Unwise. That's what he bloody is ― unwise. Most would say foolish.
Groaning, refusing to open his eyes, Killian rubs his face vigorously with his hand and tries to wake himself up. Standing guard by the lighthouse lamp all night long, worrying about the high winds, took its toll. All those sips of rum had not done him any favors either. At dawn, he finally gave up the vigil and tumbled headfirst into bed. Now he has a bloody headache and malaise at the pit of his stomach. There is nothing a man likes less than being proven right about what he has done wrong.
Despite reaping the consequences, he still dreamed of Emma. His golden sun, bathing his slumber in light.
Thinking of her, he grins to himself. He can still feel the excitement of last evening, at the picnic.
Emma, twirling to the sad, lilting music of the shepherd's pipe. Good mother Ruth, pulling Mary Margaret up from her seat on the blanket and spinning her around in circles, giggling and laughing. The rosy hue of Emma's cheeks when the lasses each offered her a hand and drew her into their simple dance. David, cocky and all too pleased when Emma sent Killian a beaming smile.
His heart, wizened and unused for so long, threatens to burst from the onslaught of felicity.
Boom, boom, boom.
Aye, that's what awakened him ― that rude noise coming from his front door.
His eyes snap open.
Someone is knocking on the door.
"Jones," calls David's voice. "Jones, are you in there?"
Bloody hell. He hobbles out of bed, then blindly searches for his trousers and the nearest shirt. Yanking them on, he stumbles into his shoes and does not bother to tie the laces.
The small room he dares to call a kitchen looks inviting and quiet, in comparison to the racket his friend is making. Clutching at his throbbing head, he runs to the door and pulls it open.
Despite Killian's blurry vision, it is clear David is not happy, scowling up a storm. "We need to talk," he grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.
Killian squints, mustering a smirk. "I find I'm rarely in for a pleasant conversation when I hear those four words."
David rolls his eyes. "This is serious, Killian, and certainly not the time for jests."
The telling tone of his voice causes Killian's windpipe to constrict. "Has something happened to your lass? To Emma? God almighty―"
"Stop swearing," he growls.
"Damn it, mate―"
"No cursing either!"
"Just spit it out, Dave." He is losing his temper with the man. "If not them, what's worrying you so that your eyes are bulging out of your bloody head?"
"Can we talk inside?"
Now that he mentions it, Killian notices that David is unusually anxious, shifting his weight from foot to foot, glancing left and right as if he is waiting for someone to appear.
Whoever that may be, they cannot be anyone good.
The moment the door closes behind them, the shepherd visibly relaxes his stance, heaving deep sighs. "I almost thought he followed me here."
Killian grows more perplexed. The stabbing pain in his temples is not helping matters. "Who on bloody earth is making you almost wet your trousers?"
David's eyes are instantly cold. "George Spencer is back in town."
Bollocks, no. "How do you know that?"
He clenches his hands into fists. "Because he just visited my farm this morning."
The carriage's sudden stop jolts Killian awake from troubled sleep, with spectres of Liam and Milah in his dreams. A long train ride and then hours of riding over bumpy terrain in this wretched contraption have affected his state of mind.
All this trouble, to get to this town called Storybrooke.
The advertisement in the newspaper was direct and to the point: lighthouse keeper needed, room and board provided, ample pay, decent workload.
Of course he wondered why no one within Storybrooke itself was willing to take on such a position, especially when steady employment was hard to find everywhere. Nonetheless, he applied, wanting a clean break from the stifling city, an escape route from the past. At least his mention of naval experience gained a good reception. Grudgingly or not, the town council paid for his train ticket and his carriage fare, so off he went.
Running a lighthouse could not be that difficult. Liam had taken him to visit a few when they were on shore leave. This job requires dedication and discipline, to be sure. But he needs that in his life. He needs to be tied down, like the ropes unfurling from the sails of a ship. Otherwise, he will be blown away and self-destruct through disregard for his own life and its purpose. There is no one who gives a damn if he dies or not. His tombstone will be unvisited. Fortunately, Liam was buried at sea, so the wind will carry his presence wherever Killian goes.
