Disclaimer: I own Nothing!
London, England
Winter, 1915
It is a frantic run to the tube station, Emma's hand dropping Killian's eventually as she jogs forward to talk to Anna but her gaze keeps turning to him, looking for him as though making sure he is still there.
They walk quickly through stairs and corridors lined with posters that call for more recruits, that call for women to allow their men to enlist, that promise men that they would be heroes. The posters show strong men standing straight and tall in their clean, pressed uniforms. They show scenes of victory, scenes of glorious reunions, scenes of women tearfully yet proudly saying goodbye, of children plying their fathers with questions about the war.
Designed to coerce, guilt and force men into fighting for King and Country, he wonders how much of a part these pictures had played in having them chase after a little boy, not yet 16, who had run away to join a war.
Emma has steadied since they had entered the station, surer now that they had a plan and a clear destination. Anna spares him a curious glance now and then as he walks a few steps behind them, her brows knit in confusion before turning away. He feels a tell tale warmth rush through his cheeks, his hand flexing to scratch behind his ear, to have something to distract from the way each glance reminds him that he is but a stranger to her.
But, Emma's grateful gaze keeps him following them.
Her steps ring steadily through another set of stairs before they turn into a platform where a train to Kings' Cross has just pulled in. Her hand reaches back towards him even as her eyes look ahead before breaking into a run to make sure she catches it.
With a quick glance at one another, he and Anna follow.
The doors open and they stumble into the cabin all together, breaths coming in a little short as they scan for seats.
"There-"
Anna points to three seats in the back of the carriage along the window, beginning to move in that direction even as more people begin to file in behind them. Emma walks beside him now, her hand brushing his as they walk in the narrow space between the seats, Anna in front of them.
"Miss Swan-"
He begins to speak without thinking through what he is about to say, his mind catching up with his mouth as he pauses. She turns to meet his eyes and he wants to ask her why she's allowed him to come with her, why she's trusting him when he's seen and he knows how easy it is for her to withdraw. Why she doesn't seem to be doing so with him.
There is a desperate question in her eyes too, perhaps asking the same things of herself that he wishes to ask of her. Her mouth opens to answer, her eyes widening, her posture stiffening as she takes the tiniest step back from him and he wishes he had never thought to ask her why.
But the train jerks then as it begins to move, pushing him into her, his feet staggering on the floor of the train as he tries to keep his balance, as he tries to keep hers. His hand reaches for her shoulder, his left arm trying and failing to rest on the back of a seat beside him, the sudden pressure on his wound pulling a sharp gasp and a swallowed shout from him as he bites his lip, his eyes squeezing shut until he sees stars.
The pain sings loud through his body, echoing through his muscles and bones until the only sound he hears are the sharp pants of his own breath, the burning in his eyes as tears slip past between his lashes, the soft, scratch of her coat against his fingers.
When the haze clears, his eyes open to her the sight of hers. She is much closer to him now, her gloved fingers covering his, her other hand reaching for his left arm, wrapping softly around his wrist.
"Captain, are you alright?"
He nods in response, his breath still harsh. But, his eyes are caught in the concern that is trapped in hers, her mouth opening and closing once more as she blinks rapidly. Her hands drop his then, her eyes dropping his gaze as well. She takes a step back, turns away from him before sitting down next to Anna, her back to the window.
He stands there for a moment, lost somewhere between the pain that still stings his wrist and the warmth of her glove around his fingers for the second time today. But, Anna's still curious eyes on him and a pointed clearing of a throat behind him pull him out of his daze. He mumbles an apology and takes the empty seat next to Emma.
She pulls her hat off as soon as daylight is blocked out by the tunnels, the heat of the people surrounding them enough to fight the cold of the outside, her movements stuttered as though she isn't quite here.
Her hat sits in her lap as she pulls off one glove and then another. Her head is bent forward as though concentrating on her task but her eyes are far away. He looks away from her then, feeling as though he is intruding upon something private, their forced proximity not enough permission for him to be a spectator as she allows herself to feel the strength of her fear and anxiety.
Instead, his eyes trail along the darkness that whizzes past them as the train moves through the tunnels, his mind drifting from one thought to another, his fingers itching to take her hand once more, to somehow calm her own fidgeting fingers and restless heart.
But the train forces them to sit, to be still as it takes them towards where they need to go. Stopping and starting and moving at a pace of its own, it is uncaring of the urgency that rules its passenger's hearts. He can see how it weighs on her, feels her tense beside him- coiling tighter and tighter every time the train stops at a station- even as he keeps his eyes resolutely turned away.
The train stops at its next station and they all jerk softly as it brakes, her shoulder falling into his, the warmth of her coat branding him wherever she touches. He inhales sharply, about to move away and apologise but before he can, the pressure increases as she leans just a little more against him.
It is such a little press, that he wonders if anyone sitting across from them would even notice. But he does. He turns to look at her then, his lips brimming with questions once more. Questions that he is afraid to ask, that he is afraid will break the fragile string that had begun to connect them, that will pull her shoulder away from his, that will dim her smile when she looks at him, that will drop her gaze from his.
But her eyes are closed, frown knitting her eyebrows together, her hand resting on the armrest between them, tense as she grips the soft upholstery, little folds forming in the fabric.
(Almost the same as the little folds that form on the fabric of his seat where his own fingers grip it tight.)
"Read all about it! British still smashing on! Thrilling pictures inside! Only-"
The newspaper boy's voice disappears into the hum of the crowd at the station as they race past him.
It had taken them three sets of stairs to move from the underground to the overground station, their surroundings melting into a blur as he and Anna had tried to keep up with Emma's frantic pace. All of the energy she had had coiled inside of her as they had sat in the train had come pouring out.
They walk just as fast now, sunlight streaming in through large windows in the overground, lighting her golden hair on fire as she moves, her eyes scanning the boards by each platform looking for her son. He looks too, his eyes searching for the all too familiar groups of uniformed young men flocking by a train about to take them to a training camp, the nervous energy flowing through them palpable as they wait to embark on their great adventure.
After all, he had been one of them but a few years ago.
