Quick author's note: thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who has been reading along, especially those who have been so kind as to follow, favorite, and review! I never expected this fic to get so much feedback, and I'm glad many of you have enjoyed it. I anticipate posting the rest of the story within 7 or 8 chapters, plus an epilogue; it's mostly written, I just have to figure out how to split up the chapters. Cheers!
CHAPTER FOUR
The showers were expensive—Emma had never actually been inside a trucker's center before, and nearly choked when the attendant told her to fork over twelve bucks—but they were also surprisingly luxurious, sparkling clean, and entirely worth it. When she went back into the restroom to brush her teeth, she discovered that someone had even left a hair dryer on the counter, and she spent a solid half-hour just drying and brushing her hair, something she hadn't done for probably weeks. What with the latest drama over Henry, Graham's death, getting evicted, and her subsequent flight from Storeybrooke, it had already been five days since she took a shower.
Fluffing her hair, she poked through her duffel for clothing and settled on a pair of fleece-lined leggings and a long wool shirt, covered up by her favorite old red sweater. If Jones really did take her along to the Midwest, she might be in for a few very long days of sitting in a passenger's seat, so she may as well be comfortably clad.
Looking in the mirror on the way out, Emma was astonished to see an entirely different woman from the one she'd stared down in the bathroom of that crummy gas station. Her cheeks were flushed from the hot shower, her hair curled down her back, bright and shiny from the shampoo and conditioner, and confidence sparkled from her eyes. It was almost enough to make her wonder why that woman had run away—why she'd given up fighting Regina.
Just outside the bathrooms, a small area scattered with soft couches and small rectangular tables, surrounded by chairs, beckoned to her. A Wi-fi sign on the wall and the presence of a coffee shop next door suggested that it was some sort of lounge; Emma spotted several charging stations set into the surface of the tables.
Good timing, she thought, and flopped onto a fat loveseat, sighing with comfort. She dug into her duffel to find her phone charger—when she pulled her phone from her coat pocket, however, she was startled to see a text message.
A shock of adrenaline rushed through her as she hoped, for just a moment, that it was Henry. Then she saw the name of the sender: Killian. Emma stared blankly at the screen; the message had been sent only a few minutes before. "Uh," she said, bemused, and unlocked the phone.
Oh. The surname on the text message was Jones. "Oops," she said under her breath. She'd forgotten the poor man's first name already. Done offloading, said the message. Next trailer coming here, I'm waiting for it to show. Should be back in the next 2 hours ish.
And then, to her great amusement: :)
Emma chuckled. "Didn't take you for a smiley-face kind of guy," she murmured, smiling. Opening her phone's keyboard, she typed out a return message. No hurry. This place is great. Truckers have it made in the shade.
She hesitated, then added a little winking emoji to the end, and hit Send before she could rethink it. Then she plugged the phone in and dug into her duffel to retrieve a novel.
The battered old thing was something she'd picked up in a little free roadside library in Boston one time, and carried with her ever since. She'd been reading it on the ride down from Massachusetts, but hadn't gotten far. It was a rollicking tale of archaeologists searching for a lost Anasazi city out west, and although she had no doubt that the more supernatural elements of the story were essentially nonsense white-people appropriations, it was still a welcome escape from present thoughts, a tale of warmer climates and colorful deserts, far away from a dead sheriff and a lost son. Descriptions of the Southwest did remind her vaguely of Neal, but she could push him to the back of her mind, pretend he didn't exist: statutory rape convictions carried a long sentence, after all.
She only made it through another chapter or so before her phone pinged with another text message. You should see the Iowa 80 sometime, Jones had written. It has a museum and a movie theatre.
Emma laughed, a little incredulously. "What on earth for?" she asked, under her breath. Maybe next time, she typed.
But after a moment she slowly hit backspace, deleting the message. Was that… too flirty? Emma couldn't tell. Thus far, it seemed as if Jones was helping her along purely out of the goodness of his heart. She didn't want that to change anytime soon. That's cool af, she typed instead, with a sunglasses emoji. There: much better.
