CHAPTER FIVE
The light faded from the southwestern sky with the setting of the sun, and the cab grew dark once more as they zipped into the western half of Pennsylvania. Emma finished her favorite old book just in time; the moon had begun to rise against a pale blue sunset when she closed the pages, smiling absurdly at the happy ending she had fully known was coming.
Jones, meanwhile, had quietly turned on a public radio station and was listening to the news. Emma reached down to tuck the book back into her bag and shifted to comfortably lean against the window. They had briefly passed through part of the Appalachian mountains, where snow-dotted hills soared above a freeway cradled in the valleys and folds of the range. She had been through the southern Rockies more than once, and had seen pictures of the Alps, but even knowing there were bigger mountains out there she still found herself comforted and slightly awed by the long, uninhabited stretches of trees marching up and down into the horizon.
They were surrounded by a low stretch of hills now, the road moving down a gentle slope toward a town nestled in the valley. The news reader's soporific voice lulled her into a thoughtful mood. What must life be like for the lucky few who lived out their existence in the middle of that mountainous wilderness back north? Even though the highway had been surrounded by forest on all sides, Emma had still observed streetlights and buildings here and there in the distance, miles and miles from the nearest large town.
She sighed, imagining with dreamy content that she could go back for Henry someday and find them a home in just such a little hamlet, isolated from the world by acres of silent trees. He'd be bored to death in two days, she thought with longing and amusement. They said it took a village to raise a child; perhaps that wasn't precisely true for Henry, given that Regina (Emma had to grudgingly admit it) had raised him without the benefit of either family or nanny. But it certainly took a village to entertain Emma's particularly garrulous son, who seemed to have energetically befriended every person in Storeybrooke, children and adults alike.
The sound of the news being read suddenly faded, leaving the cab quiet, and Emma looked over, reluctantly letting her daydream fade away. "If you don't mind, I want to make a quick phone call while we're still coming into town," Jones said. He was fiddling with the controls.
"Sure," she answered, wiggling to sit up straighter in her seat. "Want me to dial for you?"
The road had curved around the base of the hill, leading onto a long, straight stretch in between bare trees and the parallel sweep of telephone wires. "No, but thank you," Jones answered, smiling. "It'll be on speaker, that's all. Can't use the handheld."
Emma nodded, curious. He picked up his phone from the console, eyes flicking briefly to it as he scrolled to find a number, then dialed. There was a breathless pause, then the sound of a phone ringing. Once… twice… three times. She realized there must be a Bluetooth receiver somewhere in the mess of dials and buttons on the dashboard.
At last there was a click, and the sound of a woman's voice. "Killian, my dear," the voice drawled from the speaker, drawing the consonants out with exaggeration. "How is my favorite pirate?"
Jones laughed, eyes back on the road. "Driving, as always, love. And how are the Dalmatians performing?"
The woman responded with a throaty laugh of her own. "Oh, fabulously well, darling. We had a show in Chicago two weeks ago, and we're opening a new branch in Paris next fall."
Emma found herself paying rapt attention, amused by the woman's old-fashioned enunciation and fascinated at the idea of her down-to-earth trucker companion being friends with what sounded like a high-class dog trainer. Or maybe that bit about the Dalmatians was a metaphor? Either way, the woman sounded like an actress from the golden age of Hollywood.
"That's wonderful news," Jones was exclaiming. He glanced at Emma, shaking his head with a grin. "Any chance you're in town? I'm passing through tonight, and it would be lovely to see you."
"Oh, no, that's out of the question," said the woman, with a sigh. "I'll be awfully sorry to miss you, dear, but we're on tour right now, the press release for Isaac's latest novel. It's made the New York Times bestseller list, you know. I'm just exhausted of the cameras."
Emma's companion laughed again; she hid a smile as he rolled his eyes fondly. "I'm sure you are, Ella," he joked, teasing. "You just don't have anything to wear, right?"
The woman chuckled at his imitation of her voice. "You know me so well, Captain," she remarked dryly. Then her tone perked, and she added, "You're more than welcome to stay at the house, though. You know where the key is."
"I do, but I don't think that's necessary," Jones answered. He paused for a moment, steering the truck through the left lane to pass a few cars, then continued, "I appreciate the offer, but at the most, I might just park the old girl in the driveway overnight. Bill and Eddy are both off with family for the season, so there's no reason to stick around town too long."
