So Far And Out Of Sight – chapter 3
Snow is cold, rain is wet
Chills my soul right to the marrow
The next morning, Henry is already settling down at the breakfast table eyeing the cocoa Killian put in front of him before pouring himself a cup of tea.
"Anything amiss, my boy?" he asks.
"Almost perfect," Henry comments and motions for a little spice shaker on the rack above the sink. "I'll just add a little cinnamon on top."
"Cinnamon, you say," Killian comments and reaches for the shaker, passing it under his nose. "Hm," he grumbles condescendingly, "this is only a shallow excuse for the spice you find on the market places of India, Aruba... Agrabah."
The boy's eyes widen. "Agrabah?" he echoes, bewildered. "Like in Aladdin?"
Killian frowns. "Am I supposed to have heard of him?" he inquires.
"A thief who helps the princess of Agrabah save her kingdom from an evil wizard," Henry explains.
"Intriguing tale," Killian comments, "however, it's been a few decades since I was last there, and back then everything was fine. In fact, coming to think of it, the people were celebrating the birth of the princess."
Henry snaps his fingers and grins triumphantly. "Jasmine!" he exclaims.
Killian is partly impressed, partly confused. "You know her?"
But before the lad can explain any further, Emma comes shuffling out of the bathroom, still in her pjs, her hair in a messy pony tail.
"Morning," she murmurs and slumps down on her chair beside Henry's, nudging his shoulder with hers. "Sorry, it got late last night."
The boy's expression is one of horror. "Mom?!" he exclaims. "What happened?"
She frowns, apparently having forgotten about the purple bruise blooming under her left eye, its color darker than the night before. "I said I was sorry, kid. What–"
"Swan," Killian cuts in and motions ho his own face to remind her, and her eyes widen when she understands.
"You tell me!" Henry demands. "Was this the guy you were after?"
"Yeah, but he looks worse," Emma tries to make a joke of it which seems to upset the boy even more.
"And you're seriously trying to tell me that life is safer here?" he blurts out and points at her face in an almost accusing manner. "Look at you!"
She raises her hands in a useless attempt to soothe him. "It's just a bruise!"
"He could have had a gun!" Henry's voice is more than upset, it's almost a little shrill, and Killian feels both for the boy and for Emma who cringes at her son's obvious distress.
She places a hand on his arm. "In Storybrooke there are guns, too!" she argues. "And being a law enforcer means–"
Henry snatches his arm away from his mother's hold, and Killian's heart clenches at the hurt in her eyes. "It doesn't mean you have to deal with the scum a bailbonds person deals with every day!" the lad snaps. "Often enough you just have to investigate... some of Leroy's stupid beefs!"
"And sometimes someone shows up who wants to rip out your heart," she counters fiercely.
Henry snorts. "Yeah, but in Storybrooke you'd have magic to defend yourself!" he tells her in an almost triumphant voice.
Emma sighs and looks down at her hands, folded on the table. "Henry," she says as quietly as matter-of-factly, "you know that Zelena took my magic."
But the boy shakes his head wildly, setting the brown hair in motion that reminds Killian so much of Bae as a boy. "Her curse was broken, and she lost all her power," Henry reminds her. "All results of her magic have been undone!"
Emma shoots him a glance, and for the first time there's anger flashing in her eyes. Her anger looks sort of defensive, the tiniest bit. "Well, my powers didn't come back," she replies almost defiantly.
The lad jumps up from his chair and almost knocks over his long forgotten cocoa. "Because you don't want them!" he accuses.
She flinches at his words. "Henry–"
"Because not having your powers back," he interrupts furiously, "made it a whole lot easier to come back to New York and pretend to be somebody else!"
And with that, Henry grabs his book bag and storms out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Emma, despite her obvious shock about his allegations, reacts immediately, instinctively, and jumps up, ready to dart after him.
"Swan, don't!" Killian, who has quietly watched the heated interaction between mother and son – because it isn't his place to interfere, and because he couldn't outright admit that he thinks Henry's right – grabs her arm and stops her from following the boy.
She protests, "But I have to–"
"Leave him be," Killian insists firmly and doesn't let go of her arm, and finally she spins around and glares at him. "Going after him would be useless now," he adds almost apologetically, and finally she draws a deep breath and nods in a resigned sort of way, slumping down on her chair again.
"You're probably right," she grumbles.
"Coffee?" he asks matter-of-factly.
"Please," she sighs, and he pours her a big mug and then sits down across from her. She murmurs a thanks and takes a sip.
Killian has the impression that on the one hand, she isn't keen on talking, but on the other hand she wants to say something. So he waits and drinks his tea, quietly scrutinizing her. Emma doesn't even seem to notice, as her eyes are turned downwards onto the dark steaming liquid in her mug. He studies her troubled face and wishes she could see herself through his eyes, then she'd realize that hers the face of a woman who is not at peace with herself, a woman who is torn by the multiple struggles within: her reality at war with her own beliefs, her stubbornness and fear fighting against her longing for happiness, her walls protecting but also caging in her heart that so desperately wants to be free.