Though his eyes and his mind drift frantically between looking for the train with the new recruits and Emma's deep blue coat flaring out behind her as she walks, he sees them first.
"Miss Swan! There!"
She looks back at him, her eyes following his hand to where he gestures, a small group of boys standing by a train, their voices muddling into an excited hum that is audible where they stand, their eyes bright, their bags heavy upon their shoulders. But standing just a little apart is a tall man with hair that looks almost white in the sunlight, uniformed himself, his eyes cast outwards as he scans the station, his hand around the shoulders of a young boy in a blue and red striped scarf.
The only bright colours on that platform of brown.
Emma shoots Killian a grateful look, her mouth curving into a small smile before she begins to make her way to her son, wind fluttering through her hair as she goes.
"Come on, don't you want to meet him?"
Anna's voice is right next to him, a conspiratory whisper that pulls him out of his contemplative gaze upon the shapes that Emma's hair makes against the darkness of her coat. He frowns as he looks down at the shorter woman, a question in his brow, his mouth opening to speak as he realises that he had never thought past this moment.
What happens now?
Does he meet her son? Does he become a part of this scene? Become more than the observer, the accidentally recruited help?
"Come on, she'd want you to. I know it."
Anna's eyes are bright, her smile encouraging as she looks at him and suddenly he remembers Emma saying no to him when he had asked to speak to her son before. An age ago, when he had not known the touch of her hand or the way her smile made all his colours brighter. An age ago when she had been but his nurse and now she is-
Perhaps things have changed for her as well?
He does not have the time to think it through, Anna's hand curves around his forearm, pulling him along with her as she makes him take his first steps towards the platform.
Towards Emma.
The boy stands tall, taller than most boys his age he reckons. He does not slump, his shoulders raised as he stands beside the other man, his eyes looking at the train, at the men who stand there.
And just like that, Killian sees Liam standing there instead.
The lad holds the same naive fervour in his eyes as he looks upon the men that line the platform, the train that waits to take them away to their destinies. He cradles the same yearning, the same hope that Liam had when he had first enlisted, standing on a far less crowded platform as Killian had come to say his goodbyes. Back when the war was a long way to come and Killian was lost in his art, in his teaching, in Milah.
But even after, once he had lost her, once he had lost himself, the Navy had never been more than escape, more than a way to start anew, more than a way to make his brother proud, to be a hero.
For him.
He had never felt that need to serve the way that Liam had, never had that fire that yearned to be a part of something, to serve a purpose greater than oneself.
Killian has always been a little too selfish for that he imagines. But Liam had it, burning rich and deep behind his eyes, the same way that it seems to do in Henry's.
But as tall as the boy stands, as bright as the fire burns in his eyes, it all softens the minute he catches sight of his mother racing towards him. His hand leaving the man's grasp as he takes a step and then another in Emma's direction, coming to a stop as her arms envelope him, his own hanging by her side for a moment before coming around her waist and pressing closer.
Emma pulls away to take a look at his face, her fingers pushing back a bit of hair that has fallen over his brow, her knees bending just a little to meet his eyes. He sees the gold of her hair glint in the sunlight as she shakes her head before pulling Henry into a hug once more.
"What happened?"
Anna's voice is directed away from him, the tall blond man now standing on her other side. He hadn't noticed his approach, too lost in his own thoughts but the man spares a confused look at him before looking down at Anna, his hand taking hers before he answers, Killian's eyes pulled away once more to Henry and Emma.
"It was that Peter boy at school again. Henry said that he'd been saying awful things about him, about Emma, about how he hadn't a father and that his family was shameful for not serving the King and Henry- well you know Henry."
Henry pulls out of his hug with Emma, his brow furrowed as his eyes avoid hers. Killian sees the remorse now in the slump of his shoulders, in the soft downturn of his lip. He begins to speak but Killian cannot make out the words from where he stands beside Anna and the blond man, a little ways away from mother and son.
He is pulled away from the scene again when he hears some fierce whispering by his side. Anna had moved away to stand closer to the tall man who was now sneaking looks at Killian in between his hushed conversation with her. Killian feels a bemused smile curl upon his lips as he watches them, silently cataloguing the way the man's knees are softly bent as he talks to his much shorter companion, how Anna's hair seems to turn almost rust coloured in the shadow of a cloud, how her blue uniform softens against the brown of the man's uniform.
"Kristoff, he's just here to help! You must say hello, come on."
But before Kristoff has time to answer, Anna pulls on his arm and turns to Killian with a bright smile. He can't help but raise his eyebrow and feel a silent camaraderie with Kristoff. For after all, he too has faced a determined Anna and he knows that there is no escape.
"Captain Jones, I'd like you to meet my husband, Sergeant Kristoff Bjorgman. He's stationed at the recruitment office."
Killian raises his hand to shake Kristoff's, a shadow of his earlier smile still on his face even as Kristoff's brow is still furrowed, his handshake a little wary, his posture stiff as he greets Killian.
"Nice to meet you, Sergeant."
"Likewise, Captain."
"Pardon my intrusion Captain but why are you-"
Kristoff's sentence is cut quickly short by Anna's elbow in his side, his head whipping to turn behind him as he straightens to look questioningly at his wife, his hand releasing Killian's. Shorter than him in stature though she may be, Anna's glare could bring Kristoff to his knees, he thinks.
"Kristoff!"
Her whispered reprimand only just reaches his ears before he is distracted once more.
"Thank you, Kristoff."
Kristoff turns to face Emma, his brow softening immediately, his eyes running between her and Henry. Her arm is around her son's shoulders now even as he continues to look chagrined, his eyes cast down as Kristoff responds.
"Of course."
Emma smiles back at Kristoff with such warmth then, her eyes lighting up even as a sharp ray of sunlight betrays the wetness that yet shines in them. She reaches for his shoulder, squeezing it softly in thanks.
At first all Killian can do it stare at the softness in her face, the way her eyes are open for these people that stand in front of her, for the son at her side. He writes the curve of her mouth, the flash of her teeth, the light green of her eyes to his memory, his fingers itching for his brush, his palette, to mix the perfect shade of it.
