. But she didn't push him away, and Killian didn't let go.
Instead he held her against his chest, his one hand travelling up and down her upper arm in what he felt was a soothing manner. And then before he knew it, Emma Swan the stoic was gone, and the real Emma Swan, replete with all the usual human fears and vulnerabilities, was hugging him back.
They waited at a kebab shop down the street until the police were done doing whatever it was they did in such circumstances. Dusting for fingerprints, taking photographs, disturbing Emma's neighbours for potential eye-witness accounts. They weren't optimistic about an arrest.
It was only once they'd finally left a little after midnight that Killian trailed Emma upstairs, to see the damage for himself.
They'd done a real number on the place. Furniture overturned. Drawers tossed, their contents strewn about in haphazard piles. Cupboard doors left open to reveal broken crockery. The only saving grace was Emma hadn't stumbled upon them while they'd been at it, stuck in an evening lecture.
Killian gave a low whistle. "Any chance you've renter's insurance, Swan?"
She gave him a level look that told him exactly where he could stick his renter's insurance.
"Phoned the landlord?"
Emma shrugged. "She's in Tenerife, apparently. Along with like half of Scotland. I left a voicemail."
"Locksmith? I know a good one. So do you, come to think of it."
"I do?" she asked, momentarily shaken from surveying the devastation.
"Robin. From karaoke? Best in the business."
"Really? Locksmithing? I would not have picked that. He seems so…"
Killian could feel himself smile at her floundering. "Well-spoken?" he offered.
She blew out a breath. "Well, yeah."
"He went to one of those schools," Killian explained. "You know, with the straw boaters, and the latin? The kind that likes to spit out Prime Ministers and investment bankers? It's been a lifetime, but the accent's hard to shake."
"Like Hogwarts?"
Killian snorted. "If you like."
"So what?" she asked. "He's the black sheep of the family?"
"On the contrary. It's his father that's been a guest of Her Majesty's Prison Service these last twenty five years. Ponzi scheme. Cheated rather a lot of people out of their life savings, as it turned out."
"Holy shit."
"Aye," Killian agreed. "He's not had an easy time of it. And now with raising his son on his own. But despite it all, he might just be the best man I know."
"And a hell of a locksmith?" Emma ventured.
He smiled. "Aye, that too. But it's getting late, and the little lad would be in bed by now. I doubt he could make it here tonight." He grimaced, shooting a glance at Emma's front door where the thieves had kicked it in. He doubted it would even stay closed, the state it was in. "I think it'd be best if you slept elsewhere tonight, lass."
He should have known that Emma Swan, the stoic, would make her return at some point. But he still groaned inwardly when she saw her cross her arms over her chest in that infuriatingly familiar way.
"It's just one night," she reasoned. "It'll be fine."
He was amazed how so few words could set his blood to boiling. "Are you bloody mad? You can't stay in here with your door hanging off the bloody hinges. Clearly the building isn't secure. Pack a bag, and I'll drop you at the nearest Travelodge."
Emma gave a scornful laugh. "You think I can afford a Travelodge now someone's ransacked my place? Academics really don't get paid nearly as much as you think they do."
Killian groaned. "Stay with me, then. There's plenty of room, and Elsa would love a female presence to counteract all the testosterone."
"Honestly, Killian. I'm fine. You think I haven't been in tighter spots than this? There's no need to put anyone out. It's not like they're coming back."
She was a stubborn lass. He'd always known it, but it was somehow so much more frustrating when she was working against her own self-interest. It was time for Killian to do a little arm crossing of his own. "I'm not leaving you here."
Emma rolled her eyes. "It's not your problem."
"No? My column does rather depend of you being whole and healthy for the full year. I'd say it's entirely my problem, you putting yourself at risk like this."
"I'm not leaving," she said, her tone defiant.
"Well, then neither am I," Killian replied, with some defiance of his own. Then, to further illustrate his commitment to the cause, he settled himself down on her couch, raising one challenging brow.
Emma gave an exasperated groan, dropping down onto the couch beside him. "You're infuriating, you know that?" she said, turning to him.
"I'm aware."
"Look, I know I'm the one who called you. But I swear, it was just a momentary freak out when I saw the place. I'm fine now. I'll put something in front of the door. A dresser or something. I know you're trying to be all noble or whatever, but I'm not some damsel in distress. I can take care of myself."
"Has it ever occurred to you, Swan," Killian said, scratching at his beard with mild irritation, "that perhaps it isn't so much about me thinking you weak, quite so much as you being deserving of someone's help?"
Emma hesitated.
