Emma had never been the type of person who made friends easily. She was a self-proclaimed introvert, one who always walked alone. She had fallen in love ― just once ― and she had literally been shoved into the jaws of hell for it. It was she, and she alone, who had pushed herself into college once she was out of prison, and with a crappy part-time job and the cheapest rent she could afford, she had picked herself up from the confusion and anguish Neal had left behind him when he took her heart, her love, and her hopes away from her.
Hearing Killian ― no, Jones ― indirectly dismiss her had aroused more than a little selfishness in her. He was rejecting all she had done for him, all she had felt for him, and it was maddening.
Injured or not, she wanted to hit him over the head with the back of a frying pan until he came to his fricking senses.
But she hadn't.
Once Dr. Whale had come around to check on his ever silent patient and assure her that he was alright, aside from the mounting surliness and despair etched into his sullen expression, she had taken the nurse's none too gentle advice to come back during visiting hours.
Still, if they hadn't practically forced her to leave, she wouldn't have, no matter if the mysterious man she had grown to like was literally and figuratively turning his back on her.
That just goes to show, Emma told herself sadly as she pushed the key into the lock, that you can't rely on anyone but yourself.
Stepping in Jones' house when it was empty was a decidedly unnerving experience. The walls, the floor, the barren furniture ― they all screamed out their owner's absence, and she felt like she was tiptoeing through a forbidden land.
It got worse when she hesitantly approached the doorway of his bedroom.
The very moment she laid a hand on the door handle, her mind was barraged by images: Jones crumpled on the floor, unconscious and cold as stone. A large bottle half-filled with rum at his right, a wrinkled photograph that seemed worn and faded at his left.
The woman captured in that very photo was also sitting on top of his dresser, set in a silver frame. Though her facial features were too blurred to make out, she was smiling, carefree and with a look of love on her face.
As for his stash of alcohol...
The bed was still unmade, the curtains drawn, the air musty and thick from being confined for nearly a week. Everything was as she left it, but nothing was the same. She hadn't been here until now.
Opening the window, she let the sunshine in to ward off the stench of death's brief visit. Emma inspected the room once more, noting Jones' propensity for reminders ― another photo here, a painted portrait of a man who resembled him over there, more books by his bed ― before deciding to give the area a thorough cleaning. It surely needed it.
So for the rest of the afternoon, she swept away the remnants of that horrible morning, extending her sanitizing abilities to the entire house. Classical music played in the background from the newly discovered CD player as she went through the refrigerator's contents, tied up the rotting garbage bags, and vacuumed the rugs, running the dishwasher and mopping the kitchen floor to boot. It was strenuous and annoyingly mundane, but Emma took comfort in the familiar routine and realized that she was finished before sunset. As usual. How ironic.
She went to turn off the lights, careful to check that all was locked tight and secure ― and then she saw one of his notes to her, stained and rumpled and lonely, discarded behind the sofa. The words ― his words struck a mournful chord in her, though they were anything but sad, a touch of humor and kindness smeared between the lines. The numbness left her then, however she pleaded with it to stay, and soon she was crying out in protest, wanting to shut the door and not get out to face the dusk.
Emma didn't want to be stuck in her little apartment all alone, accompanied by only a stack of overdue school assignments and work worries. She didn't also want to be stifled here by Killian's harbored pain and tragedies, regrets and unfulfilled wishes hiding in the cupboards and the dusty corners.
When she found a large collection of whiskey and rum bottles gathered in the pantry closet, she lost control of her temper and proceeded to dump them all into a large trash bag, carrying them outside with a vengeance until she threw them forcefully into the bottom of the recycling container, enjoying the sound of tumbling, breaking glass and swishing, escaping liquid.
No remorse.
However, irate and crumbling inside as she was, she clung desperately to the scents and sights within Killian's sanctuary. Making herself at home as best she could, she used the shower, blessed herself for taking a clean change of clothes with her just in case of grime (a well thought out precaution), and tried to whip up something from the remnants of food lurking about. Eventually, three servings of hot chicken noodle soup and a stack of saltine crackers later, Emma was chewing slowly on a bunch of rather crunchy peanut butter cookies she'd managed to procure.
