A/N: Had some difficulty with this one, the words just kind of got stuck. I'm sorry.
13. Bad Penny
Believe it or not, there are worse things than waking up to realize you've slept with your roommate, who is also your boss, managing to fuck up both your home life and working life in one fell swoop. Like, for instance, being caught escaping out of said boss's apartment by way of the fire escape in the middle of a nor'easter, wearing nothing but an oversized UMass college sweater, by the little old lady who lived in the apartment below his.
It wasn't exactly going to break the top fifty of Emma Swan's All Time Best Ideas. And the poor old dear certainly seemed to get a shock, as she unknowingly went to water the begonias on her windowsill, and instead ended up tipping her watering can out onto the floor as she watched in growing horror as Emma made her downwards escape. Not that Emma had time to do much but shoot the woman an apologetic little wave. Emma couldn't wait around to explain. It was single figures out, frostbite was a real possibility, and Emma really didn't want to still be around when she called the cops.
Swiping her keys and creeping down the fire escape may not have been her smoothest move. But if it meant she didn't have to come face to face with Killian and his delicious cooked breakfasts and over-earnest expressions, then she would risk it. She knew she couldn't run very far, or for very long. After all, for better or for worse, she'd hitched her wagon to Killian's these past few months, and without him she didn't have a job, or running hot water. That and the fact she'd left her wallet behind on his coffee table, next to her phone.
She couldn't run forever.
She just needed a breath.
Thankfully, she kept a change of clothes in her car. It was a lifelong habit she'd never quite been able to break, and she had never been more glad of it than when she was pulling on those spare woolen socks over her frozen toes, which were practically numb from cold and had taken on a nice blue-ish tinge. Shivering violently, she emptied out the rest of the clothes from the duffel bag, and changed quickly, ducked down low in her seat, vainly hoping her off-street parking spot would afford some measure of privacy.
It was not her classiest walk of shame.
Truth be told, bolting hadn't been the first thing on Emma's mind upon waking. Her first thoughts had been, "Wow, this is a really comfortable bed," and "That smells like bacon," and "Ow, my eye." She had been all prepared to avoid Killian's gaze, sit down over awkward, morning-after-the-night-before bacon and eggs, and mutually agree that the best thing for the both of them, moving forward, would be to pretend it had all never happened. Emma was a mess. Jones Investigations was a mess. Killian was a less obvious, but still not-quite-over-the-ex mess.
And Emma had been all set to do the mature thing, taking some very calming yoga-like breaths, and stealthily disappearing back to her room with what clothes she could find bundled in her arms. She figured if she was going to have to face the music, she deserved some mirror time, and cracked open her closet, to peer at her reflection in the mirror which hung on the back of the door.
It was not a pretty sight. Zelena had certainly gotten her licks in. Her left eye had swollen up good and purple, making her look suspiciously like Rocky Balboa after a title fight. She'd been a little too preoccupied seducing Killian into his bed to really practice good after-care, and it showed, the skin stretched tight, her eye near swollen shut. The wound on her neck at least seemed to be healing, though the mark left by Killian would have necessitated a turtleneck kind of day, if Zelena's claw marks hadn't already. If that wasn't enough, her blonde hair was a vicious tangle, and yesterday's mascara had smeared, and she looked like nothing short of a train wreck. Like a celebrity mugshot, or a battered wife in an after-school special.
She needed a shower, a hairbrush, and maybe a long, hard look at her life choices.
Idly, she began searching through the meager selection of sweaters she had brought with her, when one slipped off the hanger, falling to the floor of the closet. But bending down to pick it up, she discovered something she'd never seen before. The closet, being in the spare room, had always contained rather a lot of superfluous crap. Empty suitcases. Out of season clothes. Stupid shit bought off infomercials in late night fits of delirium, that had never left the box. All the usual suspects. But it was the box leaning against the back wall of the closet which got Emma's attention, and routed her to the spot.
It was a bassinet.
A non-hypothetical bassinet for Killian's once hypothetical future child. Which maybe hadn't been quite so hypothetical as Emma might have imagined. A bassinet isn't exactly something you keep around, just in case. It's something you buy when the need arises.
When the need arises.
And suddenly, Emma felt the bile rise in her throat, reaching a hand out to steady herself on the door frame, as she saw her bedroom in a new light. The pale blue walls, painted over since the August days, when they'd been plain cream, obscured by postcards and art prints tacked everywhere. The bassinet in the closet. Milah's hasty departure from Killian's life. Killian being so distracted he didn't even realize Ariel was deliberately tanking his business.
