Chapter 10
She remembers everything.
Well, she concedes, thumbing at the mystery hickey just below her collarbone as she pulls down the collar of her borrowed t-shirt to reveal the beard burn between her breasts, she remembers almost everything.
(His breath on her neck, his body pressing hers down into the rug. His hands beneath her shorts tilting her hips up so his could hit her just right, a dirty grind with a gasping breath.
"Is this – " His voice rougher than she ever heard it before, his bottom lip dragging against the soft skin just below her ear.
"Yeah, that's good.")
"Fuck," she whispers, closing her eyes and dropping her head against the mirrored glass that hangs cockeyed above the sink. It would be better if she didn't remember, probably, because this is going to be a problem. "Fucking fuck."
One time isn't going to be enough. There had been a part of her last night - some reckless, clearly unstable part of her - that had figured alcohol would be as good excuse as any to explore this particular thought of hers. What he might be like, if she kissed him. What he might do, if she climbed into his lap and ground herself down on him.
What his groan might taste like on her tongue. How his skin would feel pressed against hers.
She peers open one eye blearily and looks at the line of hickeys down the expanse of her throat.
"Yeah, well, you got your answer, didn't you," she mumbles to her reflection, reaching for the glass Henry's kept on the left hand side since he was about thirteen and filling it with lukewarm tap water. Her throat feels like sandpaper, the need for water urging her from her place half draped over Killian. He had hardly stirred when she heaved herself from the bed, a furrow between his eyebrows the only acknowledgment when she nearly killed herself on her discarded t-shirt from the night prior.
They'll have to talk about this, she knows. It's too big of a thing not to talk about, even for them. She remembers Henry's words from when they were laying out on the roof, how the scary things are worth doing because it means you're doing it right.
("He's not going to let you down, Emma."
"How do you know that?"
"I just do.")
Maybe she can - maybe it's time she starts being a little brave.
"Emma?"
She drops the glass in the sink, hastily trying to cover the love bites littered all over her neck as her mother edges into the bathroom. It's fruitless though, Mary Margaret's eyebrow arching high on her forehead as soon as she's balanced in the doorway.
Emma's hand flutters against her neck, palm pressed tight over the more aggressive bruise that sits prettily between neck and shoulder.
(The one where he had worried at her skin with his teeth, groaning rough against her pulse point and pressing his hips harder as she spread her legs wider. A sharp pain and a tug low in her belly, his tongue soothing over the mark - a wet suck that had her arching her back.)
(God.)
"Are we still on for the walk-through this morning?"
Emma blinks. "Uh, yeah. Definitely. Just let me - "
"You forgot, didn't you?"
"Maybe," she shifts and a smile twitches at the corners of Mary Margaret's mouth. "Okay, definitely. Give me a few minutes and I'll put myself together. Meet you downstairs?"
Mary Margaret nods, gaze lingering, and Emma is reminded of that time she was seventeen and stupid and came home without her bra on to her mother sitting at the kitchen table over a nice cup of tea. But this feels worse because she knows she looks as wrecked as she feels, her lips still swollen and her hair in tangles.
She looks like she's been well and truly fucked, and all they did was dry hump aggressively on the floor.
(It feels like more. It feels like -
His hand in hers and blueberry juice staining his bottom lip. Like his sweatshirt across her shoulders and his leather creaking against hers. Cookies stolen off the tray and bacon burnt along the edges.
It feels like everything.)
She shifts her palm to cover more of her neck.
Her mother smirks at her.
"Wear a turtleneck today? We don't want to give your dad a heart attack or mysteriously lose Killian in the woods."
Emma smiles tightly. "You got it."
-/-
The turtleneck in question is shoved haphazardly in the bottom corner of her suitcase, putting up one hell of a fight as she tries discretely to get dressed in the dark of her bedroom without waking Killian. He always sleeps like the dead after a night of drinking, but she makes sure to slip on her (his) socks before padding about the room - avoiding the creaky floor panels next to her dresser.
