A/N: *peers out from behind the rock she hid behind to escape the avalanche of "FINALLY!"s and "HOW COULD YOU LEAVE IT THERE?"s* Yep. I know. With one hand I giveth, and with the other I taketh away. I really am a cruel, unfeeling bastard. Or am I? So, anyway, here's some more of that. Days before schedule, I might add. I'm not the absolute worst.
12. Thin Places
To say Killian hadn't been expecting her to just lay one on him, well, the way he froze up like carbonite beneath her fingers could have given that away. But the way he broke free from his momentary stupefaction with a frustrated groan against her lips, or the way his hand slid around her waist, pulling her against him? Well... that may have said something else. And the way he kissed her back?
Not really part of the plan. Though to call it a plan might have been a tad generous. A whim. An impulse. Whatever it was that had led Emma Swan to be sucking face with Killian Jones in his living room, holding onto the lapels of his jacket for dear life as they scooted backwards, Emma falling back onto the couch cushions, taking him down with her.
Killian Jones was a pretty orderly guy. Emma had seen the inside of his refrigerator, and someone had gotten a little too cozy with his label maker. This Killian didn't kiss like an orderly guy. This Killian kissed like a man driven to the brink of sanity, his frustration fast giving way to lust. Oh yeah, there was plenty of that, if that bruising claim on her mouth was any indication. Men. Such hot-blooded creatures.
At least she'd gotten him to shut up.
Not that Emma could claim to be entirely unaffected, what with the stupidly hot Brit settled half on top of her, or the dizzying cocktail of dumb hormones clouding her brain, or that painful ache in her chest flaring into an all-out inferno.
He was scary good at this.
So maybe she forgot herself. Just for a bit. Until Killian's fingers began tracing the curve of her neck, and she felt the sting of contact against open wound, and found herself pulling away with a wince.
Her flinch might as well have been a bucket of cold water on the whole sorry scenario. Killian's weight shifted off of her in seconds, as he retreated as far as the couch would allow, the apology forming on his lips before he'd even gotten his breath back.
Emma didn't want to hear it, raising a hand in warning. Thankfully, he got the message, and his apology died a premature death, as Emma pushed her hair away from her neck to feel around for the injury she now knew to be there. She winced again, when she zeroed in on the place. A series of small cuts, and when she pulled her hand away, her fingers were stained with crimson flakes.
"Christ, Swan," Killian murmured at the sight of the dried blood, daring to inch closer, dying to inspect to the damage. "Did she scratch you?"
Her fingers retracing the wound, she thought she could count three distinct gauges. Zelena Beck must have had a hell of a manicurist, because they weren't the shallowest of scratches. "Kitty's got claws," she muttered, cupping her hand over the wound. "You wouldn't have some Neosporin, or something would you? I'd rather not catch rabies, if it's all the same."
To his credit, he was up on his feet in moments. "Don't go anywhere," he said, leveling her with a look, before he disappeared down the hall, Smee on his heels. Like she might just make a mad dash down the fire escape in his absence, sans coat or shoes in the middle of December. And why would she do that? It isn't like she'd just made out with her boss or anything. Oh. So maybe the fire escape plan wasn't completely out of the question. Smoothing her hair down a little from where it had suffered the ravages of Killian's fingers, she leaned her head back against the back of the couch and sighed.
Fuck.
Killian returned in good time, carrying what looked like an entire ambulance's worth of medical supplies. He ignored her raised brow, bending down to pick up the bag of frozen peas from where it had had been melting into the rug, and handed it back to her with a look which did not accept argument. So Emma was a good little patient, back to holding the frozen peas back over her eye, and Killian set about with the healing.
"This'll sting, love," he warned, as he uncapped the ointment, squeezing some out onto his finger. "And it's cold."
Emma rolled her eyes, as he knelt on the cushion beside her, pushed some stray hairs aside from her neck, and leaned over to massage the ointment into the wounds. He was right. It was cold. And it did sting. But it wasn't that which had Emma's stomach doing flip flops at the brush of his thumb at the nape of her neck, or had the goosebumps trailing right down her arm. She felt it. Radiating under her skin. Pulling at her gut. Nor was it his attention to his task that had his pupils blown wide, his hot breath fanning against her temple as his hand lingered against her neck long after the ointment had been absorbed, his thumb still making dizzying circles into her skin.
"It's probably a bad idea," he said, voice raspier than normal, his weight shifting slightly beside her.
"Definitely a bad idea," she agreed quietly, swiveling her head around to face him directly.
He sure was an attractive bastard. Kind of hard not to notice, really, what with the scruff, and the chiseled jawline, and those blue, blue eyes. But it was the look in those baby blues that really sold it. There was lust there, sure. But not just lust. Caring. The kind Emma would have thought she was imagining, if it hadn't been for two months of nothing but. And just a hint of hesitation, fraying away at the edges.
"You're in no condition to-" But Emma, throwing her bag of peas back on the coffee table, leaned forward, cutting off his excuses with a kiss.
It was only short, but when she pulled away from him, she could feel she'd taken something away with her. His reticence maybe, as his lips unconsciously chased hers, eyes still half closed in a dazed kind of way.
"So be gentle," she advised, giving him a playful push back, her other hand reaching for the zipper on her sweater. "And don't think too much, Jones."
When Emma awoke, it wasn't to Smee's familiar yips, or his warm tongue against her cheek. Just a dull ache behind her eyes, a persistent nudging at her shoulder, and soft spoken words.
"Swan?" She moaned against her pillow, swatting at the noise in the hopes it would go away. "Lass, I'm sorry but I need you to wake up."
