"You choked on your french fries." Robin looked very much like a disapproving parent. A disapproving parent who was highly amused at his child's idiocy and trying his damndest not to laugh.

Killian raised an eyebrow. "Are you done?"

"Absolutely not. How else did you embarrass yourself?"

He sighed. The break room interrogations were becoming more and more tiresome, mostly because Robin spent half the time taking the piss out of him. "She mocked my ability to handle an umbrella."

Robin did laugh then. "I don't know what it is about this woman that turns you into a bumbling fool, but remind me to thank her for it." He paused, considering. "What is it about her, anyway? Aside from how she looks."

Killian shrugged, not really sure how to articulate it. "I don't know, I'm just… curious about her." It sounded pathetic even to his ears.

"She's a person, not an episode of CSI."

"I bloody well know that."

"Do you?"

Killian glared. "Yes." Robin held up his hands in surrender, and he sighed again. "She's got this sense of humor that comes through every now and again when she forgets to act cautious around me. She's not the ice queen you seem to think she is."

"What is she, then?"

"Someone who doesn't mind making fun of me. Doesn't mind laughing when I make a stupid joke. Exhausted and overworked, but doesn't complain about it. Probably had a shit upbringing."

Robin leaned back in his chair. "What makes you say that?"

Killian hesitated, reluctant to share too much. "Just an offhand comment she made."

"CSI."

"Person," Killian shot back. He scrubbed his face with his hand. "I don't know, half the time I think she might be interested and then the other half I think she's just tolerating me because she feels obligated."

"Ask her out, then."

"What?"

"Ask her out," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "If you're not sure how she feels, ask her."

"That's… surprisingly sensible."

Robin grinned. "Which is exactly why you won't do it."

"You're not going to dare me into asking her out," he grumbled. "Besides, even if she said yes, when the hell would we have time? She has to spend her only day off taking care of everything she can't do during the week."

"If she's interested, she'll make time."

Killian frowned. "I doubt it's that simple for her. And if she's not interested…"

Robin's eyes widened in understanding. "She'll stop coming by here, probably."

"Aye. And Emma loses her place to catch a bit of rest."

Robin looked at him oddly. "You're… more concerned that she won't have a place to nap than you are about being rejected?"

He started to protest before realizing Robin was completely correct. "I suppose I am."

Robin finally settled on shaking his head. "You should ask her," he repeated.

Killian set his jaw. "Fine. I will."

He was planning to ask her, honestly. But Friday hardly seemed the occasion to do it, what with the limited amount of time she would be in the store. He certainly couldn't do it before her nap, and he damn well wasn't going to stop her on her way out, not when she only had a few minutes to get back to work.

So Friday was out, obviously. Next Tuesday, then, the next time he would go see her for lunch. He could go in later than usual, have his meal, and then ask before leaving, once the restaurant had slowed down.

Making plans, he soon learned, was a good way to hear God laugh.

Tuesday came, and despite his best efforts to make his lunch a late one, the place was overrun with a busload of tourists on some stop in a cross-country Greyhound route. Emma had thrown him an apologetic smile as she ran back-and-forth behind the bar, scarcely able to stop long enough to take his order much less hold a conversation. The discount she gave him and a quick "See you Friday!" as she dropped off his receipt going at a near-sprint wasn't much of a consolation, not when he would have to wait another week before getting a chance to talk to her again.

"You could just go back tomorrow. Or Thursday. Or Friday," Belle pointed out when he returned from lunch.

If he blanched at the idea, it was definitely not because he was procrastinating. "I think the best course of action is to not appear like a stalker, love. It'll wait until next week." Belle simply walked off with a long-suffering sigh. "Bloody tourists," he mumbled.

He hoped the mob Emma was waiting on tipped well, at least.

It was the first time in years that he hadn't noticed the date approaching. It usually crept up on him, casting a dark cloud for half of the month and rendering him rather unpleasant to be around. (Robin and Belle could testify to that. They mostly left him alone; it was better for everyone that way.)

It was the oddest thing, how it had completely slipped his mind. These days his thoughts were mostly occupied by a set of green eyes and an elusive smile.

Grateful as he was for the distraction, it didn't stop the darkness from settling in when he woke that Tuesday, the number on the calendar in the kitchen mocking him as he fumbled for coffee. He'd hardly slept the night before, and on days like this, half-asleep and clumsy, he found himself mourning the loss of his hand more than usual.

(He still mourned other things more, would happily give his other hand to get them back.)

Robin and Belle sensed it instantly and gave him a wide berth that morning, and Regina thankfully didn't show her face; he was in no mood to deal with her… unusual style of management. It was unfair to his friends, he knew, to make them tiptoe around him like this, but after he blew up on Robin the first time it happened three years prior - his first year working for Regina - they knew better.