But then, he sees the ease with which she touches them, the ease with she she allows herself to smile, to be tender. It induces an ache somewhere deep inside him that wishes for this. For family, for familiarity, for the intimacy that would allow him such easy smiles, an arm across his shoulder, a hand grasping his, arms pulling him into an embrace when his wrist pulses in pain.
For all he can do now is stand to the side, an extra line that mars this perfect circle of Emma and the people she has made her family. All he can do after this is go home to empty rooms and empty walls.
The weight of this loneliness suddenly feels unbearable on his shoulders and he feels himself slump slightly. His feet shuffle against the ground as he prepares to speak, to bid them goodbye but before he can excuse himself, allow for them to have their moment without the interference of his presence, she turns to look at him.
Her smile is not as wide, as easy as it was with her friends. Her eyes are not as open, the shutters of them risen just enough that he sees only a hint of the light that lies behind them. But it is there.
And it stills him.
It feels as though he is standing on her shores, her waves lapping at his feet even as he sinks deeper and deeper into the sands every time she smiles at him.
But she continues speaking, unknowing and unaware of the way his heart has perhaps begun to beat just for her.
"Captain Jones, I'd like you to meet my son, Henry," she looks away to face Henry, "Henry, this is the Captain I was telling you about."
He startles for a moment.
She'd told her son about him.
Her eyes meet his over Henry's head and she must see his wide eyes and speechless mouth for her smile turns into a soft grin instead, a flash of teeth before she quickly reigns it in, only a shadow of it remaining.
He looks back at the boy and sees that Henry's eyes have settled on him, bright and curious as questions begin to spill from his lips. One question barely finished-
"Wow! Were in you in a lot of battles Captain?"
-before another follows.
"Is that how you lost your hand?"
"Henry!"
Emma's voice is a soft hiss as shoots Killian an apologetic look before she turns to face Henry, meeting his eyes with her eyebrows raised.
"That's quite alright Miss Swan."
The questions may have stung had they come from anywhere else but the earnestness in the lad's voice only makes him want to protect it, keep that innocence shining in his eyes, keep that unknowing excitement in his voice.
And yet he wants also to hold his hand, to sit him down and tell him the truth. That the war takes much more than it could ever give, that the things you see dim your eyes, that the hurt you inflict lies behind your ribcage forever, that the hurt inflicted upon you goes far deeper than skin and bones.
"I-well I wasn't in that many battles before I lost this."
His words are stumbled and stuttered as he tries to find the right ones.
"But was it amazing? Did you get a medal? Did the King write you a letter?"
"He-Henry, can I call you Henry?"
His voice is softer than Henry's as he steps closer. The boy seems to sense the change in Killian's mood for his mouth closes before he can begin another question, answering Killian's own question with a nod. He meets Emma's eyes over Henry's head, her soft smile is grateful, her encouraging nod enough of a push to continue speaking to the boy.
"Henry, the war- it's not just heroes and medals."
"I know that, Captain. But we've all got to make sacrifices for the King, for England. You did!"
The words he says are not his words, recited rote from something someone had said perhaps. Something he had read. Something that was told and shown to him again and again, that he may speak of which he does not know with such conviction.
Killian feels his heart sink, his eyes searching Henry's brown ones as he tries to find a way to explain.
"I did but Henry, I lost more than my hand. I lost my family, my only brother. I lost something inside myself too and though I didn't have anyone to come back to, I wonder if I would have been the same for them if I had. The war is big and brutal and uncaring. It does not care for you. It does not care for your mother-"
He stops speaking at the way the brightness vanishes from Henry's face, his brows furrowed as he considers Killian' words. Perhaps it had been too much. Perhaps he had overstepped. He waits for Henry to respond but the boy is silent for a long moment, Killian's eyes drifting quickly to Emma.
She stands behind her son now, her hand on his shoulder, squeezing tight as she looks at his mop of brown hair. She must realise that he is looking at her for she turns her gaze to him, her eyes shining as she finds his questioning ones.
I'm sorry, he wants to say. He begins to step away, give them some space. His mouth begins to form the words but Henry's voice stops him.
"Wasn't it was worth it? Being able to help?"
Henry watches him carefully even as Killian stills, considering his answer, looking for something to say that would ease the boy's mind but he cannot help but be truthful, now that he has already cracked the hopeful yearning that shone in Henry's eyes.
"I am not sure that it was. Not yet."
Henry nods in response, his eyes far away again. Killian watches him think and wonders if he had helped, if he had perhaps reached the boy, if he had perhaps eased Emma's mind. The boy looks like her now more than ever, his eyes a deep brown where hers are as green as a gemstone but they hold the same fire, the same fight. Though his chin does not curve the same way, though his lips are fuller, he turns up his jaw like her, smiles softly, holding back a little just like she does.
A soft cough behind him pulls him out of his thoughts. Kristoff is moving closer to the three of them, having backed away at some point during his conversation with Henry.
Killian begins move away once more, but then, fingers encircle his wrist, stopping him in place.
Her hands are yet covered by her gloves and her touch still burns through his skin but when she looks at him with eyes that are just a little more open, with a smile that is half apologies and half thanks, the burning softens to a lingering warmth.
"Thank you."
Her voice is a soft murmur in the silence between them as she steals his words from his mouth. Her lips move as if to say more but as he watches her look between his eyes, as he watches her fingers drop his, he knows that it has been too much, it has been too close and he takes a step back for her.
"Of course, Miss Swan."
"Shall we go, Emma?"
Anna's voice is soft beside him, pulling his gaze away from the hazel flecks in Emma's eyes, his posture straightening as he takes yet another step back.
"Yes- Yes, of course. Henry?"
Emma takes a few steps back herself, following the steps of their dance perfectly as she moves behind her son. Henry's response is mumbled and distracted, his eyes still far away. They begin to walk and he instinctively makes to follow but finds himself stopping instead, watching her back as she moves through the small crown on the platform, her hair shining bright and golden, moving softly in the breeze as she goes.
She is quite a distance away when she realises that he is not behind them. She turns to look, her eyes searching the crowd for his face, softening instantly as she finds him. Her eyebrows rising in question as she begins to speak. But, the whistle of the train departing and the distance between them hides her voice and he can only watch her lips form his name.
