When Robin invited her to the ball, she really had no intentions of attending. She decided ― adamantly ― that she would make up some worthy excuse and stay at home with the children, burrowing in her bed and reading some daring book.
Needless to say, that plan didn't work at all.
Its failure is the reason why she is sitting here, dressed in some absurd light, puffy blue gown. Simple white gloves, curled hair, and heeled slippers ― she has missed nothing, trying to look her best so she won't embarrass her employer.
The man himself is somewhere in the corner of the ballroom, having his fiancé and a bevy of business acquaintances and his group of close friends. They are talking merrily and laughing loudly, and Emma knows from Robin's bright smile that he's very happy.
Regina looks a bit disgruntled by her audience, but when Robin notices her discomfort and tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow, she positively glows. Emma has every reason to believe that the woman's answering smile is fully genuine.
The one she herself has plastered on her face like a painted doll reeks of boredom and unease. She's always hated being in a crowd, feeling exposed and, if she's being honest with herself, a bit neglected.
"Some party," comes an all-too familiar sneer from her left.
Looking up, she sees Neal decked out in a classic suit. In moments like these, he doesn't look like a servant at all. In fact, neither of them do. For a second, he is a gentleman and she is a lady, not the stable boy and the governess thrust into a world that they clearly don't belong to. A world where fine clothes and rich brandy and meaningless talk pervade the fancy mansions and fur-lined pockets of the well-to-do. Where money is more important than virtue, where who you are becomes what you are, where status exceeds stature ― not the other way around.
"Yes, it's really something, isn't it?" she finally breathes out, her hands delicately placed in her lap in the style of a proper lady's.
Neal smirks, shoving his hands into his pockets. "It's really monotonous, if you ask me. The same thing over and over again, like on a cheap stage. Same actors, same lines, same faces, same act. Nothing's new."
She can't help but smile at that, seeing exactly what he does. They are so alike that it's not even amusing anymore. Instead, it's wonderful and exciting and terrifying―
He interrupts her thoughts. "It's your first time at one of these, isn't it?"
She ducks her head, recalling how the nuns would take all the girls at the school out for brief excursions, not wanting to encourage any unnecessary seclusion. "My first ball, yes. My first outing, no."
"I see." He bites his lip momentarily, seeming to be internally debating something, before he straightens and steps forward so that he is facing her. His hand is outstretched, reaching for her. "Care to dance?"
"What?" She peers around and doesn't notice any other of the staff joining in the activities. "I don't think we're allowed, Neal."
He loudly snorts, still offering his hand to her. "Then let's break tradition." His warm smile melts her inhibitions and sends a shiver through her heart. "Come on ― dance with me, Emma."
She's learned how to waltz and all that, but when he sweeps her into his arms and glides with her across the smooth waxed floor, their feet seem to fly across the polished stone. And when he twirls her about, she cares less what everyone else thinks. She disregards Robin's surprised stare, Regina's intrigued glances, the whole of society's scorn. She doesn't wonder how a man who's worked all his life ever found the time to learn how to waltz.
In that instant, when she's safe yet free, embraced by a man who treats her as his equal and his friend, she realizes that this is so much more than a mere dance or a means of slighting the pride of the privileged.
Against her will, she's falling in love with him.
Emma can't figure it out, but she keeps running into Killian Jones more than is coincidentally possible. Being a recluse, she would think he would be more reclusive. David said the man was basically hiding out in his house near the sea cliffs, but she could be turning past a street corner, finding the pebbled path leading to the small docks that constituted the town harbor, or browsing the display windows of the few shops in business ― and there he would be, traipsing through the village, seemingly going in the same direction for other purposes.
Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't, but that doesn't justify why he has taken it upon himself to gaze at her as if she has just dropped down from the moon to pay earth a visit.
Shaking her head from exasperation, Emma clucks her tongue disapprovingly when she notices Killian's lanky shadow reaching her from across the street, meaning that he is again striding in time with her. When she complained once to Mary Margaret, the girl would only smile and say, "It's a small town." David was much worse, suggesting that the lighthouse keeper just might like her ― and he emphasized his masculine analysis with a dramatic, charming smile and wink.
