A/N: 1. Very slight mentions of Killian/Milah and Killian/Eloise
2. Mentions of drug use
3. Once again there is a possible trigger in this chapter - nothing graphic, only vague mentions - that is also a bit of a spoiler, so you can check the notes at the end, if you wanna be prepared.
Otherwise, this is rated a definite E for extreme emotions.

He wakes slowly with dulled senses and the knowledge that he indulged too much the night before. Nothing will get done today, it is the price he has been paying for these short and sporadic benders for years. It's probably for the best. If his body could stand it, he would've been much too tempted to push it to its limits when Alice wasn't around.

Killian swallows on a dry throat and grimaces at the taste in his mouth. Some strong tea to face the day, perhaps some coffee, if they had it. It takes half a dozen blinks for his eyes to open completely and he faces the morning light with indifference. It's later than he has woken in months – ever since Alice came home – but Alice isn't home anymore. He closes his eyes again and shakes his head. Emma is, however, and it is still early enough that she might just be going down to—

The movement on his left makes his heart seize in his chest, his head swivels to the side despite the heaviness and nausea, his vision blurring for a moment before he focuses on the form beside him. With a sharp intake his whole body wakes up and he feels the ache in his head and the ache in his left arm and the ache in his chest and the light weight of her small hand on his stomach. In the next second, he is on his feet, stumbling out of the tangle of blankets and almost falling on his ass, blinking wildly at the sleeping woman in his bed.

He doesn't know how she found herself here. Again. He is not even clear on how he got here. Again. The world blurs a little at the edges and Killian tries to cling to the here and now. But the here and now is not all that reassuring.

It's Emma, he repeats in his mind. Her golden waves are unmistakable, as is the curve of her cheek visible under them, somehow even the almost foreign touch of her hand felt unmistakable. It's Emma, it's Emma, it's Emma.

Emma would never.

Yet, she is in his bed, where he does not remember bringing her, she is in his room, where he has never invited her, and she is in her nightgown and—

He looks down and he would probably sigh in relief at his rumpled but fully dressed state – he would, if there was space for a sigh between the unceasing breaths his chest seems to be consuming at an alarming speed. As grateful as he is for the clothes on his back, he wants little more than to tear them off along with his burning skin. He needs to breathe, he needs to get out of this room that he cannot remember entering, that he cannot remember ever seeing Emma inside.

Why would she—

"Killian?"

/

If she didn't still marvel at these moment of all-encompassing warmth, she would feel almost stifled under the blankets. As it is, she pays them little mind when her half-opened eyes notice and try to focus on the figure standing beside the bed. Her mind is foggy with sleep but her heart is waking up rested and content and she feels her lips start to pull up in a pleased little smile as he turns to face her.

And then she is wide awake in seconds, her heart coming to a sudden halt – immediately on edge as to what might have caused the horror on its beloved's face. It takes him stepping back, his eyes glued to her as if he is seeing her for the first time, his fist clenching and unclenching at his side, his stance rigid and defensive, and his eyes still fixed on her – it takes all that for Emma's heart to realize that it's her.

She put that look on his face.

"Killian, I—" she rises to a sitting position, bringing the blanket with her though she is hardly indecent under it and he has seen her so before. "I'm sorry, I—"

The door is left wide open after him, his bare feet slapping against the hallway floor. The burst of cold air makes her shiver and the single wet trail cools on her cheek.

/

Killian stumbles down the stairs and turns into his study, hoping beyond hope that he doesn't run into anyone before he gets inside. He digs out the change of clothes he keeps there, fumbling with his socks and shoes and tearing his shirt off, cursing like the sailor he used to be.

His lip curls a little as he puts his thumb against one of the jarred scars on his left side. He runs it down – armpit to hip and encounters five more along the way. The skin around the straps of his brace is an angry pink and the end of his forearm aches worse than it did after his last journey but he is still grateful that he kept it on during the night, if she spent it with him.

She did. Emma slept in his bed, whether he remembers it or not. It's the non-remembering that makes his eyes sting and his teeth grind against each other and, against all logic, he pulls the buckles tighter around his damaged arm.

His eyes fall on the bottle and glass on the small table before the fireplace, grey with the ashes of the night before. The sound of glass against brick is not satisfying, it makes him flinch and Killian curses his shot nerves and throbbing head and every other part of him.

