Neal doesn't come back. She hears that he skipped town. Got sent to military school. Moved to London. Is running a drug cartel in South America. The truth is: no one knows.
Somewhere along the line she decides that it's time to get her shit together. What else has she got to do?
She actually picks up her textbooks and gets a tutor and turns in assignments and appreciates the look on her teachers' faces when they return her work as if they're saying welcome back and she's so busy she can hardly breathe, but it feels good.
She finds a letter waiting for her on the dining room table when she comes home one afternoon, her name written on the front in an unrecognizable scrawl. Who would be writing to her? she wonders, picking it up and feeling the cheap paper. She flips it over, sliding her finger inside the envelope to open it.
She scans the letter and she can't breathe. She can't breathe.
I think I might be your father.
Holy fuck. Holy fuck.
His name is David Nolan and he lives in Storybrooke, Maine and he might be her father.
She really really can't think about any of it right now, so she throws herself into her studies and when she passes all of her finals she breathes a sigh of relief. She can do this. She can do this.
"Emma," Dr Hopper says, "What can I help you with?"
"Hey," she says and her chest feels all weird and tight and she thinks maybe she isn't going to do this, but then she forces it out, "I know this semester has kind of been a disaster, but is it too late for me to try and apply to college?"
The answering smile he gives her is so bright and relieved that it almost makes Emma feel bad. She laughs nervously, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.
"It is not too late," he says, "Why don't you come in and we can talk about your options?"
She smiles and it's tentative and fragile, but it's there.
"I'd like that," she says.
Emma has taken to bringing her books to lunch with her, working on homework and using her work as a shield from the rest of her peers. She doesn't have to worry about the empty seats around her table, just a reminder that she's fabulous at driving people away when she's focusing on a math problem or college essay.
She hears the scrape of a chair against the linoleum and looks up to see Killian Jones taking the seat opposite her.
"Hi," she says and it comes out more of a question than a greeting.
"Hello, Swan," he says, digging into his tray of food as if nothing had happened between them.
His bruises have faded, his face wiped clean, and she can almost pretend that the last couple of months never occurred, that they could have a fresh start. She looks at Killian and he meets her eyes and she thinks it's getting better. It has to get better.
The semester ends with an exhale. It's like she'd been holding everything in and when the bell rings for the last time she can finally breathe again. There is an excited murmur present wherever she turns, people hugging and laughing before they separate for winter break. Emma trudges through it, weaving through kissing couples and over excited freshman.
"Swan. Hey. Wait up."
She turns to find Killian jogging towards her, smiling as he reaches her, slightly out of breathe.
"What do you want, Jones," she asks.
"Just the pleasure of your company," he says, and it's all running full circle.
"Your house. You'll pick me up at 7?" she asks, and his responding laughter means he remembers.
"I'd actually really rather not go home right now," he says, and his eyes are a touch too serious to be blasé , "can I come with you?"
She looks at him, really looks at him. Studies the brush of dark hair across his brow, the way his brow furrows as he stares back at her, the depth of his eyes, the slight part to his lips. Someone pushes her in their rush to get through and Killian steadies her, his hand on her shoulder.
"You don't even know where I'm going," she says.
"That's alright. Wherever the wind takes us, Swan."
"Okay," she says, "okay."
He walks her home and they talk, her eyes on the cars as they rush by, but she can feel his gaze on her. When they get to her house, she stops on the top of the steps and looks down at him. It could end here, she could say goodbye and shut the door, but she thinks of the look in his eyes when he'd talked about home and she finds that she doesn't want to.
"Do you want to come in?" she asks.
"I thought you'd never ask."
Nothing happens. She's not even sure if she wants it too.
He texts her later that night while she's helping Susan wash dishes after dinner. She pulls her phone from her back pocket, soap suds still on her hands and is surprised to find a smile crossing her face when she sees who it's from.
She sees Susan watching her out of the corner of her eye and she slides the phone back into her pocket.
"What?" she asks the other woman.
"Nothing," Susan replies, "it's just nice to see you smile."
They're friends. Sort of. He just shows up at her house sometimes. He never tells her where's he's been and she doesn't ask, just lets him in.
They're watching TV, Killian's arm resting on the back of the couch, the skin of his forearm occasionally brushing against her hair. She has her knees pulled up on the couch and her left knee is touching his. Emma tries to pay attention to the show, but her eyes can't quite focus on the car chase going on onscreen. She can tell Killian isn't interested in the show. Can feel his eyes burning into her.
"Emma," he says.
"Hmmm," she replies, not turning towards him.
He pokes her side. She looks at him. His eyes are shining and mischievous and his smile is devious.
