Chapter 12
She's seen the box before, hidden away at the top of the cabinet in the front hall beneath stacks of old scarves and horribly underused knitting needles. Weathered edges with rusted hinges, she remembers how carefully Mary Margaret had lifted it from it's perch, a soft smile curling her lips and her eyes wistful.
"It belonged to my father," she had said. "It can be yours, if you'd like."
She had been given her choice of family heirlooms to select from - the compass merely the latest in a long line of odds and ends pulled from various hiding spots around the house. It was the first time - well, it was the first time anyone had ever trusted her with something so precious. Something so important and valued.
She remembers tracing her fingers along the edges of the burnished brass, watching the needle bob gently back and forth as she turned the box this way and that.
"It's beautiful," she pressed her thumb into the metal and pretended she could still feel the heat of someone else's touch. A lifetime of memories. A family, maybe.
Her family.
It's a little bit more weathered when Killian pulls it from his backpack, but familiar all the same. Killian hands it to her, careful to keep his gaze on her hands instead of her face, an imperceptible tremble in his fingers when he scratches behind his ear. Her stomach drops to her toes, and it's just -
"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."
She blinks, surprised. She hadn't thought about what she might say to her parents or how she could possibly explain. Her mom will have questions, she knows. Her father, too. David will probably break out the rifle he keeps in the hall closet and make idle threats in the background during one of their skype calls. Probably threaten to fly out there and give Killian a piece of his mind.
("Please, your father loves me."
"Yeah. Yeah, he does.")
She hadn't thought of how long it's been since Killian has had a family of his own. A place to spend the holidays and people to surround himself with. Someone to mother after him and make sure he ate enough. Someone to wake up early and watch the game with him, rum slipped into their coffee and gentle companionship in the silence stretched between.
She can't take that away from him.
"Oh, of course. Killian, I'm not going to - " she swallows around the words, grips the box in her hands so tight the edges bite into her palms. "I wouldn't do that to you. It'll be a - a mutual thing."
A mutual thing.
Just like the decision to be friends. To pretend like everything's normal.
Mutual.
He nods, a smile that looks more like a grimace twisting his lips. "Thank you."
-/-
There was a time - after Milah, after his brother - where he drowned himself in liquor instead of feeling. She would trudge into his apartment to find the blinds still drawn with bottles littering the floor, Killian draped haphazardly across the couch. She would glance her fingertips gently against his brow in an effort to wake him and - it was just - the worst of it was -
Every single time he would jolt awake, blue eyes impossibly wide, body curling in on itself even as he levered himself up and off the faded, misshapen cushions. Like she had doused him in water or pressed a live wire against his spine. His breath would stutter on his lips and she would watch him slowly come to realization.
("That - it wasn't a dream, was it?"
"No, Killian. It wasn't.")
She's reminded of it when he finds her at the gate, half stumbling into a charging post and pulling his arm from her grasp when she tries to right him. He avoids her entirely as they wait in line to board, curling against the window and pulling his hood up as soon as they're seated.
(The two of them, nestled together on her beat up futon, blankets pulled tight over their shoulders and his nose digging into her arm where he's pressed against her.
"I don't have any family left."
Her hand slipping into his. "You have me.")
(He could have more.)
It hurts, but she supposes she has no one to blame but herself.
"Does your boyfriend want something to eat?"
The stewardess eyes Killian warily in his heap against the window, and Emma bites the inside of her cheek. It would be stupid to cry, after everything.
It would be stupid to cry, when she's done this to herself.
"He's not my boyfriend," she whispers.
-/-
Still, she gets him a sandwich.
"No mustard," she explains when she hands it over to him. "But I traded my trail mix with the guy across the aisle and he gave some up."
He blinks blearily at her, fingers brushing against hers on the cheap plastic that wraps, frankly, questionable looking bread. "That was very kind of you, Swan."
Her cheeks flare hot and she busies her hands with the little bag of peanuts they gave out not too long ago, her thumb picking at the metallic edge. His voice is always grittier when he's been drinking, his accent dragging along the curves of the words.