"At least let me help you tidy the place up," he offered. And then with a sly smile in her direction, "Or are you worried leaving me in your flat too long, I might take the opportunity to rifle through your unmentionables?"
He got an elbow to the kidney for that, but she didn't technically shoot down his offer. So he set about to make good on it, reaching over to pick up a lamp that had been knocked to the ground. He could feel Emma watching him, wordlessly, as he bent down to retrieve a stack of books that were scattered on the floor.
"Problem, Swan?"
But instead of a proper response, she just threw her hands up with an exasperated, resigned sound and stalked off into the other room.
They were into the wee hours before the place was mostly set to rights, a pile of rubbish bags by the door fit to bursting with ruined or broken things. The thief or thieves in question had certainly not been gentle in their search for Emma's more valuable possessions.
"About done?" he asked, as Emma shuffled back into the main room, clutching a broom.
"Done!" she announced, flopping down onto the couch with clear exhaustion, letting the broom fall to the floor with a clatter.
"So what's the final damage bill, then?" Killian asked, coming over to perch on the edge of the coffee table. "What did they get?"
Emma emitted a small sound from where she lay face down, but quickly righted herself, giving Killian her full attention. Her hair was askew from where she had lain on it, a glorious mess, and Killian found himself smiling softly despite himself.
"Well, the good news is they didn't take my laptop, since I had it with me. And they never found the emergency stash I keep under the sink, because men never think to check inside boxes of tampons. But apart from the broken dishes, it's mainly just jewellery and stuff. My phone charger, which is a hassle. Some DVDs. They're Harry Potter fans, apparently..." Emma mused.
"So all perfectly replaceable then?"
At that, Emma frowned, her gaze fixed on the carpet by her feet. "Yeah, mostly."
"Mostly?"
Emma glanced back to him, her fingers unconsciously grazing the skin below her throat. "There was a… a keychain. With a swan on it? It's not worth much or anything, but I don't know... It has sentimental value, I guess."
Killian wasn't sure what to say, so he nodded to show he understood. It wasn't as if he could promise its safe return. He'd written enough articles to know items stolen during your average burglary were rarely recovered. And truth be told, it bothered him, that this was something he was powerless to address.
"So," he began, stretching his legs out with a yawn. "It being somewhere between too early and too late, are we sleeping or are we staying up until we can give Robin a call?"
"We?" Emma repeated. "You don't have to stay. Believe me, you've done plenty. Go home. Go to sleep. Don't you have work tomorrow?"
Killian shrugged. "It's Saturday. There's nothing pressing." Truthfully, he'd agreed to watch the boys that evening, while Liam and Elsa had dinner with the dreaded Aunt-in-law. But he could sleep before that. Or he could just put on Monsters Inc and doze during...
Emma regarded him for a moment, before seeming to come to some internal decision. "Okay, fine. I'll put some coffee on. What's your stance on Netflix?"
Killian grinned. "Pro."
Have you ever noticed that running tights only come in shades of Mountain Dew iridescent green or Barbie hot pink? ES
What would you prefer, fire engine red? KJ
You have ONE red jacket and suddenly you're typecast... But seriously. Who wants to be that visible? I mean, you're running. You're not a poisonous frog. ES
What exactly is your sudden fascination with lycra exercise wear? KJ
Okay, umm… don't freak out, but I joined a jogging group. ES
-Killian Jones calling-
Emma
The array was dazzling. Rack after rack of form-fitting, garishy patterned tights that she couldn't imagine wearing in a million years.
Things had changed since the last time Emma gave the exercise thing a shot. Whatever happened to sweat pants? Muted colors? Leaving the house without looking like a packet of Skittles? If this selection was anything to go by, incognito was out this season.
Emma was intimidated, she could admit that much. And couldn't bring herself to be entirely surprised when Killian appeared, magical-like, just as she turned into the sports bra aisle. She should have known, just by the way he'd sounded on the phone.
How sad was it, that Killian Jones was more enthusiastic about her own social life than she was? Then again, he was extorting money out of the situation. So there was that.
"A jogging group?" he repeated breathlessly, his good hand still clutched to his side, as if he'd just taken Princes Street at a run, Trainspotting-style. Yep, he was far too enthusiastic about this.
"As I said on the phone..." she said pointedly.
"I thought exercise was the devil?"
Yeah, she'd said that. And at the time she'd meant it. Hell, Emma wasn't sure she didn't still mean it. She hadn't pulled on a pair of sneakers since high school. She'd thought in waving goodbye to Ms Garrett, the sadistic gym teacher with her equally sadistic whistle, she'd also been waving goodbye forever to the world of incidental exercise.
