CHAPTER EIGHT

Don't freeze out there, huh? Good advice, but hard to follow, Emma thought sourly, as they left the warm, comfortingly grease-scented air of the bar behind. It had already been cold outside when they arrived, but the temperature seemed to have dropped even further while they were inside, and a light snow was falling. She pulled her coat's hood up with one hand, then returned it to Jones' arm, keeping a firm grip with all ten fingers.

He wasn't staggering anymore, although as they walked slowly across the parking lot, threading through cars and trucks, his steps were slightly uneven. Not that she was perfectly steady, herself; Emma could still feel the beer pounding through her veins, making her a little dizzy. Their breath formed clouds in the freezing air, and Emma longed to call a cab, even just for a fifteen-minute walk.

"You can… let go of me now," Jones said breathlessly.

"No, I can't," Emma said coldly, the frigid air making her throat clutch. She continued clutching his left arm with both hands, tightly enough that she could feel the muscles of his upper arm standing out beneath his coat, and the hard edge of the brace where it ended just below his elbow.

He sighed, sounding both resigned and mournful, but didn't pull away. "I'm not going to let you fall off the edge of the road and die," Emma said insistently.

Jones laughed softly at that, but didn't answer. They made their way onto the berm of the road, between the white line and the guardrail; a little snow was sticking to the asphalt, making their footsteps crunch. They walked for a while without talking, puffing in the cold, intermittently bumping against one another. Several times, cars passed, their headlights momentarily blinding Emma before the vehicle rushed past in a whoosh of icy wind, swirling snow up.

It didn't seem to be long before they were halfway, on a stretch of road lined on either side by trees, the street lights spaced broadly so that each was a small pool of light in the inky darkness. The guardrail was still there to guide them, though, its silver shining dimly on their left. Emma was wondering if she should pull out her phone to use as a flashlight, when suddenly she noticed that her companion's breathing had become somewhat ragged.

"You okay?" she asked.

Jones didn't answer; after a moment he hitched a breath and stopped walking. "No. I think…" he said faintly, then broke away from her, staggering to the guardrail and bending over it, making small choking noises.

Emma closed her eyes and took a deep breath, steeling herself, then stepped up behind him and grabbed him around the middle. She held on tightly as he threw up, hoping to keep him from falling right over the rail and into the woods.

When it seemed like he'd finished, she helped him sit down on the guardrail. He slowly pulled a bandanna from his back pocket and wiped his mouth. "Sorry," he said again, and tucked it away. Emma could barely see his face in the darkness, but he sounded exhausted, not to mention miserable.

Tamping down her irritation, she sat next to him, folding her arms and shivering. "It's okay," she said reluctantly. "Are you sure you don't have a concussion?"

He was silent, but she could tell he was nodding. "Yes," he said, after a moment. "I've been concussed before, lass. That was just… beer. And the adrenaline finally fading, I suppose. Then he sighed, bending over, and added, "I just need to sit for a moment."

Emma didn't reply, just pulled her coat tighter and buried her nose in her scarf. That motel had better have the heat cranked, she thought, grumpy.

"Are you cold?" came the sudden inquiry. Emma's eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness, and she could see Jones looking at her with worry, eyes reflecting the moonlight.

"Of course I'm cold," she snapped irritably. "It's two freaking degrees out."

He shifted, moving in a rustle of cloth. "Uh-uh," Emma said, warning, and grabbed his arm again. "No way are you taking your coat off and giving it to me. I am not dragging your frozen ass back to that crappy motel just because you want to make a gallant gesture. I'll warm up once we get moving, anyway."

Jones was silent; Emma wondered if she had been too sharp. At last he heaved a breath and slowly levered himself up off the guardrail.

She didn't take his arm this time, and they trudged along together silently, side-by-side, for the rest of the walk. The streetlights became less spaced-out as they approached the area of the motel, lighting a gas station here and a dark, empty municipal building there. Across the street from the motel, light spilled yellow and warm from the windows of a liquor store, the only open establishment in its garbagey little strip mall. Emma felt a twinge of unease; and abruptly, her guts twisted with loathing as she realized what it reminded her of. It looked very much like a certain roadway in Portland… and the crummy little motel where she'd gotten pregnant at seventeen years of age.

