A/N: Finally an update! Hope you guys enjoy this chapter, it was actually going to be way longer than this but I felt like it was dragging on so you'll definitely get your money's worth in the next chapter but in the meantime here! have some character development...of sorts!


Chapter Eight

The October breeze feels cool and welcome on her face on the morning of the thirty-first, but it does nothing to lessen the nerves that are knotted in her stomach. Last night's adrenaline had dissolved with the dawning light of a new day and the prospect of a new show. Emma mulls over her actions from last night: four missed lines that she had recovered by adlibbing quickly; three separate instances in which she forgot her dance steps; and one crack in her voice during one of her songs. Shaking her head, she knows that she's most likely being too hard on herself. Despite the mishaps, her director had congratulated her on connecting with her already clumsy character during the course of the show, so at least there was a silver lining.

She has two more shows to get through, one tonight and a matinee tomorrow evening. All of her friends are coming tonight, and she wishes that she was nervous because of their presence and not because she's wary of how Graham will respond to her prancing around stage in her underwear. Although he had apologized for his behavior by taking her out for dinner, and once again apologized as he moved inside her later on that night, Graham had shown her a side of him that she wasn't expecting. She gave in to him that night, though, chastising herself for the way she had acted, and that she at least owed him an apology for being late and the fact that she had screened his calls all afternoon. She felt that it had been her fault as much as his, stuffing away the instinct, the voice that belted out that Emma Swan was not one to be controlled by a man, and replacing it with a softer one that said: It's okay, this is how it's supposed to be.

Emma drinks her mimosa as she waits for Elsa. Her friend had insisted on having brunch to catch up, and had picked a restaurant in MidCity—conveniently walking distance from where Emma knew Killian and Liam lived. The Rabbit Hole was a gleaming example of modern gentrification. It stuck out like a sore thumb in the surrounding neighborhood which was mostly wooden shotgun houses and what were once single family homes but had since been divided into apartments. This was the norm in post-Katrina New Orleans. If you search the web for the city, you'll find yourself reading about shiny chrome countertops, kombucha, and duck confit po-boys in the menus, and imposing high-rises in neighborhoods that were once predominantly black and poor, with its original citizens fighting to keep their culture intact in response to the influx of a younger, "hipster" crowd.

Emma scowls as she reads the menu, her glare directed at the hand-lettered typeface of the menu and the fourteen-dollar cost of a classic Eggs Benedict plate, failing to notice her friend walk up to her table out in the patio.

"Hey, Em," Elsa greets her, her voice breathless. Emma's smile falters slightly as she sees Elsa in front of her. Had Elsa not greeted Emma first, she thinks she wouldn't have recognized her friend in the first place. To say that Elsa looked different was an understatement. Her platinum hair, usually always tied up or plaited, framed her friend's pale face in soft waves, the ends lightly skimming her shoulders. She looked relaxed, a red and deep green plaid shirt hanging loosely around her frame, her black leggings tucked into worn combat boots. A glow of blissful contentment emanated clearly from within Elsa, her usually cold and anxious demeanor nowhere to be seen.

"Hey," Emma says with a grin, "you look incredible."

A soft blush creeps up Elsa's pale face, and she grins while she tucks a loose strand of platinum blonde hair behind her ear as she takes a seat in front of Emma.

"Thank you," she responds, biting her lip.

"I take it things with Liam are going well?" Emma prods, knowing full well that Elsa did not possess the habit of talking about herself with ease.

"Is it that obvious?" Elsa asks, perching her sunglasses on top of her head and focusing her embarrassed gaze on the menu.

"I've never seen you look so blissful," Emma nods, her hand outstretched to cover her friend's. Elsa grins wider, a contented sigh racking her entire body as she looks up at Emma.

"He's perfect," Elsa gushes, her voice giddier than ever before. "I feel like I've known him forever…like he understands me on a level I didn't think was possible. It's crazy, I've known him for a little over two months but I've never felt like this before. It's kind of terrifying, actually, but with him I'm not scared at all." She finishes flustered, her blush more prominent against her pale skin.

"I love seeing you so happy," Emma tells her friend, her hand giving Elsa's a light squeeze.