She leaned back into the couch, laying her head back to stare at the motionless ceiling fans above. Unable to help herself, she indulged for a moment in the idea of her new acquaintance and (friend? no, they barely knew one another) de facto chauffeur as the object of flirtation. He was a good-looking man, no denying it. Between the beautiful eyes and the long legs—and that booty, her traitorous mind added slyly—Emma would rank Killian Jones amongst the top five guys she'd seen this year.
But more than that, there was something about his quiet, confident manner that suggested a fascinating layer yet to be revealed. Perhaps it was merely the details of a past life that hadn't surfaced; something to do with his brother, and the armed forces?
Biting her lip, Emma sat up and carefully took the little keychain out of the breast pocket of her coat, gingerly turning it over in her fingers to look at it again. The stitching on the military crest was still well-preserved, although faded, flat, and shiny like the paracord. A curved line of miniscule text reading Opn. Enduring Freedom surmounted what she thought was a unit crest, while a second line of text below the crest, curved in the opposite direction, read R. M. 51st Btn.
Curiosity overcame her. Emma pulled up the browser on her phone and typed "Opn. Enduring Freedom" into the search bar. The name sounded familiar: she knew it was one of those modern wars in the Middle East, but beyond that, couldn't remember when or exactly where.
The results scrolled down, and she saw it was an early-aughts involvement in Iraq, mainly American forces but also… "Royal Marines," she breathed, her thumb automatically caressing the little crest.
Suddenly she became conscious that she was, or at least could be, taking an undeserved peek into a very private part of Jones' life: especially considering the fact that his brother was plainly either dead or deeply estranged from him. Swallowing, Emma closed the browser on her phone, wondering why Jones would have given her—a total stranger—such a treasured possession, merely to assure her he'd be coming back for her. Heat flooded her cheeks as she carefully tucked the keychain back into the pocket.
Another hour or so passed peacefully as she read her book again. Just as it was getting good—the archaeologists had found the lost city!—her stomach rumbled. Emma realized it had been several hours since that breakfast sandwich.
Unwilling to leave all her earthly possessions unsupervised, Emma hoiked up her duffel, shoved her phone and charger into it, and trudged over to the little mini-mart in the middle of the travel center. Luckily she still had the water bottles, and like any American public accommodation, there were a ton of water fountains; she wouldn't go thirsty any time soon. However, food was another matter.
She spotted a small microwave off to one side of the mini-mart, and eagerly moved toward the aisle with easy-cook meals. A few minutes later, she was heating up a takeaway container of reconstituted peanut noodles. Only two dollars! her mind screamed in victory.
Wrapping the little box in paper towels, she grabbed some chopsticks and plunked right back down in the same couch back in the lounge. The noodles were ambrosial, hot and creamy and redolent of salty peanuts and absolutely hers. Emma thought she probably hadn't felt this content even once in the last week.
It seemed to be a slow day at the travel center: only a few people passed through as she slurped down the noodles. A flannel-clad man strolled into the lounge, and for an instant Emma thought it might be Jones. But of course it wasn't. She studied the stranger. He was older, of the same lanky body type but with less catlike grace and more… clomping. His shirt was untucked, his boots scuffed, and his plump down vest was stained on the front, perhaps the result of greasy, oil-slick hands.
The comparison was unavoidable. Sure, Jones had the sort of calloused, stained nailbeds of a man who knew his way around an engine. But his fingers were clean, at least. And he seemed to be a neat dresser: no flamboyant belt buckles or string ties, just a pendant necklace tucked into his shirt and functional watch on his wrist, together with obviously well-cared-for clothes and boots. Moreover, Emma had noticed that sometime between his going to bed the night before, and coming back to the truck with the coffees and sandwiches in the morning, he'd unobtrusively changed both undershirt and flannel shirt.
Which is more than I did, she thought with amusement.
Not much later, she switched to another couch to watch a hockey game. The closest professional team to Storeybrooke had been all the way down in Boston, so it wasn't as if Emma cared one way or another about the teams currently playing. But she liked the nonstop action: it was like soccer, but with more bashing and yelling and fighting.