"It's just mustard," she mutters.
He sighs, leans his forehead back against the window.
"Aye, I suppose it is."
-/-
She's never been good with words. Even worse with apologies.
How do you even start to say:
Sorry, I'm just afraid to try because it might ruin everything and it already feels like I've ruined everything.
With mustard, she guesses.
-/-
Mutual.
She watches him eat his sandwich, shoulders hunched, a perfect inch of space between his knee and hers.
Yeah, okay.
-/-
Before their trip, they had planned on him crashing at her place when they got back. A long flight, a late landing - it didn't make sense for him to get a separate Uber from the airport if she could just give him a ride in the morning. But now, she's doesn't - she isn't -
"Our ride will be here in four minutes," Killian mutters, the lines on his face harsh in the eerie blue glow from his phone. "A Ford Focus is hardly the larger car I requested, but at least we won't find ourselves stranded in your death trap."
She smiles, relieved. Making fun of her car is low-hanging fruit, but it's the first time since Storybrooke that an actual smile has quirked the corners of his lips.
Nevermind that her fingers itch to trace it.
She rocks back on her heels, closing her fist tighter around her bookbag strap. "For a man who routinely explains his distaste for the big brands, you've got no love for my - "
"Death trap," he cuts off, reaching for her bag as a lime green car screeches to a halt in front of them. Killian stares at it and arches an eyebrow, and she hides her smile against the collar of her jacket.
-/-
She has to tuck herself against him in the back of the car to fit, the seat in front of them digging into her knees and his arm propped up behind her head to accommodate them both. He tenses and then breathes out slowly through his nose, his thumb catching in her hair and staying there, tapping gently at the base of her skull when she tilts her head back.
In Storybrooke, she would have leaned further into him. Maybe brushed her lips against his neck and smiled into his skin.
She sighs and looks out the window.
-/-
It doesn't help to keep reminding herself how things could be different.
It doesn't help to think of how she could loop her fingers about his wrist and tug until his fingers interlace with hers if she wanted - that she could press up on her toes until her nose nudges his chin and he stares down at her, all hooded eyes and thick eyelashes. That slow, secret smile of his tugging at his bottom lip until she leaned up to catch it between her teeth.
It doesn't help that as soon as they make it back to her apartment, he asks if he can take a shower, wanting to wash away the stale smell of the plane. She immediately thinks of the lines of ink on his chest. How the water might dip and pool in the hollow of his throat before following the curves of the waves that dance over the broad expanse of his chest, the ship that wraps around his side and licks at the top of his hip.
She lays in her bed and stares at the ceiling as the couch creaks and groans just outside her bedroom, Killian making himself comfortable with a huff and a sigh. It's nice to have central heat again, but she misses how it felt to have her toes pressed up against his shin. His beard catching in her hair.
"You have to stop," she whispers, pressing the palms of her hands into her eyes until she sees spots. She breathes out and shifts on her side, closing her eyes tighter when she hears Killian do the same on the couch.
(Imagines him curling up behind her instead, the press of his palm to the flat of her belly.)
She just needs to - she needs to let it go.
-/-
This was her choice but it feels like her mistake and she doesn't - she can't -
She needs him, even if it means this - stilted and awkward with a note waiting on her counter when she wakes up in the morning in his ridiculously loopy and ornate handwriting, letting her know he had to head out early and intercept a shipment for Granny.
She stares hard at the pot of coffee he started before he left, the blanket he left folded neatly on the arm of her couch.
Because even when it's like this, at least he's still here.
-/-
She has to remind herself of that when she goes to the bar that night, her heart somewhere in her throat as she sits on a stool and waits for him to find her. It isn't like him to not greet her when she swings through the door. To not make a comment about the state of her hair or the lack of snow tires on her bug.
He squeezes her arm gently when he finally emerges from the back and passes her at the bar counter, an apologetic look shot over his shoulder.