"Well, that's up to you, dear," said Ella tenderly. "Do tell me next time you're in town, though? We'll make a night of it."
"I will," Jones assured her. "And my deepest thanks again for the offer. Give Isaac and the girls my best?"
The deep, throaty laugh came again. "Of course. Mwah, darling. Talk to you soon!"
Emma, who had never heard someone unironically use the word 'mwah' in conversation, bit her lip to keep from laughing as Jones bid the woman farewell and hung up. She waited a few moments, watching him smile fondly, the shadow of a dimple showing in his cheek.
"So, uh," she said at last, trying to sound innocent. "A friend named Ella, who has Dalmatians…?"
Jones broke into a wide grin, snorting a laugh. "That's just a joke. She's really a fashion designer. With three beagles and a husband, in that order," he explained with amusement. "But like I said before… when a colorful moniker comes your way…"
"You might as well embrace it," Emma finished for him, and he nodded in agreement.
"You know how it is with friends, too," he added, with a shrug. Emma thought he might be blushing, but the inside of the cab had grown too dark with the setting of the sun to really tell. "As soon as one person in the crew has a nickname, everyone else ends up with one, as well."
Emma made a hmm noise in response, pondering. She really didn't have any idea what that was like: she had never belonged to a tightly knit group before. Bouncing from family to family had tended to discourage her from making too many friends in any place. And the few close friends she had made… well, she hadn't kept in touch with any of them. With sorrow, she thought of Lily; of that one perfect night, when it had seemed like she could have a bestie, someone close enough to be a sister.
Jones interrupted her thoughts as he cleared his throat. "Well, anyway," he said, sounding apologetic. "I suppose that settles tonight. I don't like staying at someone's house when they're not home, especially not when it's a house with thirty thousand alarm systems and everything decked out in white leather. But it's a nice quiet spot to park the rig for the night. In the morning I can stop at my post office box, then we can be on our way west."
Emma nodded, with another agreeable noise. She was surprised to find that the thought of spending another night in the snug little bunk behind them was reassuring. At the very least, it was safe, and she would sleep at ease, knowing Jones was snoring comfortably on the floor below.
The highway brought them to their destination not long after that, the truck trundling up a long hill and into the beginning of a long series of car dealerships, grocery stores, and gas stations, bright oases of light in the dark evening. Emma could tell they were coming into a city by the faint orange glow reflecting from the low clouds above, and as they slowed to a halt at a red light, she peered out the window at a huge, brightly lit modern hospital to their left. UPMC Monroeville, said the neat neon lettering across its glass front.
With the glow of streetlights illuminating the cab, she had already noticed a soft expression stealing across Jones' face, and now she could see his body relaxing as his eyes fixed on the brilliant hospital. Emma was envious and gratified at the same time; from what he had told her, this city was the closest thing he had to a home town. She thought about Storeybrooke, the familiar narrow roads weaving into town amidst the trees and the large wooden sign welcoming visitors, and felt a pang, knowing that Jones must be happily recognizing the familiar sights as they entered into his city.
They slowly made their way from stoplight to stoplight, passing more brightly lit businesses and restaurants. Jones finally spoke, his voice low and calm. "Any thoughts about where you'd like to have dinner?"
Emma opened her mouth to respond, but the surprise of being asked for advice sent her thoughts into a confused jumble. "Um… not really," she finally answered. A sturdy stone-fronted bank on her side of the rig had a display blaring from its front sign, words scrolling across the digital marquee. The time and temperature blinked forth, and Emma, lulled by the comfortable warmth of the cab, was astonished to read that it was below freezing outside.
"Well, there are a lot of very nice Indian buffets at this end of town," Jones offered cautiously, glancing at her. "Or we could go for pizza, pasta, maybe Mediterranean food…?" He gestured out the window; they were, in fact, passing a little strip mall with advertisements for a tandoori restaurant and a Greek restaurant side-by-side.
Her stomach rumbled at the dual thoughts of savory gyros and butter chicken; but it reminded her that he was probably famished, too. "Anywhere is fine," Emma said reluctantly. She knew she wasn't being particularly useful, but was helpless to make any kind of suggestion. "Just take me to your favorite place."
To her surprise, Jones laughed. "Are you sure you want to subject yourself to my terrible tastes, lass?" he asked, teasing. "I doubt you'll be impressed."
