I was half an hour early getting to the bar. I couldn't sit in my apartment anymore after David had called, telling me about his conversation with Emma. He thought she might, might show. So, I figured I'd go have a drink, or four, and throw a few darts. I needed to clear my head. Leroy, our smarmy bartender, poured me a pint the minute I walked into the room. He was a good bloke, always on top of the patrons.
"Hey, Killian, you're in early today," he said, handing me the bulbed pint glass full of Guinness.
"Yeah, got some time to kill, figured a pint or two would help me along." I toasted him with my glass as I walked over to the dartboards. I threw a few before one of the regulars, Robin, came over and asked for a game of cricket. It was a good distraction. I had a few more beers; we played a few games. I finally looked down at my watch. It was a half hour past when Emma should have showed.
"Time to go, mate?" Robin asked.
"No, just checking the time. Be right back," I said, trying to hide the fact that my chest had started to collapse under my shirt. I walked over to the bar and ordered a whiskey. It was time to get good and drunk. I slammed the first one, and Leroy poured me another, quirking an eyebrow at me.
"Is she worth it, mate?" he asked.
"Aye," I said, my throat tight. He handed me the bottle.
He gave me a quick, sharp nod. "Just don't drive anywhere. I'll call you a cab when you're ready," he said as he walked away.
Robin had wandered back over to his table, so I slung myself over a barstool, wishing I could be anywhere but getting drunk in a bar over a woman who wouldn't even talk to me. I don't know how long I sat there staring at my glass, refilling it occasionally, when the bell over the door jingled. I looked at my watch again, another hour had gone by. I waved at Leroy to get my tab. I'd walk home.
It had been two and a half hours since he last texted me, demanding that I show up. It was long past the time he should have given up and left. I still sat in the cushy chair in the living room, being mulish. There was no other word for it, really. David and Mary Margaret had both told me the same thing, but I couldn't blame Killian for letting things go so long without telling me how he felt. I knew it always looked like Neal and I were wrapped up in each other, but I didn't want to be alone… again… or still… or at all. And at least Neal was there, well, until he wasn't. But still, if I had known… What would I have done?
Loud banging at the door broke me from my reverie. I looked at my watch. It was two hours past when I should've been at the bar. I knew it was Killian, knew he would hunt me down, which is probably why I had stayed where I was. Some morbid insanity of mine kept me home, knowing he would eventually come here, allowing me to avoid some messy showdown in the bar. You're a coward, Swan.
The banging. "Swan!" More banging. "Swan! Open this bloody door right now before I break it down!" His words were slurred. I could tell he had spent his time at the Jolly productively. I heaved a sigh and dragged myself out of the chair to open the door.
He was completely wrecked, hair a mess, both hands grasping opposite sides of the doorframe, holding himself up, it seemed. I had already cried myself into a state of dehydration, but I could still feel tears prick my eyes. His eyes were rimmed with the red of alcohol; the blue irises dark with hurt and pain. Milah had left him, and then, whatever happened between us. I didn't know what to say.
I opened the door wide to let him in. I could see the faintest flicker of hope warring with the agony on his face.
"You stood me up," he said, his voice thick and gruff with liquor.
"I don't take orders."
"I got drunk."
"You do appear to be quite intoxicated."
"Bloody hell."
He stumbled through the foyer and flopped onto the sofa, head thrown against the back. "I guess it's not a good time to have this talk you were all fired up to have?" I asked.
"Probably not."
He sat there staring at the ceiling. I walked over behind the sofa, sitting on the edge. I followed his gaze to the ceiling. "Still nothing very interesting up there."
"No." He closed his eyes. "You stood me up. I may be drunk, but that doesn't mean I've forgotten what I wanted to say." With cat-like reflexes he reached around behind me, and with very little effort, he had me in his lap. "And you're going to listen to me, whether you want to or not, because it needs to be said.
"I never said that I didn't want you, Emma," he continued, his blue eyes boring into my face. I tried to pull away. His arm tightened, his other hand grabbed my face to force me to look at him. "No, Swan. You are bloody well going to listen to me. I've wanted you too bloody much for too bloody long. What I did not want," he said, popping the ts despite his slight, drunken slurring, "was for it to be about anything other than how we might feel about one another. And that is it what it was. It was about pain and hurt and Milah and Neal. It wasn't about us. So, when I said I did not want you like that, that is what I meant."
