A/N: Seeing as you all made me cry actual very real tears with the kind words about the first instalment of this, I thought the least I could do was write a second part at your requests. I hope it lives up to your expectations. You're all precious human buttercups. Also thank you to all of you who reviewed, I want to reply to all of you but I'm not sure how to properly convey 'ASIDNOAU#*$ )$U(!) #JWSD i love you'. Also to everyone who sent me reviewed and messages in the form of cliches you're ridiculously the best.

Whatever Floats Your Boat

Part 2: Romantics

He said he was going to come in today and as a result Emma had been unable to sit down her entire shift.

She attempted to, multiple times, but the moment she had stopped moving her agitation got the better of her - the uncomfortable reeling in her organs took over, from toe to teeth - and she was forced to get up again.

The souls of her feet were sore as a result (at least the store was significantly less dusty), but she weathered it – the agony in them far preferable to succumbing to her discomfort.

Not that she had much cause for her anxiety (objectively, anyway). Their conversation had been vague at best - ("So, love, shall I return for the book this week?" "Whenever you want - we are open all week." "Well, when will you be next at work?" "Anyone working here can return it to you") - their words themselves giving nothing away, but it was their tones teasing that fine line between flirtation and casual conversation that gave everything away. At least on Emma's part her behaviour was a new give away – he had always been a shameless, shameless flirt. Neither of them openly admitted to anything and yet it was painfully clear that her dialling his number in the first place was an indicator of something.

And so he was coming in. Technically to retrieve the novel he could not return (ridiculous boy), but in an actuality that Emma was still uncomfortable with, he was coming to see her.

(Although Emma suspected for a long time he had been coming in for more than the shop's repository.)

He had also never come in on a Tuesday before.

Emma resented that the nearest high school finished early on a Tuesday due to sport, as it often meant that bustles of kids came in from the local indoor soccer courts, messing things about and speaking in shrill volumes she had forgotten were humanly possible. Today they were everywhere, bringing footprints of mud and melting snow in through the door. As they filled up the shop with the stench of sweat, mildew, and something distinctly adolescent – she hated it, could have sworn she never remembered high school smelling that way – she reshuffled a display of bookmarks.

She caught a glance of her reflection in the shop window, the echo of a sleety fall reflecting in its glass, and was grateful that she'd managed to restrain from running her hands through her hair too many times as she looked relatively unshaken and nonchalant.

Hardly had she turned around to realign books in the centre table of the shop, before she heard the opening, the closing of the door, and the familiar scuffle of boots on boards.

(It was his daft swagger than gave him away).

"Hello, Swan."

Turning slowly round to smile coolly at him she noticed his eyebrows were in their usual arrogant form today.

"Killian."

Weaving her way through a few giggling girls, fawning over something or other, she led him up to the counter, reaching blindly into the space under the counter where she knew the book was, and held it straight back out to him as he leant across the surface between them.

"Cheesy," was all she said, a coquettish challenge in her eye, the book hanging limply in her hand.

Throwing his head back in a chuckle, one reeking of smug satisfaction, he told her that he was going for something more along the lines of facetious.

"Cheesy."

"Perhaps you mean tongue-in-cheek?"

"Cheesy."

"How do we feel about romantic?"

Ignoring the blatant question coating his meaning, she simply informed him that he'd been spending too much time reading his books and living among the Romantics, and that life was not a Wordsworth poem. He disagreed. Actually, he disagreed emphatically ("the Romantics are as brutal and honest and melancholy as you or I, Swan") extending his right hand across the counter taking the novel from her, and spending far too long brushing her fingers with his as he did.

The action made Emma uncomfortable (in a stubborn sort of way) making her tear her eyes and her hand from him, trying to ignore the vulnerable expression that replaced his aloofness. It was only then that the growing line of customers waiting to be served behind him even registered with her. He followed her eyes and seemed to understand, showing it with a small nod and a tilt of his head.

Killian then tore a single page out of the romance book in his hand, the page and note in question, making a gentle ripping noise. There were a few curious eyes behind him wondering what he was doing, a thought which she herself voiced - but he simply smiled, quietly slapping the page down on the counter.

"Laying all my cards on the table."

—-

Emma spent two days debating whether or not to put his number into her phone.

She spent another two stealing the courage to text him.

She was so mad with herself. Sitting at the kitchen table, tv commercials blaring at her, and moving pasta around with a fork, thinking about how it was Saturday and she still hadn't contacted him.

The torn page sat in front of her as she ate, glaring at her, reminding her of her failings. The whole thing was ridiculous and she couldn't figure out why it should bother her so much – he wasn't sticking around, she didn't want to be around much longer herself, and there was no reality in which she wanted to do the whole romance thing again, to emotionally do that to herself again.

