A/N: Okay... we're entering a really nice part of the fic with three pretty long chapters. I had so much fun writing this chapter and you'll finally see why Jan Vertonghen (my bae) is mentioned as a character :) This fic also has a playlist specially crafted by yours truly which you can find on Tumblr. I've played it a gazillion times while writing A Muted Hue of Grey and the cool thing is that the playlist follows the story of the fic as it progresses, so you'll get an idea of what's to come through the music.
Other music to my ears was the kind and encouraging words acourtoftruelove and ofshipsandswans whispered (or shouted) to me.
shady-swan-jones, then again, was responsible for making me happy with another form of art, which she marvelously did! Look at the things she made on Tumblr!
Emma checked her phone again—more specifically the message on it. Killian had said to come around 7:40 as the match would start at eight. The clock of her phone now told her it was time. But she simply stood there. In front of the building she'd seen him enter a million times. He'd texted her the address but it was redundant; she was perfectly aware of where he lived, what part of town, what street, what floor. And it was all of that knowledge that nailed her feet to the concrete ground, that made her body a block of weight. She'd step into new territory now, uncharted waters. Gone was all of the information she'd gathered before and now only a trove of personal and hidden details about one Killian Jones remained.
She would get to know so much, because he trusted her and invited her and wanted to spend time with her.
So she made a deal with herself on the threshold of Killian's building. Anything he told her would not be shared, anything she discovered would not be reported. This was his life and it was bad enough already that Emma got paid to divulge his outside movements. Misusing that trust he granted her, manipulating it for something so vile, selling it for money… she wouldn't stoop so low.
The black numbers at the top of her screen changed again, adding another minute to the time, making her an extra minute late. Killian—Mr. Exact—wouldn't appreciate that, she suspected, so, with a little more effort than it normally took, Emma stepped towards the door, her first venture into unknown territory.
As she trudged up the stairs, she wondered if she should have brought anything: a bottle of wine or something else that guests gave the host when they were invited. Maybe she should've stopped by Samir's to buy something instead of arriving with empty hands. Either way, it was too late now, his floor coming into view and Emma walked up to number 305, his apartment.
Her hand lightly knocked on the door and she barely had to wait before it swung open, revealing a smiling Killian. Someone was excited. And she wasn't excited enough. Emma plastered a wide smile onto her face to remedy that when he greeted her.
"Hello, Swan. Welcome to my humble abode." He widened the door to show her she was welcome to enter and she did, her eyes traveling around the room as she began to unzip her leather jacket.
"Thanks," she said in no particular direction, her attention captured by all of the nautical elements incorporated into his decor. There stood a miniature ship on his bookshelf, a large canvas of a sunset at sea graced the wall across the kitchen, his coat rack—which was where she hung her jacket once she shrugged it off—consisted of little anchors; she'd entered the home of a sailor.
"What's with the nautical theme?" she asked, turning back to Killian who was appraising her.
"Oh." Killian scratched the back of his head. "Uh, just a fan of it," he explained simply.
Emma decided to ask no further and raised her eyebrow, telling him to lead the way and show her where they would watch the game.
"Yes, the match. Well, it's starting in…" Killian checked the simple clock to his left. "Fourteen minutes. Please take a seat." He motioned towards a comfortable-looking light brown couch that stood across the operating television. "I'll go get the beer you so adamantly requested."
"It's the only way I'll be able to enjoy this thing," she jested, stepping towards and settling into the couch, its soft material sinking under her weight.
He let out a short, boisterous laugh in return. "That's what you think, Swan. I, in fact, know better." The statement exuded confidence and to top it off, his lips morphed into a smirk, something that made Emma catch herself as she licked her lips in response.
If that was how this night was going to go, she was in big trouble. Yes, Killian was pretty high up on the scale of attractiveness—and yes, pretty was an understatement as he, in reality, triumphantly stood at the top of Emma's personal list with his vibrant eyes and light scruff. She was also painfully aware that she couldn't.
He was her job. She could not get involved; it would only make this messier than it already was. So she had—like her life depended on it—to get the image of him doing wicked things with that smirk etched on his face out of her mind and focus on less attractive things.
