A/N Apologies for the exceedingly long delay in getting this chapter to you. I don't have a good excuse, just life unfortunately. This is now the most favourited and followed story I've ever had on this site, so thank you all for your kindness and continued patience! But the good news is that the next chapter (which is also Killian's POV and carries on from this one) is about 90% written, so there won't be a long delay for that. Also I've put a re-cap of sorts at the start of this chapter, just in case anyone is completely lost.
But while I wasn't writing this, I was writing Kind Hearts and Cat Flaps, which you can find under my profile. It was nominated for and won a Captain Swan award in the Humour category, which was seriously awesome. So thanks so much to everyone who voted for me, because it meant a great deal to me.
Disclaimer: None of the recognisable characters belong to me.
Faced with a life of uncertainty for herself and her ten year old son, Henry, Emma Swan has travelled to Storybrooke, Kansas as the mail order bride of Liam Jones only to be met by his brother, Killian, with news of Liam's sudden death and a proposal of his own. Faced with no way to make her own way in such a small town, and scant funds to return to Boston or elsewhere, Emma recklessly agrees to marry Killian and finds herself living on a small farm with a strange man and a boy whose upbringing has mostly been under the care of Emma's former employer.
Killian is undeniably attracted to the strange woman his brother sent for, but reluctant to press his case, knowing that she is already finding her new life on a farm strange enough, and that finding out all the dark secrets of her new husband's past would surely send her running from Storybrooke as fast as she could. Instead he has opted to prove himself as worthy a husband as he is able despite the rather alluring sight that was Emma rising from a bath.
Emma, aware of the attraction Killian feels for her, and not immune from feeling the same for him, finds her reactions to Killian tempered by her childhood as an orphan and a foundling and she remains cautious and wary, despite his overtures of real friendship. Life on the farm has afforded her new opportunities, however, and while she would not have imagined shooting a gun or wielding a hoe previously, she has found she enjoys the freedom from domestic activities, and Killian's recognition of this has brought somewhat of an understanding between the two of them.
In the meantime Emma has befriended the town's new teacher, Miss Blanchard, and been witness to her scheme to teach some of the women who populate the saloon to read. These women, and their employer Cora Mills, seem to know some of Killian's secrets and knowing that makes Emma a little wary around her new husband. Is he truly the man he presents himself as, or is there something hidden beneath the surface? Emma, no stranger to secrets of her own, is torn between letting Killian in and remaining detached to protect the heart she's vowed to never give away again.
Now they find themselves at a true test of the first tentative accord they have reached. On a first name basis, and with a common purpose in the management of the farm, they are slowly finding ways to enjoy each other's company despite the fact that neither are prepared to truly let their walls down completely.
Killian found it harder and harder to simply walk away from Emma and return to the little sod hut he called home. It wasn't only that he wished to share her bed, although there was no denying the fact he found her infinitely desirable. But he knew enough about her to realise that the time for pressing his claim to the marital bed was long past if, indeed, there had ever been an appropriate time to do so. A fearful, cowed Emma Swan held very little appeal for him.
But an Emma Swan who allowed him the simple pleasure of conversing with her, as prickly as some of her statements might be, an Emma Swan who occasionally smiled in his direction and who tirelessly helped him out around the farm, prepared to throw herself wholeheartedly into each new activity and refusing to be daunted. That was the Emma Swan he wanted to stay beside, and, perhaps even to call his.
She was her own person, however, and she'd made that abundantly clear. And while he might find her all the more fascinating for her determination to remain as steadfastly aloof as possible no matter what small courtesies he threw her way, it did make things considerably more difficult for him.
It had been a long time since he had attempted to win a woman's affections, and, as far as he could remember, he had never encountered such difficulties in doing so.
The charm that made him a pleasing companion had come naturally, and early, and often proved useful in those years when he and Liam had barely scraped by. It was surprising what he could gain from the briefest flirtation with women who were clearly ready to be flattered by the fine words which Emma had heartily rejected.
And even though an association with the likes of himself had the potential to cost Milah more than she was, perhaps, willing to pay, she had still been more than happy to seek out his company. Despite the precarious planning that went into their liaisons, persuading her to see him again had never been a hard task.
But dwelling on Milah was not going to help him assure Emma that she was safe in his care, especially when he had difficulty assuring himself of that fact. His biggest fear was not that she would never trust him, but that he would break the trust she might eventually grace him with. And every day she stayed with him the risk of that grew a little greater. There was only so long, after all, that he could keep the truth of things hidden from her.
He didn't want to let his thoughts travel down the dark path of worrying what might happen when Emma finally found out just how precarious their position was. Not when she was Emma now. The use of her name might be a small thing, but it felt like a hard-won victory and a sign that perhaps she was softening towards him. And while he had no expectations that she would suddenly change into the companion he desired and unburden herself of all the secrets he knew full well she still kept, it still felt like progress and it would pain him to think that it might be snatched away from him, that anything he hoped for was fruitless, that at the end he would be as alone as he had been before the arrival of Emma and Henry.
No, it was far better to keep away from that line of thinking and the pull of the drink that called to him from its place next to the basin in the dark sod hut that was as much a home as any he'd had for years. Better to allow himself the hope that one day, perhaps, he might reside in the cabin along with the boy he was growing increasingly fond of and the woman he found utterly captivating.
As pleasant as the images he chose to dwell on were, they still did not allow Killian to easily fall asleep. He lay on the small, cold bed and let the image of Emma in her nightgown play out in his mind until there is really no answer but to use his only good hand and try to satisfy his own lust in a way that was less than satisfying and simply exacerbated the thoughts he couldn't stop from invading the back of his mind; that all his hoping will only make the pain greater when in the end all he is left with naught.