Captain Jones.
And just like that he is wondering what her lips would looks like as they spoke his first name.
Stupidly, desperately, naively perhaps. Short one hand and with one foot in a grave, he should not, could not allow himself to think of her this way.
And yet.
The heart knows no reason and it can only ache softly as he smiles and waves goodbye, as he watches her brows furrow in confusion, her hand raising to answer his wave, as he watches her walk away from him, the steam from the train blurring her edges as though he had dreamed her, the whistle of the train fading away into silence.
He thinks that it is some memory, some thought, some half articulated wish of his heart that has brought him here. Sitting at the bar by himself on Christmas Eve at The Warren House.
It has been a few long days since he had seen her at the station but he had not been able to gather the courage to go find her once more, gather the courage to know how to leave her once more. Instead, he had spent his days in front of a canvas, his fingers stained with shades of gold and green.
This morning when he had woken, he had thought of her. Her smile in the sunlight, her blue dress, her white apron, her hair escaping in golden wisps as she told him how nice it was that he would be home for Christmas. This morning when he had woken, he had taken a look about his house, bare of any decoration, bare of any sign of the holiday, bare of anything but him and the memories that made him.
This morning when he had woken, he hadn't been able to bear being alone any longer.
So he had come here. Here where he was surrounded by people, where he could be lost but not alone, where he felt a strange, warm comfort as he looked upon faces he had come to know-even though they perhaps did not know him- over the last few months.
"Another, please?"
He beckons Leroy over as he asks for the another drink, draining his glass. The man has gotten less and less grumpy as the evening had passed. His customers buying him a drink or two as they enjoy the holiday, the spirit of joy infectious in the small pub. People celebrating the little pleasures, in a few days of cheer before the men on leave went back to the front, before the women had to say goodbye once more or go back to the front themselves.
"Alone tonight?"
Leroys's speech is just this side of slurred and it makes Killian chuckle, Leroy's toothy smile and waggling eyebrows pulling the grin from behind his lips.
"Aye."
Leroy shakes his head as he pours another round of ale into Killian's mug, his cheeks flushed ruddy as he looks back up at him.
"You should find yourself a nice girl and have a dance."
He gestures to the centre of the pub, Killian turning to look behind him as he has often done since he had come here. The chairs have been cleared away to form a rough circle, the piano moved to its other side with a note upon it inviting anyone to play.
Leroy's rules are lax tonight as well he thinks, for men and women mingle freely in the pub, staying as long as they like, drinks sloshing on trays carried to tables. People have been playing music constantly, by turns beautiful melodies and drunken bashing of the notes escaping the piano keys.
A woman sits there now, her brown hair coiled behind her head, her eyes down as she concentrates on the soft tune that rings throughout the pub. Couples dance sweetly in the middle, fumbling through long forgotten lessons for waltzes, feet shuffling on the floor even as their smiles betray their joy at simply being close to one another.
"I don't know, mate. Looks like they're all quite occupied."
Killian's voice is a soft thing, wistful he might call it, as he watches a woman in a pink dress laugh, her partner spinning her around the floor, watching her with a tenderness that pulls at Killian's heart. He feels a heavy hand on his shoulder then, Leroy's voice gruff yet more affectionate than he has ever heard it, the alcohol warming it as he speaks.
"Don't worry my boy, there is someone for you out there too."
Killian turns back around just as a jumbled round of applause rings through the pub, the soft song ending and shifting into a much cheerier tune, the notes hopping and skipping through it as people begin to crowd upon the floor, finding new partners and standing in small groups, ready to begin the next dance.
Lifting his mug in thanks to Leroy, he takes a long drag.
"Here's hoping."
Leroy smiles before turning away to attend to the man at the end of the bar asking for another ale for his friend. A woman whose cheeks glow red in the warm light of the pub stands beside him, her hand around the man's elbow as they wait.
The dancing goes on behind Killian and he begins to sip quietly at his drink, his eyes wandering the people who mill about the pub. No one is seated as they greet one another, mumbles and shouts of Merry Christmas along with a low hum of conversation lie on top of the music, sharp trills of giggles and booming laughter bursting through occasionally.
And he finds himself wistful once more, sure in the feeling now, wishing for something he cannot name, for something that he perhaps does not want to name.
The same something that had brought him here this night to begin with.
One last look at the laughing couple at the end of the bar, drinks in their hands as they wish Leroy a Merry Christmas, Killian looks back into his drink, his brow furrowed as he takes another long drag of the ale, a soft burn chasing it down his throat.
He is interrupted mid swallow by a shoulder jostling him in his seat. A man in a grey coat is leaning over the bar to beckon to Leroy, an apology and a wish for a happy holiday to Killian upon his lips before he inches away, a wide smile on his face as he looks behind him, gesturing at someone to wait.
Killian mumbles a wish of his own back, suddenly feeling the depth to which he is out of place here. Here in this place of joy and shared laughter. A quick drain of his mug and he begins to move, reaching behind him for his coat. But before he can reach his wallet-
"Hush Emma! Your tree was the most beautiful by far. The men in your ward loved it."
"Alright, alright."
Her voice, her name startles him as she often does. And he turns in his seat, searching for her, seeking her face, her voice as he often does.
As he finds himself helpless to do.
"Thank you Elsa."
As incredibly cliche, as woefully imperfect as it sounds, he can only think that she glows. Light from the lanterns around the pub warm her face even as her cheeks are red from the cold outside. Snow clings to her hat and coat in small puffs of white, her hair hidden and yet inevitably escaping whatever pins she had tried to confine it with, wisps of gold about her face fluttering as the door closes behind her.
She walks arm in arm with Elsa, Anna trailing after them both. She walks with Kristoff, leaning in close to him, her manner softer than usual even as Kristoff's smile is a little silly, his eyes a little dazed as he looks upon his wife, a few drinks in himself. Victor walks in last of all, a woman with him, her hair a rich brown as it falls upon her shoulders, her blush a richer red as Victor takes her hand to press a kiss to the back of it.
