Awake My Soul

by siren-lungs

After the death of her beloved soldier and true love, Killian Jones, in WWI, Emma Swan's great-great aunt made sure that she and her beloved would be reunited again. Now, almost a century later, Emma Swan is a college senior in New Orleans and trapped between a debate between fate and free will. A story of reincarnation and the power of true love as it transcends time.

11. Chapter Ten

A/N: I know! I know! almost three months it took for this to update but this chapter gave me so much trouble and also law school is (spoiler alert) still terrible. The good news is that i had to cut some scenes from this chapter and add it to the next one so some of chapter 11 is already written.

Let me know what you think!

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Chapter Ten

The mood shifts.

As they make their way back up to the house, Killian is quiet and so is Emma. His hand is wound tightly around hers, the action being the only thing that anchors her to reality. Her mind is muddled—she still sees the brightness of the orb, still feels the weathered and wet gravestone that bore Killian's name on the palm of her right hand, and she still feels the guilt and the fear induced by the shadows that loomed all around her, prompting her to unconsciously line her pockets with rocks, step into a freezing stream, and not think twice about letting herself go.

It's almost four in the morning and so they manage to slip back into the house unnoticed. They're dripping on the carpet, and Emma hopes that by the time the staff is up and about the hotel, there isn't a trail of rainwater leading up to their room anymore. Killian is on autopilot as he opens the door, as he walks her over to the bathroom and starts fussing over the knobs in the tub. Emma watches him silently as he sits on the edge of the tub and tests out the warmth of the water that spews forcibly from the old pipes. She both tries not to mourn the loss of contact when his hand left hers bare, and let her mind wander to what it would feel like to strip him off his wet clothes and share a hot shower together.

No, when you're in a platonic relationship, you don't let your min wander that far down the rabbit hole.

But God does she want to.

"Will you be alright?" Killian asks her, the first time he's spoken since she stopped him back at the sugar cane field.

The question rubs her the wrong way now that exhaustion creeps up to her and she sees the fear and concern etched deep in his dark features. Emma feels the familiar urge to push away from him—to fight him away—as habit starts to overtake choice because, when you're not used to it, it is so much easier to push away the hurt than it is to let yourself be comforted in the arms of another, and she's sick and tired of feeling weak and coddled. Rarely ever has she been comforted or coddled by others, at least, not with the same intensity that Killian tends to show her. She knows she shouldn't let that anger her, but she's tired and cold, and she doesn't need him to be worried about her, she doesn't want him to look at her in that way because none of this is real. She just wants to step inside the shower, let the hot water wash away whatever mixed emotions she was harboring, and get some sleep.

"To take a shower?" she asks, her green eyes meeting his wide, still frightened blue ones as she schools her features impassively but is unable to mask the irritation from her tone of voice. "Yeah, I think I can handle that on my own."

She sees annoyance flash through his features, and Emma watches as he pats both hands on his soaked flannel pajama pants, steps up and away from the tub, his jaw muscles clenching tightly as he passes by her and mumbles something about her being 'bloody insufferable.'

Emma winces as the door shuts loudly after he exits, but she doesn't have the energy to go back out there and confront him as much as she would ordinarily be willing to do. Instead, she peels off the layers of wet clothing from her tired skin, wringing them out over the sink before she lets them fall into a sopping mound on the linoleum floor. The skin on her arms, chest, and legs puckers up in gooseflesh as her damp skin meets the warm steam that's readily flowing out of the shower. Underneath the heavy stream of water she finds comfort, the water flow is harsh and the newly acquired scrapes that marred her legs scream in protest, but still there was something about the hot stream of water jetting out of the showerhead and onto her bare skin that comforted her more than anything else ever could.

Emma lets her mind wander about everything that had happened. Her mind flits through her memories, memories of the orb and the white pulsating light that nearly blinded her in the darkness, the warmth and completeness she felt once it seeped in her skin. Her eyes flutter shut as the water keeps running down her flesh and she tries to remember more of what happened. Yes, there was the orb, the walking outside in the rain, seeing the tombstones, feeling the water of the chilled stream against her body, and there was the undeniable warmth—the undeniable feeling of being home—that came from Killian wrapping his arms around her and pulling her out, of Killian saving her.

But what happened between all of that? Her mind was like a blank slate, wiped clean of any recollection she might have of what had happened between all those events. She had the dots, yes, but no lines to connect them with.

If I could just remember, she thinks frustrated, but as soon as the thought materializes she tries to shove it away.

This must be how a jury feels when a lawyer raises an objection and the judge moves to strike the statement from the record and instructs the jury to "un-hear" what they had just, undoubtedly, heard. Try as she might, she cannot un-ring a bell, or strike her thoughts—or in this case, her longing for any inkling of memory—from the record. She wanted to remember, she wanted to make sense out of all of this and connect the dots. But connecting the dots meant relinquishing her denial and giving into Ursula and everything she had said and everything that Emma had tried desperately to bury away from resurfacing back into the light of day.

A forceful knock on the bathroom door and Killian grumbling something about hypothermia snaps her out of her reverie. Shutting off the water, she steps out of the tub and wraps herself in the white terrycloth towel provided by housekeeping. Emma takes her time drying herself off, brushing her teeth and securing her hair into a messy bun a top of her head, her golden curls quickly coiling around the nape of her neck, her ears and framing the rest of her face. If Killian wanted to be rude to her, by all means he could be rude but he was going to have to wait till she was done.

Emma opens the door just as Killian was going into another round of forceful knocking. It takes her a second to stop staring at him, to school her startled features back to neutral and pretend that the fact that he stood shirtless in front of her didn't faze her. But how could it not? There he stood in all his glory, with droplets of the remaining rain water running through the coarse thicket of dark chest hair, sliding down the contours and indentations of his toned, lean torso and towards the thread of dark hair that stemmed from the low-hung waistband of his soaked fleece pants. Killian, too, seems to have trouble to mask the effect she has on him, his eyes widening the minute they laid eyes on her and instinctively traveling down to the rather low neckline provided by the terrycloth towel, even further to her lean legs exposed by the short length of the towel and right back up half a second later with an accompanying blush creeping around his neck.

Scowling, and with one hand firmly securing the towel around her body, Emma makes her way past him, her damp shoulder colliding purposefully with his upper arm. Killian still stares at her as she crouches down in front of her duffel bag and starts rifling around for some leggings and a clean shirt. A feat that is easier said than done given that she hasn't done laundry in about three weeks and most of the clothes in her bag had been taken out of her hamper and doused with Febreeze before being unceremoniously stuffed into the bag.

What? She was running late, it's finals season, and she is still a kid learning to adult. Just because she's about to graduate college doesn't mean that she's got her life figured out, quite the opposite actually.

"I've, uh, placed some sweatpants on top of the bed just in case you needed to use them," Killian tells her, his voice a little breathless.

"Oh, thank you," Emma responds stiffly, avoiding eye contact with him as she sweeps her gaze over at the bed.

"No problem," he returns, his voice flat as he turns around and shuts the door to the bathroom behind him.

It's not only until Emma hears the water spewing out of the shower that she finds it easy to breathe again. The tension between them was awkward and all wrong. Emma knew he was scared for her, knew that he must sense that there was something else going on with her, knew that her stint at the stream looked eerily like an attempt on her to take her own life, and she knew—thanks to a slip-up on Liam's part on a drunken night a handful of weeks ago—that Killian had lost his first girlfriend in quite a similar way.

It's only rational that Killian is directing some animosity towards her. Hell, he probably thinks she was lying about the sleepwalking. It was an incredibly sensitive subject for him, and ever since the night Liam shed light on it and Emma had seen how Killian had stormed off towards his bedroom, slammed the door, and refused to come out for the rest of the night, Emma didn't want to even skirt around the subject. But right now, she didn't just find herself skirting around the subject, she found herself plunged feet first into it with heavy stones lining her pockets.

It helped make her understand him. It made her understand why it always seemed that a storm was brewing underneath his gaze, the turbulence that is constantly kept behind his eyes less frightening now that they were tethered to a reason. It helped her make sense of his usage of humor and impropriety in his relationships. When you use humor as a defense mechanism, it lets you be very well liked by your peers but you don't really get close to many—and that's the exactly the way you want it, well liked enough to remember for a laugh but not enough to have people worry about you and in turn, want to get close to you. Because when you let people close to you, the more it hurts when you lose them.

There was a time when Emma didn't know what brought them together. Sure, they shared similar interests in books, movies, and music, but so they did with countless other people and that didn't mean they were friends with everyone else with similar interests. But ever since that night, she knows that the reason they were brought together was because they are kindred spirits, both of them knowing loss in similar ways, both small lost children who have never felt like they were enough.

And now Killian, who cares about her and let her inside his own emotional walls, thinks that she was about to take her life and probably feels like she didn't think he was good enough company to keep her with the desire to stay alive.

But she'd never do that. Never in a million years would she even think about taking her life, she just hopes Killian understands her enough to know that what he saw tonight wasn't the truth.

She's braiding her damp hair when Killian exits the bathroom. Lost in her thoughts, she hadn't noticed that he had shut the water off and finished with his shower. Emma throws a sideways glance at him as she worries her lower lip between her teeth, her hands still attached to the wet locks, the weaving over and under serving as a steady comfort. She tries not to focus on how the towel hangs loosely around his hips, or on the fact that he's shirtless again and his hair is disheveled, with little droplets of water clinging to the ends of the bangs that fall into his face and threaten to drop onto the carpet below him.

