Hey! I decided to space the updates out a little more to give people more time to read (and me more time to edit) so I hope that's alright! I was originally planning on waiting until Sunday to post this, but I'm weak willed as hell. I can't thank the people who have given me so much incredible, positive feedback enough. It means the world to me.

Warnings for this chapter include discussions of death (...as is the entire fic), references to drinking, references to sex, etc. I hope you enjoy!

-/-

Emma knocks on the door in front of her more than a little reluctantly.

This is her mess. She has to clean it up. That doesn't mean she's going to enjoy it, but it does mean she has to muster enough courage to deal with it.

Killian looks surprised to see her when he opens up the door to find her on the other side of it. Which is understandable, given that he's hardly given his address out.

"Swan," he greets, forearm resting against his door casually. Killian's expression gives nothing away. She isn't sure whether to be relieved or concerned. "How can I help you?"

She sways a little bit, adjusting her weight on her legs uncomfortably. Sheer willpower brought her to his door sober, but that willpower is fading quickly and Emma briefly ponders if this would be easier if she were drunk enough to forget it in the morning. "What, you're not going to ask how I found out where you lived?"

Killian shrugs. She only gives him a deadpan stare in return, waiting for his reply.

He shakes his head with a wry chuckle and an upwards flicking of his gaze, giving into her easily. "How did you determine my place of residence, Swan?"

"I'm a private investigator," Emma replies, curtly. While Killian is relaxed and bemused, she's still rigid and anxious.

Killian seems to notice and he studies her for a brief moment. "So you were able to use your wide expanse of skill to track me down, I see. I assumed as much, to be quite honest with you. The only question I have is why you've decided to pay me a house call."

The words aren't said accusingly, which makes this even harder.

"I'm a private investigator," Emma spits out, repeating her words. "I catch people with their pants around their ankles for a living. It's not glamorous, it pays bills."

"As you've just said," he replies, confused. "I'm hardly in a position to judge you for the integrity of your job, Swan."

"That's what you don't get," she mutters. "It has everything to do with my job when someone over the phone pays you twice your usual fee to catch a wife he suspects is cheating without disclosing his identity. It has everything to do with his wife turning up dead a week later."

"Swan," Killian says, aghast but still missing the point. "You're not responsible for the actions of other pe-."

"The man on the phone was Robert Gold," Emma adds, abruptly. "The woman I snapped pictures of was Milah. She was with you."

All he can do is gape at her, shell-shocked. He takes a step back and she tries not to cringe.

"How long have you known?" he asks, in a way that's impossible for her to decipher his feelings.

"I figured it out when I saw the hologram," she answers, truthfully. "You seemed familiar to me, but I didn't connect the dots until then."

"That it was me with her?"

"That it was her, period. I had no idea who either of you were when I took those pictures."

"...And you blame yourself?" he asks, incredulously.

Emma wrings her hands. "I'm the reason all of this happened. If he didn't know, if she could have gotten away sooner...she'd still be alive. If I hadn't done that job, none of this would be happening. He wouldn't have a reason to start this in the first place if she were still alive. Milah is dead because of what I've done, Killian. That girl is dead because of me."

Killian shakes his head in disbelief. "You can't honestly believe that, Swan."

"Do I look like I'm lying?" she asks harshly, eyes boring into his.

"You look like you're taking a lot of responsibility for actions that aren't yours," he replies, undeterred, "Gold did these things. Not you. This is Gold's fault."

"Yeah, well," she murmurs, gaze going to her boots. "I sure as fuck didn't help the situation."

Killian just takes a look at her with a weary sigh.

"Come in, love. You need a drink and some sleep to clear your head."

-/-

They end up seated on his couch, a bottle of rum between them. She pours herself a generous glass. This conversation is definitely going to require alcohol. Emma downs the first glass without a second glace. Killian doesn't so much as raise an eyebrow. He doesn't do much of anything, which is just making her more on-edge. When she's more on edge, she pours a second drink.

It's kind of a vicious cycle, one she ends up interrupting herself as she realizes Killian is waiting for her to start talking.

(Because that's what she loves to do. Talk about her feelings.)

"This is the part where you shout at me and tell me how betrayed you feel for trusting the woman who got your girlfriend killed," Emma states in a monotone, staring at the opposite wall and slumping further into his couch. She can't muster the courage to face him, alcohol or not.

"Why would I shout at you if I don't feel betrayed?"