Killian watches as Emma smiles again at something Elsa says, both of them glancing back at Victor and his companion, their words too soft to be heard anymore, their smiles too intimate. He wonders then if he should intrude, even as his heart yearns for him to hear her voice speak to him once more.
He has not seen her since that day at the station. His last glimpse of her behind steam and a passing train had run through his mind again and again as he had started from his home to go to their park, only to stop him as it reminded him that he was to go away soon, that he may not come back, that he could allow himself to feel this way, any way about her.
But now as he sees her, all of his arguments with himself seem moot. He is helpless to resist wanting to be closer to her. In whatever way she may allow it.
"Captain Jones!"
Caught in his gaze at Emma, he hadn't noticed Victor walk up to him, the blond man's hand on his shoulder as he holds out the other to shake Killian's hand.
"Merry Christmas! It's fantastic to see you up and about!"
Killian stumbles for a moment, pulled out from his thoughts sharply by Victor's wide smile, his waiting hand, his companion standing behind him watching Killian curiously, her eyes drifting from his head to his toes, finally stopping at his injured arm before coming up again, that familiar pity running through them.
Ignoring the flush that begins to burn at his cheeks, that even more familiar but no less conflicting mix of anger and shame running though him, Killian takes Victor's hand.
"Merry Christmas, Doctor."
He is glad that his voice does not betray him.
"Not tonight, Captain. I am merely Victor, a man who is happy to have met a friend on Christmas Eve."
His voice rings with simple, good natured camaraderie and Killian cannot help but return his smile.
"Alright then I shall be merely Killian tonight as-"
"Captain Jones! How lovely to see you!"
Anna interrupts him, his words tapering away into nothing as she breaks away from Kristoff, his arm reaching for her even as she reaches for Emma instead. Emma who has seen him now, her eyes wide, her face unreadable as Anna pulls her to where Killian sits by the bar.
"Emma, look! Captain Jones is here!"
Victor watches on, a bemused smirk playing upon his lips now. But, Killian can't seem to look away from Emma. Her coat is open where she has begun to unbutton it, revealing a sliver of the dress she wears beneath. No longer clad in her uniform, blue and white cloaking her in the professional line that lay between them, she shimmers as she walks. Her dress sways in the confines of her coat, catching the light from the lanterns in the pub and glowing a soft peach and gold.
His eyes come back up to meet hers. But it is only for a moment. She looks away quickly, her fingers fidgeting with her coat, softly pulling it closed and letting it go. They get closer, Anna's hand yet coaxing her towards him, her hand sinking into her pockets now, eyes finally meeting his as she stands before him.
Anna and Victor conveniently slip away, leaving him sitting still at the stool by the bar, Emma now standing beside him.
He must make quite the sight, he thinks, for the smallest smile curves at her lips. One corner quirking up even as her eyebrow follows suit. Perhaps at his vaguely slack-jawed expression, perhaps at the idea that it had taken but a glimpse of her to do this. But the smiles fades quickly, her face falling back into something he finds himself unable to read clearly, something that lies in the space between her withdrawing smile and the way her eyes close to him.
"How have you been Captain?"
"I- I've been well, thank you Miss Swan. What-" he stumbles over his words as he speaks, feeling acutely the shift between them, the distance that he had put there himself, "What brings you here?"
"Just a little time with friends before I go home," she glances around him, not holding his eyes for too long and he hates the uncomfortable space between them now, the shadow of her hand on his as they had sat on a bench in the park not a week ago suddenly burning hot on his skin. Even as a voice inside him tells him that it is for the best.
An ache pulls at his heart as he steps off his seat, standing in front of her now, closer than before, his fingers itching for her even as unsure breaths and stuttered words run thick between them.
"And you, Captain? You're not with family tonight?"
"No family to speak of, Miss Swan."
His voice is a thread as he speaks. Her wandering eyes stop and come back to meet his then, wide with something like concern, like pity perhaps. But it does not burn like it usually does.
"I'm sorry, Captain. I forgot that- I'm sorry."
"Quite alright, Miss. I find I'm getting used to it," he says as an almost bitter smile, the easiest kind, curves his lips. She sways almost imperceptibly closer, her hand rising and falling by her side and his voice only softens and falls further, wanting somehow to preserve this- whatever this is between them.
"How about you? How's the hospital been? And your lad?"
Her eyes brighten as she responds, her smile growing bigger as she speaks.
"The hospital is covered in lights and trees. The soldiers are singing and it was wonderful to hear them happy."
His own smile is about as big as hers, his heart singing as she speaks, her joy shimmering through her like the shine of her dress.
"Henry's been well. He got me flowers this morning-buttercups-" she laughs and shakes her head, wisps of gold swaying around her face as she does, "said it was an apology and a Christmas gift."
Her eyes meet his then.
"I haven't had the chance to thank you Captain. For talking to him. I appreciate it."
"I- of course, Miss Swan. It was nothing, truly."
"All the same. I am grateful."
"Hey lovebirds, can I get you something to drink?"
Leroy's voice pulls them out of their gaze upon one another, a rich blush immediately flooding Emma's cheeks as she turns to him, a frown pulling at her brow, her lips ready to rebuke. But, when she sees the huge woolen hat that someone had rested on Leroy's head, a large blue flower knitted into the edge of it falling into his eyes, her words turn into a laugh that twinkles through the crowded room.
"I'm alright, Leroy. Thank you."
Killian's own bemused chuckle escapes him, her bright eyes meeting his as she turns back around.
"Would you like to-"
"I should go-"
They begin speaking at the same time, stopping abruptly before she continues.
"I should get back."
"Of course, Miss Swan. It was nice seeing you."
He tries not to let the disappointment curling around his words show too much.
"Nice seeing you too."
A soft smile, a rush of roses as she brushes past him and then she is gone. The song on the piano picks up into a cheery tune as he sighs and takes his seat once more, his hand reaching for his drink.
"When do you ship out, Captain?"
Her voice startles him, coming from over his shoulder.
"Sorry, I-"
"No, it's quite alright Miss Swan."
He grins wide and turns around on the stool to face her, a silly, boyish joy bubbling up within him as he sees that she has come back to speak to him again.
