She lets Neal kiss her in one of the upstairs bedrooms, lets him slide a hand up her thigh and under her skirt, doesn't protest when he pushes her back into the sheets. She doesn't do anything, just lets him, stares up at the ceiling until he's finished. She thinks maybe that's worse.
She likes dating Neal because he's wild and he never calls her and he shows up drunk to everything and he doesn't look at her while he fucks her and he doesn't care what's wrong or that she's just as messed up as he is and he does nothing that he's supposed to do. But he doesn't judge her. At least that's something.
He takes her to parties and she drinks until she can't think straight and she stumbles into strangers and laughs when she falls and it's fun. It's fun. It's fun. It's fun. And if Emma ever feels like she's spiraling out of control, she ignores it.
She's really drunk, she thinks hazily. She leans back against Neal's chest, nudges his neck with her nose, presses her lips to his collarbone. He laughs at something the girl next to him says and doesn't acknowledge Emma except to slide his hand up and down her leg as if to say, later. She hums and curls up on his lap, her head going to his chest, so she can hear the cadence of his voice without listening to the actual words. She feels loose, loose and relaxed and almost as if she isn't actually there. It's nice.
"POLICE!" comes a desperate shout from outside.
The ensuing panic is instantaneous. Emma topples to the ground, hitting her head on the edge of the table, as Neal stands up. People previously completely lethargic run rabid around the house, escaping through any possible exit, knocking over anything in their path, leaving a wasteland of chairs and plastic cups in their wake. She tries to get up, but feels dizzy and nauseous, her eyes blinking as the room spins. She touches her hand to the side of her head and it comes away wet with blood. She stares at it, uncomprehending, unable to understand the smear of red against her fingers. Neal, she thinks, reaching out, but when she turns to look no one is there.
"Neal," she says, as if saying his name will make him materialize.
But he doesn't. She is alone.
She calls her foster parents from the police station, listening to the dial ring and ring. She wonders if anyone will even answer.
"Hello?" comes a bleary voice from the other end.
"Susan? It's Emma," she says.
"Emma? Where are you? I thought you were upstairs."
Emma closes her eyes, her shoulders collapsing in on themselves. She remembers now. Claiming a headache and then sneaking out the window with Neal. Laughing at the secrecy of it as she'd taken a drag from his blunt.
"No," she says, "No. I'm at the police station."
The line is silent for so long, that Emma would think it had gone dead if she couldn't hear the other woman's breathing on the other line.
"Susan?" Emma asks.
"I'll be there soon," she says and she sounds so disappointed Emma wants to cry.
The phone clicks silent.
Emma leans back against the wall, resting her head against the cold cement. She catches sight of her reflection in opposing window and flinches. Her makeup is smudged, mascara running down her face. Her hair is a rat's nest, half of it matted to the side of her head with blood. But it is her eyes that scare her. She doesn't recognize the girl looking back at her.
What am I doing? she thinks.
What am I doing?
What am I doing?
But she can't seem to stop.
They're sitting on Emma's bed, Emma's feet in Neal's lap, her toes running along the inseam of his jeans, curling along the inside of his thigh as he makes her laugh so hard she almost can't breathe, her hair falling forward as she leans into him, when she realizes.
"I don't even know your last name," she says, suddenly frozen.
"What?"
"I don't even know your last name," she repeats drawing her feet back in, suddenly not wanting to be touching him.
"Yeah. So?" he asks, leaning back on his hands, looking completely relaxed amidst her sheets.
"Neal," she says, "Do you even know my last name?"
"Smith?" he asks and then laughs at her expression, moving towards her, his hands going to her arms and then drawing down them to her hands. She shivers.
"Emma. Relax. I know your last name, alright? I thought you already knew mine, though you not knowing it explains a lot."
"What? What is it?"
Neal looks suddenly uncomfortable and sits back and removes his hands from her
"My name's Neal Gold," he says.
"As in-"
"Yeah," he says.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. As if things already weren't complicated enough.
She gets called to the counseling office during third block. She taps her foot as she waits outside the wooden door, counting out beats against the linoleum with her shoe. She studies the tiles, mapping out the red and orange specks against the peach background.