"What about you?" Elsa asks her brightly, "How are things with Graham?"

"They're wonderful," Emma starts, wishing she could regurgitate the words and emotion Elsa had just demonstrated, but she's nowhere near where Elsa and Liam are in terms of her relationship with Graham. "He works a lot but he's very loving." Emma offers lamely, her own blush creeping onto her skin, her chest flushed.

"That's good," Elsa says reassuringly, an empathetic smile etched on her features. Emma smiles back, but stays silent, unsure of how to continue on such uneven footing. Elsa orders a mimosa carafe for the table, telling the waitress that they still needed more time to decide on what to order. Elsa ends up ordering an everything bagel with lox, capers, and cream cheese, while Emma ends up choosing to pay the fourteen dollar Eggs Benedict plate, switching it from original to "southern-style," which really just meant that the English muffin was switched to a buttermilk biscuit and the Canadian bacon was switched to a sausage patty.

Emma stays silent once again, her fingers swiftly gliding over her phone and responding to Graham's text message hastily; she doesn't want a repeat of the last time. Elsa senses her unease, and how could she not?

They had met in ninth grade, two outsiders in a completely foreign boarding school. Elsa had just moved to the United States from Norway, after her father, who was a famed diplomat, took a spot in the United Nations; and Emma had caused enough trouble at her previous school that her parents had no option but to make her transfer to boarding school in Connecticut. The two girls had taken to each other almost immediately, with Emma's fiery temperament molding perfectly with Elsa's cool demeanor. The bond they shared, rooted in an imposing Connecticut boarding school, was deeper than any sorority on campus could ever offer.

"Are you okay?" Elsa asks in her reformed English, her Norwegian accent still faintly present even after living in the United States for almost a decade.

"I'm fine," Emma says earnestly. "Just nervous about tonight."

Elsa smiles reassuringly, "You'll do amazing."

"Everyone is going to be there," Emma mumbles, trying to pin the blame on everyone's presence and not the two distinctive people that were bothering her: Graham and Killian.

"Killian is adamant in going, you know," Elsa says, pouring more of the mimosa onto her glass as the waitress came over with their orders.

Emma rolls her eyes, she could really do without him there. She still hasn't completely forgiven him for what happened a week and a half ago.

"You can't still be mad at him, Emma," Elsa chastises, sounding more like an older sister than anything else.

"I'm still very mad at him," Emma responds stubbornly, and even though she knows she should just forgive him, she can't bring herself to do so. In no case was her outburst against him reasonable—Killian had just been doing his job after all—but a wounded pride has never been known to listen to reason, in any case it tends to greatly outweigh it.

Last Friday Emma had been out with Ruby and Mary Margaret, her friends desperate to have dinner followed by a girls' night in. The plan had been to grab a bite to eat at Granny's Diner—the restaurant and bed and breakfast that Ruby's grandmother owned—and then head back to their apartment and watch Hocus Pocus while they gorged on Halloween candy. Dinner had been wonderful, and Emma had relished in the company of her friends, unaware of just how much she missed their company now that she basically only hung out with her boyfriend most days. Emma and Mary Margaret had been successful in gauging what Ruby's date with Victor consisted of, not letting single detail go uncommented. Their laughter had been infectious, filling up the entirety of the diner quickly as they all tried to catch up on weeks past, weeks filled with new love and new experiences.

It had been raining when they had opted to leave the diner, when a notification buzzed in Emma's phone. Instinctively she had opened her email, finding that her grade for Mills' term paper draft had been posted. The last few weeks had been such a blur, that Emma had completely forgotten about even turning the draft in. It wasn't her best work. She spent two days trying to haphazardly throw together some semblance of a draft, scouring Wikipedia and anything Google had to offer to make it look like she had done some work on it. In hindsight, she should have probably spent more than two days on it. She should have taken herself out of Graham's arms and into the library to do some decent research, but things were finally back to normal and whenever she wasn't with him she was at rehearsals.

