sorry this took so long. Modern life is rubbish hectic

Chapter 12: Paintings

Well you and I
Collapsed in love
And it looks like we might have made it
Yes it looks like we've made it
To the end
To the End, Blur

She knocked on his door fervently, insistently, her entire body fidgeting in anticipation. She had pondered what she would say to him, but she still couldn't figure out the words.

And it wouldn't have mattered if she had figured them, because her mind went blank the moment he answered the door in faded jeans, his hair spiking in all directions and a white t-shirt with paint stains on it. His eyes were hooded and she could almost feel the exhaustion on the way he was standing. But when his eyes finally met hers, she could see much more. She could sense the undercurrent passion that was oozing from him, the quiet sense of frustration but accomplishment at the same time, and it was working like magnet, pulling her to him.

"Emma?" His gravelly voice carried a hint of confusion, and Emma swallowed hard, trying to fight the dryness that had come to her throat.

"Killian…" She started, her own voice coming less sure than she wanted it. "Can I come in?" Her eyes looked at him pleadingly. He tilted his head, his eyes squinting, trying to read her. He was mentally and emotionally drained after pouring himself into the graffiti the evening before and battling a canvas all morning for the first time in a decade. But there was something about the way her green eyes were scanning him, the nervousness of her stance and the obsessive running of her fingers through her hair.

He sighed before giving her just the hint of a smile and opening the door for her. She took a few hesitant steps towards the apartment but turned around to face him the moment she heard the door closing.

They remained there for a few moments, standing, facing in silence as they were seizing one another, trying to find out words that somehow had abandoned the both of them.

Emma took a deep breath before she pointed at the stains in his shirt. "You've been painting…" She whispered softly.

"Aye. I- I've been trying." He admitted, his hand moving to scratch behind his ear in that nervous tic she'd come so fond of. His eyes searched hers, and she could see that the storm that was usually present in his eyes had been replaced by a passionate tranquility. "It takes forever… even mixing the paint is proving to be a challenge." He confessed sheepishly.

"Would you – would you show me?" She asked, her voice laced with a sense of reverence and respect.

"It's barely drafted… there isn't much to look at." He deflected, a shy embarrassment covering his features.

"I'd love to see it… if you want to show me. I'd – I'd understand if you don't." She traced her last words, her eyes averting to the floor.

"Come with me…" His whispered reply came to her as a caress and she lifted her gaze to find his eyes boring hopefully into hers, his hand extended towards hers shyly. She took it, the electrical current that passed between them almost impossible to ignore, and she let him lead her towards that part of himself he'd kept hidden for years.

It wasn't much. An improvised, very small art area had been set up, an easel with canvas and a little table with paint and brushes on one side. She held his hand as she slowly approached the canvas, her eyes focusing on the lines drafted there. The lines hinted a landscape: she could make the waves of the sea, a sidewalk, and two small figures walking. Only a few actually strokes had been painted, but she could recognize the small, thin, visible style hidden in them.

His soft voice made her turn around to face him, "I've always loved the impressionists: their strokes, that passion, that overall urge and need to just paint. Fast, furious, before the sun left, before the light left, to capture beauty before it was too late and the darkness took it away." His words had been escalating as he started describing the style and she could see it all now. Passion. When she first met him, she'd thought he didn't have any. Later on, she'd thought he had locked his fire in a place deep within him, never allowing himself to lose control. But now, the passion was everywhere, coming out of his words and even in the way his fingers were itching and fidgeting in her hand.

Her body moved on its own accord as she reached for him and kissed him, her lips pressing against his in contained emotion. He reciprocated it after a brief second, his lips moving against hers. Suddenly he pulled apart and she could see the conflict in his eyes.

"Emma…" He whispered, his voice almost painful, "I - I care deeply for you. This wasn't, isn't, just a romp in the sheets for me. And I need to be honest with you…" He sighed, disentangling his hand from hers to run it through his hair, before looking at her earnestly, "I am trying this because you were right, I was scared and I do miss it. But I am never going to be just an artist." There was a strong determination in his eyes as he spoke his words, "I can't be just that. I'll always be a curator. I love being a curator… that - that won't change. So take a good look at what I am before you rush into something you'd regret." He finished in a thin voice.

Her hand moved to his face, her fingers softly caressing the scar in his cheek, as she tried to put her thoughts into words, "I loved your graffiti, yes. I was at the museum this morning, they called me and I saw the exhibition…" She trailed off, averting her eyes for a second as the overwhelming emotions of what she saw in that room took over her.