She doesn't believe either explanation, even though both are highly plausible. And if she's being truly honest with herself, it has to do with one thing: she doesn't like Killian or his attitude. She will admit that he's very handsome and probably affable if he puts his mind to it, but his tendency to usually imitate Lord Byron, if only in spirit, is getting on her nerves whenever their paths cross.
Her arms hugging her chest, she peers at Killian from under her eyelashes and decides that the cloud of broodiness constantly hanging over his head never dissipates, no matter the weather or the company he trudges by. The one adjective she can think of is morbid. But now that she's charted out his moods and behavior from a distant perspective (in other words, her first impression of him, to the best of her ability), today appears to be the day that all of her assumptions are proven wrong.
There goes David, whistling cheerily as he walks up toward them, his eyes fixed on the ground ― and then he looks up. Emma moves to approach him, already preparing for a conversation and et cetera. However, while Mary Margaret's fiancé briefly acknowledges her presence, his attention is focused entirely on Killian.
She feels ignored in an instant when he goes right to her would-be admirer, but no one notices her crestfallen face.
They act like they've known each other for years and years. Their camaraderie is visible even from afar: David is slapping Killian on the shoulder, and Killian is grinning broadly, his expression exuding friendliness and genuine happiness. They're like brothers as they jest back and forth, talking animatedly and gesturing occasionally as the topics shift. For the first time, Jones looks like a whole person instead the shattered ghost that tried to flirt with her in Red's store.
That is why Emma doesn't stop, doesn't even attempt to join in and be included in their circle. She knows what it is to be invisible, to be excluded, and while it's understandable that David would speak first to his friend that he hasn't seen for weeks, it still hurts that he wouldn't care about her being there too.
As if she weren't there at all. Nobody ever cares about me.
Averting her gaze, she wraps her arms closer about her, the wind tugging on her hair, and plows onward, wishing for hot soup and blankets and shuttered windows, her little house now a selfish haven she can run to.
Her pace quickens when she hears David or Killian ― she can't tell who ― call out what could be her name, and she refuses to turn back, determined to leave.
She's so tired of being second-best with everyone in her life, but it's her fate, from the looks of it, and she has to deal with it with as much dignity as she can muster.
That doesn't mean she has to like any of it.
Another dinner at Ruth's, and Emma is settling into a lovely routine where three people seem to really care about her well-being. She's never found such kindness among strangers, and as for her former friends... Well, they changed with the weather.
Smiling as she hears Mary Margaret converse with David's mother, who is sitting on her rocking chair and knitting a scarf, Emma takes charge of the dirty dishes this time and quickly makes work of them, eventually humming to keep her mind occupied.
She is startled when David sidles up next to her and offers to dry, but they do well and are finished with the chore before she can hum her tune twice.
"So," he starts, "when will your family be coming to visit?"
Emma stiffens immediately at the mere mention of the raw, adulterated subject, but then she accepts that he is only asking because he is concerned for her. She's the one who has been complaining recently about loneliness and how it makes a person see the future all too clearly.
"I, um, am not expecting anyone," she replies after a few minutes of silence, wrapping the wet dishcloth over its designated drying pole. When David gives her a curious look, she softly clarifies, "I don't have any family."
The pain in her tone must have warded him away from asking any more questions about her history, because David only says, "Oh," and turns his head.
She sighs, but then that breath of relief is short-lived when he pipes up and comments absently, "You know, Killian was asking about you just the other afternoon."
If she were still holding a dish in her hands, it would have clattered to the floor.
The next evening, after a rather strenuous day of teaching, Emma is sitting quietly in front of the fireplace, staring past her clean laundry and re-organized goods, meditating on what might have been and what had been, her memories painting winsome pictures before her, their edges touched by the flames. Stars are blinking at her outside her tiny windows, a sign that night has inevitably come, and slowly, painfully, she pulls a handful of letters from the inside of her suitcase, all encased in ribbons and broken wax seals.