Still, she had thought her work was average at least. She figured, she'd get at the very worst a C, and she'd just blow it out of the park with her final draft and average the grade out between the two grades. Nothing could have prepared her for the shiny, bolded D+ that she saw on her phone's screen. She had stood there, stoic, her eyes attempting to focus on the grade Killian had given her. Surely, it had to be a joke.

"Em? What's wrong?" Mary Margaret had asked her when she noticed Emma was still rooted on the spot outside the diner.

"He gave me a D," Emma had answered breathless, still unbelieving.

"Who gave you the D?" an inebriated Ruby had snickered before Mary Margaret shoved an elbow into her side.

"Killian," she murmured, still glaring at her phone urging the grade to magically change before her eyes. She had never gotten a D in her life. "He graded the draft to my term paper and he gave me a D+." The more she had stared at her phone the faster her disbelief had quickly morphed into anger. Sure, she hadn't worked excruciatingly hard on that paper, but it was a draft.

A draft that was worth thirty-five percent of her final grade, and he almost failed her at it. Suddenly, she had a vision of her master's degree waving goodbye at her, slipping away from her grasp and unraveling her life's plan.

"I'm going to go talk to him," she had said aloud, zipping up her leather jacket and turning around to walk to her car.

"Emma, wait!" Mary Margaret had called after her, "What about the movie night?"

"I'll be back soon, you guys start without me. I just…I need to talk to him," Emma had called back, sliding into the bug and slamming the door shut before Mary Margaret had a chance to answer her.

She had driven up to his street almost in autopilot, the anger coursing avidly though her veins. She felt betrayed. Killian had gone on and on about wanting to be close to her, build a friendship with her, and he ended up doing this? Perhaps it was nonsensical of her to drive up to his street unannounced, with no rational plan as to what she was going to say to him, and instead fuel her strides with unabridged anger. This is why she didn't want to be friends with him, this is why she didn't want to let him get close to her. When it comes to Killian she has no control over her emotions, over her actions, over anything at all. When it comes to Killian all she can do is let instinct take over, let whatever emotion she has fuel her entire being. It's both terrifying and completely unlike her.

The wind had slapped cold against her face. The heavy rain droplets had soaked her clothes and had made the pavement glitter in front of her. Long, purposeful strides had carried her up the steps to his porch. Above her, the light had swung with the wind and the porch swing creaked idly next to her. She had knocked on the door so hard that her knuckles still tingled at the loss of contact. Emma had tried to compose herself but it was to no avail, she felt her breathing get shallower, her skin prickling with palpable irritation

"Swan," he had exclaimed surprised, his eyebrows raised high on his forehead, burrowed underneath the black fringe of his unruly hair. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" He had asked with a grin that faltered slightly when he saw the look on Emma's face.

"We need to talk," she had answered him curtly, willing herself to reign in her anger.

"Sounds serious," he had muttered sardonically before casting an anxious glance back into his living room. "Swan, I'm quite busy right now though, so perhaps this could wait?" He had turned towards her but his foot slid in between the doorframe, propping the door open.

"No, it cannot wait! Fucking up my GPA is pretty serious, Killian."

"Ah, I see the grades came out tonight."

"Yes, you're very perceptive," she had answered him, her arms crossed on her chest defensively. "What the hell Killian? I've never gotten a D in my life," she had hissed, the grade was foreign and sounded dirty to her own ears. He simply stood there looking at her, his foot no longer propping the door open.

"Look, Emma, I don't think it's proper for us to be talking about this right now," he had told her, his hand scratching the back of his ear. "We should wait till Tuesday and talk about it during office hours, alright?"

"Now you care about propriety?" Emma had asked him incredulous, stepping closer to him and poking him in his chest. "You didn't seem to give a damn about that when you were too busy trying to get me into your bed!"

"Oi! That's not fair!" He had responded, his hand coiled tightly around her upper arm, leading her from the door and out of earshot from the living room. "Don't you dare play that card, Swan," he had warned and Emma could see the muscles in his jaw clench tightly, evidencing his frustration.

"I'll play whatever card I want, since you're so adamant in ruining what little shot I have at a career!" She was incensed and somewhat nonsensical. She was adamant in getting a response from him—a fucking explanation—as well as letting him feel the anger she currently experienced.

