She can't remember how she first came upon the house.
The memory is fuzzy along the edges, a series of left and right turns (and a couple of frustrating cul-de-sacs) she had traversed in the hopes of finding a new way to walk from school back to her dingy, one-bedroom apartment. After that stalker ― creep ― had started following her route, she had told herself to be fearless, failed to convince herself that cowering in the shadows because of one psycho bum wasn't worth all this trouble...so she had followed a trail of cozy-looking homes until here she was, gaping.
Well, it was kind of worth her reaction. Polished oaken walls, a burgundy roof that gleamed in the sunlight, and crystal windows that scintillated with a smile if you peeked at them at just the right angle.
But that wasn't what had caught her attention.
It was the roses.
There were roses everywhere, from the trellis to the arching porch and back again to the tall white picket fence and grand pecan tree on guard, twisting and winding until there was no beginning and no end to the spindly, prickly, full-blooming marvels. Red and white and yellow and pink, sweet-smelling wild and tame and hybrid, orange bursting onto scarlet and crimson spraying onto peach. There was a heady perfume that could only belong to this variety of flower, bud and blossom and fledgling flower entangling in a lover's embrace that repeated over and over again.
In this neighborhood of black and white, here was color. It wasn't sunshine and daisies ― it was more. The turmoil in this extraordinary front yard spoke of passion, of fervor, of recklessness. It spoke of care and honesty, of deepest affection. It was truly bedazzling.
Her mind spinning from the onslaught of this vision, this unprecedented display of natural beauty that supposedly only existed in greenhouses and botanical expos (and on the stiff pages of very expensive hardcover books), Emma drew closer and gave up the fight.
She had never believed in love at first sight, but head over heels, she fell. Making a note of the address amidst the whirlwind of scent and flora, she promised herself that she would come back.
True to her instincts and her stubborn will, it only took a day for her to find her secret garden again.
Emma sighed as she leaned on the one post not covered by sloping, thorny vines, gazing intently at the soft petaled rose in front of her. It was a sweet rose ― sweet because of its baby bottom color and its winsome smell ― and she could swear it felt as soft as it looked, even though it was out of her reach.
Every afternoon after dull college classes that irked the hell out of her, Emma would almost run off campus to wind and wander through lonely concrete streets, ignoring the puzzled and curious stares of simple folk going about everyday life on their properties. She would scramble, stagger, and stumble across beaten sidewalk and crumbling asphalt, desperate for her little piece of heaven, her hundreds and thousands and millions of roses. Well, not really millions ― but it would be a close guess, seeing all those buds nestled next to each other, part of a giant family that was united in sap and form and fellowship.
This was her daily routine. For weeks, she took the bus in the morning, endured her droning teachers and the one or two classes she genuinely enjoyed, and then...her haven awaited, in all its fragrant, aesthetic splendor.
Yeah, she had a thing for art and nice things making a pretty picture (she was no photographer, though). It was her secret delight, and as for gardening... She couldn't be sure about something she had never tried.
Shifting from one foot to the other in order to avoid stiff knees, Emma swayed gently when the wind blew suddenly. Then her eyes snapped open.
All these months she had been coming here ― was it two or three? ― she had never seen the denizen of said residence. In fact, aside from studying the building and assessing it was a comfortable living space, she had never even given it a passing glance. Not when her focus was elsewhere.
Now she wondered.
It was sturdily built, this cabin-like abode. It had that not-so-subtle masculine touch, a crafty design that spoke of forests and downy earth. The architecture was simple, the materials solid. Okay, so a man lived here. Did he hibernate or something, that he was never out and about his own house?
Nevertheless, her respect and admiration only grew for this tiny mansion in the middle of nowhere. All her life (well, all twenty-three years of it), she had been the classic outcast, always on the outside looking in. She was the window shopper, seeing what she wanted through paned glass but unable to acquire it.
Family.
Love.
A place to call home.
But most of all, love. Someone who wanted her, somewhere she truly belonged.
Was that really so much to ask, when she had nothing?
Even now, she couldn't understand the allure of these roses. She wasn't a "rose kind of girl" ― peonies and carnations, please and thank you ― but somehow, after she had found this house, everything had changed. And she was still outside the gate, wanting something she couldn't have.
Her life was utterly, utterly pathetic.
Noticing that it was dusk, Emma gave each of her favorites one last wistful smile before turning around and heading home.
Hah. Home was one of those things on her wish list, buried in the closet of her heart.
Back to the death trap of an apartment it was. But she couldn't help looking back every once in a while, watching the flowers glow golden under the lamplight as they faded into the night.
