A/N: So one of the warnings comes into play here which is the mention/implication of alcohol abuse. This is a somewhat sad chapter which can be best described as hurt/comfort and which, together with the following chapter, leads up to a couple of very cathartic moments for both of our protagonists. I still hope you like it because I love it a lot.

Thanks to my co-members of the Holy Trinity™ acourtoftruelove and ofshipsandswans for helping me accomplish writing this fic, I owe the world to them. And Ruhi deserves a double dedication today because it was her birthday yesterday! Happy birthday again bbi 3

I was also very lucky to have one of the kindest people in the world offer her artistic services to this fic and make really cool art to accompany this story: shady-swan-jones!

Her window was wide open, the street noise wandering up into Emma's apartment; the slightly polluted air creeping into the room, the occasional droplets of rain splashing against her windowsill, some tiny fragments of water hitting her bare skin as she sat beside it, listening and breathing and watching the outside life.

The clock kept on ticking further, a steady beat in the background as its course moved unending. She'd been sitting there for at least half an hour, seeing the light first shift and then retreat, leaving carte blanche for the shadows to take over. The lampposts had lit up like beacons on a dark and treacherous sea, one last attempt to battle the twilight, to fight off the specks of danger enameling the dusk. The light across the street buzzed and broke, alternately bringing light and dark, eternally contrasting itself by living and dying again.

The air was getting colder, a gradual decline. The further the clock's arrow went, another degree was lost, handed over to the night to ravage. She had attempted to defer it for as long as she could, using her hands to restore the warmth lost but Emma had no other choice but to grab herself a sweater to keep the goosebumps from consuming her.

Like her thoughts were.

She thought of her life, the years she had lived. Alone and with her friends.

Why did she feel like she had to leave? Why did that feeling have to re-emerge every time she felt comfortable, maybe even happy? That feeling as if two hands were wrapped around her neck, slowly and painfully tightening their grip, chasing out every particle of air, every last spark of life. And Emma had to escape, claw her way out of that asphyxiating grip whatever the cost was.

Which led to her losing friends time and time again.

She couldn't quite explain how it felt, how she felt her throat closing up and how she struggled to breathe, explain it to people who saw nothing amiss, who chattered and laughed like usual. She could not tell the people she loved that they suffocated her. Because they'd take it the wrong way. They'd leave her before she could do the same to them.

Emma rested her head against the wall while her hands pulled the sweater's soft fabric even closer, completely wrapping it around her body, knees and legs included. She closed her eyes only to open them again after a couple seconds. As she stared at the dark ceiling, a familiar burn tormented her.

She was lying to herself, had been for quite some time. Because her friends weren't the ones suffocating her. The hands around her neck had her own pale complexion, her own slim fingers, that one scar on the bridge of her thumb she got while burning herself on the oven. It was a doppelgänger that was to blame. Or herself.

And escaping from herself proved to be more difficult than just skipping town.

You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another.

Ernest Hemingway had once said that and it had always felt like a call out, as if he'd written that specifically with her in mind, even though he'd died decades before she was born. It was the slogan her conscience loved to recite, a Jiminy Cricket voice in some back room of her brain showing up every time she booked a hotel room in some far-off state, searched for a new apartment, began scouring the web for some odd jobs here and there. It was a stuck CD, a track set on repeat that was her soundtrack as she drove towards a new destination, drowning out even the loudest of music, attempting to make her turn around, regret it. It never worked. She never looked back.

As Emma continued to battle the irritation of tears in her eyes, the rhythm of the raindrops outside began to accelerate, a hard staccato against the stone of the ledge. A mocking gesture from the universe. She was fighting so hard, trying to prevent the watery sensation and it had sent a deluge to drench her either way.

She became too preoccupied with stopping her apartment from getting flooded to continue with contemplating her life. She jumped up, leaving her temporary stone seat, and her bare feet landed on the floor with a thud. The window handle turned and Emma closed the window, the movement shutting the outside noise, rain, wind out.