"Oh, for fuck's sake! If you were so concerned about that, you'd have sent in something substantive. All you sent was a glorified outline!" He had exclaimed loudly, his anger now matching hers.

"I did not!" she had countered but her determined face fell at the incredulous look he had shot at her. "Fine, I could've done a better job. But, come on, Killian! You know I've been extremely busy with rehearsals! You could have given me some wiggle room, I thought we were friends!"

"Aye, I am your friend, Emma, but I am also your educator," he had snapped vehemently, his blue eyes boring deep into her own gaze. Not enough to have made her cower, but enough to have made her rethink coming up to him in the first place. "I'd appreciate it if you kept that boundary separate and respect me as your educator."

"I know that!"

"No, you don't! You wouldn't waltz up to your professor's residence and bang on their door because they gave you a grade you don't like!" He had told her, his voice raised slightly higher, the anger and frustration he felt towards her palpable. Emma had said nothing, having instead opting for silence rather than conceding to him. She had stared at him defiantly, her fists clenched on either side of her body as she had regarded him. His breathing was shallow and his eyes alight with a fire she had never seen before. He darted his tongue out, sliding it quickly along his lips, wetting them before he started again, his voice softer but still heated. "I knew that you were busy, but do you know how disappointing it was to see what you had handed in? Not just as your educator, but as your friend?"

Emma had stayed quiet, her ire steadily pulsating through her system. She didn't want Killian to feel anything for her, not attraction and certainly not disappointment. The more she thought about it the more she came to the conclusion that coming here, knocking at his door had been the wrong choice.

"Don't pretend that you care about me," she had scoffed derisively, her defense mechanisms—the ones that told her to attack before being attacked, to hurt before getting hurt—clicking into place automatically. She had crossed her arms against her chest as she watched him groan in frustration, his hand brought up to thread through his raven hair, and leaving it in a messier state than it was mere seconds ago.

"I care about you," he had said, his voice low but firm with conviction. "However, just because I'm your friend, doesn't mean that I'll coddle you." He had stepped back, resting his back against the wooden wall behind him and had looked into her eyes, his gaze unrelenting and his breaths still shallow. Under different circumstances Emma would have been thankful for his comment, being coddled was not something that she had ever appreciated. The fact that he respected her boundaries and understood her independent nature, however, did not take away from the issue that the marks he had given her might jeopardize her acceptance into Tulane's graduate program. She had a plan way before she ever met him, and she would be damned if his fixation with good form would derail her plan.

"Do you realize what you did, though?" She had asked him, her voice wavering more than she intended it to. Killian had narrowed his eyes, his jaw clenching at her outburst, but didn't he speak so she pressed on. "Do you realize that you jeopardized my GPA and with that my chance into getting in the Social Work program at Tulane all because you didn't want to coddle me?"

"Oh, stop making excuses and own up to your mistakes, Emma!" He had lashed out, his tone matching hers. She knew she had pressed a button too deep, crossed the line too far by blaming him for a mistake that she couldn't deny was due to her own fault. "You were the one that chose to procrastinate instead of doing the research you were supposed to! You were the one that handed in a cock-up instead of a well thought out draft!" He had stepped closer to her now, so close that she felt his hot breath on her cheek as unmistakable as she felt the wooden pillar against her spine. "If you got that grade, it's because you deserved it."

Emma's chest had risen up methodically. Her anger had seeped down to her very core, corroding any reason on its way down and her nails had left small half-moon indentations on the palm of her hands. She hadn't missed the way his gaze fell on her lips for a millisecond before locking itself back on her eyes, always searching for meaning behind them, and trying to pry her away from the walls she surrounded herself in. She would've stepped back if she could, but he had cornered her against the pillar. Part of her wanted to slap the disappointed look on his face, a look that told her that he regarded her as a petulant child and not his equal. While on the other hand, part of her wanted to thread her fingers through his mussed up raven hair and tug down in order for her to cover his mouth with hers in a primal, bruising kiss that would leave both of their worlds turned upside down.

"I should go," she had said quietly but not demurely. She was angry with him and she wanted him to know that.