"My apologies, Swan. We're just really crowded tonight."
She nods, biting at her bottom lip. It's not like they had plans or anything. She just dropped by after bagging her latest skip, hoping maybe she could pull him away and have him give her the rundown on the latest beers. Maybe pilfer some free wings and meet him at Ruby's after.
"That's okay," she begins. "We'll just - "
"Raincheck," he mouths, already leaning under the bar for the spare bottle of jack and darting his gaze to the pretty brunette spilling herself across the tabletop.
She nods.
"Yeah, okay."
-/-
He texts her later, when she's drowning her sorrows in the growler he left in her fridge and the mint chocolate chip she doesn't even like, but keeps stocked for the nights when he comes over with pizza and six-packs. It's a new low, even for her, but there's no one here to see her mope.
Killian Jones: Apologies, love. I didn't intend to leave you hanging.
She taps her thumb against the screen, considers writing It's alright, I didn't intend to break your heart.
...or mine.
Instead she settles on a string of emojis that vaguely translate into no problem, I'll see you later this week while she stops herself from asking if he got the brunette's number.
-/-
Two days go by as she buries herself in work, intent on avoiding the bar and the sad set of his smile as he looks at her, everything she could have had dancing in the back of her head as she balances on a stool. She's just returned home from a useless stakeout when a knock sounds at her door, Killian on the other side with his hands clenched tight around a box of pizza when she swings it open.
"You okay?" she asks first, because his hair is standing on end and his eyes are just a bit too wide, feet shuffling back and forth as he shifts his weight. She hasn't heard from him other than the odd meme or update on Will's antics and he seems -
"Do you remember junior year? When I made you a promise?"
- he seems a bit frazzled.
She drags a hand through her hopelessly tangled hair, stomach swooping down low. She remembers curling against him on her cheap couch, a heavy pressure behind her eyes and a whispered plea on her lips.
She nods.
He mirrors her nod. "You asked me not to leave you and I promised you I wouldn't. The way I've been acting since we've returned, it's not - I don't - " He shakes his head hard, blue eyes burning bright in the dim light of her apartment hall. "I've let my own disappointments shape the way I've treated you and for that, I apologize."
She shakes her head. "No, Killian, I'm - "
"You are not to apologize for the way you feel, Swan." He shifts his gaze to the floor, boot knocking where the frame of her door hangs crooked. He tried to fix it, once. Even brought over his toolbox from his boat to try and get it to hang right. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like to go back to the way things were before I went and mucked it up."
She blinks, at a loss. It's exactly everything she wanted, but -
But when she nods and lets him into her apartment, handing him a beer before collapsing next to him on the couch, it's just -
It's the same as it was before, two friends sharing a pizza on the couch.
She's not supposed to apologize for the way she feels, but what about - what about the part where she wants more.
What about the part where she's too afraid to love him the way he deserves.
-/-
It feels softer in her apartment, with just the television on and her feet tucked under Killian's leg. Muted and still, wrapped in the extra blankets she keeps in the chest just below the window, his fingers idling with the bare skin of her ankle as they let the silence expand between them. It's easy and comfortable in a way it hasn't been since that night in her parent's kitchen - since the aged whiskey in her bedroom floorboards made her a hell of a lot more brave.
"Killian?"
He turns his head at her whisper, face cast half in shadow, half in moonlight that drifts in through the curtains, palm slipping against her leg until it cups just behind her knee. His hands are warm, gentle as he shifts against her and dips his head, her stomach flipping pleasantly down low as she shifts to accommodate him. It feels like floating, a bit, trapped in this moment with him. Where they don't need words or explanations.
He's waiting for a cue from her, she can tell, so she sifts her fingers through the soft hair just behind his ear. Tugs until he makes that choked noise in the back of his throat and brushes his lips against hers. They linger there in the space between breathing until it isn't enough. Until she pushes up on her elbows and he tucks himself between her splayed thighs, mouth hungry as he sets about devouring her.
