Disclaimer: None of this characters are mine. No Killian Jones, no Emma Swan, no Graham, no Ruby. Nope. If they did, we'd all hang out and I'd probably spend my days staring at their prettiness and perfection. Sadly, they all are owned by Adam Horowitz and Edward Kitsis, along with OUAT. Bastards.
If she heard once more how Paris was 'the city of love', she was punching someone in the face, and she would not feel sorry at all for it. She had had enough of that crap for a lifetime and she sure as hell didn't need it, please and thank you.
She had been in the French capital for what felt like years, even though she had only arrived some weeks earlier. They had started shooting a couple of days right after her arrival, and she had been completely immersed in her work. Long days spent in gorgeous locations, rehearsing the most challenging scenes involving physical stuff that required of stunt doubles, chats with Mulan about the motivation behind the characters' actions - you called, it. She was up to anything and everything, secretly glad for the chance it gave her to distract herself from raging thoughts, feelings she was decided to ignore and urges that slowly and unexpectedly crept up on her.
Like at that very moment.
She kept giving herself excuses to call him.
To check up on Nana. To check up on Ruby - hell, she was like a pet too at times, though she would never say that to her friend if she wanted to get out of that one alive. To know if Henry had had a good time when he had visited the studio, as they had agreed that he could join them when Ruby visited. He had missed the band since Emma and Killian's breakup, and she didn't have it in herself to deny him the chance to see them, seeing it made him happy. And who was she to say no to him? He was clearly okay with it, and she had been too moved at the realization that her kid hadn't asked to go see the guys and Grace after their split up just for her sake to even contemplate the option of not letting him go. So she knew for a fact that he went when Grace visited the studio too. They couldn't be there everyday, of course, due to the fact that the band was in the process of recording the new album and they were busy as it were. But Henry kept telling her how much he enjoyed himself whenever he got around to meet them all, and she was glad about it.
Thus, the creeping feeling of 'should I call him or not?'.
It was not like they hadn't parted in the best ways - not by a long shot. It had been bittersweet, sad, heartbreaking... But... well, they had mentioned maybe trying to be friends, right? Something that they had never been, now that she pondered about it. Theirs had been quite a ride since the moment they had laid eyes on each other, but she guessed that wasn't so weird. Maybe the friends thing wasn't such a bad idea. Maybe that was why she should call him. Because friends called each other, right?
Didn't they?
Why was she questioning this so much? She did have friends and she knew how to act around them. Why was it so difficult to try to apply the same routines that she followed with those to her interactions with Killian?
Because it is Killian. DUH.
She plopped on her bed, fishing her phone from the pocket in her purse and looking over her contacts until she found his name. She tapped over it, a small smile stealing her mouth at the picture that she had assigned to him - one she had sneaked of him playing the guitar in the studio, not even aware of her taking it, and the blurry silhouettes of Ruby and Philip in the background as they fought over the last of the takeaway they were sharing.
Okay. Friends called friends. To, you know, talk. And stuff.
Right?
Just as she pressed the call button, she was tapping it again repeatedly like a maniac. What was she even doing? She had been the one to ask him for time. Wouldn't he be confused as hell - and with reason - if she suddenly went all 'oh hey, long time no see, how are you buddy?'. She would be. But she would also feel relieved for him to actually try to reach out and extend a somewhat 'imaginary hand' to her, to try to reestablish contact between them. She would be surprised of course, but then she would get over herself.
Was she over-thinking this?
...Emma, you just punched your phone's button and have probably broken it. Of course you're overanalyzing it.
There was a buzz, and her eyes nearly bulged out of her skull when she saw the name 'Killian' displayed on her screen.
Did you call?
Oh my God. She had actually called him without her noticing? How long had it been until she had hung up? Maybe she hadn't realized there had been a ring before she did. That had to be it. God, she was stupid.
What did she do now? What did she do?
Not only had she nearly broken her phone, now she was probably on the verge of a panic attack. Fucking great.
Okay, Emma. Calm down. Just... act like you have no clue what he's talking about.
What?
I got a missed call from you.
Oh, it must have been the phone. You know. Stupid tactile crap.
Liar. Liar. L I A R.
Oh, well, he couldn't see her, so...
Oh. Okay.
I'm sorry if it bothered you.
Not at all.
Biting her fingernail anxiously, she stared at the glowing screen for what felt like an eternity, silently asking for some miracle, something to keep them talking. Because she did want to talk to him, now that she admitted it. She craved it. It had been too long since they had had a somehow normal exchange, before everything had gone to shit between them. She missed the way he managed to make her laugh no matter what, she missed their banter, - hell, she even missed his obnoxious innuendos.
As if he had been reading her thoughts - maybe he had...?, - a new text came through, and she fumbled with her phone in her haste to read it.
How are you doing?
Good, pretty good actually. Tired but great.
What about your French?
Ugh. I keep mixing Spanish and French words. I'm so lame.
She really was.
You could always mimic everything. Practice for charades.
What do you think I do to order in restaurants?
She swore she could hear his laugh, and it sent both a thrill through her and a pang of sadness resonating inside her chest.
You're something else. I gotta go, rehearsal before recording.
Okay.
Okay.
Her fingers itched painfully to type an x, an 'I love you' - anything.
But she didn't.
I really hope you're controlling yourself.
What do you mean?
So close to Switzerland - home of chocolate - you're probably running off at the first chance you get.
You're hilarious.
I know, it's one of my many charms. Care to name any others?
I have work to do.
No you don't.
How do you know?
I just do. Also, it's 1AM over there and I doubt you have to shoot at these unholy hours.
I'm sleeping.
Ah, dreaming about me. Nice.
Sweet dreams, Swan.
Why did Henry just text me a picture of my dog wearing an eyepatch?
Doesn't she look adorable? She's a pirate dog!
Take that thing off her now.
But she likes it.
No she doesn't.
You can't know that. And we're having fun.
She'll go blind.
Stop being dramatic.
Why don't YOU wear the eyepatch if you like it so much?
And hide these gorgeous eyes? I don't think so.
She didn't have anything to answer him with.
He was right.
Damn him.
Do you have any idea where Ruby is?
...no. Why?
I wanted to talk to her about something.
I can ask Victor if you want to?
Nah don't worry, I'll call her again later.
Yeah, you're right - they might be busy...
EW.
You were asking for it.
Swan?
Yeah?
Did you really want to talk to me about Ruby?
She took her sweet time to answer.
Maybe not.
And they left it there, knowing the unspoken issue they both hadn't acknowledged but knew that kept lurking in the corner, waiting for the right moment to jump on them and bite them in the ass.
She wasn't sure she was actually expecting it or dreading it anymore.
I have to say, you holding a gun is one scary sight.
Are you stalking me now?
Your lad was waving around the candids. He's your groupie.
I thought he was yours?
Don't change the subject: the gun. You're not keeping it, right?
Afraid I'll use it on you?
Terrified, more like it.
Sadly, no. Shame, I have gotten pretty good at it.
I will have to see it for myself when the movie comes out.
Right. If you hadn't been invited to the premiere you wouldn't have even watched my other movie.
I'll have you know, I have watched all of your work.
Sure you have.
But I have - queen Titania.
How did you get your hands on THAT video?
I even watched that commercial you did for that mascara.
Oh my GOD.
Hey, I felt this weird urge to buy it thanks to you...
Please tell me it is a joke.
What is?
Philip and Aurora? ENGAGED?
Well, he's been meaning to pop the question for a while now, so...
God.
What's the problem?
Everybody's getting married! My brother and my best friend, now them...
That's not everybody, that's just two couples.
I even heard Emma Watson had been seen checking out engagement rings!
HERMIONE? No way.
