A/N: The Wifi Gremlins really made posting this a bitch. As it stands now, I took my laptop for a drive, and am parked outside a shuttered fast food restaurant in order to leech their free wifi in the middle of the night. In case you were worried that I don't love you, see all evidence to the contrary.

Just a heads up, this will probably be the last chapter for two weeks. I've got stuff on. Sit tight.

16. Inside The Barbie Dream House

Emma

She didn't kill anyone.

She thought about it, alright. The longer Killian spoke, the greater the impulse to go back into the living room and wring her brother's scrawny neck for ever letting himself get caught up in something so stupid.

August was smarter than that. She knew he was smarter than that.

Sure, she knew that from time to time he'd bent the law a little to make rent. But he'd heavily implied that had been like, odd jobs for cash, and hustling at pool. Not getting in deep with a small-time drug lord. What had been the point of him dragging her back from Oregon and her life of petty crime, getting her back into school, if he was just going to fuck it all up later by dealing drugs? Why even bother?

Deep down, Emma understood why he hadn't told her. It would have been kind of hypocritical for the reporter behind a number of cheerless exposes on rampant drug use in the public service to have a drug dealer for a brother. The kind of hypocrisy that would have ended her career if it got out, if she still had one.

She got that. What she didn't get, was what the hell had possessed him to start in the first place? They'd never needed the money that bad, had they? August certainly never acted like he did. And if he had been particularly hard up, he could have just told her. Sure, Emma had liked their apartment. And she'd liked having enough money in her account at the end of the month left over for things like Netflix, and a gym membership that was more aspirational than practical. But she didn't need those things. If the last two months had proven anything, they'd proven that. Surely he knew that about her?

But it was difficult to grapple with those kinds of thoughts, when she was sat where she was, nursing a tumbler of whiskey in the Nolan's immaculate country-style kitchen, with the two of them lingering awkwardly outside in the hallway. She was sure they were trying to be stealthy about it, but the creaking of the floorboards every minute or so as they shifted their weight from foot to foot gave them away. It didn't feel quite right, what with it being their house and all.

She held up a hand to interrupt Killian mid-sentence, and cleared her throat. "You can come back in! I promise I haven't broken anything!" As expected, the pair slunk back into the room after a suspiciously short amount of time, eyes shifting guiltily. Killian just ducked his head so they couldn't see his smile, getting up to slide out Mary Margaret's chair for her, the slimer.

She wasn't quite sure what to make of the pair of them at first, what with their Barbie Dream House, all strung up with Christmas lights, with an honest-to-god holly wreath on the door. By their short interaction in Finnegan's with David, where they'd managed to get him to do exactly as they wanted just by invoking his wife's name, she'd already figured the guy was whipped. That, together with the way Killian talked about her, she'd been picturing Mary Margaret as this slightly terrifying figure, with her husband's balls in a vice. What she maybe hadn't counted on when she'd stepped into that kitchen, was to be immediately drawn into a warm hug by a bubbly dark-haired woman in a pixie cut, who then had set about fussing over her. Had she eaten? Had she really driven in this weather? Caught an Uber? Wasn't that dangerous? Didn't she have gloves? Hadn't she seen the forecast? No, really, had she eaten? Because they had some leftover pot roast they could heat up.

It was a little intense. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't what she was used to. Sure, Killian liked to keep her fed, and liked to worry over her, but he was never pushy about it. Mary Margaret was pushy about it. As evidenced by the fact that no sooner had Emma sat down, than she'd been presented with a steaming dish of leftovers, a knife and fork, and an inquiry as to whether she preferred sweet tea over orange juice.

She took the sweet tea, along with the amused smirk Killian shot her way.

They seemed like nice people, all eavesdropping aside. Emma could see that. Killian wouldn't have trusted them if they weren't. Not that his skills in that arena were all that great lately, but it went a long way to convincing her. They didn't deserve whatever might happen to them if anyone found out they were harboring August in their spare room. By all accounts, Killian had hustled him out of The Rabbit Hole before the goon had been able to issue a time and a place for August to deliver the balance of his overdue debt. Until then, they'd be looking for him. And they probably wouldn't be asking so nicely the next time.

The Nolans deserved to know what they were getting themselves into, and Emma shot Killian a look which echoed that opinion. After a roll of his eyes and another sip of whiskey, he launched into the narrative again, filling in the blanks they hadn't managed to glean from out in the hallway. All the while Emma sat back and found her way to the bottom of her glass.