Jones dug into his pocket for the key—a real key with a plastic fob, Emma saw, just like at Granny's—as they plodded up to the door of their room. Emma hadn't taken more than a brief look inside before they left for the bar, and had just slung her duffel bag onto one of the beds. The door cracked open now, and Jones flicked on the light, illuminating the two beds, sitting on a faded flower-patterned brown carpet. There were no pictures or lights on the walls, just an ugly utilitarian lamp sitting on the middle bedside table, a beat-up dresser with an ancient cathode-ray television on top, and a smeared mirror. Emma looked at the beds more closely and made a face; there were cigarette burns on the top covers.

But, a bed was a bed, and at least it was warm inside. Emma flopped onto one mattress with relief as the door clashed shut behind them. Jones wordlessly tossed the key onto his own bed and arrowed straight for the bathroom, shedding his coat as he went.

Emma picked up the remote control sitting on the bedside table and tried it; to her irritation, it didn't work. She got up and hit the power button to the television; the screen remained grey and blank. Well… they didn't really need a television.

There was a loud curse from the bathroom, startling her. Jones staggered out, rebounding off the wall opposite. His face was twisted in disgust, and he slammed the door shut. "Don't go in there," he said shortly.

"Why?" Emma asked, but she knew the answer before he said it.

"Roaches. And mold," he said succinctly, stomping over to the dresser and sitting heavily on it, reaching for the ancient rotary phone next to the television. A rotary phone, for god's sake! Emma hadn't seen one of those in ages, and wondered if it could even dial outside the hotel. Slowly she stood up from the sagging bed, dusting off her coat, and looked suspiciously down at the unsavory bedspread, wondering if there were bedbugs, too.

Jones was dialing a number into it, and there was a brief silence as he waited. "Yes, we're going to need a different room," he said at last, curtly. There was another pause, his face changing from annoyance to outrage during the interval. "What? Why the hell not?" he demanded.

Emma groaned. She took her phone from her pocket; it was nearly dead, but she pulled up the mapping app, thumbing around to look for another motel.

As Jones hung up the phone with a satisfying slam—that was one thing cellphones lacked, Emma thought—she said cautiously, "There's a Super 8 about fifteen miles away."

"Good," he said briskly, shoving his arms into his coat. "I'm going to go to the front desk to get my damned money back. Then I'm calling a cab, if there is one in this godforsaken armpit of humanity. Apparently every room in this entire foul location is booked, but I'm not staying to be crawled on by roaches. Can you get the phone number?"

"Already got it," Emma said firmly, and picked up her duffel bag. "Let's get the hell out of here."

The desk clerk yawned, not bothering to hide it. She couldn't be more than eighteen, hair tied in a messy braid and spilling over one shoulder of her polo shirt. "Yeah, we should have a couple rooms left," she said, and yawned again, squinting at the computer screen and clicking the mouse in a desultory manner.

Jones said nothing, but Emma could feel him quivering with impatience and rage. Despite his best efforts, he hadn't gotten his fee back at the other motel, and they had arrived at the Super 8 to find that it was completely booked. Mystified, they had checked the internet to find out why the town was so crowded, and had discovered that some kind of major country music star had put on a show at an amphitheatre just outside in the city that day, attracting enough crowds that all the suburban motels were jammed.

This motel, a rinky-dink little sprawl of rooms that seemed barely better than the wretched Bluebird, had been the only place to answer Emma's phone call with the admission that they might be able to help, having had a cancellation or two.

"Yup, y'all are in luck," said the girl now, and Jones let out a breath, his shoulders sagging. "We got two rooms left. Smoking okay?"

"It's fine," Emma blurted, before Jones could reply. The clerk glanced up, her jaw moving slowly as she chewed her gum. Emma tried her best to smile, and added, "As long as it's clean, we'll take it."

The clerk shrugged, going back to the computer. The plastic nametag pinned to her shirt said Beth Ann, with a little smiley face at the end. Emma felt an inexplicably nostalgic longing for the cramped booths of Jones' favorite restaurant.

"Aright," the clerk said at last, and looked back up. "ID for whoever's paying?"