The game had just entered the second period when she glanced over. Cool gratitude and relief trickled through her chest as she recognized Jones—it was really him this time—entering through the front doors, carrying a gym bag over his shoulder, hands shoved into his vest pockets. She smiled; his cheeks and ears were a charming pink from the cold outside.
He crossed the hushed central rotunda in a few long strides, looking around. Emma got up and was about to call out to him when his eyes found her… and slid right past.
She watched, openmouthed, as he continued to peer around, frowning. Then he turned and headed toward the restaurant.
Hastily, Emma hopped forward. "Mr. Jones!" she called, jogging toward him. "Sorry—over here!"
She reached him just as he turned around. The light in the rotunda was growing lower, and it shone directly in his face, the bright rays giving his blue eyes the clear aquamarine glow of island waters. She paused in front of him, made a little breathless by the sharp lines of his jaw and strong brows, and the tiny spray of freckles across one cheek.
He, too, was frozen, those remarkable eyes wide and soft, perusing her face, his lips parted in… what? Astonishment? His jaw twitched, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't.
"What?" Emma asked, her nerves twinging. "Did you… did something go wrong?"
At last Jones recovered himself, shaking his head. "No, no. Everything's fine. Just, ah…" His voice suddenly croaked and he cleared his throat, smiling crookedly, then finished, "No need for formalities, lass. 'Killian' will do."
Emma nodded, her self-consciousness fading. "Killian it is, then," she said softly, and stuck her hand out. "Not that I was worried, but… thanks for not leaving me behind, Killian."
He blinked, but took her hand, giving it a firm shake before returning his own hand to his pocket. "Of course. You're most welcome," he answered warmly. But his expression became mildly perturbed, a line forming between his brows.
Emma swallowed. His eyes were asking the question she didn't want to answer: You've been left behind before, haven't you?
Unwilling (and unable) to deny it, she bit her lip and forced a glare. "Would've been nice to have a warning about the expensive showers, though," she said, with as much sarcastic vocal fry as she could manage, and stepped backwards, toward the lounge.
To her relief, his expression relaxed, and he followed her. "Why, how much are they now? It's been so long since I had to actually pay for one…"
She told him, and he whistled. "You must be joking," he said incredulously, as if offended. "It would be cheaper just to buy the extra two hundred gallons of diesel. Bloodsuckers."
Emma shook her head, laughing, and reached down to unplug her phone, then stow away the cables. "Unfortunately, I don't have any need for two hundred gallons of diesel, since you turned me down on gas money," she said dryly, in her normal voice, and he grinned. "So? Onwards to Topeka?"
"Well, after I get a shower of me own," Jones protested.
Emma wrinkled her nose. "Yeah, that's a good idea," she informed him, enjoying the way his cheeks flushed when he laughed.
Gesturing towards the showers by way of explanation, still charmingly pink about the ears, he trooped off, gym bag swinging. She sat down on the couch abruptly, watching him go; posture relaxed, steps long and easy. He carried himself well: not necessarily as ramrod-straight as she might expect from a former member of the military, but shoulders back and head up, walking with purpose.
Don't, her mind said quietly. Don't even.
"I'll do what I want," Emma muttered in response, darkly.
Burying her nose in her book again, she managed to block out her surroundings. The heat from her shower had long since faded, and she wrapped herself in her musty coat—maybe I should use the laundry facilities at the next place, she mused. The descriptions of the book captured her, and soon she was entranced with the quiet of a bright desert, the susurrus of sand through red canyon walls, and the whisper of insects on a hot wind.
The hockey game was still going on, but she ignored it, the sounds faint, the white ice and dark-clothed players a distant illusion in the corner of her vision. Another traveler flopped down nearby, coffee in hand, to watch. Thankfully they said nothing, and Emma paid them no attention. She knew how the book ended, but it never stopped her heart from racing at particularly exciting passages.