"Emma," she hears and whips her head up, her hair flying.
"Yeah. Hey Dr. Hopper," she says, turning to face her counselor, a middle aged man with balding ginger hair and a patchy tweed jacket, "What's up?"
"Why don't you come in?" he asks her, gesturing to his office and looking at her with so much pity in his eyes that she wants to scream.
She brushes by him, dropping into the chair in front of his desk. He takes his time crossing the room to his desk and by the time he is sitting in the opposing chair, Emma is squirming in her seat, feeling the rough material of the chair scrape against her bare thighs.
"First of all. Is there anything you would like to talk to me about?"
"Nope," she says, staring at the corner of his desk.
"Emma. You know you can talk to me, right?"
"Yeah. Right. I know," she says, "But I'm good."
She risks a glance at him and sees him staring at her with dissapointed eyes. She returns to her study of his desk's woodgrain.
"Okay," he says, but she can tell he doesn't believe her, "Well. I'm always here to talk. Whenever you need it, alright?"
There is a long stretch of silence and then she hears him sigh.
"My primary concern right now is your grades, Emma. You were doing so well at the beginning of this semester. What happened?"
So much, she wants to say.
"Nothing. I'm just- I'll do better," she says, already shouldering her backpack.
"Can I go?" she asks, standing up to leave.
He stares at her for a long time, long enough that she feels like he can see far more than she wants him to.
"Of course," he says, "Just know Emma..."
But she's already gone.
She has trouble turning her brain off. She can't stop thinking. Can't stop feeling. Breathe, she tells herself, breathe. But she can't. The only time she feels calm is when she's with Neal. It's like he numbs her to the world. She doesn't have to think with his lips on hers. She just goes blank. And she needs that. More than anything.
They go on an actual date for once. To the skating rink. Emma had laughed when he'd suggested it, but once they get there… it works. She hadn't expected it to, but it does. Neal fits in there, amongst the grubby carpet and neon lights, in a way that she can't quite explain.
They laugh and hold hands and she feels normal for once. She feels good with the wind running through her hair, causing the curls to snarl. It's like running, the ache in her legs and everything rushing past, almost like she could fly away.
And if she notices him staring at her with too bright eyes with his hand on the flask she knows is in his jacket pocket, she ignores it. Pretends that he could smile at her without alcohol coursing through his veins.
She studies her face in the bathroom mirror, notes her red face and starry eyes and giddy smile. She lets out a deep breath, tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, and prepares to exit the bathroom.
As she is leaving, she bumps into something hard. Hands come to her waist to keep her from falling. Even so, she wobbles on her skates and her hands come up to brace themselves on the person's shoulders, her legs moving without her volition.
"Woah. You okay?" she hears and then, "Swan? What are you doing here?"
She looks up to see Killian Jones smiling at her, his face remarkably close to hers, his hands spread across her waist, burning her skin, hers still gripping his shoulders, grasping the thin fabric of his shirt. There's something shocking about seeing him here. He looks entirely out of place.
"What are you doing here?" she asks and it comes out more breathless than she expects.
"I asked you first," he says and there's something in his voice that makes her shiver.
"Emma!" she hears called and she looks over Killian's shoulder to see Neal heading towards them.
She lets go of him and he steps back, removing his hands from her waist, leaving her side feeling strangely cold.
"Gold," Killian says when Neal reaches them, pulling Emma into his side a little forcefully.
His hand wraps possessively around her, his thumb edging her top up, his palm wresting on the bare skin of her hip. Emma watches Killian's eyes track the movement, flicking down to her exposed skin and then back up to her eyes. She's the one who breaks the eye contact.
Neal nuzzles into her neck, his nose rubbing against her earlobe, his breath hot against her neck. She can smell alcohol on his breath.
"Neal. Not right now, okay?"
His mouth comes down on her ear, something aggressive in the way he tugs at it. She pushes him off her and he lets out an angry exhale, staring at her for a second, his eyes hard, before skating off. There's something almost comical in it, his strides awkward on the carpeted floor, but Emma doesn't laugh, mindful of the way Killian is watching the entire exchange, something tightening in his eyes.
They stand in silence for a long, tense moment.
