Chapter 11
Killian Jones: Perhaps an afternoon tea break?
He doesn't wish to be this type of person. This sad, miserable man shuffling after Henry in the grocery with his phone clutched in his hand, sending her a string of messages in a horribly transparent attempt to gauge her mood. But he's feeling a bit desperate after waking up alone, and if he knows anything about Emma, it's that she can convince herself of even the most absurd of notions if left to her own thoughts for too long.
He glances at his phone again.
"You're being weird," Henry accuses, reaching for a bag of chocolate chips and tossing them without looking into the cart. He narrowly misses several cartons of eggs balancing rather precariously, and Killian winces. "Why are you being weird?"
Killian sighs and grabs the bag, exchanging it with the cheaper option on the shelf, snagging the in-store coupon and slipping it into his back pocket. Emma would call him ridiculous for it, he knows, but the bloody coupons are there for a reason.
"I'm hardly being weird."
"Sure you're not," Henry gives a pointed glance to the neatly organized groceries, then Killian's phone. "You're just super invested in catching 'em all."
"Already caught them all," Killian responds blithely, smile tight. There's a headache somewhere behind his eyes, and he dearly wishes for another cup of coffee or seven. "Have you heard from your sister yet today?"
"No, but you know how she is."
Yeah.
He knows how she is.
-/-
"She says she's heading to the fields with dad for something," Henry supplies as they load groceries into the trunk, maneuvering around the corn stalks they were tasked with gathering prior to their little foray to the grocer. "Also said mom is hitting new levels in list making."
"Aye," Killian eyes the collection of goods shoved haphazardly in the trunk, an odd assortment if he's ever seen one. "I've gathered that."
He slips his phone out of his back pocket, half dreading the one word answer most likely awaiting him from Emma. He remembers the last time she avoided him, how he had received no more than two syllables over the course of a week.
When he sees nothing at all, he frowns.
Killian Jones: Well, I know you're alive as you've responded to Henry.
He taps his phone against his knee. He had half expected her ardent avoidance when he woke up to find her already missing from their bed, but it doesn't stop the hot sting of disappointment from prickling at the back of his neck. He thought - well, he thought that this time it might be different. That she wouldn't run from him. He flips his phone in his hand once, and opts for honesty.
Killian Jones: I'm not exactly sure what to do here, love. I'm going to need your help.
Perhaps that will do the trick.
-/-
Killian Jones: Emma, please. Don't shut me out.
-/-
She doesn't answer.
-/-
By the time he arrives back to her parent's home, he's come to terms with the fact that last night did not mean to Emma what it meant to him. He knows well and good what her silence means, and it's with heavy feet and a heavy heart that he drags himself up the stairs.
He's hesitant to hear her say the words though, to see the look on her face when she tells him he's not enough.
He's hardly through the door when she blurts exactly that.
"Last night was a mistake."
She voices her hesitations, tripping along her words and looking up at him with such a pleading expression that he loses his will to fight. He told her once, when they were huddled together on the futon in her dorm room, her eyes swollen and red and the wounds from Neal still fresh - he had told her that he would never be one to disappoint her. It's too much to see the look on her face now - like he's already done so.
Her walls are still too high and she's still too afraid to see that what they have is different. What they have is special. He tries to gently push back, hoping to help her see, but -
But she has none of it, and in the end it's her reveal that this week had merely been a test - one he failed to pass - that has him awkwardly shuffling in her doorway, wishing for the ground to swallow him whole.
He looks down at his feet, unsure what to do. It's not something he's felt often, particularly around Emma, and shame burns at the tips of his ears. He never should have taken advantage of the situation last night, never should have pressed her for more when she so obviously wasn't ready. But he had hoped that this week - that maybe she felt -
That perhaps she loved him as well.
"I'm going to - " he hooks his thumb over his shoulder. "I'll just be downstairs."
Her face crumbles, and he hates himself more. He's not sure how he's managed to ruin things so spectacularly over the course of twenty-four hours, but it seems he's done it.
A new personal record, then.
"Killian - "
"I need a moment, Swan," he tries to force a smile, but judging by the way her bottom lip trembles, he's fallen woefully short. "If you don't mind."
He wants to promise her he's not leaving, but the words stick in his throat, his embarrassment dwarfing any sensible thought. He's loved her so completely for so long, it's just -
He needs a moment.