His heart is aching, because he loves her so bloody much, more than anything, but that's irrelevant for now. More so, if he throws his feelings into the mix in this already tricky situation, she might block him out completely and retreat even more into her shell of self-deceit. Confused as she is, that would be her typical mechanism of defense.
Finally, she looks up at him, wariness in her eyes. "Do you think the same?" she asks cautiously, and at first, he's at a loss as to what she's talking about, but then she clarifies, "That I'm just pretending not to have my magic back?"
"He didn't say that, Swan," Killian tries to play it down, because she has a point there – the lad could have meant just that.
She huffs. "Oh, I think pretend was exactly the word he used!" she points out.
"Aye," Killian admits slowly, "but he said you were pretending to be somebody else, not that you were pretending about your magic."
She narrows her eyes. "Isn't that the same?"
"Oh no, it's not."
"Fine, and what do you think?" she wants to know, a little unexpected anxiousness in her voice that touches him, like it always has when she seemed to be genuinely looking for his advice or opinion.
Tilting his head, he carefully weighs his words. "I think that if your magic had come back back in Storybrooke, it would have been far more difficult for you to claim that you don't belong in a world with magic." He watches her quietly, a little nervously, because since he came here, this is the first time he's expressing anything remotely critical about her decision, and he's not sure at all how she's going to take it.
With a loud clank, she puts down her mug, spilling a few drops of coffee on the wooden surface of the table. "And? So you're saying I'm faking it?" she challenges.
"Absolutely not," Killian tries to soothe, hoping that she doesn't close down. He doesn't want to scare her off, but he also knows that she needs to hear some truths. "But I've found the subconscious to be very strong," he says and, when she frowns in confusion, adds, "If you strongly reject something... it's very likely to stay away."
Emma presses her lips together and averts her eyes. He can see the struggling emotions on her face, and he wishes nothing more than to help, make it easier for her... but persuasion wouldn't be the right way. After a few moments, she turns her eyes back to him. "You're on his side, aren't you?" she inquires suspiciously.
"I wasn't aware there were sides to pick?" he asks back softly, and she snorts. "Look," he continues, "you and your boy... at the end of the day, you do want the same thing."
"Are you serious?" she huffs, her vice dripping with sarcasm.
Killian nods. "Of course," he affirms. "You both want to find a home, and to be happy." He tilts his head in a shrug. "You just have different opinions on how to get there."
She sighs. "Yeah, that seems to be exactly the problem."
"Swan, give it time," he coaxes. "You've been here for what, two weeks? You will be on the same page again eventually, I'm sure." He chooses his words carefully, making sure not to say anything that goes against what he really believes, because he knows Emma would easily detect a lie. And because he knows that only honesty – and not trying to trick her into something she isn't really convinced of at the bottom of her heart – will bring success in the end.
She sways her head doubtfully. "Well, I hope sooner than later."
Later that day, when she's at work, two aspirins dulling the throb of her bruise, Emma can't stop thinking about Henry's outburst. She isn't delusional enough to downplay it as a mere teenage tantrum – she's aware of the shock it must have been for him, seeing her like this (even if it might look worse than it actually is), realizing that she got hurt in a very real, physical way, and that something similar – or something even worse – could indeed happen any time again. Which is valid, of course, but on the other hand it's like she told Hook: she can very well take care of herself. And life is dangerous everywhere, that's a fact. But the magical, yet very real dangers of life in Storybrooke, as the Savior, are simply not in the picture in New York City, that's a fact, too. She only wishes Henry could finally accept that.
Maybe she can get Hook to talk to Henry – they seem to get along well, and even if it pains her to admit it, at the moment her son seems more open to listen to an ancient pirate sprung from a twisted tale than to his own mother. It surprises her a bit that Hook hasn't once tried to change her mind on the subject, but so far he has indeed been honest in everything he'd said to her. Honestly, it also surprises her a bit that he hasn't once tried to make a pass at her... when she packed up and left Storybrooke, she didn't expect him to give up that easily, and when he showed up at her door with his tale about a new start and his hopeful smile, she expected him to try and get close to her, especially given their housing arrangement. But no, there hasn't been a single lewd remark, not even an innuendo, no inappropriate touch or glance. He seems to have accepted the loud and clear message she had sent during their time in Storybrooke after he'd brought her back. As if that wasn't already exceptional for a man, he even seems to be content with her offer of mere friendship. Which is a relief. Conveniently, she ignores the little voice at the back of her head, barely more than a whisper, and its murmurs of disappointment.
Yes, it seems like a good idea to ask for his support. She shakes her head at herself with a little smile when she realizes that she's starting to rely on him. Starting to? she mentally snorts at herself. Whom do you think you're kidding?
She feels a little lighter, more optimistic about the whole situation, when she has decided on that, and takes an early leave. Much to her surprise, though, Hook isn't at home when she gets there, and he hasn't left a note either. Shortly after her arrival, Henry gets home from school, and she acts like nothing has happened, and so does he, disappearing into his room, murmuring something about a ton of homework and avoiding to look at her face. It hurts her heart; she wishes nothing more than to get back to what she had with her son before everything went upside down, back to the quiet life of happy ignorance they lived before she gulped down that damn memory potion and remembered everything about her fucked-up history. Even going back to their relationship in Storybrooke would be better than how they are with each other now; she won't lie to herself, her relationship with Henry in Storybrooke has always been one of honesty and affection, closer than any mother-son-bond she has ever witnessed. Emma wants that back, desperately. But she's smart enough not to press him now, that would be the completely wrong approach.