"I-" Emma starts, but then she closes her mouth. She doesn't know why she feels the need to justify anything. It's none of his business.
He stares at her for a long time, but just when she thinks he might finally say something, a voice calls his name.
"Killian!" a blonde girl by the concession stand says, "We're going to be starting soon. They're clearing the floor."
He nods his assent and starts towards her, but then stops, turning back to Emma. She feels strangely vulnerable under his scrutiny.
He starts to say something, then changes his mind.
"Bye, Swan," he says instead.
"Bye, Jones," she says, watching his retreating back.
She lets out a sigh and then heads off in search of Neal. She takes off her skates and returns them, padding around the rink in her socks, shoes in hand. The sidelines are beginning to fill up with spectators. Emma peers around them to see a small group of girls, Killian's blonde friend included, warming up, skating smooth and fast circles around each other. There's something incredibly free about their faces, smiling and laughing and intense. Emma diverts her eyes from the skaters, pushing through the crowd to find Neal, but she doesn't see him anywhere.
Emma sits on the bench outside the skating rink, the air humid and sticking to her skin. She clicks the on button on her phone and watches it light up, but there are no new text messages. She has called Neal eleven times and her foster parents at least that many, but no one is answering. She can't believe he left her. It's not the first time it's happened, but at least all the other time she had some other way of getting home. Asshole.
She checks her phone again, the little screen washing her face in a blue glow, then clicks the lock button and it fades back out. A couple walks past her, laughing and leaning into each other, their steps swaying, intoxicated with exhaustion and happiness. She hears the roar as their car starts and watches it exit the nearly empty parking lot, their headlights shining on the remaining cars.
"Emma?" she hears a familiar voice ask, "I thought you left hours ago."
"Apparently not," she answers, turning to face Killian.
"Do you need a ride somewhere?"
She checks her phone again, stares at the blank screen, and then nods. He gestures to his car across the lot and Emma stands and they walk together in silence. He clicks his keys and the car blares, the sound resounding in the still night air.
It's not until they are both in the car and he is pulling out onto the road that he says anything.
"Are you with that guy?" he asks.
"Who? Neal?"
She knows exactly who he was talking about.
"Yeah," he says, his hand gripping the steering wheel, the veins in his arms standing out.
"Why?"
"I just think you should be careful around him. I've heard some pretty unpleasant things about him."
"Like what?" she asks.
Killian doesn't answer, just stares straight ahead at the road, watching the light change from red to green.
"Like what, Killian?"
"I'd rather not say, but suffice to say it wasn't very pretty."
"So that gives you the right to judge my relationship?"
She's not really mad at him, she knows that. She knows that, but it feels good to get angry.
"He left you, Emma. Why the hell were you standing outside a skating rink at 10:30 on a Thursday night with nowhere to go?"
"I don't know," she says.
She means for it to be strong, but it sounds weak even to her ears.
"I don't know," she repeats.
He lets out a deep rattling breath, "He's not a nice person, Emma. If you know what's good for you, you'll stay away from him."
Part of her wants to protest. Wants to say that Neal is nice, in his way. That he makes her laugh, makes her smile, makes her feel special. But she doesn't know how to say it in a way that doesn't make her sound stupid and naive.
"Why are you being so nice to me?" she asks instead.
"I don't know," he answers, "I really don't know."
They ride the rest of the way in silence.
Ruby has a party the next night and Emma goes. She feels a weird sense of deja vu as Ruby answers the door and she shoulders her way into the house. It's been a long time since she's gone to a party without Neal and she suddenly realizes that she doesn't really know anyone without Neal at her side. People smile at her as the passes them, but no one stops to say hello.
She heads straight to the kitchen and grabs a drink, tossing it back quicker than is probably wise and refilling it.
She feels free. Like she doesn't have to think or be or do anything. Like she could just stop. Stop everything. And that would be okay. She likes that idea. She really likes that idea.
She sees Killian on the other side of the room and calls his name. He looks up at her in surprise as she makes his way over to him, giggling when she stumbles and almost crashes into him. Someone jostles them and presses them together, her hands coming up to his chest as she smiles up at him.
"Hey," she says.
"Hey," he says and she can feel his heart beat thunder against her hands.
