As she shivers, her wet garments increasingly unpleasant against her skin, Emma can't stop watching Killian's every movement. It's not simply his unusual good looks, wet dark hair swept over his forehead and trim figure striding lithely around her home as his striking eyes glance at her more often than not. Even the way he bends over to place several logs in her fireplace, the flourishing gesture he uses to light a precious match and deposit it quickly amongst the wood ― it speaks of grace and strength. Both of which he just used to save her life.
The awkward silence, however, is starting to make her squirm in her seat. She should say something. "Thank you," she breaks through uncertainly, "for being a gentleman and saving me. It was a noble gesture."
He smirks, but the smile on his lips doesn't really reach his eyes. "Oh, I'm always a gentleman, love."
Still, the manner in which he brushes off her gratitude ― and she senses he knows exactly how hard it is for her to thank anyone ― is rubbing Emma the wrong way. Biting her bottom lip, she dares to proceed and voice her thoughts. "I, uh, understand, but you didn't have to save me, and―"
"But I did." His gaze is now glazed with fire. "Because I wanted to. Because I wanted to help you. God, do you value your life so little, that you judge others also share in your conviction that you are worthless?"
His words are whiplash against her ears, but in her heart, she knows that what he is saying has truth in it. Nevertheless, she finally looks down at the ground, wanting to escape his perusal. And though she feels the need to respond, no right retorts form in her mind.
So she stares at the fireplace instead, ignoring his question. It's much easier to hide her shock at his honesty and how he has seen through her than to probe at it.
He can't care about her. He barely knows her. He doesn't like her. He can't.
"You really need to change out of those wet clothes, love."
She can't believe what she is hearing at first, but on second thought, his advice makes sense and has merit. The problem is that he is just standing there, staring at her, expecting her to get up and act on it. Crossing her arms over her chest protectively, she huffs and says, "I'm not doing anything when you're here."
A single moment passes afterwards, giving her enough time to process her choice of words and the sudden look of deep hurt on his face before it becomes simply impassive.
"Well then, I'll just let myself out," he replies, bowing slightly before he heads toward the door.
When water leaves a steady trail over the polished wood, she leaps from her chair and hastens to his side, instinctively grabbing at his arm to prevent him from touching the doorknob. "No ― wait ― I didn't mean it like that ―"
"I may have lost my hand, Swan, but I still have my sight, and I can damn well see when a lady needs her privacy. I can see," he whispers more aggressively, more forcefully, more deeply, "where and when I'm not wanted."
It is her turn to burn ― but this time from embarrassment and regret. Damn it, couldn't he tell that she was still ashamed of her foolish notion, her current situation, her inexplicable attraction to him? "No, no," she denies, wringing her hands and then stopping when she notices how desperate it makes her look, "I don't want you to go. Please don't. You're," she glances at his soaking wet shirt and trousers, "you're dripping water on my floor."
He smirks without mirth. "Well pardon me, lass, for ruining your fine décor―"
"Would you just listen for a moment?" She nearly loses her patience with him, but a heavy sigh and a close of her eyes later, she's prepared. "If you go out in those clothes, you'll catch your death. At least stay and warm yourself by the fire." She blushes during her next offer. "I, um, don't have any gentleman attire on hand, but I can give you a blanket, and your garments can dry next to mine."
Her cheeks feel like they are literally on fire, her mouth is exceedingly dry, and when he only raises an eyebrow at her in return, she bites her bottom lip anxiously and calls herself simple-minded. Then she sees her fingers gently curling over his arm. His left arm. The one that's missing a particular attachment. But she doesn't pull away. The loss doesn't frighten her. No, loss doesn't mean less ― it means more. It means survival and fortitude and ― God, he's gazing down and up, his eyes flickering between her hand and her face.
Emma repeats her invitation, wanting him to understand. To know that she understands. "Killian Jones, stop being stubborn," she whispers as teasingly as she can under the circumstances. If she says the wrong thing, it will drive him away from her. "I'm asking you to stay. Don't go just yet. Please." The last word is so much more than a plea, though, and while she's not begging, she's doing more than mere asking.
He cocks his head at her, still unsure, but slowly, when she tentatively strokes her fingers over his skin, an answering smile makes its journey on his lips, and she could swear that she's never seen such a warmth emanate from his face before. Well, in the limited days and weeks that she's known him. His hand leaves the door immediately, and she's leading him by the arm to the badly cushioned armchair in the corner, requesting that he wait a minute so she can place a thick towel down before he sits. He complies, pretending to peer up at the ceiling while she senses his smolder from across the room.