There. I'd said it. Now I wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep off the half bottle of whiskey I'd drank in under an hour. I had her complete attention, had my say, and now, all I wanted was to pass out. I loosened my hold on her and put my head back against the sofa again, the room spinning mercilessly. "Since when did you start living in a carousel?" I asked, closing my eyes again.
She climbed awkwardly off my lap and left the room. She came back a few seconds later with a large bottle of water.
"Here. Drink it," she said, shoving it in my hand. Her other hand held aspirin. I drained half the bottle then took the aspirin before finishing off the water. When I was done, she held out her hand to me. I looked up at her face, not knowing what she was trying to do.
"You need to sleep this off. Come on. Bed." She pulled me from the sofa and half dragged me down the hall to her room.
"I need to go home," I said.
She shook her head at me, pulling me into the room and closing the door. She turned to me and started pulling off my shirt.
"Emma, stop, I can call a cab. I shouldn't have come over like this." I tried to stop her from disrobing me, but I was entirely too inebriated to fight her. She was at my belt, having already removed my shoes. She had me in my boxers and down in the bed within seconds, tucked in like a sick child.
She walked over to the door, glancing over her shoulder at me. "I'll be right back," she said.
When she came back into the room, she had more water and a wet washcloth, which she laid across the back of my neck. I was clumsy as I tried to grab her hand before it was out of reach. "Emma," I whispered, all energy drained. I brought her hand to my lips, kissing the palm. That was the last thing I remember.
After he passed out, I dragged a chair in from the dining room. It wouldn't be comfortable, but I didn't want him to end up sick and alone. He could aspirate and die, and no one would know. I grabbed a book from my bookshelf and settled in to read. He would be out for at least a couple of hours. Dusk slowly settled on the city, darkening the room. I got up to turn on a lamp, and he stirred in the bed.
"Hey, sleepy head," I said, smiling at him a little. Having been blitzed a few times myself, I knew he had to feel like crap. I handed him one of the water bottles as he sat up in the bed. He drained it and reached over for the second. It was gone just as quickly. He flopped back on the bed, staring, again, at the damned ceiling.
He stayed like that for several minutes. Figuring he might need a minute, I turned to leave. He grabbed my hand, pulling me back to sit beside him on the bed. "Once again, I need to apologize. I had not originally intended to tell you… how I felt in that fashion."
"What? Drunk off your ass?" I tried not to laugh, but a wry chuckle escaped anyway.
"Aye," he said, staring at the hand he still held prisoner.
"Maybe it's for the best," I said.
He finally looked up at me, confusion on his face. "How so?"
"Well," I said, turning to face him and reclaiming my hand. "If you'd been sober, you might have had a more difficult time telling me how you felt. You know, since you've not said a damn word to me about it in how many God damn years?" My control snapped. His eyes popped wide. "How long, Killian, from your lips, not anyone else's. How long? It seems everyone knew but me." I was yelling. I hated yelling.
He collapsed back on the pillow, eyes closed this time, hands over his face, having lost his fascination with the ceiling. "Please don't yell."
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, in a whisper of venom. "Perhaps next time you feel the need to be an idiot, go crash down someone else's door."
A minute went by in total silence. "Since that first night," he said softly, answering my question. He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I have been in love with you since we met." The last bit came out as a whisper.
"In love with me?" I was in shock. "Killian, wait, what?"
"I know. It's ridiculous, but that's the only thing I can come up with. Look," he said, climbing out of the bed on the other side, grabbing his clothes off the dresser. "I'm just going to go. I know you aren't ready for this. I just wanted you to know that what happened that night wasn't casual for me. It wasn't how I wanted to end up in bed with you, but it meant something to me, more than you will ever know."
He was dressed now, standing before me while I looked up at him in stunned silence. His hand reached down to slide across my cheek, thumb grazing my lower lip. He sunk his fingers into my hair at the back of my neck and pulled my face to his as he leaned down to kiss me. My lips parted involuntarily, and his tongue touched mine as our lips pressed together. My hands reached up to grab his t-shirt. His hand constricted in my hair, almost, but not quite, crushing my mouth to his. It was passionate, full of want and need, but gentle all at the same time. He pulled back, kissed my forehead, turned, and left without another word.