The brewery, as ever, proves to be his safe haven.

A place for him to collect his thoughts after leaving Emma's, sneaking out the door like a bloody coward, unsure if he could handle seeing her with her sleep tangled hair without attempting to press her into the couch and kiss her senseless. Thoroughly unable to sleep at his own place - plagued by dreams of her writhing beneath him, of her draped in his sweatshirt with her fingers twined around his - he had given up, pulled on his boots and headed to the bar.

A place for him to think. To just -

A place for him to slouch in the corner and drink his way through one of the six packs Will left on the bottom shelf of the mini fridge.

"It's not even eight in the morning," Granny offers by way of greeting, kicking out a stool and lowering herself down with a sigh, threading her fingers together over her lap. She gives him an appraising look over the top of her glasses, eyebrows pulled low.

"It's five o'clock somewhere," he quips, tipping the bottle back again, letting the bitter taste roll over his tongue.

Bitter beer for a bitter man with bitter thoughts.

He's well aware of how pathetic he is.

Her face tightens, an interesting twist to the set of her lips. "You know my rules."

"Aye, no Jimmy Buffett in the bar. My apologies."

She huffs. "You seem pretty keen on making your life miserable lately," she reaches between them for the six pack and takes one out, nudging it out of his reach with her foot. It's less than subtle, and he feels a flash of shame even as she pops her own bottle with the opener she keeps in her front pocket, taking a long sip. She smacks her lips as she lowers the glass, rolling the bottle between her palms. "I gather it did not go well in Maine."

("There's a very real chance you could get hurt here."

"Are you worried about me, Granny?"

"I am.")

"No," he sighs, scratching roughly at the back of his neck. "Well yes, rather."

At the tilt of her head, he elaborates.

"It was perfect, actually. It was exactly how I thought it might be, being with her like that."

Granny's frown deepens, and he just - he's rather tired.

"She didn't feel the same?"

He thinks of her smile in the morning, the cold of her nose brushing against his as they huddled together in her bed. He thinks of her arms around his waist as he made pancakes, her lips pressing to his shoulder through the thick material of his sweatshirt. He thinks of I wanted you to kiss me and the flush in her cheeks, her hair clinging to her neck as she rocked above him.

He shrugs, and does his best not to sound so god damned heartbroken.

"Not enough, I suppose."

(He's well aware of how pathetic he is.)

-/-

"How about you take the rest of the day off?"

He shakes his head, keeping his gaze intently on the empty bottle in his hand. He has no wish to see the pity in her gaze. "I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you."

Emma's shoes are still in his hallway from a misguided attempt at working out months ago, and the sweatshirt she stole still smells a bit like her. Bits of her presence are scattered throughout his home, and when he's there he only feels all the more lonely because of it, his hand itching to bury the feeling in drink.

"Alright, well," she pushes herself up from the stool, collecting his empty bottles and giving him a shrewd look once more from over top her glasses. She has a knack for communicating intense emotion with that look, and he shrinks a bit under her steady gaze. "Stop taking your feelings out on my brewing equipment, would you?"

He licks at the corner of his bottom lip, brushing his palms against his thighs, shoulders falling with a sigh scrounged up from the very soles of his feet. "No promises, my dear."

Various attempts at making different flavors of beer has occupied his time as of late, but perhaps he could give the old girl a rest. Arriving to the bar hours early for his shift affords him some time to catch up on the list of tasks Will left unfinished in his absence. The shelving underneath the bar that hangs crooked is one he's actually looking forward to. He supposes wielding a hammer might do him some good.

"Oh, and Killian?"

"Aye?"

Granny taps the door frame.

"I'm proud of you."

His cheeks flush despite his very best efforts. "For doing exactly what you warned me against?"

"For putting yourself out there," she corrects, the severe lines on her forehead relaxing into something warm. His blush deepens, and he stares at the toes of his boots instead of her face, feeling incredibly young. For as much as she protests, Granny does indeed care a great deal about those she's collected under her wing. "Also, since you're here so early, I'd appreciate it if you unclogged the disposal in the kitchens."