He picks up the clear decanter but it has less than two mouthfuls of water inside and he resigns himself to the fact that he will have to venture into the kitchen, if he doesn't wish to suffer from dehydration on top of everything else battling for the right to torture him.

/

The bed goes cold laughably fast once he is gone, her body seemingly not enough to retain any of the warmth that was trapped inside. She should get up. She should get up and get out and never set foot inside this room again but she is not yet sure her legs will obey her, if she attempts it.

Eventually, when Killian's door has been gaping open for half an hour, Emma manages to slip her legs onto the cold floor and then into the slippers she finds at the end of the bed. She takes her shawl and shuffles into her own bed chamber.

She doesn't want to be here. She wants to find out where he is, she wants to explain, to apologize, to do whatever she has to to make sure Killian never looks at her like that again. The way she might have looked at him, if he was someone else – if he was a man who bought himself a pretty wife to show off at dinners and balls, if he was a man who bought himself a used wife to abuse any way he liked, if he was a man who dragged his wife in his bed without carrying whether she wanted to be there or not. She was prepared for that before she knew Killian, before she found out that she has choices and freedom.

She supposes he was not prepared for someone to violate his and it makes her feel even more wretched.

So, like she has done for the last half hour – like she should have done last night – she ignores what she wants and gives him the only things she can beside apologies and excuses – time and space. She dresses slowly and methodically, choosing a simple grey dress without ornaments and brushing her hair carefully, letting it flow down her back. When she is done, she sits in front of her mirror a little longer, making sure she can control the trembling of her chin and the twitching of her eyebrows and the tears that seem to lie in wait in the corners of her eyes.

If she believed in anything or anyone, she might have prayed now. Prayed that she hasn't destroyed her happiness the way no one else ever could.

/

He knows it's her. His second order of business, after drinking half a jug of water and pouring the other half over his head, was to tell Peter to take Granny and Ruby to town and have the day to themselves.

So he watches the door open slowly and he breathes deeply and tells himself to sit where he is and try to smile at her – nod, if he can't – and apologize and wave it all off – cite a nightmare or the effects of drink, and tell her all was fine and he does not wish to talk about it.

He tells himself all that and then some but the moment he sees her face it all slips out of his sole hand. Her effort is admirable but he can still see all under her fragile mask – the anxiety and the regret and the guilt and the questions.

It makes him jump to his feet and walk out into the biting autumn air before she can even finish uttering his name and if he feels like the biggest fool for fleeing from a woman – from his wife, then it is just one more thing for him to feel like a fool about.

/

She thinks she would have let him go. If it wasn't for the fact that she's given him all the time she can find it in herself to stay away. If it wasn't for the flash of guilt on his face that has no place there. If it wasn't for the fact that he stalked outside in his damn shirt sleeves.

/

It doesn't take her long to find him. Truly, if he wanted to run, he should have mounted Roger an hour ago. But there is no point in running from Emma – not when he knows he doesn't really want to stay away and has almost accepted that she does not want him to stay away either. He knows now that he has to tell her and that it will never be any easier to do so, it will never be the right time and, if anything, after all she has entrusted him with, he should have done it already. Come what may.

What comes is her step crunching the leaves that have already yellowed and fallen to the ground. She drags her feet, making more noise than her light built usually will, and he snorts and smiles mirthlessly. It's the way one approaches a scared, wounded animal and, considering the situation, he can't blame her for the caution.

The stone bench is cold under him and he almost regrets purposefully avoiding the swing in the back but it felt much too poetic to go there for this. So the coat that appears in his line of vision before she does is a welcome sight, if a surprising one.

He follows the elegant curve of her arm and passes the hair curling over her shoulder to find an entreating expression. In the pale sunshine, among the dying greenery, with profound sadness and tenderness he cannot deny in her eyes, she looks like the daughter of the sun and moon herself – made of equal parts blazing light and soft shadows.

"Please."

She urges the coat toward him, bringing him out of his daze, and he is grieved to see that she thinks he might refuse it just because she is the one offering. So he takes it, carefully avoiding her white fingers, and shrugs into it with a slight wince, the pain in his arm not quite numbed from the cold.