The joking, affectionate way he spoke suddenly filled Emma with lonely desire. Here was a man who traveled hundreds of miles each day for a living, yet who plainly knew one city better than the rest; and at the moment, she wanted nothing more than to accompany him to a place he loved.
"I don't need to be impressed," she responded, and swallowed her sorrow, making an attempt to smile. "I'm so hungry I could eat anything right now."
He dipped his head in a nod of acknowledgement, the faint smile lingering on his features. "All right, then," he said warmly. The road dipped downward, leading past another series of strip malls and gas stations, and he clicked on the turn signal, steering into an exit lane.
Jones surprised her again: when they subsequently pulled off the main road, it was into the parking lot of an ugly, squat little green-roofed brick building, wedged between an auto body shop and a garage that advertised car detailing. Emma blinked, craning her neck as Jones carefully inched the truck longways against a hillside and turned off the engine. "Not much to look at, is it?" he remarked, amused.
"Ah," Emma responded, somewhat at a loss. "It looks… homey?"
He chuckled and pocketed his keys, giving her a teasing little eyebrow waggle, then cracked his door. They trudged toward the building; Emma, busy pulling her coat close around her against the freezing damp, didn't notice the name of the restaurant. But as they drew close to the front entrance, she glanced up. Her mouth dropped open.
She looked over at Jones; he was biting his lip, plainly enjoying her reaction. Emma looked up again at the enormous smiling… "A cookie?" she asked, blankly. Yes, it was a circular neon sign the size of a small car, but in the shape of what was ostensibly a frosted cookie with a jovial icing smile.
He nodded with a grin and reached forward and opened the front door for her, gesturing politely for her to precede him. "Local chain," he explained with a shrug, and shivered as the door swished shut behind them. "It's sort of their mascot. Cheery, eh?"
Inside, the restaurant was much more welcoming than the exterior suggested. Wood flooring beneath their feet and soft incandescent light made the lobby feel rather like a living room, albeit one with a glass counter, beneath which were displayed a number of fluffy pies and flaky pastries. "Hi there! Welcome!" exclaimed a black-clad young woman, standing behind the hostess stand like the captain of a ship. Emma couldn't help but smile back; the girl couldn't be more than seventeen or eighteen. "Just two?"
"Just two," Jones confirmed, giving her a friendly nod. The girl tittered—Lord love her, there's no other word for that noise, Emma thought with amusement—then pulled out a pair of menus and led them to a slightly cramped booth. It was late, long past the dinner rush, and most of the other patrons were also teenagers, giggling and drinking milkshakes.
"Your server will be right with you," the hostess said politely, and retreated from the table.
Emma wormed out of her coat, squashing it into the corner of her side of the booth; Jones was doing the same across from her. He took off his hat and set it atop his coat, riffling a hand through his hair.
"So… this is your place, huh?" she asked cautiously, looking around. There were plants in the corners and prints of city vistas on the walls, and although it plainly wasn't a new establishment, the leather cushions of the booths were clean, the tables well-polished, and napkins neatly rolled around the utensils at each place setting.
Jones made an agreeable noise in response, shrugging and picking up his menu. He regarded it for only a moment before setting it back down and gazing around with soft eyes. "I dunno, it's not much," he admitted. "But every time I go to one of these places anywhere in the city, it's the same: looks the same, smells the same, all the same food on the menu, same sort of customers and waitresses. Makes the ground feel a little more solid under my feet, if you know what I mean."
"Yeah," Emma said softly. That was a feeling she did know: sometimes all it took was a bleary chain gas station sign, and she was suddenly comforted by the memory of a reliable sanctuary, an island of familiarity and cheap food in the unpredictable life of a runaway foster kid.
Their waitress—equally youthful, equally chirpy—came by briefly to take their drink orders and recite the specials. Emma noticed with amusement that even the girl's nametag had one of the sunny, happy-faced cookies on it. The place for smiles! read a line on the bottom of the tag. Abruptly Jones' text message of earlier that day, the absurd little smiley face, popped into her mind, and she giggled.
"What?" he asked, his expression warm.
Emma shook her head. "Nothing," she said hastily, taking a deep breath through her nose and managing to summon her dignity. She offered a crooked smile of her own and picked up her menu, adoring the earnest flush that had once more risen to his cheeks. "So. What's good here?"
Their boots scuffed in tandem as they crossed back through the empty parking lot, sounding too loud in the quiet chill of the evening. "Good dinner?" Jones asked, his breath misting away in a frosty cloud.
