She is lying in a field of very colorful wildflowers. When the wind blows, quivering blades of grass tickle her nose, eliciting a smile from her now twitching lips.
This is heavenly. The rushes nearby, surrounding a secretive glade, are whistling a plaintive tune. Bullfrogs are croaking merrily. Larks and sparrows chirp at each other, and occasionally, a duck quacks, no doubt having found some sorry fish to gobble up.
To her, it's almost as if nature is decrying its loneliness, but at the same time, reveling in it.
Indeed, it never felt so good to be alone. And the great, empty blue sky above her seems to agree.
"You've moved again." For all the supposed irritation in his tone, Killian doesn't look upset with her. On the contrary, there is the most mischievous grin on his face, and he seems to be biting back a laugh with his teeth. Such white, gleaming teeth that match the light in his eyes, one that scintillates as his hand waves about a long, sleek horsehair brush.
Huffing slightly, Emma shifts on the wicker chair, moving the seat cushion in the wrong direction and off the edge for the thousandth time. "You try to be a model and see what it's like," she mutters quietly, feeling her entire body flush under his close scrutiny.
He appears to be undismayed by her temper. "Ah, but wasn't it you, my dear, who agreed to be my model?" His dark eyebrows lift in unison. "This is your commission, after all―"
Abruptly, she stands ― her feet protesting at the sudden change ― and strides up to the only window in the room. Enough. Enough of sitting still, reining in her emotions, putting on a blank face. It may have only been a few hours, but inside, she can feel the frantic beat of her heart, growing more and more restless with each passing minute.
Sit still and be a good girl. Only good little girls get adopted, Swan. Only good girls deserve a home, a family.
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Emma sighs. Then a blanket of heat covers her right shoulder, and she knows her painter is beside her.
"We can do this as slowly as you wish, Emma. There is no rush to finish." Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Killian smirk while another thought occurs to him. "Unless you have a flock of suitors you want to give this portrait to?"
Her lips curl upward. "Are you to be my Penelope, then?" she suggests teasingly. "Unraveling my image every night so that dawn always promises a fresh start and certain delay?"
She hopes that the pointed reference to antiquity will amuse him, since he appears to be quite educated. Instead, he is taking her question (clearly rhetorical) seriously, mouth agape and breath shortened. Head bowed, he murmurs, "Interesting comparison, Swan," before also peering through the glass windowpane and settling his focus on the shimmering waves of ocean far beyond.
"How did you learn?" When he glances at her curiously, she clarifies, "When did you learn art?"
He shrugs. "Like with music, you can't learn art. You can only learn technique ― and master it."
"Alright, I meant that. Did you study to be an artist?" she presses, realizing after she's spoken that poking at his past is a dangerous scheme. As with the accident of viewing Milah's portrait, he could be angered by her impertinence once again.
Or not.
Or there could be tit for tat when he gives as good as he gets.
However, in his response, there is only an underlying sadness, a tale of loss rather than gain. Shadow falls over his expression, darker than that of his short beard. In one speck of time, her connection with him is broken.
"No," he says hoarsely, staring down at the floor and then at his non-existent left hand. "It was long ago ― that was someone from long ago." She has a feeling he is not speaking about himself. "That ― that person ― the man I was... He is dead to me. He's gone." He gestures to his maimed arm, the haunted room, the lonely house. "And these infernal wrecks are all that remain."
His boots thump against the wooden planks, and the way he practically throws his paintbrush into the cup of water, set aside for rinsing it, speaks of discouragement, of disgust. When he makes his path toward the door, Emma struggles to catch up to him.
He is faster.
Nevertheless, she will not stop following him. She cannot, if she is to come again. Leaving someone alone when they need to not be alone... There is no greater sin.
There he goes, ducking under the main archway and striding into the sunlight. He runs past a sparse garden she did not see last time she came, and then they're right in front of the lighthouse itself, bare and bright white and tall as the trees. Killian disappears into the only entrance the edifice has, not closing the imposing door.
She takes that as a sign to keep going. Calling out his name, she winds about the narrow spiral staircase, ascending the steps carefully until she reaches the uppermost floor.
These bloody memories must die. Because otherwise, they will bloody kill him.
Breathe in. Breathe out. No sense getting excited.
Killian leans his forehead against the warm glass, his sole hand gripping the railing until his knuckles turn white. Everything he was... That was over. He would never be that person again.