"Emma," he had almost growled at her, his voice paradoxical, both pleading and aggravated at the same time. "We can't leave it like this," he said again, "we need to talk it out."

She knew she couldn't stay, not when he made her feel so much that she felt as if she had no control over her senses around him.

She shouldn't have come here in the first place.

"I think you've said enough," she had said, pressing her hands against his chest and ignoring the heat that spread through them as she pushed him away. She didn't look at him as she had trotted down the porch steps, but she felt his gaze on her back as she had walked away. She hadn't noticed the heavy splatter of the rain against the pavement, the weather having worsened as quickly as her mood had done. Still, she had gotten into her car, waited for it to warm up before she made her way out of MidCity and back to Uptown, where Mary Margaret and Ruby awaited her in the apartment.

The next week and a half had gone by rather smoothly, with Emma's only worry being successfully avoiding Killian on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She wasn't really mad at him anymore, mostly she was angrier at herself for berating him at his doorstep instead of being rational. She had always prided herself on how reasonable she was. She was stubborn and hotheaded, yes, but still reasonable.

"Swan," he had smiled at her tentatively when she arrived at the classroom that next Tuesday. She didn't respond, instead choosing to walk right past him with her eyes glued to the floor. "Is that how it is then?" he had asked, an edge to his voice. "You're just going to refuse to speak to me?" he continued as she had sat down in her assigned seat and propped open her laptop. She knew he had made to speak to her again, but Mills had entered the classroom at that very moment and he had no choice but to stay silent.

Halfway through the class he shoves a Post-It towards her, the familiar yellow note sticking to her desk.

Are you really still mad at me?

No, she wasn't mad at him anymore, she was ashamed. Ashamed at her actions, at the way she had spoken to him, and at the way she had let him crawl so deep under her skin that she had lost all sense of propriety. She wanted to tell him that. Wanted nothing more than to go back to the levee and feel comfortable with him again, but she was stubborn and headstrong, and apologizing had never been her strong suit. Telling him would be admitting to herself that she had let him in. He cared about her, he had told her so, but what was more terrifying was that she cared about him too. In the two months that she had known him, he had slowly but surely started to peel off her layers, gotten to know her, and had made her feel comfortable in his presence.

And everyone knows that in the uncharted territory between being strangers and being friends—or being more, but she didn't want to think about that, not with Killian at least—lies a huge cloud of doubt, of unknown, and of possible heartbreak. And when Killian looks at her trying to gauge her motives and understand her demeanor, well, she'd be a fool to let herself choose the possibility of heartbreak.

She could have taken the high road and told him that she wasn't angry, but instead she decided to be petty, took the Post-It, crumpled it in her fist, and let it fall to the floor.

Killian didn't bother her for the next two weeks and, in true Emma fashion, she chose to hurt before getting hurt.

Emma had spent the rest of the month rehearsing, pleading Mills for extra credit, and fighting with Graham. She was stressed with the impending performances, juggling her attempt on some research on the LaBoeufs as well as homework for the rest of her classes, and she felt positively suffocated by Graham at times with his constant texting and even more constant presence at her apartment. She was a crap girlfriend, and she knew it going into the relationship. Emma had always loved her independence, loved the ability to do her own thing without having the need to report to someone. Because that's what being in a relationship with Graham felt like, almost as if she had a leash and he wouldn't let her stray too far. So, when Elsa asks her how her relationship was going, she simply settles that it's "wonderful," because her pride, her childish pride that was so desperate to get this right, wouldn't allow her to say otherwise.

That night the show goes virtually without a hitch with Emma landing her lines, nailing her steps, and her voice never wavering unless the song called for it. The house was packed and she sweats profusely under the harsh lighting but the stage feels like home, and the nerves from earlier in the day had evaporated with each passing minute. It's exhausting, and by the time the show is over she really doesn't want to go out with her friends as much as she just wants to take a shower, take her Xanax, and fall into another dreamless sleep. But it's Halloween, and her friends came all the way down to the Marigny to pay to see her sing and dance about sexual awakenings, so she concludes that going out is the least she could do for them.