"You know it was," Emma answered with a smile. It had been so simultaneously nothing like Granny's and exactly like Granny's that she had found herself ordering grilled cheese and hot cocoa out of sheer habit. And both had been delicious, comforting in a way she hadn't expected.
They had briefly chatted before their food arrived, but mainly they had just enjoyed one another's quiet company and eaten. Jones had spent much of the peaceful meal looking around the restaurant with a soft light in his eyes that told Emma he really was delighted to be there.
"Good," he said now, pulling out his keys, casting a fond glance over his shoulder at the restaurant, its walls glowing off-white in the light of the smiling cookie. They climbed back into the truck, and were soon slowly rolling back onto the road. Emma pulled her jacket close around her, still chilled from the short walk between the diner and the rig.
"Thanks, by the way," she said, once more feeling shy. The waitress had only dropped off one check at the end of the meal. Before Emma could stop him, Jones had wordlessly swept it up and strode to the register to pay.
He smiled. "My treat, love," he assured her. He was blushing, she saw as they passed under a white streetlamp, his cheeks flushed. "It's where I would have gone if I was on me own, so… I'm just glad you liked it."
As always, his self-deprecating tone soothed the sting of her pride a little. Emma had wrongly hoped her self-consciousness would fade once she finally found a ride out of Bangor: that once she was totally reliant on a stranger for transportation, she wouldn't mind so much if he was spending money on her, too. She still hated it. But even though she still felt guilty every time Jones opened up his wallet for her, at least he made her feel like he was genuinely happy to help.
"I bet you would have bought one of those cookies, though," she said, hoping to make him laugh. The entire front register had been populated with the silly things, decorated in all colors of the rainbow.
He did laugh, and she felt the clench in her stomach lessen as the lines around his eyes crinkled, cheeks creasing into dimples. "Probably more like a whole box," he admitted, still chuckling. "I would have eaten them all by morning, too."
Emma snorted at the thought. In fact, he'd eaten sparingly at the diner, with table manners equally as neat (prim, even) as his dress and speech; she could hardly imagine him housing an entire box of sugary desserts.
The cab grew dark as they putted down the road and into a residential section of town. Emma couldn't stop marveling at how dexterously Jones steered the long rig down the winding route, his face calm despite the narrow shoulder and poor visibility. Then again, from the sound of his conversation with the dramatic Ella, he had been down this road many times.
"Where did you and your friend Ella meet?" she blurted, feeling her face grow hot, thankful for the darkness.
"Hmm?" Jones answered, distracted. Then he chuckled. "Oh. Well, to make a long story short, I made a delivery for her company that got lost at the terminal, and had to produce the logs to prove it wasn't my fault. It was when she'd just started out in business, so she took it quite personally. That was the first and last time I ever had a broker's customer show up right at the terminal to yell in my face."
Emma chuckled, picturing a woman in black and white furs and sky-high heels stamping into a cinderblock building, gesturing with a cigarette holder as she swore oaths. "Not exactly a congenial start, then," she remarked.
"Quite the opposite," her companion answered cheerfully. "But once she realized it was the terminal manager at fault, and recognized a fellow Brit, she took me out for a drink as an apology. And we've been mates ever since. It's… an odd sort of friendship, I admit."
"Sometimes those are the best," Emma said quietly, thinking with grief of Cleo; of a strange friendship that had lived barely two days, but had given her a lifetime's worth of self-realization.
Jones made an agreeable noise in response, eyes sharp on the road. A cement road turned off the main route ahead, and he swung them onto it, the wheels rumbling pleasantly on the smooth pavement. It was even darker here, no streetlights to guide them and the only illumination from the truck's headlights; Private Property, read a delicate metal sign on the hillside edge of the road.
The house belonging to the driveway appeared before long; Emma hadn't thought she made a noise, but Jones glanced over, the corner of his mouth curling. "Lovely, isn't it?" he said, admiring.
"It's big," Emma agreed halfheartedly, staring at the enormous colonial-style house, flanked on the left by a full-size greenhouse and on the right by an intricate English garden. She could see a stone-laid path to a large gazebo in the back lawn, which sloped downwards into the woods. Not her style of house—and too isolated. But it was immaculately kept, at any rate.