Yet, there was this constant feeling of him in the back of her mind (in the back of her heart, really) that was becoming impossible to ignore. She wasn't trying to give him the run around; wasn't trying to keep him on tenterhooks, it was just that, well, she couldn't help but take a step to breathe - to recover - every time he pushed her with a gentle smile and a not so subtle touch.

(One step forward, two steps back, and a lifetime cursed to think in clichés).

Dropping her fork with a loud tinkling she grabbed her phone.

There is nothing on TV tonight. Emma.

She didn't even have time to put her plate in the dishwasher before the crass vibrating noise of her phone startled her.

Ah yes a television I've heard of those. Sadly some of us poor students cannot afford such things. Remind me what do they look like?

She shook her head in amusement before replying.

Big square thing moving pictures loud noises. (At least this explains why you buy so many books)

Sounds horrible I don't think it'll catch on. (I buy so many books because I like reading. Among other things)

Other things?

Other things.

—-

That was how it happened, really: they texted. Not a lot, but also not a little. Killian became a daily notification on her screen, a constant little thing in her day and still both of them skirted around the issue. He was now very aware of her trepidation, she could tell, everything he said consistently laced with mischievousness and provocative wording, yet each subtle push and each action a deliberate directive against her walls. Though she could also tell he wanted to address what was going on. The problem was, it had been two weeks since he'd conveniently attempted to return The God of Loveand Emma had flat out refused to address the contents of the poem, a poem which now haunted the surface of her own bookshelf.

He still came in to the bookshop, eyebrows awiggle and saunter afoot. Killian had grown more familiar with her boss now with the frequency with which he visited, and as a result had seemed to grow a little tired of his cliché tirade. He would still slip them in if the opportunity arose ("Quit wasting my time and choose which edition you want to buy" "I wouldn't dream of it, Swan, time is money after all") but he seemed to have changed with the tide, and decided to subtly (subtly, her arse) slip 'romance' into their encounters.

He would arrive, as per usual, disappear up the back of the shop (after grinning at her warmly) and eventually return with whatever books he intended on buying. It hadn't taken her long to figure it out, but each and every time he would make his purchases, he would change his mind at the last minute and leave a book at the counter; leave a book of Romantic poetryat the counter. Shelley, Byron, Blake – it didn't matter who it was, he left it without so much as a smirk.

She half had a mind to flat out refuse to put them back on the shelf, vindictively hoping that he'd one day run out of books to bring back. Knowing him he'd probably replace it with something equally as irritating – like model ship building, or something.

It was this very thought that entertained her one Thursday as he came bursting into the shop, a scarf unwinding madly about his face, catching a little on the stubble that was building there, and wearing a grin so broad and genuine that it only made him more handsome (and in turn caused Emma's stomach to stutter). Today she couldn't help but meet his smile with her own, forget about the on going battle of poetry in motion (damn it) that seemed to be happening, more occupied with the adorable little bounce in his step overtaking his usual swagger.

He'd seen the sign in the window.

—-

He was Liam's favourite author, apparently.

Some writer of nautical fantasy that had somehow imbued a seafaring passion of Killian's own. Emma hadn't read him, but had been responsible for unpacking the strange assortment of nautical bunting and large cardboard cut outs of waves that were supposed to decorate the shop because of him.

Surprise, surprise Emma was working the night of the in store reading.

Killian had arrived early, hiding his enthusiasm underneath a low mumble as he described to her what the novels were about. Emma couldn't help but notice that he rarely spoke of events or plots, but of themes, of moral lessons, of narrative construction – he was such a college student. Despite his English accent, and the proper sort of manner in which he described such things, he managed to avoid all glimmer of pretention.

(Emma suspected it was his shabby leathered appearance, and the gentle timbre of his stupid accent).

So she listened, a gentle warmth and an odd constriction rising in her chest the more he talked, the more he helped her set the chairs into rows, the more he manned the small drinks table.

("You know you don't have to do this, right? This is my job." "I'm well aware.")

Slowly people arrived, slowly too did her boss arrive with the author in question, and eventually the place was packed with a lively buzz. The reading itself didn't last too long, maybe half an hour, but it was the question and answer section that took place afterwards that ate up most of the night. She had been observing Killian out of the corner of her eye the whole night, carefully disguising his emotions, but she slowly watched as a blissful sort of joy took over the rest of his features.

He did not ask any questions (she was rather surprised at that), but he seemed far more content to whisper insulting amusements at the debates caused by others ("Excellent waste of our time: love triangle suggestions"). The two of them were planted and seated on an empty table at the back of the crowd, Emma's legs dangling and swinging (into his occasionally), and so each snide comment he made was whispered behind her ear, occasionally warranting the sound of a stifled snort from Emma.