Emma lies back down on the bed, her knees tucked against her stomach—the fetal position she folds herself into is tight and defensive. She hears him huff and storm back into the bathroom, the door closing behind him more forcefully than he would have done normally. Her eyes feel heavy, exhaustion threatening to overpower her completely, and her lids droop involuntarily, closing until light is blocked out from her vision. She doesn't know how long her eyes are closed or how long she had drifted into sublime unconsciousness, but it feels like mere seconds later when she wakes to the sound of screeching metal against hardwood floor, and to the sight of Killian pushing the cot to rest against the main door.

She watches him, her eyebrows knit together and a scowl clearly etched on her features, as he angrily moves about the room, takes the pillows on his side of the bed, forcefully fluffs them, and lets them drop onto the cot.

"Killian, what are you doing?" her voice croaks out as she watches him pull back the itchy wool covers of the cot and taking a seat on the thin mattress.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he answers curtly, lightly punching the pillow some more before laying face up on the mattress, his hands locking themselves behind the nape of his neck and his mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Are you really going to sleep there?" Emma asks incredulously, her temper flaring slightly at his attitude.

"Aye," he replies as he stubbornly closes his eyes and refuses to spare a glance at her. "Next time you decide to go on a midnight stroll, I'd much rather find out immediately rather than when you're halfway across the fucking property."

That hit a nerve.

"You need to give it a rest, okay?" Emma snaps, glaring at him as she crosses her arms against her chest now that she sits upright on the bed. "It happened, and I'm sorry, but I'm fine and you don't have to worry anymore."

Killian scoffs, uncrossing his arms behind his head so he can turn on his side before looking at her incredulously.

"What?" Emma asks, feeling uncomfortable under his scrutinizing gaze.

"You don't get it, do you?" He asks her, his eyes widening before narrowing accusingly. "I can't just stop worrying about you, especially not after tonight."

"Why because you care about me?" Emma snaps as she swings her legs on the side of the bed and stands up, her voice filled with the anger she's failed to taper as she walks over to the dresser to grab a glass and fill it with water.

He doesn't respond when her back is to him, and she tries to level her voice as she hears him swing his own legs from the cot and his feet pad against the hardwood floor. She feels him stand behind her, his presence looming over her shoulder as palpable as the tension that has hung heavily in the room for the past forty-eight hours; the tension that has only increased ever since they got back.

"Killian, I don't need you to take care of me. I can take care of myself," she tells him as she turns away from the dresser and towards to face him. She keeps her features cold and detached, as she is determined to keep the upper hand in all this, determined to not let him get under her skin, as he so easily tends to do. Killian's gaze hardly softens at her words. On the contrary, she finds the unmistakable gust of annoyance flit through his features again as he squares off against her.

"You're so bloody insufferable did you know that?" he asks her, and Emma can hear a hint of distress in his tone and she wonders just how bad the earlier events had affected him. Was the waver in his voice due to anger and annoyance, or was it still fear and the attempt to hide the anxiety that she had caused him?

"Yeah, you've said it once or twice," she bites back, clutching the glass so tight in her fist that she feels that it might break under the pressure but she needs something to channel all her focus into other than how bare she feels whenever he looks at her.

"Because it's bloody true, Em!" he starts with a shaky breath as he runs his hand through his damp hair, looking almost manic in his frustration. "You keep trying to push me away when all I want to do is help you."

"I didn't ask for you to help me!" She retorts loudly as she resorts to shove her finger forward, poking him in the chest as a means to channel the sudden urge she gets to punch something. She doesn't need him to be her knight in shining armor, she doesn't want that, not from him and not from anyone. She's done well enough on her own for years and she doesn't need some Brit with a messiah complex to come save her.

"Oh, yeah? And what if I hadn't helped you tonight, Em?" he reproaches just as loudly, walking closer to her, and she feels the wood of the dresser press against her back as he traps her between him and the piece of furniture. "What would I have told David, your grandparents, your friends? Should I have just let you take your own life when I was supposed to take care of you?"

"I'm not yours to take care of!" she almost growls as she pushes against him, her palms flush against his chest—they were too close, far too close. She tries to shove him away but he instead covers her hands with his own and pulls her closer still. His wide blue eyes are an icy stare—it's the kind of stare that chills you to the bone, that shows too much emotion and far too much depth, the terrifying kind of depth that you encounter when you tread on a frozen body of water, worried that the floor will give in and you'll be consumed by chilling currents that threaten to pierce your skin like daggers—and she knows now that he wasn't trying to mask anger earlier. No, she knows now that he's very much still freaked out by everything that happened and she wishes she could tell him everything, wishes she could explain without sounding like a total lunatic, but she can't. All she wants is to be able to calm him down, to reassure him that she's fine, that she didn't mean to do any of this and fall asleep curled up in his arms for one last night.

The sounds of their ragged breathing swirl through the air and intertwine themselves with the steady hum of the rain pattering against the windows and the rustle of the trees as the wind howls through the leaves, making them brush against the side of the building. Killian's hands still grip hers tightly, the palms of his hands warm against her chilled skin. He cocks his head to the right, eyeing her tentatively, reminding her of a predator sizing up his prey, and leans forward towards her. The unmistakable electricity that they share starts crackling up again, almost begging her to close the distance and kiss him once and for all.

God, why can't it be easy with him? Why does she always have the unnatural urge to either pull away and fight or completely lunge forward and kiss him until her lips are chapped and raw but there never seems to be any in-between? This friendship between them is a joke, a euphemism if there ever was one, given the fact that she's filled more with longing and want rather than platonic sentiments.

She wants him, real or not, she wants to be able to thread her fingers through his hair and feel the warmth of his body around hers every night, she wants to study together and pilfer Mexican food out of each other's plates. But most of all, she wants to ease the worry off his mind and make him smile, to be the source of his wheezy laughter. She wants everything and the worst part is that she knows he wants it too, but they're both unavailable, they're both too scared to take the fall for the other, too stubborn and prideful to do so. "Aye, you're right," he tells her with narrowed eyes and a scathing demeanor. She hadn't noticed that his mood hasn't wavered even though she has had a life-altering clarification. That makes two in one night. Emma has half a mind, though, that he's going to give in and kiss her once she can almost taste the peppermint from his toothpaste when his hot breath tickles her skin, but what he says instead puts an abrupt end to that fantasy. "I suppose that's a job for Graham, isn't it?"

Oh, right. He's still a thing, her boyfriend.

"No, it's not," she says quietly but forcefully as she yanks her hands out of his grasp, pushing him to the side and walking back towards the bed, suddenly her annoyance back in full force. "And stop saying that I tried to kill myself because that's not what happened!"

"Oh, of course!" He retorts derisively as he throws his hands up in the air, the frustration in his voice a match for his mocking tone. "How could I forget? You almost sleepwalked yourself into an untimely death."

His sarcastic tone makes Emma realize that he doesn't believe a single word she's said, and that hurts because ever since they met, he's told her that she's an open book to him, and she's confided in him things that she'd promised herself she'd never speak aloud. He had asked for trust and she had given it to him, and now when the roles were reversed she couldn't say the same for him.

"You don't believe me," she says, her shoulders slumping as she wraps her hands around her sunken core. Her body visibly pulling its armor back into place, the walls stacking themselves higher as she feels herself retreat fully behind them.

"Is that a question or a statement of fact?" Killian snaps as he takes a few steps towards her, watching her warily as she takes a seat on the edge of the blue ottoman at the foot of the bed.

"Does it matter?" Emma replies, pulling her feet onto the ottoman and hugging her knees close to her chest. "You don't believe me."

"How could I, Emma?" Killian retorts exasperatedly as he surges towards her, kneeling in front of her and she can tell by the way the manic tone had returned that he was still more frightened than angry.

He places his hands on the top of her knees, his eyes wide and pleading for her to understand him as he asks, "How could I possibly believe that you lined your pockets with rocks and stepped into a freezing stream and didn't have any recollection nor inclination to do so in the first place?"

"Because it's the truth!" Emma replies, her voice coming out hoarse from the events of the night taking their toll on her. She feels the telltale prickle of tears behind her eyes, her emotions in a whirlwind as she realizes that the one person who she cares the most for doesn't believe her, doesn't take her at her words, doesn't realize that she could never do anything to hurt him like he's been hurt before.

"I can only go by what I saw you do, Emma!" Killian says, his voice pleading once more, his hands wrapping themselves around hers again. "If I hadn't been there at that exact time, I would have lost you forever and I can't—I can't let that happen again."

"I'm not her, Killian," Emma says softly, her voice dejected as she tries to make him understand what happened without telling him all about voodoo queens, reincarnation, great-aunts that look just like her and gravestones with familiar names. She sees an unmistakable flicker of pain on his features as she alludes to his ex-girlfriend and Emma wishes that she knew more about her, but Killian never mentions her, he never mentions the ghost of the memory that still haunts him. "Believe me when I tell you that I would never in a million years do something like that."

"But you did," he answers flatly, sinking his body back onto his calves before running his hands through his hair and down his face, as if he was trying to rub away the exhaustion and disbelief.

It kills her that he doesn't believe her.

"You don't believe me, that's fine," Emma replies coldly, her own hands rubbing into her tired face before pinching the bridge of her nose to gather her wits. "But it's the truth, regardless of whether you take my word for it or not. And when it comes to you 'letting it happen again,' if drowning myself was what I actually wanted, then that would have been my choice and it wouldn't have been up to you dictate whether you should have let it happen or not. I'm not yours to save, or mourn, or make decisions for."