Naturally, her clumsiness comes through to vex her, and as she walks to where he is, fluffy fabric in hand, the toe of her boot gets caught under the old rug serving as a carpet, and she only saves herself from falling flat by reaching for the nearest solid object. That happens to be a startled Killian, who takes the impact bravely but lands behind-first in the chair, and when she has settled her flailing arms well enough to plant both hands on opposite armrests, she realizes just why the man in front of her is appearing very uncomfortable. Or should she say, very attentive to her every move.
Her body is, more or less, suspended over his, her forehead nearly brushing his as her new position affords her such scandalous proximity. But he is still waiting, and when his eyes draw attention to her mouth again, fear builds in her stomach, making her gasp. Of all that he can't want from her, he most certainly can't want that from her. Can't he?, her conscience prompts back.
Trying to grin confidently, she presents him with the towel she promised. However, when he takes it, their fingers touch, and she's sure she can commiserate with those who were rumored to have died of internal combustion. His gaze softens, and it is then that she admits to herself how she wants to lean in the rest of the way, to not retract the longing that is flowing freely through her.
But, adhering to common sense and a fleeting image of Neal in her mind, she doesn't. Carefully drawing back, she breathes a sigh of relief when she finally makes it behind the thick changing screen, welcoming the seclusion and invisibility.
Why is it that he fills the emptiness so, that he leaves her tingling with hope and trust and all those emotions and wishes she locked in her past? Why is it that he seems to belong amid her living space, his presence strangely comforting and reassuring?
If she is not cautious, she will grow attached to him, because despite her misgivings, she likes how all this feels. She likes how he makes her house feel like a home ― a real home. Smiling to herself, Emma shakes her head as she puzzles over her mixed feelings toward Killian, slipping off her damp blouse and petticoats until she is dressed only in her corset. The only conclusion she can draw is that it's not so lonely anymore with him here.
Her musings are cut short when she tugs at the bow keeping the bindings together, horror running through her when she pulls and pulls to no avail. Damn it, the ties must have formed an impenetrable knot ― and how on earth is she going to undo it when she can't see it, let alone reach it?
Eventually, she succumbs to the only plausible solution. "Killian?"
"Aye?" comes his strong brogue.
"Could you, ahem, come here for a moment?" The answering silence makes her chuckle unhappily. "I need your help." After audible rustling and some clatter, his footfalls echo and she begins to tremble, grabbing the robe that is lying on the top of the screen and quickly putting it on.
He clears his throat awkwardly. "How may I be of assistance, milady?"
She almost wants to laugh at his bashful politeness. Is he actually as much of a flirt as she ruled him to be, or is he only like that around her? Nevertheless, her sense of humor grows sombre, and she focuses on the task at hand. "My stays are knotted tight."
She hears him swallow hard. "And you wish for me to take care of that hindrance, correct?"
Closing her eyes, she reluctantly emerges from behind her stiff curtain of protection, trying not to meet his questioning gaze. Turning around, she says softly, "I would greatly appreciate it."
When she slips off her robe minimally, he breathes in sharply, and they both are unable to move. Then she feels his fingertips graze her spine, and his thumbs stroke the skin there repeatedly as he tugs at the knot. Accidental or not, the gentle contact makes her heart beat all too fast meanwhile. As for Killian, he curses unintelligibly several times, but finally, he announces, "Done," and she's accordingly loosening the offensive garment she loathes to wear.
She realizes a second too late that the man is still standing behind her, watching.
"Emma," he groans when her robe slips to the floor along with the corset. Flushing deeply, she covers herself with her arms as best she can, grateful for the fact that it is her back facing him and not her front. She is now only in her shift and this is highly inappropriate and God, why does she have to be so, so stupid―
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I ― I forgot. And it...that thing was hurting me. I hate it."
His laugh sounds unmistakably forced, but he bends over and grabs her robe, elegantly draping it over her shoulders. His hand, warm and kind, stirs her inside, and holding on to her remaining courage with the will of a lion, she swivels, wanting to see him.
She's still not entirely covered ― not as proper ladies ought to be, with collars up to their neck and skirts down to their ankles ― but she doesn't care. All she can care about is that Killian Jones has this shy, embarrassed expression on his face that rapidly transforms into one of unadulterated hunger. It's familiar, this pure desire, his eyes following the contours of her limbs, analyzing her curves, studying her face. She can feel the heat he is exuding, just as she had on the beach, but this time, she is visibly showing her reaction. A thin piece of cotton cloth is the one item separating him from her naked form, and though she should feel more ashamed than before ― she should be mortified, actually ― she is mirroring the same desire, a fact which makes her blush deeply and sigh.
