Notes: Thank you for all the kind reviews and favs and follows, it makes me so happy! And sorry for the delay in posting!
"This is your regular duty?" Emma asks.
"I'm the Royal Bird Master, so…"
Mary Margaret smiles beatifically, holding up the blue bird hanging off her fingers to Emma, who rocks back on her heels, hands fisted at her sides.
The bird eyes her reproachfully. Mary Margaret's birds tend to do that, and he's about to assure Emma that it's not her, it's them and that even a winning smile is not enough to win them over.
"…yes. Isn't she beautiful?"
Emma lifts an eyebrow.
"It's just a bluebird."
"It's an Indigo Bunting," Mary Margaret corrects.
"A bluebird with a fancy name," Emma states dismissively. She shakes her head, her tone edging towards annoyed, "I'm sorry. When you came in with that nondisclosure agreement line, it never pointed to this."
Mary Margaret offers, "I take it you're not a fan of birds."
"I live in New York. Most birds here are just rats with wings."
Mary Margaret's nose wrinkles up, but she nods in understanding. "I suppose that is true. They're mostly feral here."
"Feral is an understatement," Emma mutters.
She crosses her arms over her chest and looks towards Killian with what can only be an accusatory glare.
Mary Margaret's mouth parts in surprised realization, of what Killian can't fathom, and she says, looking between Killian and Emma, "Are you hungry?"
"Yes, I'm famished. I don't think I've eaten since" - He catches Emma's eyes and despite not missing a beat, he can tell Mary Margaret sees the look because she blanches - "My unfortunate meal with Glass."
"Unfortunate?" Emma asks.
He grins and replies, "They overcooked the salmon."
That gets a smile and a tiredly amused shake of her head out of her. "Yeah, I haven't eaten since yesterday either. I could go for some pizza."
Mary Margaret returns with a, "Well, we don't have pizza, but how does a sandwich sound?"
"Grilled cheese," Emma moans.
"I take it that's what you're craving?" Killian asks teasingly.
"I'm always craving that," Emma corrects.
Killian notes this and turns to Mary Margaret. "How about I help you with the food?"
"Subtle," Emma mutters.
He smiles in only half-apology. "We need to arrange a few things that you don't yet have the security clearance for."
"Yeah, yeah, Mr. President." Killian grins at the moniker while Emma rolls her eyes and asks, "Can you add tomatoes to that too?"
"I can whip something up," Killian says.
"Cool. I'll just be here. With your flock."
She looks around the bird room, not quite an aviary enough to call it thusly, eyeing the four other free-flying Indigo Buntings with something like suspicion, so Mary Margaret sighs and says, "It's not a flock and - I'll show you to the theater. It's more comfortable."
"The fewer beady eyes watching me, the better," Emma says.
Mary Margaret sighs again and turns to Killian, "I'll meet you in the kitchen."
"I'll start on the food then," Killian says, nodding towards Emma before he leaves the room.
There's something like an itch in his spine as he goes, only growing as the door clicks shut behind him.
To be fair, his spine has every reason to hurt given the tumble he's had.
To be honest, it isn't that tumble that has him bothered. It's the one that he's bound to take should things not take, should any of this go awry - and it already has because Emma has her life packed away in his trunk and a nondisclosure agreement doesn't mean much when your life's already been in the news. It's just a brief respite from the reality.
He stops by the bathroom to find some headache relief, and then presses on to the kitchen, where he washes his hands and gets started on their very late dinner and it's as he's slicing the cheese from the block that Mary Margaret announces herself with a softly, sadly said, "Killian."
Killian throws a look over his shoulder.
"Yes, milady?"
She just glares at him so he sighs and goes back to slicing, the tomatoes this time, while he waits for her to chastise him.
"So, the two of you are dating?" she asks.
"Yes."
She pauses. He doesn't hear her intake of breath but it is Mary Margaret so it must happen right before she blurts, "Why did you think this would be a good idea? Killian, with all that's going on, why would you bring someone else into it? She seems so resigned to this. Killian, why would you -"
"You were the one telling me that all these trips and running off looked suspicious. What better way to alleviate said suspicions than to introduce a reason for the sneaking around?" he says, calmer probably than she expects because he does hear her inhale this time, loud, shocked, and horrified.
"So you're using her?"
Killian turns back around to look at Mary Margaret. He has to be practical about this, so for all his yearning thoughts about last night, he can't afford to let it distract him -to ignore the truth just for the way Emma scrunched her nose with the slightest of smiles on her lips when Mary Margaret cooed at her birds.
"I'm paying her," Killian states.
Mary Margaret quietly says, "Wow."
"She suggested it. Which, speaking of, you'll be able to arrange for that, won't you?"
Mary Margaret shakes her head vehemently. "No, no I won't. Ask Kathryn."
Killian pouts. "You're throwing me to the wolves."
