CS 1960s AU one-shot: Hippie!Emma & roadie!Killian meet the day he's in town to set up for the Beatles' last U.S. concert. Rated M.

San Francisco, 1966

"It's rude to stare, laddie. Though, that's a sweet little crackling, wouldn't ya say?" Killian turned a withering stare on Will, his fellow drifter in the musical arena. "Sod off, you."

"Don't think I'm taking on your duties so you can run off with a local chippie for the rest of the day, mate. We've still got—"

Killian gave him a hard nudge in the shoulder, squinting through the smoky cloud swirling around the crowd in the Old Ship Saloon to make sure he didn't lose sight of that blonde head. "I don't know about you, but I've got all my ducks in a row for this hullabaloo." He watched as the object of his fascination slipped out the door of the dank watering hole, out into the still-early day, finishing off his rum with one more swig, and slammed his glass onto the wooden bartop. "Cover me, aye? I did for you in Seattle and L.A."

"I'd have to take the van," Will finally complied reluctantly. "How're you going to get back to Candlestick? Gonna have your new girlfriend take you?"

"I'll worry about that, mate," Killian said, with a harder-than-necessary clap on Will's back, making him sputter. "You're a real—"

"Shut it, just be back at eight-thirty. I ain't about to lug those speakers around by meself."

"Uh-huh." Killian made for the door.

"Eight-thirty, Killian! At the latest!"

He stumbled out into the hazy sunshine and chilly current blowing into the Embarcadero, looking this way and that down the empty street. Damn it all to hell, he'd lost her. He spun around desperately in the same spot for a couple rotations, before letting out a deep sigh and preparing to go join back up with Will and get as functionally drunk as he possibly could before the show tonight.

"Looking for someone?" A breathy murmur tickled his ear, and he startled. When he turned, there she was—the golden girl.

He forced a neutral tone. "Not safe to sneak up on strangers, lass. What if I'd been well versed in the martial arts? You could've been irrevocably maimed."

She crossed her arms, leaning back into the brick wall behind her. "You?" she said incredulously. "I bet I could take you down with one hand tied behind my back." She raised a brow, jutting her chin out in mock-challenge.

He could believe it, if those shapely, toned arms of hers were anything to go by. And if he'd thought she was pretty in the dim lighting of the dive, in the outdoor late-morning light she was decidedly breathtaking. The brown suede fringe that fell from where her top—if it could even be called a top—curved inwards under her lovely bust did nothing to disguise a pale, slim stomach, and the thighs of her tight jeans were so ripped, Killian wondered what the point was in wearing pants at all. Her blonde hair waved loose around her shoulders, a thin suede band matching her top winding around the crown of her head. Bloody hell, what a fox—if this woman ever deigned to walk around publicly in only what whichever creator-that-be had given her, she'd have the world in the palm of her hand. But that little smirk she was sending his way lit a need within him that Killian knew was more that physical. He wanted toknow her, and he still didn't even know her name.

"Do you make it a habit of stalking strange chicks around the city, Scotland Yard?"

"If I'm a stalker, I'm not a very good one. I didn't even catch your name."

There was the smirk again. "You wouldn't have, because I didn't give it."

"Tit for tat?" Killian implored. "Mine's Killian. Jones."

She gave him a once-over, then sighed. "You seem harmless enough. I'm Emma…Swan."

A beautiful name for a beautiful woman was a split-second from falling off his tongue, but this lass looked like she'd heard it all before. He held out his hand, and she slid her cool palm into his. "I'd wager you're just as graceful as your avian namesake."

Emma laughed. "Original; I'll give you that. What brings you around these parts, Oscar Wilde?"

"Eh?"

She gestured in front of her mouth. "The way you talk, it's like you're from some…bygone times, man. Which I totally dig."