She finds one that she remembers very well, the last epistle that Neal ever sent to her. His scrawls are remarkably beautiful and elegant, and she marvels how she did not see it from the beginning, how different he was from everyone else in Locksley's household. "Dearest Emma," it reads, "I have wanted for so long―"
Then someone knocks ― rather insistently, too ― and interrupts her sad musings.
Flustered at her nonchalant appearance and informal apparel, rubbing harshly at her treacherous wet eyes and nose with her handkerchief, Emma grabs the nearest shawl and nearly trips over her own feet on her way to the door.
It's David, and surprise of surprises, a rather shy Killian beside him, pointedly glancing down at his feet and looking very nervous. The lighthouse keeper is dressed all in black, worn leather and flannel intermixing to make him bold and stylish, his left arm tucked behind his back in hiding. In fact, he looks nice. On the other hand, the shepherd is in his normal attire, brown trousers and white shirt covered by his thick fleece coat. As usual.
"Hello, Emma," David greets cheerfully, giving her a wide smile. Killian just rubs at the back of his neck with his good hand, his embarrassment showing. Though it's quite dark, she can tell that he's blushing.
"Good evening, David." She doesn't lessen her hold on the door. "What can I do for you?"
"I've ― well, we've come to rescue you."
She is very confused now, and she must look how she feels, because poor David is stumbling over his words. "Uh ― well, that is to say ― didn't she ― Mary Margaret didn't invite you over for dinner tonight?"
Oh darn. She forgot. Burying her head in the well of her deepest troubles, she had not bothered to mull over the day's events, the market chatter between her and her friend dimming in the background. "Oh." Emma chews on her tongue, trying to come up with a polite way to rectify this horrible faux pas. "David, I apologize, but..." She sighs in defeat, realizing that she is still holding the letter in her hand. "I won't be able to come tonight."
Killian's head snaps up suddenly, his brow furrows, and his eyes narrow. "It's not bad news, I hope?" he rasps, his worried gaze burning a hole into the piece of paper she's treasuring, flickering between that and her face. She instantly drops it on the floor.
She doesn't want to look at him, and she makes a point not to answer him. At this moment, with her ache so fresh and tender to the touch, she wants nothing more than for him to disappear ― he and his stealthy, following, annoying habits. But he disregards how she purses her lips in dismay, bending over to retrieve the fallen article and to hand it tentatively to her. She nods her thanks, still not meeting his line of sight.
David, however... A stab of guilt pricks her heart when she sees his disappointed frown, and she hastens to excuse herself. "I forgot that I promised Mary Margaret ― please, give her my apologies." She breathes in deeply, gulping in as much air as possible in order to hold back the tears balancing on the corners of her eyelids when her name, written in Neal's cursive, comes into view again. "Besides, I've already eaten, and I wouldn't be a good guest―"
He's kindly when he proposes, "You can still come, Emma, food or not ― why, I've been so occupied at the farm lately that I haven't had the chance to spend as much time with Mary Margaret as I ought to. Killian here ― he'll be coming as well, and I'm sure he'd welcome your company very much."
She swallows hard, salt and water running down her throat. She knows what this is, can recall the same words and lines spoken to her by many. The reason Mary Margaret had invited her to her own house, not Ruth's, was because she and David were planning on inviting Killian from the beginning and most likely had done so before they asked her.
It's a safe presumption that they could be trying to push her and him together. Why not? Those that are broken cannot belong to a whole, after all.
The glance Killian furtively bestows on her isn't arrogant or ablaze at all. No, it's sheepish and timid and, underneath all the pessimism, hopeful. He actually wants this, for her to agree. She can read it in his eyes, and because her instincts are always true, he isn't lying.
She had been wrong before. She is always wrong, about everything.
Emma wants to go. She really does, even if being so close to Killian for the remainder of the evening is going to make her very, very uncomfortable. But images from the past are looming behind her, locked within that tiny room, and as much as she wants to escape from them, part of her heart is comforted by the good moments that she remembers, despite the bad ones.