"You're not still mad at me, are you?" she asks.
She doesn't know why she asks that, but she finds once she does, she's desperate to know the answer.
"No," he says, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.
"You're nice," she says, surprised to find that it's true, "You don't want people to think you are, but you are."
"I'm really not," he says and something about the way he's looking at her through half closed eyes that has her closing the distance between them.
"Emma, what are you-"
And then her lips are on his. He doesn't respond at first, so she pushes closer, her hands going into his hair, pulling him towards her. His hands come to her shoulders and for a second she thinks he's going to draw her towards him, but then he moves her away.
"Not like this, Emma," he says and there is so much pity in his eyes that she wants to scream or cry or something.
She doesn't know why his rejection hurts so much, just that it does. Against her will, she feels tears welling up in her eyes and it's not him, it's everything coming down on her and she feels like she can't breathe and she wishes people would stop staring at her like if they made one wrong move she would explode.
"Emma," he says, reaching for her arm.
She shrugs him off, pulling away so hard that she runs into the guy behind her and then she's gone.
She calls Neal. She doesn't expect him to answer, but he does.
"Can you come get me?" she asks him.
She's crying at this point. He pretends he doesn't hear it.
"Where are you?"
She can hear the sounds of people talking in the background. Someone laughs.
"I'm at Ruby's."
"Okay," he says, "I'm coming."
The phone clicks silent. He doesn't explain why he left her the previous night or where he'd been or what he'd been doing or anything. But then again, she didn't ask.
She's stopped crying by the time Neal's car pulls up.
She regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth.
"How do you know?" he asks, his voice so quiet she can almost can't hear him.
"Neal. I-"
"I said. How. Do. You. Know?"
"I told you. I saw them toge-"
"And you're sure?"
"Yes," she says and steals a glance over at him.
He's gripping the steering wheel so hard that she's worried he might break it and his eyes, where they are fixed on the road, are tight with rage. She tries not to compare the tense angry ride to the one she had previously shared with Killian. She doesn't really succeed.
"Because you better be fucking sure, Emma. Are you fucking positive? Because it's a big fucking deal if that goddamn sonofbitch is fucking my mom."
She flinches, but nods. She shouldn't have said anything. She shouldn't have said anything. Why did she say something? She's never been afraid of Neal, but she is now. There's something scary brewing in his eyes that she's never seen before.
She feels drained when she shows up to school on Monday, as if all the life has been sucked right out of her. She'd called Neal multiple times over the weekend, but he'd never answered. She doesn't know what she would have said if he had. She looks for his car in the parking lot, but she doesn't see it. Doesn't see him anywhere.
But however bad she feels, it's nothing compared to how bad Killian looks. A boy in the back of the class lets out a whistle of appreciation when he walks in the door. He looks destroyed: the entire right side of his face bruised, purple and yellow and blue marring his cheekbone, his eyes red and bloodshot, his posture slumped. I did this, Emma thinks and she feels her heart ache, I did this.
He brushes by her on his way out the door.
"Killian," she calls, reaching out to him.
He stops, but doesn't turn and for a long moment Emma thinks he might just keep walking. Then he turns to face her. Up close, he looks even worse than she had thought. Her hand aches to run over his cheek, to touch the marbled planes of his face. She curls it into a fist.
"Something you wanted, Swan?"
She's the one who stopped him, but suddenly, she has no clue what to say.
"I just- I wanted to apol-"
"Don't," he says.
"What?"
"Don't apologize."
"Why not?" she asks and how is her apologizing turning into a fight?
"Emma," he says and she thinks he's going to say more, but then he doesn't.
He just stares at her and he looks so tired and so lost that Emma feels like the breath has been knocked out of her.
"We all fuck up sometimes," he eventually says and she doesn't even know if he's talking about her or him anymore.
"Some more than others," she says.
He flinches at that. And fuck, she didn't mean it that way. She meant her, she's the one who fucked everything up. Or maybe she didn't. Maybe she meant him. She doesn't know anymore. She doesn't know anything anymore.
"I'm sorry," she says and she means for the comment and telling Neal and the kiss and everything that's gone wrong between the two of them.
"It's okay."
But it's not. It's really really not.