She wishes she could say that she bought it on a whim, that she hadn't put hours—days—into thinking about it. She'd like to think it was one of those things that she tossed in her basket nonchalantly, like an extra loaf of bread or a package of batteries.
It was most definitely not a nonchalant purchase.
The idea comes to her, unbidden, one morning when he bursts through the door of the sheriff's station, balancing two to-go coffee cups in one hand and grumbling on about how she'd been impossible to find.
She takes a Styrofoam cup from him, her face creasing when she realizes that, come to think of it, she'd had no idea where he'd been, and not even the slightest clue as to where she would've looked for him, had the need arose.
(A tiny, niggling voice in the back of her head mocks that her needing him has been occurring with much more frequency than it ever used to.)
She sips carefully from her cup as he settles into a nearby chair, kicking his boots up onto the edge of her desk and winking when she tosses him a half-hearted eye-roll.
He starts in on some rambling tale about Leroy and Walter, and she closes her eyes for a moment, trying to imagine the way his voice would sound coming through a speaker.
She starts him off on the phone at the office, patiently explaining the different parts and what each of the buttons does. He's a quick learner, never asking for a repeat instruction, and in less than thirty minutes, she's sitting in the chair at her desk, cell phone pressed against her ear. The non-emergency line rings twice before he picks it up.
"Sheriff's office."
He sounds professional and pleasant, everything that an operator should be, and she can't help but grin at him from across the room.
"Hey."
His own lips stretch wide in response and he leans back in his chair, spinning slightly to face her more fully. "Hello."
She doesn't know how long they spend like that, grinning stupidly at each other—he just looks so damn proud of himself, and she's only seen that dimple in his left cheek twice before, and it's a little addicting, seeing the way his eyes light up and crinkle at the edges—but eventually, her phone beeps in her ear, signaling an incoming text, and she hangs up.
The text is from Henry, asking if she wants to meet for an after school snack at Granny's, and as she shrugs into her jacket, she looks over at him, still staring down at the bulky old receiver in his hand like it holds some of the best magic in the world.
She waits until later that night to pull out her laptop, until everyone else has gone to sleep and it's just her in her bedroom at the loft.
She scrolls slowly through the different selections, comparing features and reviews until she finally settles on one.
(She thinks it's an enormous testament to how far she's come when her finger only hesitates for a few short seconds before clicking, adding it to her Amazon cart.)
She throws in the newest Call of Duty game for Henry and a ridiculous, unicorn printed onsie for baby Neal and has the box shipped to the sheriff's station to avoid prying fingers and eyes.
(She doesn't know if Henry or Mary Margaret would be more prone to peeking, but she's not exactly keen on finding out.)
She stares at the computer screen for a long time after the order is complete.
The box arrives on a Wednesday morning.
She cuts through the packing tape easily with one of David's pocket knives, and rifles through the contents before coming up with the small, sleek rectangular package.
She fumbles with opening the flaps, sliding the phone out of its cardboard casing and taking a moment to look at it. It's small enough to fit easily in her palm, no need for two hands like some of the newer models. It has a simple interface, just enough applications to make it up to date, without being over the top.
She unlocks the screen with a swipe of her thumb, and taps on the small phone book icon before getting to work.
She finds him the next evening at the diner, sidled up to the bar between Robin and Ruby, rings glittering in the fluorescent lighting as he sweeps his arm spectacularly, in the middle of spinning some yarn or another.
Ruby catches sight of her first, smirking knowingly as she slides off her stool, making room right next to him. The brunette winks, squeezing Emma's forearm as she slips around the backside of the counter.
He looks over as she perches on the edge of the recently vacated stool, pausing his story to grin at her. She smiles back, accepting the tankard he nudges in her direction if only to give her hands something to do other than twist nervously in her lap.
Robin lingers for a minute or two, politely excusing himself with some excuse about finding Roland and getting ice cream.
(She makes a mental note to buy him a drink later for not bringing up the fact that Killian was paying much more attention to the cut of her sweater than his own tale.)
"To what do I owe this pleasure, Swan?" Killian asks as the leader of the Merry Men pushes his way out the door. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright, and she would blame it on the ale, but she's seen that look more than a few times in the last couple of days, and none of those instances had involved any measure of alcohol whatsoever.
She feels the heat creep embarrassingly high in her neck, and she smiles, tugging on the sleeve of his coat. "C'mon. Let's go somewhere."
The face he makes at her suggestion is downright wolfish, and she rolls her eyes as she leads him towards the lobby of the inn, pretending not to feel the way his eyes trace down her backside as they walk.