The driveway wound a full circle past the front door and back, a fountain sitting in the middle of the roundabout. Jones brought the truck all the way through the loop and halted, the cab facing back out into the driveway, before turning off the headlights, then the engine.
"Well," he said simply. "This is our stop."
Emma stared out into the blackness of the night, listening to the engine wheeze as it cooled. It wasn't pitch-dark, precisely; she could still see the faint orange glow of the city overhead, and there were twinkling lights beyond the trees, evidence of other residences. But it was certainly the darkest night she had seen in a long time.
"Do you ever…." she began, then hesitated.
Jones said nothing, and his face was little more than a dim black blur in the unlit cab. But she could hear him breathing, and could sense him patiently waiting, perhaps with his brows raised in that open expression she liked so much. So at last she continued, softly, "Do you ever get lonely, once the engine's off and it's this quiet?"
To his credit, he didn't hesitate, although first she heard a quiet hmph noise, not quite a laugh. "Yes, sometimes," he replied, almost too quietly to be heard over the ticking of the engine. Emma's heart wrenched: why had she asked such a hurtful question?
"But," he added abruptly, with more of a smile in his voice, "I like the quiet. And of all the unhappy conditions a man can face in life… I can bear loneliness the best."
Emma heard him get up, and there was a crack and shuffle of plastic as he unsnapped and pulled aside the back curtain of the cab. As he began the familiar process of kicking off his boots with dual clunks, then rustling around in his floor bed, she reached into her pocket and curled her fingers around her phone, her throat abruptly thick with emotion. He was right: there were worse things in the world than loneliness.
"See you in the morning, lass," he said, and she heard the smile again.
She was dreaming; she knew she was dreaming, her mind stubbornly aware that this was impossible. But that didn't stop her thighs from clenching, or her hands from fisting. The cave was more bitterly frigid than anyplace she had ever been in her life. Emma looked around wildly, past the glittering stalactites and banks of white snow, trying to find the exit. There was none; and she was alone, so cold she couldn't feel her body.
Someone was distantly calling her name from outside the cave; a male voice, frantic with worry. Emma slowly sat down on the floor and curled up, her chin touching her chest. She was too frozen to answer, her jaw uncontrollably quivering and her whole body wracked with shivers. Huddled on the floor of the cave, she pressed herself to the rock wall and closed her eyes. If only she had a friend with her… then at least she wouldn't have to die alone.
The voice grew louder, more gentle. "Just go back to sleep, lass," it said. And abruptly she felt an arm reaching across her body, heard the shff of fabric swishing. She opened her eyes to try and see who it was, but everything was darkness.
Groggy and still shivering, she rubbed her eyes, squinting. Then the familiar smell of citrus and cedar filtered through her sleepy consciousness, and she realized where she was.
"What—" she said, her tongue thick. Her eyes had begun to adjust to the dim light, and as the hand withdrew from the bunk, she could see a faint black figure moving against the blue darkness beyond. She tried to reach for the hand, but it was already gone.
"It's all right. Sleep, love," said Jones again; his quiet voice was somehow both the same as the one in her dream, but different. His silhouette disappeared, and she could hear him faintly grunting as he worked his way back into the compartment beneath. A thunk, a brief "ouch," and then all was silent again.
Emma sat up a little, bemused; her blanket was somehow heavier before. Reaching her hand down, she brushed her fingers against plump nylon. She realized he had put his own sleeping bag across her while she slept; it was still warm from the heat of his body.
"No, wait," she said indignantly, and leaned over the edge of the bunk. "I can't take this, you'll freeze your butt off." The cab was frigid, and although the air was perfectly still inside, she could see that the windshield was ever so lightly rimed with white frost.
After a moment of impatient silence, followed by a sigh, Jones spoke, a disembodied voice from below. "I'll be fine. I've got my coat on. I'm not going to lie here and listen to you shiver, Swan. They could probably hear your teeth chattering back in Boston."
"But—"
"Lass," he interrupted gently. "It's my ruddy bunk and my ruddy blanket. Go to sleep."
Emma opened her mouth, but couldn't think of any response. Even thought he had spoken softly, his tone carried a hint of steely finality: he was not about to argue. There was a rustle, as if he had rolled over and turned his back on her, and she heard him let out a long breath. The horrible, lonely dream was still too strong in her mind, and she shrank back under the warm covers with a sinking sensation, torn between guilt and comfort.