She suddenly felt like an intruder in this space. A poor substitute for the room's intended occupant. And like the world's shittiest friend. Her, a former investigative journalist who prided herself on finding the nuance in any story. She hadn't seen the signs. And what had she done? She'd slept with him, even though she knew he wasn't okay, knew he wasn't over Milah, knew that he was lonely. All because she thought it would make her feel better? She wanted to throw up.
So she did what she'd always done so well. She'd made a run for it.
Deprived of the loose change which could buy her a seat at a coffee shop for a few hours, and with the constant stream of snowfall depriving her of any better options, she drove home, careful not to slip too much on her balding tires. She hadn't been back to the apartment in weeks. She hadn't really wanted to. It felt like a defeat almost, to see all the evidence of her former life laid out before her, reminding her of just how badly she'd fucked everything up. But it had one thing going for it. It wasn't where Killian was.
She wasn't surprised to find her downstairs neighbor's SUV parked in her spot, having taken advantage of her temporary absence to make themselves right at home. She did an overdue check of her mail box, to find it stuffed full of junk mail and catalogs, Past Due notices, and, yes, of course, a weighty envelope with her address written in an elegant script with a fountain pen, which no doubt threatened the imminent demise of her mythical dog.
Her arms laden with envelopes, she made her way up the stairs to the third floor, taking in the tiny details she usually missed after seeing them every day. The super still hadn't fixed the EXIT light on the second floor landing, still as dead as it had been on the day Emma and August had moved in over two years ago. There was the shaky dinosaur, the makings of a stegosaurus by the looks of it, drawn in orange crayon on the otherwise plain white walls, it's spiky tail incomplete, as if the child artist had been dragged off before they could finish their work. There was a new mark in the carpet in the hallway on her floor, which looked suspiciously like a scorch mark, as if someone had been summoning demons mid-corridor. Emma let her eyes trail accusingly down to the last door on the right, which belonged to a pair of college kids, who had an unfortunate history of fire-related mishaps. And then her eyes swept back, catching on the front door of her own apartment. 3F. It was ajar.
"No, no, no, no," she repeated like a mantra, dropping her mail in a heap on the carpet. She fumbled for the switchblade tucked into her boot, only to realize she wasn't wearing her usual pair, still probably lying abandoned on Killian's living room rug in that way he always grumbled about. No weapon. No phone. Possible intruder. Great.
Emma scanned the corridor for a possible weapon, her eyes landing on the fire extinguisher by the stairwell. The clips holding it to the wall gave way easily, and she brandished it in front of her, nozzle raised. It was suspiciously light, as if it's contents had already been expended putting out the hallway fire. That didn't matter. It certainly looked imposing enough. And if worse came to worst, it would probably hurt a lot if she hit someone over the head with it, empty or not.
Creeping forward, Emma paused by the doorway, listening. At first there was nothing, then the tell-tale groan of floorboards shifting under heavy boots. There was someone in there. Bracing herself, Emma counted silently to three. Then five. Then ten. On eleven she finally gathered the necessary courage and made her move, kicking the door in, and hoping against hope that her intruder was not the shoot first, ask questions later type.
Her intruder clearly hadn't been expecting company, because he, it was definitely a he, a bearded guy clad in a woolly flannel jacket, gave a yelp from where he stood before the refrigerator, moving so quickly to see who had entered that one ankle collapsed beneath him, dragging the rest of him down onto the linoleum. Emma wasted no time in moving to stand over him, fire extinguisher raised above her head to deliver a devastating blow, should he try to make a break for it.
And that's when she recognized the guy. Flannel jacket, shaggy brown beard and all.
"August?"
She felt the adrenaline leave her system all at once, veins instead flooding with something cool and calm and finally. She lowered her weapon immediately, crouching down on the kitchen floor where her brother lay prone.
"Emma?" He chuckled, his shock seeming to leave him a little punch drunk. "I left the door open again, didn't I?" he sighed aloud, through a gasp of pain. He must have twisted that ankle pretty good. But Emma was more distracted by the fact that he was there. Really there. Right in front of her, the front of his jacket rough against her fingers.
"You're back?" It was stupid question. But she figured she was owed this one. She fought back the tears she could feel collecting in the corner of her eyes, taking in every detail of him with her eyes. The beard was new. And the unruly hair, grown out until it now obscured his eyes. He was like Brad Pitt after seven years in Tibet.
"Of course," he winced, trying to prop himself up on one elbow. "What? You didn't really think I'd miss Christmas, did you?"
Which was about when her cool relief began to be replaced by anger. White, hot, justifiable anger.
"Five months, August?!" She said, going to nudge him with her fist, only to find the fire extinguisher still in her hands, whacking him in the shoulder. "Five fucking months with one fucking postcard?! Are you out of your goddamn mind?!" She leaned forward again, and he braced for another impact, but instead of whacking him again, she dropped the extinguisher to the floor and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him fiercely. "You stupid son of a bitch," she whispered into his jacket.