The food wasn't alleviating her disposition, unfortunately. Everywhere her eyes glanced, she could picture him, even though she had never really seen him there. He had hidden himself from her so well, in so many ways, and he clearly had no intention of stopping. But somehow, unconsciously, he was ingrained into the very fibers of the wooden walls, his presence almost tangible as she sat on the bar stool by the kitchen counter, sipping a tall glass of milk sweetened with honey. His own recommendation for insomnia.
It was surreal ― all of it. His fall from survival, his self-inflicted injury, his contempt for himself, her reaction, her unwillingness to let him go and slip away. This could almost be some twisted fairy tale, she drily marveled after slipping into the extra large t-shirt she could only assume belonged to him.
Inhaling his natural musk and the smallest hint of cologne, she first turned off all the lights except for in the bathroom and barricaded the door before settling herself into the guest bedroom. Pulling the sheets and cuddly blanket around her like an endearing cocoon, Emma yawned widely and acknowledged how much of a toll this whole experience was taking on her body and her energy.
But the more she told herself that she couldn't possibly go to sleep, stress and anxiety making her head pound and her stomach ache, the more tightly she shut her eyelids, inviting dark to dispel light and encourage her rest.
Let the new day come.
There was no one to see her, no one to watch the way she stared at the dying blooms. Finally, she was allowed to feel them, but there was no point or pleasure in it now. The rose petals were streaked with brown and orange, a sign of winter and certain death, the strong stench of decay permeating the chilly air. And as Emma stalked the fence posts, going from rosebush to rosebush, she realized what the nearly flowerless stems and stalks, now devoid of color, reminded her of.
The thorns, the edge of a sword in their tips and danger in their touch, were still entwined, unbroken like the links of chains. The dark screen they had formed around the home of Killian Jones, shielding his very existence from the rest of the normal world, was much like a wall ― his wall. He held the barriers up because he didn't want to let anyone in, not when they could threaten to destroy the one thing that kept light and humanity and life out. Safety and protection and abounding loneliness, all rooted in.
She had recognized that wall of his, because in truth, it looked all too similar to her own.
Wanting to drive away that aura of departure that was sweeping through the rooms and the yard during every moment their owner was gone, Emma took charge. She pulled up the blinds and pinned back the shutters, calling in the sun. While the dust flew out through open windows, she tied back the drawstrings of the shades to ensure that there wouldn't be interference of any kind. A small dish of rose oil was placed in the kitchen, the bathroom, and the two bedrooms, and she was careful to place a rather large helping of the fragrance in an unseen spot.
Other than those changes, the prospects were rather bleak.
When she set foot in the hospital again, it was after a full day of school and work, both back to back. There was no escaping her boss' prodding, her classmates' annoying questions covered by fake concern. But throughout it all, she focused on his face, his steady breaths, her hopes and prayers that he would stay alive.
Yes, she wanted so desperately for him to live. But she didn't know how to pinpoint what she felt for this stranger who was closer to her than anyone else she knew. It took a Lost Girl to know a Lost Boy.
Holding the worn copy of Peter Pan close to her chest, she wearily went through what the hospital staff liked to call "standard procedure" before she could visit Killian: the nurses asked too much, the waiting room stank too much, the floor looked too much like the reflection of death itself, she endured a lifetime of anxiety before she could take one step through the door of the man whom she had to see.
Still they called her his girlfriend, and still she went along with the lie. She was more desperate to be in his presence than for standing on ceremony.
He didn't tell them that he didn't want to see her, but here she was, sitting in front of him while he blatantly ignored her. Dr. Whale had been all professional smiles and discreet decorum, insisting that his patient's release date has been set for the following week. The way one of the nurses eyed a very distant, very grumpy Jones was not encouraging, however. In comparison to what she had seen so far, his room was rather spotless, but...
Worse than his house, it reeked of his stubbornness, his infuriating refusal to acknowledge anyone's pain but his own, his damn selfishness, and ― damn it. Why wouldn't he just speak to her?
"So..." she began uncertainly, fidgeting in the uncomfortable metal chair she'd reluctantly taken from the corner and moved to his bedside. "The doctor said you'll be free to go soon." Emma tried her best to sound excited and happy.
The terrible look Killian gave her before facing away, yet again, silenced everything she was feeling and thinking. Her blood was ice and her heart was frozen inside her chest. His next words shattered both.
