A Captain Swan 98 would be fantastic! – "You pissed me off and I resorted to violence, and YoU'RE REALLY NICE I DIDNT MEAN IT"
(I am a) sucker (for your) punch(es)
The buzzing in her ears doesn't seem to want to stop, much like the pounding headache she's had for two days already.
A trip to the doctor is probably due.
A trip to the doctor was due two days ago when she hit her head chasing down that perp. Thing is, she doesn't have a concussion, she's just stressed. And has a killer headache, hence the trip to the nearest pharmacy.
Well, the pharmacy nearest to her office, to which she gets with the subway. Being in the subway means being surrounded by people, and while being surrounded by people isn't something Emma hates per se, being surrounded by people when your head feels like it's being hit by one of Snow White's dwarves' pickaxe is not something she enjoys.
Emma Swan doesn't hate kids, and she can't really blame neither child or mother when the former keeps crying because he's teething and the latter is doing her best to shush him, but if she could jump off the train right now, she would. Perhaps that would stop the pounding. Admittedly, jumping off the train would put an end to many things.
Why can't she just listen to music, you ask? Fate wants her to have forgotten her headphones in the other red leather jacket.
It's probably time for her to look for a bag – an actual bag, not clutches for honey traps. She'll just tell Ruby she wants to go shopping: it'll last her for another decade.
It's also too hot in the subway, but at least she's sitting down and there aren't bodies pressing into one another like sardines. She shudders at the thought.
As much as being inside her head hurts, blocking everything around her out is the best solution she can find. She just has to endure ten minutes in the train with all these people, fifteen tops. It took all her force of will not to count the minutes, knowing her headache would only worsen.
It's with a sensation of nausea at the sudden freedom she can taste in her mouth that Emma jumps up from the seat, grabbing the paper bag next to her and rushes towards the automatic doors, sprinting towards the exit so fast she'd make Usain Bolt eat her dust.
People seemed to move away from her path, of which Emma is extremely glad even if the only "thank you" would be a grunt of appreciation. Priorities.
She's so focused on getting the hell out of that place and barricade herself home that she doesn't hear the "hey, lass!" shouted at her in a British accent that in another occasion would ignite other parts of her body and not fuel the fire inside her head.
The speed with which she climbs the stairs up to the street, the way her body bounced with every step made her feel nauseous. Emma holds her breath, swallowing down that sensation, or at least trying to.
The Englishman trying to reach his "lass" isn't giving up, and Emma almost expects said lass to surpass her at the speed of light, but the voice keeps coming closer and closer and the girl this man is chasing seems not to be near Emma at all.
She's on the last step when someone's hand wraps around her arm, forcing her one step back. But Emma Swan isn't one to be manhandled, not so roughly and not when a headache is about to kill her. Therefore, she reacts the way she always has: punch first, ask questions later.
It happens fast, the way Emma swings around, the paper bag dropping onto the step as she raises her arm and hits the dark-haired man square on the cheekbone, sending him flying down the stairs amidst chorus of startled gasps.
Shocked herself, Emma watched him tumble down the stairs and ending up sprawled on the first landing, blood running down his nose and fuck, what has she done?
Ignoring the pain, she reaches the man – the very handsome man – who's now trying to sit up, hand flying to his nose. «Bloody hell,» she hears him mutter in a British accent and it should tell her something, the fact that he has an accent, but her brain is currently processing that she's sent a man flying down a flight of stairs.
Usually, she wouldn't think about it twice, because any man who manhandled a woman – or a woman doing that to a man or to another woman and a man doing that to another man – deserved to be punched in the face, but this time her gut is telling her she's done something wrong.
She pulls to a stop next to him, crouching down to inspect the damage. It's impossible for her, however, not to notice how handsome the man is, with scruffy cheeks and – rightfully pissed – big blue eyes. His nose isn't crooked, even though it's bleeding, and Emma really hopes she hasn't broken it.
«I am so, so sorry,» Emma stammers, hands moving frantically, wanting to help him up but not knowing how to without being pushed away.
«Bloody hell, lass,» he spits out, pressing his hand to his nose, trying to stop the blood flow in vain. «What were you thinking?»
Emma is about to reply when he stands up, and she shoots upright, too. Bad decision. Very bad decision.
Suddenly, there's not only one man, but two, and she isn't able to feel her legs anymore. The man in front of her sways, gaze concerned before Emma feels herself fall forward and darkness envelopes her in its strong arms.
Emma didn't know the darkness carried the scent of the sea.
The room it's too bright to be her own, and she may not be entirely sure about it, but the window isn't in the right place. And her house doesn't smell like that, of antiseptic and flowers. Mary Margaret is the one with an obsession over flowers. Emma does like them, but she could never take care of them.
Her eyes flutter open. She has to squint to adjust to the light, and as soon as she does, all her other senses come back in a rush, washing over her body and pushing her back like a wave during the storm.
With her hand, she reaches for her head, wincing in pain at the movement.
«Easy, lass.»
The soothing, warm voice almost melts her insides. That's probably not healthy.