It took a light touch on her shoulder before she tore her attention away. Jones was smiling; "Good story?" he asked. He'd changed again, but this time to a thick hooded jacket and v-necked t-shirt, revealing an attractively furry bit of chest and a pair of narrow collarbones. His necklace was a tiny lump hiding just under the low collar of the shirt; still no telling what the pendant was.
"Very," Emma answered, her cheeks burning slightly. Dog-earing the page she'd left off on, she shoved the book into her bag and gestured to the seat opposite. "Do you want to relax for a bit, or…?"
Her companion shook his head definitely. "No, I'd rather be moving," he answered, hiking his gym bag a little higher. With another flash of a grin, he added, "I can sit for a few hours on the road."
The omnipresent baseball cap was in his hand, his dark hair shining damp and neatly combed under the fluorescent lights. He'd shaved, too, leaving a firm chin and those finely cut lips open to her perusal. Emma felt for a moment that she might understand why he'd been speechless at seeing her earlier: he easily looked five or ten years younger than before, his arched cheekbones still gently flushed.
She swallowed back her appreciations, though, and rose, trying to smile in return. She pulled on her tuque and coat as they strode across the rotunda, out the door, and into the parking lot. He'd parked further away this time, in a larger lot full of trucks; as they drew closer to his rig, she noticed that the trailer was different: a long silver cylinder, rather than a box, with large, colorful stickers affixed to the forward area.
"Different cargo, huh?" she remarked curiously.
Jones nodded, looking pleased, and slapped the baseball hat casually back atop his head. "Mm, yes. LNG, to be taken west for use in other production operations. Good shipment, if you don't mind transporting for upstream commerce. Haz-mat, though, so it'll be interesting getting it through the routes I'd planned to take—there's tunnels everywhere in the good old Steel City."
Emma had understood only about half of that statement, and made a noncommittal noise in response. She waited as he unlocked her side of the truck—her side! as if they'd been traveling together long enough for her to claim such a thing—then clambered in.
"May I ask a question, though?" Jones said, upon climbing into his side of the truck, setting down his gym bag and reaching down to put the key in the ignition, then start the truck. Emma felt a tremor of nerves, but nodded. "How on earth did you make those little faces in your text messages?" Jones asked. "They were really cute."
Caught by surprise (and relief), Emma laughed. She pulled out her phone and opened the settings app, then showed it to him. "Well, on my phone, you just add a new keyboard. Other phones, I'm not sure. My son loves them – they're called 'emojis,' and there's about a zillion."
He had his phone out and was playing with it, adding the extra keyboard, before Emma realized what she'd said. Her heart convulsed: Henry hadn't just gotten her addicted to using the silly little message icons, but had also been the one to show her how to use them. They're so great, Mom, she remembered him saying with enthusiasm, his eyes bright. No one ever needs to try and guess the mood behind your words!
To her relief, it seemed as if Jones hadn't noticed, still tapping on his phone; and after a moment, her own phone buzzed with a text message. It was a string of little emojis: a happy face, a tractor-trailer, a cup of coffee… and a little shower head, with water coming out. Emma snorted, then laughed.
"Truck stop story, huh?" she said.
"Well, maybe not the coffee. This time," Jones answered, grinning. His eyes carried a mild curiosity, but he said no more. She smiled back at him, grateful.
The engine having started, he rose and crouched in the middle compartment, emptying his gym bag methodically. She noticed that he was meticulous about where its contents went: shampoo, soap, razor, and shaving cream into a small upper cabinet, old clothes into a sealed plastic travel bag. There seemed to be little compartments for everything, and she said as much.
"Oh, aye," he replied. "Like I said this morning, lots of OTRs spend a couple of months or more living out of their rigs, so even the standards are designed this way now."
"And yours is a custom model, I take it?" Emma said, amused.
Jones frowned mildly and shook his head. He closed the curtain to the back bay and flumped into his seat, clicking the seatbelt into place. "No, I bought her off the lot. I've just made some minor additions here and there," he said. He tapped the ring on top of the steering wheel by way of illustration, then reached up to the rearview mirror, setting the ancient air freshener and decorative pendant swinging with the flick of a finger.
