Ticking Clocks
(rated T for mild language and sensuality; spoilers for 4x19 and spec for 4x20)
He knows she'll be fine.
Really, he does.
She's been on her own for most of her life, made her own way, fought her own battles. She's saved herself more times than he'd like to count.
She's smart—smart in a way that's more than book smart, smart in a way that's smart smart, street smart—and strong and entirely capable.
(Still, he breathes a sigh of relief when he hugs her goodbye and feels the shape of a gun strapped to the small of her back, because she may be smart and strong and capable, but sometimes, the world can just be a bitch.
He should know.)
She kisses him before she leaves, mouth hard against his, and when she pulls away, there's a moment—just a flicker, really, a split second—where he sees something like second guessing in her eyes, and it makes his chest constrict, just a little bit, because even after all she's done, all the people she's saved, all the darkness she's battled, she still doesn't fully believe in herself.
But he blinks and it's gone, and when she walks to the car, her head is up and her shoulders are back, and she looks every bit the Savior in her red leather armor.
(He used to wonder who would save her, if it ever came down to it.
He's since decided he would happily take on the role.
(He always has been a bit too ambitious for his own good.))
He meets her eyes in the rearview mirror, only once, and he smiles, just a little bit.
Every part of him screams to follow after her, to insist on going with her, to be next to her every step of the way, and it feels wrong—so, so wrong —to watch her drive away.
Even if she'd let him go, he knows this is something she has to do for herself.
Henry steps up beside him, knocking into his arm with his shoulder. He glances down at the boy to see that his face is a perfect copy of Emma's, lips twisted into a smirk, a single eyebrow curved up.
"Wanna teach me how to play poker while my moms are gone?"
He snorts, and drops a hand down on the back of the boy's neck, guiding him back towards Main Street. "Why don't we get some lunch first?"
They end up playing poker in the corner booth at Granny's, using fries as chips and a worn deck of cards that Ruby produces from behind the counter. The she-wolf loiters close by, ruffling Henry's hair and keeping their drinks filled and occasionally tsking when she manages a peek at either one of their hands.
Turns out, Henry's got a wicked poker face, and they've only played two games when his faces splits wide in a grin and he lays a full house across the table.
Killian walks him back to the loft.
Henry insists he'll be fine, but it's dark and there's more than just one unsavory character skulking around the shadows these days.
(He doesn't mention it to Henry, but he feels something strong and fierce in the pit of his stomach when he thinks about the boy with Emma's chin and Baelfire's eyes and Milah's mop of curls, something that he's a little afraid to put a name on, because as much as he loves Emma, he's also come to care for her son, and while he doesn't quite think of him as his—they aren't quite to that point yet, none of them—he has a feeling it wouldn't take much more.)
David answers the door with guarded eyes and a terse smile, clapping Henry on the back, and ushering him inside with a request to help Mary Margaret with the dishes.
The boy goes willingly, and David steps out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him, and it's a little tense, the silence that stretches between them.
(He hasn't exactly been on the best of terms with Emma's parents, not since the incident, when the truth about Emma's destiny had come out and his mind had been a little slow to catch up with his tongue.
He doesn't remember the words he said, just that they were bitter in his mouth and even more acrid in their eyes.)
He lifts his chin, meets David's stare head on, but the spar only holds as a bluff, and less than a minute passes before David's shoulders droop, a heavy sigh escaping him.
He still can't quite bring himself to forgive them their transgressions against the woman he loves—if there's one thing he's become quite good at in his near-three hundred years, it's holding grudges—but he can see the pain in the other man's eyes, and it cracks his resolve, if only slightly.
"Have you heard from her?"
His mind flashes back, three hours and forty seven minutes ago—to say he's been a little on edge is a little bit of an understatement—to two lines of text scrolling across the screen of his phone: Made it to Massachusetts. I'll call when we're in for the night. X E.
He nods shortly. "They made it. That's all I know. She said she'd call later."
David lets out a breath Killian didn't know he'd been holding, his eyes closing as his head drops forward in apparent relief.
"Good. That's—that's good. I'm glad she's keeping in touch."
David glances over at him, and he expects a little bit of resentment—anger, or hurt at the very least—but all he sees is guilt and exhaustion.