"Well, thanks," Killian replied uncertainly. "I'm, ah, only here for today. I'm setting up for the Beatles concert down in Candle—"

"I know about it." Her eyes grew hard. "So you were just scouting for some American tail before you hit the skies back to merry old England? Listen up, cat, I know what I look like, but—"

"It's not like that!" Killian said, frustrated. He couldn't tell her thatsomething had pushed him to go out and meet her, talk to her—she'd think he was a nutter. "I mean—it's just that—you intrigued me." He looked down, scuffed at the sidewalk with his worn sneaker. "Have you—have you got plans today?"

She glanced back at the saloon. "I don't know…I was barbacking, but it's early, and they won't mind—"

Some strange fellow in faded bellbottoms and oily locks that swept his shoulders waltzed up then, a burlap sack slung over his shoulder. The practically salivating glance he slid all over Emma had Killian's hackles go up with instantaneous dislike. "Hey Emma, you off already? We got a good haul, some whole turnips, and—" His gaze narrowed, taking in Killian with obvious resentment.

"Who's this nobody?" The grease monkey slid an arm into a possessive hold around Emma's waist, which she shimmied out of, to Killian's delight.

"Down, boy," she chastised. "Killian, this is Walsh, my—well, my nothing since we're all free people!" She smiled at her quip, while the Walsh fellow looked disappointed. Killian almost felt sorry for the git then; who wouldn'twant to be claimed by Emma Swan?

A girl with red-streaked dark hair and a tall blonde man in round purple spectacles walked up to join them, matching sacks over their shoulders, too.

"We're headed back to the bus, everything's—well, hel-lo!" the dark-haired girl said, sizing up Killian.

"And this would be Ru—"

"Call me Red," the girl said, grabbing his hand from his side and shaking it vigorously.

"Right," Emma continued. "And this is Victor. Guys, Killian's in town for that concert. He's from England."

Victor peered bloodshot eyes at him over his spectacles. "England, huh? Far out, man. That Loch Ness monster still terrorizing the place?"

"Uh—not that I know of," Killian said, not sure if he was being taken for a ride, but Victor just nodded seriously.

"Good, good. Glad to hear it."

Red jerked her head down the street. "C'mon, let's get home. Gotta start boiling up the spoils."

"Coming with, Killian?" Emma asked, threading her fingers through his and giving a small tug.

There was really only one right answer.

Killian clambered into the mustard-yellow VW van after Emma, settling down on a velvet cushion in the back next to her, receiving a death glare from Walsh in the process.

"So what's all this about?" He gestured towards their sacks.

"We go around to all the restaurants we can, and take what they aren't using," Red explained. "Then we cook it up, and go feed the homeless in the park." She gestured towards Golden Gate Park as they drove past. She shrugged. "We get help from some of the churches around the Haight."

"The what?"

Emma stared at him. "Oh man, folks, Killian's only got one day here. Victor, stop!" The van screeched to a halt, throwing the rest of them against the back of the front two seats.

"I just had a rad idea; Double-oh-seven here can't go back home without seeing as much of the best city in the world as possible."

Killian raised a brow. "'Best city in the world'? Right, I'd have to see it to believe it, lass."

"It's settled then." Emma leaned over, and slid the van door open. "C'mon, Killian. I'll meet up with the rest of you later."

"Maybe I should—" Walsh began.

"Don't infringe, brother," Victor said, then leaned out the window. "You toke, Slick?" He handed Killian two joints, which he slid into his pocket, thinking he might do well to settle his nerves if he was being guided around solo by Emma.

What was she doing? Emma Swan had just done something completely, ridiculously impulsive, and despite the carefree nature she tried to project, Emma Swan didn't do impulsive. Sure, he was pretty—okay, really—good-looking, but so what? There was no shortage of choice men in these parts. But somehow the whole combination of floppy black hair, scuffed leather vest and pants, accent, and those blue eyes—yeah, as soon as he'd turned that puppy-dog gaze on her, she'd been a goner. But the Haight has been her stomping grounds for a few years now, a familiar, worn-in coat, and she led Killian to Psychedelic Records with swagger.