Damn, if only Hook came home soon.
She's a bit irritated at herself for being so anxious about his absence, because... well. She handled herself pretty well before he came along, and it's not like she needs him now. It's not.
She's flipping through a magazine, sipping a cup of coffee, when she finally hears the key in the lock, and she buries her nose deeper in the paper, pretending not to notice Hook entering the apartment. He really doesn't need to get any wrong ideas about her waiting for him.
"Evening, Swan," he greets her, "sorry, I'm late."
She looks up, feigning confusion. "Late?" She glances at her watch. "Oh, I haven't even noticed it's already dinner time."
He beams. "I brought pizza from Henry's preferred place," he announces, putting the boxes on the kitchen counter, "to celebrate."
"Celebrate?" Emma echoes and frowns. "What's the occasion?"
"You'll be happy to hear it," he predicts and shrugs out of his leather jacket. Only after he's hung it neatly on the coat rack he continues, "I found an occupation today."
That takes her completely by surprise, although it shouldn't, because frankly, it was only a matter of time. "You got a job?" she asks. "Where?"
"Not far," he explains, "at the tavern around the corner."
"At the..." She raises her eyebrows in confusion. "A bar? Which one?"
"Just two blocks Southwest." He chuckles when he sees her grumpy cluelessness and explains, "out of the building, turn left."
That rings a bell, even if she never went out much during the year she spent here. "McFly's?" she asks, and he nods slowly.
"Aye, that's how it's called, I think." He fetches two bottles of beer from the fridge, opens them, and saunters over to the couch to hand her one and sit down beside her. "I'll be done being a burden on you soon," he adds almost casually, and an inexplicable feeling of dread settles deep in her stomach.
"What do you mean?" she wants to know.
"The owner of the tavern owns a few apartments in the same building, too," he tells her brightly, "and one of them will be vacant in about two weeks."
"So soon?" she blurts out, and fuck, this came out the wrong way, somehow. "I mean, you're gonna need a lot of stuff to–"
"Oh, it's furnished," he says and takes a deep gulp of his beer, "it's perfect."
"Well, that sounds great," Emma comments with weak conviction and clears her throat. "And what kind of job is it? Bouncer?" she asks, determined to change the subject a bit and blend out the fact that he's going to leave their arrangement soon.
He frowns. "I'm not exactly sure what that is, but actually, I'm hired to tend bar."
"Really?" she blurts out. "Uh, no offense, but... they really hired a one-handed barkeeper?" She motions to his prosthesis – damn, she always wanted to ask him where he got it.
When he doesn't reply right away, she's afraid she might have said something wrong – and suddenly she remembers how often she's been flippant about his physical defect, and for the first time she feels really guilty about it. She searches his face for hints of hurt or indignation, but he doesn't seem to be offended. Finally, Hook tilts his head and tells her, "I poured a few drinks, and they seemed to think that my charming personality outweighs my physical defect."
He raises his eyebrows and grins, and she feels an absurd twinge of jealousy at the thought of people she doesn't know getting to experience his charming personality. Somehow, it feels an awful lot like... losing him. Immediately, she scolds herself for even having such thoughts – because they are ridiculous. It's not like she has a right to... like she has any business to... before she can grasp the thought, examine it any further, Hook's amused voice brings her back to the here and now as he pulls out his phone.
"I have to tell Dave about this," he chuckles.
Emma is completely flabbergasted. "You're texting my father?!" she blurts out, disbelief and a rising anger coating her voice.
He looks at her questioningly. "I'm messaging him, yes."
A little harder than intended, she puts her barely touched beer down on the coffee table, next to her mug, her thoughts racing. "So you're reporting to him," she states in an icy voice, "is that what you've been doing since you arrived here?"
"I beg your pardon?" Now he seems offended, at least a bit. "Swan, all I did was let your father know I got here safely, and that you and your lad have resumed your normal lives," he tells her in a serious, calm voice, and she knows right away that he's not lying. Immediately, she feels a little guilty for accusing him. "I apologize if I overstepped any boundaries by doing so, but I felt I owed that much to him," he continues and explains, "He was the one who helped me get equipped for this world, after all." Without hesitation, he hands her his phone and offers, "Do you want to read my messages?"
Emma raises her hands in defeat and shakes her head. "No, no, it's fine. I believe you," she assures him sheepishly and sighs. She realizes she sounds like she wants to cut her parents completely out of her life. "You know, it's not like my parents haven't heard from me since I came here," she tells him. "I texted them when we arrived, and also a few days later to say hi and tell them everything is okay." She shrugs. "I just haven't... called them. Yet," she adds quickly. Hook just nods but doesn't comment on that, and she feels the urge to explain herself. She licks her lips and combs her hair behind her ears with all ten fingers. "Look, it's been... barely two weeks. I know they miss me, miss us. I... I wanted them to... sort of get used to it before I talk to them again." She's dismayed to realize how weird, almost absurd she's sounding. "Before they hear my voice," she quickly goes on, before she can think about it too profoundly, "So that it's sort of... maybe easier for them, you know?" And before I hear theirs. She can't stop herself in time before thinking it, and now it's too late. She hasn't heard her parents' voices in two weeks.
