A/N: Here's where I got a bit inspired by Paul Gallico's short story, "The Snow Goose."
The main alcove after the doorway is completely bare. Sad, white-washed walls, perhaps siblings to those of her own cottage, frown at her as she passes through, letting David lead the way. Strangely, Killian didn't come to greet them at the door, but David explained that maybe he was already up in the lighthouse. He leaves her to explore, saying he'll go and find him.
Apparently, his deduction is quite correct, for David doesn't return. After some minutes, the sitting room grows monotonous. Except for a few articles of furniture and the soft blue settee she's seated on, there isn't anything else here. When she peeks into the kitchen, it too is bereft of any material objects, looking very austere and clean.
Too much loneliness in this house.
Feeling like she is lost in the maze of hallways, Emma seeks the first closed door in order to escape the gloom cast by drawn shutters. It's only natural that Killian would protect the interior of his home from too much sunlight ― even simple-minded servants knew that. Scoffing at herself, she hesitates before bursting through.
She knows it is wrong to impede on this man's due privacy. That perhaps Killian will be affronted by her rash course of action, sneaking through his home like a thief. But her curiosity is stronger than her fear.
With a brief thought toward that old fairy tale with the man who had one locked door among hundreds that were open, she pushes on the wood, and it creaks in response, heeding her body's command.
Dear God. Here, there is light.
What is in front of her can be nothing but an artist's studio. There stands the easel in the middle, currently empty of a subject to display. On a small side table is a wooden cup full of erect paintbrushes, a palette with the marks of dry paint, and a sponge. It also has drawers. Drawers that she dares to open. Drawers that are filled with the full range of light's spectrum.
Killian owns what seems to be hundreds of small canisters of ground pigments. A very large, cylindrical jar of linseed rests at the bottom on a low open plank that looks like a makeshift shelf. That spade must be what he uses for measuring and then mixing his own paints.
And then, on the surrounding walls...
Is it a sin to gaze upon what surely is another's soul? Emma stifles a gasp on viewing the longing, the anguish, the depth in every one of his brushstrokes, the care and effort he put into distinguishing the abstract from reality. Tens upon hundreds of paintings overlap, none of them framed as they dangle from nails pounded into stone, and surrounding them are unfinished sketches, drawings, and watercolor dabs.
Some are small, whilst others are large. David's portrait has his uncanny likeness, while the landscape etched out in blurry, quick blots is colorful and strangely exact, capturing the tones of sunset and that bittersweet ending of the day.
She is stunned beyond mere words. There is so much feeling here ― so much love ― that she wonders how Killian hides his true self under the gruff exterior he exhibits to the village folk. If she had talent like this, aching to be expressed, it would be torture not to share it.
Examining every feature, every detail, she hurries about, flitting from image to image, picture to picture, until her eyes land on a very unmistakable face.
Golden curls tossed back, a small smile on her face. Had he peeked into the schoolhouse on that day one of the children made her laugh?
The lines were masterly done, the shading exquisite. Clearly, he had taken his time to complete his vision of her.
Tearing her eyes away from the drawing, she notices a small door adjoining the room, nearly hidden if not for the wooden doorknob giving it away. Unable to resist, she tries it. The door is locked.
With a final glance around the studio, Emma exits, rushing to the only other room in this house. At first, its door also refuses to budge, but with a few choice pushes, she stumbles inside.
Oh no. It's Killian's―
Actually, it's not much of a shock. But even the very air exudes a sense of mystery, of closure, of things that are not meant to be spoken about. Dread pounds into her stomach, and she can barely breathe as she peers about, wanting desperately to just leave but feeling strangely compelled to stay. This is a room of secrets. Here, the keeper of the lighthouse stores his past, boxed into four walls that are never visited.
On the wall, above his small bed, hangs a beautiful portrait. A portrait of a woman with dream-filled eyes, dark brown curls spilling onto her shoulders. Though she has just been in his studio the one time, she immediately recognizes the style of his brushstrokes, the lavish attention to detail he's given. The placement of this particular artwork in his own chambers, of all rooms.
She stands in awe before it.
He has captured the heart of the woman in the painting, because among wistfulness and a hint of sorrow lies an unwavering look of love. The woman's love. And since she is gazing outward, facing the world, it is obvious.
This woman loves Killian. And judging by the emotion exuding itself from within the very canvas, he loves her. Or he loved her. Or perhaps theirs is a love that cannot be. Whatever the reason.
Now Emma feels like an intruder, as if witnessing a tender moment between the two lovers in person. Her footsteps echo in the room as she draws closer, captivated despite herself. What is her name? For as the truism goes, everything in this world must have a name. Even love.
"Milah," she says aloud, reading Killian's cursive with ease. Her name is Milah. And Killian loves Milah.
Panic grips her throat when noise erupts through the silence and she can hear someone moving in the hall. Acting on impulse, she lunges for the door, only to be forced backward when it slams open.
Oh God. Oh no.
Killian is as irate as a Titan from a Greek myth. His nostrils are flaring like that of a mad horse, his sparkling gaze is livid, and his lips are a thin line of contempt.
This day could have gone differently, Emma briefly predicts. It could have continued with him being happy with my visit, eager to show me his home, ready to share a small part of his new life. Instead, it will not be.
Indeed, her prediction comes true. "How dare you," he hisses, fury tensing his limbs. It looks like he has washed up, hair a bit damp, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a stiff clean shirt on his person. That was why he took so long to greet her. He wanted to be presentable ― for her. "How dare you come into this room."
