Emma lifts her face towards the ink black sky, the misty rain, refreshing against her whiskey pink cheeks. She winds her way up the small walk, the Bushmills slipping through her veins like melted caramel. The drink keeps her warm and her movements unhurried. A blissful smile still graces her face, thanks to the earlier kindness of strangers who crowded around her little table at the pub, offering their company and shared drinks. Four days removed from her near meltdown at the airport and she finally feels some of the tension that had followed her across the Atlantic slowly ebbing away.
She carefully types the lock code and shoulders the heavy oak door, tripping over the threshold into the hostel. She manages to right herself before any serious damage but gives a quick glance for any witnesses. Gratefully she finds none. She takes the stairs to the second floor lightly, not wanting to wake any of the sleeping guests and escapes into her own private room. She studies the four undisturbed bunk beds and wonders if she's made the right choice. For a moment back in Storybrooke, sitting in her quiet apartment, she had thought of sharing her room.
That was the point of staying in hostels, meeting people, taking in the full experience.
Although, as her finger had hovered over the accept button, the unknown had weighed too heavily and she changed her selection from one to four beds and booked the whole room to herself. To make up for her cowardly decision, Emma tests her smile on other travelers and shares couches while reading her Lonely Planet guide book. And when the small connections become a little easier each time, she gives herself a mental high five.
She is jarred from her thoughts by a buzzing from her jacket pocket. Fishing out her phone, she immediately rolls her eyes at the bracketed number ten next to the name Ruby. She unlocks her camera and snaps a selfie.
Call off the guards, Rubes. I'm safe and sound, see? But thank you. Miss you.
She sends the text, along with the picture. A little bubble with blinking dots appears immediately.
Pink cheeks! You look good, Ems. Glad you're in safe. Send me an update tomorrow. Miss you too!
Emma smiles, feeling a little emotional knowing someone is looking out for her, even if it is from almost three thousand miles away. She's about to throw her phone on a bunk when it buzzes again.
DRINK SOME WATER. Ok, I'll leave you alone now. G'night.
Emma snorts at the message but pads over to her bag and pulls out a water bottle. The deep pull of water gives her a full body shiver and immediately her brain goes to thoughts of a warm shower. She debates her situation only a moment: bed or shower?
The hope of finding what is quickly becoming the search for elusive hot water has her feet moving to her bag. She carefully avoids the large envelope still buried at the bottom - she's become very good at ignoring its presence altogether - she grabs her towel and toiletries.
As soon as she enters the bathroom, warmth dances across her skin thanks to the steam billowing out from the far stall across the room. The guarantee of hot water spurs her into action and so begins an awkward show of disrobing under a towel. She teeters on one leg, gracelessly inching out of her jeans.
Emma catches her reflection in the mirror, hair tumbling out of her high bun, wisps curling around her face. The blush high on her cheeks, the green of her eyes clear and bright. She barely recognizes the woman in the mirror, but she halts her thoughts before she can get ahead of herself. Extolling the virtues of her trip, new life experiences and all the sentimental bullshit she hears from others feels a little premature. She narrows her eyes at her reflection.
"You're drunk. Try this self-reflection again tomorrow," Emma pauses her whispered scolding, "And stop talking to yourself."
She gives another aggressive tug to her jeans that seem to have molded themselves to her legs with the dampness and nearly topples over.
It takes another few attempts, but she manages to shuck her pants off the rest of the way. She silently gives thanks that her shower mate is still occupied while she dumps all of her things on the counter and makes her way to a stall, politely leaving an empty shower between them. Turning around in the small space, she slides the lock and drapes her towel over the hook, wearily eyeing the push button for the shower. No room to ease into what will most likely be a cold blast. She holds her breath, tensing as she feels the first cool drops hit her, but her breath is expelled in a laughing puff when the water immediately warms.
She steps entirely under the stream and hangs her head forward, letting the water hit her neck and roll down her body. The moan that escapes her lips borders on obscene.
There is a clattering of a shampoo bottle hitting the ground and then silence from the other stall. Emma colors with a little embarrassment and hopes the other woman understands English.
"Sorry! I'm not, um… I just haven't had a hot shower in a few days," she calls out, her voice echoing in the now silent room, her shower mate's water having abruptly stopped. She receives no response but hears their shower start up again. With a shrug, she presses her own button for continued water and hurries to wash her hair.
So lost in her shower she doesn't hear the other shut off or anyone exit the room. She distractedly assumes she must have missed them leaving and quickly towels off.
With hands full of toiletries, she struggles to unlatch the stall while keeping her towel closed. She gets a half a step out of the stall and stops dead, mouth opening and closing with silent shock.
"I can explain."
The words come from a man standing across the room from her. He is holding up one hand, but no, that would be wrong as there is no hand below his wrist, just a stump with light scarring. But the intent is the same, he's trying to placate her like she is some skittish animal. And while it may be partly true, he didn't need to know that, so Emma attempts to look as menacing as possible.