Slowly, her eyes find the man, cladded in a white coat, arms crossed over his chest and a thick black eyebrow cocked high on his forehead. The big, deep purple bruise on the left side of his face is hard to miss. Shame blooms inside her.
«I'm afraid you have a concussion,» the man says slowly, hand fishing out a torch from his breast pocket. «I'll have to ask you some questions.»
Emma is confused, both because she's laying on a hospital bed and, well, isn't he supposed to press charges against her or something? Has he? Will he? Holy shit, his eyes are so blue and his whole face is quite handsome, too.
Yup. Totally concussed.
The man – Killian Jones, she reads from his name tag – proceeds to ask her questions she replies with a tinge of annoyance in her voice. Emma barely notices the headache is gone and that she's simply thirsty up until she coughs over her words and her head doesn't seem to want to explode anymore.
It's when he seems to be done with the questioning and he's told her the hospital called Mary Margaret that an awkward silence falls between them, which means that's the moment Emma chooses to speak.
«I want to apologize for the punch,» she rushes out of her mouth in one breath, looking down at her hands, wrapped around a glass of cold water; her knuckles are slightly bruised and she covers them with her other hand.
Killian smiles tightly at her. «I can't say I deserved it, but it was bad form to grab you that way.»
«You totally didn't deserve that punch and it wasn't nice to be manhandled like that,» Emma agrees, smiling shyly up at him. On the inside, she is shocked by her reaction. Shy. Emma Swan is suddenly shy in front of a man. A man whom she punched, but still. Before she can overthink it, she asks: «Why did you want to stop me?»
There's a faint blush on his cheeks – or rather cheek, since the other one looks like someone (Emma) smacked a handful of blackberries over his face. Or simply punched him. She internally cringes. «We were sitting next to each other on the subway, and when you left you picked up my bag instead of your own.»
Oh.
Did she, now?
Seeing confusion mar her face, Killian continues. «I tried to call after you, but since I didn't know your name yet and you were running as if Cerberus was chasing you, I had to restore to grabbing you. I apologize for that.»
«Bad form,» Emma echoes his earlier words in a whisper, blushing the moment the last letter leaves her lips. Then she frowns. «Are you really a doctor?»
She'll blame the concussion for all the stupid things she's going to say from now on.
Killian's laugh manages to warm up on the inside and the probability she might be dying of self-combustion forms in the back of her mind. «Aye, I am. Killian Jones, heart surgeon, at your service.» He even adds a mocking bow for good measure.
«You don't seem ill.» Seeing his frown – a very cute frown – Emma adds: «The paper bag. I assume there were medications in it?»
«Oh, aye,» Killian nods, «I was heading at my brother's with supplies for my nephew. The lad came down with the flu and Liam didn't want to leave him alone with Elsa in Norway.» The moment he realizes he said too much, Killian blushes even more, and if Emma found him cute before, nothing compares to the sight of the tips of his ears tinging a cherry red.
Her eyes widen in shock. «Oh god, why are you still here, then? You should have gone to him, not stayed here with me.» She's about to throw the blanket away when she realizes for the first time – concussed, remember? – that she's been put into a hospital gown. «What the fuck?»
«That may be my fault, lass,» Killian cuts in, the blush spreading down his neck as he realizes how his words may have been interpreted. «I didn't mention you slept through the night.» The way her eyes widen even more is almost comical. «Don't worry, Emma, it's very much normal for someone in your condition.» He checks his watch, pulling his lower lip between his teeth. That's not cute at all, that's downright sinful. «I'm afraid I have to go. I'll come check on you later.»
«Wait!» Emma exclaims as he's about to turn around and leave. «You said you are a surgeon, then why keep an eye on me?» I'm not that special, she can't help but think, and her heart tightens in her chest.
He smirks at her. «I couldn't just let the girl who made me literally fall for her be taken care of by someone who wasn't me, could I?»
Emma can't help it: she laughs. A full belly laugh that has tears leak out of the corners of her eyes and leaves breathless. «That was bad, Jones,» she chuckles, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand. «Again, I'm so sorry about it.» She chews on her lip. «Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?»
Surprised by her question, Killian tilts his head and shuffles on his feet, clearly uncomfortable. «If I were to ask you on a date, would you consider it?»
Speechless, Emma can only blink at him for a few seconds before blurting out: «Wouldn't it be against the rules? With you being my doctor and all that?» Of course she's not worried about the fact that he called it a date, especially not when Emma Swan doesn't do dates because she doesn't do romance. Honestly, she wants to blame the concussion, it'd be all so simple. Alas, it's not, and she can't really bring herself to turn him down, not when she wants to actually go on a date with him and there's no fear building up inside her. Hell, it wouldn't even be done out of obligation.
So, she waits for his answer, hoping it will be simple.
«It's not exactly forbidden, given you only have a concussion and I am not your surgeon…»
«Good,» she cuts him off, relaxing against the cushions. They are very soft. «Then it's a date.»
In that moment, Emma is glad she's laying down, because the boyish smile he gives her would be enough to send her flying down the stairs.
Suffice to say, she tortures both him and herself before kissing him for the first time, only because she wants for his bruise to be completely healed.
It's probably not a coincidence that it turns out to be so on their third date.