She was too tired to resist any further, and already felt herself drifting off in a haze of warm relief. Tucking her nose under the blanket, she yawned briefly and allowed her eyes to fall closed. The last thought that went through her head was that she would thank him tomorrow.
She was trapped in the ice cave once more, but this time with a friend. Who was she? Emma didn't know; the woman had soft violet eyes and glossy white-blonde hair, and she was dressed like she was going to a costume party, her sky-blue gown long and spangled with silver snowflakes.
You have to stay awake, Emma, the woman urged, he forehead creased with worry. Her slim warm hand caressed Emma's face like the whisper of wind; why wasn't she cold? Wake up!
And like that, Emma blinked and sat up a little, the top of her head meeting the cab's wall with a gentle thud. She shook her head, the dream evaporating once again. It was still dark outside the cab, the night nowhere near dawn; she wasn't as cold as before, but her nose and feet felt like icicles.
The absolute silence suddenly chilled her, and she rose to her elbows, pulling the blanket and sleeping bag tight. Her heart thudding in her ears, she listened to try and make out any sound at all, hardly able to breathe. But there was nothing, not even the tiny soft snore she'd heard last night, and her nerves began to jangle. Dear lord, what if he's frozen to death down there? she wondered, half-panicked.
All rational thought seemed to flee, and Emma found herself crawling down from the bunk, hissing as the warmth from the blanket disappeared all too quickly, despite her heavy sweater and socks. She crouched between the seats, too worried to feel foolish, and peered helplessly into the pitch-black nook under the bunk.
"Jones?" she whispered, her hand wavering in the air as she hesitated to reach in and touch him. No response. "Killian…?" Her whisper was louder this time. What would she say if he actually did wake up? Emma didn't know, her nerves frazzling.
Still nothing, though; she took a breath, biting back her dread. Carefully she let her hand drift forward, and her fingers bumped the rough fabric of his coat sleeve. She drew her hand up his arm to his shoulder, then to the back of his head. He had the coat's hood pulled tightly over his hair.
With relief, she finally caught the sound of his breathing, ever so quiet, a bare hiss of air. But she could also feel a fine frisson running through him, and with every other breath there was a slight hitch as he shivered in his sleep. Hesitantly, she gripped his shoulder and gently shook him. He didn't wake; and there was no response except a small exhalation, too quiet to be called a moan, but with the same mournful quality.
Emma sat motionless for a long moment, her hand still laid on his shoulder. At last something in her snapped. She reached up to drag both blankets and her pillow down from the upper bunk. "Fuck it," she said to herself softly, and pushed the bunk up, locking it.
She knelt back down, and swallowed a curse as something dug painfully into her knee. Reaching down, she touched cold metal and realized it was his hook, laid behind him. Knowing she had no right to mess with his belongings, Emma nevertheless picked up the prosthesis by the brace and, twisting around, gingerly hung it from the steering wheel, the hook looped over and the buckles dangling. He's going to be upset when he wakes up anyway, she thought with an internal sigh. And I'm not sleeping with his friggin' hand poking into my side.
Jones was scrunched on his side within the compartment, and Emma was able to squeeze in just behind him, spoons-fashion, their bodies just barely touching. The cold was already starting to seep through her clothes, and with a shiver, she dragged the covers over both of them, pulling the bottom of the blanket down with her toes so their legs were underneath.
She froze as he stirred briefly, sniffing and turning his head slightly. But as she laid still—breathless, her hands clasped to her chest—he relaxed once more, with a wheezing noise that made her want to giggle. Emma turned her face into the pillow, inhaling the faint scent of his hair and wishing she didn't feel so perfectly comfortable doing so.
Lying this close to Jones, she could feel the expansion of his chest as he breathe. He was already beginning to stop shivering. Drowsy and content, her mind began to spin pleasantly as the blissful warmth crept back through her. At least if he throws me off the rig tomorrow morning, she thought with bitter amusement, I can start over in a decent-sized city.
This time, she slept soundly and without dreams, cocooned in the cozy pocket of warmth for what felt like days. Some time later, there was a bleeping noise, faint and only mildly obnoxious; she was too snug and relaxed to pay it much attention. As her mind began to take notice of the waking world again, the morning light filtering dimly through her eyelids, she felt Jones moving next to her.
No, no, no, her mind whined. Just a little longer…
But he jerked, twisting and sitting up on one elbow. There was a long exhalation, followed by silence. "Oh, shit," he said softly.
