His room faces the ocean, a huge plate glass window displaying the full fury of the incoming storm. The waves stretch out before them, the surf spitting out foam as the snows settle in, thick bits of white that fall softly outside the glass, only to race along in a sudden gust of wind.
"Here." He holds out a pair of fleece pants and a thermal shirt, the fabrics soft and warm. They smell like him, and she feels like she's been burned just holding them.
"Replace your wardrobe already?"
"Aye. It was easier than facing you." She hears the pain in his voice, the regret, the shame, but she doesn't care. (It's a lie, she cares plenty, but she doesn't want to, not with the way he's hurt her.) "You should shower, get warm."
She nods, turning for the bathroom. It's like moving through a dream, going through the motions of turning on the water, undressing. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, her hair tangled and windblown, her cheeks red from the cold and her lips a faintly blue tint.
"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" she asks her reflection, her ears straining for any movement in the room outside the door. She's found him (he found her) but now what?
The Emma in the mirror doesn't have any answers, either.
She's nearly convinced herself he'll be gone by the time she gets out of the shower, but she can't bring herself to rush, either. The water burns her frozen skin, her numb fingers and toes coming back to sudden awareness as the water hits them. She stands under the spray, lets the water rush over her, and struggles with the tears that want to spill over.
She doesn't even know why she wants to cry. Relief? It can't be that – yes, she's found him, but what good is it going to do her? Even if he does come home with her, it's going to take a long time for her to trust him again. Does she even want to try to trust him again? And what is she supposed to do with the anger, simmering hot beneath her frozen skin?
The water is still rushing over her when she hears the door crack open, his voice low and worried. "Are you all right?" he asks softly, his voice barely audible over the water.
"Sure." It's the best she can do, because the real answer is no, she's not all right. She's confused and hurt and exhausted and pissed. But she doesn't want to tell him that, doesn't want him to be in this bathroom with her, only the thin curtain separating them. Whatever else she feels, she still wants him, and the last thing she can do is give into that with things how they are between them.
"I'll be right outside if you need me."
"Okay." The door shuts quietly behind him, and Emma lets out the breath she hadn't meant to hold. She stays where she is, the water rushing over her, until it runs cool.
She dries off slowly, merely delaying the inevitable. Whatever he's going to say to her, it's going to be hard to hear. He might apologize – but that will mean listening to an explanation of why he left her in the first place. Or possibly worse, he might not apologize. He might simply wait for her to be warm enough to be on her way.
His clothes are too big for her. She rolls the waist of the pants, so similar to the ones he showed up at her door wearing that first night he slept in her bed. It feels weak to do it, but Emma presses the shirt to her nose anyway, draws in the smell of him before she pulls the shirt over her head, pushing the too-long sleeves up to her elbows.
He's pacing when she finally opens the bathroom door, the windows beyond showing a wall of white has closed in around them while she was in the shower. Her heart sinks with realization the storm has arrived.
She's stuck here now, whether she wants to be or not.
He stops short when he hears the door open, his eyes wide and fixed on her. He scrubs his hand over his face, opening his mouth to speak but then stopping before the words come out.
"The storm's here," Emma says when he remains silent, nodding at the windows. It's a struggle to keep her voice from breaking. "Are there a lot of people staying here? It's normally pretty empty in the winter. I should get my own room." It's someone else talking, cold, detached words that come from her mouth without her permission.
"Please stay."
"Why? You didn't. You didn't stay. So why should I?"
"Because I love you. Because I'm a bloody idiot and a fool. I've spent the last hour trying to think of words that will convey what it is I feel for you, love, but I don't have them. I just love you and I need you and I never should have walked out your door."
She wants to go to him, let him wrap her in his arms and kiss her until they both forget this ever happened, but she can't. Her heart is too fragile to turn over to him again so soon.
Instead, she sits on the edge of the bed, her eyes on the snow outside. The wind is rising, the snow slanting as it races across her field of vision, nearly making her dizzy. She can barely see the ocean through the wall of white.
"You left." She huddles inside her clothes, drawing her knees up to her chest and pulling the shirt over them. "You left without so much as an explanation. You told me you lied to me and you just left."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Why, Killian?" Her resolve is crumbling, the emotion creeping back into her words. It's a struggle to keep them even, to keep the tears in her choked throat and behind her burning eyes. "I warned you, about David and Mary Margaret. I told you how they are."
"I reacted poorly and behaved badly, I know. I knew then. I just…" He sighs, gingerly sitting beside her on the bed. It takes most of Emma's self control not to lean into him. "I have nothing to offer you, Emma. You've been through so much already, and you have a lovely family now, and I'm…not a lovely man. I've demons and troubles and one bloody hand."
"I told you, I don't care. I just wanted you to stay." It's a useless fight, her crusade against the tears, because they're stronger than she is, and they're pouring down her cheeks.
"You deserve better."
"Just stop!" Her anger surprises him, his eyes widening, but Emma doesn't pause, doesn't slow down to think. The words just come rushing out, so fast he can barely follow her. "You need to stop telling me what I need, what I deserve. You don't get to make those choices. I get to make those choices. If you don't want me, you say so. That's your choice. That's the choice you get to make. Do you want me?"
"Emma, I…it's not a question of…"
"Yes or no, Killian. Those are your choices." Her hands are shaking inside the sleeves of his shirt, and she clutches them together, out of his sight. "Do. You. Want. Me?" It's the hardest question she's ever asked in her life, because she isn't sure, she doesn't know what he's going to say.
"I've never wanted anything so badly in my life." His voice is hoarse, like he's struggling to keep himself in line, his hand balled into a tight fist where it rests on his thigh.