She doesn't want to start the conversation she knows they need to have when she's halfway out the door. She doesn't know what she would say if he woke up now, or if she would be able to resist the way his eyelids hang heavy when he's hungover. How his hair sticks up on the left side and his voice drags rough around the edges.
God, she's a mess.
She'll talk to him when she gets back, hopefully after a cup or two of coffee and with somewhat organized thoughts. I want to try that again without clothes probably isn't the best opening line. Nor is I like your face when you're smiling and I want to do this for real.
There are still the thoughts in the back of her head, too, of how this might be a bad idea. They work here, sure, like this. In an imaginary bubble with an imaginary history and an imaginary engagement. But would it translate, back home? Has he just been really good at pretending this whole time? It didn't feel like it last night, but -
They need to talk.
(She needs him to reassure her. That they can do this. That she can do this.)
She tiptoes over to where he lays sprawled across the bed, ghosting her fingers over the tip of his ear. He mutters something under his breath and shifts in the bed, curling himself around her pillow and exhaling with a grunt that sounds vaguely like her name. She smiles.
"I'll see you later," she whispers, scratching her fingers down his neck and snorting when his feet shuffle beneath the blankets. She has the urge to brush a kiss over his temple, a stupid desire that she stomps down on as soon as her fingers press against his sleep-warm skin. They need to talk first. They'll figure out everything else -
"Later," she sighs, shaking her head and retreating from the room.
There will be plenty of time later.
-/-
They're in the car for twenty three seconds before -
"So it looks like you and Killian had a nice evening."
She adjusts the collar of her turtleneck just a bit higher, trying to ignore the way the thick fabric irritates the beard burn on her chest. She has no idea how long the red marks will last, recalling how Killian had repeatedly pressed his face between her breasts, his exhales hot and heavy on the hollow of her throat as she hugged his hips with her knees and moved above him.
She idly wonders if it would feel any different on the inside of her thighs.
She shifts in her seat.
"Uh," she doesn't really know where to begin. "Thank you?"
Mary Margaret chuckles and turns smoothly onto the main street that cuts through the center of town, two twin strands of garland announcing their entrance into downtown Storybrooke. One stoplight, and probably less than three square miles - but downtown, nonetheless. All of the tents lining the road are constructed, the fairy lights twinkling in the early morning light. It looks damn near perfect and she says as much, watching as her mom's face colors with pride.
"It did turn out nice, didn't it?"
"Of course it did," she reaches for Mary Margaret's hand on the console between them, tangling their fingers together. "You're the one running the show."
Mary Margaret always has been the big vision type, fussing over the details to an almost manic level to get everything just right. She was the same way when Emma was in high school and had ridiculous science projects to complete. When Emma was being made fun of by the other kids and Mary Margaret marched right into the principal's office with a binder full of notes and diagrams and whatever else on anti-bullying. It hadn't exactly helped, but it was the first time someone had actually been on Emma's side.
Besides Henry of course.
She supposes that's how all the Walsh stuff happened. Her mom was just applying that same enthusiasm to her love life - fixating on Walsh and putting all her hopes and dreams and unicorn stickers on a man she thought could make Emma happy.
("It's all I ever wanted, to see you happy." A pause and a gentle smile, knowing eyes crinkling at the corners. "Killian makes you happy.")
Mary Margaret squeezes her hand. "It's good to have you home, honey."
"You're just saying that because I'm being really nice."
"Nah, but it helps," her hand slips from Emma's to flick on the blinker, sliding seamlessly down a side street. "Now," her voice is all reformed teacher, current Mayor. "Don't think you're going to distract me. I want to hear more about Killian."
She drops her head against the headrest, rolling her eyes but feeling a warmth in her chest that has nothing to do with the way the heat is blasting. She bites at her bottom lip in a valiant attempt to hide her smile, but judging by the wide grin on Mary Margaret's face, she's not as subtle as she thinks.
"What do you want to know?"
-/-
"Does he have a tattoo for you?"