He lay in the dark, and despite the deep and insistent pull of sleep, listened for something, anything that would tell him he was on the right path, that his fears were unfounded, and he would win Emma.
But there was only the sounds of the insects and the rustle of the wind, and then nothing at all.
The morning came quickly and Killian woke, startled to find that he had slept at all. Moreover he was awake long before the other inhabitants of the farm. He'd become so used to Henry's insistence that they see to the cows being the thing that pulled him from his bed in the morning that he found he quite missed the boy's chatter.
It was quiet still, not even the rooster had quite yet realised the sun was about to make its presence known. Killian was struck with the irrational notion that something awful had happened during the night and that he'd let it happen through simple neglect.
Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed Killian looked down at the stump of his left arm and it seemed an all too appropriate reminder of all his failings. If something had happened…if something did happen, then the blame for it could no doubt be laid at his door.
Losing his hand had, perhaps, not been the true start of his misfortunes, but it certainly felt like it at times. The moment he'd been maimed, the moment Milah had died, had been the moment he'd realised the truth, that no one cares what fine words you're saying when all they can see is the destruction you've caused written all over your own body.
Killian dressed as quickly as he was able, but, as he did so, the sound of people stirring in the cabin across the yard let him know that Henry and Emma had not been spirited away in the night. From what Killian could hear there was some discussion taking place over whether Henry would be able to fetch kindling before he came to milk the cows.
Feeling unreasonably anxious to see Emma again, a feeling he didn't particularly want to examine too closely, Killian set out for the cabin, only to see Henry walk around the side of it towards him.
"'Morning, Mr Jones," he called out, but didn't bother waiting for a reply before beginning on his first complaints of the morning. "Mama says I have to get her some kindling because she forgot last night and now I can't come and help with the cows until I've done it or there'll be no breakfast. Mama says it's bad enough that the stove never wants to co-operate on anything, she didn't need to start the day behind where she should be."
Having imparted the trials he was facing, Henry looked at Killian, no doubt expecting some amount of sympathy. "Well, it's a good thing to help your mother out, Henry," was all he could come up with.
"But if I do that, then I can't help you. There's just one of me, you know." Henry sighed loudly.
"I…yes, I was aware of that." It was hard not to smile at Henry's indignation at being pulled in more than one direction. At least, until he realised that Henry was looking at him expectantly in a way that suggested his comment about being only one boy was not merely a complaint he felt better for expressing to another person, but an actual problem he expected Killian, as the adult in the situation, to fix.
"Shall I take the kindling in to your mother while you go to the cows?"
"That's probably best, but, uh…Mr Jones? Mama, um…she did say to hurry." With that Henry ran off in the direction of the barn, where Killian could hear the white cow begin lowing in response to the boy's arrival.
Luckily there were some small sticks of kindling beside the larger woodpile, and Killian scooped them up one-handed, laying them in the crook of his left arm. When he reached the cabin however, he wasn't sure whether to knock as he had the previous night, or to take advantage of the fact that completing Henry's chore gave him a perfectly reasonable excuse for just walking straight in.
And so he did, pushing the door with his free hand and stepping in to what seemed to be an empty cabin. His solitude didn't last for more than a few seconds, however, as Emma stepped around the door of the bedroom, head bowed as she wrestled with the hair that draped down her back. "Can you put it in the stove, please Henry? I need to get that started otherwise…"
Emma's words died away as she looked up and saw that the person she was addressing was not, in fact, Henry. "Oh…good morning, Mr Jones." Her hands stilled and the hair she had been grasping fell over her shoulder in a way that Killian found quite entrancing, although he soon realised that merely admiring her in this way left them standing dumbly on either sides of the table.
"Where is Henry?" Emma asked, eventually breaking the silence that had fallen.
"He decided that the cows were greatly in need of his attention, and, to be frank, I think the white one does prefer him over me. But, uh…it's still Killian."
"I…I'm sorry?"
Killian stood there awkwardly, balancing the kindling on his arm and now feeling like he perhaps shouldn't have taken the task from Henry. But he was, if he was being honest, glad of the excuse to see Emma again after his rather fearful thoughts in the night. She was at least still here and that was something to be thankful for, even if the expression she was currently sporting was rather fearsome.
"Last night, we agreed," he continued. "To be on a first name basis from now on." He wondered if perhaps he'd imagined their strange little conversation in the cabin, that maybe it had just been his mind playing more tricks on him. Conjuring up images of an alluring Emma in the golden light of the lamp just to torment him with what he couldn't have.
Emma frowned, and her eyes looked downward, before she slowly lifted them again. "Yes, I suppose we did." She gave him a rather nervous-looking smile. "In truth I had forgotten; everything seems a little muddled up this morning."
"Well. At least you have your kindling now."
"Yes I do. You can, uh…just bring it over to the stove." Emma gestured towards her foe and Killian complied, stepping around the table and further into the cabin where he crouched down and began unloading some of the kindling into the stove.
Emma joined him in his task and Killian couldn't help but enjoy the opportunity it afforded to be close to her, their bodies crowded together in the small space. But his enjoyment of the moment clearly led to complacency and, as he bent towards her to begin stacking the excess kindling beside the stove, his hook became entangled in the still loose strands of Emma's hair.
While he may have relished being so physically close to her, this was a complication he could have done without, simply serving to remind the both of them of his defect and the potential for harm it held. Killian remained as still as he could while Emma disentangled herself, her fingers working quickly and the silence in the cabin almost deafening.
"I'm sorry," he offered, feeling it was a slightly inadequate response, but at the same time aware that this was hardly his fault. In truth there wasn't a good response to this situation; he was stuck with the hook and there was nothing that would change the situation now.
"No, I should have put it up sooner," Emma replied, standing up and gathering her hair in the same fluid motion before reaching into her apron pocket for something to keep it in place.