"Why did you have to ruin it?" His voice was so full of loathing, of merciless self-hate, that Emma was suddenly frightened by being faced with the enormity of his problems.
"What are you talking about?" she backtracked nervously, gripping the sides of the book harder. She still had not shown it to him, and it seemed she wouldn't get an opportunity to do so. How could she read to him a tale about living forever by being young at heart, about the pains and joys of both childhood and adulthood, about the value of growing up and the price of innocence?
It was as plain as day that he still wanted to die.
Shifting until he had raised himself up on his arms, sitting upright with his back hitting the hospital bed's headboard, he grimaced as the IV needles moved restlessly under his skin, as the horror of living was clearly made more unbearable by the reality of his physical injuries. His hand-less left arm fidgeted, and Emma was struck by the pitiful, heart-rending picture before her.
"I mean," he growled out, teeth bared, "that everything was proceeding as it should. I was ready ― as ready as I ever could be ― but you ruined it all. You let them save me, when I obviously wanted this." He was staring through her, his eyes burning her soul. "You forced yourself into my life, ever since you touched that bloody rose, and ― and you have no right. You have no right."
She wanted so badly to sob, to scream at him, to explain why she felt he was worth saving, but all she could see was her own anger, her hurt. Again, she was rejected. Again, she was spurned, all for the simple act of caring too much. "No right?" she whispered, biting her lower lip to restrain herself from crying in front of him. Then her tone hardened as what had been growing and boiling inside since she had found him unconscious on the floor came out into the light. "Do you even know...how much your stunt has cost me? How much I have suffered in the process? How much I have sacrificed, not only this past week, but all these months when I've been slaving and toiling and scraping, and all for you?" She choked on stuttered breaths but held fast, her voice now loud and unyielding. "I've been sitting here for days, waiting for you to awaken, and all you can say to me is how much you despise me for preventing your suicide?"
He smiled coldly. "Actually, the question is why did you bother, when it would have been so much easier for you to have left me there on the floor? Wasn't it clear that I had chosen my path?"
"A path of self-destruction, you mean?" she nearly shouted, unable to reprove him without exposing herself. "Only cowards want to escape so desperately!"
"Cowards?" His face was now a deep shade of red, his jaw clenching. "Bloody hell, it's my damn life, you daft girl ― and what kind of life is it when you have nothing to live for!" he yelled back, his fisthold tightening on the sheets. "You shouldn't have gotten involved ― you shouldn't have stopped me ― it's not your damn duty! In fact, you should have been happy that you wouldn't be inflicted anymore with the bloody savage who forced you under blackmail to be his servant ― the grimy pieces of a man who tormented you and made you so miserable ― the monster who made you clean his filthy house and endure his filth every single day―"
"Because I liked you!" she cried out, hiding her face in her hands as a sob finally emerged from her throat. It was a wonder that no one came rushing in to witness the heated argument when they were nearly at each other's throats, making the very walls shake from terror. "I still do ― and this may have started out with me...disliking you, but it didn't end that way. It doesn't have to. If you wanted me to hate you so much," she murmured brokenly, daring to peek at him, "then why...why did you speak to me in your letters? Why did you write to me, words I wanted to carry with me everywhere? Why did you see me, when I barely saw you? Why drag me along on your ride of self-pity, when I have only ever tried so fricking hard to please you?" By this time, she was crying in earnest, tears leaking into her mouth and her nose as she attempted to wipe them away in time and failed.
His expression morphed slightly, as if he had allowed emotion to invade it, and then, weakly, his right hand stretched slowly toward her, reaching for her. "Emma," he rasped quietly, his gaze dimming. "I―"
But she couldn't listen anymore. She only heard him say "me me me" and it was echoing, convincing her that she had once more let her heart betray her. Dropping the book on the bed, right beside his lap, she tore her jacket off from the back of the chair and raced to the door, yanking it open and slamming it behind her.
She never looked back. Because the weight of his gaze would only crush her further.
Emma didn't visit the hospital again. And she didn't go the day Killian was supposed to be released either. Finally, she was convinced of her utter unimportance to him and how he never wanted to see her again. She sickened him, obviously...disgusted him...and she couldn't do right by him. He thought she was there out of obligation, out of fear, when all she had ever wanted...
She didn't know what she wanted from him, though. A friend? A sympathizer? Consolation? Compassion?