It twists his gut, then, the words he'd spoken to Emma echoing in his mind—even heroes make mistakes, love—and he reaches out to grasp David's arm, briefly, reassuringly.
"I'll let you know when I hear more."
David smiles, and it doesn't quite reach his eyes, but it's an effort at least, and Killian's sure the small quirk of his own lips isn't much better.
"We'd appreciate it. Thanks for taking Henry."
"Any time, mate."
A loud, wailing shriek from the babe effectively ends their exchange, and as Killian heads back towards the docks, he pauses to glance back at the loft's open window.
He can see Mary Margaret, rocking a small bundle in a chair in the corner, David leaning against the counter with Henry, the boy gesturing wildly as he no doubt recounts their day, and if he were any more naïve, he might think that it's the picture of a perfect family.
He's lived enough to know that there's no such thing.
It's late when he hears the tone on his phone that signals a text message—nearly two in the morning—but he hasn't slept a wink, would be lying if he said he was even remotely tired, and he snatches up the device almost instantly.
Still awake?
His fingers hover over the tiny keypad, but he changes his mind at the last second, hitting the little phone icon.
(It's been nearly twelve hours since he heard from her last, and damn if he doesn't want to hear her, not just see her words typed out on a screen.)
"Hey, you."
Her voice is rough with exhaustion, but she sounds genuinely happy to hear from him. He closes his eyes and really breathes for what feels like the first time since she left, and it's a little bit ridiculous, the effect this woman has on him.
"Hello, love."
"Hang on, give me just a sec." He hears a rustle, a murmured conversation, the sound of a door opening and closing. "Okay, I'm back."
"Did I wake you?" He feels a pang of guilt, laced with more than a little bit of concern, because he's watched her, these past few days, watched the bags grow darker under her eyes, and her skin grow more pale. He knows exactly how much sleep she's gotten, wrapped in the quilt in his bunk on the Jolly, and he knows it's not nearly enough for what she's doing.
He can almost hear her shaking her head, though, and her stubbornness brings a rueful smile to his lips. "No, I was awake. It's just—the room's a little crowded."
The way she says the last word, something sarcastic and wry twisting the syllables, has him sitting up straighter. "You found her, then? Your friend?"
Her laugh is little more than a puff of air. "You could say that." He hears another rustle, imagines her running a hand over her face. "Jesus, it's been a long day."
"You should rest."
"You're probably right." There's a pause, and his heart sinks a little, because it's only been three minutes, and—"What did you do today?"
He blinks, a little taken aback, and he must take longer to reply than he realizes, because she sighs, the sound heavy in his ears and on his chest. "I just—it's been a really, really long day, and I really don't want to go back in there and have to deal with it, so let's just talk, okay?"
Her voice is more than a little shaky, and thinking about the way she looks with teardrops clinging to her lashes makes his heart ache, and so he talks, as she asks, tells her about her son and his penchant for gambling—she snorts at that, says something about Henry coming by it naturally, and he catalogues that little tidbit for later, for when it's just him and her and the stakes can be higher than a few soggy potato crisps.
He tells her about Ruby, and her parents, and about the weather, talks until there's nothing left to tell her but how much he misses her, and how being away from her feels like there's a part of him missing.
(He doesn't say it in so many words—in fact, it sounds a lot more like Would've been a hell of a lot warmer with you around, Swan and he tries on purpose to make it sound as obscene as he can, because it always makes her smile when he says stuff like that, even when she doesn't want to.
She doesn't buy it.)
He hears her snort, and then her voice is soft, curling around her words with a gentle affection that makes his stomach flip. "I miss you too."
(He may or may not have to swallow around the lump in his throat.
He really doesn't know when he became this much of a ponce.
He really, really doesn't.
(Oh, but he really does.))
He gives in and just says it, because maybe she needs to hear it as much as he needs to say it, and maybe it's worth it, to lay his heart out on the table, when he knows she'll pick it right up. "I've missed you more than you know, Emma."
He thinks he might hear a sniffle, but then he thinks maybe it's wishful thinking, because when she speaks her voice is still relatively steady. "This bed is too damn soft."
There are lots of things he could say, but what ends up coming out is Wish I were there to make it a little harder, love?, and as soon as the words leave his lips, he winces, but she laughs, and even through the phone's crap speaker, it's the most beautiful sound he's heard all day.