"No, I am not. I should, but I'm not." Mary Margaret shakes her head, quietly scoffing, "Paying her."
Killian knows he deserves to feel judged for this - for everything about this - but still he snaps, "It's better than her working for Gold, don't you think?"
Mary Margaret quiets at that. It's not a defense; it's just a simple truth. Dating him, while probably not the ideal situation, is still better than working for that creature posing as a man.
"Yes. You're right."
A beat passes, easier than the one before, and Killian says, "Now, you'll arrange for her visa, and any other documentation that she'll need to enter the country so Regina won't be able to send her back the moment we make our landing."
"Yes. I'll contact Kathryn so she can handle things on our end. Does Emma have a passport?"
"She does."
"Great, that makes this somewhat easier."
Mary Margaret sighs after a moment and Killian looks up from the tomatoes to stare at the oven fan. He really wants to not say anything, but the longer he ignores this, the worse it'll get, and he's never been one to push the worst aside.
He flips the tomatoes first before he asks, "Did Glass give up anything?"
"He didn't have anything. Maybe we're just chasing ghosts, Killian."
"Ghosts," he scoffs. "Yeah, you're likely right about that."
The theater is the cushiest place Emma has ever been in and she doesn't know how she's supposed to make herself comfortable when everything about this situation is so foreign that her head keeps spinning every time she looks at the widescreen and remembers that there's no one in here but her and the quiet rumbling of the popcorn machine in the corner. And Mary Margaret's smile didn't help nor did her gentle attention, and when she asked whether Emma was okay, Emma could only reply, "I –?" and nothing more.
Not everything is so unfamiliar though - like, for instance, the roiling in her stomach. The certainty that her life has taken a turn that it'll never rebound from - that, she's accustomed to. Wanting something to fight just to take back even the slightest control of the situation, that's the feeling welcoming her when Killian pops his head into the room.
Emma doesn't punch him, for a fact.
She doesn't really want to, not since this morning. Not since Gold's and Killian's hand in hers, guiding her to the elevator when all she really wanted to do was turn around and give Gold the piece of her mind that she'd held back when he was telling her...well, when he was telling her the truth, that being that she isn't cut out for this at all, a square peg trying to fit into a round hole and the more she pushes, the more of her that scrapes away.
Killian smiles. "I have your grilled cheese and tomatoes. Even brought you a root beer."
"Thanks," Emma says.
Her stomach rumbles, and that sensation is familiar too. She's starving.
He pulls out the tray on the seat between them and sets their plates down on it, the two root beers beside it. He must've noticed the empty bottles in her garbage as they were taking it out earlier. It's the only thing to account for him knowing that she likes them, but what accounts for him thinking that it was something to know?
"Mary Margaret's getting some things together, so she won't be joining us. It's just you and I again, sweetheart."
"Right."
Emma contemplates her entire existence and how it's all led up to this quiet moment of sharing a grilled cheese at three in the morning with a prince.
With Killian, who is a prince.
Killian, who in fact, does have a last name that isn't stolen from a Star Wars character, which she swallows sharply around a chunk of cheese to point out, "Jones. That's your last name."
Killian twitches. "It was."
"Until it became the Killian, Prince of Socaea?"
He looks over at her, setting his sandwich back down on his plate.
"Before he became the Duke - and subsequently decided that being a Duke was too much of a burden and left, my father's - the man who they called my father, last name was Jones. He wanted his children to carry something of him, so he gifted us with that."
Emma nods, no need to wonder at the clipped tone and the slight grit to his teeth as he recounts his father leaving. She knows a thing or two about that. She simply says, "Okay, now that family tree makes more sense."
"What family tree?" Killian asks.
"The one on Wikipedia."
Killian's curiosity deepens. "Which is?"
"Don't tell me you don't know what Wikipedia is," Emma says, shifting in her seat to stare at him better.
There's no hint of guile to his features when he replies, "I won't tell you then."
"Oh my god," she giggles, straight up giggles like everything is falling apart around her, high-pitched and too long of a sound, and she's not having a breakdown, she knows what those feel like, but this is something in the same ballpark - exhaustion turning her delirious.
Killian leans across the tray to stare at her, and it only makes her laugh harder, the curiosity in his gaze like - and get this, he knows so much about her and so very little at the same time, and she knows now that he can cook an excellent grilled cheese but doesn't know where he learned how to cook, an innate talent, a learned one, whether he likes it, whether he did it just for her.
"These seats recline," he says after a moment. "If you want to catch Netflix?"
She quiets at that. Never thought a question about Netflix would feel so intimate.
"If I lay back in this chair, I'm just going to fall asleep," she says in her discomfort.
"It is rather late," he agrees.
She sighs, and finally says, "Not as late as last night."
"Last night was an anomaly, I suppose," he says.
"Not really."