She accepted the cool bottle of beer Killian handed her, immediately taking a swig from it and waited for a sign that the alcohol was settling in. Boredom claimed her as Killian was rattling around in the kitchen preparing snacks and whatnot for them to devour and the television only showed a bunch of men discussing their predictions for the oncoming match with names she neither recognized nor cared about. Emma left the plush sofa again, beer bottle grasped between her two palms and began pacing in the short space between the couch and the wall, halting by the fairly large cabinet of both books and CDs.
"What music do you listen to?" she asked Killian over her shoulder. His preparing momentarily stopped as he looked up at her question.
"You know so much about me already, why don't you tell me," he joked and it made Emma feel uneasy. This was the one thing she couldn't figure out before and she wanted to know. From him, from his lips what he was like. Not from some case file, not from some observation.
So she told the truth.
"I must admit that I haven't figured that one out yet."
He turned towards the sink for a moment, wiping his hands on a teal kitchen towel that hung there and came back to the counter, a pan in hand that he filled with something Emma couldn't identify from that far, but that clattered against its iron bottom.
"Honestly," he finally answered and Emma leaned on the back of the couch, listening with reverence. "I listen to everything and nothing. I like a lot of music but I've also been listening to the same songs for years. You can go through my CDs, if you'd like." He pointed the spoon he was holding at the cabinet she stood before and Emma eagerly accepted the invitation, used the consent he was giving to push herself away from the couch and approach the cabinet even more.
Her index finger, with a black-painted nail, traced all of the plastic cases, Emma's head cocked sideways as she read the names that were shown on them. She understood what he said and agreed because there was a large variety of music amongst his collection.
She let out an amused sound as her fingers paused by a CD and picked it out, removing it from its home. She scanned the cover and flipped it over.
"Ed Sheeran?" she said, and it was something akin to a question but also just a simple statement. She faced Killian again and he lifted his eyes towards her, not a hint of embarrassment in the direct stare.
"Aye." He shrugged and his hand reached for the knob to turn on the fire, placing the pan on the lit stove. "Even I need a sappy love song from time to time and who better than a fellow Brit."
Emma laughed and put the CD back where it belonged. "Does it have to do with the fact that you both carry the ginger gene?"
She had noticed those hairs in his beard, was quite transfixed by them actually. When the sun hit it, it became an auburn flare.
"I'm not a ginger," he said defiantly while frowning. "A few stray hairs in my beard scarcely classifies as ginger."
"If you say so." And Emma hit him with a smirk of her own.
A familiar smell drifted through the apartment and soon a sound accompanied it; a popping sound that could only be linked with popcorn and so the mysterious substance was finally identified. Much to Emma's satisfaction, who had to keep herself from vocalizing how good it smelled.
Killian came back to the couch with a steaming bowl that looked as good as it smelled and set it on the coffee table.
"The match is about to start." He grabbed the remote control to raise the volume, not so subtly putting an end to the conversation—or maybe just the subject.
"So," she said. "How does this thing work?"
She wasn't idiotic, obviously. She knew the basics of soccer but Killian was so passionate about teaching her the ways, they might as well go all out, starting with Soccer 101 by Professor Killian Jones.
Killian certainly didn't mind as he sat a bit straighter, his expressive hand and prosthetic immediately mimicking the field and as he enthusiastically began explaining all of the positions and who would assume what role when it came to his favorite team.
"So we're rooting for the white team," Emma concluded once his speech was done and the players got onto the field.
"Yes, Swan," Killian replied with pride. "White is Tottenham."
And the warm sensation that danced around in her body had nothing to do with that pride. Or so she told herself.
"Who's your favorite player?" Emma asked.
"Number 5," he replied without hesitation and without his gaze leaving the flat screen.
By instinct, she leaned closer, peering at the image before her, searching all of the white jerseys for the number. Finally, her eyes discerned the dark number on one of the moving shirts. It seemed some cameraman took pity on her and her squinting as the image shifted into a close up of said player.
Emma gasped, her mouth opening and widening in amusement as she twisted her body towards Killian. "He has a ginger beard too! It's meant to be." Her hand ventured out to poke him, but he shied away.
"Will you stop it?" he begged but his plea was weakened by the amusement in the crinkles surrounding his eyes. "Besides Vertonghen isn't British so that invalidates your theory." She could see the pride in his posture at having bested her.
"No need to get all pedantic, Jones."
"Apologies, Swan." He presented her the bowl of popcorn as a peace offering with which she had no qualms to accept. "Simply needed to set the record straight."