Thankfully, they find the front room empty. She pauses next to an overstuffed couch, which he rather unceremoniously plops down on, and hesitates, her hand hovering toward the pocket of her leather jacket.
"Everything all right, love?"
She nods jerkily, swallowing down her nerves as she tries to look everywhere but him.
It lasts about two and a half seconds, and then he is leaning towards her, head dipping down to catch her eye. His gaze is soft, and she's torn between relief and irritation—how does he always just know?—at the understanding she sees there. His hand finds hers, and he pulls gently, leading her down on the sofa next to him.
"Open book, remember?"
She manages a choked laugh, and he smiles in response, his arm coming to rest along the back of the couch. She feels his fingers tangle in just the ends of her hair, and the gesture is soothing, calming her enough so that she can finally speak.
"I got you something," she says, and her own words bring her up short for a moment. She thinks back, thinks hard, but she can't remember a time that she's ever said those words to another—friend? Boyfriend?
(There was that one time with Walsh and the cashmere sweater, but she doesn't really count that, because she wasn't really her.)
Out of all of the men that she's been with, she doesn't ever remember buying a single thing of consequence for any of them, not even Neal, and if that's the truth—if he's the first, just like he has been for so many other—
She cuts herself off before she really gets worked up, and forces herself to breathe.
When she glances over at him, sliding her eyes shyly over to his, she finds him watching her, his face open and easy, an amused quirk tilting up the corners of his mouth, just waiting for her to continue.
Be patient, she'd told him.
She offers up a weak smile, and his fingers skim along the seam of her shoulder, reassuring.
"I always have enjoyed trinkets," he says mildly. "Comes with the territory, I suppose."
This time, her smile is genuine, and so is his, and it gives her enough courage to draw her hand out of her pocket, holding the small device out to him.
He glances down at it curiously, his hand moving from her shoulder to take it delicately. "Is this-?"
"A phone," she finishes. "Like the one at the sheriff's station. Only, this one you can carry with you."
He stares down at it, sliding his thumb over the screen experimentally—she wonders, for a moment, how he knows to do that, but then she remembers that she's always on her phone, checking in with Henry or David, and he's always with her—and the phone unlocks. She had set a picture of a beach as his wallpaper, feeling silly and corny at the time, but his face takes on a wistful expression when he sees it, and she feels herself grow warm from the inside out in response.
"Thank you, Emma," he murmurs after a moment, his eyes flickering up to hers. She smiles, the warmth in her chest morphing into a bubble of air, pressing out and up and making her feel as though she could float right off the couch.
"It's a little bit different from what you're used to," she tells him, scooching closer so that she can lean over his shoulder. He shifts as well, and then they're pressed together from shoulder to knee, his torso twisted to face her as she begins her tutorial.
She has a sneaking suspicion, as she explains what a text message is, that he isn't paying the slightest bit of attention to the phone.
It's late when she returns home, her body thrumming with energy and her fingers itching to feel the silky slip of his hair again. She lets herself into the loft, tiptoeing past a sleeping Mary Margaret and David, and tugging a blanket higher up around Henry's shoulders as she passes the couch. When she finally reaches her bed, she flops down on the mattress fully dressed, not even bothering with her boots.
She's tired in a contented sort of way, hair still mussed and lips kiss-bitten—their parting good night had been rather vigorous—and as she drifts into a sort of half-sleep, she almost doesn't feel her phone vibrate.
She fumbles around her jacket pocket for a moment before finally finding it, and she frowns when she pulls it out to see an unknown number flashing across the screen.
"Emma Swan," she answers, pushing herself up on one elbow and trying to force the sleep from her voice.
"Hello."
She recognizes the voice on the other end of the line instantly, and she can't help but grin. "Hey."
"I trust you made it home safely?" he asks, and God, her imagination was sorely lacking in comparison to the reality of Killian Jones speaking directly to her—to her and only her.
She hums in answer, finagling one foot loose from its boot before toeing off the other. She shrugs awkwardly out of her jacket—she is, after all, lying on a bed with a phone pressed to her ear—before finally settling back onto the pillows. "Did you?"
He chuckles, the sound low and rumbling and delicious. "The twelve steps from Granny's parlor to my room were without incident, yes."
The bed is soft underneath her, a gentle breeze from the open window stirring the hair around her face; it's nearly one o'clock in the morning, and she's talking to him on the phone, and she thinks right then and there that this is a moment if she's ever seen one.
"Good."
The next morning, the town loses power, and in the midst of all the panicked citizens, she struggles to find some way to stay calm and focused.
Her phone is in her hand before she even realizes it, the number already dialed.
He answers on the second ring. "Emma?"
"I need your help," she says without preamble.
She can hear the grin in his voice when he says, "Anything for the lady."