He raises a brow, and Emma pushes back the desire to shrug. Instead she confesses, "Bouncing is a lot of late nights. So was bail bonds. So was the gas station attendant."
"And before that?"
Emma smiles but it doesn't last as she says, "I don't think I've ever had a good night's sleep. Not that I can remember."
He lifts his root beer and nudges at hers. Curious, Emma picks her bottle up and raises it to his height. "We're toasting?"
"To new nights of restful sleep."
Emma eyes his bottle warily and then turns her gaze to him. He pouts slightly, and his expression falls as fast as hers does, so he's serious when he says, "Hopefully."
Emma holds his gaze, searching his blue eyes for that hope, to maybe capture a little for herself.
"Starting tonight," she affirms. She finally breaks his gaze to look around the room and says, "I'm not expected to sleep in here, right?"
Killian shakes his head, takes another sip of his root beer and says, "No, of course not. Mary Margaret had a room set up for you. I'll show you to it when you're ready to retire."
This room hums with unspoken words, but the only discomfort she feels is the press of words already said.
"You know I would never let that happen to you again."
If it were anyone else feeding her that line, she'd toss it right back in their face but Killian had looked at her like he meant it - and he keeps looking at her like he means it.
His words rang like the truth, and in her heart, where a lie would normally stoke the fires of her anger or leave her feeling just that much more broken, it didn't hurt at all. He'd meant it.
Which means?
She isn't sure what the hell it means except that he's here playing the boyfriend role to a tee, and Emma's still trying to wrap her head around the fact that she's being paid for this. In the heat of the moment, it seemed like the thing to do, and now... How long was that conversation with Sidney? Five minutes? How should she bill these things anyway? These moments that are already weighing on her. How should she value the varying rates of her heartbeat every time she hears a wisp of conversation in the hall or the creak of a door opening and shutting?
"I think I'm ready to retire, as you say," Emma says.
"I'll clear this away after I come back. I'm sure you're just eager to find a proper bed, right?"
"Eager, yeah."
She gathers her shirked jacket and follows him when he walks out the door. There are paintings along the halls of people Emma vaguely recognizes from Wikipedia - smiles slightly because he knows Netflix and not Wikipedia, how, she has no idea - and to her surprise, Killian doesn't start to recall their names or histories. Given how much he seems to like to talk, she's surprised he doesn't say much at all except a quiet, "This way," when she ends up a bit ahead of him and misses their turn up the stairs.
But maybe she's reading him all wrong.
Maybe he doesn't want to recount the histories of all these relatives given his own tangled history with theirs, and maybe he understands that she has so many thoughts bouncing around her head that adding his own to the mix would only deepen her desire to find the nearest exit.
"Here we are," he says, and even as she was cataloguing their route (escape is easier when you know the way out - not that she does; breaking out of the embassy walls is one thing, breaking free of her new life is another.)
He pauses with a thoughtful inclination of his head and says, "If you need anything in the night, I'm right across the hall."
She stares at the door to his room. Simple and white, number 4 written on the outside in gilded gold.
"Keep your friends close," Emma says.
He cracks a smile, swaying into her. "Are we friends?" he asks softly.
"Partners," Emma objects.
He's quiet for a breath, perhaps considering the weight of that word the way she is. Last night they were strangers, today they're partners.
Tomorrow?
"I stand corrected, then," Killian says.
"Keep your partners close enough to knock if they need something," Emma jokes.
She doesn't feel very amused though, just places her hand on the doorknob as he steps closer. Cagey is a more apt descriptor, cagey and ready to bolt.
As if sensing this, Killian backs away and says, "Goodnight and sleep well, Emma."
She waits for him to turn towards his own room before she calls out, "Goodnight."
Opening the door, she steps into the dark of her room. She turns and checks the lock to the door. She doesn't give the room the serious onceover a fantasy novel would call for. Doesn't take in the rich detail and royal decor, just kicks off her shoes, slips out of her pants and shirt, tossing them in a pile on the bedside table and crawls into the bed.
Her body hurts. Her head feels much the same.
Emma curls up on top of the sheets and falls asleep.
There's a heavy knocking on the door and Killian stumbles up out of bed quickly.
"Emma?" he calls out.
"No," a gruff, distinctly male voice calls out and Killian sighs.
On the one hand, it isn't an emergency. They'd send someone with more tact if it was and not someone who'd pound on his door at seven in the morning.
On the other hand, there's so much they haven't talked about that Killian wishes she were banging at his door, making demands of his attention. It seems more like her than this quiet acceptance. Not that he can make any claim to knowing what would be more like her.
But in her apartment, she'd been entirely different.
He swings open his door with his good hand.
"Finally, Sleeping Beauty awakens," Leroy says. "Mary Margaret needs you two downstairs within the next hour. Your plane leaves soon."
He scrubs at his face, "Of course it does."