Forgiving him went instantly as she popped a popcorn into her mouth and reveled in the taste. Who knew simple popcorn could taste so amazing without having to add milk duds. She grabbed another handful, folded her legs under her and leaned back into the sofa, her attention returning to the game before her.
And with every pass, every almost-goal, every cheer, she began to relax more, to enjoy herself more. To the point where she actually became invested in the whole ordeal.
"Wait, but they scored!" she shouted, hands flying in the air to show her indignation. "Why isn't it an extra point for us?"
This time, he was allowed to be pedantic because she required Killian's knowledge to understand what was going on and to leave the bubble of confusion she currently inhabited.
"It was offside," Killian explained, his shoulders rising in a shrug. When the cloud of disorientation did not leave her gaze, when he realized his answer was not sufficient enough for a soccer amateur to capture, he shifted on the couch, Emma following his movements with a furrowed brow as she saw him reach for their bottles that stood next to and on the coffee table.
"Bottle number one—" Killian held up one of her empty bottles and ripped off the label once it stood on the table. "—is the attacker. Number two and three are the opposite team and the goalkeeper of that team is…" He looked around searching for a way to distinguish the goalkeeper. In the end, he went for a discarded cap and placed it on the bottle again. With all of his allegorical players ready and the match temporarily paused, the lesson was ready to begin.
"The gist of the offside rule is that a player cannot be near the opposite goalkeeper without having any defenders or the ball there. So if our attacker ran towards the goalkeeper without the ball, waiting for a pass and ready to score—" Killian dragged the bare bottle over the table, closer to the goalkeeper. "But there are no defenders close, he's offside and it's counted as a mistake, goals made like that don't count. However, if the opponent were to be standing here for example—" Another bottle joined the other two. "—and the attacker would get a pass, it would be allowed."
Killian looked at her with expectant eyes but Emma was too busy attempting to grasp the concept, his words repeating in the back of her head, the visualizations replaying over and over, but in the end, she had to give up. Error. Her brain did not compute.
"Yeah, no." She shook her head. "I don't get it. But that's okay," she reassured, hand clasping Killian's hand that was reaching for the bottle again, no doubt to try and simplify it for her. "Thanks for trying."
They watched the final seven minutes of the match without a hitch and without anything notable happening. They did a close up of number five again and some other easy-on-the-eye players but besides that, it stayed uneventful, the competition ending with a tie between the two teams and both audiences and fans equally content and disappointed by the outcome.
Killian grabbed the remote control and as soon as the analysts appeared on the screen again, he pressed the red off button, the image fading to black and taking the background noise with it, only leaving a comfortable silence between them.
"So Swan, did you actually enjoy yourself or was it only tolerable thanks to the beer?" There was a vulnerability beneath the surface of that question, under the humor in his words, one that proved he did want her to have enjoyed herself, to not have disappointed her.
"I have to admit that I did have fun watching it." His face lit up. "I'm still calling it soccer though."
"Fair enough," he conceded with a slight bow of his head, a strand of hair falling in front of his forehead. "Can I get you another?" A quick nod towards her now empty beer bottle and the question made the hesitance rise in her chest.
She should go home. The match was over, the purpose of this get-together was fulfilled, her job was done. But there was something holding her back, keeping her from getting off of the cozy couch, putting her shoes and jacket back on and walking out, slamming the door behind her and leaving all of the enjoyment and attachment in his apartment.
He would let her leave, she knew he would give her a choice and he would pretend it wasn't as much of a letdown to avoid making her feel guilty, to avoid entrapping her. It was exactly that notion that caused her to feel at ease, that made her want to spend time with him, more than she should.
Her obligations and longings were as far from one another as they could be. Polar opposites. So far that she had to make a choice between the two, pick left or pick right to reach one destination.
"Sure, why not," Emma replied, lips curling into a smile. "It's a good thing I don't have to drive home."
Before he left the couch to grab a refill, he flashed her a confused look.
"I don't have a car—at least not here," she explained once he returned, fresh drinks in hand. "I have one back in the States but it would cost a fortune to ship it here and she's somewhat of an old timer so I don't think the trip would do her very good. Friends of mine are taking care of her."
The gentle atmosphere that hung around Killian, that his eyes and smile exuded, made her realize this was one of the first times she told him something personal. Something she hadn't meticulously planned and considered. Something spontaneous and sanguine . He had noticed it too, somehow.