"I hope I haven't put you out, love—"

"It's fine. I live just two blocks down, at Baker and Oak."

He gave her a teasing grin just before he followed her through the doorway. "You know, darling, record shops are no newfangled idea in the Isles."

She jabbed him in the side. "You're quick with the wisecracks, aren't you, Jones?"

He looked around at walls that looked like buckets of paint had been tossed on them at random, 'Sound of Silence' playing softly on a record behind the counter.

"Hey, Rudy." Emma nodded at the Rasta behind the counter and kept walking towards the back. "I unpack the new stuff here sometimes," she explained to Killian's questioning look, pushing back a curtain to a small booth with a vinyl player and several boxes of records.

"Sounds like you keep fairly busy."

"I try." She selected a record, and to his surprise, opera started filtering out, mixing with the faint notes of Simon & Garfunkel coming from the front of the store.

Emma had leaned back against the wall. "It's from La Bohéme. Boss, isn't it? They performed at the opera house here last year. I tried to sneak in, but I got caught."

Killian grinned, picturing her beautiful face flushed with unrighteous indignation. "What bollocks, trying to keep art and culture from an irrepressible rogue like you."

She closed her eyes, smiling. "I showed them; snuck into Tosca a few months later. Do you like it?"

"Very much," he said lowly, the tone making her look at him again. He was giving her a focused look, far more intense than she was comfortable with. She looked down nervously, pulled at a loose thread on her jeans. "Hmph. Aren't you contractually obligated to say you love the Beatles, or something?"

"I doubt they give a fig what us tech jockeys actually like, but sure—I like them. Don't you?"

Emma shrugged her shoulders. "Not really my scene, to be honest." She turned when, out of the corner of her eye, she could tell Killian was sitting stock-still. "What's your bag?"

"You don't like the Beatles? I didn't think it was legal for anyone in the free world not to like—love—them! Don't tell me—you're a Stones fan."

She wrinkled her nose. "The both of them, they're just so…so…corporate. Jimi, Janis—those are real musicians, man."

Killian shook his head. "They've got just as big a racket going on, records and posters and what-not. You want a pure music source, go listen to that fellow we passed on the corner playing his mandolin for spare change." He cocked a brow when her mouth opened in protest. "You know I'm right, love."

She huffed and rolled her eyes, but honestly, it was a breath of fresh air. When was the last time a man had argued a point with her? Usually they were too preoccupied trying to win their way into her pants. She'd been to college, been on the streets, been on the beatnik scene, but everywhere she went, men were, sadly, predictable.

Except this one.

She wanted to know what made him tick, if she could manage to keep him at bay at the same time.

Emma settled onto the top of a grassy hill she'd led Killian to within Golden Gate Park. She loved the view from the spot, pointing out her friends' makeshift kitchen set up along one piece of sidewalk to Killian once he'd sat next to her.

She clasped her hands around her knee. "Tell me something, Killian."

"Such as?"

"I dunno—we've only got the day. I want to know what you're about." She did to, dammit, more than anyone she'd ever met before. And she didn't know why. "What's back in the U.K.?"

Nothing, he wanted to say, but that would sound pathetic. "Oh…what everyone else has, I suppose. Mates, a crash pad, this gig—"

"Family?" she asked, almost hesitantly. Her hand skimmed along the ground restlessly when he didn't respond, eyes following the movement. "Sorry, you don't—don't have to say anything if you don't want to…I'm just too much of a fuckin' flap-jaw sometimes—"

"I had a brother," Killian cut in abruptly.

"Had?"

"He's dead. At least, everyone thinks so." He glanced at her, and decided to keep going. He didn't really think he could stop now if he wanted to; he'd never talked about him to anyone, and it was like he'd turned a bloody faucet on.

"He—he didn't have to do it. Britain decided to keep out of 'Nam, you know, but Liam—he was, he was just such a bloody fucking Boy Scout, he went down to Australia where they'd let him enlist, and…."