Backstage, Emma slips out of her corset, practically tears off her fishnets, and hangs up the feather boa before slipping into her Halloween costume—Ruby had picked out rather offensively short version of Princess Leia's outfit from Episode IV: A New Hope—and having Leo twist her long blonde hair into two buns on either sides of her head.

It doesn't take her long until she finds her group of friends and Graham, who had been sitting with them. They practically ambush her with compliments and hugs as they greet her outside the theater.

Everyone is there: Mary Margaret and David, Elsa and Liam, Ruby and Victor—funny how just over two months ago they had been at The Uptown, actively searching for an end to their singlehood and now everything is different. As she hugs Graham last, she sees Killian move cautiously towards the group, a blinding grin on his face and a petite blonde dressed as Tinkerbelle flanking his side. Emma wishes that she could deny that her heart had practically leapt into her throat at the same time a barrel of lead had settled deep inside her stomach at the sight of him, but that would be lying.

"You were brilliant, Emma." Killian says as he steps in front of her, dressed unmistakably as Han Solo.

Go figure.

"Thank you," she responds awkwardly as she takes the bouquet of white lilies he hands her.

They stand there awkwardly and in silence as the crowd disperses around them, trickling out onto the street. Though it feels like an eternity, it takes her a second to feel the evident pressure of Graham's hand on the small of her back, an anchor that ties her back into reality after being lost in a sea of calming blue. Killian must sense the same—a distinguishable grip on his upper arm by the blonde that flanked him—as he turns to her and then back to Emma.

"Emma, this is Christine Bell," he tells her, finally permitting Emma to put a real name to the blonde. Emma takes the dainty hand of Christine into her own and shakes it firmly, still at a loss for words. A myriad of questions start flying across her mind, trying to make sense of the unexpected situation. She wasn't jealous (she wasn't). She just wanted to know exactly who this girl was. Was Killian dating her? How long had they known each other? Was it purposeful that she was basically the knockoff version of Emma? She looked older—around twenty-six—and nice enough. But still, who was she? She definitely wasn't the girl that Ruby had identified as his girlfriend months ago.

Emma was taken aback at her extroverted demeanor. It was almost as if the dainty, short New Zealander was only capable of feeling one emotion at a time and clearly, excitement was the only feeling her petite body could handle. She rapidly started congratulating Emma on her performance, saying that she had been looking forward to the stage production of Rocky Horror for months, and that she was so happy Killian knew her because it finally gave him the opportunity to ask her out.

Apparently, asking Christine out was something that he had wanted to do for months. Which, you know, is funny considering that he wanted to ask Emma out as well. Not that that's illegal or frowned upon, mind you, it simply just puts a sour taste on Emma's mouth. The blonde overwhelms her, and Emma desperately wants to go home, the mixture of Graham's lack of enthusiasm when she had gone to meet everyone after the performance and Killian's unexpected date was enough to put a damper on her night. She wishes that it didn't, but she doesn't deny that she feels out of place surrounded by a heap of happy couples, and she's stuck with her rather unexpectedly taciturn boyfriend.

The drive to Uptown is silent for the most part, with Graham's hands wound tightly around the steering wheel. Emma has half a mind to ask him what's wrong, because she knows something is bothering him, but she doesn't want to shed light on the situation. Even less considering that they're not alone, what with Mary Margaret and David chatting amorously in the backseat. As they drive somberly to 80s soft rock, orange streetlights flicker above them, making the rain droplets on the window shield glitter happily above them as it takes all of twenty minutes to arrive at their destination, to a new bar called Barcade. It was a fairly new bar, nestled near the college campuses in Uptown. The premise was simple, a place where adults could be kids again, and since college is the place where kids struggle to be adults, Barcade's location was ideal. Once inside, they find the place covered wall to wall with classic arcade games—Emma would definitely be hitting up Street Fighter first—air hockey, skee-ball, even several big screen TVs with video game consoles. There's a fully stocked bar to the left, and two food trucks parked in the patio.

Emma instinctively steers clear of Killian and Graham, thinking that a surefire way to prevent an unwanted confrontation with either is to avoid them completely. Was that childish? Absolutely. All she knows is that she doesn't want to hang around her boyfriend in a sour mood, nor does she want to hang around the sickeningly sweet sight of Christine Bell practically throwing herself at Killian.