He smiles. Tasking him with something undesirable is much more in the vein of what is to be expected from Granny. "As you wish."

-/-

He's right. Hammering the shelf back into a level alignment is indeed the perfect remedy for his sour mood. In fact, for the first time since he heaved himself off the dreaded flight from Maine, he feels a bit more like himself.

He ignores the whisper in the back of his mind that reminds him of the way he felt when he found himself at Emma's apartment, her feet brushing against his beneath the coffee table and the smell of her honey shampoo tickling his nose.

He's rather hopeless.

Still, it's nice to lose himself in the mindlessness of work. The ebb and flow of taking orders and filling drinks as the day slogs on and customers begin to fill the bar. He favors the front of house tonight, abiding by Granny's order to leave the brewing equipment alone - for this evening anyway. He had been quite serious when he expressed an interest to create a blueberry flavored beer, even more so now that -

- now that the blustery afternoon in the greenhouse has been the subject of his dreams for the past several nights, various alternate endings playing out as he sleeps. All of which involve him waking up drenched in sweat and painfully aroused, palms pressed to his eyes until he heaves himself into a cold shower.

(Or, until he gives in to the thrumming in his blood and curls his hand around his aching cock, thumbing at the tip and pretending it's her touch, fingers sure and soft, lips curled up at the edges and the pink of her tongue darting out to lick at a hint of blueberry lingering on the lush swell of her bottom lip.)

Decidedly hopeless.

"You look like you're having an interesting thought."

He startles, almost dropping the glass in his hand as he comes back to himself. He manages to right his grip and set it carefully down on the bar top, slinging his towel back through his belt loop. Illicit daydreams, he reminds himself harshly, are not particularly helpful in the workplace.

A pretty brunette smiles at him when he looks up, mouth toying with the straw of her empty drink.

"I'm afraid my mind was elsewhere, lass. Can I get you something?"

Her smiles deepens, and she leans further over the bar. Her gaze dips from his eyes to his lips, and it's suddenly very apparent just what it is she requires of him.

"I can think of a thing or two."

It's a tempting thought. Losing himself in a very beautiful, very willing woman would certainly prove to be a distraction from his traitorous thoughts. Goodness knows he's not unfamiliar with that particular method of evasion. But it doesn't sit quite right, and despite the very blatant offer, he finds himself shaking his head slightly.

"Apologies, love. But unless you're after some beer battered onion rings or a refill on that vodka tonic, I won't be of much service."

She slips back into her stool, chin in her hand, smile rueful. "That's a shame," her fingers press her glass forward across the bar top. "I suppose I'll take the vodka tonic then."

"A far better choice, I assure you."

She rolls her eyes, watching with arms crossed over her chest as he moves through the motions of pulling the vodka bottle from the newly righted shelf beneath and replenishing her glass.

He slides it back over to her, waving off her request to put it on her tab, and she nods her thanks. "Since you did reject me so resoundingly, I would like to ask another favor."

He arches an eyebrow, amused at her boldness. She'd get along swimmingly with Ruby, he muses. "Besides the free drink, you mean?"

She nods, taking a hearty sip from the drink in question. "Yeah. Use your bartender intuition and steer me in the direction of your cutest patron."

He grins. "Well, the lad over by the door has had his eye on you since you came up to the bar."

She smiles in response. "Perfect."

-/-

The worst of it, he realizes, is how much he misses her.

He doesn't enjoy avoiding her, honest enough with himself to acknowledge that avoidance is exactly what he's been doing. But he still - needs a little bit of space to get over her refusal. He fears a free drink and a redirection aren't going to do the trick for him. No, perhaps with a little bit of time, he'll be able to convince himself that things truly are better off this way. She had been right, of course. It wouldn't do for them to make an attempt just to -

He sighs. These are the exact thoughts he told himself he could no longer indulge in. After going over to Emma's with pizza - after apologizing and telling her he would try to be better, that she didn't deserve to bear the brunt of his own disappointments -

It doesn't help either of them to keep thinking like this.