I'm telling you - EVERYBODY is getting married around me!
You jelly, Swan? Eager to put on the white dress?
What? NO.
Then what's the matter?
It's just - I'm not looking forward to be a bridesmaid again and putting up with the crazy.
They asked you?
That's how I found out - Aurora told me she really didn't have that many girlfriends, so...
This will be fun.
...you're the best man, aren't you.
We drew straws - that had always been the plan for the first of us tying the knot.
God.
As I said: fun, fun, fun.
Still can't believe about Hermione.
Shut up.
Stop tweeting about food.
It's my account and I'll do what I damn well please with it.
Why not tweeting pictures of YOU for a change instead of crême brulée?
Like I didn't have enough pictures of me taken on a daily basis, sure, why not.
There are never enough photos of those legs of yours.
Pig.
Prude.
I AM NOT.
Oh, I know...
...Seriously?
...seriously what?
Since when do you surf?
Look who's stalking who now.
It's difficult not to find out when everybody shows me the pictures.
Do they?
Uh huh.
So you're not googling my name to see what I'm doing?
Okay, forget I even asked.
You have no sense of humor. Yes, Swan. I surf.
Why didn't you tell me?
It never came up. It's no big deal.
It is for klutz like me who can't manage to stay balanced on the freaking board.
I could always give you lessons.
It'll be in vain.
Come on, it's easy as pie once you get your bearings.
No, seriously - in vain. I'm telling you.
But you're not saying no...
Graham rose a couple of fingers in the air, waving for the waiter politely. "Monsieur? La carte de vins, s'il-vous plaît? Et quelques apéritifs?"
With a nod, the impeccable dressed guy left in search of... whatever it was that Graham had asked him. She cocked her head to the side, inspecting him as he laid his napkin over his knees, and gave him an impish grin. "Woah. I gotta say, I'm impressed."
"You flatter me, Swan," he told her with a roll of his eyes.
"Seriously - it's impossible to get the hang of it."
"You don't really need it. Everybody speaks English anyway."
"But what if I want to impress somebody with my amazing skills?"
He looked incredibly amused by this. "Then I'd say you should try dancing, singing or even spelling, because if it's French, you're screwed."
"Jerk," Emma sniffed in annoyance and diverted her gaze. "So why are you here again? Can't live without me, huh?"
"That's it, you got me." He drummed his fingers over his arm while he answered her. "There is a fashion show in a couple of weeks for the line I modeled for years ago. They invite me every year. I have to come back for it but I was asked to come to promote some things along with the fragrance thing and all"
She gave him a surprised look. That she hadn't expected. "Oh. Nice."
He shrugged, nibbling on a cracker the waiter had left for them over their table. She waited to see if he approved of it before attacking herself. Nice restaurant, nice food. Nice combo. Nice for Emma's belly. "You can join me if you want to. Have you ever been to one?"
She shook her head. "Nope, never. Mary Margaret would probably have a jealousy-induced-stroke if I did, though."
She really would.
"Come on, it'll be fun. Or at least come to the cocktail after the show." Hearing Graham whining would never get old, she was sure of it. He looked like such a kid when he tried to convince her to join him at these things, it was hilarious to her whenever he did. It was quite fun to make him fret when he fought with her, if she said so herself.
Though this time, she wasn't so sure if she should give in or not.
Taking her glass in her hand and approaching it to her lips, she murmured, "Yeah, last after party we attended together wasn't enough for you or what?"
He grimaced along with her, probably recalling their brief tête-à-tête after the awards in that club. After she had seen Killian with that girl sitting on his lap. After she had fought with Milah. Yeah, not one of the best evenings in her life, that was for sure.
She wasn't sure if it made Killian's list though, as she hadn't let him explain what had gone down there.
"Touché." Graham nodded at her, as if reading her thoughts. "Have you talked to him?"
Yeah, she should have guessed he'd know she was thinking about the frontman.
"We text sometimes."
"And?" he asked, after a brief silence.
"And what?"
"Don't play dumb with me. I know you are dying to see him again."
She snorted loudly. She was afraid she might even have sniffed some of her wine. She was being the epitome of manners, wasn't she? "That's nothing new."
He stared at her, surprise evident on his face. "Then why didn't you get back together back at home when you last saw him?"
Emma was about to plead with him to leave it be and stop talking about this, shuddering at the memory of that night. Tears welled up in her eyes at the thought of Killian leaving her place, trying so hard to keep up his cheerful demeanor even if she could see how he was breaking inside. As if he should have worried at all - she could read him. Just like he could read her. "Because right now, after everything, I need some time alone."
A guarded silence fell over them, and Emma took advantage of it to pick up her knife and spread some foie-gras over a piece of bread and munch on it, carefully avoiding Graham's gaze.
He was the one breaking the silence, as she had expected. She wasn't in the mood to discuss too much on the matter, to be completely honest. "I hope you told him that... you know."
...what?
"...what?"
He groaned, letting his head bang against the tablecloth with a quiet sound. She was sure some of the other customers were looking their way, positive that the pair were either drunk or plain idiots. She was willing to agree with them. "Ugh, don't make me say it."
"Humbert, are you blushing?" Emma said, grinning despite herself at her friend's discomfort. He was nearly squirming in his seat!
Pulling back, he pinned her with a glare, a frown touching his lips. "I have seen more of you than your own mother, Swan, don't be ridiculous." Graham shook his head in disbelief. "I meant the kiss. You told him it meant nothing, right?"
Emma closed her eyes, an indescribable feeling of pain rising from deep within her. She wanted to say "yes". But of course, that would be a lie: she had not talked about that with Killian. "He didn't ask anything about it, actually."
Graham sighed again, his face bearing an expression of pain and guilt. "Well then, there it is. He probably hates my guts now."
Before speaking, Emma took several deep, calming breaths to keep from losing her temper. Why was it that everybody kept blaming themselves for everything? God.
"He doesn't."
Graham studied her beneath his lashes, and finally shook his head, though he still seemed relieved to hear her say it. "Maybe not, but I was seen kissing the woman he loves. Of course he wouldn't talk to me after that."
Emma's anger immediately faded when she noticed the expression on his face. He looked pretty concerned about it, and Emma felt terrible about the awkward position she had put her friend in. She patted his arm awkwardly, sending him a look that was supposed to be reassuring - though she wasn't sure it was coming off the way she pretended.
"It was not your fault. I kissed you."
He inspected her carefully, and with a sigh, patted the hand on his arm back. "It's alright Emma. After you two clear things up, we'll patch everything."
Emma gave him a penetrating look "You think so?"
He nodded insistently, before sending her an odd look, considering her quietly. "Of course. Don't you?"
Didn't she?
Of course she did. But she very well knew not everything went as one would want, now, didn't she...?
"I don't know. But I hope so - one day."
Graham leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and propping his chin in his hands. Emma tried to ignore the way his hair swept across his forehead when he did that, giving her the inexplicable desire to brush it back off his face. "Just don't make that one day too far from now or you might lose the chance." He shook his head, as if trying to shoo away the gloomy atmosphere they had gotten caught up during their conversation, and inched closer to her, as if about to reveal her a secret. "Now, about that fashion show..."
He didn't write her again for a week.
At first, she had been confused - it had become an habit, a routine, checking her phone waiting to find some lame joke or a silly picture that would make her snort and shake her head in amusement. They texted mostly everyday since that very first time he had initiated a somehow tentative contact. One that she hadn't been expecting, if she were honest; but had appreciated and had grown used to anyway.
Two text-free days later, she came to the staggering conclusion that he was indeed ignoring her - or at least, purposely not talking to her. She wouldn't have minded under any other circumstances, but right then, she was positively enraged: this abrupt cut of their so-called 'friendship' had come as quite the shock to her. Why start if he'd ignore her all of a sudden? Why try, if he wouldn't keep it up?