"I understand," Hook's soothing, low voice interrupts her miserable thoughts. "There's no need to feel guilty, Swan. I'm sure they understand, too." He tilts his head. "They're used to it."
She frowns. "Used to what?"
"Being separated from you," he clarifies. "Since you broke Regina's Dark Curse, they've been separated from you longer than not. Even if they miss you, all they want for you is to be happy." He gives her a tiny smile that's obviously supposed to be encouraging, and somehow it is, but it also holds a touch of profound melancholy. "And," he adds, "at least this time, they have the certainty that you remember them and think of them occasionally."
Emma swallows, weighed down by a sudden guilt. "What do you think, how was it for them during the past year?" she asks anxiously. "Knowing I... had no memories at all of them? That there was no way to reach me?"
Yes, they had ushered her away for her own good, because a nasty curse had been threatening them, because it had been the only way for her to be able to stay with Henry. Again, they were giving their daughter – and their grandson – their best chance and sacrificed their own happiness for it. But this time – this time going away was her choice, she wasn't trying to escape any immediate threat. That must have increased the pain her parents felt, to know that she was going away willingly, even if the goodbye wasn't forever. That she just... dismissed them.
She doesn't know what she's looking for in his answer, but there's a pause as Hook's expression becomes serious and intense. Their stares sink into each other and lock, and no words are necessary to know they are both thinking back to that moment of goodbye a little over a year ago, forced upon her so fast that she didn't even have time to process what was going on, to understand what it really meant – that she most likely would never see either of them again. She hears his voice again, remembers how it shook her to the core, how his words made her get an inkling of what was about to happen.
There's not a day will go by I won't think of you.
Only that she wasn't the one who had to live with the consequences of that goodbye – because she forgot about it the moment she crossed the town line. Those left behind had to deal with it – her parents, her friends – Hook. And now, they have to deal with it again, per her choice.
"Devastating," he finally answers her question with a single head shake, "it was devastating."
Emma can't take her eyes off his, and she reads in them he's reliving the painful moment, too. "You think?" she whispers.
She knows they're not talking about her parents anymore, it would be stupid to deny the obvious – that he's talking about his own pain. If there was ever any doubt, he obliterates it when he replies in a low, fragile voice, "I know."
Suddenly, another moment springs to her mind, happened not very long ago, only a few weeks... right before she finally followed her gut feeling and took the leap of faith the crazy leather-clad guy was daring her to take. After she had downed the memory potion and remembered everything, events had spiraled out of control right away, and so she simply forgot what Hook had said to her before she accepted the vial... but now she remembers. She remembers his pained expression, and she remembers his words.
Perhaps there's a man that you love in the life that you've lost.
Perhaps there was... she doesn't know, she truly doesn't. She only knows that she's confused, aching, searching. Longing. And his presence is so... familiar, and soothing, all quiet persistence. He's solid as a rock, her rock. Like drawn by a magnet, she leans closer, slowly, their eyes still locked, and his eyes widen for a second before they go completely calm, like he's encouraging her by doing... nothing. She can't explain it, but she also can't ignore it. Briefly, her gaze flickers to his slightly parted lips, and she gravitates closer still...
They jump apart when suddenly the door to Henry's room is thrown open.
"Do I smell pizza?"
"Uh... yeah," Emma mumbles, being the first gathering her wits. She jumps up from the couch and rushes to the kitchen cupboard to get plates and set the table. "Killian brought some." She doesn't see his lips twitch when he hears her say his given name.
"Cool." Henry shuffles into the kitchen to help setting the table, and finally Hook gets up from the couch, too, to join them.
Emma avoids looking at him even though she can feel his eyes rest on her, she just can't bring herself to meet his gaze. In fact, she's barely resisting the urge to flee the scene and hide in her room to try and process what just transpired between them, to calm her rapid heartbeat and her nerves that are singing with confusion and something else she doesn't understand. But that would be childish and immature.
Killian feels just as confused as Emma does, part of him is elated – because bloody hell, she was about to kiss him! – and part of him is even more anxious than before. That she's avoiding his gaze now and looks like she wants to literally dive and disappear into her pizza, doesn't help with his anxiousness. That he isn't sure whether to be annoyed about the lad's interruption or relieved, doesn't help with his confusion.
So, they are having a rather awkward dinner; nobody seems very keen on talking, not even the lad, which is quite understandable. Henry avoids looking at his mother's face – the purple bruise on her cheek fading into a slightly less angrier blueish green – and Emma avoids looking at Killian. It's no surprise to him, that after finishing his pizza rather hastily, the boy disappears into his room again, mumbling something about homework. Expecting for Emma to do the same after loading the dishwasher, he just quietly puts on a kettle with water and fetches himself a mug.