So lost in thoughts, she hadn't realized how dark her apartment had become. Floundering until her fingertips hit the smooth surface of the light switch, the rays of light filled the space again, filling every nook and cranny they went with a lighter mood too.

A sense of exhaustion, throbbing in the back of the head, overcame her.

It was a respectable hour to go to sleep, Emma concluded.

But that conclusion was not supported by her body, tossing and turning, lying awake in her sheets. There was a tension, something different from the headache, keeping her awake, preventing her from relaxing and falling asleep.

She didn't have to think long about what that tension could have to do with as it had started exactly twenty-five days ago, at the precise moment she had decided to start ignoring Killian and to stop lying to him. To do the right thing. Even if it was hard.

The first text of his right after the game, the message where he was still concerned about her well-being, her reassurances not being fruitful, got deleted. It was just a reminder of the person that he was, of how he did not deserve this. His act of kindness was the final straw for Emma to make her decision. And while it might seem cruel to him, she was doing him a favor; he just didn't know how exactly.

The texts after that one sounded more confused but still that trace of worry braided into his sentences. They received the same treatment as the first one.

He attempted to call her as well. She didn't pick up.

Eventually, he gave up.

But not before sending her one last message that said he understood, the words thanking her for the grand time he had with her, the sentiment wishing her good luck with all that she did.

Fuck, had she wished he hadn't sent that.

It tasted bitter. A taste that would not leave her mouth no matter how many times she swallowed, no matter how many gallons of water she drank, no matter how much she attempted to tell herself it was the right thing.

Emma let out a frustrated huff when the odd tension ran up and down, swirled around, expanded and shrunk again. It was having a field day while all she wanted was peace. From her thoughts, from the stress. Just quiet and calm so she could slumber, finally get a proper amount of sleep, have her average of hours be something close to normal instead of close to insomniac.

Her phone buzzed and her eyes shot open. The notification had caused a beam of bright light to infiltrate the otherwise dark environment, drawing Emma's eyes like a moth drawn to an equally bright flame.

She should ignore it; whatever it was, it could wait until morning, until she had actually received the sleep she so desperately sought. That would be the sane thing to do.

However, there were a grand total of two people who had her UK number: the man whom she was hired to trail and the man who hired her to do so. The former had also declared that he would not contact her anymore so that only really left the latter.

A possibility that eradicated all of the sanity she possessed—well not all of it, but a considerable part of it. Apprehension took its place, cooking up all sorts of theories that he had figured out her last three reports were laced and drenched with bullshit; Emma had absolutely no idea what Killian had been up to the last three weeks but her reports could not show that. So, she'd assumed he'd resumed life as it went before her, with the regular and precise trips and stops. But the unopened notification on her phone told her differently.

The light of her screen dimmed, the night engulfing the room anew but still, her eyes were glued to the spot where the light once was, the tension now joined by curiosity in Emma's emotional brainpan.

She couldn't even muster an ounce of willpower to ignore it all, her hand reaching for the night table and bringing the phone closer to her. After conquering the temporary blindness the overload of light had bestowed upon her eyes, she read the message.

And she was wrong. It wasn't Gold; the other option could not be ruled out as a text—barely two words long—was what she had received. From Killian.

Killian: you up

Later, Emma would blame it on the relief that she had not actually been caught, on the jumble of emotions she'd gone through earlier that evening, on the brittle spark of hope the message brought to her somber heart. But she answered.

Emma: Yeah.

The blue bubbles telling her he was typing appeared and kept on moving, making Emma furrow her brow. Shit, he had to be pouring his heart out. Maybe this was not a good idea, she shouldn't have replied. Why didn't she just forget about it? A new apprehension—a whole different kind than the one she experienced earlier—made itself known.

After a couple of extra tense seconds, finally, a new addition to the conversation popped up.