Emma propped herself up on an elbow, looking down worriedly at him. "And?"

"That was four years ago. Two years ago, his base lost—lost all communication with him. Haven't heard anything since." He closed his eyes, concentrated on the rhythm of his breaths—in, out, in, out—closing his eyes. He felt the weight of Emma's head settle onto his chest, her hand lightly touching his side, not saying a word. It was much more of a comfort than one of the hollow "I'm sorry's" he'd grown accustomed to. It didn't matter if the person meant it; in the end, it was so meaningless, changing nothing.

Neither could pinpoint how long they lay like that, Emma unconsciously stroking down his ribs, Killian's fingers combing through her hair. Emma looked down, playing with a loose button on his vest. She shouldn't, she ought to just let things be, once you revealed to much to another, they had the upper hand—

"I didn't mean to be a downer," she said lowly. "I—I don't have relatives, either. Not by blood. The cats you met earlier, they're my true family. The one I came from gave me up."

Killian's hand paused in its ministrations. "All I can say to that, is that they had to be bloody fools."

She gave a soft chuckle. "I 'spose everything's worked out. I tried the whole respectable racket for awhile, higher education—didn't jive. Then I met Red when at one of their free kitchens—I used to be one of their customers, when I was fending for myself." Emma paused, thinking back. That whole lifestyle seemed eons ago. "And—and from there, I guess I just…found a niche."

"Sounds like you did the right thing for you, love. And looks like everything turned out roses."

"Seems most people have a different definition of the 'right thing', which I tried doing for awhile."

"Meaning?"

"I enrolled at SF State, started going to classes—but it was all lies, man. Those people, the administration—they just wanna turn this generation into their carbon copies, a herd of mindless sheep. Especially the chicks, y'know? It was nothing but a fucking marriage market. Well, you know what? I'd had enough of hearing what I was supposed to be doing. Why should I live up to other people's expectations of me? It never got me anywhere before."

"I get the feeling you get along just fine not giving a wit what anyone thinks," Killian said admiringly.

"But I did once. I fucked the guys who flattered me, took the drugs I was offered—"

"Not anymore, though?"

"No. I've got my group, and…the thing is, they don't pressure me. But—but sometimes I…"

Killian ran a hand soothingly through her hair. "You don't have to bare all for me, love." He gave her a wiggle of his eyebrows. "Unless you want to, in any context."

She twisted around and shoved at his chest, but laughed, swiveling and settling the back of her head against his shoulder. "I mean, even though everything's copacetic, sometimes I still think…think they'll…" Fuck, that felt amazing; she was dangerously close to purring. "I think they'll realize that I'm not the above-the-fray, cool chick they think I am—that they'll find out I'm still just the lost little girl I've always been."

Killian continued playing with her hair, and she let her eyes fall shut. He was silent for so long, she wondered if he was figuring out how to extricate himself from the basketcase he no doubt thought she was now.

"Feel free to tell me to keep my nose out of it, but your friends—at least the ones I met—seem utterly taken with you. Especially that slimy wanker."

One side of her mouth quirked up. "Walsh? He's alright, when you get to know him. I've never…er, I've never gone all the way with him, if that's what you're thinking." God, she wanted to smack herself in the forehead; could she sound anymore full of herself?

Surprisingly, she heard a soft exhale whoosh out of him. "Well, that's good news to me."

She pulled at a few blades of grass, suddenly shy. Killian flipped the bit of hair he'd been fiddling with over her shoulder. "All done."

Emma looked down at the tip of the braid, then darted a glance up at Killian. He'd braided her hair. Had this guy fallen from the sky, or what?

"Bloody hell, I forgot the finishing touch!" he reached out, plucked a yellow dandelion, and pulled it through the bottom strands of the braid. "Now it's finished."