Killian looks at her, the anger flashing through his features as quick as disbelief and fear had done before, and Emma can't decide if the fact that he has as quick an emotional rebound rate as she has is a good thing or a bad one.

"Aye, I suppose if that's how you want it," Killian responds scathingly, the word 'ungrateful' hanging high in the air between them, her reluctance to let him help her—let him care for her—being the clear motivating feeling behind his anger. "Then perhaps next time it would be better if you drown."

The words feel like a slap on her face but in hindsight, she had asked for them. This isn't the first time that she's fought with Killian and from the looks of it, it certainly won't be the last. She's prodded him before, she's hurt him before, and by now she should be used to the knowledge that he's not one to back down from her. No, if Emma pushes then Killian will most certainly push back, and if she's determined to hurt then he's not going to just sit back and take it. No, she should know by know that Killian wasn't like that, she should know by now that he was going to retaliate with as much force as she used.

Emma nods at him, her lower lip pulled tight between her teeth as she tries to fight off the unmistakable burning at the tip of her nose—the telltale sign that she was about four seconds from having her eyes well up and only moments away from crying. She stands up, patting her hands on the tops of her thighs much like he had before she took a shower, and takes a good look at him. She wants to fight back, but she's tired, she's so tired, so instead she nods again, her brain unable to complete a coherent thought—a good comeback to leave her with the upper hand.

She waves the metaphorical white flag, and resigns.

"Swan," he calls after her softly, dejection, concern, and guilt all noticeable in his voice.

Emma ignores his call, walking straight into bed and covering herself with the rich, soft comforter after she slides into the mattress. With her back to him, she tucks her knees back into her chest, her fetal position tighter and more closed off than it had been before.

"Emma," he starts again, the same guilt still present in his voice. "Love, I'm…" he trails off and Emma pulls the comforter tighter around her, blocking the light from the room, blocking the sounds of the rain that pattered faintly against the window pane, and blocking him from her presence. "I didn't mean it," she hears him says softly.

"Fuck off, Killian," is all she answers back, a lackluster comeback if there ever was any, but one that still pierces the right target.

Emma barely sleeps.

Instead, all night she tossed an turned, never once falling fully asleep as vibrant images came together in her subconscious—images of flashy parties and exquisite dresses, of wedding receptions and church bells ringing, of a faceless husband and the overwhelming feeling of grief and guilt hanging heavy on her shoulders. When she wakes she feels more tired than when she fell asleep—her limbs feel heavy, her throat dry and scratchy, and the cuts and scrapes she sported as a consequence to her late night excursion seemed to scream bloody murder as her legs rubbed against the sheets, the cuts still stinging painfully. She is immediately wary about the awkwardness that would surely loom between her and Killian today, but as she opens her eyes and reluctantly turns around, she doesn't see him in his cot.

Emma lifts herself up to her forearms and as she scans the room quickly Killian doesn't seem to be in the room. She notices, though, that his belongings are already packed and neatly placed by the door—which incidentally is no longer barricaded by the cot—and she surmises that Killian must be downstairs getting breakfast or sorting out the checkout at the front desk. And with the realization that they're scheduled to leave in the next hour, Emma fights the urge to stay cozied into the warmth of the bed and opts to get the day started.

Her heart jumps into her throat when she notices him open the door to the bedroom some twenty minutes later. They both stop what they're doing, with him standing awkwardly at the threshold of the room, a steaming mug in his hand, and her at the foot of the bed with a pair of underwear she was about to fold in hers. They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, and it's not until Emma offers him a ghost of a smile that Killian's shoulders seem to relax and he steps inside the room.

"Good morning," he says quietly, placing the mug on her bedside table. "I've brought you some coffee," he offers lamely, his hand shooting up to scratch the nape of his neck. "I'm afraid there wasn't any hot chocolate."

"Thank you," Emma answers him just as meekly, her fingers trembling slightly as she zips up her duffle bag. She swings the bag over her shoulder and walks towards the door, her eyes narrowed in on the floor and unwilling to look up.

"Em," Killian starts tentatively. "I want to apologize."

"It's fine," she deflects, tucking a stray curl behind her ear and walking towards the bathroom to pick up her toiletries. It's far too early for them to have this conversation.

"No, it's not," he says softly as he leans against the doorframe, his eyes sweeping over her warily as if he were trying to gauge her reaction. "My behavior last night…what I said to you…it wasn't acceptable."

"Killian," she sighs, her right thumb and forefinger digging anxiously on the hangnail from her left thumb. "It's really alright," she sighs again, looking up at him through her eyelashes, blue gaze meeting green head on, sincerity and pain locked between both stares.

"You'll fight me on everything, won't you?" he says, his voice soft and teasing as he tries to lighten the mood by offering her a shy grin.

The smile she returns is rueful and if she weren't as tired, as uncomfortable with such a heavy topic so early in the day, she would hear him out, accept his apology and try to furnish one of her own. But now, while the sun is barely up and she still has to check the rest of the room to see if she's not leaving anything behind, rally the half-dozen students that stayed over at the plantation till they can finally make their way back to New Orleans, talking about last night is the last thing on Emma's mind.

"I just…I'd rather not talk about it right now, okay?" she asks him, walking over to him and clasping his empty hand in hers. His fingers curl around hers, the palm of his hand warm and welcoming against her chilled skin. "I promise that we can talk about it later, but now I just want to go home."

His wide eyes meet hers and she finds herself lost in the seemingly endless pools of light blue, gold flecks appearing in his irises when the sun starts to shine in through the windows and reflect in his gaze. It's one of those moments when she feels time stop, when he looks at her like he can read her as easily as a book, picking out her emotions one by one and choosing to respect her wishes rather than to fight back. She guesses that he's tired of fighting too, and that he has one foot off the ground but not quite ready to fall headfirst into whatever it is that they have.

"Sure," he nods at her, his voice somber and his eyes downcast as he drops her hand from his grip. "I'll just start loading the van, then."

She watches as he walks away, his shoulders too stiff to look comfortable and she assumes that if he were to slouch a bit his posture would match how he seemed void of emotion when he had answered her.

God, what is wrong with her? Is this supposed to be the happy medium that she was frantically searching for last night? Was this hybrid of grief and numbness to be the place in between her wanting to punch Killian in the gut and her wanting to feel the press of his lips against her own, to feel his tongue battling hers for dominance and his teeth dragging her lower lip out, flesh trapped inside an ever-growing and ever-teasing, completely devilish grin?

It can't be.

She continues to pack, checking every nook and cranny of the room twice for any trace of belongings that might have slipped underneath the furniture, and she surmises that whatever prompted her lack of conversation just now was due to residual hurt from his words last night, residual embarrassment from her actions last night, and old habits of ignoring pressing problems until she just can't anymore. The feel of the tiles underneath her knees is cold and unwelcome as she kneels in front of the bathroom sink to look under the cabinets. The faint glint of metal catches her eye as she looks underneath the wooden cupboard and she instantly recognizes it as the chain that Killian wears tucked into his shirt. She slides her hand underneath the cabinet, wincing slightly at the feel of dirt and dust on her skin, until her slender fingers wrap around the chain and pull it out. She's surprised to find a ring attached to the chain, and immediately thinks that it was breathtaking, white gold with diamonds weaved around a deep blue gemstone, but whether sapphire or tanzanite she's not sure.

For some reason, she finds herself slipping the ring onto her finger, her eyebrows raised and cheeks flushed when she sees that it fits perfectly on her. It's not too snug or too loose, and instead it just feels perfect. It's weird to feel attached to such an inanimate object, but Emma feels just that as she slips it off her finger and swoops the chain around her neck, the ring settling between her breasts, the weight of the ring on her chest strangely familiar.

She stands and heads out to the bedroom, and after giving the room a final swoop with her eyes, she slides her bag over her shoulder and heads down the stairs and towards the front desk.

They end up leaving the plantation a little after eight, all six students—half of them the sophomores that form Killian's fan club—buckled into the backseats of the van. The van sways on the gravel and through the grooves of pavement underneath them, the images of swampland and the early-rising sun splayed across bald cypress trees and brackish marsh blending together in her vision as Killian drives them back to New Orleans. The morning fog is quickly dissipating around them, making the brilliant blue sky visible above them, but in the warmth of the heated van Emma feels her eyes droop slightly, her eyelids still heavy and her limbs still tired from the combination of how rough last night was and how little she actually got to sleep.

She wills herself awake for Killian's sake. He's visibly tired too, dark circles prominent in the skin under his blue eyes, which now looked muted and bloodshot. She stares at him and at how tense he seems, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel tightly, his back rigid against the tan leather seat, and the muscle in his jaw visible as he clenches his mouth. He's either trying to keep himself awake or still feeling hurt, she muses, her eyes drooping again. Though both plausible but Emma thinks that feeling hurt is much more probable. After all, he hadn't solely brought upon their fight last night and his lashing out was something that she had instigated by bringing up memories of his ex-girlfriend and pushing him away again. She hadn't even thanked him for pulling her out of the stream last night, she had been so confused, so tired, and then so angry that she never stopped to think that Killian had saved her life last night and that she ought to be grateful for it.

But had she thanked him?

No, she hadn't.

No, instead she had chosen to revert back to her old ways, to hurt, to instigate, to take the heat off herself and attack before being attacked. He saved her life and she had pushed him away not once, but twice, because she wasn't entirely welcoming this morning either.