Emma is not jealous. She's not.

She is, however, desperately in need of a drink

-/-

Hours later, Emma finds herself having fun in the midst of an air hockey battle with Ruby. The leggy brunette is good at the game, with an almost feral determination in her offense, but Emma is better and after losing the game twice in a row, Ruby bows out and Graham steps in.

"Are you ready to lose, Humbert?" Emma teases him as she places the puck in place.

"First to seven points, Emma?" He counters, lifting an eyebrow and crouching on his side of the table.

"You're on," she nods before hitting the puck and it ricochets against his left hand corner, almost getting into the slot but he catches it, hitting it back.

"You've been avoiding me," he says pointedly, his blazing hunter green eyes locked on hers.

"I'd rather not talk to you while you're in a foul mood," she bites back, her tone so forceful that he misses her hit the puck with her mallet and sending it straight through the slot on his side of the table. One.

"Haven't you stopped to ask why I'm in a foul mood?" he asks her gruffly, bending down to get the puck in order to place it back on the table.

"Is that my job?" She asks him, expertly swerving her mallet on the smooth surface so when she hits the puck it goes straight into the slot on his side of the table once again. Two. "I'm here to have a good time, not play therapist."

"Humor me?" Graham asks, his tone unable to mask his annoyance, and Emma foresees that he'll be a sore loser.

"Fine," she shrugs as he manages to finally get a point in, egging on his annoyance. "Why are you in a bad mood?" she asks.

"Well, it might be because I feel disrespected," he snaps and Emma manages to ricochet the puck into his goal again. Three.

"Care to elaborate?" Emma asks lamely, not wanting—or needing—Graham to elaborate at all. She knew that he was going to pick a fight with her about her role tonight, expected it, even.

"Did you even stop to think how uncomfortable it would be for me, as your boyfriend, to see your scantily clad self grind against an half-naked man?" He asks, nearly gloating as he makes another score against her.

"No, I didn't," she answers, unwilling to suppress the grin on her face as she scores again. Four. "Considering that I got cast before we even got together. And, for the record, Rocky is a flamboyant homosexual in real life so I'm not sure why you're so worried."

She shrugs again and immediately she knows that her indifference has struck a nerve.

"Because you didn't even consider telling me, Emma!" Graham retorts loudly and she flinches. He's never raised her voice at her like that. "I was sitting there like a bleeding idiot!" Emma flinches back as he scores another point against her, her hands instinctively coming up to shield herself as the puck nearly ricochets against the border and straight towards her face.

Now he struck a nerve.

"Would you like me to be in a production of Chekov's Three Sisters instead, Graham?" She asks him scathingly, her elbow nearly snapping off at the sheer force she had hit the puck with her mallet. Five.

"Aye, I would if it meant that you get to keep your clothes on," he bites back, his disdain the reason he manages to score again.

"Tell me, have you stopped to think if I'm comfortable with you working midnight shifts at the busiest hospital in what many people call the murder capital of the United States?" Emma asks her voice wavering slightly and for once, she'd love it if her voice wouldn't betray her and make her sound like an unstable, sniveling child. "Because I'm not, but I respect it because it's what you love to do. Being on stage is what I love to do, why can't you respect that?" She finishes, scoring again. Six.

"That's not the point," he deflects, his anger subsiding slightly and Emma senses him shutting down instead. No, that's worse, she thinks, angry I can deal with, quiet I cannot.

"Then what is the point, Graham?" She asks him again, hitting the puck one last time.

Seven.

He stands up to leave then—once the game ends at 7-4—not before he lets the mallet fall forcefully on the table. Emma follows him hastily, this is exactly why she was avoiding him, a confrontation like this was the last thing she needed tonight. He goes back to their table and yanks up his brown leather jacket from the seat.

"Babe, where are you going?" she asks breathlessly, after she had struggled to keep up with his longer strides.

"Home," he says gruffly as he slips his jacket on and fixes the collar.

"Graham, please don't leave," Emma finds herself pleading, her hands circling around his upper arm. "Come on, let me…let me fix this."