"I've thought about this," she whispers, as his hand slips in the back of her sweatpants, palm rough as he cups her ass and pulls her hips up to meet his. He chuckles, soft and rough.
"Aye, me as well." He leans up on the palm of his hand and smiles down at her, a lock of his hair falling over his face until she smoothes it back. She cups his cheek, and he tilts his face, pressing a kiss to the palm of her hand. "Perhaps this time you'll allow me to see all of you."
He licks at his bottom lip as he moves his hand to her chest, hooking his thumb in the hem of her shirt and dragging it up until it sits above her bare breasts. He breathes in deep through his nose, muttering something that sounds like beautiful under his breath, a blush lighting his cheeks and the tips of his ears.
"Want to take me to the bedroom, sailor?"
He nods, fingertips dragging along her bare skin until he can hook them in the hem of her sweat pants.
"I do, but first I think," he slips his hand lower, down between her legs, and they both groan when he feels how wet she is. "First I think I'll have you come undone under my hand."
-/-
She wakes with a gasp, sweat gathering between her breasts and in the hollow of her throat. She swears she can still feel his touch burning against her skin, in the tips of her breasts and the hollow ache between her thighs. The television casts its harsh white light over the room despite Killian having left hours ago, their pizza packed neatly away in the fridge with a post-it reminder to take out the trash in the morning.
"Fuck," she whispers, shifting her legs uncomfortably. It would be easy if the only thing she craved was the sex. But it's all the other things, too - the way he looked at her with light dancing behind those beautiful blue eyes, balanced above her. The way he pressed his lips to the palm of her hand and chased her smile with one of his own.
She kicks off the blanket twisted around her legs and groans, closing her eyes tight as she tries to conjure the whisps of the dream. There's no way she can sleep now, not when she wants so desperately. Her fingers ghost between her legs and she shudders, his name bitten out between clenched teeth.
Touching herself to the thought of Killian is nothing new, she can admit that now, but this is the first time she's so determined to get the set of his jaw right. The way he shudders and groans and rolls his hips when she gasps beneath him.
"Fuck," she whispers again, pressing her fingers harder, circling tighter. She comes undone in a matter of moments, his face flashing behind her closed eyes.
She's sure this is not what he meant when he said he wanted things to go back to the way they were.
She's sure it's not what she wants, either.
-/-
"I fucked up."
Ruby glances at her from the far end of the diner, hands busy with a stack of precariously balancing coffee mugs.
"I'd say so. You haven't come in here once in the week you've been back to give me all the delicious details."
"No, Ruby," her voice cracks and breaks, splintering at the edges. "I really fucked up."
Ruby abandons the stack of cups, hands brushing along the front of her apron. "Does this have anything to do with why Killian has made at least twelve different types of beer since you guys have been back?"
"He has?"
Ruby nods, lips twisting down in a frown. "Granny caught him asleep in the brew room the other day, goggles still on his face."
She thinks of him alone at the brewery, hunkering down in the chair he keeps in the corner, feet propped up on one of the extra crates. The red lines that always press into his skin when he wears the safety goggles for too long. She didn't realize he had been putting in more hours at the bar. She had convinced herself rather thoroughly that the reason he hadn't stopped by her apartment again was that he was checking in on his boat. Maybe catching up on chores around his place.
(Nevermind that he hardly ever did those things without her. That he always found an excuse to be in her space, before.)
Her hands tremble as she reaches for a napkin to busy herself with, and Ruby's frown deepens.
"I'm going to make you a hot chocolate, and then we're going to sit in a booth and you're going to tell me everything. Okay?"
Emma nods. "Okay."
Maybe getting it all out in the open will help. Maybe Ruby will be able to -
"Oh, wow," Ruby leans back against the booth, reaching for Emma's mug and taking a long and considering sip. She arches an eyebrow and traces her fingernail along the tabletop when she puts the mug back down, tongue licking at the corner of her brilliant red lips. "You really fucked up."
"I know."