It wasn't until Ruby called her and asked how come she had met up with Graham in Paris as the pictures over the net showed that she got it.
She got it.
"So - how are things back at home?" Emma asked, glancing up at her son, who laid over the couch in her room lazily, arms looped behind his head and staring at the ceiling. He had arrived the previous night, as she had a couple of days free of filming and he had come to visit her. She could have flown home, but she had wanted the opportunity to show her kid around the French capital now that they had the chance - he was on summer vacation after all, so it was ideal for him to stay for a couple of days with her there. They had made good on their promise of visiting the city though. They still had days left, of course, and they still wanted to go to several museums and whatnot, but they had managed to catch a ride on this funny 'petit train' that ran trough several districts through the city - some sort of 'panoramic ride' contrasting them or something like that, as the guide had claimed. After that they had also gone aboard the Bateau Mouche, gliding along the Seine, and promptly followed to see Notre Dame per Henry's request. She hadn't been surprised at all at his insistence for that to be their first spot, though: he had always loved the Disney flick retelling the story of Quasimodo.
She wouldn't be the one telling him how Victor Hugo's novel wasn't exactly the same as the way they had depicted it in the kids' version.
He was better not knowing. For now, at least.
"They're good. Ruby can't stop squealing though, the whole two weddings thing has seriously affected her. I'm concerned." He smirked at her with his eyes closed. It was incredibly endearing, she mused.
She silently wondered if all mothers thought the same of their children.
"I'm sure she's reaching levels of crazy we didn't even know existed..."
Simultaneously, both her son and she shuddered and laughed at the mental image this generated. Yep, she really didn't want to know how poor Victor was coping with that.
Henry blew a sweaty lock of hair from his forehead with no avail, as it stayed stuck to his skin. She laughed quietly and leaned over to wipe it out with her fingers. He smiled and went on as if nothing had happened. "She's a bridesmaid, just like you. Isn't it awesome though? Aurora is ecstatic."
Emma gulped, pretending to find the hem of her t-shirt extremely fascinating. Sure, she was happy for them. They deserved to be happy - she had known from the very first time she had met Aurora and seen her with Philip, back at the first concert they had attended of the band together, that they were it.
That true love that her son kept rabbiting on about? There, plain to see for the rest of them.
And yet, there was a dull, small, tiny, minuscule part of herself that gritted her teeth and whose stomach dropped at the mental image, reminding herself over and over in a mantra how it was okay for them to get married, that of course they should get married, that they had found love and they should make sure to make it known - even if she, herself, hadn't. Or maybe had but, at the moment, wasn't able to reach for it. Or keep it. Or had vanished. She didn't even know.
She was being Rachel. She was. She was totally being Rachel from Friends, 10% jealous and 90% happy for Monica's wedding.
She had always loved Rachel. Maybe because she understood her on too many levels.
"No kidding, those two are made for each other," she finally conceded, forcing her tone to be brighter than she felt.
"They are... Let's see now who are the next ones to walk the aisle!"
Her eyes widened. The boy was on a roll. He hadn't stopped mentioning the wedding since he had gotten there. She decided to comply to his wishes and actually discuss it. "Who do you think it will be?"
He pondered her question for a moment before nodding gravelly and acknowledging her. "We'll have to wait and see who gets the bouquet."
She grinned despite of herself and shook her head in amusement at the sight she was picturing in her mind. "Maybe Granny will get it. She's competitive like that - I bet she'll push all the desperate girls away."
That would make the whole thing infinitely more epic. If that happened, she would actually be glad of attending such event.
Henry didn't appear amused by her comment, though. Gosh, was it difficult to entertain kids these days, dammit. "I'm talking about you and Ruby, silly," he explained, as if he couldn't understand how she didn't see it. Yeah, kid. Of course. It makes total sense.
No.
Emma sat upright as soon as he mentioned her as a possible to-be-bridezilla. What the hell had they been telling him when he had been over to the studio? She didn't think Killian or the rest would even imply at all about anything going on with the two of them now, would they? She doubted it. But then what the hell was he talking about?
...well, it was her son they were dealing with. He had been rightfully devastated when he found out Killian and she were no longer a thing, so it was not a big surprise that he still kept a tiny flame of hope for them to be together again, she supposed.
Gosh, she hated to be the one to crush those dreams of his.
"...Henry. Killian and I are no longer together."
He rolled his eyes at her. She was going to have to talk to him about this little attitude he had grown into. She had Killian to blame for that, she was sure - oh, and Ruby. "I'm not stupid. I know that. But you two are also made for each other."
She stared at him in complete bemusement. "How could you know that? You're eleven!"
To Emma's surprise, he smirked at her, pointing his finger mockingly at her chest. "It's like in my book. There's always an angsty road for the true love couple. If there wasn't, it'd be too easy. Too boring," he insisted, sounding very serious now.
"Yeah, well, I wouldn't mind boring and easy for once."
"See? You love him," he retorted with a cocky grin.
The fact that it reminded her painfully of Killian's wasn't helping her at all.
"Just because you love someone doesn't mean everything will work out, kid. Just look at your father," Emma eventually managed to say.
Henry sighed, suddenly appearing very tired. Looking at him, Emma was surprised at how much he had matured in the past year. He had grown a bit taller, his face not so rounded or childlike and limbs appearing now lankier. Puberty was starting to hit him, she realized bemusedly. But for all of these changes she kept seeing in him, his firm belief and faith in everybody's kindness and good side was what kept him her little boy, she guessed.
"But Killian does love you too, whereas Neal didn't, or he wouldn't have left you," he finally declared in a sagely manner.
Jesus Christ, since when had he become so wise? Or so observant?
"Killian did leave me too," Emma cut in, shaking her head.
They stayed quiet for a couple of minutes, and Emma stopped herself from running away from the conversation, as much as she wished she could. After what felt like an eternity, Henry released a sigh, slumping further over the couch until his head hit the armrest. "There must have been a reason, because he wants you back."
She wanted nothing more than to roll her eyes at that. This kid and his obsession with happy endings. Jesus. "How do you reckon that?"
He ignored her, rising from his position and going over to the other side of the room, where her backpack laid haphazardly on the ground. He fumbled with the contents for a minute under Emma's amused stare, grumbling under his breath, until he finally took something from inside and walked over to where she was, sitting beside her and giving it to her. "He gave me this for you."
Frowning, confused, she picked it up warily, not having a damn clue what could possibly be. When she laid her eyes on the CD case, though, she inhaled sharply, and she could swear there was not oxygen enough in the room anymore.
Their album. Their new album.
"When?" she asked sharply, her voice tinged with accusation.
"The other night, when I left Nana at his place."
She tried to school her features, mask the mash of feelings raging inside of her at the idea of him giving this for her even after he had stopped talking to her altogether. "Did he... did he say anything?"
He stared blankly back at her. "No. Just to give it to you." He studied her intently for a moment, before sighing and getting up again, stretching his arms over his head and yawning. "I'm going to bed. You should check it out."
She kissed him goodnight absentmindedly, still gripping the CD case in her hands as if it would blow up or something, and missed her son's worried glance as he made his quick exit towards his room. She sat there, hugging her knees to her chest, fingers sweeping over the plastic and leaving sweaty marks over the painted cover - where the band's logo she knew so well graced the left corner.
Biting her lip anxiously, she carefully opened the jewel case, examining the picture they had chosen for the surface of the proper CD with a soft smile. It was good, she had to admit. They all looked too serious, in Emma's opinion, but knowing that they surely must have been pinching each other or whispering nonsense to make the rest laugh while the camera snapped photo after photo made her laugh despite herself.