The loneliness of those thoughts, of how she had paid such a devastating price to gain a few memories of comfort, was cutting her deeply.
School drifted in and out of monotony, and as for work... Well, it was dull, as could be expected. Being a simple clerk was like that, unfortunately.
When she stumbled over the doorway of her apartment, the blank walls and frigid corners taunted her. The roses, in their simplicity and innocence, had brought some semblance of beauty to her life in all its repetitive sadness and senselessness, but now, that was gone. They were standing dead in his backyard. And her hopes...whatever they had been...they were gone too.
4 months she had watched them from behind a frail white-washed fence (one that sorely needed repairs). She had witnessed blooms become flowers, flowers become empty seeds, the cycle of plant life in all its stages. She had smelt the intoxicating perfume, captured the priceless beauty in the memory of her eyes and remaining senses.
4 more months...4 months and 14 days (and still counting) since she had agreed to be part of Killian's one-man household, viewing his nonexistent life through the windows she had cleaned, basking in the tiny part of his attention he had afforded her.
For a little while, both had been her life. She had left the mundane in the background and brought a sad, lonely, neglected man and his home into the foreground. School and work...they had a place in her life, but not in her heart. That was reserved. And she knew exactly who for, even if it hurt so much to say it, to even think it.
It was inevitable, wasn't it? She would never see the roses...or him...again.
It was hard, trying to get over what Killian Jones had told her in that dismal hospital room. One would think he really was her boyfriend and she was surviving a break-up, the way she was moping about, unable to find any peace.
Then, as misery never failed to find her, things got infinitely worse.
Refurbishing the shelves and counting products at the grocery was nice and boring, and it paid what little bills she had, but then ― then she got her student loan statement. Just like that, her creditors had decided to raise the interest rates on her, some lousy explanation etched in fine print at the bottom of the letter about rising costs and whatnot. Emma had received a significant amount of financial aid when she had enrolled, but what help it was didn't cover everything.
And now she had to pay the piper, as the saying went. Unless she could pay back the loan in full by the end of the month, they were raising the interest rate by ten percent. For some, that would be a minimal change, but for someone saving on food by eating only one meal a day, scrounging around for coupons in the newspaper, and surviving on minimum wage, it was catastrophic.
She wouldn't be able to pay the rent with only the salary from her one job.
At first, she had gone into a full-blown, desperate panic, and having no one to vent her worries to, she ended up crying on the floor, watching as her tears sank into the flimsy carpet of her tiny living room. When the walls of the place were closing in on her, suffocating her with their silence, she fled, taking a quick stroll through the nearby streets.
Her walk turned into a several-hour trek, and that's when she saw it.
The diner was a comely little place, and it had been in business forever, apparently. Same old-fashioned wallpaper like in the fifties, swivel high chairs and smooth, reflective, laminated counter straight out of Grease. The lady in charge called herself Granny, and she was, in fact, exactly that. As unbending and strict as iron toward the teenage miscreants who entered her establishment, kind and knowledgeable toward her regulars and shy newcomers, the grandmotherly woman was the epitome of what a restaurant owner should be like.
That's exactly why Emma took advantage of the "help wanted" sign posted in the front window and immediately asked for work. Hearing of her experiences in customer service and her devotion to her classes, Granny hired her on the spot and told her to take the evening shift. She also mentioned some light cooking might be involved when the cook was overwhelmed with orders, but Emma only nodded enthusiastically and accepted the red apron she gave her.
The rest of the evening was spent accustoming herself to her new work environment, meeting the customers, and attending the cook, but despite Ruby's eye-rolling and provocative comments ― had Granny actually said this girl, flaunting a mini-skirt and outrageous high heels, was her granddaughter? ― she enjoyed it. Mornings at the store, midday and afternoon at school, evenings at Granny's Diner, Emma hummed to herself as she waved at her pleased new employer, smiled, and waltzed out the door when the time came to close shop.
At least...at least she didn't have to think of the past when she was there. At least, when she was there, she didn't feel so alone.
Maybe her life wasn't a vicious circle of unhappiness. Maybe she had finally gotten a break from it.
The tranquility of her existence, however temporary, was interrupted in less than a week.
A new manager was hired in the grocery store where she worked, her old familiar one mysteriously gone. Not that she was complaining. He had always acted like an electrocuted ass.