"Tell me more about you," he said, his voice almost a whisper and so gentle to ease her in and make sure she didn't scare off. He was the metaphorical caress to her metaphorical scared and riled animal, ready to take off any second. How he'd figured that out, Emma didn't know. The facade she had created—the one she thought was working so well but apparently wasn't—was different than who she was; the mask was more open and bright. More bubbly and chirpy. More Mary Margaret, her friend back in Boston whom she'd used as a source, as an inspiration she could model her copy to, which made Emma feel closer to her in a strange way.
"What do you wanna know?" Emma smiled as if it wasn't paining her to lower her walls, to set herself up for this much vulnerability , without the hardened bricks present to protect her.
Killian smiled back at her feigned—which he was unaware of, of course—enthusiasm, considering the question with a drum of his fingers on the table.
"First of all… born and raised in Boston?" He looked up at her.
This answer was easy still. Facts. Unequivocal and verifiable truths about Emma Swan's life. There was no point in lying; it would only lead to a dubious backstory she'd immediately forget again and it would leave room for mistakes and getting caught, which she could not afford happening.
"No to both. Born in Maine . Raised… well, all over the place."
Killian narrowed his eyes and Emma wanted to smother every question that already lay behind their cyan color, so she shrugged and answered: "I had a pretty wild childhood."
He nodded in understanding, but she could detect the questions her vague answer had not managed to wipe out.
"How did you eventually end up in Boston?"
Was she happy with the different topic or would she rather have focused more on her being an orphan without saying the words aloud than talk about the reasons she went to Boston? It felt like choosing the lesser of two evils, but it seemed like Killian had made the choice for her. She had no idea what to tell him, though, hadn't thought of an alternative to the actual story that would seem believable.
The truth it was.
"It's a tale of woe and sorrow but I had a shitty boyfriend that I traveled around with for a while." Emma fidgeted. "Up until he left me to take the blame for his crime and let me go to jail for it. Spent a couple of months there and when I got out, word on the street was that he had been planning to go to Canada but changed his mind last minute and went south instead. I, never wanting to see him again, went north. There was an APB out for him in Boston so I figured he wouldn't dare come searching for me once he heard I got out. I didn't mean enough to him. I couldn't, when he cared about himself most. It took me a lot of sad, angry tears and low moments to come to that conclusion."
He reached over with his right hand and covered her knee, showing his support with a light squeeze.
"Swan, I'm so sorry," he reacted and Emma did not doubt it for a second.
He had not anticipated such a simple question generating a tragic backstory and, if she was being honest, Emma did not either. She could say it was because of what she had intended to do those few hours ago when she stood on the sidewalk, pretend the moment of candor had anything to do with it, but then she would only slightly be warping the truth. It felt nice to talk without being judged or probed .
Killian listened, and judging from the very short conversations revolving around her, he listened with care. Interest. As if she was telling the most riveting tale, whispering the most classified secret, reciting the most breathtaking verses. His attention made her feel considered, his hums made her validated, the nods of his head secure. And even if she was not addressing masses of people or a group of important leaders, he listened. Killian listened and that was enough.
-/-
"Good morning, Swan!" he chirped into her ear, taking no more than two seconds to make her regret answering her phone so early in the morning. She groaned in reply and it could've been a greeting or an irritated response to his chipperness, Emma couldn't tell herself.
Killian, however, clearly took it as the first option seeing that his voice had the same pitch and intonation when he continued speaking.
"I got tickets."
The hand that wasn't holding her cellphone rubbed over her face and into her still sleepy eyes.
"To what?" Emma mumbled.
How, she didn't know, but she could hear his smile over the line, hear it buzzing and singing in the silence between them. And it acted as the best wake up call. It felt as if her head got dunked into a bucket of ice water, her eyes popping open.
"Killian…" she said to counter the silence, to prompt him to come out with it.
"How would you feel about a trip to Wembley, Swan?"
Wembley? Why would they go there? Emma's sleep muddled brain attempted to come up with a logical explanation why they would venture into that part of town, but came up empty.
"What's in Wembley?"
Her question got partially interrupted by a yawn, the crook of her elbow covering her mouth.
"The stadium where Tottenham plays its matches this season," he said matter-of-factly
Somehow, she was surprised she hadn't guessed that earlier but she had an excuse, she'd been awake for all of three minutes and her brain was still warming up for usage.
"Seriously?" she questioned and Killian hummed in reply. "You shouldn't have."