She hadn't thought too much about it when she'd decided to follow Killian here. She'd been too preoccupied with her preparations. Her Bug hadn't started when she'd turned the engine over, merely giving a pitiful whine before dying. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was something else. With Killian's voicemail fresh in her mind, she wasn't taking any chances.

"And, uh, stay out of trouble, love. That isn't just me spouting the usual line, either, because we both know you are a walking calamity. I'm serious. Watch your back. Any suspicious characters, give them the slip and call me immediately. And don't let his gruff exterior fool you, Smee is not up to task of home security. The last time my brother was in town he broke into my flat and I came home and found him sprawled on the couch, Smee fast asleep on his lap. Bloody useless creature. So... call me back. Or don't. Just be careful."

He'd played it off with his signature self-deprecation and talk of Smee, but there was no mistaking the meaning. Something was up. Something dangerous. And like hell Emma was just gonna let him walk into it alone, no matter how much lingering weirdness there might be. Lingering weirdness which was only compounded when Mary Margaret offered up the spare room to the pair of them, since August had been so kind as to pass out on the couch. The spare room with one double bed.

"Oh," Emma could feel the flush rising in her cheeks. "We're not-, I can just get an Uber back to the city."

She was kind of surprised to see all three of them turn to look at her at once, with something like alarm etched onto their faces.

"At this time?" David asked.

"In this weather?" Mary Margaret asked.

"Alone?" Killian asked.

It was like they'd rehearsed it, the overbearing, overprotective parent bit.

"What?" she said a little defensively, lowering her gaze to the floor. "Smee will be-"

"Smee will be just fine on his own for a few hours," Killian overrode her excuse, rising from his chair. "I've nothing that can't withstand a few hours gnawing left in that apartment. And let us not forget, there's still a drug kingpin on the lookout for August and whoever might be harboring him. I'd rather you didn't stay alone in the apartment while they are."

"So you're saying what? Just don't go home? Ever?" Home. The word tripped off her tongue before it really registered.

But Killian seemed to catch it. His face softened a fraction, before he offered up his next volley, and his tone softened with it. "I'm not saying that, love. Just not on your own. For now. And if it's sharing a bed with me that has you so set against the idea, you needn't worry. I'm perfectly happy on the floor."

David looked between them, clearly confused. "You mean you two aren't-" But David never managed to finish that sentence, too busy swallowing back a yelp of pain.

"I'll get out the spare blankets," said Mary Margaret in a suspiciously chirpy tone, springing up from her seat beside him, and disappearing from the room.

"You know," Emma said as she stepped inside the guest room, throwing the light switch, "If you were a true gentleman, you'd sleep on the floor in the living room."

The spare room was very... floral. Floral bedspread. Floral wallpaper. Floral arrangement on the bed stand. Everything a delicate shade of pink. Emma was going to go out on a limb and say David hadn't really contributed too much to the decorating of this particular space. He looked like much more the framed sporting memorabilia type, she thought. Maybe with a collection of souvenir beer coasters tucked away somewhere to match.

"With your brother snoring on the couch a few feet away from me? Not bloody likely. I may be a gentleman, Swan, but even I have my limits," Killian winked as he walked past her with his armful of blankets. "Now, is it to be this patch of cold floor?" he asked, indicating with his chin to the space at the foot of the bed, "Or perhaps this one?" he indicated over by the window.

"Hey, the floor was your idea in the first place, buddy," Emma said, holding her hands up innocently.

"Aye," he said, dropping his bundle onto the floor by the window with a soft thump, one hand coming up to scratch behind his ear. "But I really rather thought further bed-sharing could wait until we've had a… certain conversation? And yet, considering your hasty exit this morning, I dare say you're not yet prepared to have it." He'd averted his gaze, studying the quilt pattern with suspicious intensity, but Emma still felt the lump form in her throat.

"Killian, I..." She took an unconscious step forward.

"It's alright, lass," he said, lifting his gaze to hers at last, a friendly flash of blue counteracted by a wan smile. "I'm in no rush. Clearly things... escalated rather quickly. I don't begrudge you time to sort your feelings. "

He was offering her another stay of execution. Another chance to take the coward's way out. And maybe she shouldn't have taken it. Maybe she should have just ripped off that Band-Aid and had both of them lay all their cards on the table. But with that familiar grip of panic tightening around her throat, she wasn't even sure if she could get the words out.