She decides to plead with him, hoping for mercy. "Killian," she whispers, "I apologize―"
"This is not some idle mishap where you take the high road and I take the low road, lass!" he growls, the volume of his voice quickly rising. "I would never impose myself on you this way, in your own home ― so why in God's name have you done so to me? Have you no sense of decency, of decorum?" He is shouting now, and she stifles the urge to cover her ears. "The doors are closed for a reason. Why, not even David has gone into any, and he is my friend!"
That hurts the most. That last line. Not the part where he said she doesn't have any manners, or that she's rude. She bites back her own anger. "Killian, please ― I didn't mean to―"
"Didn't mean to?" he roars. "Then you bloody shouldn't have done this in the first place!"
She wants to defend herself, but all the excuses she could give sound weak to her, so how would they sound to him? Hanging her head, she clasps her hands and waits. Waits patiently for another reprimand and then, perhaps, an explanation. An explanation for why he has buried himself in this house.
Instead, he utters the words that signal everything that is ill, bad, terrible. Everything that cries you have gone too far. Two words that are a venomous hiss. "Get out."
Though she was expecting the worst, she was not expecting this. Gaping at him, she attempts to ask why, but he points at the door. "Leave. Now."
He is her most hated teacher at school, ordering her to take her punishment. He is Robin when she crossed the boundaries between employer and worker and said too much. He is Killian, who is apparently very hurt over what she has done. But unlike with the others, she doesn't believe he will readily forgive her, even for a breach this small. Didn't David once say that he was quite capable of holding a grudge?
It all happens so fast, this discord, that she doesn't know how to react. But given the way his gaze scorches what it lands upon, she marches out of his room, her pace becoming a sprint as soon as she's out the front door. She doesn't have a chance to say good-bye to David, who's most likely still up in the lighthouse, fixing and mending, undoubtedly seeing her leave (with much confusion on his part).
She also doesn't have a chance to glance at the beautiful scenery she adores. She's too occupied with running down the hill, wiping away miserable tears streaking down her cheeks.
When the lighthouse is out of sight, she sneaks into a small grove of trees and sits down on the ground, ignoring that her dress will be horribly soiled and that the dead leaves are probably full of vermin.
Thinking of what home means, of what she left behind, of what she hoped to gain by coming to Storybrooke, of how nothing ever works in her life, she breaks down and weeps. Her entire senses are in turmoil, and she can't breathe. Everything is too tight, too impassive, too cruel.
It is dusk when she arrives back in her cottage, and as soon as she can, she closes the shutters, wishing the entire world to go away. She knows that she is blinded by her feelings, but she keeps hearing the timbre of his voice, the pain in his tone.
The pain in her own.
Her appetite has fled for the day, and she mutely undresses and climbs into bed without taking repast, stoking the fire and staring at it through the darkness. Not that long ago, he was here, sharing a meal with her, talking to her. Being a possible friend over an acquaintance.
Now he hated her.
So through her sobs, she settled on one firm decision.
She will only concentrate on her teaching from now on.
No more budding friendships.
No more socializing.
Just work. Because she seems to be good at that, at least.
She isn't loved. She never was. She never will be. And she must learn to accept that.
As far as other things are concerned, she's done.
The next morning goes by rather quickly. Since it is a Saturday, she does not have to teach, so she walks to the carpenter's shop, the man Mary Margaret was telling her about. It is early, right at dawn, so she meets no one she knows.
Marco. Hmm, Italian-sounding name.
Once inside the wooden building, she sneezes several times, overwhelmed by the smell of sawdust. It's chafing her eyes as well, making them itchy.
"Hello?" she calls out when no one comes to see her. "I was told I could buy paper here?"
There's a thud, and then a man suddenly emerges from under a table she just passed by. Emma shrieks.
"Apologies, miss ― I was so taken in my work, I didn't hear you enter." Disheveled and dusty, he's wearing an apron, and tools are in his hands.
"Are you..." She looks him up and down. "Are you Marco?"
A cheeky grin makes it way across his face, where two blue eyes twinkle at her. He chuckles. "Uh, no. I hope I don't look that old, now."
She longs to cross her arms over her chest, but that wouldn't be seemly. "I was told Marco was an older gentleman, but I didn't know a rogue worked here."
He bows, pretending to be chagrined. "I meant no offense ― but being taken for one's father is belittling in its own way, don't you agree?" The man brushes hair from his brow, placing his tools on top of the unfinished table. "I hoped some people in town remembered who I am."
She shrugs. "Mary Margaret only mentioned Marco."
He looks upward, sighing loudly. "Of course. Of course." He then glances at her more steadily out of the corner of his eye. "You're Emma Swan, aren't you? Newcomer and schoolteacher?"
This time, it is she who scowls, wanting to be recalled for something other than her status as an outsider. "Correct," she says caustically. "And I am here to purchase some paper. So, if you please..."
He bows again, mockingly, and opens a cabinet to his far left. There is some rustling, and he sticks out his head. "I'm August, by the way. How many sheets will that be?"
She is befuddled by his crafty weaving of a personal introduction into her order, but tries not to show it. "One hundred."
One eyebrow lifts. "You must have great plans, Miss Swan. Are you a writer in secret?"
She shakes her head, biting her lower lip. "That would be nice, but this is for work."
"Ah yes, because you're teaching." He taps his temple as if willing that thought into the depths of his memory. He says nothing else.
She places his payment on the counter, hoping it is right according to what her friend said Marco charges. August wraps her purchase, careful not to damage a single paper, and hands it to her.
He also takes her only free hand in his and shakes it lightly. "Thank you for your patronage. It's nice to have met you, Miss Emma Swan. I hope to see more of you."
The way he watches her leave, his lean frame leaning against the side of a bookcase, makes her think he doesn't just mean inside the shop.