He hadn't actually said that he had, but Emma could read between the lines, could sense what exactly he was telling her without actually telling her.
"Don't fret about it, Swan," he downplayed. "I've wanted to go ever since I returned."
"So it's a mere coincidence that you bought tickets just two weeks after we watched a match?"
"Something like that. Now, will you join me? The match is next Saturday."
"Sure, count me in," she answered, not even thinking about refusing. She could worry about that part later.
"Splendid! I'll let you sleep, sorry for the early call."
At least he showed some remorse.
"You're forgiven," Emma sighed. "See you then."
"Bye, Swan."
-/-
She felt overwhelmed by the sheer mass of people that surrounded her, all adorned with the colors of their favorite team and searching for their spots among all of the red colored seats. Killian was her guide, her point of recognition in all of this; she merely followed his footsteps, kept her eyes on his dark hair, trusting him and his sense of direction completely.
"Here we are," he said when he stopped before a row of seats, pointing at those that belonged to them for the night.
They both got comfortable, sitting down in the plastic chairs and looked around. So many people were present, it was quite impressive.
Something caught Emma's eye, "Number five!" She pointed at the field and glanced over to the massive screen that hung at both sides, showing the action that was happening on the field. "That's the one you liked."
"Aye, Vertonghen," he said, his voice sounding an awful lot like a dreamy sigh and, when Emma watched him, he looked mesmerized as well.
A giggle escaped her mouth due to Killian's adorable fanboying and she tried to subdue it by placing her hand over it, keeping him from either figuring out she was laughing at him or making him feel self-aware but eventually, Emma couldn't help herself.
Leaning closer to him, she whispered, "He's more dreamy in real life, isn't he."
And it had its effect, the tips of Killian's ears changing to a red color, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment.
"Oh, hush."
Emma laughed, out loud and freely this time.
"Don't make me regret inviting you along," he warned with an accusing finger. "Or we'll have to discuss your own obsession with Harry Potter."
The hell? She was fairly sure she'd never mentioned her love for Harry Potter to him, nor made any allusions that would make him able to conclude she was quite a dedicated fan of the series. It had helped her through some tough times, to think Harry was an orphan too, lived with shitty foster parents as well made things more bearable, even if it was barely. She had never told Killian that story, he didn't even know everything there was to her past, so where was this coming from?
"What?" A crease appeared between her eyebrows as she eyed him with wariness "How do you know that?"
"I'm actually quite perceptive." Killian leaned closer to her this time. "And the Gryffindor emblem is your background picture."
Oh right. It had been her background picture for as long as she could remember, so long that she'd grown so accustomed to it and her eyes didn't see it anymore, or she didn't think about what other people would think about it.
"I'm proud of it," Emma admitted, not wanting to come up with excuses or lies to hide the truth.
"You should be," he replied with a gleam in his eyes. "I wear my Hufflepuff badge with pride too."
"You're a Hufflepuff?" fell from her mouth, the question more shocked than it should be, earning her a look from Killian.
"Does that surprise you?"
Emma thought about why it sounded so strange that he was a Hufflepuff. Was it only because she didn't expect him to be a Potterhead or was there more? Killian was kind and loyal too so why shouldn't he be in Hufflepuff?
"It does, actually." She had found the answer to her question. "But only because I could see you fit into all of the houses."
Besides being kind and loyal, he carried a braveness and fierceness around, like she did, like a Gryffindor would. He was cunning and ambitious, key characteristics of a Slytherin and to top it off, he was smart and cunning, Ravenclaw characteristics. The man was freaking amazing.
"I'm assuming that's a good thing?"
"It is." Emma nodded assuredly. "Trust me."
A shrill whistle on the referee's part interrupted their conversation and set the match into action under the loud applause of the spectators all around them.
Forty-five minutes flew by and before she knew it, it was halftime. Killian proposed to buy her a drink but Emma had to refuse, the fact that he had purchased the most likely expensive tickets for tonight without asking her to pitch in. She even felt slightly guilty and didn't want him to think she was taking advantage of him, so instead she asked him what he wanted to drink and told him to sit down and relax while she went to order their drinks and some snacks, because the constant yelling and jumping up and down had worked up an appetite with Emma.
She zigzagged through the groups of people, the fifteen-minute window she had spooking in the back of her mind and making her steps just that tad more hurried, her movements slightly less patient.