She could take comfort in him, his body, his sympathy. She could forget about propriety and doing the right thing and being a lady. This night, she could be his. It would be so easy and simple to give in. The notion both thrills and terrifies her, for though she may have fallen in love once, she has never been with a man. A few kisses and touches here and there, but no further. It's not her, to want such physical closeness with anyone, to be enticed by any man in such a wanton manner.
But Killian is so handsome and willing, hovering over her and looking so concerned and full of yearning. Although he makes no advances, his lips are parted, and his head dips down, tilting ever so slightly. One kiss, and he could be hers tonight. For people as passionate as they, it wouldn't stop after one touch ― not when they are both hurting inwardly, needing the aches of the past to be soothed. Perhaps...perhaps they need each other.
Lust flees when she sees him shiver and recalls that he's still wet. Instantly, the tension between them is broken. "Oh," she says suddenly, wrapping her robe about her more securely and outstretching her hand to him, beckoning him to take her place. "You need to change."
He licks his lips slowly, his bright eyes not leaving hers. "Aye, I do," he murmurs, taking her hand in his and pressing a kiss on top of it, all while staring at her pointedly. It's like their first meeting all over again.
She can't help but grin. "Your clothes," she corrects, her smile widening on seeing the extent of his misunderstanding.
He chuckles from realization. "Indeed," he replies, his brow furrowing for a moment. "I'd forgotten."
Stepping back, she turns around and strides toward her wardrobe, muttering to herself, "I'll go and get you that blanket." Rummaging in her cupboards, she finds one for him and another for herself, placing his over the top of the changing screen.
On hearing noise indicating that he is undressing, she averts her sight from that direction and instead contemplates their near indiscretion, wondering if he will pursue it again or hold it against her later.
Emma peeks at him again and quickly looks away when he catches her glancing at him. The sight of Killian Jones wrapped from head to toe in her white cashmere blanket, one of the most precious objects she owns, is something she will not be forgetting anytime soon. His hair is tufted and most resembles a bird's nest at this point, but she can't help smiling at the childish way he is cuddling into the blanket, pressing his nose to it at times and inhaling deeply. When he meets her inquiring stare, he ducks his face farther into the fabric, looking straight ahead at the fire. Truth be told, his boyish behavior is adorable beyond words.
The simple clothes rack is currently stretching his trousers, his shirt, his belt, her dress, and her undergarments before the flaming heat. When she asked if he would be drying his long johns as well, he only gave her a very cocky smirk and didn't reply.
It's a safe guess that he is not wearing anything underneath her blanket, and the very image of that is making Emma flush. The circumstances and their consequences should be making her cry from shame, really, but Killian is being a gentleman, refraining from commentary on their attire's shared space, and in the light of their companionship, she doesn't want to ruin the quiet atmosphere they've built. They are sitting on the rug, backs set against the bottom of the crude settee, the fireplace right in front of them.
"It smells like honeysuckle."
She raises a brow, confused.
He clears his throat and explains, "The blanket ― it smells like that flower."
"Um..." How will she get around that story? "Yes, it's my favorite scent. What you're smelling is my perfume."
"A schoolteacher has perfume?" He grins lazily. "How unusual."
She rolls her eyes. "It was a gift ― from a friend."
"Ah." He shifts enough so that he is facing her. "A very rich friend, no doubt, to afford such a gift."
"Not exactly," she huffs, getting annoyed with his insinuations. "The lady who gave it to me... Well, she was very fond of me."
"Oh," he exclaims warily, acknowledging the pensive quality of her voice and therefore not carrying that discussion about the past anymore. Emma is relieved ― but it is short-lived, for he remarks on yet another subject best left alone.
"I see that you're wearing one of my pendants."
She peers down at it and makes an effort not to react the same towards its maker. How is she supposed to respond to his query, when she herself cannot grasp what possessed her to buy it? The lines of the swan are fluent and precise; the head itself has minute details and symmetry. The entire necklace, from the choice of beads and stones to the color of the wood used for the swan, is exquisite.
Wetting her lips, she opens her mouth to reply, but no words come out. How can she describe her feelings, when she is barely willing to let them show ― or let them exist?