Well, as menacing as she can while nearly naked, her hands useless as they are keeping her towel firmly around her.
Dammit.
She curses internally at how not intimidating she must look.
Although he does take a small step back. What he doesn't do is offer the explanation he promised. She takes the opportunity to study him further.
Clearly, in his haste to get across the room, he hadn't yet dried off. Water drips in long rivulets from his nearly black hair. It trails down his arms, and through his coarse chest hair, a small pool accumulating around his flip flop covered feet.
Emma's eyes dart behind him to where her clothes lie in a pile, as she calculates her quickest escape route.
"No need to panic, love. I'd hold up both arms in surrender but…" he trails off as he attempts an uncomfortable smile. Emma's eyes narrow. They flick to the scrap of terry cloth he's trying to pass off as a towel, riding low on his hips. His hand clenches where he holds the ends together, and he shifts from foot to foot, tucking his blunted arm behind his back.
A flush crawls up her neck, and she knows her face follows suit as she feels the heat blossom across her cheeks.
It's not like she hasn't seen a nearly naked man before. She's seen plenty. Well, she's seen a few at least.
A snort alerts her to the fact she must have been talking out loud. She looks up.
The smile he wears now is more genuine, and he takes a step forward.
"Don't you dare move. This is the women's bathroom," Emma hisses through clenched teeth and clutches her towel tighter. His smile drops and he resumes his earlier position. "I'll give you a small amount of credit for keeping your eyes up," Emma mumbles trying to get a hand on the situation but no sooner are the words out of her mouth do his eyes drop. He takes her in from head to toe.
"Hey!"
"Shit. You pointed it out, and you know what happens when you are told to not do something?" he quickly tries to explain bringing his eyes up, a new flush on his cheeks. "Apologies…" he trails off fishing for her name.
She rolls her eyes.
"In your dreams, buddy."
"Killian actually, and I think my dreams can definitely fill in the minor blanks," he waves his wrist in her direction, but seems to catching himself, tucking his arm against his side. Or it could be her narrowed look. "Ahem. Sorry. Again. If you would just allow me," her handsome—stop it, Emma—stranger, points to the exit but Emma can't help but cut him off.
"To explain that you are a grade A creep?"
If she weren't so nervous, naked, and thrown over the whole late night situation, she would probably laugh at how visibly offended he was.
"Hey!" he objects, mouth set in a frown, but Emma's mind already jumps to her next question.
"Where are your clothes?" she demands, taking a step forward, foolishly not wanting to back down from a battle. He brings his wrist up to rub at the scruff decorating his cheek, before rubbing the back of his neck.
"You see, um," he hesitates and she takes the opportunity to jump in again.
"I see a pervert. Do you like to expose yourself? Is that it? Sneak into the women's bathrooms and, and…" her words trail off at the incredulous look he gives her and by the way he struggles to keep his mouth in a thin line, she's almost certain he's laughing at her.
Instead of being offended she finds her own laugh bubbling up, and she clamps down on her bottom lip.
"I'll admit it doesn't look good but if you would just give me a chance to explain," he requests, and she hears sincerity in his voice, so she stays quiet. He gives her a small smile. "The men's lavatory has only one functioning shower, and even that is debatable. I thought I could just pop in here and no one would be the wiser. I left my belongings in the other room. Undoubtedly not my finest moment but here we are," he finishes, and while his eyes are still on the exit, she takes a quick moment to look him over. She briefly notes the tattoo on his forearm, but soon the dark trail of hair that leads to the tiny towel is too much of a distraction.
"Eyes up here, love," he smirks, catching her wandering. She huffs but doesn't deny it, and reluctantly she has to admit he's probably telling the truth. She is usually pretty good at detecting lies, and nothing seems off about him but…
"Why are you still here then? Why not just slip out?" she asks, carefully flexing her fingers. They ache from clutching her towel so tightly.
His eyes flick to something in his periphery and quickly fall back to her. He tilts his head towards the window; on the sill sits a brown leather satchel, propped against the window.
"May I?"
Emma nods slowly, still trying to piece it together.
With as much dignity as he can muster, his flip-flopped feet smacking against the floor, he walks to retrieve the bag. With practiced ease, he slips it over his head and across his body.
Looking absolutely ridiculous. He smiles, suddenly looking more relaxed. The smile looks good on him.
Emma shakes the thought from her muddled brain.
"What…" she trails off looking from the bag to the man.
"I would have exited sooner, but I came back to retrieve my bag. I apologize for startling you. I'll be on my way now unless you require any assistance," he asks, stopping in front of her, only a few feet away. He pops an eyebrow in question, tongue darting out to dampen his bottom lip.
Emma catches herself watching his mouth and bites her tongue.