He sounds exasperated, sure, but not pissed. Emma is starting to get a little pissed that he's not pissed, to be honest.

"Because you didn't trust me in the first place," she surmises. "Understandable, given you learned my name last night, but you still should be angry."

"I didn't say that," he retorts, frustration clear in his voice. "Emma, I don't blame you for what happened."

Emma knows this can't even be remotely true.

"Let me draw it out for you in detail," she says. "Gold called me, asking for proof of his wife fooling around. I took pictures of you and her fucking and sent it to him, Killian, and that sent him over the edge enough to kill her."

Killian exhales, setting his face in his hand. "Did you know that would happen?"

"No, but it's not like it makes it any better," Emma answers harshly, fingernails pressing against the inside of her palms. "I do this for a living. I don't care what happens after I'm done, I just get the paycheck and go on to the next life to ruin. The circumstances, the consequences, none of it factors in. I just get my money and I run."

"Aye, you seem very flippant about it," Killian mutters sarcastically. "What, with all your insisting on me hating you for it. The actions of a woman who doesn't give a damn."

"Remorse doesn't make what I did any better."

"You're asking me to help you punish yourself for doing your job. I'm not going to do that. If you want to self-flagellate, be my guest. I won't help you in that endeavor," Killian tells her, resolute. "Gold killed Milah. To divert any of the blame off him is a disgrace to her bloody memory."

The fight goes out of her, then. She bites her lip as she visibly deflates, unsure of how to reply.

"I do have one question, though. Why did you decide to tell me all of this, now?" he inquires, turning his head to face her after a beat of silence. "Granted, I'm not complaining about the company, but…"

"I didn't want to become my mother," she mutters into her glass, the guilt and alcohol driving her to admit what she ordinarily wouldn't. "She's a horrible human being and sometimes I remind myself of her way too goddamn much. I came here because she doesn't take responsibility for her actions, not really. I wanted to do the opposite of that."

Killian tilts his head, contemplatively. "Why do you hate your mother so much?"

Emma scoffs, turning to face him with a scowl. "What are you, my shrink?"

He only shrugs his shoulders, looking completely unbothered by her display of aggression. "Just trying to be a good listener, Swan."

"Fine. I'd describe it less as hate and more of innate understanding of the fact that she lacks any sort of moral compass," Emma grimaces, folding her arms around herself. She sighs heavily, frowning and studying the patterns in the wood of his coffee table just so she can - in some way - mentally escape the exchange. The attempt at occupying her mind doesn't provide much solace. "Not that I'm in much of a position to talk nowadays, but still."

There's a pause between the two of them, for a moment. Emma can only hold her breath and hope Killian doesn't wake up and decide that he doesn't want the woman who played a part in his girlfriend's death in his home. It's what any reasonable person would do. She's just surprised it's taking him this long.

(It's what she would do, isn't it? Slam the door in their face and never look back? Not invite the person in and tell them to make themselves at home, the home the person she loved could have been in if they weren't busy being dead.)

"Your moral compass seems relatively intact to me," Killian comments idly, gaze focused on her.

"That's a hell of a conclusion to draw about a woman you've only met twice," Emma mutters derisively. "What, trespassing and confessions of guilt great testimonials for you?"

"You accept responsibilities that aren't yours and fight for justice for women you don't know," he amends wryly. "I find that fairly respectable. More so than my pursuit for revenge, at any rate."

"Now who's self flagellating?"

He pauses before answering, swallowing hard. "You may have taken the pictures, but I was the one who got her in that situation in the first place."

Emma groans in exasperation."Of course. That's why you're not pissed at me - you're too busy being pissed at yourself. That's a new level of sad, you know. You made a woman in a miserable situation happier. I'll be sure to notify the police for this horrific crime."

"I hope so on the first," he exhales, taking his first sip of rum of the night. "On the second, I think I've done enough stealing in my youth to be sure the police aren't endeared to me."

"Yeah, well… I used to be a cop," Emma starts, rolling her eyes. "Believe it or not. Obviously I'm not the best example, but I was in prison for stealing watches, before that. There's hope for you, yet."

She almost expects him to laugh, but he just looks at her thoughtfully. "I can see it."

"The prison or the cop part?"

"Ah, both," he grins, dimples flashing.