Jones dug for his wallet; Emma didn't even bother reaching for her phone case, knowing he'd just brush off her offer to pay. Again. The clerk made a token effort to cover another monstrous yawn, taking Jones' ID and credit card. She went back to typing, slowly pecking at the keys with two fingers.

Emma looked around the lobby. Well… maybe it was a little better than the other motel. The couches and counters were clean, at any rate, with a shelf of neatly arranged brochures showing colorful pictures of local attractions. There was a coffee maker on one counter, with stacks of cups and a basket of coffee accoutrements next to it. In the corner, a computer terminal sat beside a printer; both older machines, but the computer's monitor was open to a home-screen and it looked functional.

"Okey dokey," said the girl at last, giving them a tired sort of half-smile, obviously faked. "Y'all are in number eighteen, all the way down on the left."

She handed a keycard to Jones, and added, "Receipt will be under your door in the morning."

"Thank you, lass," he said quietly, and Emma saw him try to smile in return.

They retreated from the lobby, bracing against the frigid gust of wind as they went back outside. The parking lot was quiet and empty, and Emma realized their sullen cab driver had left. "That rat bastard," she muttered, and Jones grunted in agreement. So much for making him promise to stay, she thought furiously. This motel was ten miles from the last, but it wasn't as if they'd stiffed the driver on a tip; on the contrary, Emma had handed him an extra five bucks.

They stood in front of the motel room door; she could see that Jones was shivering now, too, as he swiped the keycard in the slot. A gust of warm air purled out as he cracked the door, and both of them sighed with relief. He leaned in and turned the light on, then groaned.

"What? What is it?" Emma asked. Jones stepped into the room and let her pass by, closing the door behind them.

There was only one bed. Given, it was a king-size, and neatly made with a snowy white duvet; but it sat alone in the middle of the room, seeming to mock them. Emma let out a long breath and dropped her duffel bag to the floor, wanting to throw herself on it anyway. The room itself was equally inviting, decorated plainly with pictures of landscapes, a small flat-screen television mounted on the wall atop a mini-fridge. She could barely even tell it was a smoking room, the smell so faint she may not have noticed if the clerk hadn't said something.

"I'll go back out and see about getting the other room," Jones said tonelessly, but didn't move.

Emma was at a loss to reply for a moment, and looked up at him. He looked as tired as she felt, his eyes hooded and his shoulders slouched. The pleasant swimming sensation of the beer had long since faded, leaving her mouth fuzzy and sour-tasting. "Don't," she said at last, helpless.

He shot her a glance, brows raised. "It's probably the same," she said, with a shrug. "Anyway. We're grown adults. It won't kill us to sleep on the same flat surface for one night."

Again, she forbore from adding, not wanting to recall the awkwardness. Jones looked away, eyes moving over the bed. He was silent, but his chest heaved as if he was struggling. Emma felt like begging. Please, let's just take what we got, she pleaded silently.

At last he sighed and nodded, dropping his own bag with a soft thud, slowly eeling out of his coat. "Let me check the bathroom first, aye?" he said, and she could see the faint amusement in his eyes.

Emma smiled, and shucked her own coat with relief, tossing it onto one of the two chairs near the window and pulling off her boots. The carpet was soft under her stockinged feet, and she could smell lemon cleaner. She reached down into her bag to pull out one of the water bottles, still mostly full from their last stop. Tipping her head back, she chugged half of it, washing away the last of the beer aftertaste.

The room was a simple setup; door on the left, bed in the right middle, with the television across from it, and the bathroom at the back, with a large mirror and low counter outside. Emma felt a little leap of excitement to see a hair dryer hanging on the wall, and a little tray of complimentary shampoos and soaps. Lord, she thought with bitter amusement, the things that get a homeless girl excited…

Jones emerged from the room at the back corner, and plunked his shaving kit onto the ledge. "We're all right," he said. He was still slumped with exhaustion as he trudged back toward her, but a corner of his mouth turned up.

"Roach-free, huh?" Emma said, without much humor, and handed him the water bottle.

Jones nodded in thanks, and took a drink. He hesitated as he passed it back, not quite glancing at her, then perched gingerly on the edge of the bed to unlace his boots. He kicked them carelessly across the room, where they thumped against the dresser. With a groan he leaned forward, putting his head between his knees.

