A/N: The first thing I'd like to do is to thank you guys so much for the tremendous feedback you've given me! It honestly means the world to me and I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. Thank you so much for reading.
-/-
When she wakes up, they're cuddling.
One of Killian's arms is draped over her body and the other one is under her head, his leg between hers. His nose is buried in the base of her neck and Emma idly notices that their hands are interlocked.
Emma doesn't do this often. Or ever, really.
The cuddling, at least, not the one night stands. The one night stands are the bulk of her love life - if you could even call it that. She scratched an itch and moved on. There were few exceptions.
But she's never cuddled with a one night stand. Usually either she or them are already tugging on their pants and heading out the door. The situation is so surreal to her that she eyes where her jeans wound up (over a lamp? really?) thoughtfully. It's her own apartment, it's not like she can up and leave it behind forever. Emma could, however, transfer to the couch and sleep there.
Her lumpy, uncomfortable couch. She doesn't want to grab blankets or pillows and risk disturbing him, either.
Emma sighs, eyeing the clock in the corner of the room.
4:23 A.M.
Add that to the fact that he's like a human space heater and Emma is freezing, it's hard for her to justify leaving. Emma grips his hand just a little tighter, comforted at least by the fact he's asleep and won't know about her moment of weakness.
Killian nestles ever further into her in his sleep. Emma can't deny a part of her feels more at peace than it has in a while.
-/-
When she wakes up again, she's alone. Which is probably for the best, all things considered. This is what she's used to. Hell, this is what Emma is good at. One night and move on is her default model for spending the night with a man or woman. She should be thanking whatever higher power that existed they finally resolved their uncomfortable sexual tension, now she never has to worry about him again.
It stings a little, nonetheless. As much as she would pretend otherwise. She doesn't participate in late night confessions with her one night stands, doesn't cuddle with them after. Killian - whether she likes it or not - was different.
But it's whatever. Variety and all that, she can't relive the same encounters over and over again. What she can do - what she excels at - is continuing the same pattern of never seeing them again.
Emma is still rolling the thought around in her head when she hears something clatter in the kitchen.
When she tugs on a long shirt and goes to investigate the sound, sure enough, Killian is stationed at the stove.
"I didn't get the opportunity to make you lunch yesterday," Killian says, by way of explanation. Emma wonders where the hell he found an apron in her apartment that's currently draped over his body. Mary Margaret likely snuck it in with the oven mitts last year. "So I figured breakfast would be a good way to make it up to you."
She can't hold back the grin on her face, for all her efforts. "What, trying to win a woman over through her stomach? Smart move, Jones."
"That's my goal," He matches her smile, easily and broadly, crowding her at the corner of her kitchen's island and lifting his palm to cup the side of her face. "Good morning, Swan."
It shouldn't be this easy, and yet it is.
-/-
Emma tears herself away from round two (yeah, another uncommon event for her) a little reluctantly when Ingrid texts her.
Emma almost ignores her. She really gets close to doing it, with Killian trailing kisses down her neck on her kitchen counter and the chirping alerting her to a text message so quiet she almost doesn't hear it.
Then Killian, terrible influence that he is, asks her if she wants to check it and - well - when she reads something along the lines of 'We need to talk ASAP', and the person who's tugging down her shirt is just as invested in the case it's concerned with, it's not like she has much of a choice.
"It better be important," Emma announces when she walks into Ingrid's office, tugging her coat and scarf off.
"Is that a hickey?" Ingrid asks, eyes narrowing on Emma's neck.
Emma curses her decision to take off her scarf. Damn Ingrid's desire to have her office sweltering all the time.
"No," Emma replies defensively, moving to cover the offensive mark. "It's a bruise. I burned myself with a curling iron this morning."
Ingrid narrows her eyes. "Your hair isn't curled."
"I showered after I curled my hair."
"Why?"
"I..spilled coffee on myself," Emma explains, unconvincingly. "Can you just answer my initial question?"
Ingrid sighs from behind her desk. "I got into contact with Victor Whale. He says he'll testify."
"Good," Emma exhales.
"And I wired the payment into your bank account. You can do whatever the hell you want with the money, but it's still yours."