But this one...this one considered himself quite the charmer. And the looker. She could have sworn he winked at her when he came to meet all the employees and tour the store.
The second annoyance was when her landlord pestered her when she was descending the stairs, intending to make it on time to class for once. He said a man had come asking for her in the morning, when she was at work.
Flashes crossed her eyes, flashes of that night in that alley, where she had been handcuffed and humiliated and ruined. That word... She bit down on her lower lip, afraid to demand a description of the stranger. It could have been Neal. Or it could have been―
"I told him you were out, though. He was wearing a leather jacket ― dark hair, wearing boots... Though to look at his eyes, bloodshot as hell ― acting all jittery and anxious, too. Either he's a drunk or a dope user or both, I said to myself." The dried up old man gave her a nasty grin. "Wasn't willing to let him in at all in the first place, but then he said your name, and well, a girl like you...who am I to tell you what company you should keep, eh?"
His lewd comment was meant to be a slap in the face, but for once she turned the other cheek (figuratively) and focused instead on how the thought of Killian Jones coming to see her both scared and excited her.
When she barricaded her door that night and tiptoed around the following morning in only socks so her shoes wouldn't clack against the kitchen floor, it was clear which reaction was stronger. Of course she wondered why he was here, invading her personal space when he had stated so effectively his antagonism toward her. Of course a little part of her, small and unheard, rushed when she pictured his face and form and presence so near her.
But if she saw him again, the anguish of that encounter would surely give her a heart attack. Neal or Killian, both men were trouble.
Trouble she wanted to avoid. Trouble she didn't need. Trouble she didn't want.
Neither of them were worth the trouble.
It was a sigh of relief that escaped her lips when her landlord never again mentioned any strangers lurking about her door, wanting to visit her. But then again, she had bigger problems.
The main one was named Walsh.
Walsh was a rigorous accountant, a decent salesman, and a well-liked manager overall, but she started feeling very uncomfortable going to her morning job after certain...incidents.
The first was when he seemingly bumped into her when she was going through the aisles and collecting expired goods.
The second was when he brushed her hip with his while walking back from the coffee machine in the staff room.
The third was when he squeezed her shoulder after handling a particularly irate customer.
The fourth was when he arranged her breaks so that he was always present in the staff room when she was.
She could be wrong about how awkward and wrong this all appeared to be ― but still, he didn't need to be touching her to communicate with her. He was very good with words when he talked, so why all the bravado and..groping?
He started being everywhere she went and appearing where she would be. Even when he was paged over the intercom to come to the front and help out another cashier, he would find all sorts of excuses to hang around, from "double-checking your work" to "assisting you with cleaning the floor" and "let me help you stack the oranges into a perfect pyramid."
To some girls, that might be cute attention, but to her, it was plain stalking. He was her boss, and that was it. She tried to make it clear that she in no way welcomed his advances, but no matter how she smoothly rejected his company and refused his actions in as polite a manner as possible, he didn't get the hint.
Or perhaps he didn't want to take a hint and leave her be.
"Has he touched any other part of you that's not your hand?" Ruby inquired shamelessly as she took an empty tray back to the kitchen, impatiently tapping at the window counter with her long red fingernails while she waited for the next order to be ready.
Emma fiddled with her pad and pencil, chewing on the eraser absently. "Not yet. But he's following me everywhere in the store, and it's becoming a nuisance."
"Well, if he follows you here, I'll get my old crossbow out and shoot at him," Granny offered with a dark chuckle, scoffing. Men, she mouthed at the ceiling, shaking her head. Emma and Ruby shared an amused laugh.
Walsh wasn't the end of the world, she scolded herself later after closing the diner. He was just some foolish guy, probably hoping to get laid. He probably wasn't some creepy stalker with sinister intentions.
Emma kept reminding herself of that for days afterwards, but she didn't really believe it.
She only knew that she didn't want any man to ever touch her again.
"Hello?" Emma snapped, frustrated from frantically searching for her phone under the sofa and from that stupid chemical reaction problem she had been working on for the past half hour.
"Hello, am I speaking with Miss Emma Swan?" came Dr. Whale's cheery voice, clearly not experiencing any impatience on his end.
"Um, yes...?" she murmured, watching as her books and pencils slid to the floor. Damn, she must have dropped them on recognizing who was calling.