"I'm sorry."
Her soft apology, a whisper that clings to his ears, is almost like a sweet caress, bringing him back from the darkness of recollection. All she wanted was to learn more about him ― just as he badly wants to learn more about her.
He can still picture her features spread out on his canvas, a preliminary sketch rubbed across the stretched cotton fiber. He used charcoal for the outline, but soft lead sticks for the finer details. Currently, his drawing is that of a woman ― the lines are not very clear, but clear enough that anyone could guess that the subject is quite beautiful.
So very beautiful.
Emma Swan must be from where the best dreams originate, because those flaming emerald eyes and striking golden curls cannot be anything but celestially given. She is clad in a simple dress, the brown accents and green fabric making her look like a sprite from the woods. Her lips are pursed into a firm pout, and her hands are clasped demurely in front of her. However, her gaze is tinted with an unmistakable look of worry, and he cannot help but wonder if she cares about his outburst. If she cares about him, even a little.
How long has it been since he has had a fellow soul to talk to besides David and his betrothed?
How long has it been since he has felt part of something rather than always being on his own?
He cannot deny his body's longing for her, the magnetic pull between them like that of a compass' arrow and true north. Even now, when she draws near him, the faint scent of her flowery perfume and the gentle touch of her hand over his makes him light-headed.
Like a veritable force of nature, she is reeling him in. And she doesn't even realize what power she holds over him.
"You," he chokes out, his voice strangely hoarse, "you have nothing to be sorry for."
She half-smiles, but he can somehow sense that it is done sadly. "I shouldn't be so inquisitive. It's something that has always gotten me into trouble."
Heat stirs down below, racing upward, and he can only keep perfectly still as Emma brings herself to be only a hair's breadth away from him, right within his reach. Those rosy lips part, and he wonders what they would feel like on his skin. His heartbeat stutters for a moment when she tilts her head. Then his pulse becomes frenetic as she moves forward.
Closer and closer.
Every eyelash is in view ― every curve of her cheeks, every sweep of her brow. If he lifts his hand, his fingers could brush back the errant hairs hanging over her forehead, as well as the ones dangling in front of her eyes. "You are no trouble." He gulps while she peruses his face, inch by inch. Suddenly, he is helpless. "Then again, perhaps you are," he amends weakly, despising the whimpers curling in his throat.
David was right. Why the bloody hell doesn't he work up the damn courage to ask if he can court her? Because right now, he could very well kiss her ― and it doesn't look like she would object.
Pull her into his arms. Cover her mouth with his. Taste the sweetness of her, all while feeling her pressed against him. And best of all, how she would respond to him. All he can imagine about is the moment she will want him back ― and act on it.
But no, they are friends, by his own definition. If he dares to think of more, she will withdraw. And he will undoubtedly lose her for good.
He does not want that at all. He wants to be with her, not without her.
"Perhaps that will suffice for a first sitting ― for today." Very slowly, he pulls away ― stumbles backward ― and the very motion bloody hurts. Besides, he growls at himself, how could someone as vivacious and lovely as she ever be interested in a cripple like me? Bloody notion is absurd.
"Alright, Killian. But...may I...could I ask you for a favor?"
It takes his mind a moment to accept that this is Emma. Asking him. Speaking to him. Being here, with him. He finds the courage that has strayed and yanks it back to his side.
"Anything," he tries, mustering a smile. It does not stick for long. Hah, well, good riddance. Smiles never fit well on his lips anyway.
She starts to speak, but a deep, angry growl interrupts first, rumbling against the glass.
"So you enjoy classical literature?" He is leaning by the table, his back supported by the edge. The old leather jerkin he wears to ward off sprays of paint, deeply brown and crinkled from age, wrinkles even more when he crosses his arms over his chest.
Emma tries not to stare at how the white shirt he wears also folds, the unlaced opening spreading wider apart to reveal bare skin beneath cloth. Keeping her eyes set on the teapot before her, she stirs and stirs the steaming water inside, pondering his question to avoid contemplating the warmth currently upsetting her stomach.
"I've always been partial to any books that are well written and meaningful." The long knife slices through the loaf of bread, the small round of cheese, and the lonely apple sitting on the stone counter. She peers again at Killian, comparing his physique to the solemn amount of food in front of her. Dear Lord, will he really survive the rest of the day on this small fare?