-/-
Henry takes one look at his sprawled form on the couch, blanket from the end of Emma's bed spread across his lap, and sighs heavily.
"She backtracked, didn't she?"
"Die Hard is on," Killian points in explanation to the television screen just as John McClane begins his treacherous journey across broken pieces of glass, bullets flying around him. There's blood everywhere - chaos and mayhem - yet Bruce Willis soldiers on.
Killian thinks he knows a bit how he feels.
("You're so dramatic."
"Illustrative," he corrects with a tilt of his head. "Creative."
"Dramatic.")
"Yeah, okay," Henry looks unamused, reaching for the remote and flicking off the tv. "She backtracked."
Killian sighs, not even remotely interested in having a conversation about a fictional relationship when his chest feels as if it's caving in on itself. Perhaps he should have invented a fight for them to have, a squabble over the way she leaves her wet towels in a clump on the floor or how he meticulously organized her book collection while bored the other night and apparently upset the balance of whatever system she had -
("Swan, I apologize, but organizing by color is hardly an efficient system for - "
"Oh my god.")
- but he is exhausted.
"I merely wish to be free of your sisters thrashing for one evening," he stretches his legs along the wide expanse of the couch. "Get a good night's rest before tomorrow's festivities."
Henry eyes him critically for a moment, hands clasped loosely over his chest. "You know I know, right?"
"Know that your sister is a dreadful sleeper? Aye, I would assume you do."
Henry rolls his eyes. "No, I mean, I know what you two are doing. This whole - " he lifts his fingers into air quotes, eyebrows high on his forehead. " - relationship thing."
Killian blinks.
"I tried to convince her the other night, when we were out on the roof, you know?" Henry shakes his head. "I mean, I didn't tell her I know but you guys are like, sickening to watch."
Killian does his best to school his expression, painfully aware his cheeks are probably flushed a brilliant shade of red. "What are you going on about, lad?"
"I know Emma better than anyone," Henry supplies, giving Killian a droll look. "Let's not do this whole thing where you try and convince me it's real because we don't have time for that right now. If Emma is running scared like I think she is, we need to fix it."
"It's real to me," Killian hates how defeated he sounds, averting his gaze down to his knees. There's a hole in the blanket, frayed and worn, and he pokes his thumb through it. "It's always been real to me."
"I know, which is why," Henry lobs a pillow at his head. "We need to fix it. Alright?"
Killian sighs. "I'm fairly certain she doesn't want to fix anything, lad. This is her choice. I'll respect it."
Henry remains silent, the ticking of the clock with the little red birds handpainted on the edges the only sound between them. He counts them in his head, matches his breathing to it. Hopes maybe the pounding of his heart will follow.
"You know the first group home we were in, I got a lot of visits from parents hoping to adopt," Killian's eyes dart up at the quick change in subject. The group homes are not something Emma speaks of often, typically only when she's in a reflective mood and in need of comfort - spoken in soft tones over a tub of ice cream passed between them. Or half in her boots off a bottle of tequila and slurring around her words with tears she refuses to shed shining bright in her eyes. Henry smiles, gesturing at his face. "Super cute kid and all."
Killian smirks. "A pity then, that you've managed to lose all that innocent charm."
"Shut up. Anyway, these couples would come in and we'd go get ice cream or sometimes they'd take me out to the toy store to pick something out. Every time I'd come back and I'd run up to where Emma was and ask her what she thought. Do you know what she told me every time?"
Killian huffs a laugh through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "She'd tell you to go."
Henry isn't the only one to know Emma.
"Yup, every time. She'd tell me to go with them and forget about her. That she wanted me to be happy and loved," Henry leans back in the faded armchair, crossing his legs at the ankles, a faraway look on his face. "Idiot didn't realize I was already happy and loved. You see, sometimes Emma makes shitty choices, and it's our job to tell her she's wrong."
He thinks of the look on her face when he gently pleaded with her, when he begged her in his own way to reconsider. He thinks of the panic and the way her eyelashes brushed the apples of her cheeks, her tears making her eyes seem impossibly large.
"I'll not step away from her side, Henry," Henry looks pointedly at the couch and Killian scratches roughly at the back of his head, frustrated. "Aye, tonight, maybe. But I just needed to gather my thoughts. I'll - I will be her friend, as she's requested. But I won't - I'll not force her into something she has no desire for."
Henry's face falls, his head tilted against the back of the couch.