Emma frowns, crossing her arms. "Okay, fine."
"I've never seen someone to reluctant to get paid." Ingrid says warily.
"And I've never met someone so anxious for it despite being rich as hell already," Emma counters easily. "Text me when something important happens, actually important."
And just like that, things start to settle down for a little while.
-/-
The next few weeks go by in what feels like a blink. She helps David campaign, spends some time tracking bail jumpers, helps David campaign, wakes up next to Killian a few more times, and helps David campaign.
Has she mentioned how she's been helping David campaign?
Emma hates it. Honestly, she does. If there's anything that feels more like pulling teeth to her, it's cozying up to strangers and trying to get them to do what she wants without blackmail, snarky comments, or vaguely concealed threats.
The only thing that might make her feel shittier is yoga. Meditating on her thoughts is still a step lower than flashing pearly smiles at people who come to rallies. Granted, Mary Margaret, Elsa, Marian, and Lancelot took over "interaction duty" after she told a woman who, very nasally, informed her that she was voting for Tolemac where to shove a campaign sign. But to be fair, who wouldn't in her position?
That's why she's mainly regulated to mailing lists (that no one reads anymore, honestly) and Nolan for Sheriff yard signs. Go, her.
Killian is even helpful when it comes to this stuff, to her surprise. After Emma extracted herself from his bed for the third time in a row at an ungodly early hour muttering something about campaign flyers, he decided to join her on some of her routes around town.
She feels like a fucking thirteen year old assigned to newspaper delivery. But with Killian walking around with her, quipping about Tolemac's terrible ads in her ear ("What kind of prat comes up with 'Tolemac has your back?'") and teasing her about how high he can post the stupid flyers ("You're so short it's endearing, love.") it feels a little less so.
That, and the sex afterwards is pretty stellar.
(Really stellar.)
The two of them seem to be at a good place, for now. It's not in her typical comfort zone of one night stand, but it works well enough. He's nice to look at, makes great food, and the two of them seem to be on a similar wavelength.
Plus, it's not like they're dating.
Now that would be something that Emma knows wouldn't work out. No matter what comments Elsa may have made when she spotted Killian with Emma putting up yard signs ('Congratulations on the new hot boyfriend, Emma, he looks like a keeper.'), she knows this to be the truth.
And given that he hasn't tried to start any uncomfortable 'what are we?' conversations, he must be thinking the same thing, which she's thankful for.
Emma is even more thankful to finally see the end of campaigning - God awful useless tool of democracy it is - and nearly cheers when she sees the clock flashing the morning of election day.
It's not over, but it's pretty damn close.
The noise of the alarm wakes Killian, who jostles awake around her with his nose buried in her hair and his hand around hers.
It seems his thoughts are the same as hers.
"Election day," he rasps, his voice tinged with sleep.
She groans. "I don't want to get up."
"And I don't want you to sleep through your brother's election," he replies matter-of-factly, trailing his lips along her shoulder. "Wake up."
"Ugh," she says, turning on her back. Killian props himself up on his right hand beside her, his left arm resting on her stomach. "Don't remind me of my responsibilities first thing in the morning. That's the worst."
He chuckles. "The worst? The absolute worst? Are you positive?"
"One hundred percent," she mutters into her pillow, already halfway back asleep.
Killian sighs. "Don't think I won't carry you into the shower."
Emma cracks one eye open. "Again?"
"Again," he confirms.
She sighs and sits up. "It's your fault for keeping me up, you know."
"As I recall, it was more of us keeping each other up. And besides, you sleep like the dead either way," he replies, moving to grab one of the pairs of pants he's left at her place.
(They are seriously not dating, she swears.)
"Not all of us can be annoyingly alert morning people like you." she chides playfully.
Killian laughs. "I also don't recall you being annoyed last night."
"You brought Chinese food. I'm weak when it comes to Chinese food."
"I'm sure that's the reason."
"Can't have your ego getting too big," she teases, still seated on the bed.
"I'm afraid it's too late for that."
"Shit," Emma mutters, tugging a tank top on, "I think I left my good jeans at your place."