The line for the food and drink stand was excruciatingly long but she had no option but to insert herself into it, to wait along with the others until it was her turn.
She made it back to Killian with one minute to spare, the players already back on the field preparing to resume the game.
"Sorry for the wait," she said, making Killian turn around. He stood up and took his beer, alleviating Emma's struggle to hold everything and keep it from falling. "The line was gigantic."
"No worries, you made it just in time." His lips formed a grateful smile as they went back to sit down, their attention on the game below only occasionally cut off when they took a sip from their cool cup of beer or a bite of the salty chips.
"If Tottenham scores one more goal, they're through to the next round," Killian told her about ten minutes from the end. "There's a lot depending on this match."
"Let's hope it's not an offside one like last time."
"Aye."
The tension in the stadium rose as the clock ticked on, closer and closer to that ninety-minute mark; the fans became louder and rowdier, asking—demanding—that that final goal be made so that they could all be put out of the agitated misery they were in.
The other team took ahold of the ball, the direction of the match shifting in a split second and its attackers breaking into a spurt which earned them loud booing from the Tottenham supporters.
Emma clenched her hands and bit her lips as they approached their keeper, their goal—when it had become an us and them thing, she didn't know—her foot tapping the ground to somewhat get rid of the stress.
Come on, come on.
Number five ran like his life depended on it, stopping the attacker with a tackle Emma—who was far from an expert on the matter—thought was spectacular, perfectly executed as his foot shoved the ball out of the opponent's possession and passed it over to one of his teammates. Everyone cheered, an overpowering unison call, and watched with their eyes glued to the grass.
Everyone, except Emma who felt her phone vibrate in the pocket of her jeans, her attention claimed by the call she was getting.
Her heart fell to the pit of her stomach as she saw the caller ID. It only said 'G.' but it told her enough about who was on the other side of the line. Killian's blue eyes found hers, ignoring the game for a moment and silently asking if everything was alright.
"I have to take this call, it's… work," she answered and while it wasn't a lie, it still didn't feel okay.
"Oh sure, go ahead." His prosthetic motioned towards the phone, before he turned back to the field, giving her privacy to answer the phone.
She couldn't here—with the clamor and excitement of the match, with him so close. Her feet went down the stairs, leaving the tribune and bringing her back to the room where she went to get their refreshments, the emptiness in stark contrast to the bustle she experienced earlier during halftime.
In a hurry, she picked up the call.
"Hello?" she answered.
"That took a while, Ms. Swan." The chagrin in his voice was palpable and it made Emma flinch. She couldn't fuck this up.
"Sorry, Mr. Gold. I was… preoccupied."
With watching a soccer match and having fun and laughing with the person she was supposed to spy on, the person Gold so desperately wanted dirt on for some reason. He wouldn't appreciate it when he found out what "trailing Killian Jones" actually consisted of.
"Next time—" he said through clenched teeth. "—I'm expecting you to pick up immediately. This job requires number one priority. Or I'll find someone else to do it for me."
Her hands began to sweat.
"That won't be necessary, sir. I'll do as you ask," she assured him, promised him.
She paced around the room, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum floor. Around and around, a circle that only grew along with her restlessness. One that spiraled as she did.
"I should hope so. You are aware of what exactly is at stake if you don't fulfill the terms of our deal." He used the silence to dramatize his threat and Emma had to admit it worked, the stress making her heart hammer. "I expect a report in two days and you better have something good for me."
The words echoed in her ears, causing a painful ringing in her eardrum.
Too stunned to do anything for a moment, she listened to the dead connection, the incessant sound only aggravating the painful feeling she was experiencing. At last, Emma hung up, arms dropping as if the life had left them as well; she just barely managed to keep her phone from falling. Her eyes dropped to the floor, staring at the generic grey floor, at the sticky spots of beer and the discarded tickets, but not quite registering any of it, still too focused on the ringing, on the shock.
All of her surroundings began to tremble, the entire stadium shook as a roar went through it, bringing Emma back to reality. The reality where she was attending a soccer match with Killian and had left to take a work call—had left a considerable amount of time ago.
She hastened back to their seats. Which proved to be a struggle as it was madness once she came back to the tribune. People jumped and sung, hugged and yelled and all very close to her as she looked for a way to make her way back to Killian without getting clung on or showered with beer.
He spotted her from afar, had been searching for her, it seemed and reached out his prosthetic for her to grab, guiding her back to their spots.