Belle hadn't even worked there at that point, but Killian knew Robin had clued her in after she was hired; about how Killian had exploded on him after one too many "are you all right?"s followed by a "what the hell is wrong with you?" About how the next night he called him to drunkenly apologize and explain - said too much, probably, but it was enough for Robin to forgive him for acting like an arse.

Belle was especially brave this time, quietly approaching to ask if he'd be having lunch at Emma's bar.

He scoffed. "No. If I subjected her to me right now she'd run away screaming."

Belle hummed thoughtfully. "I think you're giving both of you too little credit."

She left before Killian could ask what she meant by that.

Belle's words rang through his head for the rest of the day, never more so than when Emma walked by the storefront just after 3:00. She slowed as she went past, nearly stopping when she reached the doors, peering inside before continuing on her way. He ached to talk to her, to have one of her rare smiles pointed in his direction, a little bit of sunshine to push out the darkness.

He also had no desire to dump his burdens on her; it wasn't her job to pull him out of his funk, and she clearly had enough of her own problems to deal with without becoming party to his own. Still, he found himself pausing as he walked by the bar after locking up the store for the night, just after 7:00.

Fuck, he needed a drink. And just as he attempted to talk himself out of going inside, a tiny voice in his mind whispered maybe the two of you could share your burdens, eventually. It was the first hopeful thought he'd had all day. Possibly misguided and uncharacteristically (stupidly) optimistic, but… hopeful.

He went inside.

He couldn't quite bring himself to sit at the bar, choosing the same tiny booth where he'd sat the first time he came in. He glanced towards the bar as he sat, catching a glimpse of blonde hair and feeling his lips twitch up automatically as he watched Emma mix up one fruity concoction after another and place them on a waiting server's tray.

She caught his eye and did a double-take as she wiped her hands on her apron, confusion briefly flickering over her face before she gave him a tentative smile.

He returned the expression as best he could, only then realizing he'd been caught staring (again), and she likely wondered why he hadn't bothered to sit at the bar. He ordered a scotch from the waitress who approached and declined to see a menu - better to drink something he'd have to sip slowly than find himself in a drunken heap by the end of the night - and settled back in his seat, blankly staring at the hockey game on one of the many television screens. This was his life now, apparently - drinking by himself just to be in close proximity to a woman who had no idea she'd become the highlight of his pathetic days.

He almost didn't look up when the drink was placed in front of him, but his eyes snapped up when a familiar voice told him, "First one's on me." And there she stood, less than a foot away from him, tired eyes and a kind smile greeting him.

"Thanks, love." He held the glass up in a small toast before taking a sip, savoring the burn of the alcohol as it warmed him through - or perhaps that was her.

"Long day?" she asked, and he actively fought his wince at the note of sympathy in her voice.

He shrugged, struggling to seem nonchalant. "Something like that."

"Hey," she said, reaching out as if to grab his wrist and then pulling back at the last moment. "Are you okay?"

"I'll be all right," he assured her, and the set of her mouth told him she saw straight through the evasion for what it was, but she didn't press. "Don't let me keep you from your work, love."

Her head tilted and she opened her mouth as though to say something before thinking the better of it. "Okay. Just yell if you need anything."

He gave her a quick nod before she disappeared back behind the bar. His next sip was considerably larger than his first.

One scotch turned into five.

Despite his best intentions, the drinks grew easier and easier to swallow as he downed them, and Emma was generous when pouring them, something he found himself oddly grateful for. He'd take an extra-large scotch over feigned sympathy any day.

Is it really feigned?, that tiny voice asked him.

His brain was trying to kill him, he was certain.

Just past 9:30, he found another scotch and a basket of french fries set on the table before him, just before Emma plopped herself into the seat opposite him.

"You're not driving home," she told him.

He blinked at her stupidly. "What?"

"You're not driving home," she repeated, gesturing to the basket in front of him. "Now eat some damn fries before you get sick from drinking on an empty stomach."

"Says the woman who just handed me another scotch." He fought to keep the slur out of his words and knew he wasn't entirely successful.

Emma simply shrugged. "Eh, what's one more? Besides, you seem like you need it." Her mouth twitched up a tiny bit. "Just try not to choke on these, okay?"

At any other time he would have teased her back, but he couldn't find the will. Emma frowned when her joke didn't land. "Aye," Killian muttered, taking another sip before shoving a fry into his mouth.

She leaned back in her seat. "So, you want to tell me what's bothering you?"

His eyebrow shot up. "Shouldn't you be working?"

"I just clocked out."

"Oh." He swallowed heavily. "I don't - I don't want you to concern yourself with - "

"Please." She rolled her eyes. "I'm a bartender. I'm pretty sure that makes me an amateur shrink. You wouldn't believe the crap some people tell me."