He had called her prickly once, earlier back in August, and she scoffs mentally at the memory as she thinks that 'prickly' would be putting her attitude mildly and 'ungrateful bitch' would be much more appropriate given the circumstances. Her phone buzzes in her hand and as she reads Elsa's text message she finds that maybe it was time she held out her own metaphorical olive branch and try to put this whole ordeal behind them.

"Elsa is asking if we'd like to join her and Liam for brunch," she speaks out, her voice soft and tentative. Killian gives her a sideways glance, and she really should control her reactions when it comes to him locking eyes with her, because being in a relationship with someone other than the person that makes butterflies stir in the pit of your stomach isn't really socially acceptable.

"I'm not sure that would be a great idea," he answers stiffly, gripping the steering wheel even tighter.

"You're going to break the wheel," Emma tells him, a smirk on her face, and it feels good to see the corners of his lips turn up at her response.

"Do you want me to go?" He asks her, his blue eyes boring into her green gaze, his body still tense as he tries to gauge the reason behind her change of attitude.

"To brunch?" Emma asks absentmindedly and his hopeful gaze deadpans.

"No, to Neverland," he teases, rolling his eyes at her. "Aye, Swan, to brunch."

"Of course I do, why would you ask that?" She counters, deciding to ignore his obvious attempt at using humor to deflect his insecurity after her earlier rejection.

What? She knows his weakness as well as he knows hers.

"I just didn't think we were—"

"We are fine," Emma cuts him off, her arm outstretching to have her hand cover his as she gives his hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

They arrive at New Orleans a little after ten in the morning and after signing off all the students, she and Killian head towards Granny's where they were meeting Elsa and Liam.

At Granny's, brunch had gone as well as it could've what with Graham showing up uninvited halfway throughout their second round of mimosas, but to say that it was awkward was putting it mildly. Emma had been beside herself with embarrassment and whatever residual anger was left from the night before was completely redirected towards Graham. She had messaged him where she was out of courtesy and not with the intent of inviting him over for brunch with her friends, an outing that she hadn't planned and felt like it really was supposed to be just the four of them. Killian had texted Christine where he was—not that Emma was looking over at his phone to see if he was just breaking up with Christine through text because, you know, a girl can only dream—and Christine hadn't showed up.

"You can't just show up at places unannounced!" Emma had told him after brunch had ended. They were in Graham's car and he was driving her to pick up her bug at school. Emma absentmindedly tugged at the chain that still hung around her neck, Killian's ring sat steady against her sternum, she hadn't had the chance to give it back to him what with Graham showing up unannounced. Somehow the thought of her giving Killian back his ring, his very engagement-type looking ring, while in Graham's presence didn't really bode well at the moment, so she kept it to return it to its rightful owner away from the prying eyes of her jealous boyfriend.

"I wanted to surprise you!" Graham had retorted loudly, making Emma roll her eyes as she had turned her head away from him. She had looked up at the storm clouds rolling over the city, and it made her mind instantly conjure up thoughts about her spending yet another cold, rainy night without the comfort of Killian's warmth around her. God, she needed to stop thinking about him like that but every time she chastises herself she can't help but imagine him again. In her mind's eye, she cannot stop imagining the fullness of his lips stretch into sly absentminded smiles when he looks at her when he thinks she isn't looking, or how his brow furrows into deep concentration, his teeth biting into his lower lip as he reads her work during peer reviews. She can't help but hope that he means something more in when he goes out of his way to make her feel better, when he wraps his hands around her and pulls her in close, when he cups her cheek with his strong hands and the heat of his skin fuses with the chill on her cheeks creating a comfortable medium of warmth as they touch.

God, she had it bad.

"Yeah, right," Emma had scoffed, rifling her hands through her hair in exasperation. She wanted to break this off right there, but she didn't want a break up in the middle of finals and she didn't know how Graham was going to take it. If she had to guess, then she'd say that he wouldn't take it well, not at all. But damn, all she wanted to do was shout at him, tell him how he suffocated her, how he was so controlling she feels trapped. "God, Graham you know I'm no good at this! I need to be able to do my own thing, I can't have you just showing up at places and surprising me."

"You're so bleeding selfish," he had answered her as he pulled into campus and towards the garage at the furthest end of the school where she had directed him to. Emma had sighed again as she turned in her seat to face him.

"Yes, please, turn this on me again! I'll be the bad guy again while you victimize yourself," she had retorted and Graham had simply looked at her incredulously.

"Excuse me for wanting to see my girlfriend after I hadn't seen her in three days!" he had shouted, his fist slamming into the steering wheel as his voice shook with anger.

"I was planning to see you after I finished!" Emma had replied, her voice just as angry and just as loud. Her response had only elicited an eye roll from Graham's part.

"Oh aye, after you finished devoting all of your extra time to Killian?" he had asked, no longer able to keep the bitterness from his voice. Emma had simply stared back at him for longer than was necessary till she turned her to face forward, her eyes glassed over as he pulled into the garage.

"Don't start this again, we are friends and nothing more," she had replied quietly, her voice hard and reminiscent of steel.

"I just don't see why you can't talk to me the way you talk to him," he had started. "You spend all your time with him."

"He's helping me with the GRE, I told you that," Emma had responded automatically. "He's my friend, that's all." Emma could feel the barriers as they around her, her voice sounding even flatter with each response as she retreated further into her shell at the threat of being hurt again. She had crossed her arms across her chest and let her eyes scan the concrete walls as he drove up and around each floor of the garage, her pride unwilling to bend to Graham.

"Aye, and last time I checked I'm your boyfriend and I expect to be treated with the respect I deserve."

"Cool your fucking jets, Joe DiMaggio!" she had retorted angrily, the last thing she needed was a display of macho pride from him. It was enough that he tried to control her every move, the last thing she needed was for him to add some outdated sense of patriarchal dominance over her, to his already lousy attitude. "You asked me to be your girlfriend knowing that I had only been truly serious with one other guy and that I enjoyed my independence!"

"Aye but I can't help but feel that I'm pulling most of the weight in this relationship!" he had replied as he parked in behind her yellow bug, his fist slamming against the steering wheel once more and making Emma flinch.

"What are you talking about?" she had asked exasperatedly, running her fingers through her hair for what seemed like the fifteenth time in the last ten minutes.

"I'm talking about the fact that I told you that I loved you more than a month ago and you haven't said anything back to me!" Graham had shouted, his hand outstretched and cupped around her chin as he dragged her face back to face him.

"I'm not ready!" Emma had practically growled, her hands having shot up to press against his chest before pushing him off her.

"Aye, fine. Let that be your excuse if it makes you sleep better at night," Graham had replied, his voice tight. "I'm starting to believe you're incapable of loving anyone at all."

"Well if that's what you think, why don't you just break up with me then?" Emma had responded, her arms clasped even tighter across her chest and her back pressed tightly against the passenger door.

"Because I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you!" he had bit out, his arms reaching out to her and his voice pleading. He had a manic look in his eyes, the look of a desperate man longing for affection, affection that she just couldn't give him.

Finals be damned, she needed to break up with him.

"Graham," she had started, her eyes closed and her voice soft as she mentally prepared herself to end whatever was left of the relationship right then and there.

"Aye, I know. You're not ready," Graham had groaned, his fists digging into his eye sockets in frustration. "Perhaps if I were Killian you'd be more willing," he had muttered under his breath, his eyes still closed in frustration.

"Oh, enough!" she had snapped, grabbing her bag from the floor and stepping out of the car in a matter of seconds.

"Look, I'm just going to go home okay?" she had told him as she leaned into the car, one hand propping the passenger door open and the other holding onto the roof of the car. "Talk to me when you've cooled off."

The sound of her name was cut short by her slamming the door to the passenger side and walking briskly to her car.

Graham was gone before she had even opened her car door.

It has been nearly two weeks since then and, with both of them dealing with finals, Emma hasn't been able to talk to him about breaking things off, she's barely talked to him at all. No, for the past two weeks she has been basically living in the library, only going home to shower and sustain herself on a questionable diet of microwavable macaroni and cheese, Hot Pockets, energy drinks and amphetamines, and sadly breaking off with her boyfriend just wasn't part of her schedule. But now, with her finals done and her term paper for Mills turned in, she definitely has time to schedule in a breakup. However, with her finals done, her term paper for Mills turned in and it being her twenty-second birthday it is safe to say that Emma Swan is much more content in getting drunk and relying on ignoring the problem as opposed to confronting it head-on instead.

When you live with Ruby Lucas and you are her designated soul mate and best friend—and coincidentally your birthday falls on the last day of finals—it is only a matter of time till she decides to throw you a house party to celebrate your birthday and wave a hearty good-riddance to the end of the semester. That afternoon, after Ruby had gotten out of her chemistry final, Emma watched from the couch, laptop propped on her lap as the leggy brunette had bounded up to their apartment, threw her book-bag onto the loveseat with a growl, and walked straight into their kitchen where opened the freezer and took out a bottle of king cake flavored Pinnacle vodka.

"We're doing shots," she exclaimed as she opened up the bottle and started pouring the sickly sweet liquid into two shot glasses.

"We is a lot of people," Emma had responded with a scoff, starting off her birthday with Pinnacle would not be a wise decision. In fact, it screamed highly of a recipe for a blackout.