"Hmm." Glancing down at the floor, he seems to ruminate on her words.
Meanwhile, Emma cannot help but notice how handsome he looks when he's so contemplative, pondering on how to answer her. The realization flusters her into a deep blush that warms her down to her toes. Then she too is gazing at something other than the charming artist who is now approaching her.
"It's Homer, lass. How did you suffer through it?" His smile contains laughter, but not the mocking kind. It is more a mixture of admiration and awe and genuine curiosity, all while she reflects on what is so audacious about a woman liking an ancient poet.
With a shrug, she dismisses the clear picture in her mind, where she and Graham sat beneath a weeping willow tree one afternoon, talking about the valor of Troia, and if such a glorious city ever existed to defy all of Greece. "The poetry was alright." Her nose wrinkles as she recalls the scenes of grisly killing in the Iliad. "I admit that the recollections of horror and cruelty were hard to stomach, but such is the world."
She turns to him, gesticulating toward the sunlit window before them. "I am no expert, but when you step outside, no matter in which place, you accept that where there is life, there is much danger. Homer told the story of the times before him. He exaggerated, yes. His tone was often inflated. And he spoke of women as men tend to do: in judgment and not in fairness. But nevertheless..." She has a hard time meeting his eyes. "Both books are fine pieces of work."
It is hard to explain, but his smile literally warms, from the inside out ― as if she has just righted his world by speaking her mind. "I agree entirely." His hand reaches for the two dishes lying on the wooden counter. "The relationships, however..."
"God, not that." She grimaces in disgust. The corners of his lips twitch upwards. "Honesty and loyalty ― the two attributes his anti-heroes struggle so hard to possess."
"Anti-heroes?"
"Well, they were not heroes, despite what they proclaimed themselves to be!" She nearly knocks over the sugar bowl in her rising irritation at those damn men in the story. Damn this world, for putting women in a position of weakness akin to that of slaves. "Penelope is an excellent example ― waiting endlessly for her husband, while he scoured the world during his adventures and dallied with other women without a second thought! But she had to fight off unfaithful suitors who were eating her and her son out of house and home ― for twenty years!" she huffs, angry for one of her favorite characters.
Love can be so foolish, but by the time you love someone, it can be too late to take those feelings back if circumstances change and the situation is not the way you would like it to be. That, she understands. Thank God marriage never made her list of mistakes.
One eyebrow arches, and his grin becomes...naughty, like he has caught her believing something deemed wrong, and yet he approves of it. "Who exactly are you, Swan?"
She rolls her eyes. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
His stare softens in a manner that unnerves her entirely. "Perhaps I would." He pauses ― meaningful pause ― before he continues, "If you feel so passionately about the liberation of your sex, perhaps you should write about it."
She snorts. "No publisher would even consider it ― because I am a woman, and they are all men. What man today would advocate that women be in control of their own lives?"
Killian looks down at the floor, mussed hair falling in front of his eyes as he peers up at her the next second. "A man like me," he replies softly. "It's bloody bad form to keep children from their mothers and force wives to stay with their husbands because society―" His whispers are now a sharp hiss. "―those buggers and all their lies ― has decided so. Because they said so. Because their word is law."
The pain in his voice speaks volumes beyond what he actually says. To Emma, there is only one reason why anyone would side with such ideas: that person has experienced, first-hand, the consequences of the world being as it is and not as it should be. From the way he is gnawing at his bottom lip, his gaze flickering between here and before, she can safely guess that he has many tales to tell. Many stories that he keeps buried in his memory, ones he has shut away for fear of awakening the two most fearful, terrifying things of all: guilt and regret.
"They took more than your hand from you, didn't they?"
He bows his head, not meeting her furtive glances. "Quite the perceptive schoolmistress, aren't you, Swan?"
"It's not just Milah you lost," Emma realizes. She wants so badly to touch him. To embrace him. To take him into her arms and let him rest his burdens there a little while, weigh them down on her chest so he can be free again, if only for a mere moment. "It's someone else. There's...there's more." More you're not confiding.
"Aye." He swallows hard, his chin trembling, face turned downward. "I have a brother. I mean ― I had one, once. His name was Liam."