"So you've clocked out, but you're still working, in a way."

She considered him before stealing a french fry. "Maybe."

He chewed hard on his lip, biting back the thought that she'd sought him out for once. His next words came before he could stop them. "It's a bit of an… anniversary for me. Not a good one."

Her eyes narrowed and he could feel her studying him, reading between the lines of his words and watching her knowing expression as the pieces fell into place. For all the time he'd spent figuring her out it had never quite occurred to him that she might have been doing the same. He shifted in his seat under her gaze, a fresh wave of guilt washing over him.

So this is what it's like. Turnabout was fair play, he supposed.

"Your hand?" she asked, her voice gentle. It was the first time she'd ever acknowledged it, the first time she'd even glanced at it, as far he could remember, and his stomach twisted at her observation.

"Aye. Car accident. Drunk driver." It was all he could say.

Her expression turned thoughtful and he kept his eyes down at the scrutiny, busying himself with the food she'd set in front of him.

"That's not it, though. You lost someone," she finally said. It's not a question.

He nodded. "My brother, Liam. And Milah." He lets her fill in the blanks and studiously ignores her face. As uncomfortable as it is he lets her, allows her the same shallow look into his life she'd already unknowingly given to him.

"That sucks." It was the last thing he expected her to say, but it's better, somehow. Not sympathy, just simple acknowledgement, and it burned at the back of his eyes for a moment before he blinked it away.

He shook his head. "It was… six years ago." He'd later blame the alcohol, but he kept talking. "You'd think I'd handle it a bit better by now."

She held out a french fry for him to take and he did, still unable to meet her eyes.

"Have you ever told anyone before? Your friends?"

"No. I mean… they know, but not because I was pouring my heart out to them. More like apologizing for acting miserable."

He finally found the will to meet her gaze and it was nearly unreadable, save for the tiniest of smiles on her face. "Well, you just told me about it. That seems like a pretty good way to start handling it."

His breath nearly stopped at the simple kindness shown to him, the lack of judgment, the… she settled him. She was enough.

He knew if he didn't stop his current train of thought he'd fall in love with her before he knew her last name.

"It's okay to grieve, you know." The words were so quiet he could scarcely hear them over the music.

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. "I know. Seems I've done enough of that for a lifetime already, though."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the mood odd but not entirely uncomfortable as he sipped at his scotch and they shared his fries. It was part gratitude, part guilt that fueled his next question. That she'd lend him an ear when he didn't deserve it, shown compassion he hadn't seen before, and his own relentless curiosity.

"Why… why do you work so much?" Her face dropped but he didn't stop, the raw and broken part of him that just needed to know overriding his better judgment. "I know life can be expensive, but you're running yourself ragged, love, and - "

The dark look that crossed her face was enough to shut him up. "I'm paying off a debt," she finally said, her posture going stiff.

"Oh." That hardly narrowed it down, but he knew better than to press further. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…" he nearly said "pry" before realizing that was exactly what he was doing, "...dredge up unpleasant memories."

She relaxed slightly. "It's okay. Not like I didn't just do the same thing."

"Indeed." Their shared smile was cautious, but it still felt like an olive branch.

"You're still not driving home," she told him, recovering a bit.

"Of course not. No one knows the consequences of driving drunk better than I." He couldn't keep the trace of bitterness out of his voice.

She looked suitably chastened but didn't back down. "Do you have someone you can call?"

He shrugged, knowing Belle or Robin would help if asked, but he'd subjected them to enough of his nonsense for the day. "I can get a cab. Or an Uber. Just like he could have."

He nearly spat the last words, knowing he was wallowing and unable to help himself; it felt good to voice his rage rather than bottling it up for once. The aptly-named Mr. Gold who'd walked away from the crash with hardly a scratch to show for it. He'd paid handsomely in the civil suit, another several hundred thousand pounds on top of Liam's life insurance policy, but his money and top-notch lawyers had gotten him off on criminal charges due to a technicality.

"Hey," she said, and then she did touch him, her fingers hot at his wrist before he realized his hand was shaking. "I'll drive you home."

He paused, long and hard as he stared at her palm on his flesh, scorching the skin there but settling him at the same time. Still, he'd already infringed enough on her time, as precious as it was to her. She could have already been home by now getting some desperately-needed sleep.

"I'm… I'm not some charity case, love."

Her face hardened, her hand stilling over his. "Neither am I."

They stared at one another for a long moment, a too-taut wire strung between them ready to snap. Killian blinked first, turning his hand in hers to lace their fingers together, giving a quick squeeze before letting go.

"Of course not," he said, contrition in his voice, a bit of slack loosening the tension. He watched her relax before speaking once more. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," she said, her smile tense but understanding. "Yeah, I am."