"Swan…" He breathed and her eyes found his one more time.

"I saw myself in that room, Killian, and it wasn't just because of the graffiti. It was because of you, of how you tied it all together. I loved what you did in there, not just as an artist, but as a curator."

Her hands cradled his face as she took one more hesitant step towards him, their bodies almost touching, "Killian, when I found you painting that night, I was taking a walk to clear my head, to try to figure out my feelings." She tilted her head, her eyes never leaving his and she felt his hand softly caressing her waist. "What had me walking in the dark that night, it wasn't a graffiti artist. It was the curator that called me beautiful and kissed me on the middle of my studio," She whispered, her lips softly approaching his. "It was you. It had always been you."

He closed the thin breach between them, his lips finding hers in a slow burning kiss, his hand and stump pulling her flush against his body and she threw her arms around his neck, her hand tangling on his hair as she drowned in his kiss. She moaned against his lips, as she let his passion wrap around her, his mouth hot against hers, his hand gripping her hip tight against his. She broke the kiss, hastily pulling his shirt off and kissing his chest, her mouth lingering softly against his skin until she reached his nipple and her tongue darted out, slowly licking it. He moaned, reaching for her head and softly pulling her up to meet his lips in a searing kiss. He trailed them backwards towards the bedroom, his lips always touching some part of her skin as he whispered breathlessly, "I can't stop thinking about you, Emma. I want to draw you, paint you, fill the city with graffiti of you." His hand moved to remove her shirt and she helped him, before moving to caress his chest. He pushed her softly to lie on the bed and he quickly joined her, hovering over her, tracing the lines of her breast underneath her bra. "I wish I could sculpt the curves of your body on marble, Swan…"

She reached to kiss him, pulling him flush against her, her hips arching to meet his, feeling the fire and passion consume her. He growled at the contact of their lower bodies, his clothes doing little to hide his need for her.

"You have no idea how much I want you, Emma." He whispered against her lips.

"As much as I want you." She replied, capturing his lips in hers.

"You have me, Swan. I'm yours. All yours, love." He breathed on her skin, his forehead resting on her neck as he tried to regain composure of himself.

But she wouldn't have that, she wanted him, all of him, she wanted to see him lose himself completely in this. Her hands cradled his face as she leaned in to whisper in his ear, "I want you to lose control…"

And he did. He lost himself in her, over and over again, as he thrusted slow and deep, her body meeting his, his hand tracing the lines of her curves as he whispered incoherent words in her ear. She collapsed against his fingers softly caressing her as he kept a steady rhythm inside of her and then she watched him fall apart on top of her, his face contorted in pleasure before he reached out to kiss her passionately.

He slowly moved away from her, his back hitting the mattress and pulling her to him. She snuggled against his chest, her hand tracing circles on his skin as she looked at his sated smiling face. It was then when she noticed the bags under his eyes.

"You look tired…" Her finger traced the scar on his cheek and he sighed at the touch.

"I haven't been sleeping…" He admitted sheepishly.

She looked at him from underneath her eyelashes, her chin resting on his chest, "Me neither. I –I missed you."

He pulled her even closing to him, his arms softly embracing her, "And I missed you… Sleep, love." He whispered, placing a kiss to her hair.

Later in the afternoon, he found himself again facing that canvas, his eyes quickly studying the lines. He felt her embrace him from behind and he turned around to admire how beautiful she looked wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts. He leaned is to kiss her, his thumb tracing her chin, his left forearm pushing her to him. She broke the kiss and leaned backwards and he trailed after her.

"We are going to be late. We have an opening to attend." She reminded him.

"You can be fashionably late…" He cocked an eyebrow, capturing her in his arms and swaying them around his living room.

"No. I can't—I'd love to, but we can't …" She replied. "I still have to go home and get ready, I promised Regina I was not going to show up on a 80s punk band t-shirt and look what I am wearing now."

"It looks great on you, though." His smile faltered for a second and he looked at her nervously, "Emma, Would it be - would it be ok if I pick you up to take you to the museum?"

She arched an eyebrow at him, smirking, "Are you asking me to be your date to the opening?"

"I guess I am…" He admitted.

"I'd love to. Pick me up at 7. Don't be late." She said before leaning to kiss him.

"I won't."