Hi everyone! Quick update between mid-terms...
I love everyone, and I want to say welcome to all new readers, and thank you for reading my little story :) Now, this is a transitional chapter, plot will start up again (in more detail) next chapter.
I stayed up late so I could finish this for you guys, so cross your fingers I won't fall asleep while in study hall, my mom and teacher will kill me, and I will not be able to finish this story.
Ah, what a tragedy that would be.
Apologies for the wait if I can't update again before my mid-terms are finished.
Please, review like you did last couple of chapters? That was awesome :D
Bye y'all, and I hope you enjoy.
Please, R&R!
Love,
Annaelle
PS Reviews are like Killian Jones; they make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside and grin like a loon (and they make me write faster :p), and hopefully, they'll make the hiatus seem like it's shorter.
PPS Thanks to the awesome JustSmileBFF for beta'ing this chapter, and letting me rant to her about everything that is this story :D
- Revised A/N 13/01/2014 -
Hi, just wanted to let you guys know, I edited the two times where Emma refers to Killian as 'Killian' out, because no, her memories are not bleeding through.. It was a typo that excaped both my and my beta's notice... Their memories aren't coming back. Not yet :p Our beloved Captain will be stuck as Colin Brody for a while yet.
As for the questions HOW he came to be Colin... Well :p You should read the chapter again. There's clues all over it :) Do not despair though, answers will be given (some of them anyway) in the next chapter :D Okay, I gotta get back to studying, but thanks to everyone who has reviewed/faved/followed/read so far! I love you all!
Xx Annaelle
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Across Time And Space
Portland, Maine, The Salty Dog's Bar & Inn, 2006
(Four days later)
"How about that one?" She trails her fingers over the faint scar on his cheek, smirking at the face he makes. He catches her hand and smirks at her, shaking his head. "I was seven, and my brother and I were chasing…" he shrugs, trailing his fingers over her heated, naked skin, "I don't quite recall what, but we were chasing something. I tripped, landed myself on barbed wire."
She chuckles at the mental image that provides, shaking her head—she has no idea why she's still here, with him, in bed, after four days (she's lying—the sex alone would have been earth-shattering enough for her to come begging for more), but she does like it.
She likes the feeling of normalcy that surrounds them, and she knows that, deep down, he does too.
She likes that she knows so much about him already; she knows his name is Colin Brody, that he and his brother moved to a small coast town here in Maine when he was in high school, and that he was desperate to get as far away from said town as he possibly could after his brother and his brother's girlfriend died in a car accident.
A car accident that cost him his entire family and his left hand.
She knows he's been stuck here in Portland for five years, and that he wants nothing more than to travel through the entire country, but simply can't afford it. She knows that the biting sarcasm, the flirting and the witty remarks are his armor as much as they are for her; and she knows that he knows as much about her too.
Most importantly, she knows it scares the hell out of her.
He scares the hell out of her.
"My turn, love," he drawls, snapping her from her thoughts, trailing his fingers down from her throat, between her breasts, over her belly button, before coming to rest on the faint scar that spans across her stomach—her heart skips a beat and she winces, because of course he would ask about that one. He couldn't ask about the one she got when she fell from a tree when she was six, or the one on her elbow, where she burned herself against the stove.
No.
Of course he couldn't.
He wanted to ask about the one that hurt her most of all.
"It's from a caesarian," she whispers, looking down to avoid his blue eyes, knowing he'll see right through her. His silence is deafening, and when he does finally speak, his voice is soft, and almost unbearably concerned. "You had a child?"
She nods, still not looking at him, and whispers, "I gave him up for adoption. I couldn't take care of him, and I didn't want—" She swallows thickly and shakes her head. "Never mind. I don't even know why I told you."
His fingers are warm and rough against her skin, and though she probably could have resisted if she really wanted to, she allows him to push her chin up, so he can meet her eyes. "Because we have something, darling."
She snorts, pulling her armor right back into place, because he is getting a little too close for comfort, and glares at him. "Yeah," she spits, "It's called a one nightstand." His eyes darken, and she's not sure if she actually got to him or not, but his voice is gruff and heavy when he replies, just as heatedly, "This stopped being a one nightstand four days ago, Swan."