A crunching noise brought her back to reality, and she realized with a start that there was a piece of paper folded and hidden behind the small booklet where the proper cover, lyrics, acknowledgments and pictures were stored. With shaking fingers, she unfolded it, her eyes going to his messy writing and feeling warmth spread over her at its sight.
Who knew Lost Girls were VIP. Jones.
If she kept this up, Emma was sure she'd be in dire need of a new phone too soon.
She kept pacing her room, back and forth, nipping at her bottom lip to the point of nearly drawing blood and fighting in her mind with the rational part of herself that kept reminding her how spectacularly bad this idea was.
She shouldn't be considering approaching this topic with him.
She really shouldn't.
Hell, she shouldn't even be considering talking to him at all, now, should she?
But the thing was that she did want to, and that was what got her on edge.
Therefore, the pacing and gripping the phone in her hand so tightly it was bound to snap if she kept it up.
Letting out a long, heaving sigh, she let herself fall with a plop over the mattress of her bed, staring at the ceiling. She had spent the last two or three hours playing their album, letting herself drown in the lyrics, the melodies, the carefully woven solos and beats of the drums.
And, as she had suspected as soon as Henry had given it to him, it had been utterly overwhelming to say the least.
She had been too shocked to notice at first how they had actually made right to their promise of writing songs following the scheme that Killian had told her about - of mixing and twisting them with original stories, giving them a completely new meaning. There was a song specifically written for Henry and Grace in which they were portrayed as Hansel and Gretel. She had laughed heartily when she heard that one, as they were in fact not depicted as siblings. In fact, she had gotten the impression that it had been Victor's idea to do that just so his matchmaking poor self wouldn't be compromised with thoughts of his young lovebirds-to-be being somehow related, even in proper fiction.
And of course there was a song just for Ruby. And they hadn't been too subtle about it, to be completely honest. It was pretty telling itself about whom it was about.
It was named "Ruby", after all.
She had just rolled her eyes and smiled as it played, promising herself to text her friend later and ask her if she had already found out about it or not... Ruby had been whining too much about Emma having her own song after the band premiered it during the awards, so it was Emma's chance now to pick on her for being 'a muse'. She was sure the screeching would be ear-deafening alright.
She was both dreading and looking forward to it. Oh well, that was kind of an usual reaction when it came to dealing with Ruby.
She didn't know how long she had stayed playing the last track of the album even if she had tried to, if she were honest with herself. Albeit she had listened to it before - though it was debatable that she had been 100% focused on it that one time, taking into account she had been a clear mess at the moment, the shock that had ensued finding out about it and the effort on staying put together for the cameras not leaving her room to properly analyze it, - she listened to "Lost Girl" time and time again.
Emma was sure she now knew first hand the effects of a 'emotional roller coaster'.
She had shivered. She had laughed. She had teared up. She had stayed numb staring at nothing.
She had been the perfect epitome of a 'mess'.
Fuck it, she was doing this. She needed to talk to him. It had been weeks since they had last texted, and she was not immune to the longing and homesickness that came whenever she thought of his stupid jokes and innuendos, the sweetness and caring that she could had almost felt behind the words sent her way.
Biting her lip once more, she braced herself and settled her phone in front of her face, thumbs already typing a short message.
Just got your package.
There. Direct, short, and vague enough for him to actually need to answer her. If he was interested at all, of course.
Maybe he wasn't. Maybe he didn't want to have anything to do with her anymore. Maybe he didn't even want to be her friend, relationship or feelings or whatever aside.
She was already regretting her decision when there was a beep, and she almost sobbed in relief.
He had answered.
Good thing the lad didn't keep it to himself.
She stared at the screen, frowning confusedly - and worried. This was bad. This was really bad. The fact that he hadn't taken advantage of the most obvious pun he could have made from her text was clue enough that something wasn't right.
Also, he hadn't left too much room for her to answer to his statement, so she decided to change topics.
How's Nana?
She's fine. Loving it here, but she misses Henry already.
She couldn't help her inner 'awwwww' when she read that.
No kidding, those two are inseparable.
Since they had started texting each other after she had come to shoot for Mulan's project, she had made an approximate calculus about their time wasted in between texts. She didn't want to go into the obvious 'you are such an obsessed creeper what is wrong with you' deal of her behavior, but yeah, that was her. She was a girl, she was bound to be paranoid and anxious when it came to see if the boy that she liked was interested or not in talking to her. Thus, she had reached the conclusion after several crazy-ridden studies that Killian Jones usually spent a maximum of 2 minutes in-between texts. If it took him more than that, it would mean either: a) he was caught busy, b) the conversation was finished, c) he didn't want to keep talking, d) he was ignoring you.
Even if she had wanted to believe that option A was plausible enough, the tightening in her stomach told her that it was way more likely that he didn't want to continue their conversation.
Steeling herself for the second time, she threw caution to the wind. She so was doing this - if he wanted to be a kid and not talk about what had him so obviously upset with her, then she would make him spit it out. Fuck it out to hell.
I saw Graham the other day.
2 minutes exactly. She knew he had been about to ignore her, but apparently he was done with the avoiding shit. Or maybe he was just plain confused of where she was going with this.
She didn't know anymore.
That's great.
He told me you two are not talking to each other.
She grimaced unexpectedly when she felt a coppery taste in her mouth. Of course she had drawn blood from biting her lip. Fuck her life.
Here went nothing.
I have been quite busy as of late, if you hadn't noticed. It has nothing to do with him.
Her lie detector didn't work through messages, as she had no way at all to see his expression, but something told her his statement has a half-truth.
Good. I was just concerned that you were mad at him.
Why would I be?
You know why.
Look Swan, this is being hard enough for me without the whole riddle thing. If you want to say something, spit it out.
...She had to give it to him. She was being obnoxiously cryptic, and seeing as she had been the one to bring up the topic, she surely should be explaining what it was that she thought about the whole thing.
I just don't want you to be mad at Graham for something that he didn't have anything to do with.
I am not mad at Graham. I have no right to be mad at Graham.
She spent more time than she would normally had typing her response, as her fingers were shaking quite badly at the prospect of his answer once she sent her next text.
Then are you mad at me?
Two minutes and three seconds.
I am not mad at anyone. Why do you expect me to be?
Because I would be, she wanted to say. Mad, or devastated. And she hated the small spark of anger that ignited inside of her because he appeared not to be. How stupid could she get?
Because I kissed him.
She could swear she could see him texting her back: the tightening of his features, the frown touching his lips as he typed, fingers nervously tapping against the plastic of his phone as he always did whenever he was agitated.
You are free to kiss whoever you want, Emma. I cannot stop you from doing what you want. I'm not your brother, nor your father. Nor your boyfriend anymore.
Her fingers stilled over the phone's tactile keyboard.
Oh, screw it.
Then why did you stop texting?
One minute and a half.
I have been busy.
You were busy the past weeks too.
He was so not getting away with such a crappy excuse. Seriously, who did he think she was? He knew better than that.
Emma, what do you want me to do? I'm trying here, but sometimes it gets too much. You made pretty clear you wanted space, and that's what I'm doing.
She felt her throat constrict painfully as soon as she finished reading it. God, what was even going on with them anymore? She had no freaking clue what to do. She indeed had asked for time, but she also had been surprisingly glad that he had approached her and managed to start a tentative friendship - even if they both knew the term 'friendship' was used in a loose manner (she mentally snorted at that), - when it came to the two of them.
There would always be something there, between him and her. A spark, ready to ignite at the smallest hint of heat.
And if there was some way to describe what they had had, a fire would be a good way to go.
But why did you start then?