"She loves you too, you know."
"Aye," Killian smiles, a forced thing that he's sure is more a grimace than anything remotely pleasant. "Though she's not said the words, I know she does. But she doesn't - it's not what she wants. I'm not what she wants."
He shrugs, twisting his thumb around the blanket until it bites into his skin.
Voicing it out loud, well. It doesn't hurt any less.
"Idiot doesn't realize she's already happy and loved," Henry mutters, reaching for the remote and flicking the television back on.
-/-
He rises with the dawn, sleep not frequenting his tossing and turning on the couch. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the look on her face just before he closed the door to her bedroom, her lips turned down and her bottom lip caught between her teeth, a crushing disappointment in her gaze he never thought would be directed at him.
(He sees the disappointment or - or the absolute rapture when she had been above him with her knees hugging his hips, her cheeks flushed pink and her breasts pressed tight to his chest. Mouth hot at his ear, pleading gasps with every arch of his hips.)
(He isn't sure which is worse.)
It's quick work to set the coffee and find two mugs in the cabinet above the sink. He hopes to cover the awkwardness between them with an offer of caffeine. Perhaps if she sees that nothing at all has changed, that he's capable of hearing her and giving her the relationship she wants. Perhaps then she might -
- but that's a dangerous path to let his thoughts travel, and he's given himself quite enough false hope for one week.
"You fit right in around here," Mary Margaret jostles his spiraling thoughts as she glides into the kitchen, serene smile curling at the corners of her lips, pink fluffy robe wrapped right around her petite frame. "Already know where the good stuff is."
She nods towards the can of coffee Emma had pulled from it's hiding place yesterday, a secret blend apparently lifted off some coffee black market in this quiet and sleepy town. His face flushes and he shuffles his feet, his hand caught in the proverbial cookie jar, as it were.
"Apologies, I just - "
"Nonsense, Killian," Mary Margaret smiles, a comforting hand on his forearm. "You'll be a part of this family soon enough, it only seems right you know where we keep the secret coffee."
"Aye," he does his best to keep his smile from faltering, his stomach dropping with the easy turn of phrase. Family.
"Speaking of," her grin widens as she shuffles across the kitchen to a tall cabinet just inside the front entryway, opening the door wide and rummaging about the top on the tips of her toes. A soft a ha slips from her lips and it's with despair that he notes her hands clasped neatly around a small box as she turns, intent clear in the gleaming of her eyes.
She hands it to him carefully when she's close enough, her encouraging smile and the gentle nod of her head urging his hands to open the worn wooden case.
It's a compass, and a beautiful one at that. Cased in a dull, gleaming gold, it fits neatly in the palm of his hand when he lifts it out, the arrow spinning merrily as he holds it level.
"My father died when I was very young. I didn't keep much, but there are some things," he swallows heavily, not daring to look up, the tender emotion in her voice already too much to bear. "Emma and Henry both have items of his and I always said this would go to the man Emma chose to marry. I was hoping I might catch you alone before you two left."
He swallows again, not quite trusting himself to speak. "I couldn't possibly - "
"You can, and you will," he finally looks up to find Mary Margaret smiling softly at him. "I know things started off a bit rocky, but I want you to know how happy I am that you're Emma's choice."
"I'm flattered, truly, but - "
But if this compass is meant for the man Emma chooses, it should certainly not belong to him.
The words stick like ash in his throat.
"It's yours," Mary Margaret gently nudges his shoulder, and his fingers close around the smooth edges of the compass. He will return it to Emma as soon as he goes upstairs with their coffee, and she can bring it back to her mother when she breaks the news. He still has no idea of what she intends to say to explain their breakup, and the idea of it causes his stomach to twist uncomfortably. "Now, I'm sure my daughter is somewhere waiting for her coffee. I won't keep you."
Mary Margaret turns to leave the kitchen, fingertips swiping under her eyes discreetly.
"Thank you," he supplies, hoping the way his voice grates over the words conveys how very much her gesture means to him. "I don't - my family, they're - "
He means to say he has no one left, that he's been alone ever since Emma came barreling into his life with her mean right hook and her soft smile.
"Hush," Mary Margaret shakes her head, tears filling her eyes once more. "You have a place here now. With us."
He nods, swallowing tightly.
"Thank you."
-/-
Will he still have a place, he wonders, when he's seen as the one that breaks Emma's heart?