"In about a week and a half from tonight. The front awaits."
Even as the reason for which she had come back fades the smile on his face, the joy in his heart a little, he lets himself enjoy the time he is being allowed with her, his yellow paint stained fingers yearning to reach for her again.
But there is a knit in her brow, a look in her eye that gives him pause. A clench of her fingers when he mentions the front-
And he remembers.
"Casualty Clearing Station."
A little moment from before; before he knew that her smile starts with her eyes, sloping slowing down to the curve of her lips, before he knew that her hair slips out from under her scarf each day no matter how many pins she uses, before he knew what colours made the exact green of her eyes.
"I'm sure it does."
She quirks her lips in his favourite bitter smile as she speaks, her own loss ringing through her eyes. More than ever his fingers itch to hold hers.
"To Victory."
His voice rings hollow, the bitterness in her smile creeping into his words as he raises a mocking glass, placing it back on the bar without taking a sip.
She chuckles softly in response.
"To Victory."
It is quiet for a moment between them. Even as the music continues behind them, even as the crests and valleys of conversation move about them, they stay caught in a strange moment of sardonic solidarity.
Her smile fades then, her brow furrowing as she speaks.
"Take Care, Captain. On the front, I mean."
Her voice is mocking no more, ringing with sincerity instead, her eyes looking between his own, concern shining through in the way she begins to lean into him.
And it takes his breath away, surprising him in a way that she has made a habit of doing.
But it is the finality of her words, the way her tone signals the end of their conversation, the step back she takes that puts him back into motion. His feet hitting the floor as he stands up, taking one step towards her as she begins to turn away.
He is the one unready to let her go this time, unwilling to let the moment between them end, unwilling to have this be the last time that he sees her before he goes away on what may be his last journey.
The music picks up as though sensing his desperation, quickly changing into a song he recognises. The piano keys playing out a cheerful tune that brings a slow smile to his face as it rises and falls in a melody that is rapid, joyful. Just on the edge of silly.
And emboldened by the concern in her eyes, by some fatalistic urge, he calls out behind her.
"Miss Swan! Care to dance?"
"What?"
Her voice comes out sharper than she intends, turning back around to face the man she had just said goodbye to, her heart lost somewhere in a sea of almosts, her mind yet tumultuous, trying to find a way to step back, to stop herself from feeling as much as she does for him and now he's-
"What?"
There is a grin on his face that widens as she she repeats herself, as he takes a step toward her, his hand outstretched even as his other arm hides behind his back, his spine straight, his eyes dancing with something she cannot name.
Something joyful, something mischievous, something hopeful.
"Would you do me the honour of a dance?"
He repeats himself too, closer now, his hand within her reach should she choose to take it.
The refusal lies at the tip of her tongue, a practised motion that is more instinct than intent. She has a son. She does not dance with men in pubs on Christmas.
(No matter that for once, she actually wants to.)
But as she studies his face, she sees a glimpse of something she has seen before. In different eyes, in younger faces. In the way that the youngest soldiers in their hospital beds press shaky, ardent kisses upon their lovers' knuckles when they know they are go back to the front soon. In hugs hello, pressed together from shoulder to toes, uncaring of injuries and pain. In hugs goodbye, fingers clutching at clothes, knuckles white in their grips.
She wonders if he feels it too. That urgent desperation of needing to hold on what little you have before it is taken away from you.
Her eyes find his fingers, stained in their ever present splashes of yellow and she wonders if she does not feel it too.
She takes his hand.
She says yes.
For a moment, he does not move.
He doesn't expect her to say yes though he hopes for it. He doesn't expect her to take his hand, her skin touching his for the first time though he has been thinking of nothing else since she had walked up to him.
He doesn't expect it to feel like a spark of something shooting up his spine, a warmth radiating from her fingers wrapped around his, running up his arm and burning through his cheeks.
He doesn't expect it and he almost forgets to grasp her hand back.
But before he can complete the motion, her fingers slip from between his, the warmth instantly gone.
"Sorry, I just need to-"
She turns away from him and for a second he thinks that she has changed her mind but then he catches the first glimpse of the back of her neck.
Her coat falls behind her as she pulls first one arm out and then the other, the back of her dress dipping just slightly, the line of her spine a soft curve that calls for him to run the back of his fingers along it. Just below, the fabric of her dress shimmers softly in the dim light of the pub, a peach and gold haze that seems to surround her when she turns back around to face him.
The skirt of her dress sways and ripples as she moves, walking just past him to hang her coat on top of his on the back of his stool. A sheer layer of fabric with little jewels woven through it lies on top of a satin layer that hugs her above the waist but flows freely below.
She comes around to face him and he sees her as though in a painting. The blur of the crowd behind her and she apart, the lone source of light in the picture, glowing, shining in her glittering dress.
A dress perfect for dancing.
"Well Captain?"
He is pulled out of his lost gaze by her voice, her smile is tentative, careful as she offers her hand to him this time.
He wastes no time in taking it.
His fingers close around hers a second time, strong and soft, the rings that he wears cold against her skin where they had only ever met her gloves before.
And it feels like too much. Too much heat, too much touch, too much him.
But when the light of the lantern catches on the smudge of green upon his wrist as he turns her hand, as she looks up to meet his smiling eyes, she cannot help but return it with a grin of her own.
You've just got to look for the moments.
"I must confess Captain. I am not usually one for dancing."
Her voice comes out rougher than she intends, her mind and her heart just a little out of sync but falling into a rhythm as they make their way to the makeshift dance floor.
"I am flattered that you would make an exception for me, milady."
He's lowered his head to meet her eyes, his breath soft upon her neck as he leans closer to speak over the music.
"Besides, all you need is a partner who knows what he's doing."
She looks up to find him smiling down at her, crinkles around his eyes, biting his lower lip, he looks younger than she has ever seen him. Her eyes fall to his lips ignoring the warning bells that ring through her, swaying her closer to him. Closer than she intends.
Her mind finally gives in as she thinks a quiet thought that seems to echo through her anyway.
God, but I could kiss him.