A minute and 56 seconds.
She was beginning to feel a headache coming with the way she kept anxiously counting in her head waiting for him to reply.
I wanted to try the friends thing. Apparently it's not really plausible at this stage of the game.
She inhaled sharply. Okay, she understood that he may have been - what, mad? Confused? Betrayed? She didn't even want to know - when he found out about her going out with Graham in Paris. Going out, as in, a friendly dinner: nothing else, nothing more. But she really wasn't sure why he'd feel the need to stop talking to her. Wasn't that what 'friends' were supposed to do?
Why had they even insisted in trying to be friends in the first place? This was all so confusing.
Why not?
I don't want to tell you. You will only get pissed off.
I won't. Please, tell me.
She was 100% sure he would read it and picture herself plain whining. And she hated herself for it.
Look, I don't want to be the guy who immediately crashes his phone against a wall when he sees a picture of you and Graham at a fancy restaurant, even as friends. But that's the thing - I am that guy when it comes to you.
Emma closed her eyes tightly, pushing the phone encased in her hand against her forehead so hard she was sure there'd be a bruise on the tender skin the next day. Of course he had reacted that way when he found out. But wasn't he overreacting? It hadn't meant anything, he knew she and Graham were friends.
Though wouldn't she had been hurt too if she had seen him with a girl after this whole let's-try-to-be-friends thing...? Add the kissing scene and overall drama in which they had been thrown to, and she kept seeing more and more why he had stopped talking to her.
Time indeed.
I thought you weren't mad.
I am not. I am just... tired. Sad. Which is stupid and idiotic and I realize that but that's the thing. I cannot choose how to feel.
She waited for several minutes, sitting on the bed, maybe hoping that he would send another text following that confession she had all but stolen from him. Finally, realizing he was not going to, she responded him, feeling even more miserable than when she had first realized he was purposefully ignoring her.
I'm sorry.
Don't be. It's not your fault.
The fact that it only took him about 15 seconds to answer her - and reassure her, she realized with a flinch - made it impossible for her to control her watering eyes, cheeks wet and tears running freely down her face, with no way of stopping them even if she had damn tried to do something about it.
That was why she hated texting.
"So. What did you think?" Graham asked once the show was done. They had followed the rest of the party to a hall where the cocktail was taking place, and she had been more than ready to snatch a flute of champagne as soon as she arrived from a very startled French waiter - with no apparent desire to shove it at someone's face.
For now.
It was proving to be quite amenable at the moment.
She wasn't paying much attention to him, as she was more focused on spying the waiters bringing food around them. God, they should wear something on their heads so they would be easier to identify in the sea of people gathered there. "Mary Margaret is going to murder me."
He turned his attention back to her, confused. "Why? You look nice."
She gaped at him, appalled. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Graham frowned thoughtfully for a moment as he took in her appearance with a calculating look before saying, "I thought you were talking about her freaking out about your choice of wardrobe for the evening without consulting her."
Emma mimicked his frown, passing a hand through the dress she had chosen to wear for the evening - nothing too fancy, but not too informal either. Middle-ground, as Ruby would say. She looked good. And she had chosen it all on her own. She felt really proud of herself, if she said so - doing something without the Fashion Brigade breathing down her neck was kind of reckless and liberating for her. She smiled despite herself and turned back to her costar. "Oh. No, not that - but thanks, I guess? I meant she'd love to be here, I'm sure."
He cocked his head to the side, as if studying his options before shrugging disinterestedly. "Well, next time I'll make sure to bring her with me instead of you."
"You do that. You can't complain though - I'm way more fun."
She sure was. He wouldn't even want to know what he'd have to go through if he went along and brought Mary Margaret there.
Let's say that Henry's sugar rushes were mild compared to that.
"Sure you are. You can't seem to stop complaining about everything. You're like the Fashion Grinch."
"Bite me," she muttered, going to take another sip of her drink when there was a stinging sensation on her bare shoulder. She turned to see his face close to her now wet and barely marked skin, and she realized he had bitten her. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING."
Graham shrugged, pulling away from her, but there was a ghost of a smile on his face "Just as you asked."
"You're such a child," she snapped, rolling her eyes.
"Don't tell anybody. I have a reputation here you know," he chirped, grinning in a way that made Emma want to punch his arm.
She didn't, though - they were in a really posh place and it wouldn't do them any good if they spilt their drinks or something alike.
But she could always threaten him, she guessed. "And so easy to destroy in a couple of seconds..."
He faked a girly gasp, putting his hand over his heart. "You wouldn't."
"I won't if you stop being an idiot," she answered truthfully. See? She could compromise.
"Bitch."
"Jerk."
An unknown voice called then, interrupting their mesmerizing verbal sparring. "Graham!"
"See? She agrees," Emma joked before sipping from her glass, hiding behind it from the glare that he was sending her way.
"Shut it." He turned towards the woman approaching them, and his expression morphed from annoyed with Emma to charming and perfectly polite to this... whoever this was. "Cora - it's so great to see you again. You look stunning."
Wait a second - Cora? As in, Cora Mills? The fashion designer whom Ruby and Mary Margaret wetted their panties for? Huh. They would have her head when she was home - not only had she attended the fashion show both of her friends would kill to see, but she now was being introduced to the designer they both idolized. This was great.
Cora patted Graham's arm lightly, laughing. "Ah, you flatter me too much. How have you been, dear? Haven't you missed the Old Continent?"
"It's good to be home, but you know - my family is back there, so I spend most of my time where work and my people are."
"Of course you do. And you're such an honorable, talented young man - shame you chose to pursue acting instead of modeling for me."
Emma noticed how she hadn't let go of his arm. In fact, she'd say she was gripping his forearm... God, was she feeling his biceps?
This was disconcerting alright. And that was a mild way of saying it.
Graham seemed unfazed by the whole thing - or maybe this was how she always acted around him, for all that Emma knew. He shrugged, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "What can I say - your clothes are too pretty for me."
Cora's sharp eyes turned to Emma after slapping him so softly it looked almost lame. "Shush. Lies, such lies! Isn't he a pretty face, girl?"
Emma made a show of inspecting him from head to toe, stroking an invisible beard and grimacing. "He is, I guess."
"Please try to refrain yourself, Swan," he answered with a roll of his eyes. He then turned to her, making the designer's hand fall from his arm - which made the older woman frown slightly, she noticed interestedly, - as he stepped closer to Emma. "Cora, I'd like to introduce you to my friend Emma Swan."
Cora clapped her hands awkwardly, her face lighting up in realization. God, it looked like she was almost having an eureka moment. "Oh, of course you are the Emma Swan!"
Emma's eyes widened. "Pardon?"
She let out a laugh at her expression. "Come on, even an old hag like me keeps up with the gossip. I have read it all in the papers." She looked like a freaking child on Christmas Eve surrounded by presents. She pointed her finger at him and then at Emma. "You two are an item now, aren't you?"
Why.
Just... why.
"No, no - we are just friends." Emma corrected quickly. Maybe too quickly. God, she had no control left over herself at all but hell, she was just so freaking done with everybody assuming about her life, it was driving her nuts.
Cora's expression was surprised alright. Huh. "Oh. The articles were pretty insistent, so I just thought..."
Graham shook his head, smiling kindly. "Yeah, we get it. No worries though, you couldn't know."
Her eyebrows rose, but this was her only reaction, cocking her head to the side and inspecting them. Emma had to try really hard not to squirm under her scrutiny - this woman really made her nervous. All of a sudden, her expression changed, and she rolled her eyes, the hand not holding her flute making a dismissive motion in the air.