"You're—you're unreal, you know that?" And before he could respond, she'd surged forward to press her lips to his, hands sliding up to anchor in his thick hair. His arms encircled her waist, almost pulling her into his lap while continuing the kiss. Killian closed his eyes, just trying to take in the very essence of Emma—she was warm, soft, a faint scent of patchouli tickling his nose. He groaned as she rocked her hips against him, feeling his pants start to tighten uncomfortably. The only thing that brought them back to the present was a loud, disapproving cluck, and their heads swiveled to see two Hare Krishnas continuing along the path, heads shaking at the overly affectionate public display.

Emma groaned. "Never thought I'd be chastised by people who dress in bright orange robes and carry tambourines around everyday."

"Take it as an accomplishment," Killian joked, and she laughed, leaning down to continue her kissing assault on his neck.

"Emma," he said warningly. "We'd best stop this, or I'm liable to take you right out here on the grass for innocent eyes to see."

A little thrill zinged through her, and she clenched her thighs together even as she placed a palm against his chest. "Well, we can't have that—at least, not yet." She got to her feet and turned away before he could see her stupidly wide smile, making her way back along the walkway to where her friends were spooning out the dregs of their vegetable soup.

"Red, you mind if I beat it with the van for a few hours? This guy—" –she bumped her hips into his, and Killian felt a frisson of pure heat shoot to his groin at the playful gesture—"—has got places to go, people to see."

"I mind," Walsh interrupted. "You barely meet that dip today, and—"

"Can it, Walsh," Victor broke in. "Sure, Emma. We got cleaned out today, nothing we can't carry a few blocks." He gave Killian a knowing wink over her head.

Emma rolled her eyes. "Subtle, Victor. Don't worry, I'll hightail back as soon as—"

"Don't sweat it," said Red. "We might be hoofing it to a happenin' anyway. I'll leave the address on the fridge if you guys wanna join up when you get back."

Emma gave her friend a loud kiss on the forehead, grabbed Killian's hand, and took off for the van.

They flew through Daly City, the van's tires squealing through Candlestick Park's parking lot at eight-forty-five, a shorter, wide-eyed man running at them from the entrance, hurling such Britishisms at Killian, Emma could only guess at his tone that they were insults.

"Relax, ya bugger, I made it—"

"Barely!" He turned, gave Emma a quick, stiff bow. "I'd be Will, lovely. Now help me hurry this bloke along." The three linked arms, Killian in the middle, running through the gates and up to the stage. Emma parked herself on an empty guitar case backstage, after Killian ensured her it'd be alright, trying her best to blend into the background for the hour that Killian was zipping to and fro getting everything prepped. No matter how frantic he seemed as he zoomed by, he kept pulling himself up short to capture her lips in a kiss before taking off again. She had to chuckle through her pleased blush; he reminded her of a whirling Looney Tune. After everything was set, a brief silence settled over the crowd, and the first notes of 'Rock and Roll Music' started to drift back to her. Killian appeared from behind a black curtain, plopping next to her.

"Do you—do you want to take off?" he asked, taking her hand. It was such a simple gesture, but just the feel of her smaller hand in his large, warm one—it felt safe.

"Not just yet," she murmured, her head falling against his shoulder. "You worked on making all this happen—enjoy it."

She felt his hand cup her shoulder. "I've enjoyed spending the day with you. Shame…shame I'm taking off back to London tomorrow."

Emma was suddenly cold. "I guess. But hey…it's—that's the way these things go."

"It was more than that, and you know it," he said irritably, grabbing her chin and turning her head to fuse his mouth to hers. He gave her that puppy look again. "Can we just—just enjoy the here and now? I'd take whatever you could spare, than nothing at all."

Ugh, why was she having such a hard time with this? She was a seize-the-moment gal, but she had a suspicion if she gave Killian everything…well, she might not recover as quickly as she usually did with other cats. Still, he had a point; better to enjoy what she could of him with the remains of this day, rather than zilch. Right?