Killian: im not good

Before she could truly think about it, Emma shot up, her body instantaneously reacting to the words of distress. She worriedly stared at her screen, repeating the three words, again and again, analyzing the message. The Killian she knew would never have sent a message like that. He was a walking thesaurus, loved using flowery language . Normal Killian was a stickler for the rules, he had a deep affection towards grammar; it was his literal job. He barely even used abbreviations in his text, so yes, this was worrying.

She stared at her phone, worriedly nibbling on her lip. Her eyes went up, to the simple wall of her bedroom and remained focused there for a minute or so before reverting to the message on her screen.

What should she do?

The phone fell, its fall cushioned by her soft mattress and Emma's hands slid into her hair, elbows digging into her knees as she sat and thought it through with closed eyes, attempting to find a solution.

But all she found was conflict, a battle where she was caught in the crossfire , unable to hide and protect herself from all of the confusion, unable to win, it seemed.

There were two opposite views: an angel on her one shoulder and a demon on the other. No, an angel and a demon were too extreme. Too black or white, too good or bad.

Her head and her heart were better representatives, more apt for the situation. The pair was a vital part of her, her guide in this tumultuous world. They'd never been so against one another before, however. Both were stained in a muted hue of grey, too faint to discern to which side they belonged, which way they would lead her, if they were the right choice or not. The thought that she'd made a decision, that she had to stay away for his sake, clashed with the feeling that he was her friend and that her friend was in distress, that he needed her.

Head or heart. Thoughts or feelings.

At least there was no doubt when it came to the angel and demon.

Feelings or thoughts. Heart or head.

This was left for her to sort out. To settle. To call a cease-fire.

In the end, there was only one decision she could reach, one she would not eternally regret making. It was as if someone had pressed play again after pausing her when she began moving, a hurry in how she did. Emma grabbed her sheets and yanked them off of herself, her other hand busy with dialing his number.

"What do you mean: 'not good'?" she said to him as soon as the call was picked up. She stilled in the middle of her bedroom, the only sound her frantic heartbeat and the rustle on the line.

"I've had too much to drink," he slurred together. "I didn't know who else to text."

"Where are you?" she asked.

She shot back into motion, picking up a discarded pair of jeans that lay on the floor next to her laundry basket to cover her bare legs. The sweater she had used to ward off the cold earlier got put on again, along with a pair of socks.

"The Merry Men." His answer was one big sigh which only quickened Emma's actions to get ready to venture outside.

"I'm coming. Stay where you are," she ordered before hanging up.

She rummaged her brain to make up a list of everything she would need; she wouldn't want to go and save him only to miss something vital like her keys or her subway card.

Shoes, a jacket—no scratch that, she'd need a raincoat with the weather she'd experienced earlier. Her keys were stuffed into her pocket, wallet was safe in her purse. Her phone was currently experiencing a death grip in her hand.

Alright.

Emma was ready to leave her apartment, flicking the lights off and reaching for the door to close it, when she came to the conclusion she had no idea where The Merry Men was situated exactly. And how she would get there.

That seemed like quite an important aspect of her going to go get Killian: knowing where he was.

Grumbling and igniting the lights again, she placed her bag on a chair and unlocked her phone. After consulting the internet—Google Maps, what a hero—she got a clear idea of where she needed to go and what line she should take to get there. It also provided her with a precise timetable of when she would get there, which was double as long as the time it would take if she had a car at her service.

Fuck, a car would be so much more convenient.

Now ready for real, Emma shut the door and headed downstairs, her footsteps a quick echoing stomping in the otherwise silent hallway. With a faster than usual pace, she made her way to the subway station, her stride accelerating even more as she heard the familiar sound of screeching iron downstairs featuring a female voice warning passengers about the ominous gap.

She ran down the stairs, skipping the last two steps with a jump and got into the carriage, the doors beeping and closing right after she did.

Man, she was really taking this whole savior thing seriously.