"Oh ― I apologize if I've disturbed you, Ms. Swan―"
She sighed into the speaker. "Please, call me Emma. And no, it's okay ― I wasn't doing anything...special." Except for schoolwork she hated with a passion.
He chuckled. "I understand, Emma. To get to the point...the reason I'm contacting you is Killian."
Emma nearly stopped breathing. "Oh?" she stuttered, pacing across the cheap laminated floor of her kitchen. "What's going on?"
"Frankly, you're the only person on Killian's contact list, and as his girlfriend...well, I'm not sure what's going on between the two of you, but I never had a chance to talk to you when he was released from my care―"
"Maybe you should have talked to him."
"Oh, I did ― but I have no idea if he listened or not. I had an appointment with him for a follow-up on his internal injuries, but he didn't show up. I was concerned and wanted to call him, but he never wrote down his phone number."
That would be because he doesn't have one, Emma groaned to herself. She said between her teeth, "I, uh, can't make him go see you, you know."
"Of course not ― it's his right to refuse, and it is his decision. However...under the circumstances, I needed to confirm with you that he is doing okay."
This was starting to sound suspicious. "Um, why? He obviously was well enough to walk out of the hospital after you signed him out, so..."
"Emma." Now Dr. Whale sounded a little vexed. More than a little, maybe, but he was keeping it in check because he was a professional, and professionals are supposed to have nice "poker" voices that don't betray how annoyed they are. "Let's be honest with each other, shall we? Your boyfriend almost committed suicide, and it was because he came in with you that I didn't transfer him to psychiatric care and I kept him under my own supervision."
"Wait...because of me?"
"Yes, I was convinced that therapy was an option he would be able to discuss with you in a more personal environment, and at a pace good for both of you. Usually, procedure is that if a patient is hospitalized without a blood relative present or available, the physician has the authority to make the best choice for the patient's health and well-being. I saw the state you were in when you came with the paramedics, and I honestly thought that pushing Killian into a mental health ward to be constantly watched was the last thing either of you needed."
Ah. So that's why the nurses were whispering about suicide watch, why they gave Killian odd looks. He wasn't supposed to be in the emergency room in the first place. Emma shuffled the phone a bit and sat down heavily on the couch, huffing slightly. "And what exactly do you want me to do about all this? Killian and I..." She swallowed. "We're not together anymore."
"Oh." He was defeated. "I see. Would you mind telling me how I can reach him?"
She covered her face with one hand, pushing away that nagging sense of empathy as far away from her as possible. She didn't feel sorry for Killian Jones ― she wouldn't― "Actually, you know as much as I do. The man doesn't have a phone ― all he has is an address." Silence on the other end of the line. "Thank you for all your help, Dr. Whale, but there isn't anything I can do. Not anymore."
She didn't hear him protest when she disconnected, throwing her phone into the wastebasket full of paper. Forgetting about her chemistry assignment, she lay down on her back, cushions piled under her head, and stared up at the unfriendly ceiling.
Killian hadn't gone to see the doctor, he had mysteriously found her apartment and then disappeared without a word, he wasn't communicating with anyone...
Her curiosity was telling her to go back. Back to the roses. No, that could just be guilt.
Her pride was reining her in, saying he didn't deserve to see her again. But she wanted to see him.
Her sleep, filled with restless dreams, reflected that conflict, and when she woke the next morning, her skin covered in sweat and tears, the pull of that impending choice was suffocating her.
To go or not to go.
To care or to forget.
What should she do?
Hmph, dilemmas are such a pain in the ass.
The whole question of whether to dare to check on the house of thorns or to stay away for her own sake had been bugging her all week long. Emma's attitude had been affected as well, and right now she was grumpy, tense, and distant.
Walsh's current behavior was not helping at all.
The man was like a monkey in his limited understanding of what personal space is. Twice today he had crept up behind her when she was manning the cash register, and when she had (however reluctantly) needed him to change the cash box inside and replace it with another, he did not let her step out first. Instead, he piled into the small square of floor where she was standing, squeezing their bodies together until Emma could have sworn she felt something move down there where his thigh was brushing up her skirt, his face way too close to hers. He took longer completing the task than necessary, complaining about "complications" and making every excuse about mechanical deficiencies. The wide smile he gave her afterwards made her grimace in return, and she muttered under her breath, pardon me, I have to go to the restroom now and puke.