She blushes, thinking of the ink that streaks thick across his chest, down his ribs, and low on his hips. The one that curls around his bicep. How she mouthed at the one just below his collarbone last night and the sound he made low in his throat.
"No, I don't think so."
"Your father and I were wondering."
"You and dad have conversations about this?"
Mary Margaret shrugs. "It's an important thing."
"How? How is this an important thing?"
"Okay, next question," she hits reverse, parallel parking the car in a series of easy movements. "Does he usually leave marks like that or was that just a - "
"Mom!"
"You know, your father - "
"Oh my god, I want to know nothing about what you're going to say."
-/-
It's nice, spending time with her mom without having to dodge a conversation. There had been tension and resentment and hurt feelings but this -
This is nice.
-/-
Nice up until the end of the walk through, after they've seen the placement for the lanterns and been assured that the hot chocolate will be served actually hot and with extra chocolate - like extra, extra chocolate - little sticks of peppermint to be used as stirring rods because it might only be November, but there's nothing wrong with a little early festivity. Mary Margaret makes a comment in passing about how nice it'll be to have Killian around for the holidays and she feels her smile falter a bit at the edges.
She hadn't thought about that. Hadn't really thought past this week.
(She wonders if Killian has.)
(She'll talk to him later.)
But the day is nice - the festival is nice - everything is perfect up until Walsh decides to make an appearance.
"Mom, honestly."
Mary Margaret puts her hands up, mittens out, and Emma rolls her eyes at the two kitten faces peering out at her from the palms of her mother's hands. Stitched kitten faces is a bit much, even for a former preschool teacher.
"I didn't invite him, I promise. He's one of the vendors, so I guess he got the walk-through schedule."
Emma believes her, preparing herself to just ignore him. Unfortunately, Gepetto chooses that moment to call her mother over and ask her about the structural integrity of the stage and Walsh seizes his opportunity.
He sidles up as soon as Mary Margaret leaves her side, smirk firmly in place and hands pressed in his pockets. "So," he begins, and she hurries her steps, closing the distance between her and her mother, trying to shake off the monkey on her back without looking like she's sprinting to the stage. "Over or under 3 months."
She shouldn't take the bait, she knows she shouldn't, but she's only had one cup of coffee and she can't really feel her toes anymore. She's always been easy to provoke when riding a wave of irritation, and Walsh knows it.
"3 months, what?"
He grins. "You and Killian. Over or under 3 months before you shut it down."
She rolls her eyes. "We're - "
" - engaged, yes I know. Which happened quickly, it would seem. Which clearly means he knows how easily you bolt if he felt the need to put a ring on it so soon. But you know what I think, Emma?"
She keeps walking, trying to catch Mary Margaret's eye. "I don't give a shit what you think, Walsh."
"I think you're just as likely to bolt with a ring on your finger. I think you're going to get scared and run off. I think -" he cuts in front of her and thumbs at her zipper the same way he did two days ago, her face pinching when his knuckles brush just under her collarbone. She grips his wrist and bends it backwards - not enough to cause damage, but certainly enough for him to get the message: Back. Off. He smiles again. "I think you'll mess it up in the end, like you always do."
"Thanks for the feedback," she squeezes his wrist once more for good measure, delighting in the wince that pulls his eyebrows tight together. "Now I suggest you stay far away from me - and Killian, and my family."
He leans in close. "You're -"
"Take your hands off my daughter."
Emma doesn't point out that she's the one who has her hands on Walsh, bending his wrist back further and further as he continues to be an asshole. She releases his arm and steps away, closer to Mary Margaret as Walsh laughs and shakes out his arm.
"Apologies, Madam Mayor," he ducks his head in respect, back to humble furniture shop owner. "Emma and I were just having a little chat."
"Being a little asshole is more like it," Emma mutters, crossing her arms over her chest. Mary Margaret shoots her a questioning look but Emma shakes her head.
Walsh takes the hint. "Always lovely seeing you both."
They watch him walk away, his words bouncing around Emma's head until Mary Margaret tucks her arm through her elbow and guides the both of them towards the diner.