"I missed you too, Emma," he said, and she could feel the curve of his smile against her cheek. She didn't let go of him immediately, not until it became clear that their position on the floor wasn't so great on his ankle, and she pulled away. But August's smile disappeared in an instant, as he brushed his hair from his eyes, his mouth forming a hard line.
"What the fuck happened to your eye?" He unconsciously raised a hand to trace her face, and she winced when he made contact.
"You should see the other guy," Emma shrugged, trying to avoid his rather fixed gaze, rising to her feet and offering him a hand up.
He took her proffered hand, and managed to stand up, before hobbling a few feet to the nearest chair. "Emma..." His tone meant he wasn't in the mood for vagueries. Which was kind of ironic, when you thought about it.
Emma shrugged again, trying to emphasize that this wasn't a big deal. "I antagonized the wrong woman. And I ended up worse off for it. It's fine, really. She's not showing up again, and Killian made sure I didn't have a concussion."
"Killian?" August asked, clearly confused. "What has he got to do with it?" Which was about where Emma's patience snapped.
"Do you not read my emails at all? How do you think I've managed to get by these past five months with no job and no rent money from you, exactly? I've been staying in Killian's spare room, answering his phones, saving on utilities, so that we wouldn't get evicted from this apartment! Or did you not notice the absence of light or heat or water, or any of those other things that we usually have?"
August opened his mouth to speak, but Emma was on a roll now, and she wasn't stopping for anybody.
"So of course Killian was there. He's been there the whole time. Because you weren't. Because you disappeared for damn near half a year without leaving so much as a note! Even after you promised! You think the last few months have been easy for me? Or for him? Do you even know what happened with him and Milah? Do you even care?"
"Emma..." But she silenced him with a glare.
"No," she continued. "You had five months to say something and you didn't! I love you, and I missed you like hell, and I'm glad you're home, but I don't think I can do this right now. My whole face hurts, I look like Lindsay Lohan's mugshot, and I need a shower, and that means going back to Killian's. Don't forget to lock the fucking door after me." And with that, she took the warmest looking jacket off the hook by the door, and left.
He was still there when she got back.
Even though it was after ten, and Jones Investigations should have opened an hour ago, there he was, still sitting at his kitchen table, scratching Smee behind the ears with a glazed expression on his face.
She forced herself to stop in front of him, and look him in the face. "Hi," she said, her greeting softer than she would have liked.
He lifted his head to meet her gaze. "The fire escape, Swan? Really?" He didn't seem angry exactly. Exhausted, maybe. Tired of her shit.
"Gave the old lady downstairs quite the show," Emma tried to smile.
"Joanna," Killian said absently, indicating downstairs. "I suppose I shouldn't expect a mince pie off her this Christmas."
"Sorry," Emma said, hoping he would realize she was apologizing for more than just the pie.
"T'salright, Swan. I didn't much fancy them anyway. I think every one she's ever given me is still sitting in the back of my pantry, uneaten." His tone had grown warmer. Not quite teasing, but Emma still felt that tight band of dread loosen in her gut. But only a fraction, as he seemed to see past their awkward small-talk, and see something else.
"Are you alright, Emma?" he asked, far too gently than she deserved, rising from his chair. "Because you don't seem alright. And if that's about last night, we can-"
"August is back," she said, ripping off that Band-Aid.
"Oh." But whatever that Oh meant, Emma couldn't say.
"I almost accosted him with a fire extinguisher, and I think he sprained his ankle. And I might have said some things. "
"So about as successful a homecoming as one could hope for, then?" he asked, trying for a bit of levity.
"If it's okay, I'm going to take a shower. And if I don't come out in half an hour, you have my permission to come in and make sure I haven't drowned myself."
"Emma." He stepped in front of her then, blocking her path.
"I was kidding," Emma clarified. "I'm not really going to drown myself. I just feel like shit."
"I know," he answered simply, his hands reaching up to trail down her arms in a way he thought comforting. "But it's going to be okay. You and August will work it out."
"You think so?" She hated how needy she sounded in that moment. And his fingers running down her arms were comforting.
"I know so," he shrugged, like there was no doubt.
"I wish I had half of your confidence," Emma muttered.
"You can borrow it, if you like," he offered, with a small wink.
"Thanks," she said, with a tiny smile, stepping around him. "Oh, and Killian?"
"Hmm?"
"I'm sorry. For splitting. For... everything."
And then before he could say another word, or tell her it was okay, when it really wasn't okay, she stepped into the hall, and out of his sight.