And still, the windows of the house remained dark.
Nothing went right. Nothing ever went right.
First it had been school, her group presentation a grade F bomb because the only group member present was yours truly, and then her lab partner spilled chemical goop all over their table and her clothes. Then when she went to man the fort at the grocery store she cashiered for, it took one broken egg carton, four rude customers, and two epic outbursts to get her boss to threaten to fire her. And then at her apartment, the pipes broke and the landlord was squalling about two weeks late rent and her favorite red leather coat got lost on the bus and...
It was raining. Hard. She didn't have an umbrella. And she was running through puddles and lakes and oceans of water, soaking her only pair of boots, and she was stomping them through splashes and tidal waves.
She had to get to the roses. She had to. Maybe then all this madness would look sane. Maybe, when she saw proof that one corner of this damn world was still beautiful, she could make herself believe that it was.
Maybe.
She didn't get even halfway there before she slipped on a piece of malignant concrete and was dumped unceremoniously on her behind, the stress of the day forcing her to break. Covered in raindrops and her own tears, Emma huddled on the pavement, hugging her arms to her sides and hiding her face on her lap.
And the rain came down with a vengeance, screaming in fury and washing away the sounds of her sobs as she sat there on the edge of the pavement, wet and alone and disregarded in the middle of the raging storm.
No one cared. No one ever had cared. And from the looks of it, no one ever would.
For who could want someone like her, the little lost girl?
She would always be Emma the orphan for the rest of her life.
The pipes were fixed. Her salary was safely deposited in her bank account and the landlord got one month's rent in advance. The sun was shining outside. School was as monotonous as ever, but her grades were up.
She should be happy, feel happier. But she didn't. It was temporary relief, that's all.
When classes were over for the day, she knew where she needed to go.
The neighbors called it "the forsaken shack." By now, they were used to her visits to the house, some even waving at her half-heartedly when she passed by ― but they were less than willing to divulge any details about its status quo, and they were far less willing to discuss its current owner. Narrowed eyes and mouths shut tight. Lips pursed in a sneer. Spit hurled on the ground, jeers voiced derisively against that "ridiculous, nauseating, pink eyesore of a front yard."
She had not pondered why the lights never went on in the evenings, why all parts of the house seemed to spotless while the yard was in a state of perpetual disarray. She had not asked till now, and her curiosity was demanding why she hadn't bothered. Maybe she hadn't because she was trying so hard not to care at all...
Only one woman, elderly and with dogs trailing about her ankles, whispered to Emma that the man who lived in that "quaint little cottage with the lovely flowers" was something of a recluse, keeping to himself and seldom coming out. He had a past, she said, a history ― but few knew his name, let alone his background. He was rarely seen, and if and when he appeared in broad daylight, he wasn't introducing himself to any of them.
Curiosity killed the cat, Emma told herself when she proceeded to take her stand by her favorite fencepost. Why would she even bother to find out anything about the person hiding behind those walls when she was too busy hiding behind her own?
After all, it's not as if she wanted to meet the guy ― she was only here for the roses. As long as everyone was aware she wasn't some stalker or would-be burglar doing reconnaissance, her daily treks were a perfectly ordinary pastime. Or so she tried to persuade herself while closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. Yeah right. Leaning against a fence, being miles away from her real home (the word was beginning to leave a bitter aftertaste in her mind), gazing for hours at rosebushes growing in someone else's yard ― very, very normal.
She ignored the whispering inside, the warning voice that had told her not to get attached to this place. Too late, she shot back defiantly. I want to be here.
When the darkness began to cast its spell and she spun on her heel to walk away, wrapping herself more tightly in her new jacket and plodding slowly toward everything she didn't want to go back to, she missed the careful lifting of the blind in the farthermost window. She failed to notice artificial light sneaking through a slowly upturned curtain and illuminating a particular outline behind the flimsy-looking piece of cloth, the shadow of a figure enveloped by pale blue.
Nothing is ever for free.
Days continued as they should, nights a lonely remembrance of all Emma dreamed. But she was oddly content with her routine, waiting to see the one light that shone brighter than anything else in her life. It was all she had.
The roses were growing wildly, blindly, rapidly. They were entwining around her, clouding her senses. She had started drawing them in her notebooks, black ink spiraling until there were dozens of petals and sleeping buds and leaves. And then it struck her, as her English professor spoke of Shakespeare and Act I of "Romeo and Juliet": why was she only seeing the roses?
Why wasn't she smelling them, holding them...touching them?