With barely veiled disgust, he takes one of the little bags with the modern world's poor excuse for tea from its box, when Emma surprises him by saying, "Can I have one, too?"
He whirls around to her. "Tea?" he asks incredulously.
"Yeah."
"Of course." He fetches her a mug and a teabag, too, and the kettle starts to whistle. She sits down at the table again, and he's grateful for the occasion to turn away from her when the water boils. He has to concentrate on not spilling the hot water when he pours it into the two mugs slowly, meticulously – taking a few extra seconds to calm his thoughts. Emma Swan not running away from a tricky, confusing, emotionally demanding situation? He's not sure, again, if he should be worried or glad about that.
Almost reluctantly, he turns around again and puts one of the steaming mugs in front of her, then sits down again, waiting, scrutinizing her expectantly. She looks down into the hot water that's slowly darkening as the color from the teabags seeps into it. When she finally looks up, it seems like she has to pry her eyes away from her mug before fixing them on his.
"I'd like to talk..." she begins hesitantly, and he sighs.
"Love, we don't have to–"
"...about Henry," she finishes quickly and swallows nervously (and maybe a little guiltily), but doesn't look away.
It's Killian's turn now to avert his eyes for a moment, doing his best to hide his disappointment about that unexpected, but not really surprising reply. Leave it to Emma Swan to ignore the obvious. "The lad?" he finally says. "What about him?"
She draws a deep breath, and he finds the tiniest hint of regret in her expression, but honestly, he's not sure if it's just wishful thinking on his part. "I was wondering," she starts, "if you could talk to him."
That takes him by surprise. "Talk to him?" he echoes and frowns in confusion. "About what?"
"About..." she pauses and fidgets with the little paper tag on the teabag, then she sighs and explains reluctantly, "about this." She motions to her face. The bruise. "He... he needs to understand that this isn't..." she pauses again to struggle for the right word, waving her hand through the air aimlessly, "what he's making it out to be."
"But it's not nothing either," Killian counters, "and seeing you like that," he motions to her face, "surely was a shock for him."
Emma rolls her eyes, because yes, of course he's right (and she hates that). "Let's be honest," she argues after a moment, "we both know this could as well have happened in Storybrooke, and he's using it to prop up his argumentation."
Killian tilts his head. "Well, he's a smart lad."
Emma nods. "Listen, I understand it's not easy for him," she admits, "but he doesn't even try to be reasonable."
"I'm not sure you can expect him to see things in a reasonable way," Killian replies and points out, "He may have lived through a lot more than his contemporaries, but he's still a child, Swan."
Emma huffs, "A stubborn teen is more like it."
He raises his eyebrow in a teasing way, in an attempt to lighten the situation a bit. "Well, your father said stubbornness runs in the family..."
"Very funny." She shoots him a not-too-serious death stare. "Henry has always been a smart kid," she emphasizes – yet again – and complains, "Why can't he see that it's much safer for him here?"
It has happened very rarely to Killian, that he's feeling a little exasperated by her stubbornness, but it's happening now. He can feel the frustration bubbling up in his throat. "Perhaps he's too busy watching out for flying monkeys attempting his mother's life," he counters with dry sarcasm.
Emma glares at him again. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He raises his hand and his prosthetic in a soothing, almost defensive way. "All I'm saying is... don't you think that this... safety you so adamantly locate here in the Land Without Magic... isn't much more than an illusion?" he probes and adds, "And I'm not talking about the shiner you got there." He motions towards her face. "The past has proven that if magic's after you, it will find you even here, like the Wicked Witch's lackey did." He tilts his head. "Like I did."
"You don't have magic," she replies almost defiantly, completely ignoring the essence of his words.
"And I have only one hand, I know," he snarks back and raises his eyebrows. "That's not the point. You know what I mean." She averts her eyes a little sheepishly, and he continues, "Who you truly are will always catch up with you at some point." He nods to himself, remembering for a moment how hard he tried returning to his pirate life during the last year, and how he failed miserably. He draws a deep breath. "Look at Bae – he did all he could to cut all the connections to his old life, but at the end he couldn't escape his identity."
Emma looks him directly in the eyes. "Yeah, and now he's dead," she replies matter-of-factly and slowly shakes her head. "I'm not going to risk putting my son in danger by letting magic back in his life."
"It's not the magic he's missing," Killian reminds her quietly, internally slapping the back of his own head for being imbecile enough to bring up Bae – he should have known she'd use that example for her own advantage.
At first, she doesn't answer, because what could she say, after all? Of course Henry's wish to go back to Storybrooke has nothing to do with magic, they both know it. After a while, she lifts her chin in that stubborn gesture that reminds him so much of her mother, the princess bandit.
"So, you're not gonna talk to him?" she assumes.
Killian sighs. "Swan, I'll gladly talk to your boy if you think that could be of any use," he concedes and adds firmly, "but I shall not downplay what happened to you and claim that it's nothing, because it isn't, and saying otherwise would be an insult to your lad's intelligence." His eyes bore into hers, not allowing her to look away. "Take it from me," he goes on, "if you're denying the obvious, he will take that only as a confirmation that his reservations are justified."
She purses her lips grumpily, and he knows it's because she knows he's right. "Alright, then 'give him time' is all you're gonna say?" she probes.