It's a raging torrent, these thoughts, and she trembles under their combined weight. "I just can't," she finally whispers in response, watching Killian's face fall hard and David's gaze sadden all in one blow. Unable to say anymore, choking on a muffled sob, she slowly closes the door in front of them, blocking out light that would drive away the shadows.
After she hears their footfalls and murmurs eventually recede from her doorstep, a torrent of ungodly noises pour from her mouth and she's cringing on the ground, rocking to and fro on her heels while covering her eyes with her hands.
She misses the past more than she hates it, and that truth hurts more than anything else.
The next time she's in the supply store, it's right after her monthly stipend is due. The council has been very strict, counting down to the very last cent, but Emma is happy that she has been paid at all. Her students are restless and rebellious, but when she lectures them, they make an effort to sit up straight and listen to her, and that must count for something. Still, she would like to know for certain that at least some part of her teaching is getting through to them.
Red is dusting the shelves and Granny is nowhere in sight. Emma hurries through her purchases, hunting down milk and flour and soap and the small items she can barely afford to buy, preparing her money by the counter as the wolf-girl tallies the sale price.
Just as she's about to hand out the correct number of coins, she spots wood and seashells moving with the soft wind trickling through the windows, hanging on a small stand by the register. They sway back and forth, and she's mesmerized by the reflecting colors, the simple but beautiful designs. In her mind, she chooses the one she likes best, argues with her inner self that it's alright to spend a little on her vanity from time to time, and solidifies that decision when she takes out the amount needed to acquire one.
"I'll take one of those pendants as well," she announces, despising that her voice comes out as an embarrassed squeak.
Red gives her a piercing look. "You do know who made it, right?"
She nods once.
"And you still want to―?"
Now Emma's the one to glare. "Yes," she growls out rather rudely (well, that how she hears herself), grabbing the particular pendant she likes best and slamming the allotted money down on the table. To her credit, Red only crooks a brow expressively and says nothing more, a knowing smirk on her lips.
Emma's wearing her new piece of "jewelry" the moment she's out the door, perfectly carved swan and small blue stones hanging easily around her neck.
Proudly flaunting it, she also turns her nose up at the old women at the street corner who mutter derisively when she passes by them, ignoring their thin whispers of gossip and their silly ogling.
In her opinion, they should get over their prejudice and live their own lives. Godless sinner or not, Killian Jones made this pendant with his bare hand, and for the record, it's an absolutely breathtaking, meticulous work of art.
She never goes anywhere without it from that day on.
It would be an obvious lie to say that she doesn't miss David and Mary Margaret. Ever since she declined their dinner invitation because of her sudden state of mourning and her rather rude rejection of Killian, she hasn't seen much of either of them, and it hurts inside. Maybe she's being too self-absorbed, but her friendly couple have been very considerate to her, helping her find her way around and accustom herself to a new place.
And, she tells herself rather begrudgingly, Killian really hasn't done anything wrong that she should be avoiding him so readily.
In spite of her better judgment, she keeps doing it nonetheless ― ducking into darkened alcoves between buildings when she sees him emerge from the main path, making a note of the stores he visits, always keeping an eye on her surroundings and who's present in them.
If anyone knew why, she would be quite mortified to admit the reason behind her new behavior.
She reminds herself that he started it, this growing fixation that included his leers and frequent appearance in her vicinity. So she promises herself that she will end it, one way or another.
One afternoon, when class is dismissed and she has no chores to do or duties to fulfill, she sees the sun shining down gleefully and makes the impulsive choice to head down to the seashore. The atmosphere of the quiet, tight-knit, oppressive Storybrooke has gotten on her nerves so much lately that she can't bear it anymore, and with a picnic basket in one hand and her sketchbook in the other, Emma stomps down the sandy trail to descend to the water's edge. And there's no Killian in sight.
She gathers a few seashells. She trails her bare toes in the ocean lapping at the shoreline and yelps when the shock of the icy water gives her chills, yanking on her stockings as soon as she's able to. She lies down in full view of the sun, warming her skin and her disposition at the same time.