Her laugh fades into a yawn, though, and he knows she needs to go, needs to get some sleep, however little it may be.
"Thank you," she says quietly, after a moment, and he smiles softly even though he knows she can't see.
"Any time, darling."
"We should be home sometime tomorrow," she says, and he feels a wave of relief, because it's already nearly three in the morning, and he can do this, he can do a few more hours. "I'll keep in touch."
"Take care of yourself, Swan," he says, because it's the most he can say, at least now.
"You too," she returns. "Watch out for my kid."
"You know I will."
He knows she's smiling, that little smile that she has just for him that softens her eyes and the lines in her face. "I know you will. Goodnight, Killian."
"Goodnight, love."
He types out a message to David, and even though it's nearly dawn, the prince responds almost immediately.
Thank you.
He doesn't sleep a wink.
(Not that he was expecting to, but. Still.)
He lays flat on his back on the bunk that was his but now feels more like theirs—the pillows smell of her soap, something warm and vanilla, and the quilt draped across his legs is one she'd pilfered from her parents, and every time he closes his eyes, he thinks he feels a whisper of her next to him, the brush of her hair against his face, the chill of her feet against his shins.
It's wishful thinking, and all too soon, he gives up any pretense of trying to rest and simply watches as dawn's first rays of light begin slowly creeping through the cabin's windows.
He asks Granny twice if she's quite certain her clock hasn't stopped running.
On the third time, her only answer is a hair-raising glare.
He takes a sip of his coffee and pokes at his pile of eggs with a fork, and when Ruby saunters by asking if he'd like something stronger, he seriously considers it.
The phone in his pocket buzzes, then, and he nearly knocks his plate off the table in his haste to retrieve it.
(Granny rolls her eyes from behind the counter, mutters something about lovesick fools and damned lucky I still take doubloons.)
It's Emma—of course it is, who else would it be—and it's just a text message, but he can't help but trace a finger over the words, lingering on the little Xo she's put at the end.
He hopes she intends to carry through on that, because he has a feeling that the next four hours will be excruciating.
If he thought time was moving slow before, he's certain now that it must be moving backwards.
He ends up at the library.
Belle takes one look at him—he's sure his eyes are bloodshot, and he's still in yesterday's clothes, and hell, he probably smells like the generous measure of rum Ruby had tipped into his mug—and wordlessly passes him a cart of books.
It's time consuming and tedious, but it's a job that gives his mind little to focus on of any substance, and it isn't long before he becomes fidgety, hook tapping out a rhythm on the edge of the metal cart, fingers flicking absently against the spines of the books he's shelving.
Will comes in at lunch time, a bag of burgers and fries in his hands, and Killian decides that there's something about watching another bloke with his lady that makes you sorely miss your own.
He makes it ten more minutes before he begs off.
He finds Henry at one of the tables outside the diner, an untouched milkshake in front of him.
"That's going to melt," he points out, rather unhelpfully, as he drops into a seat next to the boy.
Henry merely shrugs, nudging said milkshake towards him in a silent offer, eyes focused on the expanse of Main Street that stretches as far as the eye can see.
Killian checks the time yet again.
A little under an hour left.
They've taken to playing dice—though it's little more than a task to occupy their hands; both of them know his pair are loaded—when Henry sits up, abruptly, squinting into the afternoon sun.
"Is that-?"
He peers in the same direction, and his heart does a funny little flip in his chest when he does, in fact, see the shape of Emma's little yellow Bug moving towards them.
Henry lets out a whoop that draws the attention of the rest of the diner's patrons before taking off down the street, Killian only seconds behind him.
(The boy runs flat out, and he'd like to think he's a little more dignified, but his jog may or may not be closer to a sprint.)
Emma's barely pulled the car up to the curb, wheels still rolling to a complete stop, when Henry yanks open the door.
A shout of protest is lodged in his throat—he knows from experience that it's not a pleasant ordeal to be hit by one of those driving machines, and Henry is right there—but then he hears Emma's laugh, and everything else fades away.
A small part of him notices when Mary Margaret and David come up behind him, both of their breathing a little uneven, but he pays them no mind as he steps down off the curb.