Killian rocked back on his heels and watched the rather her. It may have been a simple task, one that Emma performed every morning, but viewing it was a luxury he had not been afforded previously. He was going to take the opportunity to do so now that it had been presented to him, especially as the movement of her arms highlighted the gentle curve of her neck and the swell of her bosom and the whole picture was utterly mesmerising.
Emma caught his eye and he expected that she would be somewhat annoyed by his open admiration, but instead she looked almost ashamed and her hands dropped to her sides immediately, where they hung limply. For a brief moment Killian wondered what on earth could have provoked such a guilty reaction, but then he followed Emma's eyes as they fell on his hook and realised that she had completely misinterpreted his reason for staring at her. Emma suspected him of envy and that the use of his own two hands were the thing he most desired. It was absolutely not the case, although he would be lying if he said he didn't wish for the use of his left hand when it came to touching Emma.
But an opportunity to touch Emma was never going to arise while he was unable to even be in the cabin with her without an uncomfortable silence falling between them. Killian stood, and, awkwardly attempted to fill the empty space between them. "In truth I don't mind…that you are blessed with two hands while I am not. It would be a shame if someone as lovely as you are was marred in that way. And I'm sorry if I have caused offence, but it is difficult not to admire you from time to time."
Emma looked away at the floor and then back up at him, her gaze direct and almost challenging. "I do mean it," Killian continued. "My words are hardly empty flattery. You are quite the sight."
"I know you mean it," Emma said, in a voice that was little more than a whisper. If Killian hoped however, that her admission would grant him some favour, he was to be sorely disappointed. "I'm afraid that now the fire is laid it must be lit, or I will be able to say truly and sincerely that breakfast will not be forthcoming."
"Then I will leave you to your chores." Killian retreated, as gracefully as possible, back around the table and towards the door of the cabin, a quiet "Thank-you," reaching his ears just before he stepped outside the door.
Killian went to check on Henry, although the boy had most things in hand. The red cow was giving him some difficulty, however, and refusing to co-operate no matter how much Henry tried persuading her to stand where he wanted her to. It was tempting to offer up a few words on how Henry should get used to the obstinate ways of women and that Emma's almost complete refusal to accept that he may admire her was a perfect example, but he was wary of bringing Henry into his confidence. The lad was too young, and far too likely to, understandably, take his mother's side.
And he'd played that role himself, and hated every minute of it.
So there was no choice but to bide his time; finish the milking, report for breakfast and hope that the welcome in the cabin if not perhaps warm, was at least pleasant.
Certainly Emma appeared more relaxed when they were in the presence of Henry, who monopolised the conversation by talking about the shorter day at school, or, rather, attempting to persuade his mother than attendance for a morning only was hardly worth the bother.
But Emma was not to be moved by Henry's impassioned speech on just how useful he could be, and Killian was afraid that he had made an enemy of the boy by not coming to his defence. However just as he could not involve Henry in the complicated relationship between himself and Emma, he similarly could not over-ride Emma when it came to Henry's well-being.
He had, after all, attempted just that on their first morning here and soon learned the error of his ways. Emma was as hard to move as the red cow on her worst day.
And Killian admired her for that.
He did not have the opportunity to speak to Emma privately again until he was in back in the field, and she came to join him. "Well, does it suit me?" she demanded, gesturing to the clothes that hung loosely on her frame.
Killian wasn't certain there was an answer to that question which didn't involve outright lying. While he was trying to find a plausible sequence of words that would tie him to no particular opinion, Emma continued to watch him. "Are you certain that you wish to ask for such flattery? You didn't seem at all pleased with my attempt to compliment you this morning. Although perhaps I was a fool for even saying the words; I have been informed of your distrust of my fine words."
She frowned, this clearly not being the answer she expected from him and Killian felt a little like a heel for bringing the whole embarrassing moment back again.
Emma looked at a point on the horizon. "I felt that perhaps those words were less than fine and more than truthful. It was…well; I had the fire to set and I fear I could not appreciate them. For that I am sorry."
To Killian's eyes, Emma looked decidedly uncomfortable, which negated the whole idea behind giving her Liam's clothes in the first place. Most troubling was the notion that it was his words, as sincere as they had been, which had made her so. He wasn't at all certain of finding a suitable way to reassure her when it seemed to be the truthfulness with which he'd spoken that was the root cause of her discomfort.
It was decidedly puzzling but, while he was appreciative of the puzzle that was Emma and would enjoy the chance to study her further, right then he was mostly concerned with restoring her good humour. "Well, I would suggest you refrain from lighting any fires at the moment, with all that excess fabric I imagine you are highly flammable."
This earned him a small smile from Emma, and she appeared to be more comfortable discussing the clothes than she did Killian's admiration for her. "They are, of course, a little large…although surprisingly not the most ill-fitting things I have ever worn. Are you sure you wish me to have them? They will not be of more use to yourself?"
"No. I think my days of discovering how poorly Liam's hand-me-downs fit me have quite passed." He pressed his lips together in what he hoped was a smile, although he felt like doing anything else but smiling right at that moment. "But the object of the exercise was to make you more comfortable. If that is not the case, then do not feel any obligation to dress up as…well, like that, on my account. It is truly your choice."
Emma didn't reply to that other than to give a small nod and then, unexpectedly, she reached out and touched his arm, gently, her fingers clasping his left arm above the elbow, well out of the way of the brace, but he still had to steel himself not to flinch and pull his arm away.
Emma's fingers lingered for only a moment, administering the barest of squeezes, before she retracted her hand and Killian was left unsure of whether the gesture was designed to show gratitude or console him for his loss; perhaps it was both. All he knew was that as pleasing as it was to admire Emma from afar, it was far more enjoyable if she was close enough to touch. And that he'd trade a thousand glimpses of her stepping out of a bath for the chance to have her put her arms around him.