Emma can't help give him a small grin in return, shaking her head. The smile fades quickly, though, as she ponders the girl who sat behind those bars for nine months and the shitty circumstances - the trap of her own making - that got her there. That only leads her to think about the second variation - Emma 2.0, Now With More Wide Eyed Idealism! - and the similar shitty circumstances that that one entailed.

(And then there's Emma 3.0, Now With More Misery and Cynicism!)

"The first was...a guy was involved, but the second I'm almost more ashamed of. I wanted to make the world a better place and all that shit," she explains derisively, not sure whether or not she hates the girl she used to be or envies her.

(It likely comes down to a combination of the two.)

Emma swallows, hard, and tries to make what she says next sound more flippant than it is. "Anyway, I did what I never should have done and fell in love with my partner, Graham. One of the nicest men I'd ever met in my life and...I never felt loved like I did with him. He was killed in the crossfire of another police officer. They were trailing a suspect, Graham saw he was an unarmed kid and tried to warn Arthur not to shoot, and…"

"He shot anyway, killing the other cop," Killian finishes, grimly. "Aye, I believe I heard the story on the news."

"I don't know if you heard this part, though," Emma mutters, eyes focusing on that same patch of wood and thumb running over the top of her glass absentmindedly. Her mouth sets into a hard line. "Arthur's defense attorney? Ingrid Swan. The best lawyer money can buy. She also happens to be my mother. You can figure out the rest."

"Your mother was the defense lawyer for the man that murdered your boyfriend," he summarizes, sounding repulsed.

"Arthur Tolemac didn't get so much as a misdemeanor charge," Emma replies darkly. "Tragic mistake in the line of duty. As I heard mommy dearest say for hours on end in the trail: Who knows what the kid had in his pocket? Why was Officer Humbert behaving so recklessly as to walk in front of a pointed gun? Does this town need to lose any more police officers?"

Kilian sighs. "Then they lost you."

Emma snorts derisively. "At least when you're a private detective, you expect shitty human beings. When you're a cop, they sell you bullshit like 'honor' and 'dignity'. I don't need either of those for this."

"And yet you have them nonetheless," Killian points out, softly. He's been remarkably understanding for someone in his position, all warm and inviting and knowing. Her eyes narrow.

"I just told you not even half an hour ago that my investigation of your girlfriend's affair got her killed and you're saying I have honor," Emma scoffs, taking another long sip of her drink.

"As I said, Gold killed Milah. Not you," Killian corrects sharply. "Stop blaming yourself for this."

Emma sighs before giving him a caustic laugh. It sounds as jagged as she feels. "I still don't think you understand me when I say I sent Gold pictures of you and Milah going at it for money."

He rakes his hand through his hair in irritation. "The point is, love, that despite your rough exterior, you've shown more dignity and honor to Gold's victims than anyone. Even to the point where you try to assume some of the blame for the fate that befalls them."

"Don't worry," Emma intones duly, sensing his intentions. He's not lying, sure, but he could have ulterior motives in this. No matter his assurances, it's still hard to believe that he isn't the least bit bothered. "You don't have to justify having a thing for the reason your girlfriend is dead to me and dress it up as praising heroism. I'm not in a position to judge."

It's a low blow, maybe, and an assumption, definitely. But she didn't come here to get all buddy-buddy with him and swap stories. At this point, Emma isn't really sure what she came here for.

"There it is again," he replies lightly, seemingly undeterred by her sharp appraisal, "the self-loathing. I'm familiar with the concept, truthfully. Had plenty of it to go around after Milah's death. After what happened with my brother, too."

Emma raises her eyebrows. "You have a brother?"

"Had," he corrects, "Died while serving overseas. I was with him. Didn't take it well."

Emma frowns, recognizing his flippant tone for what it is - a false armor. She of all people can get that. "I can't imagine you did. I mean... if I lost my brother I'd-"

"You have a brother?" he asks, echoing her earlier question with a grin.

She nods, letting him redirect the conversation for now. It's another habit she's familiar with. "Yup. David Nolan."

"The man running for sheriff?"

"That's the one."

Killian cocks his head to the side in contemplation, eyes studying her. "It makes sense."

There that line is again.

Emma flashes him a disbelieving look. "Makes sense, how?"

"The savior complex," he gestures to her, "must be genetic."

"Hey!" she elbows him, more playful than offended. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He only chuckles in response. "It means that as much as you pretend not to give a damn, you care. You care a lot. You like to think you care too much, which would explain the apathetic, tough act."