"I do have some clarifying questions, though," Ruby leans forward on her elbows. "When you say dry humped on the floor, do you mean like, no under the clothes action at all?"
Her cheeks flare hot, the memory of his hand between her legs making arousal pull tight at her gut. The thought that she got herself off to exactly that last night causing her to stutter. "Uh, that's not - "
"Oh my god, this is amazing."
Emma lets her forehead drop to the tabletop. She had hoped for some clarity from Ruby, not twenty questions about how it felt to have Killian press her down into the floor. The bite of his jeans against the inside of her thighs and his breath ragged in her ear.
(It felt good.
Really, really good.)
"I mean, all that sexual tension," Emma keeps her forehead on the table as Ruby continues. "Like ten years of it, all bursting at once. God, I'd pay money to watch."
Emma tilts her face up, and Ruby shrugs. "Not in a weird way. Like a scientific way, you know? You two are a god damned social experiment."
"It's not about the - sex," she begins, voice shaking. "I just miss him. He's right here but I miss him and it was only a week. How can I miss something we only had for a week?"
Ruby reaches for her hand, squeezing once. "It's been much longer than a week, sweetie."
-/-
She waits until she gets home to call Henry, hoping the cake batter ice cream she has hidden in the back of her fridge will help her give her the necessary fortitude for the conversation. She's two bites in, two rings too far gone to hang up, when he answers.
"I hope to god this is a come to jesus moment for you about how you feel about Killian."
She sinks further down into her couch cushions, slipping the spoon back in her mouth.
"Hello to you too, kid."
Henry sighs. "Can we cut the bullshit and get right to it? It sounds like you already have ice cream, anyway."
She peers down at the phone in her hand, wondering if she accidentally FaceTimed him instead.
"You always eat ice cream when you're having a life crisis," he explains.
"Sometimes I also just eat ice cream."
"But more than likely, it's because you're upset about something." He sighs, voice suddenly gentle on the other end of the phone. "We talked about this, Emma. He's not going to let you down."
She picks at the label on the edge of her ice cream, eyes suddenly, stupidly filling with tears. "Yeah, I know. But what if - what if I'm the one to let him down?"
"Well as someone who has loved you for a very long time, I can confirm that you've never let me down."
She clears her throat as discreetly as she can, choking on a laugh. "I remember you had a very different opinion when I bought only trefoils instead of the samoas you wanted from that girl scout troop."
"Who only buys shortbread?" She laughs, propping her boots up on the coffee table, knocking askew Killian's artful array of Atlantic magazines. That, more than anything, gets her to sober. How bits of his life are tucked away carefully here with hers. That before now, this moment, she had hardly even noticed.
"Seriously though, Emma. You two are perfect for each other, despite your apparent need to act out domestic scenarios."
She sputters. "What are you - I mean - that was all - "
"Fake, and I know it so don't bother to try and convince me otherwise. Honestly, I've known you my entire life. It's a bit insulting that you think I would fall for that."
She rolls her eyes. "Mom and Dad did."
"Yeah, well. They want you to be happy. And it's very clear how happy you are with Killian, so I think they overlooked the sheer looks of panic you were making every time he left you on your own.
"I wasn't - "
"You were. I watched you twist yourself all around because you have this ridiculous idea that you are not meant to be loved. I hate to break it to you, but you already are. And there's nothing you can do about it, okay? Just," he sighs, and she remembers when they were little how he used to press his forehead to hers. His messy brown hair tickling against her skin and making her smile. "You already told Killian you didn't want to try, right?"
She doesn't bother asking how he knows that, just nods silently, a muttered yes under her breath when she realizes he can't actually see her.
"And I'd bet that not-so-significant sum in my savings that he's still bringing you dinner and checking in on you during stakeouts, right?"
She thinks of the pizza in her fridge, the fresh box of granola bars she found in the center console of the bug this morning. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes.
"Yes."
"So he's not going to suddenly disappear on you if things don't work out. They've already not worked out, and he's still by your side."