"Of course", she continued, stepping back a little. "I will need to return to my own clothes before Henry arrives home. I doubt he will be as understanding as you have been about the practicality of this garb trumping my need to look like a proper woman."
"I can tell you're still a woman," Killian said, a little obstinately,
"Yes, but I am not your mother and I think that would make a difference. I just..." Emma stopped and looked down at what she was wearing. "Regina would have despaired at looking like this. I need to remember that Henry is adjusting to a great many things and he does not need the added burden of a mother who does not conform to the world in which he thinks we live."
Killian opened his mouth, ready to defend her right to do as she bloody well pleased, but he closed it again, quickly, seeing there was some sense to her words. The lad's world had been turned upside down in the space of a week, perhaps it was no bad thing to leave him in ignorance about his mother's choices, as unorthodox as they would no doubt appear to Henry. There were many times in his own childhood when he'd wished for the same consideration.
Instead he watched as Emma walked towards the corner of the field she'd claimed as her own, carrying her hoe with her. It hadn't escaped his attention that she picked an area far away from him to work, and he tried not to feel slighted by that fact. Instead he decided to simply admire her work ethic, amongst other things. In truth he should be glad that she had taken to her task so well, that, despite whatever misgivings he still harboured about their ability to actually make the farm a going concern, she had not baulked at the task ahead of them.
Whether by design, or simply good luck, it turned out that Liam had picked well when he'd chosen a wife he'd never met in person.
But Killian wished to avoid any lingering thoughts of Liam, or even Emma, and picked up his own hoe intending to focus solely on the work ahead. Evidently Emma had the same plan, and soon there was silence, save for the sound of the hoes as they hit the hard earth.
And Killian was sure that their morning of dedicated hard work would have been impressive had it not ended quite so abruptly when Henry arrived over the ridge that bordered the field, clearly earlier than Emma had anticipated.
Afterwards Killian reflected that Henry may have reacted better to the sight of Emma dressed in men's clothes had she not appeared quite so shocked to have been caught out, straightening up and looking for all intents and purposes like she might try to flee from the scene.
Henry's arrival point was closest to where Killian was working and that was who Henry approached first. "Is that Mama?"
"Aye." There was hardly any point denying the fact, despite the fact it was plain from his voice that Henry wished him to do so.
"But she's…" Henry's words halted as Emma approached them, looking terribly guilty, her attempt to hide it behind a brisk comment of "You're home early," completely failing to do so.
"I wanted to see what you were doing," Henry said, his eyes scanning, once again, over Emma's attire. "But…why are you dressed like a man?"
"Well." Emma paused for long enough to give away the fact that she didn't have a ready answer for Henry. "It's more practical, and living here I think we need to be practical."
Henry looked less than convinced by his mother's reasoning. "But Miss Blanchard came here too, and she wears a dress," he countered. "Plus those other women at the school."
Killian watched Emma carefully, wondering how she would react to being compared to the teacher and the other pupil's mothers. The annoyance showed plain in her features for a moment or two, before she managed to soften her expression. Her words, however, retained the clipped tones of someone who did not want to be having this conversation.
"Well, they are hardly working in a field. This is a temporary solution for practical purposes because I can assure you that no one was ever meant to wield a hoe in a dress."
Henry looked a little chastened, but then he stuck his chin out in a perfect imitation of his mother and announced "I just…I don't think it's right, is all."
Killian wanted to point out that practical doesn't always intersect with the concept of right, which tended to vary from person to person anyway. But he kept quiet and waited to see what Emma's response was.
He suspected that Emma was thinking something along the same lines, but held herself back, and for a moment all she did was press her lips together and look anywhere but at Henry's face. When she did finally speak, her words were not much gentler than they had been previously. "I think it's time for lunch, Henry. Go on up to the house and I'll be there shortly." With that she turned on her heel and walked back towards the hoe that had been left lying on the ground.
Henry looked less than satisfied, his clear discomfort with the situation manifesting in the way his feet shuffled and his arms twisted at his sides. "It just doesn't seem right," he muttered, only just loud enough to be heard.
Killian felt for the lad, and the fact he was clearly struggling to articulate just what he didn't like about the garments his mother was wearing. It was tempting to remind Henry that adults had the right to do as they pleased without being called to account for it by children, but the boy was merely saying out loud what everyone else would think should they see Emma dressed this way and Killian didn't think singling Henry out for censure would do much good.
And Henry, no doubt sensing that while no rebuke was forthcoming, Killian was not about to commiserate with him either, sighed deeply and then trudged off looking as though he had bricks strapped to his feet. Killian hoped he would get over it soon and that the evening meal would not be spoiled by a feud between mother and son.
As Emma came past him, however, carrying the hoe she'd recovered he found out that he may have been mistaken about where blame was being laid. "I should have known better than to take up your offer. I'm sure it was meant well, Mr Jones, but as you can see, there are some lines that shouldn't be crossed."
Killian was a little shocked to suddenly be on the receiving end of an accusation, and it took him a moment to realise that not only was he apparently the source of Emma's problems, but he was now back to being Mr Jones as well. And while he knew that her words were fuelled by her frustration with Henry and that speaking to defend himself was the last thing Emma would welcome, he had held his tongue far too long that morning and was no longer prepared to be a silent observer.
"I'm sure you remember that I merely made a suggestion; the choice to dress how you are was entirely in your hands. Emma." Killian watched Emma's eyes widen at his words, her lips press together and then he was stuck with the sight of her back as she walked away from him, much faster than Henry had done moments before.