Even at this late hour, there were no seats empty so she stood, bracing herself on a handle as the vehicle began moving. Her feet nervously tapped, she couldn't control it, much to the annoyance of people next to her. Emma obsessively checked the map, counting down the stations, the stops between her and Killian. When they finally arrived at the stop Google Maps Almighty told her to get off, she began to sprint as soon as the doors opened.

She reached the bar with a slight pant that reminded her again that she really had to look into a new gym membership. For a couple of seconds, she recollected herself, breathed in the petrichor air with her eyes shut, the oxygen exchange helping to summon courage. To face him after purposely ignoring him for the better part of three weeks. To see him after having her heart aching for him for all of that time.

After one last profound inhale, Emma's eyes opened and focused on the door of the pub. That was all it was going to take: opening that door and walking up to him. She needed to do it. He needed her to do it. And so, she walked towards it, pushing it until it gave way for her and let her enter the congenial, somewhat dark, pub.

It didn't take long to spot him, even with the lack of proper lighting, her eyes were instantly drawn to the miserable figure sitting on a stool by the bar. It seemed like a miracle that he hadn't fallen off yet, by the way he sat hunched and inanimate.

Unceremoniously wiping the traces of sweat that appeared on her palms on the fabric of her jeans, she stepped forward. His back was towards her, his front facing the bartender who glanced towards him every ten seconds with a look of worry and sympathy, but, as he was busy wiping the counter with a towel, hadn't noticed her yet. Neither of them had.

"Killian," she softly said, approaching him and making the brown-haired bartender glance up.

Killian's observation skills, however, were not as ample as his companion's, his body remaining sprawled over the counter and his head only slowly—excruciatingly slowly if you asked her—rising at the recognition of her voice. His movements were delayed, it took him ages to turn around. All the while she stood there, bright green raincoat and awkward smile, mostly meant for the bartender as he was still the only one looking her way, in place.

Emma didn't know what she was expecting when she saw him again for the first time but it certainly wasn't this.

He looked a wreck. Head resting on the bar, eyes blotchy.

"Robin took away my keys," he said accusingly and with disgust.

And if she was expecting his first words to be anything, it definitely wasn't this either.

"Killian, you can't drive like this," the man in question attempted to argue, the frustration oozing over. He probably had had to say the same thing over and over, the logic and reasoning of his argument and feeble attempt at persuasion flying over Killian's head altogether.

"I would've called him a cab—" Robin turned to her, letting the towel rest on the curve of his shoulder. "—but he wanted to contact you instead." The man shrugged in apology.

"No, it's fine," Emma reassured him, casting another glance towards Killian, which only confirmed her next words. "It's a good thing you did. Could I have his keys? I'm going to drive him home."

"Sure." Robin ducked beneath the counter and retrieved a set of keys. "Here you go."

The keys were dropped into her open palm, the silver cold against her warm skin. Her hand transformed into a fist, safeguarding not only the keys but what they represented, the responsibility she carried in the grip of her five fingers.

"Thanks."

"Take care of him," Robin begged.

"I will, don't worry." She lifted her closed hand, nodding as it came into Robin's view. It was meant as an assurance, to show she knew what was expected of her. Killian needed to get home, needed to be safe and she had to make sure that happened.

Robin looked somewhat relieved by the gesture as his lips moved into something that wasn't exactly a smile, but was close enough.

Taking another look at Killian, Emma decided she would need two free hands to be able to get the mass of misery to even move an inch. The keys, therefore, were safely stored in the pocket of her jeans, before she walked closer. A conflicting fusion of hesitation and determination spread through her body with every pulse while she reached out to touch him.

"Come on," she coaxed, helping—forcing—Killian to stand up and leave the barstool. He couldn't stay here, which was why when he refused to work with her, when he attempted to work against her, she shifted her features from soft to stern, from helpful to commanding.

"Killian, get up."

It was an order, one he seemingly had neither the inclination nor the energy to disobey as he got up, only slightly with the strength he possessed but enough for Emma to support him and lead him out of the pub.