-/-
She's nestled in the middle of the bed when he slips through her bedroom door, her hands fisted in the sleeves of his sweatshirt where they hang too long over her knuckles. She peers up at him only to look quickly back at her hands, and the compass sits a bit heavier in his pocket.
Later. He'll return it later.
"Can - " She sighs, fidgeting with the raggedy cuffs, twisting them around and around. "Can we just - "
"I brought you coffee," he cuts her off gently, handing her the mug. It's not one of the dwarf ones, thank the gods, but it's equally cheerful with a dusting of snowflakes painted on pale blue ceramic. The look she gives him can only be described as pleadingly grateful, and he bites his tongue against his sigh. He can pretend, if that's what she wants. "It's the good stuff you hide away in the cabinet. Your mother found me with it, but she didn't find the necessity to call in the town Sheriff."
A smile curls at her lips. "Lucky you."
He returns her smile, only having to fake it a little bit. "Please, your father loves me."
It's wrong thing to say, it would seem, judging by the way her eyes quickly dart away and her hand begins to tremble around the handle of her mug. His own gaze finds the floorboards and he supposes this is as good a time as any to -
"Yeah," she replies, voice sad and small in a way he hasn't heard before. "Yeah, he does."
It sounds a little bit like I do, too but that's just - that's the kind of thought he can no longer allow himself. She's made her choice. He needs to -
He needs to let it go.
"We should get ready for the day, yes? I'm sure your mum will be bustling us out the door in no time."
Emma nods, shaking herself from whatever path her own thoughts have traveled down. He makes for the closet, trying not to let himself linger over the way her sweaters look hanging neatly next to his own. He grabs for a flannel and drapes it over his arm, pulls a pair of jeans from where they're folded at his feet.
Before, he would have felt fine stripping down to his boxers and changing in front of her, probably make some quip about her inability to keep her eyes off him and delight in the color that would no doubt stain her cheeks pink. But he's not sure it would be welcome now, their encounter the other night making him feel off-kilter in the worst of ways.
He doesn't want to make her uncomfortable.
Folding his clothes to his chest, he figures perhaps some space is something they both could benefit from.
"I'll be back in a tic, love," he nods towards the door.
"Where are you going?" She tries to hide it, but he knows her well enough to hear the tinge of suspicion there, the fine threads of fear stringing along her words. Bloody insufferable woman still fears he's going to leave her behind.
As if he could.
"Just to change in the washroom. My toothbrush has gone woefully underused."
She nods, shoulders relaxing.
"I'll make sure my mom doesn't come to steal her coffee back."
The way she smiles up at him, clad in his too-big sweatshirt, hair a messy halo around her face - it almost feels normal.
Almost.
-/-
He angles his face beneath the cold spray of the shower long enough for his fingertips to go numb, hoping it will ground him and keep his mind from wandering back to the way Emma looked when he had his hand down the front of her sleep shorts. The way her mouth trembled when he curled his fingers. How she choked out his name when he bit down on her breast.
It's only made more difficult when he comes out of the bathroom to find her clad in the indecently tight jeans that hug the flare of her hips, the white sweater that exposes the jut of her collarbones. He's always been attracted to her, that's certainly never been a question. But now that he knows what she feels like, sounds like, he -
"Ready?" She asks, gaze flitting over his face like she's searching for something. He nods silently, not quite trusting himself to open his mouth and not blurt out that he loves her. That he wants her to love him, too.
He can hear her family at the bottom of the steps - the stomp of boots and the rustle of jackets as they get themselves ready for the festival. Mary Margaret hasn't quite stopped her mad circuit around the first floor of the house, checking and double checking all the necessary supplies, ignoring David's placating tones as he tries to calm her.
Emma holds out her hand and he takes it, not hesitating to lace his fingers through hers. It's a perfect fit, just like always, and he lets his thumb rub over the braided metal of the ring that sits pretty on her left hand.
If they only have today left to pretend, he damn well intends to savor it.
-/-
"You look beautiful," he tells her when they're within earshot of her parents, leaning forward and brushing a kiss along her jaw. She smiles and squeezes his hand and it's - it's almost like it's not pretend.
Almost.
-/-
She lets go of his hand in the car, curls her body away from his until she's pressed tight against the window. He flexes his hand and grips his knee instead, and tells himself it's better this way.