"Get out," she orders, but it lacks any heat. He gives her a slight bow before slowly making his way to the exit. She watches the entire way.
He looks ridiculous, but he manages a swagger nonetheless, how, she doesn't know. No clothes, an unusual leather bag? Ridiculous. Water still dripping down his back, ridic—
"Good night, love."
Her eyes snap up at his at his voice, but he is already gone, only his chuckle reaching beyond the swinging door.
"Ridiculous."
She keeps her eyes trained on the door until it comes to rest. It's only when a shiver runs through her body that she's forced into action.
"Clothes. Right."
xo
Visions of Starbucks and a hot Pike Place Roast consume Emma's thoughts as she staggers down the stairs, lugging her heavy bag with difficulty on each step. Her sleep had been fitful at best, her thoughts preoccupied with late night shower visitors and small towels. It left her tired and just this side of irritable. She's halfway down when she spots him.
With a camera. From inside the leather satchel.
"You!" Emma exclaims, her voice loud enough to catch his attention and carrying enough ire that he has the decency to look nervous. Her bag drops with a heavy thump and bumps along as she drags it aggressively down the wooden staircase.
He cautiously slides the camera back into his bag. Emma scoffs and his expression slips somewhere between exasperation and amusement, but his eyes quickly light up when he spots the Danger: Heavy label her suitcase.
"I should have known you're that type of traveler."
The distraction momentarily serves its purpose as Emma can't help but bite at the line he's thrown her.
"What's that supposed to be mean?" she asks, taking another step forward until they are toe to toe. She resists the urge to kick him. But only just. Instead, she cranes her neck to look him in the eyes. Really blue eyes she notes, unfortunate that.
Terrible timing too to notice such things.
"Well Princess, shouldn't you be at some fancy B&B, maybe the Hilton?"
His knee nudges her suitcase, tipping it back towards her. She rights it with a grumble before leaning into his space and pressing a finger to his chest.
"You know what, I don't care what you think of me, you degenerate. How is it the only thing you happen to have with you in the women's washroom is a cam…" she launches into her rant but is brought up short at his quiet oath.
"Bloody hell."
"Excuse me?" Emma asks, trying to calm the rise and fall of her chest.
"Sorry," he mumbles and looks off to the side. "Can you just, come with me?" He nods to the small living room, not waiting for her response before taking up residence on the couch. He pats the spot beside him with what looks to be a hooked prosthetic when she doesn't move. She takes another calming breath and finally crosses the room to sit stiffly beside him.
He immediately scoots over, and an explanation about personal space is on the tip of her tongue, but he speaks up before she can.
"I told you the truth last night, I swear to it. Give me a moment, and I'll prove it to you."
He doesn't wait for a response, instead, lifts the satchel onto his lap.
"Who gave you your trust issues?" he mumbles, pulling out his camera and setting it on his knee. She's grateful he doesn't notice the color drain from her face. She pulls in a shallow breath through her nose and wishes herself out of the ridiculous situation she finds herself in. "You should work on that, lass. Not every bloke you encounter will be a scoundrel. I for one think we could get on quite well."
Emma continues to pull in a shallow breaths. She watches his profile as he flicks through the images, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
"Here, look," he offers, turning the camera in her direction. "You can go through the whole thing. The camera was given to me by someone important, and I don't like it to be far…" his words trail off when he finally looks up and sees her blanched expression, his smile falters.
She swallows against the lump in her throat. She wants to call him out for invalidating her fears, how had he expected her to react? But he also seems sincere, and under different circumstances, she could have appreciated his blue eyes and the warm press of his thigh against hers, but of course, as with everything she does, she gets in her own way. Better to just leave.
She can see the moment where his eyes change from confused to pity, and she can't deal with it. Thousands of miles from home, from anyone who knows her, and it's the same old story unfolding again. Lost little Emma, pushing people away before they can do it to her. Why change now, she thinks, and pushes up from the couch without a word and grabs her bag.
"Hey, hey, I'm sorry, I'm really shit at this interacting with other people thing -" he tries to call after her but she doesn't stop, not until she's outside, leaning up against the building, trying to catch her breath.
"Well, fuck me. Alone again, Jones," his voice carries through the open window, and she looks in to see him standing, facing where she left. His shoulders slump, and she feels herself mimic his pose, her own disappointment following. She continues to watch him as he falls back to the couch. He powers down his camera and slips it into his bag, exchanging it for a scrap of paper. He unfolds it carefully and takes his own shuddering breath.
Emma suddenly feeling like she is intruding on someone else's moment, looks away.
A thought occurs to her, and she pulls out the most recently purchased postcard, the front decorated with a series of bright and colorful doors. She turns it over and scribbles across the back.
When one door closes, another opens? Or is it a shower curtain? Better luck next time. Naked stranger, 1. Friend, 0. Try again tomorrow, Emma.
And she vows to drop the postcard in the nearest mailbox.