Chapter Nine
Emma doesn't go straight home, but to Mary Margaret's, where she knows hot chocolate and cookies will await her. Even though she hasn't let them know she's dropping by, the front door opens before she even has time to knock. Mary Margaret stands there, dressed in a loose jumper and pale pink pyjama bottoms.
"Okay?" Emma says, then laughs a little awkwardly. "Psychic, much?"
"I've learned to recognise the sound of your car," she says, as she disappears into the house. Emma follows at her heels, closing the door softly behind her. "What can I do for you?"
"I just kinda needed some company." She follows her into the kitchen.
Mary Margaret immediately fills a pan with milk and places it on the stove to boil. Emma sits at the table, watching as she reaches for two mugs from the cupboard, setting them on the side with gentle clinks.
"Of course," Mary Margaret says.
"And after the other day, what with The Mirror overhearing our conversation about…"
She whirls around, fixing her big, doe-like eyes on Emma. "Oh, Emma… I'm so sorry. If I had any idea that was going to happen, I wouldn't have encouraged you to confide in me."
Emma shakes her head. "Don't worry about it. I thought we were safe too, but I guess we weren't. I still don't know where they could have been sat to overhear… I thought we were pretty secluded."
"What about a bug?"
"No, I don't think so." The thought had crossed Emma's mind, but she'd weighed the pros and cons of using a bug, and the consequences of getting caught. "It's illegal."
"Well, you can rest assured knowing there are no bugs here." But just to be sure, Mary Margaret ducks her head under the kitchen table.
Emma can't bring herself to laugh. After today, after acting, after Killian, she doesn't have the energy to be amused. She just sighs, looking down at her hands, feeling the ache in her feet after a day of non-stop standing. After this she'll probably go home, make some pasta, run a bubble bath, and have an early night. She can face her problems tomorrow. But right now, she just doesn't want to be alone.
"Are you okay?" Mary Margaret asks, throwing a look over her shoulder as she stirs the milk.
"Nope."
"Do you wanna talk about it?"
"Nope."
"That's okay."
She finishes making the hot chocolate, humming to herself as she does so. With her back turned, Emma doesn't know exactly what she's doing, but when she turns around, there are two glorious designs in her hands. Mugs, filled to the brim with hot chocolate, a mountain of whipped cream floating on the surface. Of course, the cream is dusted with cinnamon, but also, embedded in the fluffy white substance is a chocolate bar and three wafers. Each.
"Wow," Emma says as her friend places the mug down in front of her. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
Mary Margaret lowers herself into the chair opposite Emma. "Just trying to make you feel better, that's all. In the best way I can."
"I'm not complaining." She pulls the mug towards her and picks up the chocolate bar, swiping a dollop of cream from the top of her drink. "So where's David?"
"Oh, he's at a meeting with Ruby. Something about a new audition."
"And Hope?"
A smile crosses her face. "Sleeping soundly. But that won't last long."
Emma chews her chocolate thoughtfully. "She looks just like you, y'know. She has your button nose."
"You mean the one we both have?"
Emma and Mary Margaret often joke that they look so similar, they could be related. They share the same nose, the same cheekbones and near enough the same eyes. They could probably pass for sisters. That is, until they count the hair which is the complete opposite in style and in colour.
Emma presses her leg against the table leg just in time to feel her phone vibrate between the two, echoing in the kitchen.
"Is that your man?" Mary Margaret asks, sipping her hot chocolate. She emerges from the drink with a cream moustache.
"I don't know."
She reaches for her phone and pulls it up onto the table. Sure enough, the word Killian flashes up onto her screen. He's already left her three voicemails. The first, You were right. The second, We need to talk, and the third, When can I see you?
Part of Emma wants to slam the phone down or throw it out a window, the way she has done so many times when douche-bag guys in the past have wronged her. But Killian is not that kind of guy. He is smart and he is kind and he is loving. His behaviour the past week has been entirely out of character— even she can admit that. Her heart swells with something she hasn't felt for the past week; hope.
"You're smiling. It is Killian."
Well, she wouldn't call it a smile. More like a twitch of her lips. She types out a quick reply: At Mary Margaret's RN. Not sure when I'll be back. We can talk soon.
She finishes the rest of her hot chocolate, feeling a little bit happier in herself, a little bit lighter in her chest. If Mary Margaret notices her change in mood, she doesn't say anything, but just sips her hot chocolate, enquiring about her friend's life.
Emma brings her up to date on the work situation. She mentions August, who seems nice enough, but seems hell bent on 'getting to know her', and Isaac, who likes to lurk in the shadows, biding his time.
"I don't know, Mary Margaret," she says, shaking her head. "I don't like it."
Mary Margaret draws in her bottom lip, tilting her head in thought. 'Y'know, I'm here a lot now thanks to Hope, and I never know what to do with my free time. Sometimes I think about starting a project, making something, but I'm afraid that if I start something new, then I'll never finish it because Hope needs around the clock care."
"Okay?" Emma says, unsure where she's going with this.
"But I think I might have found my new project." When Emma raises her eyebrows, she smiles. "Isaac. I'm gonna research him and see what I can find out about him."