Their first steps on the floor are shy, a turn from the comfort of a few moments ago.
Her hand is clasped in his, his arm wrapped around her waist loosely, trying his best not to touch but just to guide, her other hand a feather touch on his shoulder. The music continues in its own dance, hopping, skipping and jumping through the melody.
"Ready, Miss Swan?"
She moves her gaze from upon her hand on his shoulder to his eyes, her own a little too wide as she takes a quick sweep of the room, watching the other dancers move across the floor before turning back to him.
"I-sure."
"Alright, just follow along now-"
One step, two step, three. They move through the floor in a pattern of their own as he steps backwards to the melody, Emma following along. Though she misses a step or two at first, her eyes peeled on her own feet as she tries to keep up, she picks up on the rhythm soon enough. Her eyes rising up to meet his in a triumphant grin.
He cannot help the chuckle that escapes him, as though bubbling out from his heart.
"Seems you're quite the natural, milady."
Another smile curves her lips and his heart skips another beat.
The music gets faster behind them and he sees the other couples quicken their steps, the laughter ringing out on the floor getting louder as partners begin to stumble into one another, uncaring of their mistakes, just happy to be a little closer.
And suddenly he remembers a sunny afternoon spent at home when Liam had come home from his first tour in the Royal Navy. The excited voice in which he had told him all about the beautiful girl at the French port who had taught him how to dance. Among other things.
The muffled laughter and aching ribs that followed Liam's attempt at showing Killian a move involving spinning him in a loop, trying to get his feet to lift off the ground, only to fail miserably, causing for the two of them to fall in a heap of arms and limbs.
And suddenly he is brave.
"Miss Swan, do you trust me?"
The question takes her off guard, her hand upon his shoulder tightening as she feels the fabric beneath, smooth under her fingers. Wrinkles in the vest spread from her grip and she can almost feel the muscles in his shoulder.
Her hand in his closes just a fraction tighter around his before loosening, as though getting ready to drop it, getting ready to run.
But he is smiling at her.
His eyebrows raised as his mouth stretches into a grin that makes dimples appear in his cheeks, his eyes almost twinkling and she realises then that she knows his smile. She knows the way his eyes crinkle at the edges, the rumble in his chest when he laughs, the way his hair flops into his eyes when he is bent over his notebook.
She realises then that she knows this smile. The one where the blue of his eyes seems translucent, an almost childlike joy peeking out from behind them. The one that he smiles when he sees her in the park, when he makes her laugh after a hard day.
She realises then that this man who had been naught but a patient a few weeks ago, now has a smile that is just for her.
He leans just a little closer, the smile falling away longer she doesn't respond. His arm around her presses just a little closer, their steps beginning to slow until they are all but shuffling along the dance floor.
The warmth of the touch against the thin fabric of her dress sends a jolt up her spine, her body freezing for a moment before relaxing into his hold.
But he must feel her tense for just as soon as the touch is there, it is gone. His arm pulled away to a safe distance once more, his smile falling away from his eyes.
"Apologies, I-"
He begins to speak, pulling his arm away further. His brows now knitting together in a frown, their feet coming to a stop in the corner of the dance floor, the music going on without them.
She realises then that she knows the feel of his skin against hers.
And that she longs to know it once more.
Her hand on his shoulder reaches behind her to hold his wrist. She ignores his sharp intake of breath at her touch and pulls his arm snug around her waist, the warmth at her lower back once more, spreading softly across her skin.
"I do. I trust you."
The song changes and his smile is back once more. Perhaps even more radiant than before and she almost doesn't hear his soft whisper-
Hold on, Miss Swan.
-over the singular feeling that has begun to command her being.
Her eyes fall to his lips even as she licks her own, her throat suddenly dry.
And then she is-
-flying, her hair a haze of gold, her laughter like seafoam on a light breeze. Her hands hold on tighter to him as he turns, her feet just lifting off the floor.
She is in his arms once more as she comes down, as he leans back, the weight of his body on his heels to keep their balance. Her chin lands on his shoulder, her breath hot against his neck as she laughs, her chest pressed against his. She pulls away far too soon, their steps continuing on, keeping in time with the music as they move.
She has gotten better now, her feet moving quickly with his as they weave in between the other couples on the floor even as the shadow of her breathless laughter remains on her lips, curved softly, her eyes brighter than he has ever seem them and he cannot help but pull her closer.
Just a little.
Almost not at all.
But she comes to him anyway, her hands soft in his as she-
-spins and twirls, her dress soft against her legs as she moves, the earth as though a cloud, her feet never staying on it long enough to find out.
Her breath comes fast, stuttered between laughter and sharp bursts of giggles every time they turn a corner just a little too quickly. The world blurs around her, his face and his eyes and his smile are all that fills her vision.
Her mind having given up pulling her heart back long ago, she lets herself sway closer and closer into his embrace. His is arm now hooked around her waist, their hands locked together as they-
-step and turn and twist across the floor.
Her body is far too close to his to be proper, his smile almost pressing against her cheek, their feet barely apart as they take one step then another, him following her and her following him in turns.
The song begins to race ahead once more, her eyes wide she meets his. His eyebrows rise, a little dance of their own on his forehead before their steps quicken once more.
His feet feeling as though they are-
-hovering off the ground.
Faster and faster, her heels leaving the floor as she rises on her toes, barely touching the earth before moving once more. Faster and faster until her laughter is lost in the rush of their steps, in the rumble of his chuckles.
Faster and faster until she is-
-flying once more.
He knows the song is about to end and perhaps his time with her as well. He knows this somewhere deep inside, behind the rush of holding her, behind the wonder of her hand taking his injured wrist without question, behind the joy of hearing her laugh.
He knows it is about to end but he cannot bring himself to care when her hair floats about her face as they spin, when her smile and her dress outshine everything else he has ever seen, when her lips form his name as she-
-comes back down to him.
"Captain Jones!"
She rushes toward the ground too quickly, just a little out of balance, her heartbeat racing towards him, her body falling into his, her hand leaving his shoulder and curling around his neck instead. His pulse jumps beneath her thumb, his arm around her waist pulling her closer to keep her steady and-
"Miss Swan, are you alright?"