Emma captured his lips with renewed purpose, tongue delving into his mouth, feeling and tasting all she could. When they pulled apart, his pupils were nearly black, breathing shallow.

"I hope you don't have any objection to cutting out of this joint now."

"Watch me lay a patch, Jones," she said, taking off at a top-speed run for the lot.

She pulled the van up to a crumbling, green-trimmed Victorian that had definitely seen better days, sliding an arm around Killian's waist, and walked up the front steps.

"It looks…dark," he observed, pushing open the door.

"It's fine," she insisted. "They're probably all at that party—oh!" Killian had grabbed her around the waist, settling her on top of the kitchen counter, fastening his lips to her neck. God, he was really into this, he was actually whimper—no, wait. That was coming from her, she was the one whimpering. Emma felt more of a needy mess than she had in years; she gripped his hair firmly, pulling his head back.

"Are you sure you have to leave tomorrow morning?"

His thumbs rubbed gently at her sides. "Positive, unfortunately. Listen, lass—I'd understand if you didn't—didn't want this to go any further tonight, as I'm going—"

"Killian." She squeezed his hips between her thighs, eliciting a low moan from him. "Take me upstairs. Last room on the right."

He scooped her up with enough zeal to make her shriek, taking the steps two at a time, bursting through the beaded curtain hanging from the doorframe. He tossed her onto the bed, advancing on her, blue eyes glittering in the near-darkness. Emma's breath caught; she couldn't ever remember a man looking at her with such unadulterated hunger before.

"C'mere," she whispered, pulling at his vest. "I need you—need to feel you. I want to remember this…remember—"

Killian reached out, pulling that ridiculously skimpy top over her head in one swift movement, laid her back and lowered his face to her, skimming his scruff lightly over her skin, starting at her throat.

Emma squirmed as he got—slowly—closer to her now-bare breasts. "Fuck, Killian, touch me," she keened, arching her chest up towards his mouth.

"Greedy woman," he muttered against her skin, before taking a pert nipple in his mouth, giving it a hard suck while Emma's head fell back with a soft sigh.

"Mmm, good, that's good," she mumbled, still arching herself into him. "Only—"

He pulled away. "Only what?!"

"We're still wearing too many clothes," she finished, and Killian laughed, pulling off her jeans and cotton knickers, and undoing his own vest and pants in record time. Emma pushed his thin T-shirt off, throwing it to a corner of her room.

He glanced down at himself, then at her. "Good, only—"

"Jones."

Killian smiled. "Only, you're going to watch me make love to you, and I want to see you, too. It's too dark in here." He pulled a matchbook out of his discarded pants, lighting the purple, half-melted candles on Emma's nightstand. "Better."

He sat back on the edge of her bed, pulling her into straddling his lap, her knees tight on either side of his thighs, his cock's swollen head rubbing against where she needed him most. She looked down, eyes widening. "Wow. I mean—you're—"

He gave a short nod. "I know."

Emma laughed, gave him brisk swat on the back of the head. "Arrogant bastard," she stated, then slid fully down onto him without warning, Killian sucking in a sharp breath. "Bloody—fuck—I—"

"I know," she teased, rising back up, starting to undulate above him. His hands grasped onto Emma's hips tightly, pushing her down as far as possible, thrusting upwards at the same time. Her nails dug into his shoulders, head tilting back. "Goddammit, I—" She cut off as one of his hands drifted above where they were joined together, pressing her clit beneath the obscuring blonde curls. He rubbed faster, harder. "That's it, Swan…come for me." Her breathing grew ragged, and Killian didn't sound far behind. "Emma, please." He gave one more thrust, nipped at her breast, just as she ground her hips down.

"Fuck!" she moaned, her muscles spasming around him, Killian biting down at the juncture of her shoulder and neck as he spent himself inside her. They both fell in a limp jumble onto her comforter, panting heavily.

Emma weakly pushed her sweaty hair back from her forehead, holding her other hand to her racing heart. Well, that was a first. She turned her head to find Killian staring at her already, a doped-up smile plastered across his face.