She raises an eyebrow at him, determined not to let him get to her, and smirks, "I'm sorry, what is it then? Being fuckbuddies?" To his credit, he does not even cringe when she continues to insult him, merely waiting for her to finish. Only when she's sitting up, the sheets pooling around her waist, breathing heavily, does he move to sit up too, regarding her calmly. "Are you quite done now, darling?"
She glares at him, but nods nonetheless and bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at the adorable frown that wrinkles his forehead.
Damn him.
How dare he make her smile when she's trying to be mad at him?
"I don't know what we are, Emma," she swallows thickly when he uses her actual name—it sounds odd, because the only time he calls her Emma is when they're having sex, and it is very distracting, to say the least, to hear him say it now—, "but it is there. I have not so much as looked at a woman in a long time, love, but you… I cannot get enough of you."
She chokes a little, because he's starting to sound like Neal—even worse, at least Neal knew her a little longer than four days before professing his love to her—and it scares the hell out of her. "And this," she gestures between them roughly, "has nothing to do with you wanting to leave Maine as fast as you can, does it?"
The look on his face makes her wince slightly, but she can't help it.
Stuff like this doesn't happen to her.
Men don't fall all over themselves to get into her good graces and her bed. Colin's the only one in five years that's been trying to stay for longer than one night, and call her a pessimist, but she can't help but feel like there's more to it than a so-called connection they feel.
"Try something new, darling," he finally says, his eyes dark and clouded with hurt, "It's called trust." She bites her lip harshly and, without thinking, spits, "I did. Trust landed me in jail—I'm not stupid enough to fall for it twice."
The surprise on his face makes her want to slap herself—Way to go, Emma, another well-kept secret out the window—and she turns away, refusing to see the pity in his eyes; she knows it'll be there.
It always is.
"Fine," he says softly, "Then leave me here. I will find my own way to ... Boston, was it? And I will find you there—and then, you won't have to question whether I am with you to escape or not; I will have done so on my own." She closes her eyes briefly, desperately trying to find a way to hide from him, to stop him from seeing right through the walls that kept her safe all this time, trying to keep herself from falling for it.
She can't risk letting him in.
"Who said I'd give you a shot even if you came to Boston on your own?" Her voice sounds cold and harsh even to her own ears, and she feels him tense slightly, before he slides his arm around her waist again, tugging her to him before she can protest, his lips hot and wet against her neck.
"Well, I'll just have to persuade you otherwise," he chuckles, pushing her down on the bed and capturing her lips in a searing kiss that has her legs just fall open for him—she has to admit; she could definitely get used to his methods of persuasion.
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"Where do you think you're going, love?"
She freezes, halfway between the bed and the door, closing her eyes—of course he would wake up when she's trying to sneak out.
She pulls his button down shirt closed a little more—fastening the only two buttons that were still left hadn't really helped to cover her up—and turns back to look at him, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes at the way he's lounging across the bed, the sheets riding low on his hips…
She licks her lips slightly at the delicious sight he makes, before scolding herself and shaking the unwanted feeling off. "To the bathroom," she finally replies, raising her eyebrows at him, "You got a problem with that, Irish?" His devilish smirk grows larger, and as much as she'd like to claim she isn't affected by him anymore now that she's had him (several times)…
She knows neither of them would believe it anyway.
"Not if you join me again after," he chuckles, wiggling his eyebrows at her, and she can't stop a laugh from falling from her lips—he's absolutely ridiculous; and the worst part is that she actually finds herself liking it too.
"Now why would I do that?" She crosses her arms over her chest, leaning against the doorpost casually, smirking at the currently very naked man in her motel bed.
"Oh, love," he chuckles, "I'll make it worth your while." She doesn't doubt that whatsoever—if anything, he's definitely made it worth skipping out on nearly a week of work, but she has to get back to real life (and away from him for a little while), so she tells herself to man up and sighs. "No can do, Irish. I gotta get back to real life."
His eyes darken, and she bites her lip, because she doesn't like this anymore than he does—reality means leaving, going back to Boston, leaving him here, and something deep inside of her protests against that notion.
She doesn't want to let go of the normalcy, the company.
"Come with me," she blurts, ignoring the small voice that screams at her in her head, "To Boston," she adds when he just stares at her, "I mean… Not like we'd be together but—" she chokes and continues, "We have something. You were right, we do, and I… I don't want to be with anyone, but I—" she looks up at him slowly, "I could use a friend. And I," she shrugs shakily, watching him move, getting up from the bed, "I have a spare bedroom. So, if you want—"
He cuts her off with a soft kiss, and she melts into his arms despite her resolve not to give into him again. "You would want me there, love?" he breathes against her lips, the tender, vulnerable note in his voice making her shiver.