"Want another cup of coffee?"
Emma breathes out. "God, yes."
-/-
She's not scared. She's not. She's just -
Apprehensive is probably the best word. Because what if it doesn't work out? What if she does screw it up and Killian realizes what a mess she actually is? She doesn't know what she would do if he didn't stuff protein bars into her glove compartment. If she couldn't go to his bar and, god - what if she couldn't go to the bar?
"Emma, you alright?"
She forces a smile and takes a sip of her too hot coffee, burning her tongue in the process. "Fine," she shakes her head and tries to remember what it was Henry said about being brave. "I'm good."
-/-
She needs to talk to Killian.
-/-
She needs to talk to Killian, but her mom asks her to meet her father out at the fields to pick up barrels for apple bobbing. She reaches for her phone on the drive over only to realize she's left it at home, probably still shoved somewhere under the rug in the center of the room. She huffs through her nose and borrows Mary Margaret's, shooting a quick text off to Henry to let Killian know where she is, and she'll be home soon. She gets a complicated arrangement of emojis back and rolls her eyes, setting herself to just forgetting about the conversation she needs to have with Killian, and losing herself in errands instead.
It sticks, though. In the back of her mind, it sticks. Walsh's words and the near endless ways things could go wrong between her and Killian. She can feel herself hesitating the longer she's away from him. It doesn't sound like the same good idea, and last night is looking more and more like a terrible mistake.
She could already have ruined everything. Before she's even told him how she feels.
"You alright, Emma?"
She's getting real tired of people asking her that.
She heaves the barrels into the bed of her dad's truck with a little more force than necessary, the crack of them as they land oddly satisfying. It'll be a miracle if they even hold water, but it's not one of her top concerns at the moment.
"Fine," she mutters, ignoring the way David is side eyeing her from the hub. "Is that everything or does mom have something else for me to do?"
David frowns. "She wanted to know if you could swing by the bakery on your way home. Just double check that all the baked goods for tomorrow are accounted for."
"More than the thirty-eight pies lining every flat surface of our house?"
David chuckles, his arm swinging over her shoulder. "You know how your mom likes to be prepared."
-/-
Six dozen orders of cupcakes, at least four boxes of danishes, and -
"Homemade poptarts? Really?"
The baker looks more than a little offended. "They're really good."
"Yeah, but why not just buy the - " She nods, ignoring the death glare she's getting over the countertop. "You know what, nevermind."
The last thing she wants is for the whole lot of homemade poptarts to be laced with something. She's almost out the door, before -
"Oh, your mom wanted to know if you could stop by the docks and just make sure they're bringing the extra decorations."
"Oh my god."
-/-
By the time she gets back home, it's nearly dark, the sun casting its last feeble rays over the yard. The house looks quiet and empty as she slips out of the truck, her mom's car missing in the driveway. If she's been laden with a variety of errands today, she can only imagine what Killian's been caught with. She feels a brief pang of guilt that he's using his vacation days as glorified errand boy, but she can't quite muster disappointment when she realizes he's not home just yet.
She needs a minute to get herself together.
She needs to figure out what she's going to say.
She's had some time to think today and - it wasn't what Walsh said as much as how he said it, the absolute certainty. The man definitely has his shortcomings but he isn't wrong. She's never had a relationship last longer than a couple months at most and they've always crumbled because of her.
She can't do the same thing with Killian. She wouldn't survive it if they tried something only for her to ruin it, if she lost him in her life. She's managed to withstand a lot of loss and abandonment, but Killian - she's not sure she could handle it.
She takes a deep breath of cold Maine air, feeling it burn at her lungs. Breathes out and watches the cloud of white dissipate around her.
She can't do it.
-/-
She hides up in her room, uncovering her phone from beneath the rug and plugging it into the charger. She curls her legs beneath her and ignores the sick feeling in her stomach as she waits, rehearsing opening lines and being angry with herself for her inability to be a Normal Human Being with Normal Emotions.