"Mm," he leans in to kiss her, smiling against her lips, "Don't worry. They should be in my car. I figured you'd want them back."
"What would I do without you?" she asks with a grin, eyes sparkling as they part.
"Wear the ones riddled with holes that you were wearing earlier?" he supplies helpfully, "Which wouldn't have been the best for your brother's victory speech, to be fair, but they would have worked nonetheless. So long as you didn't wear the ones with-"
"The hole in the crotch?" she finishes. "Yeah, thanks for that, by the way."
Killian raises an eyebrow as he buttons up his shirt. "Do you want me to repeat what you said to me when that happened?"
"Not necessary," Emma says quickly, searching her closet for a sweater that looks warm. "Just grab the jeans from your car."
"As you wish," Killian replies with an exaggerated bow, kissing her cheek when he makes his way back up. "I'll be right back."
Emma smiles fondly, watching him as he leaves.
Maybe things are getting a little bit better.
-/-
After last minute campaigning and attempts to get people out to vote, she joins Mary Margaret and David back at the loft to watch the results of the election filter in.
(Lancelot, Marian, Elsa, and Killian all have to head back to their respective jobs, otherwise they'd be joining them.)
David is pacing so much Emma has to tease him about putting holes in the floorboard.
He doesn't think it's that funny.
Mary Margaret is on the phone nonstop, fully committed to finishing the job and getting as many people as possible out to vote before the polls close.
David is supremely stressed, but Emma - for once- isn't worried. This thing should be in the bag for him.
Storybrooke might finally become just a little bit better.
-/-
The results of the sheriff election come in a few hours later. It isn't even close.
David Nolan: 46%
Arthur Tolemac: 54%
If there's anything that fate likes to do, it's to make her look like an idiot and fuck her over as much as possible.
David is taking it pretty well, all things considered. He's doing better than her, at any rate.
"People suck and don't deserve saving," Emma comments darkly, staring up at the ceiling from her sprawl on the couch. Mary Margaret is out, thanking supporters and comforting their friends, and the two of them have been like this for the last hour ever since the results were announced. "I can't even understand this."
"I can," David comments, quietly. "People like to feel secure, even if it's false. It's easier to blame other people than acknowledge a bigger problem."
Emma thumps her head against the armrest.
"It's the same as why people go to see Gold," he adds, his tone still just as calm and composed. She doesn't know how he does it. "Fear is more powerful than a lot of things, especially fear of losing the people you love."
She ponders that, for a minute.
"You should quit," Emma tells him with a groan. "Leave the force. Quit and never look back."
"Like you?"
The question isn't stated accusingly, but it stings all the same.
Emma scoffs derisively. "All I ever seem to do is look back. You're better than that."
"I need to stay on the force," David says, as if there's not even an argument to be had over it. "Now more than ever, if Arthur is sherriff."
Emma sits up, at that. "He's going to make your life a living hell. You know that, right?"
David sighs. "Whatever he does to me is nothing in comparison to what he'll do to people's families if he continues like this."
"What? So you can take a bullet like Graham did?" she asks, bordering on hysterical, "Are you serious?"
He remains undeterred. "I took an oath to serve and protect."
"Yeah, not an oath to kill yourself, which you're guaranteeing working alongside a lunatic like Tolemac."
"Emma -"
"No," she exclaims, standing. Emma feels tears clouding her vision, she's so angry. "You don't get to do this, David. You don't. You have people who love you. You have people who can't lose you. I don't want the only way I'm ever able to see you again to be some fucked up hologram!"
David hangs his head, solemnly. "You know I can't back down from this, Emma."
Emma scoffs, twisting her arms around herself in a weak attempt at protection. "Fine. Be my guest. Just don't expect me to watch you kill yourself."
She storms out of the loft without another word, ignoring David's protests and slamming the door behind her. Emma lets herself cry when she gets in her car, but not until then.
-/-
"This is about more than just David." Elsa points out, when Emma agrees to meet her at her apartment. Maybe it's the social worker in Elsa that makes her so desperate to mend relationships, but Emma isn't in a hurry. "You realize that, right?"