"Ah, fame. Such a small price to pay to have it all, isn't it? Oh, let me say hi to my old friend George..." Cora smiled, before touching her lightly on the shoulder and then set off to mingle around the banquet hall.
Emma waited until the sound of her footsteps could no longer be heard. She then made a faint, gagging noise. "That wasn't awkward at all."
"Nah, by the tenth time they ask you about it, you get used to it."
She pinched the bridge of her nose in order to assuage the throb that was building behind it. "God."
"So. Any chance of you modeling too like your Graham?" a voice suddenly asked at her side, making Emma jump. She shot up startled eyes at Cora, who had showed up at her right by the table she had been creeping for a while, waiting for some of the canapés she had been shoving down her throat since she had arrived to be restocked. Noticing belatedly what she had been asked, she nearly sputtered her drink at the fashion designer's face. Luckily for Cora Mills, she had already sipped it - in a very unlady-like manner, mind you, but she had been caught by surprise to say the least. What?
Modeling? HER?
Would it be too rude of her if she outright laughed in the woman's face?
...Yeah, it probably would not be such a good idea.
"Oh no. No no no. No way. I'm the worst model you will ever meet in your life," she declared adamantly, waving her hand to make the point clear. Never. No. Nope. Not a chance in hell. Modeling. HA. "And he is not 'my' Graham, we already told you," she added as an afterthought, after only a moment's hesitation.
"Ah, but one thing is to say something and another to mean it." Emma gave her a questioning look. What the hell was this woman suggesting...?
Cora met her eyes and seemed to find her expression amusing, because she let out a chortle, - which wasn't sitting too well with Emma. She hated being laughed at, especially from people who she hadn't known for long. "Come on, Miss Swan. We are amongst friends here."
Emma was on tenterhooks of anticipation to know what the hell she was talking about now. "What do you mean?"
After a measured look sent her way, Cora turned on her heel to jerk her chin in the direction of the small groups of people randomly gathered around the hall, sipping from their flutes and picking from the trays being delivered by impeccably dressed waiters. "Everybody wants to be us. Everybody aspires to be us. Why do you think people are so interested in reading about you, finding out where you are, where you go, what you do with your time? They want to know about you, what you say and think - not only to feel connected to you, but because they would love to be in your shoes."
Emma furrowed her brow in confusion. O-kay. That wasn't what she had expected. A nice explanation about what she wanted to say would have been nice, but apparently she was in for a little insight on the 'Cora's wisdom' show. Fan-freaking-tastic. She was quite unsure how to put it, so she just laid out her question, plain and simple. "What does that have to do with me and Graham?"
"I read about your last relationship with that musician - Killian Jones, wasn't it?"
Her head jerked up without her even noticing. Fuck. "What about it?"
"Well, he is a really attractive young man too, if I say so. You have great taste, I admit."
Emma immediately felt a rush of anger course through her. What was this woman even doing? What the hell did she want from her? Who did she think she was, talking about her... whatever Killian was that way? God, of course she knew he was attractive, every damn woman on the freaking planet could see it - and probably every man capable of acknowledging other male's level of prettiness too, she guessed - but the way she had said it had sounded... wrong.
Just plain wrong.
"Look, I don't know what is going on here, I think..."
"I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable, my dear. In fact, I'm just trying to give you some advice concerning this world we live in," Cora cut in, not letting her speak. She dropped her voice, turning wavering eyes in the opposite direction of the hall. Emma followed her gaze, towards a small group where a man with greying hair and kind brown eyes smiled politely while he listened attentively to his companions. "I'm married, you know."
She gave her a look. God, this was positively awkward. "...congratulations?"
"And yet that hasn't stopped me from... living my life to all extents," Cora added, pointedly.
Oh. My. GOD.
What was wrong with this woman?
"Seriously, I just..." Emma began in a plaintive tone, ready to offer anything just to be anywhere but there, doing anything, anything to stop having this conversation.
Cora ignored her sure as hell disbelieving expression, and went on, pinning her with an intense look that Emma couldn't ignore. She spoke her words passionately, a hint of yearning lacing her tone. "You can have it all, Miss Swan. Commit if you want to, just like I did - raise your son, work your way up and reach the stars. But looking for your fairytale ending is a waste of time on this side of the mirror we are standing. One the rest of the world isn't privy of."
Emma felt herself freeze on the spot.
Hold on a second. Was this woman actually telling her to - what? Deny her feelings forever? Or just act on them whenever she wanted but keep a fake image to stand by for the rest of the world to see?
For the third - fourth? Fifth? - time: what was wrong with her, again?
Feeling a rush of anger in response to her words, despite the fact that it could be at least partially correct, Emma passed a hand through her curls and gave her a fierce glare. "So you're suggesting I should just what - whore myself around just for the sake of it? You don't even know me."
"My aim is to open up your eyes - you look so adamant on denying whatever may be going on between Graham and yourself, for example. Possibly because you still have feelings for that singer. Why not give in? It's not like he won't be waiting for you when you are back."
Emma sucked in her breath sharply, looking as if she had been slapped. She felt like she had been slapped. Had Cora slapped her? She had kind of slipped out in the middle of that speech. Her eyes blazed as she stared down at the woman in front of her, teeth clenched to the point of hurting them as she spat, "I am done with this conversation."
Impressively unfazed, Cora patted her on the shoulder. "Believe me, Ms. Swan. Feelings will only lead you to trouble and pain,"
Emma let out a little gasp unconsciously, and she balled her free hand into a fist, memories of her row with Killian, their breakup, hell, everything that Neal had put her through even came to mind. For all the crazy shit she had been sermoned int he last minutes, Cora had been spot on on this one.
The older woman appeared to read her perfectly, and arched an eyebrow, smirking evilly. "Ah. Have already suffered from those, haven't you? Well, I don't give advice lightly. Enjoy your stay, dear. Hope to see you again soon," she whispered, heading down the hall, and left Emma standing with her now empty glass in one hand and an swollen lip from biting on it in distress.
She felt sick.
Completely, absolutely and utterly sick. And it was not only due to the horribly plastic tasting - and looking, dare she say it - food they had offered her mid flight, though that had surely not helped her queasy stomach. Nor had been the long hours alone in the airport waiting for the stupid board to change from 'DELAYED' to 'BOARDING'.
It had been quite the tiring last weeks in Paris. Journeys spent hard working to the point of near fainting, sudden and unexpected changes in schedules or climate conditions affecting the filming that had driven everybody into a frenzy, - where Emma had felt like she was surrounded by a bunch of psychos, - and of course the crazy stalking fans that decided to show up at random and yell in her face for the sake of it. She had put up with it all the best way that she could, and attempting to ease her colleagues' minds in the process, knowing from experience that letting the panic get to you would only make things worse. That was what she did, as Mulan had claimed after they had talked one of the worst days they had encountered during the shooting: she 'saved the day'.
How ironic was that she yearned for someone to save her for once? She was sick and tired of being the one saving everybody.
Her conversation during the fashion show cocktail with Cora Mills still haunted her - which drove her completely crazy, now that they were at it. Why should that whole speech affect or upset her in any way at all? It was not like she was that kind of person. Of course she knew there were people like that - who gave an image to everybody but behind closed doors, lived a complete parallel life nobody knew about. Hell, it didn't matter if it was a celebrity or not: random people living random lives did that too. But, fame or not, what Cora had insinuated Emma should consider for her personal life still felt like a violation, a sick idea that had taken her by surprise for the single fact that, for a while, both Emma and Killian had lied too to the world and went behind their backs. Even though they had at last been true to that show they were giving.