Emma's lips twist into a frown. "Thanks for the analysis, doctor. Ever think that I might just not give a shit?"

"Yes, because someone who didn't give a damn would be driven to guilt for just doing her job," he replies, sarcastically. "Makes perfect sense. As much as I would like to relive this argument again, I'm going to tell you one last time - what happened was not your fault, Swan."

"Yeah, well," she mutters. "You're not one to talk, you know."

Killian raises his eyebrows. "How so?"

"As much as you dress your revenge up as proof you're this dark, broody hulk - you give a shit too. You wouldn't let a woman who told you she's trying to get justice for a poor teenaged girl see your dead ex-girlfriend and all of your tragic backstory just because she was hot. You wanted to help," she explains, voice growing softer as she continues. "And you did. You helped."

The corners of his lips twitch. "How do you know it wasn't really just because I fancied you, as you put it?"

Emma nudges his shoulder with hers. "Now who's acting tough? What were you saying about your brother?"

"You expose a man like that and expect him to continue with more of his - as you so eloquently put it - tragic backstory?"

She shrugs. "I told you mine. That's rare for me, you know."

"Then it's only fair for me to repay you," he finishes the thought. "My brother and I were in the navy. He was killed and I was dishonorably discharged. Turns out they don't take insubordination lightly. And I didn't take the military's callousness when it came to casualties lightly, either. From my brother to the people that got caught in the crossfire."

Emma frowns. "How did he die?"

Killian stares at the wall, steadily. "Being a bloody hero. Didn't believe me when I told him that our commander was trying to seize chemical weapons to use in the region we were stationed in. Didn't believe the civilians pleading with him to see that, more like. He tried to prove to me that they weren't harmful and killed himself with a stockpile of sarin gas. I only survived because I wasn't exposed directly."

"Jesus," Emma murmurs sympathetically. "I'm so sorry."

He shakes his head. "The worst part is - to this day - the damn navy can't acknowledge what happened. I can only guess at what they're doing now."

Emma exhales, a little shakily. "Here's a lighter question - if we're continuing this pattern of spilling our guts out - what do you do when you're not stalking Gold?"

Killian scoffs. "That's lighter?"

"In comparison to that?" Emma replies, raising her eyebrows. "Yeah."

"I couldn't get much in the way of job interviews after being dishonorably discharged and sporting only one hand after a bombing that took it not long before my brother passed." Killian shrugs. "I work down at the docks. Find it a tad comforting to be out by the ocean, I'm so habituated to the rocking underneath my feet."

"I've always liked the water," Emma murmurs.

"Yeah?" he asks, looking over to her. "Maybe I'll take you out on my boat, sometime."

Emma rolls her eyes. "Is that your pickup line?"

"No, that's my genuine offer," he replies with a teasing grin.

Pretty soon, Emma even forgets why she came here in the first place.

-/-

It's a few drinks and stories later that Killian insists on her crashing on his couch, citing how much she's drank tonight and how much she's already showing signs of sleepiness (including her head drooping onto his shoulder at some point during their conversation, which he accepted in stride). Emma huffs and puffs about it, but it doesn't bother her too much. It isn't that she doesn't trust him. It's that she's already done enough to fuck up this guy's life, whether he wants to admit it or not. Emma doesn't need to compound that by hogging his furniture.

Nevertheless, she ends up curled up on the couch. She can hear Killian in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and whatever the hell else is part of his bedtime routine. Emma tries, valiantly, to fall asleep. She fails miserably, even with the alcohol in her system.

That doesn't mean she'll show that when Killian pads his way back into the living room, though.

Emma does her best to keep her breathing even and her fidgeting limited. It's easier to pretend to be asleep. She's said enough, exposed enough as it is. She hears his footsteps go in the other direction and almost lets out a sigh of relief.

She hears him come back in her direction, though, and she has to resist the urge to crinkle her face in confusion. She feels something warm and soft around her, a few seconds later, covering her. A blanket, she surmises.

"Sleep well, Swan," he murmurs, pressing her hair out of her face in a way that she would almost describe as tender. "You'll need the rest with all the days you'll be saving."

Emma hopes he'll take her abrupt exhale of breath as snoring instead of a muffled laugh.

Killian walks away after that, so she assumes he has.

A part of her considers following him, approaching him about his affectionate gestures and seeing where the hell that leads her.

(Preferably - his bed. Unresolved sexual tension is stressful, believe it or not.)