-/-
"You did a good job with the lights," she comments as they stroll hand and hand down the main drag of the town, their steps leisurely as the music from the band swells and dims, autumn breeze whipping along the tents. It's lovely, this festival Mary Margaret has concocted, and he feels a small fissure of pride that he had a hand in it. It's been quite some time since he's been a part of something - outside the bar, of course - and it's just -
- it's nice.
He tugs her hand until her shoulder bumps his. "Do try and sound less surprised, love," she rolls her eyes at him and he grins. "I had a hand in hanging the lights in the bar, I'll have you know."
"And they've been crooked for years."
"Have not."
"Get some eyes, buddy."
He doesn't know how, but they've managed to slip further into one another's space during their little argument, his face tilted down and her nose brushing his jaw, her fingers grasping at his belt loop as they sway together. His hand has found it's way into the hair that peeks out from beneath her cap and he's so overcome with the need to kiss her that his breath hitches with it. It's painful, this sort of pretend.
They seem to notice their proximity in the same moment, springing apart as if burned, the air between them thick with tension. It's never been like this, he notes. Not in the ten years he's known her.
He hates it.
"Uh, I'm going to get some cider," she curls her hands deep into her pockets, nodding towards a booth tucked away in the corner. "Want some?"
He sighs, shaking his head. "I'm quite alright, love."
It's a lie. He's not alright, won't be alright. He feels as if he's barely stitched together, actually, but he's not sure that's the response she's looking for.
"Be right back."
He watches her walk away, how her shoulders hunch tight. He gone and made a right mess of things, he has.
"Bloody buggering fuck."
"That sounds promising."
He fights the urge to repeat the exclamation, instead turning on his heel and not bothering to mask his irritation. Walsh just grins at him, nodding in the direction of Emma.
"Tell me, when she's done with you, you think I'll get another - "
His hands are fisted in Walsh's jacket before he can so much as think the end of his sentence, his mouth curled into a snarl. The irritation flickers hot into hostility, curling along his spine and trembling in his arms.
He won't have Walsh speak of Emma as if she is a thing to be traded.
Seemingly unperturbed, Walsh continues, "How does it make you feel, to have her run away from you with your ring on her finger?" He jostles Killian's grip, stepping back and smoothing down the front of his wool jacket. Killian wants to smack the look from his face. "You think you're different, unlike all the rest. And yet, she's still running."
Walsh grins, slapping him on the shoulder. "We're more alike that you think, my friend."
Killian bristles at that. "Don't flatter yourself."
"It's not flattery if it's true," his eyes dart behind Killian, smile settling with a nod. "Nice chat, Killian."
He turns and disappears into the crowd, Killian's hands still clenched in fists at his sides. One swift punch would do the man a world of good, he muses. Perhaps a -
"Hey, you alright?"
No, he's not alright.
"Aye, love. Just fine."
-/-
"What did he say to you?"
"Just a quip about the weather, darling. I assure you."
She peers up at him through her lashes, the ring on her finger glinting in the sun where she has her hand wrapped around her cider. He looks away quickly.
"Okay."
-/-
He does his best to enjoy the rest of the day, put Walsh's words out of his mind and not focus on how their plane is set to leave in a couple hours and he has no idea what their relationship will be like when they land back home. Uncertainty is not something he's ever had to associate with Emma, and as the sun begins to dip in the sky, he finds his mood following a similar descent.
"Do you guys really need to leave tonight?" Mary Margaret smiles up at them from her place tucked into David's side, her cheeks flushed with the cold. The festival had been declared a rousing success not fifteen minutes prior, a steady influx of townsfolk coming by to greet their new Mayor and thank her for the festivities. "We've loved having you here."
Killian curls his arm tighter around Emma in response, his voice thick. "It's been a delight."
(It's been perfect. It's been everything he's ever wanted. It's been a home and happiness and pies on the kitchen counter and Emma's hand in his.)
Emma nods her head, hair catching on his beard. "We wish we could stay, mom, really."
(Really.)
Mary Margaret reaches for her hand, squeezing once, her eyes drifting up to catch Killian's gaze. "We'll see you at Christmas?"
He finds himself unable to respond. Luckily, Emma does so for him.
"We'll see."