A spasm of pain rips across his chest, forcing him to grip the door frame on his way down from the carriage. The tremors echo in his mind and his heart, a deep tearing creating fissures in his soul. This hurt cannot be remedied by drink or fixed by a doctor. Trying both options have exhausted his physical resources.
It is better if he thinks only of himself now, of his own needs and wants. Remembering what he has lost and has caused others to lose will drive him to insanity and rend apart what is left of him. His brother was his stronghold, his dearest friend. But the man was given up to the sea. He is dead and buried. He is not coming back.
Milah also belongs to the past. No matter how much Killian can wish for the departed to return, they will not. Why can he not convince himself that this is wistful thinking and unfulfilled longing? These thoughts are a dagger he pulls out and stabs himself with. He alone makes himself bleed.
And in that wound, he also finds solace. Could another person begin to understand what he endured? Is there any point in trying to find someone like that, who has shared in similar suffering?
He struggles to keep his balance as he hauls his heavy luggage, staggering along the beaten dirt path, not sure what he is looking for. A sign, perhaps, from above, to show Providence does not hate Killian Jones.
The insignia of a pub pops into view, signpost swinging above the door. "The Rabbit Hole" seems to be an appropriately sordid establishment where he will not be judged by appearance. After all, any man who seeks refuge in spirits has no cause to reprimand another who does the same.
It's bad form, drinking on his first day in town, but the rum runs smoothly down his throat, warming his belly and his head. Never mind that it is the middle of the day and there is no one else inside but the proprietor and a short, stocky man who appears to be fully inebriated. Stacking his coins on the table, Killian pushes them forward, along with his empty glass. It is to his credit that he does not feel tipsy ― but given the amounts of liquor he has imbibed within the last few years, his tolerance for it is higher than that of most men.
And women. Milah could bloody drink her way through a bottle of rum, for God's sake.
Imagining her, bright smile and laughter combined, makes him long for another glass of rum. But he cannot afford it, so he swallows down the rest of his anguish and smiles bitterly at the dirt floor.
Someone was supposed to meet him when he came, but there was no one at the carriage's designated stop. What the bloody hell has he gotten himself into?
"You look like a man who could use another drink." The deep, self-confident voice booms against the walls, but no one pays attention to the outburst.
Killian searches for the source of the voice. His eyes finally rest on a figure shrouded in shadows, hiding in the darkest corner of the pub. "What was it that gave me away?" He purses his lips. "My ability to hold my rum in one go, or that I'm still standing straight afterwards, hearing every word you say?"
The stranger chuckles. "You've got spirit. That's good ― this town needs some livening up."
A snap of his fingers, and the bartender sends another shot of rum Killian's way. Tipping the contents into his mouth, he smacks his lips loudly before returning the glass and then sauntering over to where his would-be benefactor is sitting.
"Thanks for the rum, mate." He collapses onto a nearby chair. "So besides the obvious conclusion that I'm new to these parts, what else can you tell me about this charming little town?" he slurs. His appetite for sarcasm gets worse when he is a bit tipsy.
It sounds like the man is rolling a glass of his own between his fingers. "The people here are hard-working but lost in their old ways. They are immune to progress and what that could mean for them. Daft, if you ask me. Why, the local magistrate offered to build a factory ― completely at his own expense ― and buy farmlands at twice their market value. That kind of endeavor would bring money and jobs to this region. But the town council is made up of numskulls who cannot see past their own noses and traditions. They resist change and turned down the proposal, despite that farmers had to sell their crops at half the price last harvest."
Killian shrugs. "Surely a man with that kind of influence could do without their approval."
"Perhaps, but general approval is needed for success. Every leader, even Napoleon, learned that quickly. The masses hold power. And the magistrate wants to keep his position, of course. He cannot outvote the council by himself. The whole town would declare war."
If his head wasn't swimming, his sense of reason would hold back his tongue from drawling, "Sounds all too familiar."
Still, the stranger refuses to show himself, clinging to the dark. "You know from personal experience?"