Then another part of her - the largest part - is still stuck on how fucked up she is in staying the night at a man's apartment just hours after she came to in a destructive heap of self hatred over what she did to his dead girlfriend. It's a mouthful. But it's a mouthful that keeps her feeling guilty as hell.

Emma is better off keeping him at a distance. For both of their sakes.

She falls asleep shortly afterwards, successfully preventing her from making any unwise decisions.

-/-

The sound of loud vibrations wakes her up. Emma groans, still curled up on the couch and sunlight filling her vision. She huddles further into the cushions and wraps the afgan around her body a little tighter.

But the noises are endless.

She finally gives in, grasping for her phone. Her nightstand seems further from her than usual, but it wouldn't be the first time she's knocked things over when she was -

Emma pauses, looking at her surroundings for a minute.

This isn't her apartment. It's Killian's.

She grabs her phone from the coffee table in realization.

Four missed calls from Mary Margaret.

Emma reads the notifications blurrily, then curses when once she's able to make out the words through her sleep-hazed fog. Emma presses the name of her sister-in-law to call her back, rubbing at her eyes and sitting up on the couch.

Mary Margaret picks up after only a couple of rings. "Emma?"

"Hey," she mumbles, a little abashed. Her mouth feels like cotton. She must have been asleep for a while.

"I've been trying to call you for hours now," Mary Margaret accuses, sounding a little exasperated, "I even showed up at your apartment, your office...I didn't get an answer."

"I was asleep," Emma replies a little curtly. It's the truth, after all. She doesn't have to disclose where she was sleeping.

"It's three in the afternoon."

Emma frowns, looking down at her phone to check the time. Sure enough, Mary Margaret isn't lying.

Damn.

"I had a long night and slept like the dead," Emma explains. Of all the times for Mary Margaret to choose to get inquisitive, it would be now.

"Swan?" Killian calls, opening the door to his apartment with a few bags in his hands.

Emma reflexively puts a finger up to silence him, cursing his timing.

"Oh," Mary Margaret says, sounding amused. "Now I get it."

"It's the mailman," Emma attempts. Killian pouts exaggeratedly, setting the bags on top of his coffee table.

Judging by the way Mary Margaret laughs on the other end of the line, she's not buying it. "I'll quiz you over your love life later, Emma. I think we have bigger issues at hand. Meet me at my apartment whenever you're able to...pull yourself away."

"Shut up," Emma mutters. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Duty calls?" Killian asks, once she hangs up the phone. He's grinning, if that's any indication.

"Something like that." Emma replies. "Grocery shopping?"

Killian shrugs, pulling a bottle of aspirin and a small bottle orange juice out of one of the bags. "Figured you may be nursing a headache after the amount of drinking you did last night, love. I was going to make lunch, but seeing as you're on a tight schedule…"

Her mouth parts, unsure of how to respond to the gesture. "Killian, I… thank you. That's very... considerate of you."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Hardly, Swan."

She's about to retort when he presses the aspirin and juice into her hands. Her fingers touch his and - goddamn it - she has got to stop turning into such a wilting flower around this guy.

He presses a kiss to her temple in a gesture so familiar she can't help but lean into it. "Feel better. Go save the world."

"Aye, aye captain," she salutes on her way out the door.

(Emma only cringes after she's in the hallway of his apartment complex, at the comment and at being so cozy with someone she's only known for two days. Compile that with their fucked up background, and well -

Go save the world? You'll need the rest with all the days you'll be saving?

He's delusional if he thinks she's some kind of fucking hero, to be sure.

Aye, aye captain?

Where did that even come from?

She thumps her head against the steering wheel of her car, once she's inside.)

-/-

"What was so urgent that you had to call me over immediately?" Emma asks Mary Margaret in exasperation as soon she she steps through the door of the loft.

"Hang on," Mary Margaret mutters, fishing out her phone from her purse, "You need to see this."

A video is projected on the wall, showing a smug Arthur Tolemac waving to a crowd of reporters.

"Oh no," Emma groans, fearing what he's about to say. "Please tell me that isn't..."

Mary Margaret nods curtly.

"It's time we stood our ground for our principles, you see," Arthur announces, and Emma wishes she could punch this asshole apparition in the face. "This town needs to be secure. David Nolan wants us to cave into every politically correct complaint and for our department to be powerless. You want to be safe, right?"

An adoring crowd member shouts their agreement. Emma cringes.