"Just as a friend," she whispers in reply, "you have to pay rent and everything." He chuckles and nods, pressing several soft, quick kisses all over her face, and it tickles like crazy, making her smile and giggle like a little girl. "Hmm," she mumbles against his lips, "Colin," she shivers when she feels the hard evidence of just how much he appreciates the gesture pressing against her stomach, "just friends," she moans, though her arms rise to wrap around his neck of their own accord, pulling him closer despite her own protests.
"One last time, love," he pleads, grinding against her. "Just one more time."
She tries to remember why this isn't a good idea, but she can't—so she just gives in, letting him sweep her up and carry her off into the bathroom.
Just one last time.
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Boston, Massachusetts, Emma & Colin's Apartment, 2009
(Three years later)
"Ugh, Colin," Emma whines as she kicks the door closed, stumbling into the dark apartment, her arms loaded with heavy grocery bags, "I told you," she says loudly, glaring in disgust at the clothes spread all over the apartment, "I don't mind you bringing any of your slutty little friends here, but for God's sake, kick them out before I get home, will you?"
"I didn't bloody bring anyone here, Swan," Colin's rough I-have-a-hangover-please-don't-yell-at-me voice emerges from his dark bedroom, "I've told you that before. I just made a mess when I got home, love. I'll clean it up later."
She rolls her eyes at that, shaking her head as she starts putting the groceries away—Colin still tends to go overboard sometimes, drinking himself into a stupor, leaving him unable to do anything but moan for two days after.
It's not like she doesn't get it—she really does—but she still maintains that him being a bartender and therefore having access to free booze is a bad idea. His alcohol tolerance is high, but she's still worried that one day, she'll get a call from the hospital, telling her he's been admitted for alcohol poisoning.
He only drinks when there is something that sets him off—something that brings back painful memories or feelings he doesn't want to deal with—but when he does drink, he drinks more than she drinks in an entire month.
"Okay," she sighs, running her fingers through her hair when she finishes putting everything away, kicking her shoes off before making her way into Colin's room, "What was it this time?"
He's lying face down on his bed, on top of the sheets, only wearing his boxers and socks, and she can't help the chuckle that falls from her lips at the sight of him. "Sure," he grumbles into his pillow, "laugh at my misery."
She smiles softly, moving to sit on the bed with him, stroking his messy hair softly. "Are you okay, Colin?" She hasn't seen him like this in nearly a year, and it worries her slightly, because she'd believed he was getting better. He moves a little, resting his head on her thigh while she continues stroking his hair.
"Aye, love," he murmurs quietly, "I'll be fine now." He nuzzles his nose against her leg and she smiles as his scruff—he hasn't shaved in a few days—tickles her skin through her tights. She sighs and shifts, so she can sit comfortably against the headboard, Colin's head fully resting on her lap now. "Are you going to tell me about it?" She asks softly, leaning her head back against the wooden headboard.
"It matters no more, darling," he grumbles, his fingers playing idly with the hem of her skirt—her lie detector immediately goes off, and she does not need to look at him to know that he is lying.
It matters to him.
"Colin," she admonishes him softly, "You know you can tell me. I won't judge."
And she won't. They've been roommates for three years now, and awkward as it was in the first few weeks, it's almost as natural as breathing by now.
They work well together, and she had been right; he is a really good friend.
She had not been right though, when she had said they would be no more than friends. They weren't, exactly, more than that, but she did not sleep with anyone but him—she didn't see the point of going after random strangers who could have God knows what disease when she had a perfectly good and very much willing man at home.
She knows he's not nearly as exclusive with her as she is with him, but they're not in a relationship—by her own choice too—so she doesn't comment on it.
"Swan, please," he moans softly, "Leave it. You do not want to hear this—not yet, love." She frowns and tugs on his hair a little harder than necessary (ignoring his loud moan of protest), to get him to look at her. He sits up slowly, his hair an absolute mess, his lower lip protruding a pout. "Damn woman," he exclaims, "was that necessary?"
"Yes," she replies heatedly, "You're not telling me something, and I'm worried, okay?" Her expression softens, and she raises her hand to stroke his cheek, "I'm worried about you. You haven't drunk this much in… Forever. What happened?"