The movement exposed the nape of his neck, tender and rosy below his mussed hair, and the seashell-smooth backs of his ears. Emma clenched her fingers to keep them from trembling; she could see the knot on the crown of his head, the dark bruise showing even beneath the thick hair.

"I'm…" she began, but her voice broke. Jones looked up at her sharply, surprised. She cleared her throat and flapped a hand toward the bathroom. "Gonna go… brush my teeth," she finished lamely, her face flaming.

He didn't react except to give her a tiny nod of understanding, and dropped his head again. Emma bent down to rootle through her duffel for her shower bag, the blood thundering at her temples. As she straightened up, she tried to look anywhere but at Jones. But she had to walk past him to get to the bathroom, and couldn't help herself from seeing, out of the corner of her eye, the little spot where his dark hair formed a whorl at the base of his neck, one small cowlick sticking up stubbornly from the rest.

The bathroom was nice; or at least the part of it that Emma paid attention to, the clean white porcelain sink and perfectly polished silver mirror. Teeth brushed, she stared at herself. It couldn't be the beer; the sensation of slight drunkenness had fled nearly half an hour before, as they were getting into their second cab. But she felt dizzy, almost euphoric; too dazed to think clearly.

Her own green eyes stared back, wide and framed round with long lashes. Am I pretty? she wondered suddenly, looking at her slightly crooked teeth, the freckles scattered across her nose, her dimpled chin and snow-fuzzled damp hair. I used to think I was. But I'm such a mess now. What could he…

She clamped down on that thought tightly, her heart beating frantically. Then she gingerly peeked beneath the mental teacup. Underneath was a lean figure, bent over on itself, tired and rather lonely; but with a soft, friendly expression on its face. Colors swirled around her vision; a sort of pleasant greenish-blue, inviting courage. Hey, beautiful, he had said.

"Woman, you need sleep very badly," she muttered at her reflection.

She wrapped her toothbrush and toothpaste up and pulled out a hairbrush, raking it through her hair. She could hear Jones moving around out in the room, presumably getting ready to sleep. He was humming to himself, though, something low and mournful; she couldn't pick out the melody.

His eyes flashed before her, piercing and hot with the anger of the fight earlier. A little shiver went through her at the memory of seeing him laid out limp on the floor. She supposed she should be upset with him over it, but somehow any annoyance she'd felt at the time had worn right out of her on the cold walk back to the motel.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled down her jeans—there were leggings beneath, anyway—and pulled off her bra from beneath her sweater. I wouldn't care if he was the Pope lying next to me, she thought to herself stubbornly. If I'm sleeping in a real bed, I can behave like a real woman, and take my damn bra off for the night. In the close confines of the truck cab, she'd managed to worm it off each night, but had still felt distinctly uncomfortable doing so. As of tonight, she mostly just didn't care anymore.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Jones was standing in front of the wall mirror, grimacing, fingers lightly touching his face. "It's not that bad," Emma said softly, and came up to stand next to him, looking at their reflections.

Jones smiled, taking his fingers away from the black eye. It was barely more than a small purple half-moon beneath the lower lid; too late for ice, now. His eyes met hers in the mirror. "Aye. I'm still devilishly handsome," he said, and cocked a sly brow.

"Don't know if I'd go so far as 'devilish,'" Emma answered, rolling her eyes. "Maybe 'roguish,' though."

Jones huffed a short laugh, and with pleasure curling inside her, she watched his cheeks go red. But his small smile faded too fast as he looked down with a sigh. Only the lamp near the door was on, aside from the bathroom light, and in the dim shadows his eyes were less bright.

"I'm really very sorry about all this, Emma," he said softly. "Not just for… for acting like a drunken, chivalrous fool back at the bar, but… for stranding us here."

He glanced over at her; they weren't standing close enough to be touching, but the heat of his shame burned into her skin. She waited, but there was no more to be said, apparently. "It's all right," she said with a small smile, shrugging. "I'm not the one that got my ass handed to me in front of a whole bar."

For a moment she wondered if the teasing jibe would fall flat; but a corner of his mouth curved just a little, reluctantly. Their eyes met again in the mirror, and he looked grateful. "For real, though," Emma continued, "you don't have to worry about me. Unless you decide to boot me off your trip, I'm no worse off than I was before."