It was three months, going on four, and she had not even grazed one flower with her fingertip, content to drink in the sight but never experiencing it.
Old fears sprang forward, but she grew determined, adding coral shadowing to the red blossom on the back cover of her composition book as she hardened her resolve.
Today. Today would be the day she finally held one of those heavenly roses in her hand.
No more watching.
She felt as Adam did in Michelangelo's Sistine Ceiling fresco, stretching out his hand to God in order to touch the divine (bless that art class). Tentatively, boldly, she stretched out her own hand, a sigh parting her lips when she cupped the blood red rose in front of her, curling over wood and beyond as if to beckon and encourage.
Hello beautiful, she whispered to herself, bending it forward until her nose could be buried deeply in its folds. Nectar and perfume, wafting upwards. The sweetest caress. Unearthly beauty indeed ― if there was a God, and he created this wretched earth, he certainly could take credit for designing flowers. Perhaps she should become a botanist ― no, a florist―
When the stem snapped suddenly, the strain and force of her pull effectively disconnecting it from its mother branch, a loud scream crackled through the air―
And Emma, mortified, was adhered to the ground as the world she knew tore apart.
"Who the bloody hell do you think you are, you conniving, thieving slag?!"
He was dragging her past the gate, his grip hard and rough and unyielding. His fury was tangible, and she was shaking, dumbly submitting as her entire body went into a state of shock.
Portland, Oregon. Hands behind your head, Miss. You know your rights? Bars and bars and more bars, all displaying she had lost: her freedom, her belief, her trust. Handcuffs, feet cuffs, no privacy. Caught, caught, caught. Punished. Wicked, worthless girl. Eleven months of bullying, of fright, of temptation. Of endless, endless torture.
At last, she fought back.
Ripping her hand from his hold, she shrieked when he grabbed both of her arms as she tried to run.
"Think you can steal from me, lass, and get away with it?" he yelled, shaking her hard. "After all the stalking I've endured from you at my expense, it will be a pleasure to call the bloody cops, let them decide what to do with you―"
"No!" Her eyes widened in terror, and she stopped struggling. "Please don't call them ― please!"
He lifted a brow ― she could make that out, but her blurry vision (was she crying?) was preventing her from seeing all his features ― so she hastily continued her apology. "I didn't mean any harm ― I only wanted―" she gulped, "―needed to feel one. Please, you don't understand―it was an accident―"
"That's what they all say." He laughed sardonically, a chilling sound. "You are damned right that I don't understand. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have a sodding scavenger like you arrested for harassment and theft this instant, and perhaps―"
She interrupted, "I love your roses. Look ― I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm a hard worker, so how 'bout we make a deal? I'll help around your yard ― fix it up―" she chuckled uneasily, trembling when his gaze turned into a burning glare, "―maybe help with housework, chores?"
The man scoffed at her, his brogue thickening as his anger intensified. "A common thief inside my own house? I would never trust you with even a pair of scissors―"
She cried out when he squeezed her muscles, the dead grass swallowing her falling tears. "Please," she whimpered, too frightened and ashamed to feel humiliated by the defeat in her tone, "please give me a chance. A chance to make it up to you." Her voice was a desperate whisper. "We can work this out. It was only one rose."
He cocked his head, and, blinking quickly, she gaped as his face became clear. Eyes as crystal blue as pure sea ― magnetic. Rugged jaw, dark stubble, handsome profile, dark hair ― ethereal appearance. From the looks of it, he was only several years older than her...but that glint in his gaze, the fire there...he seemed like he had aged centuries in one glance.
She was too terrified to be awestruck.
Hesitating, he peered at her intently before shoving her away, his hands ― wait, wait. His left hand was oddly stiff, the fingers unmoving. It was as if―
Emma covered her open mouth with her hands, willing herself not to gasp, not to react at all. She took a step backward, wanting to put as much space as possible between herself and her captor. He had made a mountain out of a molehill, and though she understood why he was upset, she had made a mistake. Why should one less rose matter, when his property was overrun with them anyway?
A sneer crossed his lips, and his eyes darkened. "Tell you what ― I'll think on it." He was scrutinizing her closely. "What's your name, love?"
She clutched the fragmented rose to her chest. "Emma Swan," she stammered, praying for her courage to return. In an instant, she was seventeen again, frightened out of her wits and unable to believe that such terrible, terrible things could happen to her ― even though they always did.
