Henry paces in front of her – six steps, turn around, six steps, turn around, six steps… She can only feel bad about this, can only feel like the worst mother on earth, for telling him such a story knowing fully well how it would affect him. Henry's heart is too big for his own good, and of course he'd get attached to the people in her tale, of course he would.
(She sniffs as silently as possible, wipes the tears off her eyes.)
It's been years but, regardless of what she likes to say, Emma is still not over it either. It still hurts, especially when comes the middle of January, and she hates herself for putting that kind of weight on her son's fragile shoulders. She's been mourning for way too long, there, at the back of her head, that sometimes she forgets what it feels like not to live in such a state. Her fingers find the shoelace around her wrist, the brush of skin against leather delicate and reverent, and she smiles sadly as Henry turns around once more with a loud sigh.
"You were right," he says, finally, even as he doesn't look up at her. "It is complicated."
It might be the understatement of the year, but she doesn't say so. Henry comes back to the bed eventually, lying with his body pressed against hers and head on her stomach, and Emma can only play with his hair for long moments.
"Do you want us to stop? I know it's a lot to take in."
"No!" He offers her an indignant pout that screams of hours spent with Ruby, making her smile despite the sadness clinging to the air around them. "I want to know the truth."
"Yeah, kid, but it's late. Maybe we could continue…"
"No," he says again.
So she sighs, and goes on.
….
"Emma, it's Ruby. Are you still coming to the party? Please, call me back."
"Hey Swan. Ruby says you're not returning her calls so… Do it for me?"
"Come on, Swan. At least text someone, so we know you're all right. You've got us all worried for you there, darling."
"Emma – god I hope it's the right number. It's – it's Neal. I'll be in town in two weeks, so I though maybe we could have coffee or something? I don't know. Call me, okay?"
"I swear to god, Swan, if I find you singing Mr Brightside in your knickers, I will personally kick you out of your flat."
"Miss Nolan, Belle French here. You came to our bookstore last month? We haven't found the book you want yet, but we're still looking. I'll call you as soon as I have updates on the question. Have a nice day."
"You know what? I bloody don't care. Ruby wants you at the party so you'll be at the party. I'm picking you at 6, be ready."
…
february 2005
She wakes up in a startle, and it takes long seconds for Emma to find her bearings as she blinks at the room around her. She fell asleep in her living room (again) and there's someone knocking on her door (that's new).
The TV is still on, MTV's quality programs casting weird shadows on the room as the sun is setting behind the buildings she has as a view from her window. It gives a gloomy feeling to her apartment, perfectly matching the mood that has followed her for the past few weeks.
There's another loud knock, startling her once more, and it's with a groan that Emma stands up, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. She paddles her way to the door, cursing under her breath with each step she takes – she was clear on the 'no visit' rule, and so far both Ruby and Mary Margaret have been kind enough to follow it despite their complains and soft words. For them to break the pattern now is weird to say the least, and Emma doesn't like it one bit.
"Yeah, yeah, coming," she grumbles at the knockings making themselves more insistent and loud – she winces at the headache that comes back, matching the pounding on the door.
She turns the key in the lock and heavies a sigh, not ready for her first human contact in – a very long time.
(The guy bringing her take-out every night obviously doesn't count, because she has no other choice but to talk to him, and it always lasts for a grant total of twenty seconds as she gives him a bank note and 'keep the change' before closing the door once more.)
"Bloody hell," is the first thing that comes from the hallway, in a breathless voice she knows all to well, and Emma braces herself against Killian's too-knowing eyes.
She feels self-conscious all of a sudden, in ways she hasn't felt in weeks – her mascara has smudged on her cheeks and her hair is a bird's nest and she can't even remember the last time she showered. 'Bloody hell' sums up her situation quite nicely indeed. For a couple of seconds, Emma is too busy taming her wild mane to notice Killian surging forwards, and so he budges into her apartment under her soft (and useless) protests.
If her body is a mess, it is nothing compared to the state of her apartment – empty take-out boxes on the coffee table, TV still playing reruns of Pimp My Ride, dishes pilling on the kitchen counter. She would have felt ashamed of it a month ago – she doesn't find it in herself to care right now.
"Emma…" Killian says as he looks around, and it sounds equally patronizing and pitying – neither suits him and both pisses her off, because how dare he judge her when he ran from his life and responsibilities for three years. She's an adult and she pays her taxes, so she will do as she damn pleases without an Irish asshole judging her grieving process, thank you very much.