She cast a glance at the bed, plump and white and inviting. "In fact, much as I like sleeping in your rig, this, uh… might be a pleasant detour," she added wryly.

"Can't argue with that," Jones agreed, following her gaze. He exhaled with a wistful expression, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he briefly stared at the soft bed. Then he turned and bent with a groan, digging through his gym bag to extract a toothbrush and paste.

"My turn," he said, hefting them with a halfhearted smile, and turned away.

Emma sat on the edge of the bed while he busied himself in the bathroom, finding her hands nervously combing through her hair. She scootched back and curled up against the headboard, lacing her hands around her knees and putting her forehead to them. Her stomach fluttered with a painful yearning, heat violently rushing through her chest. She knew better than to ask herself what it was; but to actually act on it?

It had only been a week… no, eight days… since Graham died. The wound on her heart was still raw, chafing beneath the bandages she'd hastily slapped over it in order to concentrate on Henry. As badly as she missed her son, that was a mere buzz, a tight vibration in her bones—manageable, because he was still alive. And, as much as Emma hated to admit it, Regina wouldn't let Henry want for anything. He would get over his messy birth mother. Or maybe she would see him again someday, once he was old enough.

But Graham… Graham was dead. Gone forever. The day he died, she had wept until her body felt dry. And much later, that first night in the bus station, she had lain on the hard bench for hours just blank, the grief and shock never coming. Perhaps she hadn't accepted his death until just this afternoon, in the truck.

They'd never done any more than shake hands, up until that very last day. Even then, they'd only shared a single kiss, barely five minutes before his heart stopped beating.

Gritting her teeth, she probed the wound, her throat aching. She hadn't been in love with him: not in the deep, excruciating way she'd been in love with Neal, anyway. Even thought she'd only been a teenager then, she'd fallen so hard and fast that she'd barely had time to realize it, before they were both arrested and thrown behind bars. For very different reasons, of course, but prison was prison. At least eleven months in a state penitentiary—with the added bonus of giving birth to an unplanned child—had given her some sense of catharsis over that old love.

But Graham… even though her feelings for him had been simple lust and affection and friendship, she felt empty. Yet somehow, not so empty that that some trucker's ass doesn't catch my attention, she thought, heart throbbing with inexplicable shame and sadness.

She wasn't sure she had the courage to take the next step, was the thing. To let herself fall again, and so soon, seemed like an awful risk. Like she was asking to be hurt.

Yet suddenly the idea of Graham having died so young and so loving, with so much lost opportunity, was making her heart skip beats. Her mind conjured Jones smiling at her in the truck stop; his whispered Oh, shit as he woke up next to her the next morning; the afternoon light dazzling on the planes of his face and catching the dimple in his cheek; the way his voice rose when he laughed; his quiet intelligence and kind heart.

And with that, her doubt fled. She leapt up, padding across the carpet toward the back of the room. Her feet were heavy, as if she were struggling against a current, but with a fierce anger, she plunged forward one step at a time.

"I deserve to get what I want sometimes," she muttered under her breath.

The sound must have carried in the quiet room. "What was that, love?" came Jones's voice, curious; he popped his head out of the bathroom door just as she reached it.

His eyes grew wide—whether at her expression or merely at her presence, she didn't have time to guess, because in the next moment she had grabbed the front of his shirt in fistfuls and smashed her mouth against his.

His lips were soft and cool and pliant, and the kiss grew deeper as she rose to her tiptoes, leaning against him. There was a clatter of plastic into the sink, and suddenly his hand was at the back of her head, gently tangling in her hair, his left arm softly snaking around her waist. She'd closed her eyes but could feel the tiny explosions of his breath on her face; the slow, firm press of his body against hers; the light flick of his tongue caressing her own lips; the cool tile under her feet as they rocked back against the sink.

Panting, they broke apart; before Emma could even open her eyes, his mouth was on hers again, intense, greedy. Her mouth stung with cool peppermint, and she caught his lip gently between her teeth, pulling, making him groan. Then she let go and tilted her head, lunging to thrust her tongue past his, finally closing the kiss with a faint smack.

They clung to one another, chests heaving, their foreheads pressed together. At last Emma released his shirt, clutching at his shoulders, her head reeling.