Robin cast one last glance, a look imbued with a question, but Emma shook her head. She could handle it by herself.

She'd dealt with worse.

At least Killian was still conscious, still aware of his surroundings. He hadn't gotten too handsy or violent and she was grateful for it. Emma had experienced those before and it wasn't something she looked forward to dealing with again.

As they reached the dark parking lot, Emma halted and so did Killian, having no choice but to. She released him with one arm, broke the circle she'd made around his middle to dive into her pocket and take out his keys. Pressing the unlock button, his car lit up not too far from them, which Emma was very grateful for. By instinct, she walked towards the right side to depose Killian and swore under her breath as she saw a steering wheel where there wasn't supposed to be one. At least, that was what she was used to.

Fuck. Left driving. She'd forgotten about that part.

Shoulders slumping in a sigh, she helped Killian circle the car to the correct UK side of the passenger, which was the easy part admittedly. The difficult one was getting him into the vehicle and buckling his seatbelt without either pulling a muscle or hurting him.

"You could help me out here a bit, Killian," she complained, her hands fiddling with the clasp of the belt.

Finally, the releasing sound of a click reached her ears and Emma huffed in relief. The door closed with a bang and she rushed towards the other side.

Left. Left. Left.

She kept on repeating it, a mantra drilled into her head.

"Why did you even drive here if you were going to get shit-drunk?"

But now was not the time for blame. There was only room for determination and concentration. The extra addition to the steering wheel Killian used to drive might have been a helpful tool for him but was only a hindrance for her. She clicked it loose, laid it on the back seat and was ready to leave.

Until she realized she had no idea how to get to his apartment. She knew where he lived, yes, but in the tangled web of London roads, it would take her hours to get there. Using GPS was an option too but dividing her attention between a tiny screen with directions and driving on the right—left—side of the road did not seem like a smart idea either.

Her eyes flickered to Killian's slumped figure in the seat next to her, enough incentive to quickly reach a decision as he only looked worse than he did in the bar. He needed to be somewhere warm and quiet and safe as soon as possible.

Emma set the car into motion, the engine roaring to life and the headlight illuminating the lot with a flare of light.

"You're going to have to stay at my place," she said to him, sharing her decision but there was no reaction, only him staring into the distance .She would take his silence as a yes , besides she was the only one with a clear mind, if anyone should make the decisions, it was her.

The trip having gone as smooth as it could, except for one scary moment with a truck honking so loud her heart almost stopped beating, they reached her building. Emma resisted the urge to get down on her knees and gratefully kiss the path of stone tiles in front of her doorstep, promising herself she was going to stick to public transport from now on.

She supported him up the stairs, hobbling inside of her place. The lights flickered on and Emma placed him on the couch, huffing when the weight of him finally left her shoulders.

She moved towards the kitchen to grab him a glass of water and one for herself at that. The tap slowly filled it with clear liquid and only when a second one was filled, did she return to the couch and the man sitting there.

He absentmindedly stared at his feet, not even looking up at the dangling glass of water in front of him. Emma set the glasses on the coffee table and crouched in front of him, a last attempt to attain his attention. When she finally did, the urge to do a victorious fist pump surged but vanished again in an instant because of the sight before her.

She saw the tears well in his eyes as they connected with hers, her heart clenching at the sight. God. Emma wanted to hold him, to magically make them disappear. But she wasn't sure where they stood. How much her comforting would be appreciated once the alcohol had left his body and haze had left his mind.

So she settled for asking, making sure there was not one place their bodies touched.

"Killian, what's wrong?" Her voice soft, almost like a mother speaking to her child. Though she doubted Killian would appreciate that comparison. She didn't particularly like it either.

Killian's irises, glazed over by a coat of tears, searched her face; for what, she did not know. He blinked, two tears simultaneously falling on his cheeks and two more immediately following, tracing the exact same path as their predecessors.