He smirked at her. "Well, Emma Swan," he drawled sarcastically, "come back tomorrow ― same time ― and we'll discuss my terms." When she shifted, he stepped forward until his mouth was by her ear. "But if you try to hide," he warned, "or if you try to run, rest assured that I will find you. And believe me, you will not enjoy the consequences of that choice ― make no mistake about that. Indeed, I'm sure one of my neighbors would be more than willing to testify to seeing you around here so often..."
She nodded hurriedly, wishing for nothing more than to disappear. "Tomorrow," she promised.
He eyed her up and down before he strode back toward the front entrance. Then he stopped short, turned around, and marched right back to her quickly enough that she didn't even have a chance to move one foot. "You forgot something," he growled, ripping the broken rose from her hands and stuffing it into the pocket of his coat.
Watching him re-enter his house and slam the open door shut, she stood paralyzed, with fallen petals strewn over her hands.
They were all that remained of her joyous dream.
Emma knew all too well the pain of losing a favorite haunt, the way it hurt to lose anything ― but life forced you to move on, even if you thought you couldn't. Yes, that ache was too familiar.
Her mind was blank, as if she had awakened from some dreadful dream. She couldn't see anything but him ― savage, violent, outraged. The intimidation she had incurred. The horrid memories that had threatened to push her down to her knees and make her beg for mercy. Never, never did she want to relive those memories, those images, those feelings. She had sworn to herself to forgive and forget, but the hurt, the scars...she couldn't will them away for all the roses in the world.
They had touched a part of her long dormant, the innocent, wide-eyed girl who had hoped and dreamed and wished and prayed and fought for the things every child should have, every person should keep.
She had left her childhood in the dust. And womanhood was certainly no picnic. Study, work, eat, sleep, repeat. That was her daily schedule, her future: an endless cycle.
She wanted so much more than that.
And now she had gotten herself into this mucky shit of a situation, and...it didn't look good. At all. The man, whoever he was, was acting half-deranged, just because she "took" one of his precious flowers (as if they weren't sprouting all over the place), and now he thought she was indebted to him or something like that.
Crazy bastard.
Clenching her jaw, Emma tugged on a simple sweater and peeked out the one window in her apartment. It was late fall already, and soon it would be winter. The roses would be gone anyway, dead and buried.
So why was he making such a big deal out of nothing?
Trailing down the stairs, she figured there was only one way to find out.
She wasn't looking forward to this.
"Here's how it will go, lass: I make the demands, you follow them," he instructed, waving his hand demonstratively as he showed her around and inside the garden shed, the backyard spanning several acres back. She had never realized how deserted the house really was, abandoned on some vacant lot ostracized from its surroundings. Settled at the end of a cul-de-sac bordered by some wildlife and unnamed forest-y turf, his territory spanned quite a sum of land.
Wiping his hands ― uh, hand ― on his jeans after grabbing a bit of dirt from the ground and analyzing it with his fingertips, the man grunted something unintelligible to himself before proceeding to his house, the soles of his boots leaving visible prints. Emma followed mutely, silencing her mental comments about how he would be quite attractive if he wasn't grimacing every other minute, his pendant necklaces swinging 'round and 'round his neck against his plain white t-shirt.
The layout of each room was...in a word, ingenious. The dimensions were small, but the unique interior design, obviously nautical in taste, created a sense of limitless space. Every piece of furniture, every decoration was arranged perfectly so that she could move about easily.
One bathroom, two bedrooms. The kitchen was rather large, and there wasn't any dining room. The living room was more of a mini-library with a black leather couch thrown in the middle. All in all, the house was...simple. But despite herself, Emma was warming to the coziness of it, the way everything inside her was pleading for something similar. Why couldn't I have had this? Why couldn't Neal have been―
She winced, flinching at the words. None of that, now.
When she opened her eyes again, he was staring at her curiously. Her face blanching, she slipped her hands into her pockets (god, the man had had the nerve to frisk her before he allowed her to pass through the gate) and peered down at her booted feet. "So, what do you want me to do?" she mumbled, a stroke of worry and medium anxiety rushing her heartbeat.
He snorted, seeing right through her fears. "Don't flatter yourself, darling." When she opened her mouth to retort, he tsked. "You're something of an open book, m'dear, so let me enlighten you: you'll be working. Hard. Any task I assign you ― nothing kinky or anything of that kind, as I am a gentleman ― you will complete. Yardwork, housework ― as you so kindly suggested ― and maybe even a bit of cooking from time to time."
"And how long will this...arrangement last?"
"Already wanting to be rid of me?" He chuckled mirthlessly. "How disheartening. But let's see...you've skulking around my home for nearly...how many months now?" He made a show of counting on his fingers. "Hmm...about 4 or 5 months."