"You're not about to give me this shit on your birthday, Emma." Ruby deadpanned, her eyes narrowing. "I just got out of a brutal exam, I don't have to worry about school for the next month, and tonight I plan to completely blackout and forget that this semester ever happened," she continued, listing her words off her fingers before fixing a steely glare on Emma.

"Fine," Emma whined, closing her laptop and walking towards the kitchen counter where a gleaming pink shot glass filled to the brim with Pinnacle awaited her. They toasted to Emma's birthday and after sliding the glass back on the counter, they took simultaneous swigs out of the shot glasses, the syrupy-like liquid burning as it went down Emma's throat and down to her stomach.

"Another one?" Ruby had asked merely as a formality since she was already re-filling up Emma's glass.

"That's enough," Emma replied after taking the second shot, her eyes screwed tight as she processed the taste, she hated vodka. Shaking her head she walked straight towards the fridge and took out the first thing she found to use as a chaser, an already opened can of Arizona Iced Tea.

"What time are the reservations for tonight?" Ruby asked her, her teeth bared under her gleaming grin and her elbows rested on the counter.

"Six-thirty, why?" Emma asked, taking another swig of the iced tea to rid the taste of vodka out of her mouth.

"Oh, you know, I just invited a shit-ton of people over to celebrate you tonight," she smiled even wider, her voice innocent but her grin feral.

An incoming text from Graham makes Emma miss Ruby offering her the bottle of Pinnacle as she entices her to take another shot. Emma shakes her head at the text message, wishing that she hadn't waited until after finals to break up with Graham because that meant he'd still be coming to her birthday dinner tonight.

"We should be done by nine at the latest," Emma answered her, taking the vodka out of her friend's hand and pouring herself another shot.

"You're not going to fight me on it?" Ruby had asked her, an elegant and perfectly manicured eyebrow raised in her direction.

"Not at all," Emma had replied before lifting the shot glass back to her mouth and downing the vodka in one gulp. A blackout that made her forget everything that happened this past semester wouldn't be a bad idea at all.

Dinner had been nice but uneventful for the most part. All of her friends were in attendance, Ruby and Leo, Mary Margaret and David, Elsa who was accompanied by Liam, and Killian. It didn't sit well with her that Killian had brought along Christine even though Emma knew that she'd be there, what with Killian asking if it was okay to bring her a week earlier and Emma's growing inability to deny him anything. Plus, Emma's own boyfriend was there, his suffocating presence next to her making her hackles rise up in her back at the feeling of his clammy hand on her leg, his fingers squeezing her flesh tightly, possessively.

She ate in silence for the most part, her mind mulling over how uncomfortable she felt in Graham's presence, her inability to figure out what's keeping her from breaking up with him, and her futile attempts of calming the monster of jealousy that roared in the pit of her stomach every time she heard Killian's wheezy laugh resulting as a product of Christine's apparent quick wit. Emma also had zero to no inclination to be at the dinner since her attitude was not in a partying mood and mostly, she felt like a sham sitting around everyone and pretending to be happy and in love and like her life didn't feel like it was falling apart.

The shots of vodka that she had taken earlier in the day had a quick effect on turning her mood sour once Graham arrived at her apartment and they ended up having yet another fight before they left. He had gotten her tickets to Ireland for her birthday. More specifically, with the intent of her flying over the Atlantic to stay with his family throughout the rest of her winter break, spend Christmas and New Years in his company. Truly, any other girl in the world would have been amazed at such a gift, but Emma wasn't.

She couldn't be.

She wasn't ready for such a commitment, she didn't think it was fair to fly across the ocean and meet his parents and his family when all she wanted to do was end things with him. It also annoyed the fuck out of her that he keeps ignoring the fact that she's said multiple times that she isn't ready to jump into anything so serious but he doesn't listen. So, Emma had done what she could do best and picked a fight with him. Part of her thinking that, if she prodded enough, if she annoyed enough, he would just get tired with her and dump her right there on the spot.

He didn't.

Of fucking course he didn't.

No, he did what he did best whenever Emma started to pull away and pick a fight. He latched on tighter and told her that he loved her yet again. And when that didn't work—because goddamn it, it never does and he can't seem to get that—he turned around and victimized himself yet again, his voice pleading as he asked her why she couldn't just love him the way he needed her to, didn't she see how much he needed her, wanted her, loved her? And when that didn't work, well, he pulled out his trump card—the Killian card—as he asked her why did she feel the need to push him away but have the ability to have such a close relationship with Killian. He asked her why was it that Killian got to meet her family instead of him, every time his voice sounding more frantic, his eyes more manic, his fists clenched and sometimes hitting his own flesh to release some of his pent up anger.

She was completely over it, over whatever semblance of a relationship she had left with Graham, and she was about to tell him that it was over when she heard the doorbell and had to turn to open the door. Emma brushed off the inquisitive stare she got from Mary Margaret as she greeted her and David, before grabbing her leather jacket and exiting her apartment with Graham in tow.

Later that night, Graham leaves in a huff, throwing her gift—an envelope with a flight confirmation email printed out inside of it—on the kitchen counter. Emma doesn't doubt that he was unwilling to stay by her unyielding company a second longer, as she rests her hips against the kitchen counter.

Muffled music from the party that Ruby decided to throw for her wafts into the apartment from the backyard and Emma closes her eyes at the sound of it, relishing in the one moment of peace she's gotten since she got out of her last exam nearly eight hours ago. The apartment is dark and the only light that shines is the one that streams in through the door that leads to the veranda that overlooks the backyard. Emma sighs as she stretches her neck sideways, the frustration she has felt for the past month taking its toll on her shoulder muscles, and she feels the need to just get back on the relative weightlessness that the earlier shots had made her feel. She had promised herself a blackout and goddamn it, she was going to get one.

Emma rummages through frozen chicken cutlets and acai smoothie packs that have been in the freezer for months till she finds the bottle of Bacardi 151 that she has been looking for. Grabbing the neck of it she pulls it out and places it on the counter. The seventy-five percent proof alcohol is usually Ruby's poison but Emma, who prefers Superior or Gold more so than pure battery acid, has been known to take it in dire situations. And tonight, well, tonight feels like it fits the category. Emma finds a shot glass and fills it to the brim, before tossing back the burning liquid, almost gagging as it trickles down her throat. She shudders and winces as she tosses back another shot, her eyes screwed shut as she tries to get over the taste, and pays no attention to the sound of the front-door opening and closing.

"Hey," Killian greets, and she wishes that the way that his voice travelled towards her didn't elicit a swooping sensation deep in her belly as a response.

"Hey stranger," she greets in return as she turns towards to face him, her ass pressed firmly against the beige counter that no-doubt dates back to 1986 and her fingers clutched tightly around the neck of the Bacardi bottle.

"I figured I'd find you here," he tells her, the softness and quietness of his voice contradicted by the smugly arched eyebrow sitting high on his forehead.

"Aren't you the perceptive one?" Emma responds as she turns towards the counter to fill up another shot glass in addition to her own and handing it to him once she's done. He indulges her and takes the shot glass in his own hand, mumbling a toast to her birthday before clinking his glass to hers, sliding it across the counter, and tossing it back in one quick move. Emma watches him as he takes the time to get used to the assaulting taste on his taste buds; observing as the bright light that streams into the kitchen from the veranda hits him diagonally across his face, the contrast of light and shadow making his eyes look like they're two different colors—his right eye a vibrant shade of ice blue and his left eye a darker navy. Her eyesight has started to blur slightly with that last shot of rum, but she can still appreciate how handsome he looked in his dark grey v-neck sweater, the collar of the navy blue plaid shirt he was wearing neatly pressed against his neck.

"Streamlining rum are we? A woman after my own heart," he says, his hand clutching his heart sarcastically and Emma is about to brazenly respond to his comment when she notices a purplish bruise on his skin right where the neck meets the shoulder.

"Don't flatter yourself," she deflects, her mood suddenly sour as the monster of jealousy once again starts to squirm in the pit of her stomach.

Fucking Christine, she thinks before chastising her own cowardice. If she hadn't been so apprehensive—scared, for fuck's sake, she had been scared—of how forward Killian had been in his attempts at pursuing her, she would have the damn honor to attach her own lips to his neck and that knock-off Disney princess wouldn't be in the picture.

"You wound me, lass," Killian offers again, knocking her out of her reverie.

"Somehow I think you'll survive," Emma deadpans as she crosses her arms across her chest.

"I'll try my best," Killian answers before mimicking her stance. "Now, are you going to keep deflecting or are you going to tell me what's going on that has you hiding?"

"I'm not deflecting," she says. "And I'm not hiding."

"You're an open book, love," he answers, his inquisitive eyebrow retreating further up underneath the slopping fringe of his unruly hair. "You're hiding."

"I just needed a breather, okay?" Emma sighs as she brings her hands up to her face. Her cheeks are starting to feel numb and moving her limbs starts to feel like they're made out of lead.

Weightlessness, she thinks complacently, that was exactly what she wanted tonight.

"Aye, I figured you didn't like all this pomp and circumstance," he tells her as he gives her an understanding grin. "I wanted to make sure you were alright."

Emma returns his smile as she tries to fight the color from rising to her cheeks. "I will be," she answers him.

"I also noticed that Graham had left," he starts tentatively, color rising to his own cheeks and up to the tips of his ears, which he scratches with his right hand. "So, I figured it would be alright for me to give you your birthday gift."

"Killian, you didn't need to get me anything," Emma tells him earnestly.

"I've had this for a while," he starts nervously, his gaze avoiding hers. "I guess I was just waiting for the right moment to give it to you."