Some might say it's scandalous for a single, unmarried woman like herself to be out alone, unattended and with her legs splayed across the golden sand. She cares less and takes comfort in the lulling waves and calming sounds of birds calling out, the heavens meeting the earth, the silence that isn't eerie but consoling.
She loves it here, and she doesn't want to leave.
When Emma convinces herself to get up from her roosting spot and explore some more, she discovers an old abandoned dinghy tied to a decaying log. Being extremely stubborn and bored and more determined that necessarily reasonable, she drags the expired nautical contraption to the water, set on climbing in and sailing for a bit.
It certainly doesn't work out that way.
Firstly, she knew that there were no oars present to speak of, but when she's actually in the boat and it's miraculously not leaking, she learns through hardship that using a long piece of rough wood is not the same as a carved, polished device meant for navigation.
Secondly, there is no sail, the rudder breaks completely apart on her second try to control it, and the makeshift oar is rapidly torn from her hands and disappears faster than she can react.
Thirdly, she is uninformed about the time of the rising tide, but the waves are becoming higher and more violent the longer she sails in this wretched wooden implement.
When water spills inside and she gets soaked, feeling the boat become very heavy and start to sink under makes Emma panic instantly, and she's almost screeching as she fails to propel the hull in the direction of the beach. She's getting farther and farther away from land, she doesn't know how to swim, she's getting very cold from her wet clothes, and worst of all, no one is aware of her little misadventure―
The next few minutes fly by a little too fast for her to fully comprehend.
Between her cries for help, her refusal to leave the boat, and her flailing limbs, a pair of strong arms pull her out and guide her through the water, holding her close and not letting go. He's soothing her with repeated directions, telling her to keep her head above the waves and kick her legs, his breath fanning her cheek, his nearness bringing her warmth―
When they collapse onto the sand, she takes a moment to recollect herself, gasping and coughing nonstop. She sits up on her elbows, and her eyes open gradually.
Her gaze lands on none other than Killian Jones, who is sputtering and gagging seawater. His hair and clothing are drenched, and she gapes at how the latter adheres to his skin, outlining some things that were better left undefined.
Realizing her mouth is going dry, she shakes herself from her prolonged staring and inquires if he is alright. He confirms that he is, wrings some droplets from the tails of his shirt, and then crawls over to her, scrutinizing her form. He looks anxious and distracted before his stance relaxes and he is assured she is uninjured, but that doesn't stop him from directing what she thinks is concern over her safety into exasperation at her foolishness.
"What were you thinking, woman, testing the bloody waves in that flimsy piece of goddamned driftwood? Why test fate and the sea's mercy ― you could have drowned! And if I hadn't―"
She involuntarily tunes out his voice, passionately irate and melodic as it is, and focuses instead on how sleek his moistened dark curls are, the lines of his face accentuated up close, his mouth reddened from the frigid air―
When she hears nothing and thinks that his tantrum is over, she finds herself being wrapped in his arms again, and then they're moving.
"Let me down!" she insists, struggling weakly in his embrace.
This time he's the one to roll his eyes. Wordlessly, he hefts her up to get a good, tight grip on her body as he carries her away. "Just be quiet and enjoy the ride, love. We've got a ways to go yet."
When he nearly stumbles on his third step, she clutches at his shirt desperately. They are inches apart, noses nearly brushing, eyes meeting reluctantly. He is staring at her lips, and she is following the movement of his wandering tongue as it licks over his teeth.
The heat is rising, and it has nothing to do with the sunlight.
She whimpers softly when the back of his hand slowly caresses her jawline ― but he groans from the added weight pressing on his arms, and their mutual trance is broken.
Nevertheless, she leans into him, resting her face near his neck so that the top of her head is tucked under his chin, and he shuffles slightly before sauntering once more, careful of where he places his feet.
They don't say another word to each other until they reach her door, but all the while, she can feel his heart beneath her cheek, pounding wildly and erratically.
And for the first time since making his acquaintance, she smiles.