"Aye," he says bitterly. "That I do. The rich and powerful would do anything to stay that way. Even if it means siding with what is wrong ― for them."
"That is why you are drinking? To stave off memories of how they have wronged you?"
His instincts warn him that this conversation is headed south, but he does not listen. Why can't he speak to someone for once without worrying about the repercussions? Ignoring the question, he replies instead, "This world thrives on connections. It only takes one word to destroy a man's life."
"And you are such a man."
"Aye, I am." Having to learn from the bloody newspaper about Milah's fate was the final straw. Suffering from a complete lack of commissions thanks to her cowardly husband's golden word, he had shut himself up in his studio. The landlord had evicted him without mercy. The image of his easel being thrown out the window because he had complained it was too heavy to carry down.
Killian nurses his pain and tells himself that was over, that he has come here to forget about himself. This job is the most important factor in his life. He is a survivor and not even Gold himself can stop him from finding some means of employment. "So if it's so bloody stifling here, why do you stay?"
"I don't know." He tsks at himself. "Personal ties, I guess."
Killian grimaces. "That wouldn't be enough to hold me down."
"Not when you have invested in them like I do." The man shifts his legs under the table. "This is my hometown. I'll always keep an eye on it and its residents."
Those details clear the fogginess in his mind. There is more to this stranger than meets the eye. The rum clangs like a bell in his head, and he stands up, ready to leave the pub. "Well, mate, it's been nice talking to you, but I have places to be."
He chuckles. "It was no trouble. I enjoy hearing the other side of a person's story."
"Story?" Killian stops short. "What on earth are you talking about?"
"Why, your story. Killian Jones, unknown artist ― your sorry self, caught up between an irate husband and the wife who cuckolded him with you."
His blood freezes in his veins. "How in bloody hell―"
The arrogant man also rises to his feet, staring him down with clear contempt. In the weak light coming from the pub windows, Killian can make out the features of a balding, heavily-built man who towers over him.
"Come now, Mr. Jones, let's not play games. I know everything there is to know about you. You surely noticed the name of George Albert Spencer as one of the signatures on the letter you're carefully guarding? The one that welcomes you to Storybrooke and offers you the post of lighthouse keeper?"
He discerns his mistake too late. "You are the magistrate, the one who hates this town."
"Hates? No, I care about it ― enough to question any newcomers here and assess any vital threats. I come back and finance the town's needs because it is too poor to fund its own mayor. I'm always acting in its interests."
"And your own," he snaps, despising how he has been so easily tricked.
"In a manner of speaking, our interests are usually aligned," Spencer sneers. "Welcome to Storybrooke, Mr. Jones. A personage like yourself will do well in the lighthouse ― even the town drunk, Leroy," he points at the only other man in the pub, snoring at the bar, "didn't want that job, and he has the greatest debts in the entire village. And the seclusion of such a position should be refreshing for you, after being the object of such scrutiny in society."
Then he peers down at Killian's missing hand, which he has been trying to hide during this entire conversation. "No need to worry about your little problem ― even a dunce could maintain the lamps one-handed."
His stomach drops to the floor.
With a sweep of his long overcoat and his nose practically in the air, the magistrate makes his exit, not giving him a second glance.
The moment he is outside, Killian stumbles against the nearest wall for support. Bloody damnation. He thought he left his past behind him to start a new life.
Bloody chance in hell of that.
Sitting down hard on the worn settee, Killian runs a hand through his hair. He is drained from the onslaught of information piling inside his head. And he is worrying for David. The man took his leave about an hour ago, visibly shaken, unable to come to terms with what George told him. In light of what havoc that bloody bastard could wreak on Ruth and Mary Margaret, David's only course of action is submission.
And yet, he is a fighter. For all poor Dave has said about Storybrooke ― sleepy and stagnant, dull and uninteresting ― he looked heartbroken at the prospect of leaving it for good so Spencer could keep up bloody appearances. Who wouldn't be? His friend loves the land he was born on, but Ruth and the lass are his home. A future without those two in his life would devastate him.
Despite the pounding in his sore head, Killian longs for another spot of rum. Unfortunately, he needs to save the rest of his earnings after all the additional expenses this month, especially his overdue account at the Lucas' store.