It left him a little deflated; while he felt that any argument that may have ensued would have been entirely at Emma's provocation, he had felt that rush of blood that normally proceeded such an event. If Emma wasn't prepared to stay in the field and actually answer the charge he'd put to her, he was left with a surfeit of nervous energy.
There was nothing for it, but to return to the work at hand. There was no way he could show his face for lunch now, and he was in no mood for uncomfortable silence broken only by Emma kicking the stove when it didn't behave. Instead he dug the hoe into the earth as hard as he could, and tried to ignore the urge to run after Emma and insist she recant her accusations. It would do no good, she had fled and she clearly needed time to deal with Henry on her own.
But still, it hurt that she was so quick to turn against him when things were not going her way. And her refusal to call him Killian was the worst blow of all.
Perhaps he'd been a fool for thinking he could ever be more than Mr Jones to her.
That thought gnawed at him as he spent the afternoon working, slowly and painfully breaking the earth and turning it over. By the time the sun had moved across the sky he was almost convinced that there was very little point returning to the cabin, that he would be persona non grata ever after. Or that, worse, he might return to find that Emma and Henry had left altogether.
Killian had run through so many potential scenarios, none of them good, by the time he did walk back to the cabin that he was almost pleasantly surprised to find the worst thing awaiting him was a rather solemn Henry carrying feed for the chickens.
"Mama says it's supper time," he announced, sounding less than impressed by the fact.
"Alright. I'll, um, just wash up and then I'll head inside."
Whatever response Henry expected it was clear that Killian's words hadn't satisfied him. Instead of relaying the message to Emma, he followed behind Killian, swinging the pail beside his legs as he walked.
"Mama's wearing a dress again," he announced to Killian's back.
"Is she?" They reached the barn and Killian stepped inside to place his hoe back where it belonged against the wall, when he came back out Henry was looking at him expectantly, as though he was the one who should be answering a question. "That's…uh. To be expected?"
Killian wasn't at all sure what Henry expected of him in this matter and it was difficult not to feel cornered. He had been trying to lay low and hope the dust settled and his one mistake had already cost him dearly; the last thing he wanted was to accidentally end up taking Henry's side against Emma, or rebuking Henry if Emma had already set the boy straight while Killian was working.
He was beginning to wish he'd stayed in the field a while longer and avoided everyone and everything for as long as possible.
"So I think it will be alright now, won't it Mr Jones?"
"In what way?"
"Well…" Henry paused, and looked down at the ground and shuffled the handle of the bucket in his hands. "You could come back, now. Into the cabin. Because…well, you don't have to be mad, or anything."
"You think I took issue with how your mother was dressed?"
Now it was Henry's turn to look taken aback. "I just thought…I mean. I don't know, Mr Jones." The last part sounded defensive, as though it had been Killian accusing him of some misdeed.
"But you think there's some bad blood between us?"
"Mama scrubbed the table for a long time. It's a good thing there's a table left, I guess. And you didn't come for lunch. It was just us, and Mama was awfully unhappy the whole time." Henry's voice dropped down to a whisper. "It was worse than this morning, when there was no kindling."
"And she didn't say why she was unhappy?"
Henry looked distinctly uncomfortable at that question. "Well, I guess it's because of the clothes she was wearing? And…and…because she'd done something bad?" He screwed up one side of his face and looked uncertain about the whole thing.
Killian was also far from certain. It was hard to believe the boy couldn't put two and two together and figure out that the most likely cause for Emma's alleged mood was himself. However, Killian was also acutely aware that Henry had barely lived with Emma up until this point in his life. Perhaps he really was a complete novice when it came to his mother?
And he felt inclined to sympathise with Henry over that.
"I think Henry, that perhaps she was a little disconcerted at you calling her to account over the way she was dressed. And then, I concede, she was disgruntled with something I said as well. Perhaps it's best to leave all discussion of your mother's choice of clothing for now and just let her choose what is practical."
"So…you weren't mad she didn't look like someone's wife?" Killian had started to walk towards the sod hut, with the notion of actually trying to look somewhat presentable when he fronted up for supper, and Henry had continued to follow him. Whatever comfort he'd hoped his words would provide the boy, they had surely missed their mark.
"No. I wasn't…was that what you thought?"
"Well…it's just that when we were coming here Mama said that we'd all have to be on our best behaviour, and something about how she'd have to learn to be a wife…I guess because my father died on her and she never really got to be one. I don't know, really. Anyway, she made it sound like…well, you know how Aunt Regina had the gentlemen guests who lived with us? She used to say that if they didn't know how to be a gentleman and a proper guest then they could leave. So I guess I thought that if Mama wasn't a proper wife…" He trailed off and Killian stopped at the door of the hut and faced him.
"You thought I might send you away?"
Henry shrugged, the pail in his hands rising up with the action. "I didn't know, but Mama sounded serious when she said it. Because it's not right, is it? A lady wearing pants. And if she can't be a proper lady, maybe she's not a proper wife?"
"I don't really think her attire would make that much of a difference, Henry."
"Don't you, Mr Jones? It's not something you see though, is it? Ladies dressed like that. None of the other ladies around here do, not even those ones at the school that didn't seem to have any men with them."
Killian had no idea why Henry thought the mothers of his classmates were so special, but he was far more concerned with Henry's fears about Emma's transgressions.
"I think that you can rest assured that no one is sending anyone away and just…well I don't think it matters what your mother wears on the outside. She's a good woman, and that's what counts."
He hoped that this would be the words that would end discussion on the matter, but Henry was not an easy person to placate with mere words. Killian supposed he had that in common with Emma.
"So are you a good man then, Mr Jones?"
Killian had thought that Henry had reached the pinnacle of difficult questions but he hadn't anticipated the lad's sudden interest in his own morality.