His Adam's apple bobs when he swallows thickly, and she's suddenly a little apprehensive, unsure of what to expect—obviously, it's something important to him.
"I—" he sighs and shakes his head, "I saw you… On a date, last night." He looks down, his cheeks flushing, "I … I may have responded slightly irrationally to seeing you with another man, love." Her eyes widen in surprise, and something very akin to butterflies flutters in her stomach at the intense look in his eyes.
"I—" she shakes her head, "Colin, don't—" He shakes his head, moving to cup his cheek with his good hand, "Emma," he whispers—and damn him, what happened to the pet names?—, "I love you, Swan. I didn't want to say, for fear you did not reciprocate my feelings, but Emma… I needed to say it. I cannot risk losing you to another man simply because I was a coward."
She stiffens, fear coiling deep in the pit of her stomach.
He didn't.
No, he can't have—
"No, Colin, you're hung-over," she shakes her head desperately, her thundering in her chest, "You're being crazy—you don't love me—you can't, you …" She's rambling, and she's probably not making any sense, but she hates that he actually said it, because she can't pretend now.
She can't pretend he never said anything.
She can't pretend she doesn't know why they have those tiny, sweet moments that everyone else would regard as loving gestures—she hates that she's so terrified that she's making him feel like she doesn't care about him, that she doesn't feel something for him too—but she does.
She really does, but she is too scared to say it, and she just can't get over the near-paralyzing fear that if she tells him, if she really would say those three little words, he'd have the power break her, because she does, she does love him, and that gives him something Neal never had, and she just...
She's not ready to trust him that fully just yet.
A man in love doesn't sleep with other women, she rationalizes, trying to convince herself, if he really was in love with me, he wouldn't be sleeping around.
She tells him so, and winces at the pure and unadulterated hurt that fills his beautiful blue eyes, flinching when he pulls away from her, "Do you honestly not know me at all, Swan? I have not touched nor looked at another woman since I met you."
"I can't be with you like that," she says shakily, but determined.
This is for the best.
She can't be with anyone—he'll get tired of her—he'll leave her—he'll break her.
She can't take the risk that she's wrong about him.
"Oh love," he shakes his head with an exasperated smile, "We are already together, Emma. We have just not said it yet—I have been with none but you, and I know you have not been with another either. Emma, we have been in a relationship for three years already; the only difference would be that we acknowledge it."
She opens her mouth to refute that, to fight back, to say something, but he's right, and they both know it too. "Emma," he approaches her slowly, his wide and sincere and too goddamn blue, "Emma, love, please. Just… Give me a change. Give us a chance. Please."
His hand is on her cheek, he's unnervingly close and he's so sincere.
She needs to say no.
She has to.
She looks up at him through teary eyes, her lower lip trembling softly. "Okay," she breathes, her heart skipping a beat at his brilliant, radiant smile, "Okay."
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Boston, Massachusetts, Emma & Colin's Apartment, 2011
(Two years later)
"You were absolutely brilliant, love," Colin slips his arm around her waist, "and you look positively delicious." He punctuates the words with a swift kiss on her cheek. She smiles and leans into him, whining playfully, "My feet hurt. I wanna get home so I can take these damn heels off." She looks down at her dress and sighs, "Bastard spilled red wine on my dress."
Colin chuckles and presses a kiss to her temple. "You made him pay, darling. Bloody hot to see you beat him up too." She rolls her eyes and elbows him lightly as they make their way up the stairs, grinning at his painful grunt and muttered curse.
"You're lucky it's your birthday, Swan," he grumbles under his breath, holding their apartment door open for her (she loves that tiny little gentleman streak of his), taking the grocery bag from her hands once they're inside, so she can kick off her heels, for which she is inherently grateful.
She hears him scuffle around in the kitchen, and chuckles when she hears him curse several times, before everything goes quiet.
Too quiet.
"Colin?" She calls from the hall, "What are you up to?"
Her stomach sinks a little when he doesn't respond, and she walks to the kitchen suspiciously, gasping a little at the sight—there's several little tea lights strewn across the countertops, and a single cupcake with a pink star candle on top is sitting in the middle of the table, her boyfriend standing right next to it with a nervous smile.