"Don't know why she didn't just wake you up two hours ago like I suggested."
Two hours ago Killian had still been staring at the ceiling, worried that he'd fall into too deep a slumber should Emma need him, so he can say that he's more than grateful for those extra two hours.
"You're awake, so I'll get her up."
Leroy turns on his heel and Killian reaches out to stop him. "No, no, I will," Killian says quickly. Gods know what would happen should Leroy give her the same gruff treatment he gives Killian on the daily. "You can head to the airport."
"Not without you."
"Leroy," Killian starts.
Leroy glares, not an unusual expression. "You're not running away this time. Next thing you know, it won't be injured prince, but dead prince all over the news. Can't have that."
"Who can't have that?" Killian asks, for clarification purposes of course.
"Someone," Leroy says.
Killian smiles. "Thank you, Leroy."
"An hour," Leroy says.
Killian nods and Leroy turns on his heel and heads back the way he came. Only after he's gone does Killian stare at Emma's door.
He crosses the hall and raises his left hand to knock only to realize that his prosthesis is still lying in his room. Nothing for it, he knocks with his right and lowers his stump to his side.
She opens the door moments later, and he blinks at her, at her bare legs and her tank top barely covering up to the top of underwear, barely covering her where she's – she's bare except for that.
He jerks his gaze up after a second of staring, trying not to want at all, and says, "Good morning."
"This can barely be counted as morning," Emma says.
Barely: an apt choice of word.
"Not an early riser?" he asks.
"Not a 5AM riser, no," Emma says.
"No, I suppose not given your former schedule."
Emma shrugs that off and says, "Are we flying soon?"
He confirms this with a nod.
"Alright." She does a little hopping motion on her feet, shaking out her arms, and he's endeared by it, the way her face sets in determination, and she says, "I'll shower and meet you out here in half an hour?"
He's also lost his ability to speak as her tank top shifts over her chest and – gods, he's a wreck.
He nods again.
"You're quiet in the morning," Emma says.
"Just taking in the view," he teases.
Just to test it out.
Just to see - because she seems livelier than yesterday, and it wasn't what he'd expected of her, the way she drew into herself after Gold's meeting, and to think of Gold taking the fight out of her makes him want to take a fight directly to him –
"A picture would last longer," Emma snaps.
"It would, but so would the imprint of your fist in my face."
"Knee to the groin, and knee to the chin when you're on the ground would last longer, actually," Emma says.
"Ah," Killian winces but risks a peek down at her legs again.
"I'll put some pants on so you can recall your ability to speak," Emma says.
She doesn't move, however, so he asks, "Is that really what you want?"
"You, speaking?" She shrugs. "Eh. Pants? Definitely."
"That 'Eh' isn't a denial. I'll take it," Killian says smartly.
She backs away slightly and says, "See you in a few." Her gaze flits across his form and then settles on his stump, only for a second before she smiles and says, "That was a goodbye."
"Was it?"
She turns and closes the door behind her, so Killian steps back and heads to his own room.
The shower gives her time to think.
Think of the hickeys still on her belly and thighs, for one, which isn't something she really wants to think about given how he stared at her bare legs and her boobs.
And it gives her time to think of yesterday, of how she'd let herself spend so much time thinking, that she hadn't done anything, and it isn't her. It isn't her to just lay back and take it, not since she was old enough to realize that would mean people taking until there was nothing left of her.
She isn't going to take this. She's going to make it work for her.
When she exits the shower, she finally looks around the room and realizes what looked rich and foreign in the dark are actually faded in the light. That it's different, but not so different that she can't find something to relate to like the coffee ring on the bedside table. Whoever slept in here usually liked coffee. Emma could use some herself.
She's out the door in yesterday's clothes only moments later, waiting in the hall for Killian. After a beat, she gives up waiting and walks across and knocks on his door.
This time, she's the one who stares as he comes to the door. Compared to his suit, she looks ridiculously underdressed in her wrinkled clothes.
"Are we doing more than getting on the plane?" Emma asks.
Killian smiles knowingly. "Dressing up or down, you look lovely. There's no need to worry about your looks."
"I'm not -"
"But while we're on the plane, you may want to change. There's sure to be cameras when we drop off."
Emma sighs. Cameras. Of course.
She nods sharply. "Good. I'm pumped, aren't you?"
"Excited, yes," Killian says, his look confused however. "You seem brighter this morning."
"Just more ready to face the day, I guess."
His look turns teasing at that, and he says, "Slept well, did you?"
She considers this. "Actually, I did."
It seems to catch him off guard. He swallows sharply and his gaze flits over her face, searching.
"Of that, I'm glad," he says. He turns back around and says, "Just let me get the rest of my things and we can join Mary Margaret downstairs."
"Right," she says.