Emma bit her bottom lip defiantly. "And it took you that long to notice me?" she snapped.
His brow furrowed. "Let's get this straight right now: I let you stand about, staring aimlessly into space, admiring the view. Anyone else would have already booted you out on your arse and given you sufficient evidence of their displeasure at being watched for hours on end, but I allowed you to look and look and look. It was a courtesy, and since you never trespassed on my property, I tolerated you. But the moment you even fingered what is mine, you crossed the line. Understood?"
She gritted her teeth during her response. "Understood."
"To be fair," he continued, "I will expect the same period of time in return as compensation for your, uh, invasion of my privacy. That is when I will be done with you." His eyes narrowed. "Five months ― no more, no less."
Five months? Emma's heart plummeted to the bottom of her stomach, and she grew nauseous. Five months of being at the beck and call of this arrogant asshole who spoke like some stupid captain aboard a ship, all sassy and saucy and commanding―
"Agreed." She stuck out her hand warily, wanting some physical confirmation that a deal had been struck, though she didn't trust his word in any case. "I work for you for five months, and we keep this mum." Fidgeting, she swallowed hard and looked up at him. "Is it okay if I come only for a few hours after school's done? I work early in the morning, so there's that..."
"Fine," he said brusquely, shaking her hand quickly and then withdrawing his as if it had been burnt. "Come a bit before sunset, and you can leave around dusk. After all, I'll only be able to handle your company for so long at a time."
Damn right you couldn't handle it, she mentally cursed, taking a deep breath before putting on her thick leather gloves. "So, what's first on the list of things to do?"
He grinned wickedly, the smile unforgiving and cold. "Oh, I have something in mind..."
The man still hadn't told her his name. One week, and no progress on that front.
Emma stared at her hands, trying in vain to remove the muck and grime settling under her fingernails and between her fingers. When rubbing it off under the running hose only made matters worse, smearing grease further across her skin, she groaned in frustration and gave up, kicking at the empty bucket for good measure.
She never saw him, never talked to him. Instead, a list was taped to the front door every time she stopped by, with the materials she needed to complete the chore or whatever ungodly duty he assigned her.
First, it was the impossible: cleaning out and re-organizing his entire tool shed, weeding out and fertilizing his grass, digging out all the dead, bare bushes in preparation for the winter. Cleaning out the junk piles lazily drifting about different areas of the backyard. Trimming the thick, bristly hedges that had the height of two men. Fixing his roof. Cleaning the gutter while standing precariously on a rickety ladder.
She wasn't a handyman type of girl, but she was doing the kind of work a professional carpenter or laborer would be charging damn good fricking money for.
The only time she had felt competent so far was when he had asked her in the postscriptum of one note to have a look at his old Jeep, which was hanging around under a crude metal canopy.
She did the oil change, checked the mileage, scrubbed under the hood, checked the tire tread, and to top it off, gave the poor wreck of a car a wash. That high school course about auto mechanics she had worked her ass for had really paid off in the end. It would have even more if she had a car of her own...
Now "the Captain" was giving her menial tasks ― cleaning his trash cans (who does that?), repainting his fence eggshell-white, dusting out the cobwebs from the high corners of the house. Y'know, for a bachelor, he didn't have a lot of trash to take out, really.
She despised washing his windows. She loathed waxing his doorknobs, polishing his car's hubcaps. Most of all, she hated having to do anything for him, who was probably too lazy to take care of his things himself.
But what she hated more ― what she didn't even dare to admit to herself ― was how, in every single note, a line was written all in capital letters, in bold and angry print: "DON'T TOUCH THE ROSES."
She never went near them. And if she couldn't finish a chore on time, she left the rest for the next day.
Then there was the inside work. The front door was unlocked, and though she believed His Highness wouldn't be able to escape her presence this time, being in the same atmosphere as she, he did his best by locking himself in his bedroom when she came. Until this day ― 1 month and 22 days, and counting ― she had never been inside. And it didn't look like she would anytime soon.
Cleaning was simple enough ― mopping the floors, dusting the bookcases, washing the tiles and whatnot. The bathroom was surprisingly well kempt, so sanitary efforts there were nowhere near as disgusting as she had imagined they would be. The kitchen was in order, the couch was rather shiny.
However...he wanted her to keep cleaning the house. Every. Other. Day. Understandably, the outside tasks diminished, mainly because she was so damn great at completing them. She had felt like strangling him when he demanded she do the same chore twice, because "it wasn't done well enough."
There wasn't any gratitude outlined in his lists. There weren't any congratulatory words hidden in his notes. No, for Emma, this was a true sacrifice ― of her time, of her energy. Her pride.