It turned out 'forever' was a strong word.
It was easy enough to make excuses when you were neck-deep in your PhD and subsisting off coffee and a stipend that barely covered rent. It was somewhat harder when you were for all intents and purposes a grown ass woman with a job, and a 401K and at least three pair of jeans in your closet that no longer fit.
Especially now she'd discovered they stocked Lucky Charms in her nearest Sainsbury's, and she was up to three bowls a day.
Even so, she hadn't gone out looking for it. Them. Her prospective running mates. She'd been more preoccupied at the time with just getting out of the apartment. And also maybe a little about her reputation on Instagram.
She had to admit she hadn't been having the easiest time getting to sleep in the apartment, post-break in. Even with that shiny new deadbolt Robin installed, she still overreacted to every noise and squeak. Every rattle of the plumbing through her bedroom wall.
She didn't even really like her apartment. Hadn't even bothered to personalize it, or make it feel like home. But it was still an invasion, and it still bothered her. Imagining them in her space, rifling through her things.
Even now she felt her fingers reach up to the hollow of her throat, absently stroking the skin where her swan should have rested, dangling on its chain.
In a way, she was glad it was gone. The last reminder of him. Now she was free to forget. Like it never even happened.
On the other hand, that seemed dangerous. Forgetting him also meant forgetting the greatest lesson he ever taught her. And Emma wouldn't be caught dead making the same mistake again. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…
The Meadows were only a short walk from the apartment, a flat expanse of wet green grass emerging out of the early morning fog. Haar, Killian had called it, rolling in from the Firth of Forth like an extra in a bad B-movie.
The park was a favorite for students napping between classes, soaking up as much Vitamin D as the Scottish spring would give them. When Emma crossed it on her way home it was usually full of determined dog walkers and fitness bootcampers, lying spent on the grass.
At this time of day though, it was almost eerily quiet, without so much as birdsong to punctuate the silence. She could see some early morning joggers further on, ghostly figures in the mist, but they were barely there, intangible to her in her quest.
It was the cherry blossoms she'd come to see. It was the cherry blossoms that she was hoping would catapult her number of Instagram followers into four figures.
Everybody loved cherry blossoms.
They were a limited time engagement, and Emma had timed it just right. The cherry trees lined both sides of the avenues as they cut across the park at 45 degree angles, creating a canopy overhead of pretty pink flowers that wouldn't have been out of place in Mary Margaret's more ambitious pre-wedding scrapbooks. Paired with the fog, the haar, they looked like something out of a gothic fairytale.
Until, that is, the pair in the neon running gear came barrelling through the tunnel of trees, excitable chatter punctuated by necessary breaths. It wasn't a gothic fairytale, so much as a strange juxtaposition. Emma took the picture.
The girl on the left, a pretty brunette in a ponytail, noticed Emma and slowed down as they approached.
Emma took a quick step back, averting her eyes down to her phone, hoping to avoid a confrontation.
But the girl wasn't angry. On the other hand, she seemed way too chipper for not even six in the morning. "Oh my god, did you take a picture? Can I see? I bet it looks so cool with the blossom out."
Emma glanced at her, and then at her companion, an Asian girl with some serious muscle definition peeking out from the sleeve of her T-shirt. The girl gave Emma a look, one which almost pleaded to humor her. So Emma did. She turned her screen around to show them, and the brunette gave a delighted squeal, clutching her companion's arm.
"It's so cool! Please, can you send me it?" And then before Emma even knew what was happening, the girl had Emma's phone in her hands, and was inputting her phone number into contacts, unbidden.
Emma shared a look with the other girl, who only shrugged apologetically, as if this was par for the course.
Once she'd handed it back, she glanced down at the name she'd programmed into her phone.
"Aurora?" Emma repeated.
"That's me," the girl confirmed, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder with the kind of maneuver that would leave a lesser woman with whiplash. "It's a really good picture. Are you like a photographer or something?"
"Or something," Emma admitted. And then, without giving it too much thought, she took a step forward. "I'm Emma."
"Nice to meet you," Aurora smiled. "And this is Mulan," she said, poking a thumb in her friend's direction. "Usually there's more of us, but I think the fog scared them off."
"Or the getting up before dawn…" Mulan offered, with a barely concealed yawn. "Not my idea," she mouthed, once Aurora had turned her back.
Emma found herself warming to the pair, and Emma never warmed to anyone.
"You do this a lot, then?"
"Four times a week," Aurora chirped. Mulan made a face behind her, and Emma fought to maintain her composure. "During semester anyway. Most of us go home in the breaks."