He stretches out on the deck of his boat, one foot petulantly sticking out through the railings. He couldn't muster up the energy to take her out after leaving the bar, more content to feel the push and pull of the tide as she stayed tied to the docks. Figuring it would help settle his heart as well as his mind, he's dismayed that his thoughts have only managed to find themselves succinctly drawn back to Emma.

"Bloody hell," he mutters. He knew untangling his feelings would be an arduous task, but he didn't expect it to pursue him so relentlessly.

But then again, even before their little experiment in Maine, Emma was a rather permanent fixture in his thoughts.

For what feels like the thousandth time in as many days, he drags his hand over his face and curses his own mind. Perhaps his best bet is to let his thoughts travel as they may. Ride out the storm, as Liam was so fond of saying.

("Who knows, Killian, you may learn a lesson or two."

Exasperated, Killian stares. "Where is it you pick up this shite, brother?"

Liam grins. "The backs of those cereal boxes.")

He closes his eyes and focuses on the rise and fall of the water, his mind conjuring up Emma beside him as easy as breathing.

"You're a sad, sorry man, Killian Jones."

It's a comforting thought, though. Her hand in his and her hair tickling his chin, huddled together on the small deck of his ship.

It's certainly something lovely to drift off to.

-/-

"You know, falling asleep on the deck of your boat towards the tail end of November doesn't exactly give me confidence in your mental state."

He startles from his position reclined in the arm chair in the far corner of the brewing room, blinking away what promised to be a delightful mid-afternoon nap. He's still had trouble sleeping, despite his newfound philosophy. Plagued by dreams of heavy storms at sea, Emma's face tear stained and her fingers slipping through his, he spends most nights staring intently upon his ceiling. Granny frowns at him.

"And falling asleep with goggles still strapped to your face doesn't inspire it neither."

He huffs, pressing the goggles to his forehead and massaging the lines that are indented into his skin. He hates the infernal things, but he's a stickler for safety. He likes his eyebrows attached to his face.

"Are you and the harbormaster gossiping about me again?"

To his delight, a faint blush rises on the old woman's cheeks. He snickers, and she whacks him on the back of the head with the dishtowel stuffed haphazardly in her apron.

"Ned merely mentioned it in conversation," she responds airily.

He thinks of how Ned has stopped by close to three times already this week, and the way in which he shuffles his feet every time Granny makes an appearance. "I bet he mentioned something else, too," he mutters.

The thwack of the towel is loud, this time landing straight and true on his shoulder.

"You know, you're being awfully fresh for an employee who has yet to fix the disposal," she glances around the room with a sigh, nose wrinkling in disgust. "And would you clean up back here? This place is starting to look like Will's in charge again."

Heat pricks at the back of his neck as he sets his boots back on the floor, glancing at the collection of mugs in various states of use around the room. He winces when he sees the one from the first batch - the layer of filth that's clinging to it like a second skin.

"Apologies. I've been trying to - "

"Blueberry, I know. Just clean it up, would you?" She shakes her head at him with a smile, already halfway out the door. For all her tough talk, he knows she merely worries about him, and it settles warmly in his chest. It's nice to be looked after, even if it's frequently accompanied by violence.

The door swings open again and he catches a glimpse of blonde hair from where he's busy rearranging the kegs into some semblance of order. His heart jumps erratically in his chest and he bites his tongue against a curse when he jams his knee rather neatly into one of the shelving units.

It seems a few days separation has had no effect whatsoever on his reaction to her presence.

"Blueberry," he offers by way of greeting, anxiety robbing him of his manners. It's been a bloody week, but he still feels as if he's being held underwater, his heart tucked neatly in the palm of her hand. "Thought I'd give it a shot."