"I'm ok. That was-"
He imagines his cheeks will be sore soon from all this smiling.
"Aye."
Perhaps hers will be too.
The song begins to slow again, their steps slowing in turn. He does not know if he is imagining it. If it is a part of this fever dream, the world glowing at its edges for him but her fingers are running up and down his neck, her thumb-
-following the rhythm of his pulse.
He is warm under her touch, his heartbeat racing even as their feet barely move. The music slowing and softening, his smile softening too. Her eyes flicker lazily across his face as they dance, her hand in his falling lower against their sides.
She is lost in the haze of the music and the warmth of the pub, lost in the translucence of his eyes, in the dream conjured by his smile. She is drowning in this nebulous in between, where the war is a half forgotten memory and-
-the future lies in the radiance of her laugh.
But the music does not wait and he finds himself clinging on to the moment with a quiet desperation, his steps slowing more and more, his eyes tracing the curves of her face, memorising the patterns that dance across her features from the lanterns in the pub, learning the curve of her waist, the feel of her fingers in his.
He holds on but it is not enough and just like that the music suddenly-
-stops.
Or perhaps it had slowed and faded away but she had not been paying attention.
But, the song ends and the rest of the world comes rushing back.
Applause echoes through the pub, people standing to cheer for the pianist, requesting an encore but it is all muffled to her ears. The space between them feels far too small now, her skin burning wherever he touches, her cheeks flushing as her eyes remain locked on his.
It feels deliberate now, this closeness. His body too solid, her touch too sure. It feels chosen, no longer hidden behind the pretense of dancing and suddenly it feels too much.
But the heart knows no reason and her eyes fall to his lips once more.
He is holding his breath or perhaps it is her who has stolen it away.
But as she stands there unmoving, her arms curled around him, her feet against his, her body aligned with his, he dares not breath lest she might stop. He dares not move lest she might leave him.
He dares not speak lest this moment ends between them.
But her eyes fall to his lips, her tongue darting out to lick her own as she sways infinitesimally closer.
"Em-"
Her name lies at the tip of his tongue, his voice low, meant only for the space that lies between them but before he can finish, before he can lean close enough to know what happens next-
"Emma!"
Anna's voice breaks the spell that lies upon them, the blanket that had been diffusing the light and softening the sounds of the world is jerked off their shoulders. She drops his hand immediately, a rush of cold taking place of her touch. His arm left floating up towards her as though reaching for her before falling to his side, his thumb rubbing circles against his fingers, feeling the loss of her through to his bones.
"That was incredible! I didn't know you could dance!"
Anna comes to a stop beside Emma, her voice just this side of slurred as she continues to speak.
"And Captain Jones too! Who knew?"
Emma's eyes dart back at him, even as he stiffens just a little under Anna's gaze, his injured arm hidden behind his back once more.
"You two look wonderful together-"
Anna continues speaking, uncaring or perhaps unknowing of the way Emma is now clenching her fists, her eyes growing wide, her body coiling tight as though preparing to run. He flashes a soft smile at Emma, lowering his head, hoping to catch her eyes. But, she looks away from him, eyes looking around and behind him instead.
He feels himself slumping as he watches her walls going back up as surely as she was placing the bricks there herself. One by one.
"Thank you Anna. I- just need some air. It's getting too warm in here."
She doesn't look at him again, turning around sharply and walking back towards his stool where her coat lay draped on top of his. He makes to follow but before he can catch up, his coat falls heavily to the ground as she sweeps her blue one into her arms.
And with a flash of a cold breeze and tinkling bell, she is gone.
The stars are too bright tonight.
Shining through the usual smog that surrounds London, they seem to watch her as she steps out of the pub. Her coat thrown about her shoulders, shivering slightly, she tries to rub away the goosebumps on her arms caused by the sudden onslaught of the cold air outside.
The reality that Anna's voice had catapulted in her general direction; the cold brings it crashing down and suddenly all the things she had chosen to forget, as she had allowed herself to be led by the hand by a man who made her laugh, come back to her in a rush of feeling.
Her patched up heart beats faster as though finally realising how close it had been to breaking again. She is a mother. She is a daughter. She is a volunteer in the greatest war ever fought.
And he?
He is to leave her.
She squeezes her eyes shut, her arms wrapping tighter around herself as she tries to banish the images of his smile and the sound of her own laughter echoing in her ears as the music in the pub starts up again, filtering through to her ears in a muffled melody.
It had been so easy to fall after that first time that he had lifted her off the ground. Frighteningly easy to let herself be led by the music, to do something for no reason except that she had wanted to.
Some half mad part of her feels like the young girl she had never really been. Her stomach doing flips as her heart races, waiting, hoping for him to come looking for her. But the other half, the half that has been hurt before, that has been left before-again and again and again- wishes that she had never let herself dance.
She isn't sure which feeling is worse.
The bell tinkles softly behind her, the door creaking open softly and her breath stops. Her heart in her throat as she wonders if-
"Emma?"
No. No, the voice was wrong. Not as smooth, not as rich, not-
"Emma, are you alright?"
A deep breath and she turns around to face him.
"Lieutenant Walsh? What are you doing here?"
A/N: Thank you guys for sticking around! I appreciate your reviews so so much like you don't even know. 3
Notes, historical or otherwise:
In this chapter,
Training Camps were often run by veterans as most capable soldiers were required in France on the actual front. They were often over 60 years old. The camps were never really very well equipped, too many soldiers to clothe and not enough fabric.
Soldiers usually got their uniforms after training but for the purposes of this story and because poetic license I had the boys on Henry's platform already in their uniforms.
You can read the Daily Telegraph for December 24th 1915 on their website. There is a tiny article about how hospitals had trees and carols :)
The dance that Killian and Emma are attempting to do is The Castle Walk and it is the most adorable thing I have ever seen.
Other popular dances during the time were the Waltz, The Tango and my favourite, The Grizzly Bear where you stick your hands up, fingers splayed like claws and sort of lock your neck with your partner and hop a little. It is fantastic and I am in favour of a resurgence of the Animal Dances :D