"Oh no," she says, "No. No. No."
"Are you ticklish, Swan?"
"Nope," she says, but his smile tells her that he doesn't believe her.
He pokes her again and hits a sensitive spot on her stomach. She laughs and hits him with the pillow in her lap.
"You've just started a war, Swan," he says.
He attacks her side and she tries to fend him off, but she's laughing too hard to be effective. They are a mess of limbs as she tries to scramble away from him, one of her legs hits his stomach and his hand brushes her knee and his head knocks her shoulder and her hair flies everywhere.
It ends with his body covering hers. He looks down at her breathing heavily and his face blocks out everything else, she can't see anything but him, and she can't breathe.
"I just..." she says and it comes out quiet and throaty.
"Emma," he says.
"...need to get some air," she finishes.
She feels his exhale against her face and then he's rolling off of her . She sits up and runs a hand through her hair, pushing herself to her feet.
"I'm just not ready," she says, not looking at him, staring at a picture of Aaron's fifth birthday party above the TV, eyes tracing the outline of balloons and smiling faces.
"I know," he says, "I know."
She hears a tapping on her window in the middle of the night. She starts awake and rolls out of bed. It's cold, snow dusting the ground, and her skin tingles when she presses it against the glass so she can peer out into the yard.
She sees a figure on the ground tossing rocks up at her and she feels equal parts exasperation and affection.
She pads down the steps lightly, wary of the people asleep behind closed doors. She ducks out the door and shivers at the sudden onslaught of cold air.
"Killian," she whispers, "what are you doing?"
"Emma," he says, smiling hazily.
That's when Emma realizes that he is very very drunk.
"I came to see you," he says, stumbling towards her.
She puts her arm around him to hold him up and starts dragging him inside. She doesn't know what she's doing, but she can't leave him standing outside in the cold without a jacket and taking him home is not an option.
"You've got to be quiet, okay?" she whispers to him as she tries to close the door with her arm still around him.
"Okay," he says, too loud.
She shushes him, pressing her finger to her lips, but then he's just looking at her lips and oh brother, no.
She drags them up the stairs, wincing at each of his footfalls and then pulling them into her bedroom and shutting the door.
He pushes her against the door, pressing his whole body against hers, his forehead resting against hers and everything about him too close.
"You're pretty," he says.
"Thank you," she says, placing her hands on his chest, "and you are very drunk."
She pushes him off and he lets out a groan of protest.
"Come on," she says, "Let's get you to bed."
"Is that an invitation, Swan?" he asks, grinning at her.
"You wish, Jones," she says.
"Hmmm," he replies, as she pushes him back into the bed.
She leans over him to tuck the covers around him. She expects him to make a lewd remark, but he doesn't, just stares at her with blue eyes that are deceptively clear. He reaches over and tucks a stray curl behind her ear, his hand sweeping across her cheek. She shivers and moves back.
"Emma. Wait," he says, his hand grasping her arm to stop her.
"What?"
"Thank you. I just- I couldn't go back to that house."
"Anyone would do the same."
"You'd be surprised," he said, his voice soft and for a second he doesn't sound drunk at all.
"Go to bed, Killian," she whispers.
"Okay," he says, and looks at her with eyes younger than the rest of him.
And maybe it's the way that he's staring at her with vulnerable eyes, but she finds herself leaning down and pressing a kiss to his forehead. His eyes flutter closed as she pulls away.
He's gone when she wakes up.
sorry for last night
you dont have to apologize, she replies.
i do
"Come to apologize in person?" she asks, as she opens the door,
"I come bearing gifts," he says, brandishing a bag of fast food.
"Yes," she says, shutting the door behind her, "and we can eat on the go. I'm not staying in this house for another minute. I think if I stare at my college applications forms any more, I might scream."
"Okay," he says.
They walk in silence for a minute, staying by the side of the road. She watches her feet, one crossing in front of the other causing her to weave to the side. He's close enough that her hand brushes his, their palms momentarily pressing together. She glances up at him sharply and their eyes meet.
He hands her the bag of food and she takes it, averting her eyes.
She thinks about the time she ran this same path, her heartbeat as thunderous as the pound of her feet. It seems like such a long time ago that she saw him sitting on the Gold's front steps, a cigarette propped between his lips, though it's only been a couple of months.
She sneaks a glance at him and is struck by how beautiful she is. She knows that guys aren't supposed to be pretty, but he is. His profile striking against the monotonous houses.
She wants to ask him about Neal's mom, about Millah. She thinks she's going to, but instead what comes out is, "I want to go find my dad."