She stands outside the door as he heads back inside before giving into curiosity and stepping into his room. It feels intimate, being in there because this is obviously someplace he feels comfortable. There's a poster of Bowie on the wall and a map of the world hanging like a tapestry along the wall.
He fumbles with something, the sound drawing her gaze, and she says, "Do you need a hand?"
His bag drops to his feet and with his right hand, he waves his prosthetic. "Already got one, but thanks."
"Is that supposed to be funny?"
"Well, I'm laughing, sweetheart - and you, you're smiling."
"Am I?" she can't help herself from asking.
He turns to her at that, grinning and says, "Yes, yes you are."
Grudgingly, she smiles a little wider. "Since you don't need my help…"
"Actually, what I need is to put this on. We're running a little late, so I can do it as we walk."
He hefts his bag over his shoulder and Emma takes one last look at his room - there's a painting of an orchid hanging right beside the bed, tiny and out of place, but beautiful still and Emma's fingers go to the little flower on her wrist.
She turns away and follows him out the door.
"You got my visa in day?" Emma asks.
"The perks of being royal," Killian says.
"Perks, right? So you can whisk someone out of the country whenever you want?" Emma demands. She doesn't exactly sound excited at the prospect.
Killian explains, "Not exactly. But you do get that wiggle room when said country you're whisking them out of is worried about the ramifications of denying a sovereign that was injured on their soil."
"Even if the sovereign injured himself?"
Killian shakes his head. "Aye, even if he injured himself."
"Good to know," Emma says.
"Emma! Killian!"
Emma looks towards Mary Margaret and Mary Margaret's wave is as enthusiastic as only hers can be this early in the AM. Emma stuffs her hands in her pockets and nods in Mary Margaret's direction which is as good as she's probably going to get until Emma gets comfortable with her.
He hopes she shall. Belle was right. Emma could use someone, and if she can only find a partner in him, at least she can find a friend in Mary Margaret.
"Why are you two lingering? Come on, it's going to take off without you," Mary Margaret says, her waving more frantic.
"It isn't," Killian protests.
Still, Emma leaves his side and treads towards Mary Margaret. He follows - it's all he can do - and they mount the stairs to the small plane. Everyone else will follow on the commercial flight, but this one is just he, Mary Margaret, and Emma.
He couldn't ask for better company, except perhaps, said company and a better time. One where Mary Margaret isn't sitting Emma down in the seat across from hers, instructing her to fasten her seatbelt instead of giving her a chance to look around the plane the way she wants to - he can see it in her wide eyes, the way she turns this way and that in her seat, before finally settling, as if she's come to terms with not allowing herself to look.
Killian frowns, a mirror of her own frustration.
"We have some coffee and breakfast sandwiches, here, and we can get food for later - it's a long flight, but first, we need to sit you down and discuss a few things."
Mary Margaret pulls out a clipboard from the bag at her feet and Emma snorts. Killian takes the seat beside her, and turns into her as she says, "A few things?"
"I was trying to make it less overwhelming," Mary Margaret says with an apologetic smile.
Emma shakes her head. "Just give it to me straight."
"Alright, then." Mary Margaret straightens the clipboard on her lap, sweet still even as she becomes all business. "At some point after you're off this plane, you're going to have to give an interview. Probably several."
"Several?"
"You're dating a prince." Emma stares at her, slack-jawed. Mary Margaret pats her gently, and says, "Shocking, I know, but after the colorful stories printed about you in the papers, they're going to want to know the truth."
Emma snorts at that. "They don't want to know the truth, they just want to see me fuck up on national TV."
"International," Killian adds helpfully.
Emma punches him, helpfully adding another bruise to his collection.
They're both so willing to help each other in their time of need.
"Yes, I'm sure that's what a lot of people want, but that isn't what you're going to give them."
"I'm not?"
"You're not," Killian agrees.
"Okay, I'm not," Emma says, placing a hand on his arm and it's all for the effect, he knows, the deliberate touch but that soft note to her voice speaks volumes because he called her 'beautiful' and she'd sighed into it. He'd called her beautiful and she believed him, as she does now.
Killian stares.
"There's a fair amount possible questions they'll ask you. Up to and including anything about your history. But we'll vet the interviewers beforehand, only those trusted not to go beyond the limit."
Emma nods, a frown settling right after as, disbelievingly, she says, "How did the royal bird master get so good at PR?"
"You mean how did a princess become a royal bird master?" Killian wiggles his eyebrows, and Emma turns to look at him. "It's all because of my charm."
Mary Margaret is a true princess, as Killian has told her many a time. She doesn't even look at him, just smiles demurely at Emma and says, "It's all because my country abolished their monarchy in 1922. I'm not a princess, I just like birds."
"And dictating what I can and cannot say to the press," Killian adds.
This, Mary Margaret actually acknowledges. "And that, too."
"Huh."
Emma peers at them both thoughtfully and then says, "So - they'll probably ask me about my prison time."