"I'm not like David Nolan. I'll help protect you and put the good guys before the criminals. That's why I'm running for sheriff of this great town!"

Whooping cheers from the audience. A smiling, clapping Albert Spencer in the corner of the image.

Mary Margaret exhales heavily, turning it off. She looks at Emma, pointedly.

"I need a drink," Emma mutters, hand coming up to cover half of her face. "And David needs to kick his ass."

-/-

David only seems reinvigorated by the announcement when he comes home from work. He practically bounces into the loft as he greets the two of them.

"Um, David?" Emma prompts, raising an eyebrow. "Did you hear the news?"

"That Tolemac is running for sheriff? Yes, I did." David answers, seemingly just as unconcerned.

Mary Margaret and Emma share dubious looks.

"I thought you would be more pissed," Emma says, a little baffled.

"Me too," Mary Margaret adds, brow furrowed in concern. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm feeling fine," David reassures her, leaning down to kiss her. "I'm feeling absolutely, one hundred percent, fine."

"Yeah, you say that," Emma replies skeptically. "But I hear 'I'm screaming internally'."

"This is exactly what I meant when I said I was running," David states, resolutely."It's what I meant when I said that Storybrooke needed better leadership. That I needed to run to make sure it got it. Now a damn near sociopathic murderer is running against me - I don't think motivation gets higher than that. It's me against him."

Emma frowns, "I guess I didn't really think of it that way."

Mary Margaret lets out a deep breath.

-/-

Emma is stuck alone with her thoughts that night. After leaving David and his surreal reaction to running against Arthur, she finishes up some bail bonds work, watches some TV, and attempts to fall asleep.

'Attempts' being the key word.

She counts sheep. She drinks warm milk. She imagines that she's sinking into her mattress and all it does is give her back pains when she thinks about how shitty the springs are. It's probably her fault for sleeping in so late.

Which leads to to other thoughts. Unwise thoughts, ones she does not need to be having.

And that leads to her texting Killian, against her best judgement.

'It's Emma' is all she sends.

It turns out that's all she needs to send. A few minutes later, her phone is ringing.

"Is this the part where you tell me how you got my phone number thanks to your sleuthing skills?" his accented voice filters over the line.

"Yellowpages," Emma deadpans. "They've had cell phone numbers for years now, Jones. I think they might put me and my magnifying glass out of business."

He laughs.

"I hear some git named Arthur is running against your brother."

"Yeah, you would think they would have some rule barring people accused of murder from running."

"That would cut candidates everywhere by at least 50%," Killian snarks.

"You joke, but that might not be far from the truth."

"Who said I was joking?"

Emma groans. "Fair enough. David should have an easy time beating him, at any rate. How hard is it going to be to run a campaign against someone with 24 different reports of use of excessive force? I can see the flyers now - a vote for Tolemac is a vote for shitty policing for every hour of your day."

"We might make a politician out of you yet, Swan."

She rolls her eyes, sitting up against her headboard. "Exactly what I left a corrupt career for - politics."

"You joke, but I'd vote for you." Killian says, sounding sincere.

He really must enjoy making this difficult for her. She laughs. "Two minutes into a call is a little early for flattery, don't you think?"

"When it comes to you?" he questions, and she can almost see his eyebrow edging its way up his forehead. "Never."

"Please," she replies dismissively. "Anyway - how has your day been? Sorry I slept through about half of it."

He hums. "No worries, Swan. I left you a note when I left for work, but by the time I came back you were still out cold."

"You went through a full workday when I slept on your couch," Emma mutters. "I am so productive."

"You're quite alright, Swan. I imagine you had a long day beforehand."

"What makes you say that?" Emma replies, more than a little sarcastic. "The emotional breakdown or the twelve hour nap I took?"

"A little bit of both," he replies easily. "Speaking of, shouldn't you be asleep?"

Emma glances to the clock. It's 12:30 AM. She sighs.

"I'm keeping you up, aren't I?"

"Tomorrow is my day off, Swan, you're fine."

"In that case," she trails off. The words are out of her mouth before she can think better of them. "I think I owe you a drink - I must have drank you out of a shit ton of expensive rum. All I have is cheap liquor, but..."

This is a stupid idea.

One he consents to, easily.

-/-

It could have gone worse.