He tilts his head in a nod. "I'm afraid it's the only advice I can offer at this point. I'm sorry."
"Hm," she grumbles, "me too." Then she pushes back her chair and gets up, turning away from the table, leaving her untouched mug there.
Emma is mentally and emotionally exhausted beyond mere frustration, it feels like she's been treading water for two weeks, just not to drown. It's like she's stuck, and she has to face it, this isn't good either for her or for Henry. Even though Hook has been completely unhelpful this time, outright refusing to talk to Henry in the way she'd intended, she can't bring herself to be mad at him. Because, she admits it quietly to herself, he is sort of right. Henry is smart. Of course it isn't all sunshine and roses here in New York, and acting like it is, is indeed an offense to Henry's intelligence, and would play into his stubbornness even more. Yes, the perp could have had a gun, and she could have ended up severely wounded, if not worse. She shivers a bit at the thought.
But she's still convinced that her decision to move back to New York was for the best, and not only for her best, like Henry assumes – and like also Hook accused her of once, back in Storybrooke. She's glad he obviously changed his mind and has accepted her decision now, but at the back of her head she can still hear his voice. What's best for him? Or for you?
Emma Swan is not the one for girly things, but she does enjoy a hot bubble bath from time to time, especially when she just wants to feel cozy and protected, and shut out all the worries and annoyances of the world. And now seems like a good occasion for that.
But of course she isn't able to shut out everything completely... once her nerves have calmed down a bit about the tense situation and constant struggle with Henry, her memory inevitably drifts back to that moment before Henry came out of his room. Hook and his magnetic blue eyes, the melancholy and sincerity in them, and the damn intensity... only a few weeks ago, that expression was scary enough to make her want to run and hide away from those eyes. Today, she was drawn to them, and to kiss their owner seemed the natural thing to do. Which she finds extremely unsettling now, and particularly unhelpful. The situation with Henry is confusing and scary enough, she doesn't need anything to make her life even more confusing and scary – also, there's really no way to be be sure if Hook will continue to be a part of her life for much longer, given that he's found himself a job now and already hinted at moving out soon. Which should not be a surprise, honestly, because their arrangement was always meant to be a temporary one. So she really shouldn't even contemplate – but then, nonsense, she hasn't been contemplating anything. That sort of... almost-kiss was nothing but a moment of confusion and weakness. A one-time thing.
Emma groans and lets herself sink under water.
When she forces herself to get out of the tub much later, the water is already cooling, and it's getting quite uncomfortable. Dressed in her favorite comfy sleeping clothes, she sneaks out of the bathroom, hoping for everyone to be asleep already, but the floor lamp beside the couch is still casting its faint light. A quick glance shows her though that Hook is apparently asleep under his blanket – a book is resting on his chest, and his head has rolled to the side.
She knows she probably shouldn't, but it's like her socked feet are moving by their own will, carefully avoiding that one particular creaking floorboard. Emma feels a little guilty, almost like an intruder, as she's standing beside the couch and looking down on the sleeping figure. With his features completely relaxed in his sleep and the pirate attire replaced with a soft grey cotton Henley, Hook looks vulnerable and a little younger than the last time she saw him asleep – at the campfire in Neverland.
She leans down to take the book that has fallen from his hand and smiles to herself when she sees it's a copy of The Ugly Duckling. When she lifts it off of his chest, he stirs in his sleep, and the blanket slips a little, revealing his left arm. As his sleeve has ridden up to his elbow, she gets a glimpse of his forearm without his hook or prosthesis for the first time. Again, she can't help it, but has to examine it curiously; the mutilated wrist looks less marred than she expected. The arm just ends at the wrist; there is shiny skin and scar tissue, yes – but apparently the centuries have smoothed it. When she catches herself wondering how it would feel underneath her fingers, she quickly shakes her head to snap out of it, also because it feels like overstepping the line of his protected secrets, knowing that he probably wouldn't like her to see him like that. Emma takes the edge of the blanket with her fingertips and carefully pulls it up to cover him again.
Then she turns off the light before tiptoeing to her room for a long night with only little restless sleep.
The next day, Emma decides to pick Henry up after school when she leaves work – maybe she can get him to talk, remind him of some of the things he used to love when they were living here. Maybe just a little mother-son-bonding. Reluctantly, he gets in the car when he spots the yellow bug waiting for him.
"We could have walked," he comments grumpily, like he's mostly these days.
"I know, but we're going shopping," Emma replies brightly.
"Shopping? What for?"
"Groceries," she explains. "I'd like to cook something tonight, and I'm not sure what. You can help me decide."
"Hm."
She sighs to herself when she's parking her yellow bug in front of their fave grocery store two blocks from their apartment building. She didn't expect to spark Henry's enthusiasm that easily, but she hoped for a bit more of goodwill. Well, maybe he'll warm up a bit to her choice of food.
"I was thinking we could make tacos, that was always so much fun?" she suggests while she pushes the shopping cart through the aisles, followed by a pointedly disinterested Henry. "I'm sure Killian likes them, he probably never had them before."