"Emma, I want to go home," he says quietly, yanking his arm out of her grasp. "It's clear to me that you don't care about me as much as I care about you."

"I care about you!"

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do," She says following him out of the bar and onto the street where he had parked his car. "Please don't go like this."

"Look, Em, you're not used to being someone's girlfriend and I get that, but we're supposed to make decisions together, as a team." Graham says dejectedly, victimized, and making her feel more like a sniveling, petulant child more than ever.

"I want that," she promises, her eyes wide and the familiar tingling on her nose she feels when she's about to cry. "I'll do that."

"I just want you to understand where I'm coming from," he tells her seriously.

"I'm trying," Emma answers truthfully.

"You can't just make decisions without me," he says, his hands deep in his pockets. "I had that mini-break planned for us and you went off and had to go sign yourself up as chaperone for that fieldtrip."

"I needed the extra credit," Emma tries to explain, but she clothes her mouth as soon as he raises his hand to refrain her from doing so.

"You should've consulted with me first," he says sullenly, once again pulling his arm away form where she had tried to wind her hands around. "And if my shifts bothered you that much, you should've trusted me enough to tell me about it."

"I'm sorry," she offers lamely.

"Sorry isn't going to cut it tonight, Em."

Emma doesn't notice the swirling cold wind around her as she watches him walk away. They'll probably have to grab an Über on the way back, but she's too focused on how yet again, she's fucked up one of the few good things in her life. Once again, she's standing on the receiving end of someone walking out on her. The wind gathers speed around her, the music thumps loudly behind her but all she can do is stare at the empty space where Graham had just disappeared. Surely this wasn't it for them, was it? Yes, he annoys her from time to time but she doesn't want to break up. At first she hadn't noticed the tears that had streamed down her face, but the fierce night wind has dried them up in their tracks, making them palpable, a solid reminder of what just happened.

"Emma?" a voice calls behind her and she closes her eyes in frustration because the last thing she wants is for Killian to see her like this.

"What?" she asks him without turning around, her voice thick but deceptively flat. She sighs when she feels his hand—his warm, comforting hand—on her shoulder, gently turning her towards him. If the mascara that is undoubtedly dried onto her skin after running side by side with her tears surprises him, he doesn't mention it, and she's grateful for that.

"Are you alright?" he asks softly, and they both know it's a rhetorical question. She's not alright, and that is clear and bright as the sun on a cloudless day.

"I'm fine," Emma answers him gruffly, instantly regretting stepping away from him once his warmth dissipates from her surrounding.

"You're not," he says pointedly.

"Killian could you just leave me the hell alone?" she snaps. She doesn't want caring right now, she doesn't want to be the damsel in distress for him. She just had a fight with her boyfriend, things like this happen all the time and she doesn't need anyone to pity her or pick up the pieces for her.

"No," Killian answers simply, crossing his arms defiantly against his chest.

"Goddammit, Killian, what do you want from me?" Emma asks him hoarsely, her voice exasperated as she stomps her right foot on the glistening pavement.

"I want you to stop pushing me away! And for fuck's sake, let me help you, lass." He matches her exasperated tone perfectly, and forgoes any propriety by stepping closer to her, tucking an errant strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "Because I care about you and I want to help you," he says softer this time, his blue eyes locked intently on hers and his gaze so sincere it's almost raw.

"I don't need help," she counters stubbornly, but doesn't make to step away from him.

"You need a ride home," he grins and she sighs deeply. She did need a ride home.

"What about Christine? It's not good form for you to abandon your date in some random bar." Emma uselessly tries to point out another excuse, to which Killian gives her a pointed look before raising his eyebrows incredulously. Internally, she chastises herself once she notices that's exactly what just happened to her.

"She'll be fine, she's found her work friends in there." Killian answers her with a smile that she can only describe as roguish. "Besides," he starts, moving closer to her as if he's about to tell her a secret, "she's not nearly as important to me as you are."


A/N: I don't know when the next chapter will be up because finals are just around the corner and i have to start studying for that BUT i'll most likely see you lovelies in December! Reviews feed my legal muse and make sure that I'm able to continue on with my legal education