"Happy birthday, love," he says as she walks towards him slowly, still trying to take in that he actually wants to celebrate with her—it's late and they're both tired, and … She smiles when he lifts the cupcake and winks at her. "Make a wish, darling—" He smirks and adds, "And dirty little wishes are absolutely allowed, birthday girl."
She laughs a little, shaking her head and rolling her eyes at him before taking a deep breath and closing her eyes as she tries to think of something.
A wish.
Something she wants more than anything.
She has Colin—she loves him (yes, she is able to say it to him now, but only when she's sure no one else can hear them) and he loves her, and he's her family.
Family.
She smiles sadly and thinks about the tiny little baby boy she gave up.
Thinks of her parents, wondering where they are, who they could be.
That's what she wants; she wants to know where the rest of her family is—where her son is, her parents, maybe even more family.
She wants a real family.
Still smiling, she makes her wish and blows out the candle, before plucking the cupcake from Colin's fingers and putting it back on the table as she wraps her arms around him, pressing a kiss to his lips. "I love you," she breathes, shivering when his fingers brush over the bare skin on the back of her neck and shoulders, "So much."
He merely smiles and waves his fingers in her hair, pulling her lips back to his. Slowly, she breaks the kiss and presses her forehead against Colin's as they stand locked in their intimate embrace. His hands have drifted down to her hips while hers have found their way into his hair.
"Emma?" He whispers, opening his eyes to look at her. "Hmm?" Her brain has melted—it does that sometimes, when he kisses her.
She also isn't sure if she's able to communicate in English anymore.
Colin smirks and presses a kiss to her nose. "Emma, love… Marry me?"
At that her eyes do indeed snap open, filled with startling amounts of love, confusion, and hope.
Holy crap.
Did he just… Propose?
What?
"I love you, my darling, my Emma," he whispers, "So, so much. You… You made me want to live and love again. Marry me—pledge yourself to me for the rest of our lives, and I'll do the same. Be mine."
"But," she chokes, "But you—we only—I mean—What?" she breathes, her mind unable to process the words Colin has just uttered. He laughs and presses another short, soft kiss to her lips—effectively destroying every thought she has been able to form—and whispers, "Marry me," again.
She pulls back to look at him, stunned into silence. He's done what no one else has ever been able to do before him—he has rendered her completely speechless.
"You want to marry me?" She whispers in disbelief, still unable to wrap her head around the thought of being Colin's wife.
He nods presses her lips to his softly. "I do," he mutters against her lips, "I want to be with you. I want to be yours as much as you are mine. Marry me."
She can't suppress the delighted smile that fights its way onto her lips, and she nods slowly, whispering, "Okay, I'll marry you. I'll be yours."
She actually squeals (but she'll deny it if anyone asks) as she jumps him, her lips crashing on his, her hands diving into his hair and her legs wrapping around his waist as she kisses him wildly, giving herself enough hope to think that maybe, someday, she'll be able to fully believe him when he says he loves her.
One day, she'll be able to give herself to him completely, without holding back, without being afraid he'd break her.
"Wait," she drags her lips away from his, pouting a little when he sets her down on the kitchen island, "Don't I get a ring?" He smiles sheepishly and strokes his fingers past her collarbone, tugging on the silver chain of her necklace. "I thought you might want to use this one," he fingers the silver, diamond ring, "But I could not swipe it from you without you noticing."
"Oh," she breathes, looking down at the ring with a bemused smile, "Yeah. I actually would really like to wear that ring." He smiles brightly and leans in to kiss her again, when they're interrupted by a soft knock on the door.
Emma frowns at Colin and pouts, "Did you expect company?" He shakes his head, running his fingers through his already messy hair (she blames her own roaming fingers for that one) and frowns towards the front door. "No, not at all," he finally says, helping her down from the counter (and being more than a little reluctant to help her pull her dress back down so she looks at least a little decent).
She sighs and heads to the front door, raising an eyebrow at the ten, maybe eleven-year-old boy standing on her doorstep. "Can I help you?" She asks, leaning against the door a little as Colincomes up behind her.
"Uh," the boy looks at Colin uncertainly, "Yeah… Are you Emma Swan?" Colin smiles and presses a kiss to her cheek. "Not for long," he singsongs in her ear, earning himself another elbow in the ribs and an eye roll. "Yeah," she nods, turning back to the kid, "And you are?"
He smiles brilliantly, his sea green eyes sparkling, "I'm Henry. I'm your son."