Emma waits quietly as he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out two black organza drawstring pouches. She walks closer to him as he smiles nervously, looking like he was having second thoughts about the gifts, but still he hands one of them to her.

She opens the pouch eagerly, unable to mask her excitement, and pulls out a long gold chain with a smoky gray and black quartz pendant hanging from the bottom of it. She recognizes the pendant immediately as one of the ones she had liked down at the New Orleans House of Voodoo.

"I saw you looking at them when we were at the French Quarter," he offers tentatively.

"I can't believe you noticed that," Emma tells him, her voice breathless.

"I notice everything about you," he responds, eliciting the same swooping sensation in her belly that she felt earlier.

"Help me put it on?" She asks him brazenly, handing the necklace back to him when he nods at her. She's sure that he can see right through her, what with her being such an open book to him and the chain being long enough for her to place it around her neck without having to unclasp it. If he does pick up on her motives, though, he doesn't comment on it and simply twirls his index finger, motioning for her to turn around.

She wouldn't care if he could see right through her even if he had mentioned anything about it, though. She wants to feel his hands against her skin again, wants to feel some semblance of intimacy with him, to toe the line between being friends and being something more like they had back at the plantation, so she turns around and swoops her long hair over one shoulder and waits for him to loop the necklace around her neck and clasp it. It feels like an eternity as she waits for him, but as soon as she thinks to turn around and ask him what's taking him so long, she feels his warm breath against the nape of her neck as he unclasps the necklace and loops it around her neck, his warm fingers ghosting her skin as he works the clasp and grabs her side swept hair into his fist and lets it fall onto her back once again. His hands still on either one of her shoulders, his body so close to hers that she only need to step back an inch and she'd be pressing herself back against his hips. In the seconds that it takes for him to stop standing behind her and step back, visions of Killian pressing his groin against her ass, chest flush against her back, hands pinning her own down to the counter, his hot mouth on her neck as he grinded against her, filled Emma's mind to the point that her heartbeat quickened and her breaths became slightly shallow.

"Thank you," she tells him as she turns towards him feeling flustered.

"No problem," Killian answers.

"What's in the other bag?" Emma grins, eager to see what the other gift was.

"It's stupid," he tells her, opening up the second organza drawstring pouch and pulling out a jade colored pendulum with a gold chain.

"Is that—?"

"Aye, the very same," Killian answers, his cheeks reddening, "I bought them while you were getting your reading, but next thing I know we were rushing you to the hospital and it just never felt like the right time to give them to you."

"I can't believe you've kept it all this time," Emma says as she takes the pendulum from Killian's hands.

He shrugs.

"Like I said, I could never find the perfect time to give it to you," he starts, walking forward and closing the gap between them, his hand outstretched towards the pendulum. "You've seemed vexed lately," he says quietly as his fingers graze the jade quartz that hung suspended in the air and travel up the chain until they ghost around her own hand. Emma looks up at him through her lashes; her breath held in as she her gaze meets his. "And I know better than to intrude, so I thought you could use some direction or at least something to help you with whatever is plaguing you."

Emma smiles up at him, a small rueful smile that barely stretches her mouth at all but one that is still genuine. "Thank you," she says, thanking him not only for his gifts but for his understanding, for his constant refrain to push her beyond her limits, for not letting her isolate him like she has taken to isolating everyone else in the past weeks, and for offering her this friendship that is as easy as breathing.

Killian returns her smile as his hand outstretches towards her again, this time sliding around her waist and pulling her forward towards him. Emma's arms automatically wrap themselves around his neck, and she breathes in his scent as his arms coil around her waist. He's warm and his embrace is comforting, and goddamn it she wishes that having his arms around her didn't feel like home as much as it did.

"Happy Birthday, Em," he says and she hangs onto him tighter. She mumbles her thanks against his wool sweater and they stay there in the darkened kitchen, standing in near silence, his arms still around her and her face buried in his neck. They sway a bit to the muffled music that thumps from the outside, their earlier libations acting as enablers in this situation where they've both seemed to forget about everything else and have opted to simply be.

Save for the way they woke up at Oak Ridge two weeks ago, this was the closest they've been to giving in to what they both undeniably feel for each other. As his hands travel under her sweater, his warm hands settle firmly on either side of her hips and the bare skin that he touches erupts in goose bumps. Emma can't help but grin as a similar reaction happens on his body as her nose grazes the exposed skin of his neck and her hands travel up to coil around his hair, her nails grazing the nape of his neck.

She feels his groan rumble deep in his chest and she can't help but gasp as she feels his hands press firmly onto her skin as a consequence to her light scratches. Emma feels his lips press against the side of her head, his fingers digging deeper onto her exposed skin as his own nose grazes her head, his mouth trailing his firm lips against her forehead. She knows she should pull away, but absolutely no part of her wants to consent to that. She loves this, loves that he has her enveloped in his arms, that his mouth is pressed against her skin. Real or not, long lost lover or friend that she only met a couple of months ago, Emma simply cannot find it in her heart to care. This is what she's wanted for weeks now and she'd be a fool to stop it, no matter how unethical it is to let this go on.

"Emma," he breathes and she swears she's never heard her name be spoken with such conviction.

"Yeah?" she breathes in return as her fingers thread deeper into his raven hair, pulling back the shaggy tendrils at the same time her lips trail up his neck.

"What are we doing?" he asks, his voice strained.

Emma doesn't answer, but instead pulls away till her face is a few inches away from his. Killian's eyes are darkened, his black pupils threatening to take over the entirety of his ice blue irises. His hand travels further up her shirt, his fingers grazing the skin parallel to her spine, setting her skin aflame with his touch. She counters his brazen movement with one of her own, choosing to slide her hand from the nape of his neck down to his jaw and trying not to tremble at her bold—stupid, absolutely stupid and rash—decision to drag her fingers across his lips and the way he looks at her as her thumb grazes his lower lip.

They both stay quiet, save for two simultaneous sets of panting breaths, two erratic beating hearts, and two pairs of eyes widened in surprise as Killian presses his lips forward and kisses her thumb. Emma stares at him, the grip she holds on his hair tightening in response, her breath a shaky mirror of his. She feels like her knees could buckle under the intensity of his gaze on hers, it's dark and filled with lust and Emma hasn't seen any such blatant display of desire shot in her direction ever before. Her thoughts are lost in trying to decipher what he's thinking and in their reckless absentmindedness, neither of them pays any attention to the sound of the front door opening and closing.

"Killy?" Christine's voice rings throughout the hallway. "Are you in here?" she asks and both Emma and Killian jump away from each other as if Christine's voice was a bucket of boiling water that threatened to fall on top of them and leave them scalded if they didn't step out of each other's embrace.

Emma stands back towards the counter, the still air in between them bitter and cold now that they stood a good three feet away from each other. Panting, they both look at each other, Killian's expression pained as he calls out, "in here, lass!"

"Hey," the petite blonde greets as she enters the threshold to the kitchen. "I was wondering where you went off to," Christine continues with an unmistakable edge to her voice.

Emma tucks an errant hair behind her ear as she watches the scene unfold in front of her. Christine was obviously both severely intoxicated and incredibly pissed off for some reason. Her curly hair threatened to topple out of her topknot as she angrily crossed her arms across her chest and outstretched her leg to widen her stance.

"We need to talk, Killy." Christine tells him, a passing glare directed at Emma before she turns her full attention back to her boyfriend.

Killian's gaze turns towards Emma, looking at her as if he wanted to say somethine else to her, but Emma would be a fool if she didn't take Christine's hint.

"I'm just going to go," Emma says quietly before retreating through the screen door that led to the veranda.

The December air had been cool in New Orleans earlier in the day, but it was much colder now since the sun had set hours ago. The patio is full of people, the party ongoing and unfurling before her very eyes. It was a little after midnight and Emma couldn't help but wonder what was keeping the police at bay. They weren't being quiet and this wasn't just a simple get together, it's virtually impossible for Ruby to throw something so simple and innocuous.

She finds a secluded spot in the patio, and as she sits on a concrete ledge she can't help but to thread her still shaking fingers throughout her blonde hair. God, what was she thinking throwing herself at Killian like that? True, it's not like he hadn't responded to her shameless display of desire; no, he'd reciprocated it very enthusiastically, but still. She had no business throwing herself at him like that, no business threading her fingers through his hair — god it had been so soft — or dragging her lips on his neck. She was with Graham, he was with Christine, and she couldn't blame her barefacedness on anything other than her own will. This wasn't like when they woke up tangled in each other's arms; no, there their subconscious brought them together. Here? Here, she had her own recklessness to blame.

How could she face him now?

She should be staying away from him. That's what she had decided if all this Emmeline LaBoeuf shit was real! But did she stay away from him? No, she had done the exact opposite and basically thrown herself at him when he gave her a necklace. She wonders what would she do if he had given her something as extravagant as a trip to Ireland.

Fuck him on the spot, probably.

God, Emma thinks, she needs to get a grip.

"Mind if I sit?" a velvety voice interrupts her train of thought and snaps her out of her reverie. Emma looks up and a pair of expressive eyes, the irises purple if she's not mistaken, greets her. A wide smile curls on a smooth skin, his smile a striking white against the melanin that makes up his dark skin.

"No, go ahead," she answers him, motioning idly at the space next to her as she slides down the concrete slab to make space for him.

"Thanks," he says, his voice deep and charming. "Say, you the birthday girl?" he asks jovially and it makes Emma smile genuinely.