The door slams and she hears muted voices down in the foyer, Killian's rumbling accent accompanied by stomping boots and the exchange of bags. Her dad had mentioned something about the boys stopping by the grocery for more baking supplies, her mother's stress for tomorrow culminating in the need for additional cookies, apparently.
The steps creak and butterflies erupt in her stomach.
It's stupid to be as nervous as she is. She's never had any problems talking to Killian, but this is different. This is feelings and honesty and - lying to herself and lying to him when she tells him that last night isn't exactly everything she wants.
(That this whole week isn't exactly everything she has ever wanted.)
(It's Killian.)
"No need to look as if you're going to the gallows, love," Killian shuts the door carefully behind him, folding his arms over his chest and leaning against the frame. "It's just me."
He's hurt. He's keeping his distance from her and his gaze carefully away from the rug in the center of the floor where they - where she -
"Last night was a mistake," she blurts, hands twisting anxiously in her lap.
"Right out with it then," he mutters, adjusting his position and pressing his fingertips to the bridge of his nose. He shakes his head, drops it back briefly against the door, and then meets her gaze with tired eyes. "I suppose you've had all day to go and convince yourself then."
He doesn't sound angry, just - defeated. Like he knew this was exactly what she was going to say.
Somehow that makes it worse.
"Were you intentionally avoiding me or was that just a happy accident?" He pushes off the door and fusses with the sleeve of his flannel, thumbing at the hem and flicking at the button. "I rather thought we were beyond that, but perhaps I was wrong."
He looks up at her and his eyes - god - his eyes are just impossibly sad.
It's exactly why she needs to end it now. She can't stand the look on his face or the way he's holding himself away from her. How his shoulders pull tight and his lips twist down in a frown. It's because of her - she did that - and she just -
She can't do this. She can't have more with him just to lose it because she's shit when it comes to relationships.
She can't lose him.
"I wasn't avoiding you, Killian. I promise. I just - "
"Six texts," he supplies. "And it seems you had no trouble replying to your brother."
"I left my phone here," she nods to where it's plugged in on the nightstand, screen still black. "I used my mom's phone to text Henry. I told him to tell you, but I guess he didn't."
Killian shrugs, smiling tightly. "A miscommunication then."
This version of him - this shuttered, tense versions of him - she hates it. Maybe if she had woken him up this morning, maybe if she hadn't been so selfish last night -
Maybe if she had never suggested this whole fake relationship in the first place.
She shakes her head. "We shouldn't have done that last night." He opens his mouth, but she waves him off. "I shouldn't have done that last night. I started it and I don't really know what I was thinking."
He considers her carefully, thumb tapping at his bottom lip. "Was it a lie then?"
"Was what a lie?"
"When you told me how you wished for me to kiss you?" A hot blush climbs her cheeks, her heart pounding in her chest. It's probably the most honest they've ever been with one another, and she forces herself to keep her gaze steady on his. This thing - it's always been lingering between them, she can see that now - but they've been content to leave it. He hasn't pushed and she hasn't offered and it just - it went ignored.
Not anymore, apparently.
He raises an eyebrow and gestures with his hand between them. "Was it the alcohol talking, or - "
"We both know alcohol doesn't make you lie, Killian," she frowns, picking at a stray piece of thread on her jeans. "I wouldn't lie to you."
"Then forgive me, because I don't seem to understand."
A bit of his frustration edges along his words and she feels her own flare up in response. He's always been good at drawing responses out of her, and she forces her mind resolutely away from just how good he was at exactly that last night. She bites the inside of her cheek, wishing this would be one of those times he would just get it without her having to say a word.
"We can't do this."
"Why not?"
Because I'll fuck it up, she wants to say. Because I was brave this morning but it's gone now, she wants to explain. Because you mean too much for me to lose.
"Ah, I see," he does that same complicated thing with his mouth that looks like an attempt at a smile, but results in a wince instead. "This week was a trial, wasn't it?"