Killian shows up at her doorstep with his typical swagger, but he keeps it entirely civil. It's storming - thundersnowing, in true Maine fashion - and Killian is covered in the flakes and she feels terrible for suggesting he come over without realizing the goddamn weather and shit, she just has to get him warm. He makes a fuss when she pulls out her comforter and a space heater she keeps on hand, but Killian eventually accepts it thanks to her insistence.

They don't even drink, for whatever reason it seems they don't get around to it. They just talk.

He asks her about the last non-Gold related case she worked. Emma listens as he explains the ring he wears around his neck (belonged to his brother, as it turns out). Killian talks about growing up an orphan with his brother and Emma reveals some stories about some of her shittier foster families.

"So," she sighs after wrapping up the tale of the last foster mom she had before Ingrid, the one that was more preoccupied with making Emma a doll than treating her like a human being, "that might help explain how screwed up I am. The assortment of shitty foster stories."

"We're not just the sum of our pasts, Swan," he murmurs, staring at her contemplatively. "Our decisions for the future also play their part."

"I guess all we can do is hope that that's true," Emma says after a beat, her eyes on him, "and hope that our future decision making is as sound as it can be."

Killian grins, at that. "I suppose that we should."

They're both under her comforter, sitting only millimeters apart on the couch. His body heat is radiating towards her and he still has that stupid smile on his face. Her eyes flick to his lips, against her better judgement, and he starts leaning towards her until she can feel his breath on her face.

He keeps on getting closer and closer, grin eventually fading into a more serious, subdued expression that Emma can't decipher.

Emma has always been much better at pushing people away than pulling them closer.

"I should get to bed. I have… I should go to bed," she murmurs finally, turning her face in the other direction.

He nods in understanding, pulling away.

"Aye, that's likely the right call, Swan," he replies, quiet and soft.

It's almost hard to push him away when he's so fucking understanding.

He turns around to leave, grabbing his jacket off of the chair he'd set it on. With every step he takes, the panic rises in her throat. Why she's panicked, she honestly can't admit to herself.

Well, she can. That doesn't mean she wants to.

It has something to do with the fact that he comforted her after she confessed something as horrible as she did. That he offered his shoulder - literally, last night - to her when she talked about her mother and her boyfriend and all the goddamn trauma she still can't unpack. He even offered bits of himself in exchange, things that she had a feeling didn't come any easier for him than it did her.

Emma moves to stand there for a moment, in the middle of her living room. Killian stills before opening the front door of her apartment to leave.

As if he's waiting for a moment, just to make sure.

Maybe she can just say - fuck it. The future can go to hell. She's already made a host of bad decisions. What's one more?

"Killian," she murmurs, his name barely audible. "You should stay."

He turns around to face her, hand resting on the frame of the door. "I should?"

"It's late. And it's storming," she rationalizes, wrapping her arms around herself, "and it's cold. You should stay here."

He just stares at her, in response, his eyes focused on hers. His grip on the doorframe tightens.

"No other reason?" he sounds almost strained.

Emma walks towards him, slow and measured. Her voice is a little stilted and more than a little low when she asks, "Should there be?"

He doesn't move a muscle. Killian's eyes are still on hers.

And then, it's like elastic snaps.

In one fluid (or not so fluid, given she's in too much of a hurry to have any finesse about this) movement her arms are around his neck and her lips are fixed on his. He moans - actually fucking moans - and she doesn't even have time to contemplate what a good kisser he is before he's lifting her up with one arm wrapped around her back and a hand under her ass to keep her hoisted up. She can feel the cool metal of the rings on his fingers through the denim of her jeans. Her legs, almost of their own volition, lock around the narrow expanse of his hips. One of her arms locks around his neck and the other grasps at his back.

(He really isn't all talk and no action, much to her relief.)

Emma only whines when his lips leave hers to trail down the base of her neck. After that, the whining turns into something else entirely.

"We should -" she begins, more than a little breathlessly.

Killian's eyebrows raise and he pauses right as he gets to the sweet spot on her neck. "Stop?"

"Fuck," Emma pants, frustrated, "No. I was trying to say-"

She's cut off by his lips on hers, again, desperate and greedy.

Not that she's really complaining. For a few seconds, Emma even forgets what she was trying to say before being reminded of it thanks to the tugging in her stomach.

"Bed," she finally gets out, gasping out the word when their lips are far apart enough for her to say it.

Killian nods, carrying her in that direction.

-/-

A/N: Happy new year! And again, feedback means the entire universe to me, so if you'd drop in below with your thoughts I'd be so, so happy.