This was suffering ― doing something for someone you hated that would gain you nothing.
Still, she would rummage through his cabinets and his fridge (there was a spice rack!), rustle up spicy fish on the pan and mashed potatoes ― or deep, black-beaned chili in a bread bowl ― on Mondays and Wednesdays. Turkey patties with green peas and jasmine rice on Tuesdays. Thursdays called for bean sausages with red pepper, toasted and buttered buns, and loads of condiments, but Fridays were fried chicken and sweet potato fries. Saturdays and Sundays were the real torture, but she managed. She made enough for two days on Saturday ― either it was split pea, potato leek, or minestrone soup, combined with dark homemade bread and spinach salad, or sometimes she'd made a simple stir-fry ― and she hopefully assumed he would be content with leftovers for Sunday.
She was no cook, but she had taught herself when she was 10, and she had never forgotten. Desserts were varied, but she usually whipped up some fruit pie or simple cookies. Once she baked an upside-down brownie sundae cake. She left the vanilla ice cream to defrost on the counter.
No response from him. No reaction at all. But he left the dirty dishes in the sink for her to clean up.
All this food, everything she baked and created from scratch, was tempting her. It was prompting too much realization, making the tension and turmoil within burn too heatedly. Whatever sense of honor she had was being sorely tested.
God, she was caring for this monster's home like it were her own, and she was not receiving anything in return, not even the satisfaction of seeing him somewhat pleased.
He was taking and taking, she was giving and giving, and nothing was changing. Maybe she should resign herself to the fact that it would go on like this till the end, when their "deal" would be over after 5 months of being a veritable servant heeding his every command and whim.
She would work herself to the bone from sunrise until mid-morning, when she'd go to her classes, and then, a few hours before sunset, she would traverse miles to do free labor until dusk in a house filled with secrets. And she'd trudge back to her own habitat, subjected to restless nights and tired mornings.
If this was a taste of what her future was going to be like ― drudgery for the high and mighty who needed a kick in the behind more than a helping hand ― to hell with it.
To hell with him.
He was a man who hid behind his own bedroom door, listening to Emma hum while she toiled, sometimes singing prettily while she polished the floor or arranged dinner. A man who peeked out a window or two while she walked around the front and back yard to ensure nothing was amiss. He would always sneak out right after the door clicked behind her to signal her departure, watching her shoulders sag heavily as she proceeded to go back to her own world.
Somehow, he had trapped her into his, and he couldn't understand why he was willingly letting her stay in it. He should do what's best for all involved and let her go, release her from this absurd contract of theirs.
He shouldn't be so attached to Milah's roses. He shouldn't be drinking himself into oblivion everyday, living on rum and whiskey and the telly ― his three best friends ― when he still had his own life. When he should be living it.
So many things he should do. So many more things he shouldn't.
Tilting his head back, he swallowed a deep draught of rum before tiptoeing into the kitchen to see what the Swan girl had concocted this time.
He shouldn't be so selfish. But, with quite a few sighs and after double-checking that the blinds were firmly shut, he turned on his television, slid onto his couch, and began to eat his supper.
Who bloody cared? She was dead, he was in love and happy, and all he had left was his stump of a hand, a broken heart, and crushed dreams.
He had nothing. He was alone. Why should he give a damn about Emma Swan?
Quietly and absently, his mind registered that the vegetable stew she had cooked in place of the usual chicken was quite delicious and remarkably pungent...
She was suspicious when he started leaving her gifts. Well, why wouldn't she be, when he barely stuck his nose out to see if she was fulfilling her side of the bargain? Since when had the balance shifted? Since when was he nice?
First, it was snickerdoodle cookies, carefully wrapped in parchment and smelling too tantalizing (were those burnt edges around each of them...?), with his fancy cursive script signed on a small scrap of paper: Your favorite?
She must have gawked at the whole presentation for five minutes without moving a limb. Tucking the note into her pocket and the plate of cookies into her satchel, she wondered all the way home if they were poisoned or not.
When she went again for the usual routine, she noticed that several ingredients ― especially the ones needed for baking luscious, cinnamon-y cookies the size of your hand ― were depleted in their allotted containers. And there, lying on the counter, was another set, this time unburnt.
For the first time since she had begun working there, a smile broke out on her face, wide enough to make her cheeks hurt. When she finished preparing dinner that evening, she scribbled something on the same note he had used and stuck it by the cutlery laid out on the counter.
She chuckled when she found out he also had a soft spot for cherry pie.