Killian did not even approach the author at the end, when informally people milled around, debating, schmoozing, and geeking out. He had barely known what to say when she'd asked him why he hadn't, scratching awkwardly behind his ear with one finger some time later when the last drabs of people were dripping out of the store. Said that he had nothing to say, but given the way he had recounted the books to her earlier, she suspected it was the exact opposite and that perhaps he had too much to say.

They lingered talking more about books and boats, his brother Liam's involvement with the navy back home and Summer holidays spent rowing small boats round English canals, until finally they were the last ones left in the store. ("Thanks for locking up, Emma, I'll see you tomorrow bright and early – the early bird gets the bookworm!")

What had been an easy night in each others company suddenly became stifling in the absurd silence of the shop (again).

Just silence and the sound of car wheels whizzing through puddles.

Inside, the only sounds that could be heard were the shuffle of money as Emma counted the till and the gentle scrape of metal legs on floorboards as Killian moved the chairs into a pile – but the awkwardness came from the knowledge that they were both alone together, with no pretence binding them (no book orders, no customers, no shop).

It got worse when they established that they coincidentally lived in the same direction and that it would only make sense to head off together.

As Emma slid the key into the front door, Killian standing quietly behind her with his hands in his coat pockets, and a chill night air nipping at her neck, she realised that she had never seen him outside the shop before.

The realisation hit her strangely, as though the books were an element of her emotional security, each page a brick in her walls - and now? Emma, satisfied that she had firmly secured the door (with a little kick), faced him, watching the dazed post-book-reading glee morph into a sleepy smile at her turn. As he motioned her lead with the slightest of bows, Emma remembered how the books had done little thus far to keep them apart, what difference could one walk make?

A lot. The difference was a lot.

There was nothing that Emma could use as a distraction. As a result each trod of their feet in the same direction felt like an intentional choice to not only walk along side him, but to simply be in something with him (it was a seriously daft thing to try and explain, but Emma felt it in every vein of her body – a feeling of fear, of emotion, of choice). Every so often his shoulder, cushioned by the thick coats of navy and red they were respectively wearing, would nudge hers in a movement that could only have been called incidental – except that she knew better. Knew from each crinkle of his eyes and each sigh at her teases that every move he made around her was deliberate (as it always was). She had been so skittish with him emotionally, and she had slowly observed how his tact had changed, so that his flirtations were less obvious (less cocky, but still absurd) and more gentleness carried in his tone. While she knew that he had been doing so, it was never so clear as it was in this quiet moment, the two of them dawdling down a snowy, dappled street.

And so he brushed their shoulders as she had skimmed his legs with hers hours earlier.

The notion brought a blush to her cheeks, and inspired her to nudge him right back (subconsciously, of course). They stopped at a traffic light and she, absentmindedly, put her hand on his arm in a plea of "don't" at a terrible joke he'd made. The reflex so oblivious to her, except that he stopped to glance down at it. Her hand instantly weighed several pounds more, and the effort to keep it there and make it appear casual was overwhelmingly difficult – but the pedestrian light changed from red to green, and she used the hand to nudge him gently across the street, inhaling in relief as she went after him.

He nudged her even more afterwards.

(On second thought, perhaps he wasn't trying to nudge her, maybe he was just terrible at keeping any distance between them.)

When it came for them to head in opposite directions ("No honestly, I'll be fine, I walk this way all the time" "I know, love, but-" "But nothing. You're so old-fashioned! Or are you just scared? Do you need me to walk you home?" "Ha ha, very funny, Swan. I was just being my charming self") they settled into a quiet. She had been too busy filling the silence by readjusting the position of her glasses that sat upon her head to notice how he suddenly stepped right into her space. Not that she was surprised by the move - he did it all the time. He said nothing. He simply reached out to loop a button around the top of her coat into its respective hole, tugging the whole thing around her a little more and purposefully being coy about the proximity.

When he looked up from his hands on her coat, she was gripped once more with the sincerity in his eyes and the fear it stoked in her heart. Despite the fact that he spent half his life throwing wicked grins and eyebrows at her, he was most dangerous like this: his features soft, and more elusive in the darkness of night, more vulnerable and emotionally accessible. With each time he looked at her in this way it became harder and harder to break the hypnotism between them.

Harder, but not impossible.

She broke eye contact and reluctantly took a step backwards.

"Goodnight, Killian."

(She should have kissed him).

—-

Got a huge donation of second hands today yours for the taking.

Emma hadn't seen him in two weeks. Try as she might to convince herself that it hadn't been something she'd done (or not done, rather) she couldn't help but feel that she may have been evasive one too many times. Wasn't this what you wanted? To not get attached?She asked herself, swinging the swan charm along the chain it hung around her neck. His texts had eased off slightly as well, and that was why she now lay in her bed, knees curled high to her chest, staring at her phone.