"My birthday was last week but, yeah," she answers.

"How come you're hiding out here?" he asks her, his shoulder bumping against hers in jest.

"Needed some air, I guess," Emma shrugs. "I'm not much for being the center of attention."

"Makes sense," he nods and the silence hangs limply between them.

"Are you a friend of Ruby's?" Emma asks him, an uncharacteristic attempt at conversation on her part.

"No. I came here looking for some friends of hers though," he answers her.

"Oh, okay," Emma responds. "Do you go to school with us? I feel like I've seen you around."

"No," he laughs. "I run errands around here, deliver messages and things of the like."

"Oh," Emma nods. "I get it. Do you need me to point someone out for you, then? You know, for your delivery."

"No, no, chere," he laughs again. "I came here looking for you," he says and this time his voice is much less charming and Emma isn't too drunk to notice that there's a darkened tone to it.

"Look, buddy, I didn't order anything nor am I interested in what you're selling so you can go away now." Emma answers him, feeling her hackles rise up again, and wanting nothing more than to step away from this guy's presence.

"I'm not here to sell you anything," he answers her nonchalant, almost as if he didn't care if she was freaking out next to him, almost as if he expected it. "I simply came to deliver a message."

"Who from?" Emma asks defensively.

"Doesn't matter who sent it, only that you get it," he replies and she scoffs because of-fucking-course she would get out of one messed up situation to plunge headfirst into another one.

"Well, what is it?" Emma asks exasperatedly.

"Time is running out."

Emma stares at him, her heart palpitating erratically against her chest.

"Dude, what the hell are you talking about?" she asks him incredulously, trying to fight the fear to seep into her voice. That's the last thing he needs, to know that she fears him. "Who are you?"

"I think you know who I am but if you don't, I'm willing to bet that you know exactly why I'm here," he answers her smugly as he takes out a cigarette and lights it, the cherry burning red as he inhales.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Emma answers him as she stands up and makes to move away from him. She's had about enough of this day.

"Let go of me, you creep!" she spits loudly at him as his arm coils tightly around her upper arm and pulls her towards him.

"Or what?" he bites back, pulling on her arm harder.

"Or I'll punch you right in the face and scream bloody murder," she retorts haughtily.

"You made a deal, Emmeline, and I'm the one they send to collect." He offers ominously, his vice grip on her upper arm tightening even more. Unmistakable shadows swirl around him and his eyes are even more expressive than before as he whispers, "You are running out of time."

A deal.

A deal, she thinks and suddenly his presence makes sense to her.

This was all about the deal that Emmeline LaBoeuf made with Ursula, wasn't it?

"Did Ursula put you up to this?" She snaps at him, forcefully yanking her arm away from his grip. I told her I don't believe in any of this shit so leave me the fuck alone, alright?"

"Don't you disrespect me, little girl!" he shouts, the shadows that surrounded him, seemingly looming wider and taller around him, making him look bigger and much more intimidating. "You made a deal and that means that you're in my world now, and we'll play by my rules."

"I'm calling the fucking cops, you creep." Emma's voice wavers slightly as she spits her threat out. She can feel the familiar feeling of fear and shadows begin to cripple her.

"Tell me, Emmeline. How exactly are you going to do that and who's going to hear you?" He grins at her, a menacing grin that makes him look almost feral. His eyes flit around the room and he steps back from her, crossing his arms against his chest arrogantly.

It's only now that Emma realizes that the music that surrounded her, once so loud and virtually deafening, has stopped completely and the patio has been left in radio silence. As she turns to look around her, a scream dies in her throat and the denial that had been the fodder of her actions for the past months is nowhere to be found. She can't possibly deny the sight in front of her, the sight of people frozen in time, unmoving and statuesque.

Her body shakes violently at the way shadows scream and loom around everyone, twisting and turning around bodies like snakes slithering across the sand.

"What are you?" she hears herself say, her voice full of fear. "Some sort of voodoo wizard?"

"I prefer the term witch doctor," he replies smugly. "I simply came to deliver a warning, Emmeline. You are running out of time and the Loa do not like debts to go unpaid."

He's gone in a manner of seconds after tipping his hat and a whirl of swirling purple smoke enveloping him completely.

Emma stands in shock as the music comes back full volume, the party guests once again dancing to their hearts content, unaware that seconds ago they had been standing frozen, smiling eerily as menacing shadows swirled around them. She doesn't realize that she's been running until she collides with a hard body, and deep blue wool engulfs her eyesight. She throws her arms around him again, her earlier sentiments be damned. She needs him.

"Em, are you alright?" Killian asks, his voice muffled as he presses his mouth against her head. She nods faintly, but her head pounds and her stomach feels uneasy. The earlier rum shots hit her now, the unique feeling of being unable to control your gag reflex overpowering her. She hears him mention her name one more time before her body involuntarily lunges sideways and doubles forward, the contents of her dinner and Bacardi 151 spewing out of her mouth and onto the grass next to them.

"Oh, Swan," Killian says his grip firm on her torso and her name a pitying sound being emitted from his lips. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

"Killy, can't someone else do this? We literally just talked about this, she's a big girl she can take care of herself."

"Christine, can you just let me fucking do this, please?" Emma hears Killian snap before adding softly, "I won't be long, love. I promise."

He carries her up to her apartment and, after a solid ten-minute detour to her bathroom — in which her head was thrust into the toilet as she emptied the contents of her stomach once again, until nothing else came out even though her gag-reflex didn't seem to get the memo — to her bedroom.

"Did I get you?" Emma asks feebly, her voice a hoarse croak.

"No," Killian smiles at her, his fingers threading through her matted hair. "Nearly did though," he laughs.

"Don't laugh, it's so embarrassing." Emma groans as she closes her eyes. She opens them again, not wanting to feel like she's taking a ride on the Mad Hatter's teacups in Disney World, instead of sitting in her own room.

"It happens to the best of us," he responds. "Look, I've got to go but I've left you water and aspirin here on the nightstand, and there's a bag on the trash bin so you don't have to get up."

"Stay," she pleads, her hand clasped around his wrist.

"I want to," he answers her. "But I can't tonight, Em."

She walks down the cobblestoned streets of the French Quarter with a steely determination, the sound of her heeled boots echoing around her. The sun has set, but the sky is still tinged with muted oranges and deep magenta as night starts to envelope the city. She's over all of this, she thinks as she tightens her red leather jacket around her form to try and shield herself from the blistering wind that seeps through her clothes and chills her bones. She's done with voodoo queens, long lost lovers, and creepy men who proclaim to be witch doctors and have the ability to pause life and tell her that time is running out. She's tired of so many people telling her what to do, her parents, her boyfriend, her friends, fucking voodoo queens and witch doctors, and hell, even Killian. This is her life and she has a say in it, she decides who she's with, and what she's doing, and how she's going to go about living her life.

She's tired of being pushed around and it's about time she punches back.

It doesn't take her long to reach the New Orleans House of Voodoo, her anger having coursed through her and propelled her feet forward almost in autopilot. The street is strangely empty for a Saturday night, with only a few stragglers littering the road as they head back towards Bourbon Street. Emma can hear a lonely saxophone echoing down St. Ann as it plays a few streets over, and she hesitates for a few seconds before shaking her head, squaring her shoulders, and bounding through the door.

"I need to speak to Madame Ursula," she bites at the girl manning the cashier.

"Madame is busy at the moment, miss," the girl responds, the drawl of her voice clipped in annoyance.

"This is urgent," Emma tells the girl, her fingers digging into the wooden counter, and the girl must believe her because, after sizing Emma up, she nods and makes her way through the beaded curtain that leads into Ursula's salon.

"Madame will see you now,"

"Emmeline," Ursula greets her from further back in the room, still dressed in white the Voodoo Queen's back was turned to her as she prepared something against a counter. "I was beginning to wonder when I'd see you again. Please sit, ma chére. "

"Cut the crap," Emma tells her, standing resolutely near the beaded curtain. The last time she was in this room she had a panic attack so horrible that it led her to a hospital. She was not about to have a repeat performance. "You need to fix this," she says as she crosses her arms against her chest, and tries to ignore the way the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on edge when Ursula turns around and sizes her up, her eyebrows perched high on her forehead and a porcelain cup in her hands.

"I rather hoped your attitude didn't reincarnate as well, but it seems that my hopes were in vain," is all Ursula responds, a satirical sigh leaving her mauve tinted lips as she walks over to the table and sits on her usual chaise, the deep burgundy velvet upholstery looking even more imposing as the stark white of her clothing contrasts against it.

"Fix this," Emma says again, her voice quivering slightly but whether if it was from intimidation or anger she wasn't exactly sure. She hated being in this place, hated that she couldn't just ignore this anymore, and hated that her life had taken a turn for the fantastical.

"Fix what, exactly?" Ursula asks her, her brown eyes narrowing slightly and her head tilting to the side as she scrutinizes Emma.

Fix what, exactly. There was the question of the century, and it was one that Emma didn't really have the answer for. She couldn't have had a normal life, couldn't she? No, it had to come with curses, voodoo queens, witch doctors, and long lost lovers coming back from the dead. God, she doesn't even want to think about that last one either because long lost lovers would mean that it was Killian she was fated to be with. And maybe that wouldn't be so bad if she didn't know that the only reason she was fated to be with Killian was the knowledge that someone had paid the woman in front of her to ensure that. She can't help but feel that the connection they share is something forced by someone else's decision and not their own. It saddens her, because how could a forced—no, an ensured—connection be real?