"If you want to talk about it now, in your own words, it'll help you before you get in front of cameras," Mary Margaret says.
Emma clears her throat. "I was an accomplice in the theft of some very expensive watches. As I was only 17, they gave me a light sentence, a year in minimum security."
She shrugs, after, and Killian can't even pretend to entertain the thought that the shrug is anything but faked. Bringing it up first must seem like the easiest thing. Killian knows how that is.
"Is that everything?"
Killian shoots Mary Margaret a look, but the words are already out and Emma's gaze hardens, "No, it's not, but they don't need to know anymore, do they? I committed a crime, I paid for it and I'm grateful every day that I'm not the same person who would...do something like that. I regret it. What else is there to know?"
There's a note of panic to her voice that has Killian reaching out for her. He touches her arm and she jerks away, hissing slightly.
"That's cold," she says.
It's easier for him to smile, draw his free hand to neck, scratching, and say, "I do apologize. The prosthetic doesn't have a controlled temperature, and I am a slave to the weather," than it is to see that trapped look in her eyes.
"So, what, you're borrowing my warmth?"
"If that's fine with you."
She shrugs, leans forward again, and this time when he reaches for her, she allows it.
Killian smiles.
Emma gifts him with a tentative smile in return.
Mary Margaret flips a page on her clipboard, makes a noise to draw their attention again, and says, "We have a list of people you should know for certain."
"This is Cora, Queen Consort to Killian's late father, Henry."
Emma nods at the small picture and says. "Googled her, googled Regina and Killian's mother -"
Killian makes a noise at that - hates that his mother's subject to whatever the internet might say about her, not that he's ever given himself a chance to know; and Emma turns to him and says, "You look like her."
He stares at her, feeling his cheeks warm and Emma turns a bit pink, the freckle on her nose fading just a little under the heat.
She shifts her gaze to Mary Margaret, counting off on her fingers again, "Googled Henry, Brennan, and Liam. Who else do I need to know?"
She prepared herself. Killian's both impressed and unsurprised.
"Aurora and Phillip are visiting this week," Killian says.
"Speaking of that," Mary Margaret says. She eyes him like they have a lot to talk about, which Emma doesn't miss, but she shrugs and lets it pass as Mary Margaret turns to her with a smile and says, "How large is your wardrobe?"
"What? Am I not allowed to wear jeans anymore?" Emma asks, eyeing Mary Margaret's notes speculatively.
"Well," Mary Margaret starts.
Emma groans, so Killian pipes in, "You are technically allowed to wear whatever you like."
"I'm going to lean on that technicality. I like dresses. I like skirts. I like jeans. I'm not giving up any of those to play your girlfriend."
"Play his girlfriend?"
Emma freezes at Mary Margaret's tone. Killian does too for that matter.
"Oh no, no, you're not playing anything. You have to be his girlfriend. That's the only way this'll work."
Killian raises an eyebrow.
"Mary Margaret," he warns.
"You have to be fully invested in this. The both of you," Mary Margaret eyes him dangerously. "Or else Regina will see right through it and then you'll have more than reporters to worry about."
"The Princess is worse. Gotcha."
"She's not worse, she's just -"
Mary Margaret struggles for words, so Killian helps her out, leaning forward to say, "I trust that there aren't any cameras recording us on this flight so, Mary Margaret, you can speak your mind."
Mary Margaret doesn't even take a breath, just says, "She's manipulative and vengeful, two traits that won't work in your favor should you not be his girlfriend."
"And what is she expecting out of his girlfriend?" Emma asks.
"Well."
Killian says, "I think you've lived up to her expectations already, frankly."
"Oh great, so I guess I'll just have to exceed them."
Her good humor makes him smile. He strokes his hand over her arm and says, "There is no glass ceiling on screw ups, Swan."
"Ain't no valley low," Emma murmurs.
He looks at her quizzically and the light blush that colors her cheeks is surprising, as is her muttered, "You get Sesame Street but not Motown."
"Is that a place?" he asks.
"I can tell you how to get there just as well as I can tell you how to get to Sesame Street."
"Ah, so it's not a place," he nods.
"This works."
They both turn at the same time and Killian actually smiles at the way Emma's lips quirk, surprise - like she forgot Mary Margaret was there.
Killian hadn't forgotten, he'd just been preoccupied.
Which is Mary Margaret's point, it seems, as she says, "Keep that up. Emma, maybe smile a bit more?"
"Smile?" Emma asks, tone cooling considerably.
"I think she smiles enough," Killian says, trying to ease the tension.
Mary Margaret keeps going despite his warning, "You have to be happy with him. Not grumpy."
"I quite like her grumpiness," Killian says, going for humor then.
"Why is there something wrong with me and not his inability to flirt every other sentence?"
"I think that just reinforces our relationship, actually."