Yours for the taking implies that they are mine alone and free not sure you can promise such things. Don't tease a man about books Swan.

She would have been more relieved that he'd actually replied if she wasn't 90% certain he'd laced each section of the text with double meaning. She threw the phone under her pillow with renewed determination to ignore his moodiness.

Except that she had work the next day, and her boss had set her in charge of organising the exact donation she had texted Killian about the night before. Usually, Emma liked the back corner of the shop, pathetically liked the idea that the tattered old books with their fraying spines were still of some practicality, of some value. She didn't even mind that though the shop was reasonably clean, it always seemed to smell a bit more of dust back there. No, today she did not want to be here. Didn't want to be around the Romanticists that reminded her so vividly of Killian that she was now finding home's for on the shelves ("Why the long face, Emma? It's only Longfellow!). She was torn between being mad at him for backing away, and between telling herself that this was what she wanted.

Of course, Murphy's Law, the exact moment that she was determinedly trying to not think about him, he turns up. She sees the scuffed toes of his boots first out of the corner of her eye (don't ask her how she knew it was him by his boots), as she is crouched on the floor sorting out the William Blake that had wedged itself between some Thomas Moore.

"Don't you ever go to class?"

She tried not to sound too bitter at him – and failed spectacularly.

"Not usually on Sundays, no. Do you ever take a break from this place?"

She had completely lost track of what day it was. Working as frequently as she did (which was apparently open to mockery now), without any sense of a weekend, it all seemed to just muddle together. Usually, she gauged the calendar day by how busy it was in store, but it was strangely empty today and somehow it had tricked her mind into thinking it was mid week. Sighing emphatically she stood up, ready to snap at him about, well, she wasn't sure about what - but his face stopped her.

He looked terrible.

There were bags under the bags (under the bags) under his eyes, a despondent look desperately hidden (and yet very clearly peaking out) and he was striking an overly confident stance. He didn't respond to her enquiry as to whether he was okay, instead reaching out to grab the book still in her clutches – it was Keats. A doleful fondness overcame him as he flipped through the contents of the book, eyes never lingering, but taking in whatever it was they were looking for. Emma waited for him to respond with her arms crossed, brows similarly crossed in concern.

"I haven't been avoiding you, Emma."

He hadn't bothered to look up from the book, the flipping of the pages the only sound or even movement in the aisle (the familiar sound of lutes and dulled chatter barely there).

"I didn't say you had been."

"It's written all over your face, love," an inaudible, defeated sort of chuckle around his words.

"Please, I barely realised you hadn't been around."

"No?"

"No, now are you going to tell me why you look like crap?"

At that, he moved in front of her to place the book on the shelf in its rightful place.

"Let's not, shall we? It's nothing."

Moving the glasses away from the bridge of her nose to sit on her head, she considered him. He had always been so straightforward with her, so open, that his sudden evasiveness rubbed her the wrong way; made her on edge. There was a brash new kind of cockiness that was trying its best to cover whatever injuries lay beneath – but Emma was having none of it.

"I don't believe you for a second. Just tell me, Killian."

Suddenly, all charade disappeared from his demeanour, and while she could tell that he was trying to carry a sharp tone, to her well-trained ears it was just coming out rather broken. It made her worry even more for this boy she barely knew (although if she were being honest with herself, they knew each other far better than either one were admitting).

"And you'll what, you'll regale me with something of yourself?"

The biting comment and the way it was delivered had its desired effect, causing a frustration to rise in her chest and anger to spit forth from her tongue.

"And why should I tell you anything? We're not friends. You don't know anything about me, Killian. You come in, buy books, hit on me. I have no reason to trust you, why should I tell you anything?!"

She'd said the wrong thing, saw the way he'd winced at the word 'trust'. Her last words had almost came out as a threat, and she swallowed the feeling of her heart pounding in her throat. She had shot herself in the foot - badly - and she seemed unable to fight her own stubbornness in order to rid the bitter sadness on Killian's face.

"You may not think you tell me anything about yourself, Emma, but that alone speaks volumes. I have no idea who hurt you, nor why it is you never speak of your family, but you have this look that –" he cut himself off suddenly, a softer expression forming as he decided to change tact, "- the pages of your life are wide open, Emma, you just won't tell me which bloody page I'm looking at."

They had been speaking in hissed whispers, but Emma found herself at a loss for what to say. Behind her she could hear the gentle movement of feet somewhere in the next aisle and yet it seemed too quiet compared to the buzzing noise the silence between them was creating, the twitching movement in his jaw drawing all of her attention.

"You have no idea what the hell you're talking about," she managed to stifle.

A beat, and then "my mistake," he bit back, before walked backwards a few paces, looking at her with a resolute sadness, and then disappearing, leaving Emma to stand in the aisle contemplating what the hell had just happened.