What should she do? He's trying so hard not to cry in front of her, to stay strong for her. To put on a good face. By all means, she should let him do this on his own. He wouldn't want her help, after all ― no man likes to be coddled, as they say?
But he's breaking.
And she doesn't want him to fall into pieces.
Beyond her own understanding, she is picking up her feet and traipsing over to Killian. Of their own will, her arms are thrown around his neck, and she is bringing him in until he is surrounded by all of her.
For the first time in years, she offers her embrace, with nothing held back.
His cheek, covered with dark stubble, is right by her neck as his lips brush over the crook of it, grazing her shoulder as well. At first, he hesitates to return her gesture, his maimed arm motionless at his side. But she dives under with her hands and draws both of his arms around her ― and then his face is enshrouded by her hair and her skin. She can hear him breathing in their scents. And is it just her imagination, or is he pressing kisses to every curl he finds?
Emma lets him seek her out. She lets him wrap himself around her as if they were reunited lovers, desperate for contact. All the while, he is exhaling raggedly, searching for that sense of bodily command that everyone needs when they are tearing apart. But what he needs most ― what he refuses to ask for ― is companionship that drives away ghosts and shadows.
"Emma," he rasps, "Emma, darling, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He chants her name over and over again, like she were his savior.
"Don't worry," she soothes. "I'm here. I'm not leaving." Though she is a complete stranger, and her own body is reacting in the worst of ways to how having the flesh and soul of Killian Jones pressed against it. Fire is inching up every limb, and the burn transforms into a yearning so profound that she has to fight the urge to let him in further.
To give him the one thing she swore she would never give any man again: her kiss.
He needs to be kissed. And he needs to be held. No, what this man really needs is to be loved. For it seems that there is no one left who cares for him, made out to be the villain in this small town at the ocean's edge.
Instead, she hides her desires, cradling him in her arms.
When he pulls back, wiping at his cheeks (as discreetly as he can manage it while she's right in front of him), she suddenly loses the courage to face him.
His meal is spread out before him. She has already divided the bread and cheese and apple slices between the two dishes. The tea has brewed. All is prepared.
But her appetite is long gone. Fear is creeping in with the speed of a rushing current, and she is finding it hard to concentrate on anything but the path to the door.
She wasn't supposed to get attached. She wasn't supposed to feel for him. They're friends. She's not his anything.
Don't run, pleads her conscience. Don't leave him here alone. He needs you, Emma. He needs you to stay ― if only for a little while.
"I ― I need ― I need to go," she stammers out, wringing her hands together, cringing at the flash of hurt in his expression.
His hand is quick to grasp her chin and make her look into his eyes. That deep ocean-blue gaze, binding her to the house and the floor and him till there's no telling what she'll do, feeling so conflicted like this.
"There's no need to be afraid, love." He is staring hard, willing her to stand fast. "There's no need to escape. I won't hurt you ― I promise you that. Just...please...don't go."
Now it is she who cannot restrain her tears, wishing for him to see that she won't let herself get close to anyone if it means she could get hurt again.
Yanking herself out of his reach, she walks backward till she is right by the front door. She cannot look at him. It would be detrimental to her purpose.
"I didn't know you had a garden." This observation surprises even her. Offhand, she wonders where it came from. When she followed him to the lighthouse. Up on the lighthouse, she could see the sea, and the horizon, and it reminded her of so, so much. "It must have looked lovely when it was alive."
His eyes narrow. "I see."
She shakes her head rapidly. "No ― no, you don't see. The herbs are rotting. There are almost no plants left. The flowers are wilted." She sighs. "That's me, Killian. I came to Storybrooke for a fresh start. I wanted to uproot myself from what had caused my unhappiness. But it looks like I'm buried in that forever. That I cannot get away. That I cannot forget ― like you cannot forget. So you cling to whatever bits of what you loved are left, because you don't have anything else. For you, it's your brother. Your Milah."
Her voice gets carried away by the wind when she opens the door. "The weeds are choking your garden. Soon, it will be a pile of dirt." When she glances at him, he looks absolutely stricken by her words. His reaction wounds her in turn, for it is all her fault. The twists and turns in my life, the choices... All my fault.
"You shouldn't want me to stay. Not me. I'm nothing but one of those weeds. I don't know how to grow by myself. I ruin everything." She nearly chokes on her next statement, her vision becoming blurry. "You're better off without me."