He was still grinning like an idiot when she turned her head for the umpteenth time to see if he would cross the ultimate line and grab her. Harmless, lovesick fool? Maybe. But if he put those hands of his on her...he had another thing coming.
After she had clocked out and was leaving for the day, happy that all of her classes had been canceled at the last minute and she would have some free time before going to Granny's, Emma was accosted again by Walsh as she was walking through the back parking lot to get to the other main street.
"Emma?" he asked, hands in his pockets.
She smiled painfully. "What can I do for you, boss?"
"Hey, there's no need for that!" he said with a laugh. "Listen ― there's this great place around the corner, and they have the best Italian spaghetti you've ever tasted. If you're not doing anything right now, maybe we could―"
A door chimed to welcome a customer into the store next door, but the noise made Emma jump. Shaking her head, licking her lips, she awkwardly began, "Look...you're my boss, and I work here ― that's one reason ― but even if that weren't part of the picture, I'm not...I don't...I don't date. Anyone. Ever."
His eyes narrowed, but then the most mischievous expression altered his face, and when he grinned wickedly at her, she was suddenly afraid. "I never said I was particularly interested in starting a relationship, Emma ― but physical comfort...that I can definitely work with." When he walked forward, she walked backward.
"No, you're misunderstanding me," she replied, irritated beyond belief at his interpretation of her rejection. If she could, she would stomp her foot at him. "I can't be anything with you. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever."
He was cornering her, pushing her against the wall until she blocked by both of his arms and unable to escape. Looking around to see if they were out of earshot and the lot was empty, he growled, "So why have you been leading me on all these weeks? Wearing skirts so I can see those legs of yours, legs I want wrapped around me when I screw you? Feeling your hips...hips I want to ride until you're good and sore?"
She was in such a state of shock that she couldn't say anything back, her mind fluttering with words and phrases like sexual harassment and he's going to try to rape me and run. "Get away from me," she hoarsely shouted, holding her purse up in front of her face as a weapon of self-defense.
He simply laughed, one hand drifting down until it groped her breast and squeezed it through her shirt. "Not when I have such a wonderful opportunity." His hand went lower and started rising beneath her skirt. "Don't fight me, and I'll make you assistant manager."
All of her life, Emma had taken her falls and picked herself up again. Neal had torn her into pieces, but she had survived. Survival. It was her talent. It was her goal. It was every person's goal, but it was even more so hers because she was the downtrodden and ignored, the beaten and abused. She had more to battle than others did, and she would not be defeated.
Especially not by this savage animal who was preparing to take advantage of her.
When she did the all-time classic move and thrust her knee up hard, his hands reflexively went to his groin in a classic reaction to pain. She then lifted her purse as much as she could and slapped it across his face. It wasn't martial arts, but the momentary distraction allowed her slip out of his grasp and run, not stopping until she was by the busy intersection and out of his sight.
She had decided to take the bus in order to prevent Walsh from finding out where she lived, but then she remembered that he could easily read that information in her file at work. She had sat stiffly in the bus seat, not daring to glance at the other passengers...but then, at home, she had shut the door behind her, thrown her purse on the floor, and curled up into a ball in her bed.
She had promised herself that she'd never cry again after Neal ― after Killian ― but it seemed fate was altering that choice for her.
Again.
In the evening, the diner had held some small measure of comfort ― Ruby's ear-bleeding curses against Walsh and Granny's death threats against him ― but when the night truly came and she was all alone again, she felt the same fears and the same longing.
The longing for someone...anyone...to really give a damn about her, to hold her in their arms and keep the shadows and nightmares away. To help her chase the fear into the darkness, where it belonged.
The next morning was one of the hardest Emma had ever had to go through in her entire life, but, of course, Walsh was nowhere to be found. She didn't see him for the whole day, and not once did he pop up next to her during her shift or while she visited the staff room.
Then, when she happily pulled out the paycheck stub that had been slipped into her locker, she found out exactly why.
Being furious past the point of no return is one of the most empowering feelings in the world. The high energy, raging pulse, fearlessness combined with recklessness ― irresistible. You genuinely believe you can conquer any foe, brave any danger...consequences be damned.