"Oh, so now we're playing family?" he gripes, clearly not indifferent anymore.
Emma is genuinely surprised at his gruff reaction. "But I... I thought you liked him?"
"I do!" Henry snaps and runs his hand through his hair, a pointed gesture that's equally frustrated and angry. "That's not the point!"
She stops dead in her tracks, so abruptly that he bumps into her. "Okay, kid," she presses through clenched teeth, barely able to hold in her own frustration, "Tell me one thing. How long?"
He frowns. "What?"
"How long do we have to play this game?" she wants to know in an exasperated voice.
Henry snorts. "You tell me!" he shoots back. "How long are you gonna pretend that we actually belong here?!" Before she can reply anything, he shakes his head and turns around. "I'm gonna walk back home, I need fresh air."
"Henry!" she calls after him and then hisses a curse. Her first impulse is to run after her stubborn son, but then she refrains from it. Probably it's better to give him some time to cool down; Hook would surely tell her so. She frowns for a second at the thought, then finishes her shopping. They will have goddamn tacos for dinner.
Fifteen minutes later, she's worked herself into a pit of frustration again. Seriously, she just can't win with Henry. Angrily mumbling to herself, she stuffs the various paper bags with her groceries into the trunk of the bug – the trunk is of course small, and it seems she forgot a card box with books inside when they moved here from Storybrooke, so the room is scarce. Well, this is great.
"Swan?" Suddenly, to her surprise, Hook is walking up to her. "Is everything alright?"
"What are you doing here?" she snaps, her voice a little harsher than she intended. "Why aren't you home?"
"I worked at the bar for about four hours, just to see how it goes," he explains, and inevitably, she feels her mood sink even lower. He frowns. "What's wrong?" he asks. "Another argument with the lad?"
Emma huffs. "He hates it here!" she blurts out. "He hates everything!" She runs her hands through her hair in sudden despair.
"Well... if you're being honest..." He tilts his head. "Does that really surprise you, Swan?"
"He isn't even trying!" She hates the accusing undertone in her own voice, it sounds more than just a little whiny. "And he used to love our life here!" she professes. "He likes going to school, he has friends, all commodities, the big city... it was a good life!"
Hook bends down to pick up one of the bags she's deposited on the sidewalk. "Of that I have no doubt, love," he comments.
She glares at him. "Are you trying to be funny? 'Cause it's not working!"
"Most definitely not," he tries to soothe and hands her the bag so she can safely store it away in the trunk. "I meant what I said. I'm absolutely sure you managed to build a life for the two of you with everything a lad like Henry could wish for."
Carelessly, she stuffs the groceries in the trunk and snorts. "Well, obviously, I suck."
"That's not the reason, Emma, and you know it." His voice is patient but adamant, not allowing any of her subterfuges.
"But our life is the same as it was a few weeks ago!" she insists stubbornly.
Hook sighs. "Aye, but he isn't." She presses her lips together and abruptly turns away. "Look, I know you don't want to hear it," he continues relentlessly, but gently, "but a few weeks ago, he didn't know any better. He didn't know who he really was. He didn't know he had a family... that you both had a family."
Slowly, she moves her head to look at him again. "You think I'm selfish, right?" she demands to know, cold anger in her voice.
"No." He shakes his head once calmly, imperturbably. "I think you're a great mother who would do anything to keep her son safe and happy."
Emma folds her arms and raises her chin. "Annnnnd here comes the big but?" she assumes.
"But," he confirms her suspicion, "you're also someone who won't do the same for herself."
"For myself?" she echoes and frowns. "Of course I'm keeping myself happy, too. If my son's happy, I'm happy."
He tilts his head in that infuriating, convinced way of his. "Well, if that were true, you would be in Storybrooke," he tells her. "Because we both know he'd be much happier there." Emma presses her lips together, fury bubbling up her throat. "No," he goes on, "you pretend that everything's perfect here, that you have all you need, and by doing so deny yourself your own happiness."
Oh, he can tell her about her son's feeling all he wants, but here he goes all you're an open book again, arrogantly telling her everything she never wanted to know about her own feelings. Insinuating that he knows better than she does what's best for her. How dare he? Lass, I know you better than you know yourself. As if. How the fuck dare he?
"Will you stop analyzing me and evaluating my life?!" she snaps. "Why are you so goddamn sure that I don't have all I need to be happy? Why can't you just accept–"
"Why can't you just accept who you really are?" he interrupts, his voice losing its calmness and sounding upset now for the first time. He points his index finger at her. "Because unless you do that, unless you stop pretending to be somebody else, you will never find what you're looking for!" he predicts.
Emma slams the trunk shut, the old metal screeching and clanking in protest and accuse. "What the fuck do you know about what I'm looking for?" she snarls. "Why do you even care?!"
He seems to be losing his countenance. The nerve! "Because I can see you're miserable!" He raises his voice now, something he has barely ever done with her; a sign that he's clearly distraught.
It's getting better and better, isn't it? He's explaining her own feelings to her now? Claiming she is unhappy, when he's really just pissed off that she didn't fall into his arms when he showed up at her door, how delusional can one unnerving, self-opinionated man be?