She blinks at him in response, an interesting shade of pink brushing the swell of her cheeks. He idly wonders if she's remembering the same moment as him, when they stood huddled in the greenhouse and he wanted to kiss her so badly his skin itched with it.

"Oh."

But it is yet another foolish hope, and he reminds himself soundly that such thoughts don't serve him well. He abandons his manual labor for the moment, brushing his hands against his jeans. Emma is still shifting from foot to foot in the entry to the brewing room, her hands clasped so tight her knuckles flash white.

"Is everything alright, love?"

It doesn't escape his notice that this is the second time since they've returned that she's had to seek him out. He's been a poor friend since their return despite his promises, and his stomach drops at the thought that something could have very well happened, and he has no idea. Concern rises sudden and quick, and he reaches forward to cup her elbow and draw her closer, scanning her intently for possible injury.

(He's done this before, when she's returned to his apartment after a round of search and seizure with the latest villain - brambles still in her hair and grass stains on her knees. Catalogued every mark and scratch and guided her carefully to the arm chair by the window, forcing her to sit while he retrieved the first aid kit from beneath the sink.

"You're being ridiculous, you know."

"Your well-being is not a joke, darling.")

The contact seems to startle her, and she blinks up at him, her hand rising slowly to trace the circles that no doubt linger under his eyes - seemingly without her express permission. A frown twists her lips and he flinches despite himself, unwilling to see that look on her face because of something he's done.

Unwilling to have these moments where she touches him like she bloody well means it, knowing all the while that she does not.

She's yet to say a word and the concern pulls sharper. "Emma? Are you okay?"

Shaking her head, the moment vanishes, and she carefully removes herself from his grasp. "Yeah," she nods, and he tucks his hands into his back pockets to resist the urge to guide her back into his space.

Foolish. Despite everything, he's still -

He still cares far too much.

He straightens his shoulders and take a fortifying breath. He promised just the other day that things would not change between them, and perhaps now is the time to start honoring that particular oath.

He begins collecting the mugs stacked haphazardly over every flat surface of the work room, in an effort to occupy his hands.

"I'll be out in a moment if you want to - "

"I'm here to ask you out," she interrupts and the glass in his hand slips from his grasp, the sound of it shattering masked nicely by the sudden uptick of his pulse thundering in his ears. He stares at her like an ass, he's sure, but he can't quite help it. She fidgets in the face of his confusion, hands returning to their clasped position and her body rocking back on her heels.

Still, she manages to keep her gaze steady on his. "Uh, to dinner or something."

It's silent for a beat, and he's as surprised as she is when the first word that slips from his mouth is a quiet and definitive -

"No," he averts his gaze to the ground where he's made a right mess of things, shattered glass and half brewed beer spilling out onto the floor. As soon as the word leaves his mouth, though, he knows he's made the right choice.

He glances back up to her face just in time to see her expression crumble. "No?"

Steeling his resolve in the face of her obvious disappointment, he nods. "I can't - it isn't fair of you to ask, Swan," he rebukes as gently as he can, a small part of himself angry with her for even bringing up the idea of it. "You know the way I feel about you and I don't wish - I'm not willing to put myself through it again. I'm sorry, Emma."

Feeling much like the beer splattered across the floor - or perhaps the broken glass all jumbled with it's sharp edges - he meets her gaze with a heavy sigh.

She's smiling at him.

"Swan?"

And not the gentle smirk that curls at the corners of her lips or the passive uptick that makes the dimple in her chin flash. No, it's the grin she reserves for full belly laughs and donuts still warm from the fryer. Good coffee and his shirt about her shoulders, hair still tousled from sleep and Henry leaning against her at her parent's kitchen table. It's his favorite smile, to be quite honest, and he finds himself smiling a bit in response.

"You're an idiot, you know that?"

And just like that, the smile slips from his lips, a frown and a scowl replacing it easily. He rolls his eyes, holding up his hand when she makes to move closer. Despite the flush of embarrassment burning his cheeks and the small pull of anger in his gut, he doesn't wish for her to get glass wedged in her boots.