She stands there as if she has come before a court and he has no words of reassurance and he hates it. He is trying to convince his right hand to release its tight grip on the hard stone under him and reach for her when she moves forward. There is enough space for her on the bench and he steels himself for the nearness of her, focuses on calming his galloping heart so intently that he almost misses her knees bending and settling over the dried leaves. His eyes widen as she sits back on her heels and lifts her gaze to meet his own – more penitent than she has any reason to be, her hand fluttering close to his knee and his hand before she seems to think better of it and lets it drop in her lap.

"Killian, forgive me, I didn't mean— I never should have—"

It's the hitch in her breathing, the way she struggles to take air in for a moment, that breaks through all the rest. He only ever wanted to spare this woman anguish, never to be the cause of it.

He slips forward and lowers his own knees to the ground, holding her gaze until they are on the same lever. The grass and foliage are slightly damp, no cooler than the stone he was sitting on, though certainly cool enough to chill Emma, and he reaches to pull her woolen shawl tighter around her almost on instinct.

This time she doesn't hesitate and her hand grabs onto his and clutches it almost painfully, as if she is trying to physically pass the truth of her words into him.

"It's alright," he hears himself saying and her eyes widen, her head moving back and forth almost frantically.

"It's not. God, it's not. I shouldn't have—"

"Perhaps not. But this had nothing to do with you, Emma. I don't… I didn't think you… I just… Bloody hell," he hangs his head, then tosses it back angrily.

The sky above them is grey. Not the grey of coming rain or the grey of late day but the grey of a world that is shedding its life and preparing for winter. It brings him little peace and no hope so he looks back into her green eyes – bright and alive, and then he looks back at the sky because he is a coward and doesn't want to see the emotions in them transform with his words.

"When you go to war with someone… people say they become like brothers to you but that's not… I've never loved a single one of the men I served with like I love my brother. It's not that. They don't become someone loved, they become you. Their blood mixes with your blood – sometimes literally," he chances a glance at her to make sure he is not going too far but her face is open and unflinching and he feels the responsibility of choosing his words carefully even more acutely because not one will pass by her unnoticed. "They become a part of you. So – much like yourself – you don't love them purely and without judgement, but you cannot deny them."

"And Arthur never failed to ask when he knew he wouldn't be refused," he shakes his head and chuckles darkly – he hasn't seen the man in near 20 years and yet Arthur was probably one of the people who determined how Killian spent those very years. "His first wife ran away with his childhood friend and, after that, I don't think he really knew how to recognize affection or— no, I think he purposefully didn't look for it. But pomp – pomp he liked, and entertainment. And so did his second wife, perhaps even more than he did. Their parties were—"

He cuts off and looks to the side and he can almost see all the bodies – ladies wearing as much jewels as their thin necks could support, the gentlemen trying to balance two glasses and two cigars between their ten fingers – five, if one hand was already around a woman's waist, he can smell those overstuffed and unaired rooms, the wine and whiskey that you could almost taste without drinking it, the clouds of smoke that made it hard to know who you were talking to for a second. Society's jungle, full to the brim.

Killian almost flinches from the light touch to his cheek. Her hand is cold and her eyes fill with regret as she goes to withdraw it, but she is still holding his right hand and he doesn't have another with which to show her that her touch was like always – not unwanted, just unexpected.

"They were popular. Within a certain set. I wasn't… I wasn't truly part of it. Not that I'm trying to..." he grits his teeth and moves on. "Arthur's wife loved making matches and she had plenty to match – a whole group of women that I knew nothing about at the time. I suppose they knew enough about me for one of them to take a fancy to me."

He looks down and recalls the little thrill of manly pride he felt a lifetime ago whenever a woman would seek his acquaintance and favour – whether he sought hers or not.

"But I was already… I'd made promises to Milah and I was—"

His jaw works until he feels her hand applying some pressure against his. He doesn't know if he can tell her. He has barely begun and he—

"You don't have to."

His eyes fly to Emma's and the look on her face makes him want to just drop his head to her lap and hide from this, from everything.

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."

"I do, Emma. You deserve—"

"No," she shakes her head and shuffles closer, her knees fitting between his, trapping the dampness between her skirts and his pants. "I didn't tell you about my past because you deserved to know, even though you did. I told you when I felt that I could and I—"

She lowers her eyes and he marvels at her, at how she can be both so soft and iron strong in her convictions and her every little action.