Whatever dam he had constructed that held the tears at bay in the pub was gone–broken and cracked. Much like his voice when he answered her question.

"It hurts."

His first words in half an hour and they did nothing to assuage her worry. But they did make her give up her own resolution of not touching him. She came closer and worriedly assessed his body, looking for any cuts, scrapes or bruises coloring his skin but came up empty. She wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. She'd rather the wounds were external, clear and obvious, because the alternative would prove to be more difficult to remedy.

She heard the sob overcome him, saw his face completely crumple, felt the slight trembling of his body.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. You'll be okay," she soothed, her hand moving across his back and tracing circles. It inched up and ended in his silken locks. He dropped his head, let it rest in the dip between her shoulder and collarbone. A wet patch gathered on the neck of her sweater but Emma didn't pay attention to it. Her focus lay solely on Killian, on holding him and hugging him, the way her hand massaged his neck, the words of comfort she whispered into his ear.

Eventually, the tears stopped rolling. After a while, the sobs stopped coming. An hour passed and his body stopped shaking.

Only complete exhaustion remained in its wake.

It might've been his, or hers, or that of the both of them combined but it was there, present and unrelenting.

Emma sighed, her legs cramping from holding such an uncomfortable position for so long, and slowly released Killian, who had gone completely still. She would've believed that he was asleep if it weren't for his eyes that were wide open, back to staring into the distance, a sorrow staining the cyan blue.

She didn't dare to attempt to coax the reason of his anguish out of him, to find out what exactly was amiss, so she settled for a solution that had proven to work for her time and time again.

"Killian, you should get some sleep."

They both should.

"Are you alright with staying on the couch? I can bring you some extra pillows, a blanket…" she drifted off.

Killian nodded. It seemed she wasn't getting any additional words out of him tonight.

Emma went to the closet that contained her sheets and retrieved a spare blanket out of it. When she returned to the couch, Killian was laid flat on his back, eyes closed and breathing steady. He hadn't even bothered to take off his shoes or wait for her to return with the blanket.

She felt like crying in relief when the soft snore left his mouth, when the calm that hung around him at last was not interrupted. For a moment, the folded blanket got deposited on the corner of the sofa to free her hands. Softly, she pried the pair of boots off of his feet, setting them next to the coffee table instead. She eyed the prosthetic on his left arm and after some contemplation took it off as well, untying the straps. Killian let out a sigh and Emma took it as an unconscious approval of her action. Finally, the blanket got unfolded and draped over his body. She couldn't refrain from combing her fingers through his dark locks one last time, moving a stray wisp away from his forehead. Her voice whispered him goodnight before she got up and went to her own bed.

When her head hit her pillow and her limbs got burrowed back into her sheets, she told herself it—the caresses, the tenderness, the… love—was only because he was in distress, because physical affection was the way to get a lot of people to calm down.

Because when she was younger and something deep inside her hurt—a pulsing pain aggravating—the only thing she wanted was someone to tell her she was alright. That it hurt now but wouldn't always be that way. To hold her until the sobs subdued and tears turned into salty stains on her cheeks.

But no one ever had.

Instead, she had to learn how to comfort herself, how to hide the misery behind a mask, only to trust herself with it.

She didn't want that for Killian.

He should have someone to trust, someone he could confide in. He deserved more. A better alternative than her, a lying no-good.

Here she was again. In his vicinity, unable to stay away from him, to stop caring about him.

God, she needed to stop feeling so sorry for herself. This was all her own fault.

In the morning she'd deal with the consequences, perhaps find out what exactly happened to Killian for him to be so distraught tonight. Though she doubted hearing the tale would help a lot with her conscience.

Attempting to release the tension in her body, the uneasiness in her stomach, she took a deep breath in and released it again in one go. It must've had somewhat of an effect because her eyelids began drooping, slowly reaching the sleep she sought for hours ago and was now blessedly in her grasp after the most tumultuous and reflective couple of hours Emma had experienced… probably ever.