"You're students?"
"Postgrad," Mulan cut in. "Theoretical Physics. That's how we met. You?"
Theoretical Physics. Well, that wasn't intimidating at all.
"Oh. I uh… I'm a lecturer. Undergrad American History."
"Wow, you look so young to be teaching," Aurora said with something like awe. Emma liked her already.
"I'm still getting my sea legs," Emma admitted. "This is only my first year here. I was teaching back in the States before."
She expected the pair to feign interest, like most people did when she started talking about work. But as far as she could tell, she still had their undivided attention.
Was this really happening? Was Emma's real life actually passing the Bechdel Test for once? And what was she willing to do, to preserve that feeling?
"So," Emma began, clearing her throat a little. "Is your running group like a private thing, or are you open for new members?"
"You run?" Aurora asked, her tone immediately overeager. Behind her, Mulan rolled her eyes at her friend's new-found, almost evangelical, zeal.
"Not really," Emma confessed. "But I'm thinking of giving it a shot."
Aurora held out a hand. "Welcome to the team, Emma."
"Swan?"
At the sound of his voice, Emma's mind crashed back into the present, back into the basement of Sports Direct amidst a sea of neon sports bras, and Killian giving her a funny look.
"Sorry, spaced out for a second. What were you saying?"
"You mean you're doing this of your own volition?" he repeated. "No undue coercion? No one is holding a gun to your head?"
"Don't be so dramatic," Emma sighed, moving further into the section, in the hopes he might be scared off by the plethora of practical lingerie. But if anything, the opposite was true, Killian keeping pace with her.
"I'm just trying to understand."
"Well it was either that, or wait for you to force me into taking up swing dancing or racquetball or something. I figured I'd take my chances. Besides, they're nice."
"Nice?" Killian repeated, almost disbelievingly. "Who are you, and what have you done with Emma Swan?"
"What? I don't hate all people."
"Just most people."
Emma frowned, turning to face him. "I thought you'd be happy. I thought this is what you wanted me to do? Put myself out there, yada yada yada."
"Are you kidding? I'm ecstatic."
Emma let her eyes rake over him, taking in the distinct lack of ecstasy. "Sure you are."
"I will be ecstatic when I have my first coffee of the day," he corrected. "For right now, let's just pretend I am."
"Right."
"So, are you going to model any of these for me?" Killian asked, reaching out to grab a strappy black number off the rack, holding it against his chest with a suggestive smirk. "I've been told I have excellent taste."
Emma snatched it off him. "In your dreams, Jones."
Then she looked down, considering the item in her hands. "Okay, so this one is kind of nice."
Out of interest, do you know of any way to remove chewing gum from hair WITHOUT chopping it off? Ideally before his parents come home and find him like this... KJ
Wow, that takes me back to 6th grade. Try olive oil. ES
Thank you. KJ
Which nephew got gummed? ES
Lachie. Of course. Though I suspect Callum put him up to it. KJ
Being an Uncle sounds like a blast. ES
That's certainly one word for it. KJ
Emma was dying, of that she was certain.
Everything hurt. Everything. Her legs were like jelly and her heart beat so fast she was half worried it was going to burst straight through her chest, Alien-style.
Running was a stupid idea. She saw that now.
It was a shame, because she quite liked Aurora and Mulan. Even a few of the others were kind of nice, when they bothered to show up. And no one ever thought to pepper her with questions when she was running, not while she was busy making dying cow noises at the back of the pack. That was a bonus.
But on the whole? Running was the worst.
If only she hadn't spent so much on her new, stupid running clothes, she might've been able to justify quitting. But how could she? And make herself look like an idiot in another one of Killian's columns? She just knew he'd seize on this. Another early failure for their project. Another excuse for him to bring out the big words to describe her utter inability to gel with the general population.
Screw it. Screw him. She wasn't giving up. She wasn't flighty, or inconstant or whatever else he might think to call her. She was a serious, determined person, and running was a learned skill. She hoped. Killian could take a flying leap.
Naturally, it figured that who should appear around the next bend, reclining on a park bench with that infuriating devil-may-care grin, but the man himself?
"Whoa," she called, to the group in front of her, before collapsing down onto the grass in an undignified heap, chest heaving.
He stepped into her line of vision, leaning over her sprawled body with an amused expression. "Water?" he asked, pulling a bottle out of somewhere.
Emma could feel herself salivating. She made a pathetic grab for it, but he pulled it out of her reach just in time.
"I hate you," she moaned weakly.
"I know," he smiled, lowering the bottle into her hands.