"I hope so, Henry." It was the utter truth; he hoped to be good enough to one day feel that he deserved Emma, whether she was wearing pants or not. He just couldn't be certain that it would ever happen.
Henry, who no doubt still retained a more black and white view of the world, despite the fact that Emma's odd clothing choice had perplexed him earlier, seemed satisfied with that answer. "I guess that's good then. Because you're married and...everything."
Killian couldn't be entirely certain what Henry's concept of 'everything' entailed. To his own mind it was far more complex a thing than could be encapsulated by that one word. But he had little desire to discuss the matter further with Henry lest he accidentally give away the fact that his desire for this 'everything' with Emma had nearly burned a hole in his heart.
"You had better run inside now, Henry. Tell your mother I'll be along shortly."
"Yes, Mr Jones." Henry ran off and Killian did his best to clean up a little at the cracked basin in the hut, before facing whatever was waiting for him.
Despite his best attempts not to appear too cautious as he stepped across the threshold of the cabin, despite not being sure of the welcome that would be waiting for him, or if there would even be a welcome of any description.
But looking around the door of the cabin elicited almost no response from Emma, save for the fact her eyes flicked in his direction, briefly, before returning to the pot out of which she was currently spooning something. She put one plate in front of Henry, and another at the empty place in front of Killian and turned her back to the table.
It seemed like he was to sit down and eat and while he thought he should be grateful to still be included in family meals he couldn't help but feel more than a little disappointed that his presence made almost no difference to Emma. Save for the extra plate of food she had served there was nothing to mark the fact he was sitting at the table as well as Henry.
Emma sat, but her eyes were mostly on Henry and her own food and, after Henry was prompted to say a short grace, Killian set about eating what appeared to be a reminder of the fact that the household supplies were running short again. The few vegetables on the plate were barely appetising, but he ate them with as much relish as he could muster, finishing before either Henry or Emma.
That, at least, got Emma's attention and prompted her to ask. "Will you have more, Killian?"
Those were the first words she had spoken since walking away from him earlier, and while they were hardly kind, they were not unduly harsh either. Although the pointed use of his name was impossible to miss and brought back a less than pleasant reminder of how he had chided her earlier and made him wonder whether Emma was the sort of person who might hold a grudge.
He managed to stammer out a "Yes, please," in response, and he watched Emma rise from the table, wordlessly, wondering if he had atoned sufficiently, when Henry suddenly addressed him.
"Mr Jones, is that your name?"
"Aye. It is." Killian kept his eyes on Emma as she crossed back to the table with the pot of stew and began replenishing the food on his plate.
"Killian?" Henry repeated. "I haven't heard a name like that before."
"It's Irish…uh, thank you." He was a little late with his gratitude, distracted by Henry's questions, and he had ended up speaking to Emma's back. She smiled at him though, as she resumed her seat, and Killian could only hope that there was to be no holding of grudges.
He set about finishing up the food in front of him, but was interrupted, again, by Henry. "Are you Irish, Mr Jones?"
"Well. Yes." There was no point in denying that fact, but the look of astonishment in Henry's eyes was still a little hard to stomach. It was clear he was re-evaluating Killian in light of this new information and Emma's stern look from her side of the table was completely missed by the boy.
It wasn't as though Killian wasn't used to it, but this felt a little close to home. A few hours earlier he had been admiring Liam's skill in picking a wife; now he was worried that Emma would be the one regretting her choice.
"Henry, I don't really think it makes any difference one way or the other," Emma said, attempting to halt the conversation in its tracks.
"I suppose not," Henry agreed. "I just haven't really met one before. Aunt Regina didn't think they were fit to be guests." The words rolled off his tongue as though it was a fact that every person in the world just knew. And while Killian was completely aware of the attitudes that existed out in the world, it was galling to realise that they were not the sole domain of adults who should know better.
A deeply awkward silence fell over the table; Killian wondering if he should say something in his own defence, and Emma looking quietly mortified. Only Henry seemed not to notice the effect his words were having on the adults and he blundered on unthinkingly. "Although she did say that the Irish girls made the best maids and that they didn't go around just hiding their mistakes under their aprons."
"Is that right, lad?" Killian's focus was no longer on Henry but on Emma, whose level of discomfort had increased dramatically at her son's last words. It was a little perplexing, really, because Henry was moving further away from his original topic and likely to completely forget the fact that he had begun the conversation by marvelling at Killian's strangeness and unsuitability as one of Regina's guests.
But Emma's face was scrunched and uncomfortable looking and she had gone from trying to make eye contact with Henry and warn him away from the topic, to staring unblinkingly at the hands twisting in her lap. And all of a sudden it wasn't so perplexing anymore. Henry's throw-away comment about mistakes had clearly hit Emma, the maid who'd concealed a pregnancy from her employer, hard. More to the point the fact that Henry could be termed a mistake shed somewhat of a new light on why exactly Emma had been so reckless with the truth of her situation.
It wasn't a thing he would probably ask her outright, but it became clear to Killian in that moment just how alone and desperate Emma must have been. He wished there was some way he could tell her how much he admired her resolve to carry on and do her best for her son, but there were no suitable words that didn't breach the walls of the past she'd built for herself, a past she'd no doubt defend to the end.
And so he merely waited until her eyes lifted a little and smiled at her across the table, and hoped she caught his intent.
The meal finished, Killian left the cabin and its inhabitants to their nightly rituals and began his own, although he couldn't help but continue listening to the sounds of their conversation as they carried across the yard. Henry's good-humour had never faltered, the boy having completely missed the pain he'd caused his mother this time, and it was mostly his voice Killian could hear. Emma's words were only heard occasionally but as long as they were there, and she was speaking still, Killian felt a little better.