"I want to know everything there is to know about you, but I don't want you to—"

"I do trust you, love. I do feel like I can and I… I need you to know."

"Even after… after today?"

He takes a deep breath and leans forward, pressing his lips above her brow before he drops his forehead to hers and nudges her to look at him again.

"Especially after today," he takes a moment to gather himself before he goes on. "I'd pledged myself to Milah and I wanted to be faithful to her. I was there on the invitation of a friend, not to meet women. I'd chosen the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with."

Something flashes in Emma's eyes but he is too damn apprehensive of what he might find, if he observes her too closely, to think about it.

"The booze and the cigars, and the less than gentlemanly conversation I partook in, but the women and opiates I refused."

Her innocent shock puts the first tiny bit of amusement on his face but it doesn't last for long, his eyes straying to the side again.

"I didn't know a lot of things back then. Some I learnt from Arthur later, some I learnt... in stride. Arthur's wife and the woman that became my wife – Eloise Gardner, and their friends were the closest thing to experts Storybrooke and the county had seen in the ways of opiates and the like. When I— When I woke up beside her, I couldn't recall doing more than talking to her over a stiff drink. I wasn't sure… I couldn't rightly accuse a woman I'd obviously… bedded of—"

He swallows roughly and focuses his gaze on her skirt. He can see the green stain the damp grass has left on the dull grey and he pulls his hand away to rub at it as he continues, suppressing the urge to look up and gauge her reaction – the fact that she hasn't scoffed or laughed or left is enough for now.

"Later Arthur revealed that… it was their practice to offer opiates to men they'd set their sights on and, if they were to refuse – which they rarely did I was told, they found other ways to give them the stuff anyway. As you can imagine, no self-respected gentleman, let alone military man, thought to… take an issue with being…"

He exhales on a bitter laugh and slumps back against the bench, feeling as exhausted as if he'd been riding all day to a destination he didn't actually want to reach.

"She told me she was with child a month later," he continues matter-of-factly, his voice cold and detached even to his own ears. "My relationship with Milah was already— It had already taken a toll but I still… I thought I could just pay her off and take the child. She obviously had no means and no desire to raise it. But…"

Selfishly, he takes comfort in the fact that Emma's fingers have woven their way back between his own and he runs his thumb over her soft skin experimentally, testing to see if the motion will bring her back to the present and make her pull away. She doesn't.

"But?" she prompts and he nods, agreeing to tell her as much as he has strength for.

"But I'd heard enough about her by then. I knew she couldn't be trusted, if left to carry the child on her own. I had to… I had to take care of her, if I wanted to take care of my child. It was the only time I kept her away from her friends and took away all her toys – her vials and powders and god knows what that she would have given my daughter if—"

Killian is as shocked as he is horrified by the sound that comes from his throat and only slightly less so at the one he makes when Emma reaches for him, her arms winding around his shoulders and his forehead falling heavily right under her collarbone as he sheds a weight he has been carrying around for half his life.

She smells like lavender and the cold air and her dress is almost as soft as her hand running through his hair and he realizes with unexpected clarity and startling calmness that she will hold his fealty and gratitude in that same hand for the rest of his life.

/

Emma thought she knew what it was like to hate someone. When she was young enough to hold onto every grudge, she thought she hated Regina. When she lay shivering in her empty bed, feeling emptier still, she was certain she hated Neal Cassidy.

Now she knows she has never hated anyone other than Eloise Gardner. She has never wanted to bring someone back from the beyond, just to hurt them with her own hands. But she tries to will the rage and bile away, tries to focus on the man in her arms – the man who is hers now and will never be Eloise's ever again.

She wants to tell him how sorry she is all of this happened to him, how sorry she is that all his plans, his love was derailed, that he had to make all the decisions and sacrifices for his child alone, that he had to marry, to live with that horrid woman. Selfishly, most of all, she wants to tell him how sorry she is her own actions made him relive all of that.

And all her apologies get stuck in her throat – inadequate and useless, so she just tries to hold him even closer, tries to tell him without telling him.

"I'm sorry."

And she thinks the words must have snuck past her lips all the same until she realizes that they came from him and she pulls back as far as she can without letting him go.