Her eyes shut and with it, all of her troubles faded.

-/-

Only to come back with a bang once she woke again.

It might've taken her brain a few moments to catch up on current events but suddenly could not and was not thinking of anything but the man who had spent the night and presently occupying her couch.

Would he already be awake? With the amount of alcohol she presumed he had consumed, she doubted it actually.

Though, he had said something about being an early riser so perhaps that did come into play here. Wanting to be on the safe side, she got dressed, in clean clothes this time, and slowly ventured out.

While he was still lounged in the couch, the sound of Emma's door closing made his head shoot up, over the edge, signaling that either he was a very—and she meant very—light sleeper or he was indeed awake already.

"Good morning," Emma said with hesitance, not sure how bad his hangover would be, how he was going to be feeling after his breakdown yesterday. She'd stopped by her medicine cabinet to grab him some painkillers to help with the first problem, but the second… she still didn't know how to help with that.

Instead of returning her greeting, Killian sat up completely, facing her with an expression that seemed way too solemn for so early in the morning.

"I'm sorry."

Emma frowned, her head tilting as she regarded him. His hair was an even bigger mess than usual, a faint blue color under his eyes, his beard seemed longer than it usually was, to have outgrown the five o'clock shadow it normally was presented as.

"For what?" she questioned, even though she had a pretty clear idea what would cause him to apologize.

His whole body slumped as he let out a deep sigh, his hand burrowing into his hair as he disheveled it even more.

He purposely did not look at her, let his head drop and stared at his knees.

"Burdening you with this," he mumbled.

In sympathy, Emma's shoulders sagged. It was going to take a lot to convince him it was okay, that there was nothing to be ashamed of. Instead of awkwardly standing there, shifting her weight between her legs, Emma grabbed a chair from under the table and set it firmly on the empty spot across the couch. She'd best sit down for this talk and so she did, giving him enough space for himself but also close enough to make him feel she was there, that he was listened to.

"Everyone has an off day, Killian."

She was having one herself before he had needed her, had had quite a few of those in the last three weeks.

Killian scoffed. "That's graciously put." The moment left as soon as it came and his features turned remorseful. "I shouldn't have asked you, apologies. I'm aware you didn't wish to see me anymore, so I'll get out of your hair." He made to get up. "You have better things to do."

She didn't.

Because this whole fucked up situation made it so that the man across from her was both the center of her professional life and her personal life.

"Killian, stay," Emma responded. "I'm not going to kick you out."

"You should."

"Stay." Her voice had become more firm, more resolute. "Eat something."

She was really grateful and proud of her past self for going grocery shopping yesterday morning. All of her shelves were taken, the fridge was fully stocked. Luckily. It would've been quite embarrassing to not be able to offer him anything but two-week old Tesco wheat cereal she bought more for show to keep the cashier from judging her for her shopping cart only consisting of Cadbury bars and boxes of hot chocolate than for taste.

"Everyone has a past. I'm not about to judge you for yours—or how you cope with it."

"You should. I try to limit the drinking, it's a bad habit and leads to bad form, but sometimes it all becomes too much."

"I get it."

"But you shouldn't. You shouldn't be forced to try and understand."

"No, I get it, Killian." Her eyebrows rose to emphasize. "Things becoming too much is exactly the reason why I stopped replying. I'm sorry to have hurt you."

"It was your right to."

Emma couldn't figure out if it would've been worse that he was furious with her for blowing him off than how he was treating the situation now. As if he deserved to have his heart broken, like he was worth nothing and it was a given that she wouldn't want to spend time with him any longer.

"No, it wasn't," she said in a strict voice. Strict on her for making him think that, strict on him for thinking he was worth anything less than he was. "And I feel bad about it."