Emma leaned back a little and opened her eyes; his lashes fluttered, and he looked up into her gaze, eyes stunned and gleaming with desire. He wasn't trembling, precisely, but somehow she felt as if she held something fragile and fluttering in her hands.

"That was…" Jones breathed, uncertainly, right hand drifting down to fall against her hip.

"A one-time thing," she said as calmly as she could, hearing her voice as if from a distance, rough and low. "Good-night, Killian."

Emma let go of his shoulders and turned away, but only made it half a step before his hook caught her arm, cold and hard against the skin of her right wrist. She yanked her arm to free herself, but Jones made a noise that wasn't quite a growl. She inhaled deeply and turned back, thrusting her chin up and meeting his gaze.

"Wait just a minute," Jones said. His voice was still quiet, sedate, but indignation was beginning to simmer in his pale eyes. "You kiss me like that, and then you expect me to lie next to you and just… just go to sleep like nothing happened? Emma…"

His cheeks were burning red and he trailed off, fulminating. There was a fizzle of excitement in her loins, and a thrill shot through her body at the dangerous slash of his brows across his forehead.

"I didn't say that," Emma answered, huskily. "I just…"

She struggled for a moment, fishing for the words. "It doesn't have to mean anything," she said at last.

His frustration seemed to abate, uncertainty overtaking his features. His eyes searched hers, and slowly—carefully, as if she would bolt—he raised a hand to her face, brushing her hot cheek with the backs of his fingers. "But I want it to mean something, lass," he said quietly, his voice unsteady. Ever so carefully, he lifted his left arm, releasing her wrist from the hook.

The gentle movement caused a sob to burst up and escape Emma's lips before she could stop it, tears seeping into her eyes once more. She let her head fall forward onto his chest, pressed her cheek to his warm skin, the grief and joy wracking her; after a moment he put his arms around her again, holding her tightly, his own cheek resting on top of her head.

They stood that way for some time, the tiled room quiet and cool and bright around them, the only sound in her ears the faint, thudding pulse of his heartbeat. When they finally moved, it was together, gently separating. Emma reached down and took his hands, tangling her own fingers into hook and fingers alike. She sniffled.

"So… Netflix and chill?" she asked, hopefully.

Jones laughed and smiled widely, his eyes creasing and his whole face lighting with brilliant delight. "For the whole night, if you like," he reassured her; and, still laughing, obediently allowed her to pull him away to bed.

They simply laid quietly for a while afterwards, breathing and relaxing in one another's presence. Emma laid on her back, gazing at the ceiling and feeling a little like she had melted into the mattress. She turned her head to the left, laying her cheek lightly against the top of Jones' head. His hair smelled pleasantly of engine oil and deep-fried onions, along with his own warm scent.

He was curled up on his side, head laid on her breast and one arm draped across her, their legs tangled beneath the sheets. They'd left the bedside light on to make love, and beneath the dark brows and straight nose, she could see that the corner of his mouth was still curved in a slight smile.

Emma exhaled with satisfaction, feeling as if she should have a cigarette in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other. Neither of them had had any form of prophylactics on hand, so mainly they had just fooled around. She could still feel the rasping fire his stubble had left as it skimmed between her legs, and the slick spaces between that still pounded with every heartbeat. And she knew she'd left her own equivalently exquisite aches on his body.

It was her first time in years; not his, though, according to what he'd blurted out as they were hastily ripping each other's clothes off. Emma smiled into his hair. He'd been good at it: very good.

"I can practically hear you thinking," Jones murmured suddenly, shifting a little and sighing comfortably. "I won't bother asking if you enjoyed yourself, though."

She huffed a laugh, and her cheeks burned. "Me neither," she teased.

It was his turn to laugh, softly, no more than a breath of air against her skin. He caressed her stomach, drew his wrist across the edge of her ribs. Neither of them had said a word about his left arm; he'd simply taken off the prosthetic and set it on the bedside table. And he was perfectly adept with one hand, so Emma had barely noticed, more interested in sucking at the softness of his lips while raking her nails through the thicket of hair on his chest. She'd finally gotten a chance to see the pendant he wore, too, and had been fascinated to see that it was a small medallion of a saint. Patron of nomadic travelers, he had told her breathlessly.