"Why would you— Killian, I'm sorry I made you think—"

"You didn't."

She feels his arm run tentatively up and down her back and she is torn between the comfort of it and the horror at the thought that he is the one trying to comfort her right now.

"No man should react that way to finding his beautiful, young wife in his bed—"

"That you did not invite me into."

He shakes his head.

"You are my wife. You shouldn't need at invitation—"

"And yet you have never even entered my room without one."

Killian looks torn between his attempts to excuse her and the irrefutable truth of her statement and Emma smiles sadly as she slips her arms off his shoulders and drops her hands to his knees – unable to sever all contact.

"I can't take it back but I swear to you I'll never do anything against your will."

"I know," he says and she takes comfort in the fact that he is the one who takes her hand now. "Emma, I trust you. I want you here. I'm just not sure I can give you everything I should."

/

That's a lie. He knows he can't give her everything he should. Some of it she can surely see for herself – the parts he lacks on the outside, others she can only begin to guess – the intimate parts – his bed and his heart that he hasn't really let a woman in since he said goodbye to Milah.

He feels like an utter fool for not predicting this but he could never imagine that she would actually want to touch those parts of him. He barely believes it even now as he stares into her eyes and feels her hand in his, as she remains before him after all he has revealed to her.

"I don't need anything else. Just—"

She swallows and looks down, slipping each of her fingers between his own as her right hand takes his left one as well.

It's those things – those things she says and does, that make Killian think there are yet other parts of him – unknown, undiscovered, ones only Emma Jones might be capable of uncovering.

/

"I never meant for us to be…"

He shakes his head and she hunches forward instinctively, trying to curl her ribs around her heart for protection, pointless as it might prove.

"And now… now you mean so much."

Her eyes widen – tentatively hopeful, cautiously happy, and she leans forward, questioning, glancing at his lips but not daring to take that little leap so soon after stumbling so hard, not willing to push for more than—

But Killian's smile is finally free of bitterness and anguish, it is knowing and almost teasing and his hand releases hers to slip along her back and Emma can swear he is about to pull her into him, when she feels a shiver pass through her whole body.

He tugs lightly on the ends of her hair and then urges her up, their knees knocking into each other as they get to their feet. Killian's jaw clenches and he lets her go to rub his knuckles over his left arm, her hand instinctively following his example – emboldened when he looks up with surprise but doesn't immediately pull away.

"Perhaps we should have these conversations before a fire and with some tea in the future."

She hums and nods and runs her palm up and down his arm one more time before she turns toward the house, knowing that – as much as she wants to get inside – she can't fully hide her disappointment at the interrupted moment.

"Emma."

She turns around and has only a moment to realizes how close he is before she feels his hand cradling the back of her neck and his mouth is on hers.

This is different than tentative kisses in the glow of the fire. This is as clear as the crisp air around them, as solid as the ground they sat way too long on. His lips wet and warm hers as his hand burns at her neck and she feels her fingers flex in the rough fabric of his coat as she tries to pull him closer. Her exhale turns into a little gasp when she feels the gentle slide of his tongue over her bottom lip and she is only slightly ashamed of the way she chases and tries to capture it. He indulges her and, for a moment that feels frustratingly short, she explores the possibilities of his open mouth and willing tongue. Then he pulls away before coming back once and then again, his lips barely brushing hers until she thinks she might growl at him and bite at his lip to keep him in place.

"Come," he says and leads her toward the back door, his twinkling eyes telling her that he probably knows exactly what she is thinking. "As master of the house, I made the extremely foolish decision of releasing our staff for the day, so I'm taking it upon myself to draw you a bath and you should be so kind as to not tell me, if I do it poorly."

Emma just shakes her head and looks at him, trying to keep her lips from twitching and failing spectacularly.

"What?"

She swallows the first sentence that comes to her lips and smiles tenderly.

"You are a very nice man, Killian Jones."

He opens his mouth and then shuts it abruptly, leaning his head to the side as if he is weighing her statement or judging the sincerity on her face.

"I try," he concedes and Emma feels rather proud of herself for making him do so.

Now just to convince him to take a bath as well and then ransack the pantry with her.

A/N: Vague mentions of non-consensual sex.