He had forgotten what it was like to carry around the worry that the people you lived with, the ones that perhaps were your family, were unhappy with each other. It was a burden he'd never expected to have again, and he wasn't entirely certain he was prepared for it.
All seemed calm, and yet Killian couldn't stop himself from continuing to listen to Henry and Emma's voices, to the point where he was almost convinced he had crossed the boundaries into eavesdropping. In the process he'd drifted nearer and nearer to the cabin, attempting to find some plausible reason for being so close, although there were scant jobs that he could claim needed his attention in the failing light of the yard.
Realising that discovery would be a blow to his pride, if not a break in whatever fragile peace currently existed between Emma and himself, Killian started to make his way back towards the hut with the intention of finding his bed and trying to refrain from the allure of the alcohol still lurking on the trunk in the corner of his room. A light beside the cabin caught his attention and he stopped short and watched Emma appear with a lamp and begin what seemed a complicated and rather strange process of bringing the basin and jug out of the cabin and setting them down in the dirt. It was only when she knelt and poured the water over her own head that he realised what it was she was doing.
It was an odd feeling, watching her in such a fashion and knowing that she thought herself alone. He may have seen her bathe, but he couldn't shake the notion that she had engineered that moment for his benefit. This was a woman completely unawares and, to Killian's mind at least, utterly mesmerising.
Unable to leave the scene in front of him, but knowing he risked discovery the longer he stayed, Killian was torn. He watched, silently, as Emma rubbed something…an egg, perhaps?...through her hair and then began the process of rinsing it out before she took a seat on the little stool outside the cabin and pulled a comb out of her pocket.
Emma's hands moved quickly as she combed out the wet, tangled mess of her hair and, lovely a sight as she was, the light had almost gone now and Killian felt he should take advantage of the inky shadows and find the way back to his own dwelling. But then Emma let out a long, deep sigh and cast her gaze around the yard and he was suddenly filled with the notion that perhaps his company would not be completely unwelcome.
He stepped forward with purpose, as though he was only now coming upon the scene, and Emma looked over at him and smiled. Or, at least, he thought she did. Maybe it was the shadow cast by the lamplight playing across her face and his own wishful thinking. But he smiled in return and she did not seem unduly surprised when he spoke. "You are out late tonight."
"The evening seems to have flown past me, unfortunately. I had a mind to do this prior to supper but I set to washing Henry's hair first and he took a considerable amount of persuading despite the fact he has less hair than I. I suppose I shall have to be resigned to sleeping with a damp pillow tonight."
"Well, there is a remedy for that but it would take a braver man than I to suggest it, given the earlier…uh, situation we encountered this afternoon."
"Yes, I fear that cutting my hair would not be well received by Henry at all, despite the fact he now assures me that the fact I wore men's clothes does not mean I am not married to a good man…or something to that effect anyway." Emma did smile this time; Killian was close enough to make out the sly curve of her lips as she glanced at the ground and then over at him through her lashes.
"Well, Henry would know. The lad seems wise beyond his years." He liked the playful Emma, even though he knew there was no small degree of artifice in her manner. Still, it was far more pleasant than a silent and vengeful Emma, and he was determined to maintain good relations as long as he could.
Emma huffed a little in response. "Unfortunately he is a little over-fond of repeating the things he has grown up hearing, without examining whether they are true or not." She let the hand holding the comb fall to her lap. "I'm sorry that he was so thoughtless during dinner, and…sorry also for my own harsh words earlier. It has been a little trying attempting to…well, to navigate this path I find myself on. I did not expect to encounter quite so many obstructions along the way, and certainly not in the form of Henry. It has been a little unexpected to say the least."
"I can imagine." He hoped he sounded sincere, because he well understood the difficulty in reconciling the image of the family you thought you might be able to have and the behaviour of the people within it.
"I hope that Henry will be able to find his place here," Emma said, barely acknowledging that Killian had spoken. "Despite the fact he has found me a disappointment."
"I hardly think you are the only one who surprised him today." As painful as it was to remember Henry's thoughtless words he wanted to ensure that Emma did not feel unduly singled out. Henry's view was, after all, that of a child and he would learn soon enough that absolutes were rare in the world they lived in.
"No, but even so…" Her voice trailed off and Emma twisted the comb in her lap a couple of times before she seemed to arise at a decision to speak her mind. "I was mostly raised in an orphanage…I never saw my own parents and cannot tell if Henry's occasional disappointment is par for the course. But, despite my lack of experience of parental love, I do understand what I have missed, and it was not just the warmth of my family. I missed out on a community, on others on whom I could rely when times were tough. That is what I wish for Henry, above all else. That if I, in some way, fail him he will have others who can take my place."
Killian judged that Emma had finished her speech and assumed this was his time to assure her that as her husband he would always ensure Henry was well cared for, but he had clearly misjudged the situation and before he could open his mouth Emma continued. "And so, with that aim in mind, I mean to take Henry to church in the morning."
"I see." Killian's mind scrambled to figure out the correct response to this news. In the end he settled on small talk and skirting the issue rather than risk Emma stating outright how unhappy she was with her new situation. "And this has prompted the hair-washing tonight?"
"Perhaps, although it is the one practice I still adhere to from my days in the orphanage. Our hair was always washed on Saturdays."
"Well. I will leave you to your ablutions." He turned and started to leave, but Emma's hand reached out and brushed his sleeve, making him stop in his tracks.
"I could uh…wash yours, if you wished?"
For a moment he toyed with the idea of refusing and retreating in order to lick his wounds, but the sincerity of the offer and the opportunity for further contact with Emma it presented, prompted him to agree.
Emma stood and gestured to the stool. "If you sit I'll just check on Henry and be back in a moment." She disappeared inside the cabin and Killian was again struck with the idea of fleeing from her ministrations in much the same way as Henry would have desired should he had found the opportunity to do so.