"You are?"
She nods. "You've already told me you have a bad feeling about him and I've got to say, I do too."
"Well, let me know what you find." She'd be interested to see what dirty secrets Mary Margaret pulls up. She's willing to bet that he has a shady past. Everyone does, even her — especially her — and all it takes are a few steps to dig up a few things. Unless this guy is incredibly good at covering his tracks.
Emma leaves not long after, when her stomach starts to grumble. The pasta seems more appetizing the more time goes on. She hugs her friend, tightly, once again asking her to let her know as soon as she finds something.
"I will!"
They break apart and Emma opens the door to rain splintering down onto the pavement. She's surprised; she hadn't heard it in Mary Margaret's cosy house but then again, she should have expected it. The air has been too humid these past few weeks. It was bound to break at some point.
It seems food and a bath is out of the question because when Emma's rolls up outside her house, there's a figure sat on her doorstep. At first her heart jolts and her stomach drops. She can't make out who it is, because they're shrouded in rain and darkness. But the figure stands when they see the bug and steps into light.
It's Killian, holding his jacket above his head. Though the damage is done; he is already soaked to the skin. She sees him call, "Swan!" through the darkness.
Emma cuts the engine and grabs her jacket from the back seat. She holds it above her head as she runs out into the rain, kicking the yellow door behind her. She runs up the path and he meets her halfway. In the light, she can see raindrops running down his face, into his soaking T-shirt.
"Are you insane?" She shouts over the sound of the rain, sliding her hand into her pocket her her keys. It's a struggle to get her hand in there— the material is already made tight by the rain soaking through to her skin, and she hasn't even been out here five minutes.
"Just an optimist," he shouts back. He has the audacity to laugh. "I was hoping the rain would stop."
Thunder booms around them. They both look up into the sky. A few seconds later, the sky flashes yellow with lightning.
"How long have you been out here?" She yells.
"About half an hour."
"You are insane."
"I needed to see you."
For a few seconds, they stare at each other in the rain, listening to more thunder boom above them. Then, with a triumphant pull, her hand comes loose from her jeans, fingers curled around the key.
"Come on in."
She turns to the door and shoves the key in the lock, rain pounding in her ears. She can feel him right behind her, puffing out breaths, shivering. Then, with a too-forceful push, the door swings open and they step into the warmth, boots squelching.
The first thing Emma does is march into the bathroom and throw her red leather jacket into the bath. It'll dry, and it won't leave that wet-dog smell rain always does. She does the same with her boots, and she's happy to see that her socks are dry. The same can't be said for the rest of her.
When she gets back into the hallway, Killian is stood there, still in his wet things. If she thought she was soaked, it is nothing compared to the man in front of her. Water continues to drip down him, from his hair, from his skin, and onto the floor, where he leaves a puddle at his feet. She can't see a single part of him that isn't soaked through. Underneath his jacket, she can see that his shirt sticks to his body, and his jeans are dark with water. Every time he moves — not that he moves much, he seems to be avoiding getting anything wet — his skin glistens in the light, pale and damp.
"Are you insane?" She says again, though this time, softly. "I told you we would talk soon."
"Ah." He gives her a smile. "Your soon and my soon appear to be very different."
"This isn't a joke, Killian."
"I know."
She sighs, massaging her forehead with her hand. She can still see him out the corner of hers, shivering, trembling, trying not to show it. She know she should be angry, and a part of her is. He should have waited for her say-so. They should have done this on her terms, not on his, where she'd be given no choice but to speak to him. But the bigger part of her, the softer part of her, can't help but feel sorry for him.
"Take off your clothes," she sighs, still rubbing her forehead.
"... What?"
"You're not seriously asking me that, are you?" She looks up at him. "If you stay in those things, you'll catch a cold or the flu or something and Grumpy will sue me because he's the director and you will have gotten sick on my watch." When he just looks at her, she sighs again. "Or stay in your wet clothes. Freeze to death, for all I care. I'm not your mom. Do what you want."
He does as she says, shrugging the jacket from his shoulders. Before he has chance to ask where he should put it, she whisks it out of his hands. She only just catches a glimpse of his stomach before she turns around and heads for the bathroom, where she chucks his jacket in the tub, with a lot less care than with hers.
After that, she makes her way into the bedroom and opens her chest of drawers. Killian has already taken to leaving a few spare clothes in her house, thanks to the amount of times he's spontaneously stayed over. She fishes out a clean pair of boxers and socks from her chest of drawers. Next, she grabs him a shirt and some jogging bottoms, knowing the last thing he probably wants to wear is jeans.
When she returns, clothes in her arms, he's still in the hallway, dressed in his boxers. He looks so funny that she almost laughs, but she thinks better of it. She keeps a straight face as she thrusts the clothes and a towel at him. Next, she picks up his wet garments and balls them up in her arms.
"Swan—" But she's already whipped out the door.
She shoves his wet clothes into the washing machine and rises to see him stood in the doorway, in the sweat pants she gave him. He watches her as he unfolds his shirt, but she does her best to ignore him. She focuses on putting the detergent and the softener in the machine.