With this in mind, Emma was marching from the staff room to the manager's office, and without so much as a knock, she yanked the door open as forcefully as she could. Oh yeah...Walsh was there. In his chair. His transformation instantaneous, from arrogant prick to pale and deadly afraid. His smirk gone. His eyes not meeting hers but constantly flickering about the room, his anxiety wafting in the air like some goddamn scent she could track.
Excellent.
Hand on her hip and the other clutching her paycheck, she took action immediately. I should have kicked his ass weeks ago.
"You son of a bitch!"
One bottle of wine, cheese, crackers. Nothing that manifested a real meal. Junk food strewn across her kitchen counter. The TV on, fixed on a channel she hated.
Emma rested her head in her hands, glad that it was nighttime and that the light couldn't blind her. A migraine was enough without extra triggers.
In less than five minutes, the job she had clung to for more than a year was gone out the window. In all that time, she had worked every morning without fail and without holiday, day after day after day. And the hours had shown up, respectively, on her paycheck. She clocked in, clocked out, and money added up. The sudden drop in her most recent paycheck had been suspicious on first glance, as her work hours had not changed and she had not been absent once.
Walsh had at first vehemently denied cutting her pay to his advantage, but after much swearing and cursing on her part, not to mention a clear threat of a repeat of what she had done to him in the parking lot, he had admitted to it.
Not that there was anything she could do about the whole damn mess.
Sure, she could draft a complaint, send it higher, make a fuss out of it all. File for sexual harassment, sue Walsh for stealing her money. Heck, she could report it all to the police.
But she knew about the police and the justice system. Oh yes, she knew all about it. The corruption, the cruelty, the inhumanity.
She didn't want to have anything to do with any of it.
Instead, she had called Walsh all the names she wanted, ranted on and on until she was out of breath, yelled and screamed at him until her voice was scratchy and dry, and then...
She had resigned ― quite normally, as a matter of fact. Cleaning out her locker, removing traces of her experiences there, telling the other cashiers present to be careful, as there was an ape of a sexual predator on the loose and he was currently sitting in the manager's office. Walsh's face, all crimson red and pulsing from anger, was a glorious finale.
And that was the end of her grand career as a grocery clerk. Emma glared at the blaring television and forced herself to go turn the damned box off, grabbing some more tissues on her way to the fridge. She blew her nose violently as she rummaged through the freezer for some ice cream.
There wasn't any. And hell, she didn't feel like shopping right now.
Great. Just...great.
Knock knock knock...knock.
Her head snapped up and spun toward the source of the soft pattering, and when it happened a second time, she buried her head under the sofa pillow and prayed that whoever it was would think she wasn't home and go away.
A thought entered her mind suddenly. What if it was Walsh, come to get revenge?
Emma gritted her teeth and stood on her feet. Never mind that she was only wearing socks. Never mind that her slip of a t-shirt and short shorts were kind of revealing.
She was ready to punch his face and smash his ass and give him the beating, rhetorical and other, that he deserved―
Flinging the door open, she took one step over the threshold due to momentum and then barely stopped because of inertia. Damn she had never been good with science or scientific terms damn damn damn it all―
It was like a dream, a fantasy, her imagination gone wild. She nearly choked on her own ragged breaths, because she couldn't simply believe what she was seeing.
It was impossible.
It couldn't be.
Killian Jones. Holding a red, red rose in one hand (his only hand). Still as handsome as ever. His striking eyes searching her face so thirstily. His dark, dark hair, so unkempt and unmistakably shaggy, asking to be caressed. His crystal blue eyes widening from relief and want and god, he was trembling.
"Swan," he whispered huskily, his voice sending a thrill of longing through her.
Had she missed him so much?
Had she forgiven him so readily, when she would never do the same for anyone else?
Why was her heart nearly humming?
Why did her hands disobey her and reach out, only to pull back because Killian hated her and Killian despised her?
But...but...here he was, in front of her.
He had searched for her.
He had found her.
One way or another, he cared.
Silently, making her decision, answering his unspoken question, and never looking away from him, she invited him inside.
The slow grin he gave her turned night into day. It tore her apart. It made her smile back.
For once...for once...someone had come back for Emma Swan. And she was so glad it was him, of all people.
Yes...world broken, self shaken, mind numbed, hell on earth...in spite of all this, she was glad.