Emma pouts, crossing her arms over her chest, and Mary Margaret sighs, a small, understanding smile gracing her lips. She reaches over and pats Emma on the arms, and says, "I spend so much time criticizing Killian that it's hard to break myself of the habit. I do apologize. Your grumpiness is sweet."
"I'm not grumpy," Emma says.
Grumpily.
Killian chortles and isn't surprised when she glares at him. Neither is he surprised when Mary Margaret does the same. As she said herself, he's used to it.
"What do you criticize him for?" Emma asks after a beat, curiosity melting away the grumpiness. "What should I watch out for, I mean, like is this something that could expose us?"
"Hey, I'm a master of secrets," Killian points out.
"You are," Emma agrees.
Her gaze bores holes in him and Killian wilts internally, has to dash the motion to scratch at his neck, his number one tell, but can't stop his second, the tense jump in his jaw.
"If anything comes up that gets in the way of my protecting you, I will be sure to let you know," Killian swears.
Emma sniffs. "I can protect myself." After a beat - after staring at him and analyzing the look in his eyes, what, he isn't sure that she sees - she says, "But thank you. That's...comforting."
"I'm glad."
"Killian, tell her about the accident."
Killian turns slowly to face Mary Margaret, not missing Emma's conflicted expression.
"I'm sure she read it already."
Emma makes a noise of agreement, and his hand is still on her arm, so he feels her press into him gently.
Mary Margaret nudges him so he folds, and says, "Lost my hand in a boating accident that took the life of a good friend of mine. There's lots of speculation surrounding it, that it wasn't an accident, that I planned it to coincide with my revelation as the heir to Socaea, looking for the pity support."
"That sucks," Emma says.
Killian smiles without any teeth, taking up his arm from Emma's. "It does."
There's a dip into silence that's fairly uncomfortable. Killian can feel Emma's eyes on him, studying him the way he's found himself studying her and he doesn't know what she's seeing. He doesn't feel pitied, at least, just studied, which he isn't sure is better given that pity usually means not seeing beyond the accident or its physical wreckage. No, Emma's cataloguing the tightness in his jaw, his closed fist, seeing him the way he saw her.
She reaches out a hand to touch his stiff shoulder. He looks at her to find her eyes rimmed with understanding.
"...So, when do I get that coffee?" Emma asks.
The tight sensation eases from his chest. Killian laughs and unbuckles his seat belt.
"I'll prepare it for you."
When he comes back to his seat, Emma's vacated hers beside him to sit next to Mary Margaret. She's leaning close to her, but there's a stiffness to the position that speaks of an unfamiliarity.
"...and these are some of the places you'll want to visit on the southern island. Killian might not be able to join you for them, but if you want him to we can try to manage it."
"If I do, I'll let you know. I'm not trying to be more of a headache than I've already been."
"You're the furthest thing from it," Killian cuts in, drawing Emma's gaze up. There's a distinct lack of annoyance for a split second before he smiles and adds, "And I shall endeavor to escort you as you explore my beautiful country."
"Shouldn't you be running it instead?" Emma asks skeptically.
"We have a congress for that. As I've said, I'm more of a figurehead. I'm there to be exported to the masses as a reason worth visiting and staying in Socaea."
"Uh huh." Her face pinches. "If I go by myself will there still be paps?"
Mary Margaret frowns. "Paps? Oh, you mean paparazzi. Yes, probably."
"It'll be good to see me on my own as well as with him. So they know I have a life outside of him and so they know we're not on the rocks or anything. We'll have to vary it up," Emma says astutely.
"Oh, that's an excellent idea."
Emma smiles at the praise, tucking a hair behind her ear as Mary Margaret chatters on, and Killian offers her coffee to her. She takes it with another smile, a soft 'thank you' on her lips and then turns back into Mary Margaret.
"We've got way more to go," she says.
"Lucky us."
For the first time in a long time, Killian actually feels that way.
Of course, it can't last.
Emma falls asleep halfway into their flight and Mary Margaret eases over to his side so Emma can stretch out across the seats. It's not as comfortable as it could be, but Emma sleeps easily enough, only twisting once or twice from what he can see.
He tries not to watch her too much, but Mary Margaret sighs, and says, "I think she'll be fine."
"I do, too, which is…"
Which is what bothers him. To think that this upheaval is something that she could be fine with, learn to make herself fine with. It bothers him that he could roll in and destroy her life, and she could just put up with it.
She shouldn't have to, but alas, it isn't if either of them have a choice beyond the one they've already made.
Still, it bothers him.
"Can I ask you something, Killian?"
"Sure," Killian says because Mary Margaret isn't subtle in the slightest and she'd get her answer anyway. She's sharp – where feelings are involved, she always seems to see it. Not always the right ones, but she recognizes that it's there.
Like the one she asks about him now, questioning, "Why didn't you tell her about Milah?"