Now she couldn't help but look at his arm, though. There was nothing particularly shocking about the missing hand. Just a knot of scar tissue at the wrist, trailing a few inches up toward the elbow; his arm otherwise looked just like the other, thatched with dark hair, lean and muscular. She thought it must have been a very old injury, from the easy way he used that arm much the same as his right, brushing his wrist lightly across her stomach, making her skin feel like it was glowing.

Truth be told, she was much more fascinated by the other arm—or more specifically, the ink on the inner slopes of that forearm. But she knew better than to think a heart-shaped tattoo with someone's name in the middle (not to mention a dagger stabbing it) would be anything less than intensely personal.

She took a deep breath, then let it out. "What I'm thinking about," she said pensively. "I'm thinking that maybe my favorite part about this whole night was when you took your shirt off and I finally got a peek at those shoulders."

That wasn't the only part of his body she had appreciated: she had also been perfectly delighted by the soft, slightly furry belly that had been revealed when he took off his shirt, somewhat out of place on his otherwise lean body. Six-packs were not to her taste, especially in sexual partners. But she did appreciate a good set of traps, and thought he might be more appreciative of a different, equally authentic compliment.

There was a rumbling vibration of laughter, and Jones lifted his head, a wide grin spreading across his features. He sat up a little and ostentatiously flexed, the skin of his slender arm bulging as his not-unimpressive biceps popped out. Emma made a dramatic groan and shielded her eyes with the back of her hand, making him laugh harder.

"I'm glad you approve of my poor forsaken physique, love," he said at last, but in a tone that suggested he was pleased, and laid back down. He propped his head on his hand, eyes bright and blue and slowly sweeping across her body. "I feel as if I got more than I gave, so to speak."

"Kind of a backhanded way of telling me I'm pretty," Emma said dryly.

Her companion nodded slowly, his shoulder rising in an infinitesimal shrug. He had gone back to tracing patterns on the skin of her stomach, and she shuddered, giggling and putting a hand on his arm. "Knock it off—that tickles."

He smiled and obediently stopped, becoming still. "Aye," Jones said softly. "But that's the thing. You're not just pretty, Emma—you're radiant. Even in the dead of winter, on the road running away from your problems with a total stranger… you glow."

His words struck an odd chill within her stomach; Emma felt as if she had been punched and kissed at the same time. "Running away from my problems?" she asked, too tired to be argumentative.

Jones blinked, not appearing alarmed. "Sorry, love. I shouldn't have put it that way," he answered contritely. "Perhaps… on the run?"

The unapologetic sincerity with which he spoke only served to sadden Emma further. "As if that's any better," she said, a little grumpy.

She turned her head to look at the front window; they had pulled the opaque curtains, but a slit of light from the sodium lamps outside still peeked through a small break, orange and heartless. "I keep wondering if I really needed to run," she said quietly. "A friend died in my arms, and I was about to be accused of murdering him. So should I have just… stayed in town and waited to be arrested? My son would have had to watch the whole thing unfold. His two mothers at each others' throats… me in a jail cell…"

She paused and let out a long sigh. "Except…"

The silence lasted for a moment; when she glanced back at Jones, he nodded faintly, eyes soft. "Except from what you've told me… he'd already seen most of that before," he finished for her, raising his brows. He had carefully moved his arm to rest on his hip, so that he wasn't touching her. But his gaze was direct and warm.

"Yeah. Just… not for a murder charge," Emma agreed. "And this time I'd been tossed out onto the street by my landlady—staying in a crummy little motel not much nicer than that Bluebird place—and on top of everything else, unemployed. Because when Graham died, Regina took the opportunity to fire me right away. No one would help me, I didn't have anywhere—"

She stopped and took a deep breath, not wanting to become tearful or angry again. To her surprise, her companion hadn't moved to touch or palliate her at all; he just remained quite still, gazing at her and listening patiently. And she realized that he was one of the first people in her life—even including Henry, little ball of energy that he was—who really listened. Who didn't just use the time she was talking to think of what he might say next.

The thought of Henry's energetic talkativeness made Emma sit up slowly, her stomach filling with self-hatred and dread. She hadn't even thought about it, except for earlier when she had checked Facebook. But not only had there been no news posted about Graham's death, but she hadn't gotten any calls. Had Regina gone to a judge and had a warrant sworn out for her arrest, they would have at least tried to contact her by phone. She hadn't changed her number, after all.