"Emma?"
When she looks up at him, he's wearing the shirt. His eyes are soft.
"Thank you."
"No problem," she says, and turns back to the washing machine.
She pulls her own shirt from over her head and stuffs it in the machine, leaving her only in her bra, but she doesn't care. She brushes past him into the bedroom, and he doesn't follow, leaving her to change into something drier in peace. She decides on a shirt and some pyjama pants.
When she emerges from the bedroom, he's stood in the living room, waiting for her.
She leans on the living room doorway, arms folded, frowning. "Okay, you said we should talk. So talk."
He swallows. "I was cruel."
She nods. She'll accept that— he was cruel.
"No, I was worse than cruel." He takes a step towards her, but she doesn't move. She remains leaned on the doorframe, feet planted firmly on the floor. "I have been…" He lowers his eyes. "Not exactly avoiding you, but…" He shakes his head. "I was scared. I was annoyed you hadn't told me. I was furious at the media. About what they said, about the lies they spun and I took it out on you. I'm sorry."
She doesn't say anything, but just watches him. Is that good enough? She's not sure. He's not entirely to blame either, if she's honest with herself. She should have reached out to him. She should have sent him a text or something to let him know she was alright— that they were alright.
"I'm sorry too," she eventually says.
"You don't have to apologise." He takes another step towards her. "You have nothing to apologise for." Then he's right in front of her, inches away from her, and she's drowning in his eyes. "You were right. Everything you said, it was right. And what you said… it helped me."
She frowns. "Helped you?"
"Aye." His voice is very soft, almost hard to hear. "It gave me the courage that I need."
"Courage?"
"I love you, Emma."
The jolt to her heart is so powerful, it renders her speechless. She does the only thing she can do, the only thing she's done for her whole life, and steps back, away from him. But if she thinks he's going to let her run, she's sorely mistaken. He immediately takes a step towards her and gently takes her face in his hands, pulling her attention back to him.
"No— I don't say that to pressure you. I say it because it's true and you need to hear it." He strokes her hair. All she can do is look back at him, even though she knows that if she stepped back, he would release her at once. "I know you need… time." His forehead comes to rest against hers, still stroking her hair. "And I'll give you that, I promise. Take all the time you need. But you need to know that I'm in it for the long haul, regardless of how many arguments we may have, or how many… shocks we may have. I love you."
He was right. She does need to hear it. She closes her eyes, keeping her forehead pressed against his, feeling his slow breaths in and out. She feels like she can breathe easier too, now she knows that he's going to give her time.
So she does the only thing she can do to show him how much he means to her. She closes the gap between them and presses her lips on his. And all is forgiven.
The next day Emma wakes up with a slight chill. Damn Killian and the rain, she thinks, though at the thought of Killian, she smiles.
She wanted to tell him she loves him too— and part of her wishes she had, but the more practical side of her is glad she didn't. She had been so determined to tell him on their date in that beautiful restaurant, but the words got stuck in her throat and she was paralysed. That's how she felt when he told her last night. Paralysed.
She was so afraid that saying those three little words would make it realer than it already is. And then, she would lose him.
In the cold light of day, her fears seem silly, almost childish but there's still that little niggle in her heart. What if I lose him? It's like every good thing she has in her life turns to dust, almost as if the universe doesn't want her to be happy. Until Henry found her again, she believed that one hundred percent. And now…
Well, she doesn't know. But she has to look at the facts. And the facts are that everyone she has ever loved has left her. Her parents abandoned her for goodness sake. That should have been the first realisation that something was wrong. Then every relationship she ever had failed. She didn't have any friends, she didn't have any family.
Is it really possible that all of that can change? That she's, somehow, been dealt another hand of cards?
She tries to push it out of her mind as she gets out of bed and looks at the clock. 11 AM. At first she's surprised by how late it is — why didn't her phone alarm go off? — but then she remembers that it's Saturday and it's her day off. Henry will be back soon.
She jumps out of bed and reaches for her dressing gown. She hasn't worn it for what feels like years. It must be getting colder already. Autumn is right around the corner.
She pads down the stairs, the wood cold beneath her feet, right into the kitchen, where the glasses still reside from last night. Killian stayed for a rum or two, but not the night. They agreed it would be best if he went home, but things will resume as normal when they go back to work— carpooling and all.
She fills the coffee pot and places it on the stove before padding into the hallway to check for mail. And sure enough, there is a pile of it dropped on the floor. But the thing that catches her eyes is the big, brown envelope. The scripts.
She walks towards them with a strange ominous feeling— her instincts are going haywire. She carries the envelope back to the kitchen with the same feeling, but she has to read it. There's no getting out of it. She rips open the brown paper until two full scripts drop out onto the wood. Only when she's poured herself a strong coffee and woken herself up a bit, does she read it. It all seems fine until she comes to one bit that makes her insides curl
'Rose can feel it - she's beginning to fall for Edmund. She locks eyes with Alexander. He smiles at her. There isn't that spark any more.'
A day later than I promised but it's here! I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you think ;)