He looked at his hand, or rather the lack of it and looked at her, something having clicked about the combination of both her and no hand. He probably hadn't thought of it before but she'd never seen him without before. Until yesterday when she took it off. It was a slightly startling sight, the scarred flesh, how she could discern the angry red indents of the prosthetic in his pale skin. It was something she hadn't seen before but that was also where it ended. Because now she had seen his stump, and now she did know wearing the prosthetic wasn't very kind to his arm and she'd taken it into consideration. She had also seen how apt he was, how his prosthetic really had become a second hand. She forgot it sometimes, didn't actually care but Killian didn't know that by the looks of it.

"I took it off, I'm sorry if that wasn't what you wanted. It just seemed more comfortable for you," she explained, trying to maintain a balance of apology and justification in her voice. She did not want to raise the wrong conclusions.

But he didn't let her know if she had succeeded as he glanced towards his stump one last time, his jaw clenching as he grabbed the appendage to reattach it. Once it was back in place, his expression became something more neutral. She guessed that he was done discussing the matter and she had a pretty good idea why, but decided not to press on, leave his demons to be dealt with another time.

"So this is your flat." He looked around and Emma had to resist the urge to clean up, to rearrange her messy cabinet and to hide the dark discolorations on the grey wall next to the window.

"It is." Emma followed his trail. "I'm sorry I brought you here instead of to yours, I just kind of panicked and thought it would be weird for me to roam around your apartment. Also, I knew where the painkillers are in mine and I'm guessing you need them." Emma handed him the capsules she'd been holding in the palm of her hand for a while now, which he gratefully accepted.

"Thank you." He lowered his head and it almost felt like he was bowing which definitely made her feel uncomfortable. "For the medicine and bringing me here. I'm in your debt."

God, he was far from it.

"No, you're not."

Seeing the unswallowed pills in his hand, she suddenly realized he would possibly require water. So she left the chair she was sat on, entering the kitchen to grab him a glass. He accepted it with a blossom of a smile on his face, just the tiniest touch between their fingers, but enough for Emma to retreat, balling her fingers to try and squeeze out the tingling sensation.

"Yesterday was quite a valiant rescue mission, if I recall correctly." Nurtured by the lighter atmosphere and dash of humor, his smile continued blooming.

He vacated a spot on the couch, removed the blanket and relocated his legs to make place for her to sit.

"That I have to agree with," she chuckled as she sat down. "We both almost died once, but what's an adventure without a near-death experience, right?"

"So that explains all of the swearing. You swear like a sailor, Swan."

"One of my finer and more elegant moments, clearly."

"As if you could ever manage to not be elegant."

Her smile faltered, only a bit but enough for Killian to see it, notice it as his own was weakened too. Here they were again, bantering and flirting like nothing had happened.

He watched her, she watched him, neither doing anything but blinking, breathing and assessing, feeling each other out.

Until Killian's lips moved. "I've missed you," he said.

She couldn't even pretend she didn't feel the exact same, had no energy inside of her to keep up the lie.

"I missed you too," she whispered back.

"Do you have somewhere to be today?"

Emma shook her head, eyes narrowing as she attempted to figure out where he was going with this.

"Could I take you somewhere?"

While she should need more information, more context to agree to something so vague, to commit to it, Emma nodded, her head making the movement before she could truly ponder over it. Overthink it and consider it to eventually decline like she normally did. But the earnestness in his eyes, the still rawness of the voice, strained by the emotion he showed yesterday drew her over the line.

That and the fact that she missed him the last three weeks. More than she sometimes could bear.

Killian smiled, another sign of genuine joy in the last five minutes, something she hadn't seen in the twelve hours before, and a wave of tranquility washed over his expression.

"I'm going to go home and freshen up a bit and if it's alright with you, I'll come and pick you up in an hour or so."

"Yeah, that's fine. Anything specific I need to bring?"

"No, just you would be enough."

As always, thanks for reading bbis. Might I persuade you in maybe leaving a comment? It won't make next Thursday appear sooner but it will most definitely make me happy :)