Besides, maybe he was right. Maybe she did need time.

What with everything that was going on, with an unhinged Zelena Beck still loose on the streets of Boston, what with August's return and the quagmire of stupid he'd found himself in, she had to admit she hadn't really thought about it. Not really.

She'd woken up that morning so sure last night had been the worst kind of fuck up. A disaster of biblical proportions. Classic Emma Swan, giving in to her impulses without really thinking through the consequences.

But that was the thing about impulses, wasn't it? They didn't just come out of nowhere. It was true she hadn't planned on jumping him. She hadn't planned it. But she still did. And in that moment, she'd wanted to. She'd really wanted to. And she had to admit it wasn't even the first impulse she'd given into around Killian Jones lately.

Emma didn't have to land on his doorstep when her utilities got cut off. She could have slept on some other couch, outstaying her welcome with any number of college friends who still lived in the Boston area. She didn't have to accept his job offer. True, things had been kinda desperate, but her dignity had suffered through worse things than being a department store elf for a few months. She didn't have to hack into his phone and follow him out to the middle of the 'burbs. But she did. Because his voice hadn't sounded quite right to her in that voicemail he'd left. Because the apartment had seemed so strangely empty without him there. Because she… cared.

Yeah, she could admit as much. She cared.

Sure. She cared. But caring, and having feelings, they weren't the same thing. Emma cared about August, but half the time she wanted to drop an air conditioning unit on his head. Like right that minute, for instance. Emma had cared about Graham, and she'd still gone behind his back and written that article, knowing he'd hate her for it. August cared about her, she knew, but he'd still screwed her over, and left her alone, when he'd once promised her he never would.

Maybe Killian cared about her too. They way he'd been with her last night, the way it had felt… It sure felt like he had. And the way he'd acted around her since, so fucking careful, but not going out of his way to avoid her, either. It spoke of something. But that didn't mean he had feelings for her. She knew that he didn't. Couldn't. She'd known as soon as she'd seen that box tucked into the back of her closet that morning. He didn't have feelings for her. He was still obviously in pieces over Milah, probably with good reason. He was upset, and lonely, any feelings he might have would simply be confusing good sex with something more. Emma would be stupid to make the same mistake.

She must have been silent too long, because she saw the flicker of doubt return to Killian's eyes as he stood there, a scant few feet away. "Maybe it would be best if I did sleep downstairs," he murmured quietly. "I'm sure that egregious new beard of his will muffle the sound of the snoring somewhat," he reasoned sardonically, bending down to retrieve his bundle of blankets off the floor.

"Don't be an idiot," Emma countered, causing him to freeze in the middle of his task, still awkwardly hunched over. She took a small step towards him, effectively blocking him from the door. "There's no need to play the martyr. We can share a bed. I promise, I won't try to jump you again."

He recovered quickly, she had to give him that. "No?" he asked, taking his own small step forward. He paused for a moment, before taking another step to stand directly in front of her, letting his thumbs rest in his belt hoops as he did so, a wicked glint forming in his eye. "Are you sure about that, lass?" He rocked forward a little, letting one eyebrow raise in challenge.

"I think I can handle it," Emma responded blithely, yet leaning imperceptibly closer.

"You think you can handle it?" He repeated back, grin widening as he let the innuendo fall heavily in the air between them.

"Better than you can, buddy," Emma quipped.

"Is that a challenge, darling?" he asked, so close that this warm breath fanned across her cheek, his eyes locked on hers, little pools of blue that were fast losing their mirth, swirling with something altogether darker and more dangerous. "Because I do so love a challenge. But first, I think you should be the one to take the first shower, for I fear that mine may take some time."

And if she had any doubt about what he'd meant by that, it quickly disappeared when one of his large hands reached out to grip her hip, pulling her to him, his mouth hot and insistent when it met her own. It was a dirty kind of kiss, all teeth and tongue, and white hot need coursing right down to her toes. She barely noticed her own hands coming up to tangle in his hair as she swayed into him, lost in the sensation of it. She barely noticed anything at all, beyond the beat of her heart in her ears, and his mouth moving against hers, not until he pulled away suddenly, leaving her cold and bereft, even as she chased after his lips with hers.