-/-
It's David and Henry who take them to the airport, Henry suspiciously quiet in the front seat as he fiddles with the radio dial until Christmas music fills the cab of the car. There's a brief squabble over too early and not early enough that dissolves into laughter and he just -
He wants this. All of it. Emma and her fingers toying with the cuff of his sleeve and her head against his shoulder as her father drives them to the airport and her brother teasing them from the front seat. But instead he has Emma holding herself away from him, him holding himself away from Emma, and Henry shooting him painfully obvious looks in the rearview mirror.
The tiny airport is rather abandoned when they arrive and they have the luxury of extended goodbyes. David offers him a sturdy handshake and a mild threat, but not even the shoddy attempt at violence is enough to lift his spirits.
Henry, however.
Henry pulls him into a fierce hug, his scrawny arms surprisingly strong as he pulls tight and refuses to let go. Emma arches an eyebrow over Henry's shoulder and Killian finds his own raising in response, quite confused as to what's caused the sudden emotion.
"Don't give up on her," he mutters into Killian's ear. "Please don't."
Killian pulls back, wishing he could reassure the lad. He won't give up on Emma. But Emma, it seems, has given up on him.
He deflects, reaching for something that doesn't hurt quite so bad. "I'm sure we'll face each other in battle soon enough."
Henry's smile is sad. "Yeah."
-/-
He's embarrassed, more than anything. He feels like the schoolboy who mustered his courage to ask the prettiest lass to the dance only to be denied and denied soundly.
His embarrassment only escalates when they stand on the opposite side of security, the silence between them deafening.
"Oh," she exclaims, fingers tugging at Liam's ring on her finger. She slips it off and hands it back to him, placing it carefully in his palm. It's still warm from her skin, and he has no desire whatsoever to put it back on his finger. It's hers, as far as he's concerned. Since he met her, it's been hers. "Suppose I should be giving that back."
It's a herculean effort not to grab her hand and put the ring back on, but he resists. No need in encouraging her to run away faster.
"I have something to return to you, as well." He shifts his backpack to one shoulder, reaching into the front pocket for the box Mary Margaret had presented him with. Emma's curiosity shifts to a disheartening mask of pity as soon as she realizes, and he shakes his head quickly as if he can cast the look from her face. He doesn't want her to look at him like that, especially right now. "Your mum gave it to me this morning. If you could just - "
He releases the box as soon as her fingers wrap around it, scratching rough at the back of his neck. He almost doesn't want to ask, but the situation demands it. He's had a lovely week with her family and he doesn't want them to think - he doesn't want to be the villain.
"If you could be kind, yeah? About our breakup? I don't want them to think I'm the type of person to hurt you."
(I would never hurt you, he wants to say. I will never hurt you.)
"Oh," her eyes are surprised, hands clenching tighter about the box. "Oh, of course. Killian, I'm not going to - I wouldn't do that to you. It'll be a - a mutual thing."
Her cheeks flush with the words. He nods.
"Thank you."
She shifts her own bag around and places the compass carefully inside. He curls his hand into a fist until the ring bites into his skin.
"Should we go to our gate?"
"Uh, actually," she blinks up at him, and he almost changes his mind. "I'll meet you there, yeah?"
She nods, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Sure thing. I'll just - " She forces a smile. "I'll see you in a few."
"Grand, love."
-/-
The tiny bar is just as deserted as the arrivals gate was out front, and he slides onto one of the bar stools with a heavy sigh. Turning to drink to settle his mind and lighten his heart hasn't been a habit for quite some time, though he supposes the occasion calls for it.
"Rum, please," he asks, and the bartender makes it a double, telling him he looks sad enough to earn it. It's not the finest praise, but the rum warms his belly and he can almost pretend it reaches his heart.
He's gotten quite good at pretending, after all.
Two turns to three and three to six. By the time his phone buzzes in his pocket, Emma wondering just where he got off to, he's well and truly plastered. He places some folded bills on the bar top and tilts off his seat with as much coordination as a sodding blind cow in a rainstorm, stumbling to the gate.
Emma's awaiting him when he arrives, her eyebrows knit in concern. She looks so pretty when she's worrying after him. He wishes to trace his thumb over her forehead until those lines disappear.
But he can't do that anymore.
"You alright there, sailor?"
He grunts, stumbling into one of the charging posts, Emma righting him with her hands curled around his bicep. It's a bit too much, right now, and he pulls himself from her grasp, ignoring the hurt when it flashes in those beautiful green eyes of hers.
"Just fine, love."