"Glad you take me seriously," he grumbles, eyeing the corner of the room for where he left the broom. He can busy himself with this until she leaves, and then perhaps fall apart on his own time. He didn't know what he expected when he confessed his feelings - again - but it certainly wasn't for her to laugh in his face. "Now, if you'll excuse me - "

"No, Killian," she ignores him, as she tends to do, and steps over the glass, crowding his space and cupping his face gently between her palms. "I'm asking you out on a date, for real."

He steadies her with his hands on her hips, her skin warm beneath the thin fabric of her sweater. It's enough of a distraction that he asks her to repeat herself, concerned this could all be a hallucination and he's still half-asleep in the arm chair in the back.

"Do you want to go out on a real date?" she asks, cheeks flushed and so beautiful he almost falls to his knees. Apparently whatever expression he's wearing begs for further clarification, because she adds, "With me?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand," he offers, because he's not sure he can take it if this is another miscommunication. If she doesn't mean it because -

He squeezes her hips once, urging his mind to quiet, the feel of her beneath his palms overwhelming after their separation this past week.

"I know I said - I said that I didn't want to try, but you were right. I was just afraid." Her breath stutters, honey and cinnamon on her tongue, so close he can practically taste it. "It was Henry, actually, that convinced me. He said I shouldn't be afraid anymore, not with you."

He touches her face, the swell of her cheek. Lets his hand slip back into her hair. It's too much and not enough, his mind barely comprehending the way they've slowly started moving closer to one another. "You've nothing to be afraid of with me, love."

"I know that. And I'd really - I'd like to try," she whispers, eyes softening with her smile. "If you still want to, that is."

He blinks at her, trying to comprehend a world in which he wouldn't want to try.

"You bloody infuriating - "

He gives in to the urge to kiss her then, curling his hand gently around the nape of her neck and pulling her body into his, the crunching of the glass beneath their boots barely registering. Her lips are just as soft as he remembers, the quiet sound she makes at the back of her throat when he tilts her head back and kisses her deeper just as intoxicating. Before, he had to hold himself back. Kiss her with restraint and not the way he so desperately wished. But now -

She pulls away from him with a gasp, her hands still fisted tight in the material of his shirt. Her eyes are sparkling, gods help him, and her nose brushes against his as she lingers in his space. She doesn't want to go far and he's loathe to encourage it, his fingertips toying with the warm skin just under them hem of her shirt.

"But if we try and it doesn't work - "

" - it will work, love - "

"But if we try, and it doesn't," she leans back, gaze dipping between his lips and his eyes and he - he is hopelessly, terribly in love with her. "You have to promise you'll still be my friend."

He could wax poetic about how they've already faced the most uncomfortable option, and he never considered leaving her behind, not for one moment. He could tell her all about how he'd be willing to do just about anything for her, in any capacity she'd allow. But for once in his life, he settles for simplicity instead.

"I promise."

She's the one who kisses him this time, a quiet hunger in the way she works her mouth against his. Her hands end up in his hair, tugging lightly, and he can't help the groan that rises from deep in his chest. He presses his thumb against the dimple in her chin that's been tormenting him for near a lifetime, pressing her mouth open wider and kissing her harder, curling his tongue around hers. It's messy and wet and everything he's wanted since that damned day in the laundry sophomore year of university.

She breaks away again and he gives in to the temptation to drag kisses down the smooth line of her throat, arousal pulling low in his belly. She's beautiful, flushed and wanting - wanting him.

For real this time.

She slips on the glass beneath their feet, a muttered curse on her lips, and he doesn't hesitate to wrap his arm around her back and pick her up, marching them away from the mess. She arches an eyebrow at him, but he just grins, too ecstatic to be cowed by anything. He's sure a herd of buffalo could come through, destroying all his brewing equipment, and he'd still be smiling like a damned fool.

He sets her back on her feet, but she stays in his space, palms flat against his chest.

"I'm sorry," she begins. "For the way I treated you. I'm so sorry."