Another series of knocks at the door have his mind spinning. Is that David, back to hide from the nefarious man who wants to destroy him? Or George himself, come to threaten and intimidate? With a groan, he lifts himself up and trudges back to the entrance of his house.
A very welcome face awaits him on the other side of it.
"Hello." Biting on her lower lip, Emma peers at her shoes. The blue bonnet she is wearing tips downward as well and momentarily conceals her face.
He too is rather speechless from her appearance. Blinking, he bids her to enter. She hurries inside, taking off the bonnet as soon as the door shuts. Glancing at her, he notices she is holding a basket in her left hand.
"What can I do for you, lass?" He rolls his shoulders, willing the fatigue in his muscles to leave.
Tentatively, she walks into the kitchen and places the basket on the table there. The silence between them is stifling. Wringing her hands, she stares at the floor before looking right into his eyes. He can see how much effort it took for her to come here, to approach him first. "I was thinking about we said, at the picnic." She licks at her lips. "I know this is very sudden ― but I needed to come. I cannot explain it."
"You don't have to," he smiles, delighted by the soft blush on her cheeks afterwards. "You are always welcome here."
"Thank you, Killian." She hesitates before continuing, "Would it be possible to see my portrait?"
Warmth blooms in his chest. With surprising eagerness, he runs to his studio and grabs the cloth-covered painting.
When Emma attempts to lift the cloth herself, he swats at her hand. "Ah, it's not ready yet, Swan," he chuckles. "Are you quite sure you want to view it unfinished?"
Grinning, she nods. He lets the cover fall down, revealing his handiwork. Only the first layer of paint has been applied, so that a flat rendition with no shadowing is before them.
Every part of this moment affects him ― her gasp, the soft glow in her eyes as she gazes at each line and bit of coloring. She seems truly stunned.
"How did you do it?" she whispers, awe-stricken. "How do you see me?"
"I cannot explain it," he teases, smirking to hide how worried he is. Will she be frightened away because of this?
When she smiles in reply, he hopes she cannot hear the low pounding of his heart, or how a deep exhale leaves his chest. The few times she has come up to visit him, he was terrified that when he escorted her to her cottage, it would be the last time he ever saw her face. That he would somehow drive her away, because he never knows the right thing to do or say. That she would shun him, and there would be no forgiveness.
Instead, she is a recurring star in his life, coming into view unexpectedly and bringing him the glow of happiness. He is so glad to see her here that his feet threaten to skip along rather than walk calmly when he draws nearer.
Her hand reaches out as if to trace the lines of paint, but falls back. "You know your trade, Killian Jones." She sighs. "It almost ― it almost hurts to look at this."
He searches his mind for the best words. "All I did was think of you, lass. I have never been that good at portraits, I'm afraid."
Her smile returns. "Perhaps you should reconsider that opinion, maestro. The likeness is remarkable."
He longs to pull her into his studio and finish the painting, to capture her in all her beauty on his canvas so he has a fragment of her to keep after she leaves him again. On a day when he gorges on sorrow and rum, unable to rouse himself from pain, he would have to but look at the radiance in her face and be reminded to survive.
To live another day, because someone like her exists and breathes the same air as he does.
Clearing his throat, he excuses, "It would be my honor to finish the portrait now, but David asked me to come down to the farm. His sheepdog is expecting wee ones and he needs help more than ever in shepherding his flock."
It is a half-truth. What assistance Killian can provide does not seem to be enough. With Ruth feeling ill recently, David does need all the help he can get in maintaining the farm. But today, he asked him to come over for different reasons. It is a long walk from the lighthouse to the farm, and his headache is not making the prospect of such a journey any easier.
That is why he thinks he must be dreaming when he hears Emma say, "I'll come with you." She eyes the basket. "The food should hold until you return."
"With me? Food?" he croaks out, still in disbelief.
"Yes. I want to help." Her boldness has become reserved again. "I recalled our last meal together and well, there were more than enough leftovers from my own cooking."