"When's the last time you went out?" The funeral, she thinks, but she doesn't reply anything, so he adds, "What about your job?"
"I quit."
His eyes widen almost comically at her answer, and it would have made her smile at any other given moment. But not now. Now, it's only a painful reminder of that conversation they had, years ago, the one that had ended in a kiss and had gone along the lines of you need someone to take care of you when you take care of the world. It's the biggest bullshit ever, because that was Graham's job.
But Graham's gone, Graham was eaten by the world that he'd sworn to protect, and where does that leave her?
Haunting her own place, living off the generous check the bureau had gave her after her fiancé's death (no close relatives beside her; she had stared at the check, at the too many numbers written there, for days because it was a generous offer but it was also putting a price on her fiancé's head and it disgusts her to no end) and pretending that if she forgets about the outside world, maybe the outside world will forget about her too.
It's pathetic, and she reads it all in Killian's eyes, and she hates him for it.
"You know, whatever. Go take a shower, I'll find something for you to wear in the meanwhile."
His tone is authoritative, but mostly confusing. "Wear what for what?"
Surprise flashes through his eyes before they grow softer, a kind smile curving up his lips as he says, "Ruby and Victor's engagement party. You're the maid of honour, remember?"
Yeah, and he's the best man, how could she forget that?
(She hasn't forgotten, she just chose to ignore it until further notice.)
"Because I'm so in the mood to celebrate love, obviously."
Emma almost feels bad for the bitterness in her voice, for snapping at him for no other reason that his standing in front of her, and maybe she's going through the anger phase of grieving. Which is a change, after being stuck in denial (or maybe depression) for so long. But Killian knows better than to be affected by her mean words, and he just keeps smiling as he moves closer and puts both his hands on her shoulders.
"No, we're celebrating life. After my brother died, I closed myself off, not caring about anything. Don't do that to yourself, darling. You friends love you, they care about you. Just come and show them you're all right."
She wants to laugh at his face because, well, look at her, she's everything but all right. She also wants to tell him to fuck off, to leave her alone, to let her do as she goddamn pleases.
She doesn't.
Instead, she simply nods, before locking herself in the bathroom with a heavy sigh.
…
Ruby's engagement party is in Brooklyn, at the little diner owned by her grandmother – she'd chosen this place for the sentimental value, of course, but mostly because she and Emma had found it fun to have pancakes and coffee as a buffet, instead of the usual hors-d'oeuvres and champagne. The place, in all its old school glory, has been decorated for the occasion, with red and white roses everywhere. It does look pretty, Emma will give it that, even if she feels out of place in her party dress and elegant up-do, Killian's hand on her back anchoring and comforting her both.
She's grateful for her friends and their tactful behaviour, because none of them make a big deal of her finally coming out of her cave – Mary Margaret hugs her a bit too tightly for a bit too long, but that's pretty much it. Instead, they let her sit at a booth with David and a hot chocolate, and her friend settles in an easy conversation about summer plans. She finds herself smiling for the first time in forever when he tells her he's planning to buy a farm house in the middle of nowhere despite Mary Margaret's complains, and he looks pleased with himself at the curve of her lips.
The petite brunette joins them soon after, and Killian follows suite with Tink in tow, and suddenly it feels like college and cheap beers at a bar before finales all over again. Her cheeks hurt from too much smiling, the muscles no longer used to that kind of effort, even if the happiness doesn't quite reach her eyes – but it's a start, at least, and she's trying. If her laughs are a bit too loud and a bit too forced, nobody points it out, and Emma remembers why she loves her friends so much and realises how deeply she's missed them during the past few weeks – not enough to start going out with them every night but, well, it's a start, isn't it?
They're startled out of a debate about the best pizzeria in New York – a endless one that has Killian and David worked up in their arguments every time – by the sound of metal on glass coming from Granny.
"Time for the speeches, don't you think?"
Emma shares a glance with Killian, face going pale all of a sudden, but he gives her a nod and squeezes her thigh before standing up with a bright smile. She hides her sigh as best as she can, relieved for the few minutes he gave her to calm her frantic heart and compose herself. (Truth is, she hasn't prepared her speech and makes for the worst maid of honour the world has ever seen.)
His is perfect, of course, funny and clever and the right side of inappropriate in the jokes he makes and stories he tells, managing to make the bride-to-be hide her blush in her fiancé's neck, which isn't a simple task. Killian never lets go of his cocky smirk, pleased with himself and the reactions of the audience.