"I think she put two and two together," he says.
"How would she have -" Killian looks at her significantly. Her hazel eyes widen and she says, "Oh, oh, right. She's seen the tattoo."
"Are you going to be able to handle that?"
"Handle what?" Killian asks, confused.
"Your massive crush," Mary Margaret says, the words teasing, but her tone less so.
Killian smiles at that. "Is my liking her not beneficial to this enterprise?"
"Is it beneficial to you?"
Killian doesn't answer that.
Instead, he says, "I'm going to doze for a bit."
"We have to talk about Aurora and Phillip's visit. It still needs to happen Killian."
"Of course," he agrees.
"It's so soon for Emma, though," she stresses.
Killian looks over at Emma again. She sighs soft in her sleep, a gentle snore, her arms curled up around her jacket.
"She'll be fine," Killian says, echoing Mary Margaret's own earlier assessment. He turns back to Mary Margaret and stares at her directly and says, "I won't let her be otherwise."
He doesn't quite sleep, but he manages a few more hours, enough to make him feel sharper when he awakens, which is necessary as Mary Margaret taps him on the shoulder and says, "There's a camera crew waiting for us at the airport."
He looks around and finds Emma nowhere to be found.
"She's changing."
"She's done, actually," Emma says behind him and Killian turns in his seat.
She looks lovely in her all black dress, soft lines and gentle curves, and her eyes are wide and awake. With her arms crossed over her chest, she looks ready to fight. It's a smart look to have given the circumstances.
"I should do the same."
"What? You have to reapply your eyeliner?"
He stands from his seat, tossing her a grin, "You noticed, eh?"
She huffs a laugh.
After cleaning the sleep from his eyes and reapplying his eyeliner, Killian returns to them just in time to prepare for landing. Emma's taken the seat beside him again, and she nudges him in the side.
"Ready to be my doting boyfriend?"
"I've always been," he says.
She smiles at that, just a small one, but enough that he doesn't have to be careful when he lifts her hand to his mouth and presses a gentle kiss to her knuckles.
"I can see," Emma says as he drops her hand back down but keeps holding it.
The plane lands and Mary Margaret's the first out of her seat.
"Checking to see if the coast is clear?" Emma asks.
"It is in the hangar, but outside of it is another beast entirely," Killian says.
"Actually," Mary Margaret starts.
She's blanched which can only mean one thing.
"My sister's here."
"Good. Let's get this over with," Emma says.
He lifts both brows in surprise, hastens to follow after her when she unbuckles her seatbelt and steps towards the front of the plane. The steps are still being set up, so he has a moment to inquire, "Emma, are you -"
"Yeah," she says as the door opens.
"Oi! You can come down!" a voice shouts and Killian winces.
It sounds like Scarlet. Scarlet and Regina, one headache multiplied to two. Killian's luck will never change.
Emma steps down the stairs and Killian gently touches her back as he follows.
Before he can even greet Regina, in all her royal finery – bloody hell, she looks like she just had this specifically tailored as airport wear – she's turning towards Will and sneering, "Is that any way to address a Princess? I thought you'd have better manners than that."
Killian narrows his eyes at her as he steps down, unsure of what game she's playing at now.
"I wasn't addressing you, I was addressing -" Scarlet shifts on his feet, looking from Emma to Killian to Regina with faked trepidation and remorse. "I do apologize, your majesty."
"Apologize to her. She is Killian's fiancée after all."
"Fiancée? Hold it, sister, we're not engaged," Emma says.
Killian winces internally at the way Regina smiles, a languid one that has Killian bracing himself.
"So you didn't kidnap him and you aren't engaged. You'd think that newspapers could be trusted to detail the truth about someone so...important." Regina sighs, and smiles prettily. "What is the truth about you, Miss Swan?"
"The truth?"
Emma laughs and Killian turns to her in surprise as she says, "The truth about me is that I know enough not to trust everything I read in a paper." Emma takes a breather, a moment to raise her brows, before she says, "With all due respect, you didn't even ask my name and you're expecting to know the 'truth' about me? Don't you people usually offer tea and cookies before the dissections?"
Regina stares, and Killian rubs his hand down Emma's back, gentle encouragement. He doesn't have words for Regina yet. Easier to let her get hers out first.
If she can, after that.
"You're right," Regina says when several more long moments pass. "We haven't been introduced. I'm Princess Regina, Killian's sister."
She offers her hand.
Emma takes it.
He wonders what Regina's thinking as she pulls back. No doubt she's measured Emma's grip and decided on her worth from that simple handshake – or even before that, from the information her people no doubt pulled up when Emma's name was first released.
"And I'm Emma Swan. Nice to meet you."
Regina smiles again, but there's a sourness to it that Killian recognizes easily.
"Likewise," she says harshly.
Killian braces himself for worse.