"Of course I realize that. I know that shit is going to hit the fan for more people than just David, alright? But that doesn't mean I'm going to sit there and watch him destroy himself for some misguided idea of justice."
"Then what happens if David leaves? What happens to this town?" Elsa presses, "What happens when David isn't there to save the day and someone gets killed?"
"Well, then," Emma answers harshly, "at least I know it's not my brother."
"And what do you think the guilt what do to him? What do you think the guilt would do to you? The families of the people whose lives get ruined by people like Tolemac, what happens to them?"
Emma bites her lip. "I don't have time to be worried about everyone else's family, Elsa, I'm pretty fucking preoccupied worrying about you guys already."
Elsa sighs and her disappointment is tangible. "Funny, I heard Ingrid say something similar once."
Emma flinches. "Comparing me to my mother, now?"
"This is bigger than us," Elsa reminds her of, instead of answering the question. "You know that. I know you, Emma, and underneath all that fear and anger is someone who still wants to save everyone."
"That's where you're wrong," Emma answers cooly. "I learned my lesson last year. I can't save everyone. Hell, I can't even save the people I care about the most."
"But you're still trying," Elsa comments, folding her arms over her chest. "Because that's who you are. Don't let these...jerks take that from you. Don't let fear take that from you."
"'Fear is more powerful than a lot of things,'" Emma quips dispassionately, quoting a line from her last, disastrous conversation with David.
"Yeah, well," Elsa hums, "it's still not more powerful than you are."
Elsa's unwavering faith in her would be heartwarming if it weren't so obviously misguided.
-/-
Killian is the next to offer his (unsolicited) advice.
"You push the people you love away and you learn to regret it," Killian intones, staring into the bottom of his glass as if it holds all the memories that are fogging his mind. They're at her dining table and she's several steps beyond anxious. "Take it from me."
"It's better this way," Emma tells him, though she's mainly reassuring herself. "All I ever seem to accomplish by being around people is getting them hurt worse."
"That's a lot of responsibility to assume for yourself, Emma," he murmurs, setting the tumbler down. "You need to acknowledge that people make their own decisions, knowing full well the consequences."
"Decisions that get them killed?" Emma challenges defensively. "And how do you think the people that don't stop them feel when they're lowering their body in a coffin?"
A tense pause passes between the two of them. Killian looks like he's studying patterns of the wood in her dining table and Emma bounces her leg anxiously, unable to get the sight of Graham's dead body out of her head.
"I should tell you something," he says, quietly.
"What?" Emma asks, looking up to meet his eyes. His are still pinned to the table. "Killian, look at me. Tell me what the hell is going on."
"I talked to Gold a few hours ago," he begins, tone deceptively conversational. "He called me."
Emma pales. "No. No, you didn't. Killian, please tell me you're fucking with me right now."
He shakes his head. "He told me he'd put up with my nosing about for long enough. Was explicit about not wanting to see my face there again."
She puts her head in her hands. "What the hell, Killian?"
"You know I won't stop until I get enough evidence tying him to all of this, Emma."
"All of what?" she cries, hands pressing flat against the table with a loud thump. "The people he's killed? What, you want your name added to the list?"
"He won't kill me if he gets to see me suffer," Killian retorts.
"Your life hangs in the balance of the whims of a psychopath," Emma corrects him, so angry she's shaking. "And I get to add your name to the list of people I already have to fucking worry about. I have enough people in the crosshairs of guns pointed at me."
"You don't think I know that?" he nearly yells, his hand coming up to tug at his hair. "Every damn day, you don't think I know you have a target on your back thanks to Gold or Tolemac or one of those bail jumpers who see you as the only thing between them and an escape? I'm not worried about me, Emma, I'm worried for you. If Gold catches wind of you investigating I'm not sure he'll be as generous."
"Yeah, well," she replies derisively, "my job is done and I'm unscathed. You don't need to be sulking around Gold's headquarters and nearly getting yourself fucking killed."
"He wants us constantly in fear, Swan, and you're playing right into his hands."
"I'm playing into his hands," Emma repeats, scoffing is disbelief. "Yeah, sure. If that means not watching the people I care about get killed, then I guess I fucking am. I'm selfish and I'm self-preserving, just like my goddamn mother."