It was like awkward, adolescent pen pal correspondence, where you first stated all your preferences, your hobbies, your interests in a straight line, then drifting off towards mentioning the really important stuff. The information about yourself that few knew, the truth about yourself that made you who you are. The wounds that made you wake up in the middle of the night, crying from pain. Your fears.
All of that.
He liked gardening ― it was his passion. He loved sailing ― it was his life. He was a retired Royal Navy officer (she thought he was too young to be retired, so there had to be more behind that story...). He couldn't cook to save his life. He wanted to travel the world again and again and again. He knew how to play the guitar and the piano. As of right now, his favorite TV show was anything and everything on the Discovery channel. He loved to read ― especially classic literature. He knew Homer's Odyssey by heart. He had a sense of humor.
His replies were almost charming in their eloquence, and she found herself laughing more than once at his cheeky questions. He managed to weasel out of her her secret interests, her most wanted career, her love for hot chocolate with cinnamon sprinkled on top of the whipped cream. In a series of words and well chosen sentences, through simple paper and ink, he learned about her, and she learned about him.
He left her (sometimes badly constructed) pastries and sandwiches ― each day, she wrote for him simple recipes with detailed step-by-step directions on thick note cards, and slowly but surely, his culinary skills improved. A beautiful leather-bound journal and fountain pen were awaiting her after she said how lonely she got on weekend nights; she gave him a stack of DVDs (several BBC series and even a few ol' Disney films) and told him to lighten up his entertainment agenda.
Truth be told, Emma was looking forward to his messages. Though he didn't speak to her, there was just something about him...the mystery and intrigue of his seclusion, the solemn respect that had grown between them. As a result, colleagues at school would ask her to join them clubbing ― she said no ― and she would turn down any guys who asked her out (even that cute Irishman named Graham). She would always give them the same excuse: I have other plans. But heck, she had always been something of a loner...
It all simply meant she was anticipating the moment she would again cross the threshold of his home.
In class, in between the pages of her textbook, she would most secretly attempt to draw his face, remembering the striking blue of his eyes and the handsome outline of his jaw. The other notes ― the ones she had so despised, where he ordered her about ― had become long, personal letters about them, orders be damned...and against her will, she was mesmerized.
By him.
Ergo, she couldn't stop thinking about him. It was irrational and stupid and crazy ― she hated him, right, because he was such a jerk? ― but underneath all that, she was drawn. No, she was pulled by some unknown force to keep going there, caring less and less if she was working for free or not. Worrying less if she was falling and dropping under some enigmatic spell, where she lost her anger and felt joy instead at being inside a seemingly empty house, talking only with her pen and her housework.
This wasn't a matter of work or fear for her anymore. Here she was, wanting ― almost amicably ― to be there for him. Not out of obligation or pity, but out of...she didn't know what.
Strangest of all, it was all under the table and never face-to-face, this most odd friendship in bloom, and sometimes she asked herself if any of it was real...
But damn it, what bothered her most was that she didn't even know his name...
She knew something was definitely wrong when there was no note on the door that evening. Her senses tingled further from sudden dread when she found the door locked.
He had never missed even one single goddamn day. Not even on holidays. Needless to say, he didn't celebrate them ― a choice they had in common.
Without a second thought, she knocked. Hard, desperately, and rhythmically. When there was no answer, the next resort was a bobby pin out of her hair and resuscitating her lock-picking talents.
She was inside in less than a minute.
The rooms looked normal, for the most part ― but the food was untouched. Emma shivered when she approached his bedroom door, knowing that consequences of disturbing him like this could be dire. After all, he could just be fast asleep after getting laid or something like that, right?
Her gut, shouldered by her instincts, told her (in a disgusted tone) that he didn't appear to be that type of guy. Plus, she kind of knew him and his habits after 3 months and 1 day (still counting) of coming here and reading his letters.
"Uh, hello?" she asked timidly, knocking. "Is anyone there?"
The sound of silence.
This door was locked as well, but the doorknob was...indestructible, made of solid brass and with no keyhole in sight. So Emma focused on her inner strength, recalled those short-lived karate lessons she took in high school, and kicked the darn thing open.
What she saw made her cry out and drop to the floor.
"In plain English?" The doctor cleared his throat, shifting nervously from foot to foot. "He almost died from alcohol poisoning. If you hadn't called when you did...well, let's just say his fate would look much more...bleak." A wry, very small half-smile crossed his lips. "Trust me, I know from personal experience."