She'd recognize that accent anywhere. Killian.
"S'early," she slurred, cracking one eye open momentarily to confirm that, yes, it was in fact still dark out, and she had no business being awake.
"I need you to open your eyes, love."
And with great effort she did, though the vision in her right eye was blurry, she made out the outline of Killian's face illuminated by the orange glow of the bedside lamp, eyes swimming with concern. And with that look, came the rest of it, flooding back. Her throw-down with Zelena. The kiss. The first aid. The-.
"Fuck," she said, sitting up with a start.
The fact she wasn't in her own bedroom.
"And... there it is," she heard him murmur beside her. He wasn't in the bed with her, the one with the navy blue sheets doing a less than stellar job of protecting her modesty, but perched on the edge atop the covers, clad in a pair of sweatpants.
"What's the time?" Emma asked, drawing the sheet tighter around herself, eyes scanning her dimly lit surrounds for her phone, or a clock radio, or something she could use to ground herself a little. She couldn't quite bring herself to look him directly in the eye.
"It's near 3. Sorry, I just... I needed to make sure you're not actually concussed." Oh. Right. Her possible concussion. A mean left hook was good grounds for temporary insanity, right? No. Emma didn't think so either. She reached a hand up to trace the hollow of her eye. It was tender to the touch, and the swelling beneath her fingertips was obvious. She probably looked like hell, if the pained expression she caught on Killian's face was any indication.
"Something for the pain?" he asked, holding up a white plastic bottle, rattling the pills inside.
"What is that?" Emma asked, not recognizing the label, good eye squinting in the gloom.
"Not quite sure, actually," he admitted, with a sheepish look. "Something August left. But I took a couple when I broke my ankle last year, and I have to say, they proved to be rather effective." He gave the bottle another small shake, for emphasis.
"Good enough for me," Emma shrugged, holding her hand out. He shook two pills into her open palm, and held out a glass of water.
After first securing the sheet a little tighter around herself, she took it from him, downing the pills one at a time.
"Thanks," she said, handing him back the empty glass, letting awkward silence permeate the space between them.
"How's your neck?" he asked suddenly, but making no move to check for himself.
Emma shrugged, fingers coming up to trace the spot under her hair, the wounds already starting to scab over. "I think I'll live." She resisted the urge to feel for her pulse point, knowing she would feel the tender spot there. The one Zelena didn't cause. "Can I borrow a shirt or something? I'm feeling a little... underdressed here."
"Aye, of course," he said, jumping to his feet with a scary kind of efficiency, and pulling open one of the drawers on his dresser. "Remind me, Swan. How ideologically opposed are you to the Yankees, again?" Emma settled for shooting him a severe look, but it didn't quite eliminate his smirk. It was the first one she'd seen since she'd been roused awake. And she couldn't deny, seeing it helped ease the snakes squirming in her stomach. Undeterred, he shut the offending drawer, pulling open the next one down.
"How about this one?" he asked, holding up his old UMass sweater, with a raised eyebrow. "Does it meet your exacting standards?
His college sweater. The one she'd seen him wear to breakfast near a hundred times now, and perhaps his most loved article of clothing. Didn't the man have a cache of ill-fitting promotional T-shirts in his closet like everyone else? Did it have to be something which... meant something? She gave a reluctant nod, holding a hand out to catch it as he tossed it her way.
"I'll just give you some privacy," he said, making his way to the door.
"So now you're going to be a gentleman?" Emma wondered aloud, hoping to god he could tell she was teasing.
He whirled around then, a crooked smile on his face. "I'm always a gentleman, Swan," he said, eyes glowing with recollection. "Or did you forget?" And then, before she could process that remark, he slipped out into the hall, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Emma didn't think it was just privacy he was giving her, because he was gone for a good forty minutes, only coming back in when Emma could already feel the cool tendrils of August's pain pills pulling at her consciousness.
"Hey," she said, a little sleepily, watching him as he made his entrance, shutting the door noiselessly behind him.
"Hey," he replied softly, approaching the bed with careful steps.
"I didn't mean to steal your bed," she said. "But I think those pain pills are kicking in. I feel all kinds of woozy."
His answering smile made the lines around his eyes crinkle in that way she liked. "Aye. I can tell."
"Where did you go?" she asked with a yawn.
He took his same perch on the edge of the bed, letting his toes curl into the carpet. "Sent an email to Regina Mills's lawyer. Thought they deserved a heads up on the Zelena situation, in case the Arson Squad hadn't already been in touch. I didn't want her causing any more damage than she already has."
There was a definite edge to his voice, and Emma reached her hand across the covers to pat his own in consolation. But she didn't move it away. And when Killian lifted his hand to link his fingers with hers, she didn't pull away.
"We're going to have to talk about this, aren't we?" Emma asked, laying back into her pillow with a resigned sigh.
"It can wait until tomorrow," he said with a wry smile, thumb tracing absently along her own. "I don't think it's a 4am-and-doped-up-on-pain-meds kind of conversation."
"Would make it easier, though," Emma pointed out, to hear Killian's warm chuckle.
"Aye. Perhaps."
"I give a fuck about you too, you know?" she said drowsily, eyelids losing their battle to stay open.
"Well, that's cute, Swan." His tone was doting, verging on condescending. Like she was a child, and he was humoring her. " But I'm pretty sure that's the painkillers talking."
"You don't know that," she murmured, her indignation mostly muffled by her pillow.
"Well, then I very much look forward to being corrected," he said gently, his lips soft and warm where they brushed across her temple. "Sleep now, Swan. I'll be right here."
And she did.