He deflates at this train of thought, trying to reach for her hand to reassure her, comfort her. She snatches it away from him, raw and pissed off. "Emma, please…"
"You should go," Emma says, abruptly. A tear falls down her face as she stands up, wrapping her arms around her waist as if they're the only thing keeping her together. "You should leave."
Killian looks at her for a moment, looking for any crack in her resolve, any hint that she may be willing to put this aside and move forward.
He must not find any, given he stands up shortly after.
"Whatever you need, Swan," he hums quietly, thumbing away the tear on her face, "Take all the time you need."
He leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Emma swallows, hard.
She doesn't need any more names on the list of people she's gotten killed. That's not fear. That's common fucking sense.
-/-
It's later that night - after too much introspection - that Emma does what any sane person would do.
She breaks into her mother's office and waits.
Ingrid doesn't even seem phased when she walks into the room to see Emma slouching in the chair behind her desk.
"You know, you used to do that when you were in the sixth grade. Sit in that chair and play lawyer," Ingrid says, sounding wistful. "I've always kept that chair because of that. I've had to repair the thing God knows how many times, but I always kept that chair."
A beat of silence passes between the two of them. Emma just stares blankly at the desk. Ingrid stares at Emma. It's an uncomfortable moment.
"Why did you do it?" Emma asks, uncharacteristically morose. "Why did you defend him? You didn't have to take the case."
"Yes," Ingrid states, firmly. "I did."
Emma's expression sours. "Explain to me how that works."
"If Albert lost his favorite detective, he'd take it out on you and David. You'd both be fired in a heartbeat."
Somehow, the explanation makes it even worse.
"I quit after that trial and you and I both know David would have gladly resigned if it meant Arthur got what he deserved," Emma barks out.
"Obviously, in retrospect I would have done things differently," Ingrid replies coolly, "but I didn't. And I can't take that back."
Emma can only sneer at her. "You're repulsive."
"I'm your mother," Ingrid replies sharply. "I was trying to do what was best for my kids. You wouldn't understand that."
Emma feels like she's been punched in the gut. Of all the shitty things her mother has done or said, using that against her is something painfully new. "That's a low blow, even for you."
A flash of regret flashes on Ingrid's face. "You know I didn't mean it like that."
"Do I?" Emma challenges, "After all that you've proven you're capable of?"
All Ingrid can do is stay silent.
"David is going to end up killing himself trying to atone for the bad shit you've done," Emma seethes, pointing an accusing finger at Ingrid before grabbing her jacket and tugging it on. "And it's going to be a cold wake up call when you realize you have no one to blame but yourself. I hope you're ready for that."
-/-
One of the last things she expects on the doorstep of her office the next day is the eleven year old from Gold's.
She shouldn't be all that shocked, given how much life has been fucking her over lately.
"You're a private detective, right? Like in the movies?" the kid - Henry - asks, all wide eyed and curious.
Emma frowns. "Who let you walk in this neighborhood alone, again? This isn't exactly the nice part of town."
Henry shrugs. "It never is in the movies."
"Yeah, well, in the movies the good guys usually don't get very hurt. Something bad could happen here. Let me give you a ride home, kid, and please don't come back here."
"I need a private detective." Henry insists.
"You're eleven," Emma replies candidly, reaching for her coat. "You need the Harry Potter books and a juicebox."
"I want you to find my mom, okay?" he says, finally exasperated by her dismissals. "I need your help."
Emma pauses in the middle of winding her scarf. "Kid…"
"I don't even have to talk to her," he insists and her heart is starting to wear down for this poor kid. "I just want to know who she is."
"Maybe you don't want to find out."
"I do."
"Maybe we won't be able to find her."
"I bet you can."
"Maybe you're better off not knowing, Henry." Emma almost shouts the last sentence, raising her hands in frustration, "You want to know how long I've gone without knowing who gave me up? 28 years. You want to know how long I can wait to find out? 100 of them."
Henry frowns. "But you found a family, a good one."