It's too much, all of a sudden, the air around her too heavy, the atmosphere too oppressive. Emma's breaths grow uneven, black spots appearing at the corners of her eyes. She needs air, she needs to get out, she needs to leave.
So she does, as discretely as possible – which isn't that hard, when everyone is engrossed in the best man's speech, listening to his every word like it's gospel truth. She can sneak out of the dinner without being seen.
(She doesn't hear her name being called faintly after the door closed behind her.)
…
The air is cold and crisp that time of the year, and Emma curses Killian for forcing her into a strapless dress, her leather jacket no enough to protect her from the winter winds. Her feet are killing her in those heels, but not as much as her head, pounding restlessly at the front of her skull even as she takes deep breaths. She doesn't know where she's going, just aimlessly following her steps, until she stumbles upon a little park, desert and only lit by a few street lamps.
She lets herself fall on a bench with a moan – of pain or something else, the jury is still out – and leans forwards with her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands, fighting against the sob in her throat. She can't let herself be weak, not now of all moments. She was doing so great so far, she can't just lose it now, even if everything is too much.
(It should have been her in the pretty dress and in Graham's arms, laughing at jokes made at their expense, kissing him softly for the photographs. It should have been her, looking for wedding dresses and wedding food and flowers and balloons and all that useless crap. It should have been her, hiding her face in Graham's neck, embarrassed by Killian's jokes and Ruby's stories during their speeches.
It should have been her, and him, and she hates life for being so unfair.)
She doesn't know how long she stays like that, just staring at her shoes and trying to even her breaths, white clouds escaping her mouth every time only to disappear as it brushes her knees. Minutes, hours maybe, alone in Brooklyn with the sound of cars and nightlife to keep her company. It is peaceful, and she would enjoying it were the situation different, weren't she fighting against the panic attack with each passing second.
She isn't all that surprised when she hears the soft paddle of footsteps nearby – it is New York, after all, there is always someone outside – and so barely reacts at the "Here you are" to her left.
A woollen coat is draped around her shoulders, shielding her from the unforgiving winds. It smells like him, like salt and sea and leather, and she snugged closer to the fabric, looking for warmth, as she looks up to Killian with a grateful smile. He smiles back – he always does – before sitting next to her on the bench and rubbing his open palm against her back. The motion is comforting in ways it shouldn't be, but her numb mind doesn't register anything wrong with that as she leans toward him and lets herself be taken care of, be comforted – she deserves it, she craves affections from too many a lonely night, from waking up in the middle of the night from too many a nightmare.
"You missed the cake," he says eventually. "Granny made a terrific red velvet for the occasion."
She bites the inside of her cheek not to say she doesn't care about the damn cake, but the motion bring tears back to her eyes, they one she had valiantly fought against so far – she refuses to cry, and she particularly refuses to cry in front of Killian Jones.
"I couldn't…" she starts, but whatever she wants to say next dies on her tongue.
"I know," is his only reply, is the only reply she needs.
Because he does know, doesn't he? He's always known her so well, like a mind-reader of some sort, able to guess what she needs, what she wants to hear, despite being away from her for years. She doesn't like it – it's a weakness, after all, being so open to someone, so attached to someone. She learnt it the hard way and her mind whispers never again. She can't afford to get attached to people, because love only leads to misery, to loneliness. She's been burnt to many times to dare playing with fire again.
Especially with Killian, his too smug grins and too knowing eyes. Killian isn't just a fire, he's the spark that would lighten up the whole forest, that would destroy the entire world. She can't afford it.
And yet Emma snuggles deeper into his coat and closer to him, until he wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her to him. She snuggles with her cold nose against his warm neck, closes her eyes to the feel and smell of him, close her eyes against the warning messages her brain screams at her. She just wants to feel, if only for one night, just wants to stop being lonely and empty. So she raises her head, Killian still against her as she brushes her lips to his jaw. (She ignores his lack of reaction, or misreads it maybe.)
Her lips are on his in a matter of seconds, so unlike their first kiss. It is soft where it was hurry, careful where it was reckless – but the warmth is the same, the comfort too, just the right side of drunk with the hot chocolates Tink spiked for her.
He responds to the kiss, if only for a moment, before catching himself and pushing her away, hands on her shoulders and bottom lip stuck between his lips. They stare at each other for long seconds, breaths mingling in white puffs of coldness. His next words, three simple little words, are sharp as a knife in the winter air.
"Not like that."