"Now, now, Swan," he chided lightly, his forehead coming to rest against hers. "You promised you could handle it."

"And you said, you were a gentleman!" she countered, still trying to get her breath back.

"Aye," he replied with a wink, taking a step back to create some much-needed distance between them. "That I am. But I never said I was a bloody saint. Bathroom's on the left. Off you go," he said, giving her a little nudge towards the door. "Best make it a cold one, eh?"

As much as she hated being bested by Killian Jones, she had to admit, maybe she couldn't handle it. Which was why after her shower she'd lingered downstairs with a mug of hot cocoa Mary Margaret had insisted on making for her, and the woman herself, prattling on about snow days and standardized testing. Anything to distract her from thoughts of Killian in the shower, and the reasons he might be taking so long in there. So it was something of a relief when she finally stepped back into the guest room to find that, rather than being sprawled out on her bed as she expected, Killian had instead fashioned himself some kind of pillow fort at the foot of the bed with what looked to be the entire contents of the Nolan's linen closet.

"Looks cosy," she remarked, whilst fussing with the collar of the flannel pajamas Mary Margaret had loaned her, the tag scratching against her skin until she succeeded in ripping it out.

His dark head of hair, still damp from his shower, peeked out of the structure, his eyes squinting against the brightness from the overhead light as he grinned up at her. "Aye. Quite cosy indeed. Would you like to see, Swan?"

She did want to see. But after that filthy trick he'd pulled earlier, she regarded this offer with some healthy suspicion, crossing her arms over her chest skeptically.

"Shall we call a truce, then?" He asked, realizing the reason behind her hesitation. "On my honor, I'll behave myself if you will."

"You know, no matter how much flowery language you throw around, you still won't be a 17th century pirate, right?"

He pulled his hands to his chest in shock. "Am I not?" And then he crawled forward a little and offered out his hand.

"Do you wish to come aboard, m'lady?" he asked, his accent thickening with each word, smile growing wider when Emma rolled her eyes. But she took his hand anyway, and crawled inside the structure after him.

It wasn't the most stable set-up, the entire thing supported by a cairn of pillows at the center which could be toppled with one wrong move. But it was pretty decent for something that had taken him all of twenty minutes to set up.

"Welcome aboard, love. I call her: The Jolly Roger!" he announced, waving his hands around. "Where I shall make berth tonight."

"You're an idiot," she declared, but there was a hint of fondness to the words.

"That may be so, love, but this is my ship, and it's bad form to insult a captain on his own vessel," he pouted, reclining on a bed of cushions.

"Of course. How silly of me," Emma deadpanned. "However will I recover from this faux pas?"

He grinned wide. "Well, you could take a seat by the captain..." he said, patting a cushion beside him. She cast him a wary glance, but he just lifted a hand to cross over his heart, to say he would keep to his agreement.

With another roll of her eyes, she shifted over until she was balanced next to him, and after a brief moment's hesitation, laid down beside him. She gazed up where the brightness of the overhead light filtered through Egyptian cotton, and then she shuffled onto her side, so she was facing him, propped on her elbow.

"Hi," she said softly, after a few moments of silence.

"Hello, Emma," he replied, no trace of the 17th century buccaneer left in his accent as he turned his head to face her.

"This is one kickass little pillow fort you've got here," Emma admitted, stretching her toes out to brush against the pile of cushions that held up the exterior wall.

"I'm glad you approve," he said, his elbow softly grazing against her own in gratitude.

"Everything is going to be okay, right?" She asked suddenly, the question slipping so easily past everything in her that had been holding it in. "With August, I mean?"

A significant pause followed, which was telling in itself. She found her attention inexplicably drawn to the bobbing of his Adam's Apple, as he considered his response. "It's not an easy thing," he admitted slowly, as if wary of setting off her superpower by being too optimistic. "I'm not even sure yet who exactly is after him. Or how we're going to clear the debt. I can't exactly take twenty grand out of petty cash. Not with things as they are."

She made a soft hum in agreement. She'd seen the books, after all. Jones Investigations was barely breaking even as it was, without taking fiscally irresponsible brothers into account.

"Although," he began slowly, "I might have an idea."

"You have an idea?" She wasn't quite able to mask the naked desperation in her voice.

"Might," he emphasized, before resting his head back against his pillow. "Say, Swan, how well can you fake a Russian accent?"