But he stayed rooted to the spot, and, soon, Emma re-emerged with a rather fond smile on her face, and draped a towel over Killian's shoulders, her touch all too brief. "He is asleep, and I'm afraid I took the opportunity to watch him for a while. It never ceases to amaze me how different he looks in slumber. All of a sudden I can see the little boy I once had and, although Henry is far from that infant these days, I am glad that a part of him lives on."
Her voice was wistful and tinged with sadness and Killian wished that he could believe that she would allow him some opportunity to comfort her, but instead he watched as Emma set her shoulders, shook her still-damp hair and adopted an air of brisk efficiency. "Lean forward, then. Over the basin."
Killian couldn't be entirely certain whether this was prompted by Emma's belief in his helplessness, or a genuine kindness on her part. Perhaps she merely wanted to retain his company for a little longer, and, certainly, as she poured water over his scalp and then with strong, sure fingers, rubbed soap through his hair, she was happy to talk further of her plans for the following day.
"I am hopeful that getting to know the people in this town will serve Henry well in the long term. After all, I am not conceited enough to believe that I will live forever and I want to know that Henry is well-settled."
"I am certain that he will be…content here in Storybrooke."
"I hope so. I hope that this move will serve the both of us well. All of us, I suppose."
Killian wasn't certain whether he should feel dismissed as a mere afterthought or encouraged by the fact that he was, at least, being included in Emma's plans for a happier future. Instead he settled back to enjoy the closeness of their bodies as she leaned over him. They'd been close before, the hanging of the washing line and the lessons with the shotgun being the notable occasions he'd had to stand so close to her, to put his arms around her and just pretend.
But never had she touched him so willingly, and it was pure pleasure being able to enjoy these few moments, the touches he'd longed for that morning. Her hands were sure, but gentle all the same and the occasional brush of her bosom against his shoulders as she leaned into her task was no mere trifling touch, but seemed to Killian to promise the great delight he could enjoy should Emma deign to press herself more willingly against him in other circumstances.
Determined not to do anything to make her uncomfortable he sat as still as he could, his good hand holding the towel and the hook resting on his lap, far away from where it might accidentally damage Emma. And he was glad of the arm resting there when Emma stood in front of him and he found his gaze filled only with the sight of her breasts, close enough that he could lean forward and place his mouth there if he so wished. He would do no such thing, of course, but it didn't stop his blood pumping faster and the arousal that bloomed in his loins.
"There, that should be better," Emma said, with a smile and he couldn't help but enjoy her delight in helping him. It was a rare treat, he realised, to be someone's sole focus…to be Emma's only focus, and the bliss in that moment was all-encompassing.
When the last of the soap was rinsed from his hair, he straightened up while she stood back to admire her handiwork. The lamp behind her was shining through her hair and he felt a little like the insects it had attracted, drawn to something bright and hot and ultimately dangerous. But Emma wasn't the one who'd bring danger here.
He was.
"And so you will accompany us?" she asked, and Killian was at a loss for what the topic of conversation had been and then he remembered. Church.
"Ah. No. I'm afraid it's not a place I would be…very comfortable."
"They are not your people." She looked away, a sad smile on her face. "I don't mind, you know. About…anything Henry may have spoken of earlier. Regina's household was never truly mine and I don't share her views, and I knew what I had agreed to when I came here. I may have spoken harsh words earlier, but they do not come from a true disappointment with my situation, but with…well, I am sorry anyway. And I do not wish to press you into something, but please understand that I don't expect more of you than you can offer me. You have said that you…admired me. I hope that this admiration is born of a…a…mutual respect. Not just…fleeting appearances. I hope that we both want the same thing."
It wasn't, of course, the country of his birth that was the only way in which Killian could embarrass Emma and he was torn between the pain of causing her hurt now, and the potential discomfort she would have to endure on the morrow should they attend the little church together.
"I…I can't."
"I understand," Emma replied, a little too quickly and with a harsher edge to her words than they had previously held. "I do, really. You needn't worry. I'm sure Henry and I will be just fine."
"I do thank you, Emma. For your care of me tonight." Killian stood and took a step towards her, hoping to regain some of their earlier good cheer. He wanted it back, and more besides. He wanted her to invite him into the cabin, to hold him in her arms. He wanted her to keep saying that she didn't care what he was and what he'd done until he could almost believe it himself.
But Emma wanted something else entirely, perhaps someone else entirely. A man who could hold his head high in church, set an example for her son. A man that Killian would never be.
"Goodnight, Killian. Sleep well." Emma picked up the discarded towel and the lamp and he watched it disappear inside the cabin, the light he desired so strongly disappearing along with it.
After a few moments his eyes adjusted to the sudden return to darkness, but his heart still yearned for something brighter in his life. Something that could only be illuminated by the fall of silken hair and the smile of the woman who had captured something in his very soul.
He rebelled, though, against the longing. Turned traitor and fell, once again, into the arms of his old mistress the whiskey, despite knowing full well that it could never blot out his true desires, never cure him of his vices, and certainly never make him into something he was not.
He had thought himself such a fine, forgiving man. Uncaring of the way in which his new wife had come to motherhood, desirous to prove that he held her to no unachievable feminine ideal. That he valued her for who she was when she was with him, and not for who he had hoped would warm his bed at night. But he was just as much a hypocrite as the citizens of Storybrooke who would fill the church pews the next morning.
Whatever promise the day had started with it had now been shaken into the dirt at his feet along with the water Emma had poured over his hair. His fine words about winning her, his promise to not constrain her, all proven lies now he could not give her this one simple thing she desired.
He was a fool, and he would be lucky if Emma never thought him worse than that.
Thanks for reading!