Emma squinted against the piercing afternoon sun; when she finally made out what the pendant was, her jaw dropped. "No," she said, giving him an exasperated glance. "You can't be serious."
Jones broke into a grin and gave her an irreverent little salute with his left hand, its metal gleaming in the bright light. "Well, when a colorful moniker comes one's way…" he said, with a shrug.
He was so purposefully casual about the little gold skull-and-crossbones hanging from the rearview mirror—although plainly proud of it, Emma thought—that she felt her heart lurch with admiration. "Should I call you 'Captain,' then?" she asked, giggling. She wondered how many people had even been in the cab of this truck, and seen the pendant. It couldn't be that many.
"No," Jones said, in an almost scolding tone, his brows thunderous with fake irritation. "I told you, no formalities. Not even for co-pilots."
Speaking of co-pilots… Emma thought, still laughing. Either he had already planned his route while waiting back at the terminal, or he knew it so well he didn't need it, because he didn't bother pulling out any kind of map or GPS; just shifted into gear and pulled out. Emma waited until they had once more merged onto the highway, in deference to his concentration, before speaking again.
"So I've been pondering," she asked, still aiming for a casual tone, "over how you said you might get fired if your bosses found out you picked up a hitchhiker. And… you went through all the rigamarole of dropping me off, then coming back for me, just to make sure I could keep going with you."
"Uh-huh," Jones said, eyes on the road.
Emma clenched her teeth, gathering her courage. "So then… why did you pick me up in the first place?" she asked.
It came out too accusatory: she wanted to take the words back as soon as they had fallen from her lips, hanging heavy in the quiet cab and ruining the humorous mood. Jones didn't respond for a moment. He looked once as if he might be preparing to answer, but his lips pressed into a thin line.
"I… dunno, I suppose," he answered at last, with a helpless sort of laugh. He glanced over at her, eyes creased in a somewhat confused smile. "I don't usually. And by usually I mean… ever."
"I'm your first?" Emma asked, intrigued.
Jones shot her a narrow glance, full of knowing mockery, and they both laughed at the same time. "Yes, you're the first hitchhiker I think I've ever picked up, at least as an OTR driver," he said, with another smile and a shrug. "I dunno, lass, you just… you looked cold, and lonely, and like…"
He stopped again, huffing out a breath. "You looked rather like the last thing on earth you wanted to do was climb into the front of some randy old trucker's rig," he said a bit more slowly, "but you didn't have much of a choice about it."
Emma started, her breath seizing in surprise. "Anyway," Jones continued, now quickly, as if afraid to stop. "I fancy I'm a bit better-looking that some drivers you might run across. Additionally, I flatter myself that me morals are above standards, too. That you could probably do worse. So… I stopped."
He shrugged again, as if that settled everything, and broke into a crooked grin. Emma boggled again at the simple explanation. How did you know I wouldn't stick a penknife in your neck? she felt like demanding.
But then she realized the staggering amount of trust he'd placed her the night before, when he'd simply gone to sleep and left her to her own devices. He hadn't just made himself vulnerable to Emma attacking or robbing him. He'd placed his life in her hands as to outside dangers, too: had there been an unexpected engine fire or extreme weather, or had someone else tried to break into the cab, Emma would probably have been the first to know it. She may have even been given the choice to save her own skin, or try to wake him, too.
Would she have done so? Emma wanted to think the answer was Yes, of course, but….
"I've got a super-power, you know," she blurted out. Her companion blinked, taken aback. "Not like, comic book powers or whatever," Emma hastily amended, seeing his expression. "But… I almost always know when people are telling the truth. Or lying. Every time."
A short silence passed, the road whishing by, engines revving and dying as they drove around. "And am I telling the truth?" Jones asked, his voice curious.
She nodded; when he continued staring directly forward, at the road, she cleared her throat, the urge to giggle forestalled by the deep, throbbing gratitude threatening to burst from her chest. "Yes, Captain," she said seriously, "you most definitely are."