"How fitting," he comments absently, "that you have chosen your namesake." His bare arm snakes out from between the edges of his covering and his fingers trace the contours of the figurine wistfully. Her collarbone is left untouched by his wanderings, however.
Instead of answering that, she speaks out what she shouldn't say, unable to retreat with her thoughts when he is so near beside her. "It's strange, being here like this with you." He stiffens, immobile, and she elaborates, "No ― I mean ― like this. You and me, here in this house. Alone. Our wet garments hanging side by side." She giggles, and it surprises her. She hasn't giggled since she was with Henry and Roland. "It's odd circumstances, don't you agree?"
His grim frown becomes a hesitant smile, and his stern expression relaxes. "Aye, I did imagine us alone under other, more pleasurable circumstances. The clothes part I don't mind so much." He crooks an eyebrow at her and that smile is now a wide smirk, but the comical way he reacts to his own statement makes her laugh, not brew angrily.
"How did you really save me?" she asks suddenly, needing to know the truth. "I was so certain that no one was around."
His hand meets her again, but he is gently rubbing an errant curl of hers between his fingertips, the gesture too innocent to be reprimanded. "Keeping an eye on me, darling?" Her pout curbs that train of suggestive thinking. "Well, to be frank, I was already on the beach before you arrived ― though I was farther along the shoreline, almost out of sight. I didn't see you at first. Then..." His thumb drifts to her cheek, stroking it. She finds she doesn't mind that at all. "Then, there you were, sailing among the waves, and when you started screaming like a bloody harpy, I knew I would just have to bloody jump in and save you." He finishes by withdrawing his hand from her and shrugging nonchalantly.
"I didn't scream like a harpy!" she cries indignantly. When she sees how he is biting his bottom lip to restrain his laughter, she exhales deeply. "I didn't... I don't know what you think of me, but I didn't intentionally mean to be reckless by doing that. It was an accident. I just wanted..." She looks at him pleadingly. "I wanted, for one moment, to feel free."
He gazes at her intently. "And I wanted for you not to be claimed by the sea, Swan. Why can't you believe," he breathed, "that I simply didn't want anything to happen to you?"
Attraction is fiery and piercing. Feeling, on the other hand, works slowly and mysteriously, a wave of calm or a wave of grief or a wave of caring that sweeps through and demonstrates how different the affected person has become because of it. Right now, Emma is floating on a wave of warmth that settles her entire being and reminds her of who she is, how far she has come. That nothing is wasted, no experience for naught.
Somehow, Killian Jones has single-handedly reached into her heart and encouraged it to keep beating.
Somehow, she has found one good reason for being here in Storybrooke.
The fire has died out during the night, though the cinders are still glowing. The room is covered in darkness, as sunlight doesn't reach the house until mid-morning, and there is condensed silence throughout.
Nevertheless, she feels contentedly warm and snug, her face buried in soft comfort, her nose tickled by a familiar sweet scent.
Wait.
Honeysuckle.
And rum?
Her eyelids flutter until her eyes are fully open, and she gapes at what she sees. Killian's head is nestled in the crook of her neck, and their bodies are partly entwined as he cuddles with her, blanket still enfolded around him ― they must have fallen asleep and curled next to each other because of the cold. She is wrapped in his arms, and to be honest, it's wonderful.
Beautifully wonderful, because not even Neal gave her something as simple as an embrace when she needed it ― he wasn't really a "no strings attached" kind of man ― and Killian is unapproachable but clearly more compassionate than she bargained for.
His right wrist is exposed, and for the first time she sees a colorful tattoo there. The name "Milah" is scrawled there, and because a heart lies next to it, she can guess that that woman was a special part of his life. One of his secrets, perhaps ― like Neal is hers. Secret loves and secret wounds. She wonders what happened to Milah, because Killian is alone. Smiling wistfully at his antics, she gently disentangles from him and before she stands up, she plants a soft kiss on his cheek. She hears him sigh in reply, still dreaming. Well, she won't wake him.
Their garments are very stiff and unpleasant feeling, but dry nonetheless. She presses and folds Killian's articles of clothing, places them in an organized stack, and sets them on a chair by the door. Pulling a simple sundress from her wardrobe, she washes her face and hands, uninterested in her reflection, and then fixes her hair and remaining clothes. Stoking the fire, she brings heat and light again to the room. She hums as she dances across the floor, tidying up her house.
Then when she's finished and after another glance at a sleeping Killian, she goes to prepare breakfast, for once anticipating the dawn.