She blinks, the pressure in her chest lessening slightly. She scoops some more ice cream into her mouth, and wishes not for the first time Henry chose a school closer to her so she could hug him in person.
"When did you become the adult?"
She can hear his smile through the phone. "Age six. You encouraged me to steal the mac and cheese, and I turned you into the shop keeper."
She laughs, long and loud. "I forgot about that, you little shit."
They lapse into silence, the low murmur of the television audible on his end of the phone. She smiles when she realizes he's watching the same episode of Deadliest Catch that's on her DVR, the miles and miles between them feeling like nothing at all.
"Just try to be happy, would you?"
She breathes in deep through her nose. Out again.
"Yeah, okay. I think I might."
-/-
She finishes her ice cream and slips on her jacket, intent on finding him at the bar before she loses her nerve. Her heart matches the beat of her boots against the pavement, an unsteady staccato that lodges in her throat the closer she gets to the neon red swinging sign. The windows fogged, the string lights dancing merrily behind the glass - it looks like a fairy tale. She exhales hard through her nose, watching the cloud of white twist it's way into the night sky, trying to cling to the feeling of his hand in hers.
(Warm flannel pressed against her skin, his hair tickling her chin.
His laughter low in the dark stillness of her bedroom, the string of his hoodie dragging against her chest.
Marshmallow clinging to his bottom lip, his hand heavy on her waist and his knees tucked behind hers.
Pumpkin pie and bacon that's crisp just the way she likes it. Pancakes with cinnamon and BLTs with avocado.)
(It's a hell of a thing to be brave for.)
He's not behind the bar when she swings her way in, but Granny takes one look at her face and grins wide, nodding towards the back.
"Oh, thank fuck," she mutters, scrubbing hard at a stubborn stain on the bar top. "Get that boy away from the brewing equipment."
There isn't much of a crowd tonight, just a couple of the regulars that nod at her as she passes. She doesn't concern herself with the pretty brunettes or the college co-eds with their low cut tank tops. Just focuses on the door that leads to the back, and the dark mess of hair she can see through the little window.
Her breath catches a bit when she sees him, sleeves rolled to his elbows and safety glasses pushed back to his forehead, cheeks stained pink with exertion. His hair sticks out in wild clumps and his forearms strain as he shifts the kegs around, the screech of metal against metal masking her arrival. It smells - well, it smells terrible - some sort of concoction bubbling merrily away in one of the fermentors. It's like that time with Will and the caramel cookie flavor gone wrong, except worse. More -
"Blueberry," Killian shouts over the noise with a shrug, smile a bit manic as he continues to rearrange. "Thought I'd give it a shot."
She thinks back to the greenhouse, his mouth so close to hers and lips stained blue. Her cheeks flush. "Oh."
He stops his movement and peers up at her, brushing his hands against the front of his jeans. "Is everything alright, love?"
And it's his concern that confirms it for her. The way his eyebrows pull down low and he reaches out to cup her elbow, draw her closer so he can duck his face down and trace the lines of her face with his gaze. She doesn't resist the urge to trace the swell of his cheekbone, the dark circles that linger just under his eyes.
He shudders under her touch, eyebrows pulled impossibly tighter.
"Emma? Are you okay?"
"Yeah," she smiles, shaking her head and stepping out of his grasp. He swallows hard and shifts back onto his heels, slipping his hands into his back pockets as his gaze hardens. It's like watching him put up his own wall piece by piece and she just -
She didn't see it before.
He begins to collect the spare mugs scattered around the room, shoulders hunched. "I'll be out in a moment if you want to - "
"I'm here to ask you out," she offers in a rush, watching in amusement as the mugs in his grasp take a tumble to the floor. Only one shatters, the glass splintering across the floor in an array of merrily tinkling, one mug still in his hand as he gapes at her.
"Uh, to dinner or something."
He continues to stare at her in confusion, and she fights not to fidget. To keep her gaze carefully on his.
She wants him to see that she means it. That this is what she wants.
That she's tired of running.
That she only wants him.
For real this time.