It's a tumble of arms and legs and flapping coats, but somehow, Emma makes it out of the car with Henry still firmly attached to her waist, and he just watches, for a moment, the way her hand comes up to cradle her boy's head, fingers flexing in that unruly mop of hair, and it's a beautiful thing, watching mother and son sway together.
But then she looks up and catches sight of him and she smiles, and the force of it socks him straight in the gut, the breath leaving his lungs with an audible whoosh, and he's so stunned that, for a moment, he doesn't realize she's released Henry and is moving towards him, her strides long and purposeful.
He meets her halfway, rocking back on his heels when her body collides with his, and it's almost automatic, the way her arms curl around his neck and his nose buries in the curve of her shoulder.
He closes his eyes and breathes, breathes her in, the scent of her hair and the warmth of her skin, and he knows that half the town is standing right behind them, but damn if he can't help nudging up the edge of her hat with his nose, pressing his lips against that spot, just behind her ear.
She sighs, body melting further into his, and he convinces himself that, when he hefts her up on the tips of her toes—closer, always closer—that it's more to keep her from falling than it is to feel every line of her pressed up against him.
(Gentleman, and all that.)
She runs a hand through the hair at the base of his neck, fingernails scraping deliciously against the sensitive skin there, and he swears that he hears his name in her breath.
She pulls back just far enough to find his mouth with hers, and the kiss is chaste, just a quick press of lips, but the look she gives him afterwards looks a lot like a promise of more to come, and he can't help but grin as she drops back down onto the flats of her feet.
"All right, love?"
She sighs, tearing her eyes away from his to glance back at the car, where Regina and Robin and the little lad Roland have appeared, along with a woman he's sure he's never seen before, but still looks vaguely familiar, and—
He would know those crimson curls anywhere.
He feels his eyes go wide, arm automatically tightening around her waist, and she surprises him by chuckling.
She drops her head down onto his shoulder, hand coming up to rest over his heart, and when she speaks, her words are muffled against his jacket.
"Did I mention it's been a really long couple of days?"
After, when the town has finally descended into some semblance of nighttime quiet, they lay together on the narrow mattress of his bunk.
Her feet are freezing when she presses her toes into his calves, and he has no less than eight pieces of hair in his mouth, but she's here, with him, fingers tracing absentminded patterns into the skin of his chest.
Her lips press once, twice, three times against the ridge of his collar bone, and he lets his hand trail lightly up and down her arm, feeling the gooseflesh rise in the wake of his touch.
"Sleep," he murmurs into the darkness, fingers slipping up into the silky slip of her hair. "You need it."
She huffs in good-natured irritation and pushes herself up on one elbow, and he is struck, yet again, by how stunning she is, with moonlight spinning her hair silver and her eyes a deep jade. He lifts his hand to trace the trio of freckles that rest just at the swell of her breast, and contemplates for only a moment before nudging his head closer, mapping a path between them with his tongue.
Her leg slips between his, fingers tightening in the strands of his hair, and he moves higher up her chest, smiling a little against the ridge of her shoulder at her sound of protest.
"Sleep," he says again, a little firmer this time, and he can almost hear her eyes rolling.
"I'm not tired." Her voice borders on the edge of a whine, and he presses his lips against the skin of her neck placatingly.
"Lies."
She huffs again, and this time it carries a little more weight. He presses her gently onto her back, lifts a hand to trace the curve of her cheek, and she softens, looking up at him from under her lashes, and he knows it's dark, and that's the more likely reason that her pupils are blown wide and black, but he likes to think that maybe he had a little bit to do with it, too.
(She's going to be the death of him one day, he thinks, with her siren eyes and gold-white hair and the magic she wields in her touch.)
"I missed you."
He smiles softly at her quiet admission, and when he leans forward, she more than willingly meets him halfway. The kiss is long and slow and languid, and it makes something deep in his gut burn with want, and he thinks, maybe, when she tilts her head to take his tongue more fully into her mouth, that he might be a little bit addicted to the way Emma Swan tastes with sweet words like that on her lips.
"I missed you as well," he murmurs between kisses when she pulls back just the slightest bit to catch her breath. "But I'll still be here in the morning, love."
Her arm slips around his waist, head ducking into the space under his chin, and it warms his heart a little to hear her whispered words.
"You better be."