She thinks about that for a moment. This week had been a test of sorts, but not in the way he obviously means. She was just - she was trying to give herself something to hold on to. She figured when this all started that something would be better than nothing. That in the end, having him for a week - a perfect, single, isolated week - that it would be enough. She'd be able to go back to Portland, being his friend, satisfied that the reality of having him didn't live up to the elaborate fantasy in her head.
She didn't expect to feel so much.
She didn't expect to fall more in love with him.
A week is all she's good for, anyway. Like Walsh said, she always inevitably ruins it in the end. Her and Killian - they're not even together for real - and she's already messing it up.
It was one night and she's messing it up.
"We can't be together," she repeats with conviction, fighting to keep her voice steady. "We work better as friends and I just - I need you as my friend, Killian."
He keeps quiet, scratching behind his ear and shuffling his feet.
"Killian, please," her voice breaks and she blinks rapidly, horrified to feel tears pressing at her eyes. She's doing all of this so she doesn't lose him and it feels like - it feels like he's slipping away regardless. "Will you still be my friend?"
She hates this - suddenly a little kid again and sitting in the beat up back seat of a Buick, clutching a teddy bear that never really belonged to her and begging to keep her family. For them to want to keep her.
(Mid-twenties and sitting on a perfectly made bed, wearing a ring that never really belonged to her and begging to keep him. For him to want to keep her.)
His head snaps up, his face a devastated mixture of concerned and frustrated. He takes half a step forward before thinking better of it, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and rocking back on his heels.
(She hates this.)
"Of course. Our relationship has always been as much your choice as mine, I just - " he breathes out deep through his nose and shakes his head. She hears what he's not saying. I wish you would take a chance.
"Your friend I shall remain," he nods, looking up at her through his eyelashes with a forced sort of smile that's brittle along the edges. Of everything that's happened in the last fifteen minutes, it's what hurts the most. "I'm going to - " he hooks his thumb over his shoulder. "I'll just be downstairs."
"Killian - "
"I need a moment, Swan. If you don't mind."
I can't be around you right now.
She hears him loud and clear.
-/-
She chooses to stay upstairs, distracting herself with carefully folding the clothes strewn about the room instead of following him down. She wants to give him the space he needs - wants to prove to him that this can still work. They can go back to Portland and it can be like nothing has changed.
Her phone buzzes to life on the nightstand and she reaches for it without thinking, thumbing through the unread messages she's missed throughout the day. Her heart drops when she sees Killian's name towards the top.
Killian Jones: Where did you disappear to, Swan?
A couple hours later.
Killian Jones: Will I see you for lunch, at least?
Killian Jones: Perhaps an afternoon tea break?
Another hour or two, without a response from her.
Killian Jones: Well, I know you're alive as you've responded to Henry.
Killian Jones: I'm not exactly sure what to do here, love. I'm going to need your help.
Killian Jones: Emma, please. Don't shut me out.
She taps her thumb against the screen and drops her head back against her closet door, closing her eyes. She rolls her neck and stares at her phone again.
"Fuck," she whispers, tossing it into her suitcase face down.
This is a new level of fucking up, even for her.
-/-
He doesn't come back to her bedroom so she crawls into bed by herself when her limbs grow tired and she almost falls asleep three times against the closet, pulling his sweatshirt tight around her shoulders and curling her fists in the sleeves. It's a poor substitute for the press of his body against hers, but it smells like the soap he uses and her honey shampoo and it's enough for her to pretend everything is alright between them.
Later, much later, she hears the door creak open, her heart somewhere in her throat when his feet shuffle against the floorboards. He seems to hesitate, lingering at the edge of her bed, and she's just about to flip on her side and reach for him, apologize that she can't be more for him, when he sighs out deep through his nose.
She stills, waiting.
He grabs the blanket at the edge of the bed, gentle as to not wake her. His feet scuffle back across the floor boards and the door creaks.
He shuts it carefully behind him, leaving her alone in her room.
This, she thinks, a tear slipping down her cheek to the edge of her nose - this is definitely the worst part.