"That's none of your business!" she tells him sharply, her voice assuming a slightly shrill nuance. "Why are you even here?" She waves her hand at him in a derisively dismissive gesture. "I didn't ask you to follow me!" she points out. "Stop acting like you're a part of my life, Hook, you're not!" If she notices him duck his head when she uses his moniker again instead of his name, she pretends she doesn't, and chooses to ignore it. She goes for the kill instead, adding in a cold voice, "I don't need you, and I don't want you."
At first he flinches at her words, like she's stabbed him right in the gut. There's a terribly long pause before he straightens his back, and even before she sees his face fall, the hurt veiling his eyes, she regrets her words. His jaw clenches visibly. "Point taken," he replies flatly, and she thinks, fuck.
Instinctively, she reaches out for him. "Killian, I–"
He takes a step back, gravitating away from her, so that her fingertips merely brush the cool sleeve of his leather jacket. He shakes his head, his voice seemingly calm now. "I apologize for imposing my presence and my advice on you, I truly never meant to." His detached, overly polite tone is worse than a slap in her face, and her brain tries desperately to think of how to end the devastating silence. Killian draws a deep breath. "Take it from me as someone who attempted and failed," he says with deep melancholy in his voice, rough and edgy now, "you can try to get back to your old life all you want, Swan, but make no mistake: walking backwards will never get you home."
And with that, he turns around and walks away. Emma can only stare at his back in shock, trying to process what just happened, how this escalated so quickly. She tries to will him to turn around and look at her, but he just... doesn't.
She lets out a long breath, almost a sigh, and closes her eyes, desperately trying to shut out the world for a few blissful instants, hoping to make it disappear, the unpleasant feeling of deep shame that's overwhelming her right now. Killian Jones is the one who's always been standing by her side imperturbably, supporting her and having her back, even when she's done very little to encourage him. Ever since he's turned his ship around to pick them all up and take them to Neverland of all places, on a rescue mission for a boy he barely knew, he's always been there for her, even when she didn't want him to – and did everything to make sure he understood that. She's dismissed him as untrustworthy and selfish, and downright mocked and insulted him, and he still has been supportive during those last two weeks, and now she basically kicked him in the face.
Emma gets into her car and drops her forehead on the steering wheel, cursing herself. Because I can see you're miserable, he said, dropping one of his painfully accurate truth bombs, another one of those being, Unless you stop pretending to be somebody else, you will never find what you're looking for.
Home, that's what she's looking for, what she's been looking for all the time, during all those years in the streets, the foster families and group homes, even with Neal, and in Boston. And yet, she never found it. Until Henry showed up at her door on that fateful evening of her 28th birthday, right after she'd made the wish that she'd never have to be alone again. A wish that seemed to have come true, because it brought her the rest of her family, and friends, and a place where she... belonged? Why the fuck is she realizing this only now? God, what does it matter if I'm in a stupid book?
She straightens her back and looks into the rearview mirror, flinching when she sees the healing bruise under her eye. It's a lighter shade of purple now, but it's still clearly visible. Yes, this could have happened also in Storybrooke. But yes, the perp could have had a gun – and that just doesn't happen in Storybrooke. The only guns she's ever seen there belong to the sheriff's department: her own, and her father's. Yes, magical threats don't exist here – but in Storybrooke, if another threat should occur at some point, she wouldn't be alone to face it: she has her family, her friends – a whole social network actually – and Henry's other mom, who has become somewhat of a friend, an ally at least, a powerful magic wielder to stand beside her. And her own magic – who knows, maybe Henry and Hook are right (most likely they are), and her magic comes back if she just... allows it.
And her family – God, she misses her family. Her mother and her sometimes annoying optimism, her father and his quiet, pragmatic support, and his bear hugs. Really, no one gives hugs like her father does. Her baby brother she hasn't had the chance to get acquainted with.
She shakes her head at herself and says to her own reflection, "What the hell am I doing here?"
Five minutes later, she's running up the stairs to her apartment, too impatient to wait for the old, creaky elevator; too eager to talk to Henry, and to apologize to Killian. There's a lot they have to talk about, especially with him, and she can't wait to tell him – tell him what? She isn't even sure, she'll just let the words tumble out and go with the flow for a change.
She's out of breath when she throws the door open, but she still has enough breath to call out for him, "Hook!", expecting to see him at the kitchen table, broodily staring into a steaming mug of tea, but he isn't there. Quickly, she scans the living room, but there's no sign of him. She storms through the hall and knocks at the bathroom door.
"Hook, are you in there?" she asks impatiently, "Can we talk? Oh come on, don't..." She falls silent when she realizes there's no sound from inside. With a frown, she turns the doorknob and carefully peeps inside, only to find the bathroom empty. "What the..."
Cluelessly, she turns around, scanning the apartment again, and then her gaze falls onto a shiny metal object on the coffee table, gleaming accusingly at her. With three long steps she's there, and her heart skips a beat when she immediately recognizes what it is: the spare key to the apartment she gave him.
"No..." she murmurs and picks up the key, turning it in her fingers.
And then she sees it. Or, to put it correctly, she doesn't see it – his kitbag. With all his belongings. It's gone. He's gone.