"Killian…Killian, that was—"

"Not a one-time thing," he growled, pulling her to him again.

One bleary eye blinked open, squinting at the sunlight coming through the tie-dyed scarves that served as Emma's curtains. What the hell had—? Oh…right. She'd met a total stranger, confided things she'd never told another soul, been fucked senseless throughout the night, finally enjoying Victor's joints afterwards, and now—

Her arm slid across the bed, feeling for a warm body. But Killian was gone. Emma blinked harder, clearing the sleep from her vision. Well, no use coming all unglued over—

Her hand landed on a slip of paper lying on the other pillow, and she sat up to unfold it.

Emma,

I tried to wake you before Will came to book us to the airport, but you sleep like the dead, love. Perhaps I had something to do with it…? Anyways, I do believe the tourist guide I had this trip didn't show me the full array of sights she could have, so good thing she was a stone fox to make up for it.

I'm posting you a wee present, but you must promise not to open it til I give you a ring. Killian

"Cryptic," she grumbled, tucking the note under her pillow, trying and failing to be annoyed. All that ended up registering was that she was going to get a call from him soon. She could close her eyes and pretend he was sitting right next to her.

"Cheer up, ya mope," Red said brightly, coming into the kitchen while Emma was cutting up a potato for that day's soup beat. "You've been in a mood for almost two weeks now."

"Mind your own beeswax," Emma shot back, slamming the knife down in a particularly savage chop.

"Bet I know what'd make you feel bet-ter," Red sing-songed, dancing from Emma's left side to her right. "Maybe a let-ter from loverboyyy…" She waved a long envelope in Emma's face.

"Gimme!" Emma snatched it out of Red's hand, clutching it to her chest. Ugh, it killed her not to just rip the damn thing open right then and there. She puzzled at it, turning it over. It seemed pretty flat for it to be called a "present". God, she hoped he hadn't sent money; that would be embarrassing.

"What're you waiting for?" Red questioned. "Open it!"

"I can't…he said he needed to call me before I did."

"You cats are touched in the head," Red stated, rolling her eyes as she left the room.

It turned out she didn't have to wait long; Walsh unenthusiastically announced in the common room not three hours later that there was aninternational caller on the line for Emma, and to be quick about it because everyone wasn't taking up extra jobs this week to pay for her fancy friends to call her. Emma gave him a shove as she walked into the kitchen where the wall phone was.

"Took you long enough," she greeted him.

"Sorry, love. International mail is frightfully slow, and tracking it, well…I look forward to the advent of more enlightened communication and parcel transportation methods."

"Did you ring me up to talk about technological progress in this day and age, or can I open my damn letter now?"

He laughed. "Eager little lass, are you?" She heard him swallow slowly, wondered if he was nervous for some reason. "Alright then…have at it."

She slit it open with a butterknife, pulling a sturdy folded paper out, and opened it.

"Killian…this is a plane ticket. From SFO to Heathrow."

"Aye."

"And it's one-way." Now it was her turn to swallow slowly.

"That's true—I miss you terribly; I did even before my bloody plane took off down the runway. As soon as I got my funds from the tour, I wired to get you that ticket."

She tried to force a laugh out. "And you were in such a hurry, you forgot to make it a round-trip?"

"No…I just…I wanted you to decide when you wanted to leave. If you wanted to leave the day after you came, or the year after, or five years….Or you don't have to leave at all. You also don't have to come; it's up to you. But…I'd really like if you came."

She swiped the back of her hand quickly across her eyes. Shit, if she stuck with this cat, she'd end up a barely-functional pile of mush on the floor. "Killian…"

"Please. Say 'yes'. One day wasn't enough for me to get my fill of Emma Swan. Between you and me…I don't think my lifetime would be enough." There was a long pause. "Is that too much?"

She boarded the early-morning United flight the next day, London-bound.