He realizes that she is anticipating his refusal. "I...I don't know what to say, lass." He smiles like a fool, then wets his dry mouth. "Thank you."
Her tense posture softens, and she regards her portrait one final time. He waits until she is finished to cover it with the protective cloth and usher it back to where it belongs.
If only where he belongs were that simple a placement.
True to his hopes, the distance to David's farm feels shorter because of the lass walking beside him. His pulse races as it did when she invited him to the picnic, chasing off his isolation. It was different while Liam lived. Now when people make an effort to include him in their circles, he cannot help but doubt their intentions.
David and Mary Margaret were the first exception. They have never judged him, pried into his past, or forced him to converse. Their concern for him has always been wholehearted, and David's friendship is genuine.
Emma is the second. He has lived for years in Storybrooke and yet the townsfolk are still strangers to him, unwilling to see past their presumptions. She is a stranger to the town but has become closer to him than anyone else.
"The weeds are gone from your garden." She gives him a questioning look. "And the soil has been upturned."
He grins, thinking of his plan. "Clever lass to notice such details."
"That is not an answer." Her own eyes sparkle with amusement. "Killian Jones, you're up to something."
"Am I?" He raises a brow, still smirking. "The town says I'm a scoundrel, darling. By that account, I am always scheming. Besides, I simply took your advice." He defends his supposed guilt with a shrug.
"Hmm." She kicks at a small stone in their path. Her silence is telling, so he does not continue the conversation.
But she surprises him again and asks, "How did you and David become friends?" She clutches firmly at his arm when she stubs the toe of her shoe on a protruding rock. He keeps her from falling, enjoying how she is holding on to him for support.
"Is our friendship that unlikely, given who we are?"
"No." She peers sideways at him. "It's just that..."
"Why? We make a charming pair, don't you agree?"
"What I meant to say," she amends, clearing her throat, "was that David does not seem to have many friends ― except for you. You talk often, and you help each other."
Killian ponders David's status in town. The man has friends, but he had a difficult childhood and it is not easy for him to let others know him intimately. If she is speaking of acquaintances...
"He is well-liked," he answers carefully, "but his desire to always do right by people has also earned him enemies."
Emma wrinkles her nose. "That is rather vague."
Rolling his eyes, Killian explains. "His sense of honor gets him into trouble."
"And you do not care about trouble?"
"The first Sunday I attended services here," he says in a low rumble, "was the last. David and Mary Margaret were the only people in the entire church who welcomed me to town. I felt like a pariah the moment the congregation turned their eyes on me and assessed what was lacking, from my attire to my appearance to my missing hand. No one came to greet me or introduce themselves after the service was over. Pastor Hopper was kind enough to shake my remaining hand."
"But they did." A smile crosses her lips. "I too am glad I met them."
"They are a well-matched couple, always willing to help someone in need." He coughs under his breath. "I would not have lasted long here without their company."
"You act like brothers sometimes, you and David," she chuckles. "I've wondered all my life what it would be like to have a sibling, but..." Her voice drops to a whisper. "I never was fortunate to have any family at all."
From the crest of the hill, he can already see the spread of the Nolans' land. Turning toward her, he takes her hands in his. "Emma, this may be too forward of me to say, but we ― Ruth, David, Mary Margaret, and I ― we can be there for you. We can be your family, if you let us."
She is slipping from his grasp, pulling away. Her expression is stormy and her gaze is bright with tears. "I wish that were true," she replies brokenly. "But I seem to disappoint people. I seem to always drive them away."
"No, you do not," he states firmly between gritted teeth. "We like you the way you are. You are remarkable and I..."
Their foreheads touch. His hand reassures her cheek, his thumb softly thrumming a caress over her skin. Her heartbeat is fluttering, anxious and confused. He wants to console her, to show her how much she means to him, but she needs to trust him. She needs to believe that he will never toy with her feelings. That to him, her heart is sacred. As the fable says, slow and steady wins the race. He must convince her. He must show her he is honest.
"I cannot imagine Storybrooke without you in it. I cannot imagine life without you here."
When they sigh together, he feels like he can breathe again.