She didn't waste any time, tearing off the lid and guzzling it down all at once.
"Space yourself," he cautioned, but she ignored him, tipping the bottle back further until the last of its contents poured down her throat.
"I like the tights. The red is a good look on you," he said, coming to sit on the grass beside her. Emma threw the empty bottle at his head, but he caught it before it could make contact.
"Such violence," he chided, tossing the bottle up in the air in a casual flip, and catching it again. "And here I thought exercise might help you to temper that latent aggression."
"You thought wrong," Emma said deadpan, before taking another deep lungful of cool, delicious air. "What are you doing here, anyway? Don't you have work soon?"
"Aye. I do. And since I'm not permitted into work this morning without making a grand and effusive apology to a woman who scant deserves it, I thought I might delay it a while. Plus I have something for you."
Emma pulled herself up into a sitting position to better look him in the eyes. "For me?"
"For you," he confirmed. "But not here. How do you feel about breakfast? The Pantry?"
"But that's in Stockbridge!" Emma whined.
"Aye. But their avocado toast is excellent. And I really have no desire to get to the office before noon."
"Speak for yourself. I have a lecture at 11."
"We'll cab it," he pulled a black card from his pocket, and fanned his face with it. "I've got the company card, and you could rightly argue that this is a work excursion."
Emma snorted, but he still let him pull her to her feet. Just in time for the rest of her running group to appear around the bend, having completed another lap
They clustered around Emma, and she could feel a few interested glances shot in Killian's direction. Of course.
"You did great!" Aurora said, coming over to envelop her in a sweaty hug. "That's one more lap than last time. I knew you'd get the hang of it!"
Emma didn't feel like she was getting the hang of it, but nevertheless, she hugged her back. "Thanks."
She heard a few of the girls whispering to each other, and she knew it was better to address the elephant in the room.
"This is Killian," she said, batting him with her elbow. "He's my… columnist," Emma finished lamely.
Mulan shot her a quizzical look, but Emma just shook her head. "I'll explain later. We're about done, right?"
Without waiting for the chorus of vague agreement, Emma already had Killian by elbow, dragging him away from his newfound admirers.
Killian was right. The avocado toast was excellent. Nearly worth the extortionate prices they were charging for it. Nearly.
"So you said you had something for me?" Emma prompted, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Oh yes," he said, and then to her surprise, he reached behind his neck and unclasped the chain he wore around his neck. "Hold out your hand."
Before she could think too much about it, she did so and he dropped a silver medallion into her open palm. The metal was still warm from where it had lain against his skin.
"Uh, thanks? I didn't realize we'd reached the "gift giving" portion of our partnership. Especially jewellery with…" She squinted. "...religious iconography?"
"It's Saint Anthony," he explained, leaning forward to swipe a slice of tomato off her plate. "Patron Saint of Lost Things."
Emma shook her head. "But I'm not Catholic."
"Nor I. But for a couple of years we had some nuns looking after us. Some things tend to linger. I thought it might help you find that stolen keychain. Outside of that, I thought it might make a good placeholder, in the event it wasn't recovered."
Emma looked down at the medallion again, something curiously like tears burning at the corner of her eyes. It was a thoughtful gift. Really thoughtful. Emma couldn't remember the last time someone had given her one of those.
"Thank you," she said, glancing up so he knew she meant it.
He gave a small smile, and then as if sensing the strange tension that was fast filling the room, he cleared his throat. "You know, there was a Saint Killian."
"Was there?" Emma asked, drawing back her hair with one hand.
"Patron saint of rheumatism sufferers," Killian said softly, leaning forwards to take her hair between his fingers so she could secure the medallion herself.
"Catchy." Why were her fingers shaking?
"He has a feast day on 8th of July. I tried to convince everyone to leave me presents on that day in tribute, but no one went for it."
Finally, the clasp was secured, and Emma let the medallion fall between her breasts. She saw Killian's eyes follow the movement of it, then travel back to her face, cheeks coloring slightly.
"Funnily enough."
He cleared his throat again. "Except for my brother. Liam. He used to leave me a Galaxy bar on my pillow, every July 8th. Still does, in fact."
"I don't know what that is, but it's still cute."
Killian looked floored. "You've truly never had a Galaxy bar?"
"No?"
"Christ, Swan. I thought you Americans were at the forefront of all things confectionery."
"Funny."
Then suddenly Killian was rummaging around in his pockets for the credit card, and gathering up his coat.
"Uh, are you going somewhere?"
"Why, to get you a Galaxy Bar of course," he said, shrugging on his jacket. "Aren't you coming?"