They didn't have a say in meeting each other, in becoming friends, in feeling for each other, they had no say in anything. And if they didn't have a say, Emma thinks, then it can't possibly be real.

"This mess I'm in," is all Emma answers, her voice still carrying the residual anger and fear that propelled her here in the first place.

"This isn't my mess to fix," Ursula responds curtly and it hits a nerve. If Ursula hadn't accepted her great-great-aunt's proposal, hadn't done what Emmeline LaBoeuf had done, then Emma wouldn't be in this mess.

"Like hell it is! I'm in this position because of you!" Emma lashes out, bounding towards Ursula, her lithe legs closing the distance between them in seconds and her hands coming to rest on the table so forcefully that the old wood rattled underneath her palms and the light above them swung around faster.

"You were the one that came in here in the first place," Ursula responds, standing up and mirroring Emma's position. Emma recoils slightly, internally chastising herself for angering a fucking voodoo queen, if not the voodoo queen. "You wanted this," Ursula bites out, her voice menacing and her arm outstretched towards Emma, her dark, slender forefinger digging into Emma's chest.

"I never asked for this!" Emma withdraws her hands from the table and practically wails in exasperation as she runs both hands through her blonde hair.

"You came in this very salon years ago and you begged me to ensure that you would have your sailor in your life."

"I am not her!" Emma practically snarls, her nails digging into the palm of her hands in frustration.

"You only think that because you do not remember," Ursula tells her softly as she takes her place back in her velvet chaise. "You need to remember," she pleads, her hand outstretched and motioning to the chair opposite her.

"The only thing I need is for you to stop this because my life keeps being threatened and I don't feel safe anymore!" Emma sighs, pulling the chair out and sitting on it, her elbows resting on the old wooden table as her hands cradle her head.

"What do you mean your life is being threatened?" Ursula asks curiously, the tone of her voice serious.

"I mean that in the last two weeks, a white fucking ball of light went through my body and led me out to a graveyard, I almost drowned because I was in a trance and stepped into a river, and I keep being followed by shadows and men who can paralyze everything around me and I have never been more scared in my life," Emma responds, her green eyes locking on Ursula's brown ones, fear etched all over them. She can feel the shadows looming all around her. It's all she feels nowadays, the heavy sensation of negative pressure all around her, the same feeling you get when you think somebody is watching you.

"Shadows?" she asks, her brown eyes widening.

"Did you miss the part about the man who can stop time and the fact that I almost drowned…did you miss the part about the ball of light?"

Ursula rolls her eyes and pulls the porcelain cup towards her.

"The ball of light, I expected," she answers Emma as she stares deeply into the porcelain cup. "The shadows, however, are not something I thought would happen so soon."

"What do you mean you expected this?" Emma asks her, unable to keep the anxious tone out of her voice.

"The last time you were here, chére, you left in such a hurry that I couldn't explain everything to you," Ursula starts, and Emma watches her entranced as her dark fingers fiddle methodically with the fringe of her white shawl. "I told you the dreams were memories and I thought that you would have pieced them together by now. I though you'd come back much sooner than when you did. The dreams, as they progressed, would have stopped escaping you and would have started to make sense to you as the memories resurfaced from your long-term memory."

"I haven't been dreaming," Emma confides, her voice a hushed whisper.

"What do you mean?" Ursula asks her.

"I mean that I've been taking anxiety medication before going to sleep and they usually knock me out into a dreamless sleep," Emma explains sheepishly.

"No wonder the shadows have appeared so soon," Ursula sighs. "You've met your sailor, you've awakened two thirds of your soul, but your memories are still locked away and time has started to run."

"I'm sorry, did you say I've awakened two thirds of my soul?"

"Oui, ma chére," Ursula nods. "When you came to me, the spell you desired meant that you would give your present life in order for the future you to have an ensured meeting with your sailor."

"So she—I—sold my soul basically? Is that what you're telling me?"

"I'm afraid so," Ursula nods.

"How could you let her—me—do that?"

"You were relentless. I told you the consequences would be dire but you would not be persuaded. You loved him, you wanted him back at any expense, even if it was your own."

"How do you know I already met him?" Emma asks as her heart beats heavy against her ribcage, the sound of her heart throbbing up and against her eardrum.

"It would be the only factor that would have driven you here in the first place, but now you know who he is, don't you?" Ursula asks her and Emma nods, unable to voice the fact that she knows it's Killian and not wanting to accept the fact that it's him.

"What about the witch doctor?" Emma asks desperate to steer the subject away from Killian.

"He is no witch doctor anymore," Ursula scoffs disdainfully. "When you came to me all those years ago, Facilier used to be quite the prominent bokor in New Orleans. That is until he filled his life with even more greed and ambition than ever before and his own black magic ended up being his downfall."

"What happened to him?"

"I'll show you," Ursula tells her as she stands up from her burgundy chaise and heads to the fireplace in the corner. Emma watches apprehensively as she sees the voodoo queen take out a giant pewter cauldron filled with glistening, almost silver colored liquid that sloshed as the cauldron was pulled out. And no, Emma couldn't help but quoting Harry Potter in Sorcerer's Stone as she thought about how all first-years students will require one standard pewter cauldron, nor how she somehow expected Ursula to pull out a thin, silver thread of memory out of her temple and lower it to the cauldron.

Instead, Ursula walks over to a cupboard and takes out a vial filled with a rich dark liquid that unnervingly looked a lot like blood and hands it to Emma. Emma grabs the vial in her hands, feeling way in over her head as she turns the glass in her hands. Then, after taking the vial back in her hands and turning away from Emma, Ursula flicks her fingers and instantly flames erupt underneath the cauldron.

"Is that—"

"Blood? Oui, ma chére," Ursula nods as she lets the blood drip into the silver liquid. "Chicken's," she clarifies at Emma's widened eyes.

"Please tell me you lit a match without me seeing you do it and dropped it on the logs," Emma whines, her voice pleading.

"Even after seeing it with your two eyes you still have trouble believing in magic," Ursula laughs at Emma's pained expression.

Emma follows Ursula's lead and stares deep into the cauldron and, for a second nothing really happens. But then, as smoke starts to rise in front of them, images take shape in the smog that surrounds them. Emma sees as a young Facilier struts around the French Quarter in what looked like the 1920s and he stops to talk to a fine looking young man with tan skin, wavy brown hair, and caramel colored eyes and his rather portly companion.

"There he is tricking unsuspecting royalty," Ursula's voice travels to Emma. "He turned him into a frog in order to keep him out of the way while he made the fat one impersonate the prince, attempt to marry your cousin Charlotte and kill your uncle Eli so he could have the LaBoeuf estate." It feels weird to hear her talk about people she doesn't know as her family, but Emma is unable to look away as the story unfolds and Facilier tempts a beautiful dark-skinned girl in a similar way that he had approached Emma on her birthday. Ultimately, Emma watches as the dark-skinned girl refuses the enticement of Facilier's dark magic, in turn destroys his talisman, and sees the shadows dragging Facilier with them, his face etched on a grave as he vanishes from sight.

"He formed an alliance with voodoo demons, dark Loas filled with dark magic that take the form of shadows and gris-gris," Ursula says as the smoke dissipates from the room. "He dealt in Petro Voodoo and he was very powerful but, that necklace that Tiana broke? That was the source of all his power and when it broke the Loas took what he owed them—his life."

"What's Petro Voodoo?"

"Dark voodoo," Ursula offers heading back to the table and sitting down again. Emma follows her and sits down opposite her. "It's the kind of voodoo people think about when they hear about our magic. There is a thin line between light and dark in any kind of magic, and voodoo is no different. There is good and bad everywhere."

"And yours is good?" Emma asks her and Ursula smiles sadly at her.

"I try to be," she answers. "But I've lived a long, long time ma chére and there are times when that line blurs both sides together."

Emma nods at her as she fiddles with a stray thread that has come undone from her white sweater. She mulls over everything she's just learned, and the information, though nearly suffocating her, feels legitimate and she has no power to deny it.

"Why is he after me?"

"Papa Negba uses those who owed him and the Loa as debt collectors for all eternity," Ursula answers her before bringing the porcelain cup up to her mauve-tinted lips. "That's why you must try and remember, Emmeline."

"Don't call me that," Emma responds almost automatically and she blushes when Ursula looks at her affronted. "I go by Emma," she explains sheepishly.

"Very well then, Emma, you must try and remember. You must let yourself dream, because once you accept it all of this will go away."

"What if I don't want any of this? Look, I have a life—friends, school, a boyfriend. I graduate next semester and I can't just deal with everything and add this on top."

"I'm afraid you must," Ursula urges her, her voice soft but pleading. "Emma, all magic comes with a price and voodoo is no different. You challenged fate, you ensured your next life, this life. You traded a life for a life, yours for your sailor's, and if you do not awaken both your souls before time runs out, I'm afraid history will repeat itself."

"You don't mean something will happen to Killian?" Emma asks, the fear of losing him manifesting itself for the first time as her heart feels like it plummets down to her stomach and her chest heaves in dread. It still surprises her how in just a matter of weeks she had gone from completely hating him to not being able to picture a life without him in it.

"Non, ma chére, by ensuring this life you committed a selfish act, and even the lightest of magic gets tainted by darkness when the motives are not selfless," Ursula shakes her head ruefully. "The life Papa Negba will take is yours."