The fact that she had chosen this life - because she had: she hadn't been thrown into it, she had decided what she wanted to do with it and had pursued it, fought for it, her wish to become an actress and work her way up due to her talent empowering her since she had realized it was her dream, - didn't automatically mean she'd have to become the stereotype the fashion designer had advised her to adapt to as a way to face feelings. Sure, Emma had had her fair share of issues concerning those since... forever, but what? Did that mean she should shut off the possibility of ever finding it? That 'it' that everybody was looking for - the one she had denied herself for so long, that she hadn't even realized she wanted in the first place? Her happy ending?
She refused to believe that.
And yet, the small voice in the back of her head nagged at her, reminding her of how she shut off Killian, even when he had tried to explain himself whatever had happened, pushing him to leave her.
She kept telling herself it was not the same. She had needed time - and so had he. Then the friends/not friends/who the hell even knew fiasco had happened and she had been left with no clue whatsoever where they stood anymore. What if she had driven him away for good?
No, he wouldn't, now, would he...?
What if she stayed alone? What if she was left alone?
She swallowed the lump in her throat as she made her way out of the baggage claim, crossing the doors leading to the bright, wide areas of the international terminal when a dozen of flashes out of nowhere caught her by surprise, making her nearly jump out of her skin.
Paps. A bunch of them waiting behind the doors she had just exited and following every hurried step she took towards the exits, heading for the line waiting for a cab. Thank God there wasn't many people - there was so much she was willing to put up with, and a group of beyond rude and obnoxious photographers prodding about her life clearly didn't make the list.
She damned the fucking delay of her flight for the hundredth time. Not only had it made it impossible for her to wear her sunglasses and avoid part of the flash-assault coming from the paps (apart from hiding part of her surely haggard face), as it was 2 AM and it was pitch black outside, and it'd only end up on her landing on her ass if she dared to wear them. What had possibly bothered her the most was that Henry hadn't been able to come see her return, seeing as he had class the very next day early in the morning - and of course she would never make her kid stay at such unholy hours of the morning just because she wanted to see him. When she had realized she would be horribly late, she had told Mary Margaret not to worry and to keep him for the night; she'd pick him up from school the next day and take him home.
A sudden wave of memories of the last time she had been in this airport assaulted her, especially when she was nearly trampled by a young girl who ran into the arms of a boy who had been in the same flight as Emma. A year ago, she would have rolled her eyes at the scene and probably muttered between gritted teeth something along the lines of 'get a fucking room or something'. Now all she wished was for a teasing grin, sparkly eyes to be waiting for her too, strong arms opened for her to jump into - and cling to him, never letting go.
Instead, she was freezing her ass in the night crisp breeze, inhaling loudly in an attempt to battle her watering eyes while she was fucking harassed by a group of paps, waiting for a cab to get a ride home.
Alone, of course.
For all that she was supposed to be dead on her feet, Emma's mind was on overdrive as the cab rushed through the never empty roads leading her home. The dull pounding in her head made her slightly dizzy, and she rested tiredly her forehead against the window, the cool touch of the glass clashing against her warm skin. A far away memory came to mind then: how Killian had told her once how he would always start counting things at random whenever he'd feel suffocated, anxious or plain nervous.
At first she had found the whole thing amusing, and of course she had made sure he knew how she felt about his little quirk - as she usually did whenever he displayed something akin to OCD behavior. But, right then, in the backseat of the car, huddled against the door just so the cabbie wouldn't be able to take a peek at her nauseous face in the rearview mirror and decided to offer her a bag or something equally embarrassing, she chose to follow his advice.
So she counted.
17 songs before they made it home.
3 mint sweets the cabbie took during the ride.
4 missed calls she ignored from David.
And, surprisingly, she made it home without incident: no tears, no panic attacks, no tremors. Just blissful numbers lining up in her mind - and a strange weight lodged inside her chest, a need to thank him and apologize for not taking him seriously before when he talked about this counting thing of his nearly crushing her.
Because he, of course, had helped her - as he always had.
As soon as she opened the front door and let the bags on the floor with a plop, she half expected Nana to show up and greet her as she normally did until she recalled with an strangled sound - suspiciously close to a choked sob - that she would be with Henry. God, how bad was it that she'd feel such need for company to sooth her that she was on the verge of tears because her dog wasn't home? Someone, something to just be there, not even to listen or give her any advice. Just - be.
Huffing at herself in annoyance - she hated acted like this, this girly, God, and it was not even that time of the month, - she stomped up the stairs, disregarding her luggage unceremoniously and with one sole focus: shower. Hot, blissfully hot and soothing water to calm her frayed thoughts. Was there anything better than a shower? Nope, sure as hell there wasn't. Well, maybe except chocolate. Shower and chocolate, yes, that would be her remedy for everything. Oh yes. Both of them in large quantities.
Chocolate shower.
Okay, she was definitely losing it.
She stripped off her shirt and jeans in record time, nearly tearing them off at the seams in her haste to get rid of the now sweaty cloth clinging to her skin. She promptly jumped into the tub, letting out a long, heaving sigh when the nearly scalding stream fell over her bare body.
She didn't know how long she stood in the shower, boiling hot to ease the ache of her joints and tired muscles. She washed her hair leisurely, waiting for the relaxing and murmuring sound of the water to tire her out to the point that she would fear of falling asleep right there, but unsurprisingly, it never came. She kept coming back to the ache, the troubled mind, the depressing thoughts, the emo part of herself that kept pitying on her bad luck and reminded her of how lonely she felt.
And sometimes, even if Emma despised feeling that way or giving in to such petty musings which would bring her nothing but a headache and probably tears, she knew she needed to vent.
Memories swirling inside her head, she let them for once take over her.
A teenage Emma sitting against the bathroom door of one of the foster homes she had stayed before the Nolan's adopted her, face panicked and feet propped up against the wall as her back stayed against the door, which was being violently hit by her foster father, screaming at her to open up.
The scratchy feeling of the ratty sheet she had laid on during her brief stay in jail, after Neal left her, eyes scrunched shut to stop the tears threatening to spill when she realized he was not coming back.
Henry's dropping expression when she finally sat him down and told him the truth about his father.
A paparazzi yelling at her about her supposed affair with Graham behind Killian's back as she tried to ignore his scathing words, fleeing the scene and hiding her face under a hat and her sunglasses.
Killian and that girl in the club's after party.
Killian's expression when she called him poison.
Killian. Killian and her.
She didn't even realize she had made it to her bedroom - and managed to put on some panties and a too-big t-shirt she sometimes wore to bed, - but she found herself slumping against the wall, her wet hair leaving a myriad of stains over the soft blue paint, but she was way past the point of caring. Her discarded clothes laid scattered around the floor in a messy heap, and she suddenly realized that she was holding something in her hand.
Her pillow. And her phone.
When had she even taken it? Why, for that matter? It wasn't like she wanted anybody to see her like this.
She banged her head against the wall in an attempt to clear it, a few more tears escaping her eyes at her helplessness. She was acting like a brat, wasn't she? She kept claiming to herself how she didn't know how she had gotten there, why she was acting this way, why she was crying on the floor, why she had her phone in her hand, when she knew.
Of course she did.
She felt lonely. She was lonely. She had been lonely for months now, and she hated it - hated knowing that she may stay that way for a long time.
Sure, there were more things aggravating her apart from that - Neal's threat, the constant pursue of paps, her career, her son... everything could be a trigger for her in such a state.
But right then, it had been a combination between the whole thing and Cora's words that had driven to this point of no return.
And if she admitted that she felt lonely, she also should admit that she knew why she had taken her phone.
She wanted to talk to him.
Him, only him.
The most troubling issue right then was that she had indeed sent a text.
I need you.
Brief, direct, poof. There you go.