He laughs, he can't help it. Even this morning's dreary mood feels a lifetime away when she's here in his arms.

"Darling, I've spent the whole of my adult life trying to convince myself that you are not exactly what I've always wanted," he curls his finger around an errant lock of hair, tugging once. "I daresay a week of separation has not been any more compelling than previous arguments. In fact, it has only made one thing all the more startlingly clear."

His heart pounds in his chest, the words on the tip of his tongue. For all the times he's swallowed it down before, this moment feels right.

It feels perfect, actually.

But as always, she manages to best him.

"Is it that you're in love with me?" Voice quiet, eyes bright with moisture, she smiles at him. "Because I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you."

His heart has stopped, he's sure of it. He swallows around the lump in his throat and traces her cheek with his thumb, smiling slow and sure when she leans into his touch. He has half a mind to ask her to pinch him, just to be sure he's not dreaming. "There you go. Always stealing my thunder."

She huffs out a laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sob, but he says nothing. After all, he feels dangerously close to a swell of emotion himself. "I figured I was moving so slow, I might as well do some wind sprints."

She looks faintly shell shocked, so he drags his thumb over her bottom lip, reassurances already promised in the space between them. "Nothing has to change, love."

She smiles and drags her hands back up to his hair, pressing up on her toes and whispering against his mouth. "I want it to."

This time there's no telling who kisses who. All he knows is the sweet taste of her mouth and the press of her breasts against his chest, her nails making indents into the skin of his neck when he backs her against the wall behind one of the larger shelves. She gasps into the kiss, and he tilts his head, sliding his tongue along hers in a thick rush of heat that has him hard in his jeans in half a second. She arches her back, pressing her hips up, and he'd be embarrassed by the sound that leaves his mouth if she didn't immediately echo it back, breathy and soft.

She wants him. She loves him.

It's enough to drive a man mad.

As is the way Emma's moving against him, tiny swivels of her hips that have him aching to slide his hand down the front of her indecently tight jeans and feel just how warm and wet she is. But he doesn't want this to be like before, moments stolen in between fleeting touches, his hands shaking beneath their clothes. Too afraid to take the time for bare skin. Too afraid to break the spell around them. He wants to do it right this time, with her bare skin on display and his hands free to touch. He wants to take his time, to learn what she likes, to understand the sounds she makes when he touches her just so.

He smooths his hand along her thigh instead, hips falling more perfectly in line with hers when she lifts obligingly, curling her foot around the back of his knee. She nips at his bottom lip with her teeth, tongue soothing the mark, and he presses harder into her. So lost is he in the feel of her, he doesn't notice the sound of the door opening or hear the feet moving across the room.

But he does feel the smack of the towel on his shoulder, his entire body jolting against Emma.

Granny grins at him from over his shoulder, Emma burying her face in his chest.

"Oh, thank fuck."

-/-

After they've managed to untangle themselves and he's calmed himself down -

(Emma, licking her lips, eyes bright and cheeks flushed.

"You alright there, sailor?"

He smirks, adjusting himself, delighting in the way her cheeks flash an even brighter shade of pink.

"I'm sure I'll manage, darling.)

After, she sits at the bar as he works, her gaze following him intently as he does his best to not spill every bloody pint he pours. She licks her lips when he catches her eyes and he drags his fingers over the top of her hand when he passes, delighting in the goosebumps that raise on her skin.

He catches her yawning, though, well before last call and he ducks his head close to hers, encouraging her quietly to go home.

"Does tomorrow night work for you, love?"

She smiles at him, tired eyes crinkling at the corners. He doesn't stop himself from tracing the shape of her mouth like he wants to, her breath warm against the pad of his thumb. He's quite finished with holding himself back. "I'm the one that asked you out, remember?"

"How could I forget?" he grins, and she rolls her eyes.

After a moment, she nods, voice shy. "Yeah, I'm free tomorrow."

"I'll pick you up at six, then." He grins. "Dress warm."