The word jolted Emma to wakefulness; but she laid still, keeping her eyes closed, unwilling yet to admit that she was also awake. Unease crept into the pit of her stomach, even as she breathed softly, her body beginning to tingle with anticipation.
He said nothing further, and the cab was silent for a long while. She wondered what he must be thinking. In the close quarters of the sleeper compartment, she felt like a fool—crawling into a stranger's bed in the middle of the night? invading his private space without so much as asking for permission? It was something a frightened child (or a trembling animal) might have done.
When he finally moved, it was with slow care, silently edging out from beneath the covers. He got to his feet and stepped over her, out into the cab. She heard little cracks from his knees as he knelt down, and the blankets were lightly adjusted, pulled up to her chin and tucked more snugly around her. Then he was silent for another moment, just kneeling next to her. There was a smooth swish, as of a hand combing through hair. "Shit," he whispered again, his voice ringing this time with disbelief.
Emma laid still, astonished, as he got up, opened a cabinet to briefly riffle through his belongings, then clambered over the driver's seat and out of the truck altogether. The door closed with a firm clunk, and she was left alone.
Slowly, she rolled over, finally opening her eyes. It was still frigid inside the cab, but a bright morning light had dawned, suffusing the little sleeper compartment with a hazy glow. Emma stared up at the ceiling of the cab, tracing the lines of the compartment to try and calm her suddenly queasy stomach. What if Jones really did kick her out of the rig here? She supposed Pittsburgh wasn't much worse than any other city, but something clenched inside her at the thought of having offended him.
Sitting up, she gasped as a sharp line of pain traced down the back of her neck and shoulder, disappearing quickly but leaving an uncomfortable heat behind. And of top of everything, I managed to give myself a really nice crick in the neck, she thought miserably.
Emma crawled carefully out of the compartment, wincing as the movement jarred the tender spot, and perched on the edge of the driver's seat. It had to still be freezing outside, but she could see Jones standing at the edge of the wood, industriously brushing his teeth. She watched as he pulled a water bottle from his pocket to rinse his mouth, then spit in a neat arc. His hook was still dangling casually from the driver's seat, the metal buckles glinting in the sunlight.
Then he wiped his mouth, turned on his heel, and marched back toward the truck, head down so that she was unable to see her expression. Emma clenched her jaw, grasping the seat with both hands and steeling herself against the urge to hide.
The door groaned open again; she waited until Jones had clambered up into the cab before inhaling to speak. But he beat her to it, looking up with surprise. "Oh, sorry," he said breathlessly. "Did I wake you?"
Emma paused for a moment, then slowly shrugged, not willing to lie. "Well, the post office won't be open for a couple of hours," Jones continued, as good-naturedly blasé as if nothing had happened. "But we can go grab breakfast, and if you need a bathr—"
"I'm sorry," Emma blurted out. He blinked and looked at her with wide eyes, in the middle of stowing his toothbrush back into his shaving kit. She couldn't meet his gaze, and stared down at her hands instead. "I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have…"
She paused, and hesitated for what must have been a moment too long. Gently, he asked, "I suppose you mean for cohabiting the floor with me last night, love?"
With the act so forgivingly phrased, Emma managed to make herself look up again. Jones was smiling faintly, still not in the least perturbed. "It's fine. My fault anyway," he announced, brows raised, and finished zipping the shaving kit, then got up to stow it away again. "It's been so long since I traveled with anyone that I've forgotten how cold it can get in here when the temperature drops. And I'm not used to carrying supplies for another person, either. We'll stop along the way, get you a proper sleeping bag of your own."
He offered a friendly, crooked grin before sitting back down. Emma was astonished at how neatly he had wrapped up the situation: they had merely been sharing bodily warmth out of sheer necessity. But more importantly…. it appeared she was still welcome to continue traveling with him.
There wasn't much she could say. "All right," she responded quietly, almost wanting to cry with relief.
Jones flashed a glance her way as he took off his coat and plucked his hook from the steering wheel. Hastily, Emma bent to retrieve her boots from the floor, and took her time putting them on, hearing his soft grunts as he rolled up his sleeve and worked the brace on, the snaps of the buckles, then the rustle of his coat once more. When she finally sat back up, lightly stamping her boots, he had finished, his cheeks slightly flushed.
"Off we go again," he said cheerfully, and reached forward to start the engine.