"Swan!" came out once they were reunited. "We won!" he yelled joyously. "You missed the most incredible goal."
And it seemed like it, Killian's head softly shaking while he attempted to process it all, to grasp the concept that they had, in fact, won.
"God, the way Kane shot that ball," he continued, "that was remarkable. No, astonishing even. I can't believe you had to miss it."
"It's okay. I'm happy enough we won." Emma tried to seem as elated as he was.
"You want to go celebrate once we get out of here? Have a pint?"
Emma's face fell; she wanted to avoid such an obvious reaction but her expression changed before she could make sure that everything was in place, glued on and stuck in an eternal smile. This all felt very familiar.
Again, she was supposed to choose between the two paths.
This time, however, there was no doubt what she needed to do, Gold's threats had left her no other choice. It had been a literal wake up call and while the dream had been pretty good, the morning after was terrible.
"Umm, pff." She let a breath escape between her lips, her hand raking through her hair, pretending that she was actually considering it, that she hadn't made her decision minutes ago. "I don't think so. I'm pretty beat. Another time, alright?"
"Of course." Killian smiled as he nodded, his eyes partially shutting and the close proximity made it possible for Emma to see his long eyelashes flutter with the movement. "I'll drive you home."
"Oh no, you shouldn't," Emma said, waving her hands. She was forced to step aside as people tried to pass, the encounter uncomfortable and edging into awkwardness. She approached Killian again who lifted his jacket off the chair and put it on. "I'll just take the subway."
"Emma." His eyebrows rose, a stern and no-kidding look in his eyes. "I'm not going to let you take the Tube. I'll drive you, okay? There's no point in arguing."
So she didn't.
"Alright."
Killian smiled, grabbing his empty cup and throwing it into the trash and then motioning towards the exit. Letting her lead the way. Something he appeared to do more often than not.
"Come on."
She was quite amazed by his skill of finding his car in a dark parking lot amongst tons of other cars that stood beside it, but he did, the dark Toyota lighting up when his fingers touched the car key. He walked over to the left side, opening the car door for her to get in, mumbling something about being a gentleman that Emma didn't quite catch as she seated herself in the comfortable leather seats. The door slammed shut and she watched Killian venture around the car, getting to the other side, her eyes following his path until he got into the car seat next to her.
He shoved the key into the ignition and clicked his prosthetic into the steering aid on his left side. He peered over his shoulder and backed out of the parking spot, asking Emma to type in her address into the GPS before they were well underway.
"I had an amazing night. Thank you," she said once the car had stopped in the familiar environment of her apartment building.
She had, there was no point in pretending she hadn't; even the unfortunate call on Gold's part wasn't powerful enough to overshadow all of tonight, to drown out all of the fun and enjoyment she'd gotten. The gratefulness was genuine, Killian didn't have to take her there, he didn't have to include her in something so precious to him. But he did, with pleasure if the way he'd returned all of her smiles said anything.
"Don't mention it. It was my pleasure." His lips curled briefly. "You're sure you're alright?"
"Yeah." Emma smiled. "Nothing a good night's sleep can't fix. Night, Killian."
"Good night, Emma."
When she took those final steps towards her door, breathing in the cold evening air, it sunk in how affectionate he sounded when she got out of the car. Then she realized how she had sounded the exact same.
-/-
It was difficult at first; it hurt her to see his worry grow with every text, his confusion increasing. He didn't understand what had happened, didn't get why she was suddenly not replying to anything he sent her.
He didn't but she did. Extremely so. Going off the grid was the only way to prevent Gold from acting out his threats, keeping her distance was the only way to prevent Killian from getting feelings he shouldn't get.
And while she was being brutally honest with herself, it was the only way to prevent her from falling in love with Killian Jones. They'd gone on a date, on three dates if she counted the ones they didn't label as one and she'd enjoyed herself. Emma had laughed and listened and smiled and talked like she never had before and it was all because of him, because of his sense of humor and the genuine care and passion he exuded in all he did.
Leaving him was the only option.
So what if she was actually lying to herself, if the loneliness, the confinement away from him still hurt three weeks later.
It was over and it was about time she learned to deal with it.
Seeya! No, I'm kidding... Ummm sorry for that ending? I did promise angst and you're going to get it, so prepare... Updates on Thursdays as usual and you've got another 6K chapter to look forward to!