Emma barks out a dark laugh. "No, I told you that to make you feel better. My mother and I hate each other and my brother is always off doing stupid sh- things. We can barely stand being around each other these days. Family is overrated, kid."
"You're wrong," Henry shakes his head. "Just because you fight with your family doesn't mean you don't love them. It means you love them a lot because you care about them so much. It beats what my foster parents do, which is to ignore me all the time."
"That's an idealistic way of looking at it," Emma snorts dismissively. "Look, kid. I don't believe in giving people false hope. So I'm not going to give you any. There are no happy endings in this world. You make the best out of what you have and you fight like hell to keep it - got it? There's your life lesson from me. Now let me take you home."
Henry stares at his shoes. "It's not my home."
"What?"
"It's not my home. It's just a house. It's not home."
Emma purses her lips. Then she sighs. A beat later she takes off her jacket and pulls out her laptop.
"Tell me everything you know about your birth mom, kid."
His face lights up.
She doesn't know if she's going to regret this or not. Right now she's leaning towards the regret outcome.
-/-
Emma is summoned once again to her mother's desk, much to her dismay. She briefly considers ignoring the text, but she's pissed off enough at the world that she feels like she can handle it.
"This better be important," Emma mutters when she walks into Ingrid's office.
"Your witness backed out," Ingrid accuses. "Victor Whale refuses to speak with me and he seems to have vanished without a trace."
Emma groans, hands coming to her temples. "Are you kidding me? I guess Whale is still just as much of a coward, but, vanished?"
Go fucking figure. Everything likes to fall apart at once.
"I need his testimony in this case, Emma," Ingrid grits out. "Accusations only matter if they're backed up and research is only trustworthy when you know the source of it."
"I recorded my conversation with Whale," Emma points out. "Can't you just use that?"
"Yes, I have the recordings of you cursing him out and him saying Gold gave him grants for research. Hardly hard-hitting evidence against the wealthiest man in this damn town."
"The financial records," Emma gestures to the desk, resisting the urge to pull her own hair out. "What about those? Gold is pumping a lot of money into local police unions, shady research firms…"
"And what about that is incriminating in the death of Sydney Boyd, Emma?"
"Can't you hire a psychologist to prove the link between Gold's hologram guilt trips and her suicide?"
"I already have," Ingrid points out. "The problem becomes whether or not a judge is going to believe - again - the wealthiest and most influential guy in town or Archie the dalmatian loving shrink. We need testimony against his character."
"Try everyone who has ever had a conversation with him, maybe?"
"Funny," Ingrid replies shortly. "If only funny would win the case."
"What do you want from me?"
"I wanted you to do your job."
Emma glares at her. "I did."
"Clearly not well enough."
"You asked me to get you evidence - fuzzy and circumstantial at best, which I'm sure you know damn well - tying Gold's company to a suicide. I got you proof of his shady business dealings, recorded proof from his chief goddamn scientist that these things are engineered to make money, video from her dead dad's holograph, and everything else I could get my hands on. If you can't win the case with that I'm not sure you'll be able to win with anything barring Gold claiming he tied the fucking noose himself."
"If that's what I needed, you should have gotten it."
Emma snorts derisively. "You're insane."
"No, Gold is insane," Ingrid corrects, "I'm just a lawyer for the mother of a dead girl."
-/-
The case ends up dismissed, in the end.
Emma will just add it to the List of Things Emma Has Fucked Up in 2025: starting with all of her interpersonal relationships and ending in the lives of Gold's victims.
It's an accomplishment to do so much in such a limited amount of time. Her mother should be more proud.
-/-
Emma leaves a message on Victor's voicemail when she's too drunk to know any better.
"Hey, asshole, congratulations. Now that girl is going to be hanging over your fucking head for the rest of your life. Morbid pun intended because you're a miserable, spineless asshole who deserves to think of the disturbing shit he's allowed to happen. Asshole. Can science engineer you a new backbone yet? Because I know fear makes people do stupid shit, but this is above and beyond. How about you do something with your goddamn miserable existence for once to make people's lives better instead of just covering your own a-"
She sobers, realizing something of apparent importance.
"I need to go do something. Don't think I'm done with you yet, asshole."