But more than that… even if she had been arrested—so what? She would have spent a night or two in jail, most likely, then posted bail. And found a job somewhere around town, until Regina got bored of trying to fabricate evidence against her. She could have worked at the general store bagging groceries, or on the docks cleaning out fishing boats, for heaven's sake. No matter how hard Regina pushed her away… she could have found a way to connect with Henry again. And they could have grieved together.

"Oh, my God, you're right," she murmured. "I did run away from my problems."

Jones had sat up slowly with her, legs comfortably spread to brace her on either side. He put a gentle arm around her back, brushing her shoulder comfortingly. She scootched sideways and leaned against him with a long sigh, going limp and pressing her head back into his chest.

Without speaking, he obligingly slid his other arm around her, locking his arms around her breasts, and put a warm cheek to the crown of her head. She could feel his scruff in her scalp, brushy and slightly tickling.

The light was still on, but the cozy warmth of the room seemed to close in around them like a soft blanket. Emma felt comforted and safe; and she let out a long breath, trying in vain to banish the thoughts of Henry and Storeybrooke.

"You're a really nice man, you know that," she said after a while, in a low voice.

His throat rumbled with a quiet laugh. "You say that like it's some kind of surprise," he commented wryly.

Emma shrugged, drawing a hand down the length of his thigh, liking the feel of the springy hairs under her fingertips. "You're got to admit, hitching a ride with a stranger and then being able to pour your heart out to them is odd enough," she responded softly. "Let alone feeling like you're… understood."

The words seemed weak, but Jones made a pleasant sort of grumbling hmm in reply. His leg twitched, and he shivered, making a noise that in anyone less dignified might have been a giggle. "Now who's tickling whom?" he murmured.

Emma felt a chuckle arise from deep in her throat; carefully, she moved her hand over his thigh and backwards, to between his legs, and began to stroke a different body part. This time Jones yelped, his arms clutching around her.

"Better?" Emma asked innocently.

"You… you minx," he answered faintly, through clenched teeth, stubble scraping against her head as he slowly lifted his chin. "Here I was… trying to be k-kind. Yo-ou'll pay… for this…"

"Promises, promises," Emma answered languidly, not stopping. His fingers were digging into her ribs, his breath coming in short little puffs against the top of her head. It had been awhile since she'd done this, but she thought things were going well.

Abruptly she felt his arms ease, and his hand slithered down between her own legs, deft fingers steadily beginning to curl and caress. Emma gasped. "Aye, well… two… can play at this game," Jones breathed, the words vibrating against her scalp.

The room was beginning to melt around them; no sensations mattered aside from the velvet hardness under her hand and the hot pounding ripeness growing below. Emma's throat clutched, her own breath beginning to come in pants. Her heart seemed to have slowed to a glacial pace, her hand unconsciously moving in the same rhythm as his; slowly, with relish, she undulated against his fingers, moaning softly.

Lips touched the back of her neck, barely sweeping her skin; a hot line of electricity leisurely crackled through her, and she felt the faint sharpness of teeth as he bent his head to nibble at her shoulder. Faintly, she marveled at his composure, unable to do more than move her hand a little faster.

It was his turn to moan, his free arm pressing tight into her navel to hold her still as he worked. The world turned bright, then dark again, her vision spinning with stars. "Don't… stop…" Emma heard herself say.

He didn't; neither did she, and within a minute they had brought one another to a nearly simultaneous peak. They let go and sat silently together, gasping for breath, sticky with sweat and fluids. "Sweet mother of heaven," Jones said at last, feebly.

Emma just huffed a laugh; then she groaned and slowly fell over, dragging him with her. Jones immediately shifted to snuggle up close, knees fitting neatly behind hers. They were both limp, finally worn out for the evening. The bed would be a mess in the morning, but she didn't care.

She couldn't have said how long they laid together, simply breathing and fading into sleep. At last, Jones carefully rose on one elbow and stretched his arm out to snap off the bedside light. Then, worming himself back down next to her in the deep blackness of the room, he deftly flipped the covers back over both of them and put his arm around her.

"Sleep well, love," he whispered.