Emma nodded, barely able to see straight. When the physician cleared his throat again, as if expecting her to say something in reply, she peered at his ID tag ― Dr. Victor Whale, was it? ― and extended her hand. "Thank you, doctor."
He shook it warmly. "Don't worry too much, now ― your boyfriend will recover slowly, but he will live, Miss Swan."
After reassuring her again that all would be well, he left her alone in the hospital room, staring at the bed before her and the figure in it.
She hadn't bothered to correct Dr. Whale about the relationship status between her and Killian Jones, because what would be the point? Right now, she was still trying to absorb the fact of his name, let alone that he had literally tried to kill himself by drinking so much rum and whiskey that his blood was polluted with it. Or so the kindly nurse had told her during her final checkup on the patient.
She wanted to feel horrified, scandalized, disgusted ― anything but the overwhelming sadness that fell over her like a shadow when she looked at Jones, unconscious and dressed in the hospital's generic finery. It was too harsh a reminder of how she had felt when Neal had dropped the other shoe on her, when he had betrayed her and left her to rot in jail for what he had done. How she had felt as a child, when―
It felt so acutely like abandonment.
But she wasn't Jones' girlfriend ― she really wasn't his anything, and his problems certainly had nothing to do with her.
Then why...why did she pity him? Why did she understand it so well, the longing to let go and forget, forget, forget all the double-sided crap that life had thrown at you and fight back the only way you knew how? Why did she want to brush away those errant locks of hair from his forehead, to hold his hand as he lay there, believing there was nothing to live for?
Why did she blame him for this rise of compassion, this urge to break and break into a thousand pieces? Why did she feel...betrayed?
Why had her heart clenched when the paramedics first said there was a high chance he might die in the ambulance before they reached the hospital? Why did she even care?
Seeing him so broken...bruises along his face, his knuckles torn and bleeding...his bedroom a cluttered, utterly destroyed mess...his lifeless body, contorted as it rested on the floor... It had nearly shattered her ability to function normally, coherent speech and calm demeanor completely nonexistent.
He was very good-looking (yes, he was). He was intelligent and witty. Charming too, when he put his mind to it (was she defending him?). And, God, she had forgiven the asshole already ― probably long before she had realized it―
Emma's eyes watered, and she gritted her teeth in an attempt to quiet her rising anger. The pain inside was opening up, like a monstrous tidal pool sucking her in. How dare he ― how dare he assume he had the right to end it all? She bit back a sob, sinking into the uncomfortable chair by his side. How dare he do this to her ― re-open everything she'd tried so hard to bury inside―
She remembered performing her best idea of CPR on him when she had come to her senses and knelt beside him, pleading aloud for him to awaken. His too cold lips on hers ― a terrible first kiss, she would have joked ― as she breathed and breathed into him, thumping on his chest periodically. Shakily taking out her cell phone and dialing 911. The operator asking her to stay on the line until help arrived.
The paramedics asking her if she was his significant other, any thought of denial flying from her head. The way she had flushed red when they asked her for his name and insurance information. The hours and hours she had to wait in the emergency room, waiting for the doctor to stay the magic words "he's stable." The whispers she heard among the staff about Jones being on "suicide watch." His helpless state. His expressionless face, drained of torture and torment and agony. He almost looked...happy.
Happy to be dead and departed.
Grasping at the wallet ― his wallet, which she still hadn't peeked at ― inside her pocket to make sure it was still there, she fingered his house keys with her other hand, needing nothing more than to go back to her wretched little hole of an apartment and hide under the thick bedsheets.
She couldn't. She wanted to stay here, with him. Even if it killed her.
Because she liked him, dammit.
Resting her head in her hands, she glanced at the closed door, then at Killian Jones, before bursting into tears, willing the tension and exhaustion to depart.
The tragedy, the misery...the punishment never stopped.
In the beginning, she had promised herself that she would hate him for all eternity, that she wouldn't give a damn ― but, somehow, she had become attached to him. A mystery in itself. Or not so much. Somewhere, along his humble offerings and gifts and notes and letters, she had formed some kind of bond with him. The icing on the cake was that she thought she knew him, but after all this, she really didn't know him at all.
That didn't change the fact that she wasn't going to let him go ― not without a fight. Not on her watch.
Killian Jones and Emma Swan ― they weren't strangers any longer. It was high time to stop pretending that they were.
All these months, she hadn't seen him, hadn't heard him. But now, she did.
Now, she would.
When he woke up five hours later, her arms were stretched out on the flimsy sheets and her eyes were half-lidded from bad sleep as she took in the sight of him. He groaned, turning his head towards the wall.
"Oh no ― not you."