"Then you fight for it, god damn it! You tell me when it's hard, when you need some space, when it's too much or you're afraid, or whatever the problem is, you fucking tell me!" It's hard to breathe, the sobs choking her and the words stealing her breath. She's yelling at him, and she doesn't quite mean to, but she can't stop.
He's watching her, eyes intense and body rigid. His gaze drops to her mouth, and she shouldn't want him this badly, but she does. "Okay," he whispers, reaching for her and nearly crumpling with relief when she comes to him, lets him wrap her up in his arms and cling to her.
"David is probably to punch you," she tells him, struggling to stop crying, to stop sniffling, to gain some sort of control over herself.
"I intend to let him."
"Killian!"
She pulls back, running her fingers lightly over his face, the arch of his brow and the curve of his cheek. "You are not going to go looking for a fight."
"I deserve it."
"Maybe." She takes a deep breath, inching closer until their lips are nearly touching. "Probably. But it's not up to David what happens between us."
He's the one to close the gap, to kiss her gently, reverently. His hand tangles in her wet hair as she settles into his lap, and the sensation of his body so close, the scent of him, the heat of him, it's almost too much, but it can never be too much.
Something in her snaps, and the kiss goes from tender to needy, Emma's fingers tightening in his hair, her mouth greedy as she presses closer. She doesn't want to talk anymore; she doesn't want to hurt anymore.
They've only been apart a week, but it feels like so much longer. Killian has become a part of her, woven into the fabric of her soul. She knows that now, wrapped in his arms, because him leaving was like tearing her in two. She still hurts, and it will take more than this night to heal these wounds, but it's a start.
She wishes they could go home, crawl into bed together in the apartment, but it seems better in some ways, to be here, together and starting new. The storm keeps them here, isolated, away from Ruby, away from David, away from the memories of the apartment.
He's whispering her name in between their kisses, almost like it's a prayer and a plea, his hand falling to the small of her back, fingers splayed across her skin beneath the shirt. But he doesn't fall back when she leans into his shoulders, tries to push him down.
His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright with lust, but he still seems nervous when she pulls back to look at him. "What's wrong?"
He laughs, a nervous, jittery laugh. His hand moves to her cheek, his thumb rubbing her swollen bottom lip. "I didn't bring you here so you would go to bed with me tonight."
"I know."
"I failed at this, Emma. I told you before, that you're worth treating properly, and I didn't. We've never even had a proper date." His eyes drop to her mouth, her lips red with their kisses, and it takes a great deal of control to slide his hand to her waist and stop there. "Perhaps we should…slow down."
She wants to argue. She wants to just kiss him until he stops going on about properly and dates and anything other than being in this room together, this night. It's growing dark around them, and she wants him to chase away the shadows with his lips and his touch, to warm her from the inside out, but she knows he's right.
"I love you," he murmurs against her shoulder, pressing a chaste kiss to her skin where the neckline of the too-big shirt has slipped off. "I'll spend the rest of my life proving it to you if I have to, Emma."
"You can't leave me like that again."
"I know." He kisses her, a tender kiss that makes her feel fragile in his arms. "I won't. I realize perhaps you won't believe me, now, in light of all that's happened…but I was going to come back. I was working up the nerve when Red called, said you'd come looking for me."
"How did you find me on that beach?"
He sighs, taking her hand and weaving his fingers through hers. "I was walking back toward the motel where Red dropped me. Figured you would start there. I saw your car at the beach. Not many people 'round here driving such a hideously bright contraption."
She smiles at that, a tiny, reluctant smile. He's made fun of her car as long as she's known him, and she probably shouldn't be letting him tease her now, but it feels good to smile, to let the tension ease out of her shoulders. "I love the bug."
"I love you."
She hangs onto the smile, barely, because it's what she wants to hear, it's the right thing for him to say, but she wonders how long it will be before she can hear the words without the twinge of pain, the specter of doubt instantly creeping in behind the sentiment.
She doesn't want him to see it on her face, the doubt, so she kisses him, gives herself over to the simple pleasure of kisses that won't go anywhere, just the brush of his lips on hers. It's impossible to avoid the heat between them, to not press her hips against his and gasp softly at the feel of him against her, but he stops them before it goes any further.
"I meant what I said, love." His voice is raspy, and it does nothing to cool her blood the way he's looking at her. "I want to survive this grave error I've made. I want to earn back your trust and your body and your heart. I don't want one without the others."
"I love you," she whispers, because there's nothing else she can say. He knows the words she isn't saying – that she loves him, but trust is harder. That she would gladly give him her body tonight, but her heart is too fragile to trust it to anyone but herself.
"I'm going to be better," he promises, twisting to yank the sheets and blankets back from the bed. "I will learn, Emma. To be a better man. To be a man who deserves you."
"I know." She watches him move across the room, draw the curtains closed on the storm outside. It was dark before he closed them, but without the glow of the snow, she can barely see anything. It's a relief, in some ways, to not see the pain in his eyes, to know he can't see the pain in hers.
He's warm when he slides beneath the blankets, and she's moved to him before she's realized it, fitting her body to his as easy as drawing a breath. She's been exhausted all week, barely sleeping, and after the emotional upheaval of the day, the cold of the beach and the heat of the shower, she's asleep before his head even hits the pillow.
He lays awake, listening to the howl of the wind, Emma's breathing, and his own heart racing. It doesn't seem right, that she's here, that she's capable of forgiving him, and he knows he doesn't deserve it, but he can't give her up.
He'll walk over hot coals before he'll walk away from her again.
No, he doesn't deserve her. But he's right where he needs to be.
I seriously love reading all of your comments. Some of you guys are so passionate in your opinions and I just absolutely love it. Hope this chapter lived up to expectations!