Why had she? What moronic, stupid, idiotic part of her brain had decided that it would be a good idea to do that? They weren't even speaking to each other anymore after the whole try-to-be-friends thing. Of course she knew he'd be one of the few people - if not the one, - to be able to understand, to calm her and to make it all go away. But that didn't mean she should ask him to do that, not when they weren't even on good terms since they had had their falling out via phone.
God, what had she done? Was she becoming one of those girls who were just plain cruel to ex boyfriends, taking advantage of them for knowing that they still had feelings for them whenever they needed them?
Her misery was increasing at an alarming speed. She wondered if she had tears left to spill after this. She was a horrible person. No wonder she was being fucked up in every possible way. She deserved it. She so deserved it.
No kidding she may lose her son to her fucking near psychopath of an ex boyfriend. No wonder she kept being followed around by the press - especially seeing as she had signed a deal to get her more media coverage and publicity. No wonder her real ex boyfriend wasn't talking to her anymore.
No wonder he hadn't answered, she realized with a flinch.
The two minutes were way past, and admitting that he had in fact ignored it and decided not to give a damn of what she had pleaded to with him drove her to tears for the hundredth time since she had gotten home.
He must hate her.
Well, maybe he didn't, but he sure as hell didn't care for her the same way as he had before.
And she couldn't find it in her to be surprised. She should have known all along.
Everybody left her one way or another.
She had never cried over that fact before - at least, not that she could remember. She had always avoided crying, trying to leave it just for when she felt like it was way too overpowering for her not to. People who cried just for the sake of it disgusted her - just like the ones who threw 'I love you's around like they meant nothing. For her, each one of them felt unique, felt like it was the first and the last that would escape her lips.
That may had been the reason why she had saved those for rainy days, and had avoided to use them as much as she could.
Yet a tiny part of her berated her for it, as it may give the wrong impression that she didn't care. But she did. Oh, how she did.
She didn't know how long she sat there, hugging her knees to her chest and letting her head fall against them, facing her bedside table, the smiling faces from the photographs she kept over it doing nothing to calm down her shaky breaths and pitying noises in between sobs. She kept swallowing loudly, attempting to shake herself of the feeling that she could not gulp enough air. She was being so loud she nearly missed the voice calling from downstairs.
"Emma?" A pause, in which she tried with all her might to slow down her racing heart.
He was there.
He had come. He hadn't ignored her, he had come back to her. To see what was wrong with her.
He was there.
She felt a new wave of tears threatening to fall, and as she closed her eyes shut, tightly, to the point that all she could see where blurry colors and shapes, she could feel the burning path they made across her cheek.
"Emma. Open the door, I know you are there."
She shouldn't let him see her like this, right? Hell, she wasn't sure she could even move. She had to make an Herculean effort to lift her hand and attempt to wipe away at her face. God, she must look like a complete mental case.
She nearly jumped from her position when she heard footsteps inside the house. How had he...? She mentally slapped herself.
Of course. He knew where the emergency key was hidden, and had deemed it appropriate to seek it to let himself in.
She didn't have enough time to put herself together - she wasn't sure she would have been able to even if she had wanted to, now that she thought about it, - and when he crossed her door and froze in there, right at the threshold of her bedroom, he scanned it briefly until his gaze landed on her. As soon as he did, he started walking briskly towards her, an edge of panic lacing his tone as he questioned her. "What is it? Emma, please, you're scaring the shit out of me." He stopped right in front of her, the tip of his shoes barely touching her bare feet. His voice dropped when he saw her face. "What's wrong?"
He was wearing his infamous leather jacket - which she had seen him wear a couple of times and had teased him mercilessly about, insisting in how he only donned it for the rockstar look, to which he never failed to smirk in her direction and wiggle his eyebrows, asking her if it worked on her too. His shirt underneath it was so badly buttoned that she suspected he had done them while he ran to the car to come there. She wondered if it was because she had scared him with her text.
Cool, Emma. Four for you. You made it: you freaked him out enough to barge into your home and find you lying on the floor crying like a teenager over a crush.
He inspected the pillow lying on her side with a frown, which she had squashed into ball to make it more substantial. Without a word, he approached her like he would do to a wounded animal, carefully avoiding stepping on her. He picked up the light sheet that she had dropped earlier without noticing before crouching in front of her, looking at her expectantly.
Killian was there. Right there, and he was looking at her with the most vulnerable and concerned expression. She felt her breath mysteriously lodge inside her chest.
Oh. He was waiting for her to say something.
"I just don't want to be alone," she finally manage to utter, voice choked on her non-stop tears. She felt disoriented, exhaustion and emotional fatigue catching up on her to the point that her eyes were half-lidded and her voice sounded more like an slur than anything else. She idly wondered if he had even understood what she had said.
She didn't know if he had at all, and she was not about to question him about it: she just laid there, crouched against the wall, not even able to look up at him, dreading what she would see if she did. He probably thought she had lost it. Maybe he would send her somewhere. Maybe he would drag her to see a doctor. Maybe he would be pissed, for dragging him to her place to check on her. Maybe he thought she was toying with him.
God, what had she done?
She felt a cool hand cup her chin, and she lifted her head minimally to stare up at him under her lashes, her heart nearly stopping at the intensity and understanding in his cerulean gaze. She hadn't even realized he had crouched in front of her and started maneuvering her form around him until he was sitting against the wall with her nestled between his legs, her back pressed against his chest. Exactly what she had done to comfort him, back at his place, what felt like a lifetime ago, when he had broken down after finding out about Milah confronting her at that club. He put her arms around her, his cheek grazing the side of her head and tickling her not-so-wet hair, blowing stray locks around her face with each breath he took.
Damn him. Why was he being nice to her? Why did he know exactly what she needed?
Killian draped the sheet over them and then, with only a moment's hesitation, reached out to hold her hand.
She didn't even question it. She grabbed it instantly, her fingers gripping his in a tight hold, relishing in their warmth, now coursing from his skin to hers.
The whole act was done completely naturally, as if he had done it to her a hundred times before. Which he had, of course. There was no calculation, just a simple familiarity over the whole thing, a need appeased at last.
Her entire body turned to liquid. She was sure she had melted into a sensitized, relaxed puddle of flesh, right there against the freaking wall.
He was breathing evenly against her neck now, and somehow her own had synchronized along to his. She was sure their heartbeats marched at the same rhythm if she were curious enough to check on them - yet she was so relaxed, the thought flew as soon as it had arrived. All signs pointed to a deep, healing sleep. She couldn't recall ever feeling more comfortable, or more safe, for that matter. And that was saying something.
Falling asleep with the person you cared about was fine, wherever you came from and whatever the hell else was going on in the world - or between the two of them.
It was perfectly fine. It had to be.
Emma closed her eyes.
*waves* Hi loves! So - there we go.
I hope you guys liked it - bittersweet, yeah? There's still way to go. I'm sure some of you will be pleased to hear about a certain video coming soon...
Also, I had a request for taking out Cora to play - I *had* wondered about it, and seeing as Paris is one of the most important cities fashion-related and it fit for what I intended to happen... tada! There we have out favorite shipper. (I miss the ol' crazy bitch. Le sad)
I would like to thank you - as ALWAYS even if I sometimes forget to add it on here - for being so freaking awesome, supportive, rabid and overall perfect. Your reviews, messages, alerts, follows and whatnot basically make my life. Without you, there'd be no story. So thank you.
On another happy note, a nod was made on the chapter to my lovely friend Col - who, as Philip and Aurora, got engaged. Congratulations - agaaaaain - my dear :) (see? you are my muse!)
See ya on the next update, folks! *disappears in purple smoke*
PS: "Fly Away" by Lenny Kravitz. "Long Night" by The Corrs. "We Used to be Friends" by the Dandy Warhols. YES YES YES.
