Perhaps he should have anticipated at least some of it but he doesn't think he'll ever get used to people walking up to him in the middle of the street and saying, "I drove here from Boston because I saw you and this town on Instagram oh my God can I get a photo with you please?" All as if it's one sentence, too.
It doesn't happen too often, but it happens enough. Because apparently his face is attracting tourists and the town's business has never been so good. Or so Mayor Mills tells him, in her perpetually unimpressed tone of voice, pursed lips and all.
He's fallen down some wormhole, or walked through a portal, or is surely dreaming of something Twilight Zone inspired because this is not a life he'd ever thought he'd be even remotely close to having.
"Enjoy your limelight, brother," Liam tells him over the phone one afternoon, "it'll surely leave a hole in you once it's over."
Killian can't tell if he's being serious or not. He simply hums his response.
"And what of Ms. Swan these days?" he asks, tone the right amount of casual and curious that he knows Liam has mastered over the years.
And, Killian realises, those two are the only things that seem to be prominent in his life lately. Emma, however, is the only one that's constantly on his mind. He doesn't tell Liam that last thought, though. He doesn't want to be on the receiving end of his shit-eating grins; they're infinitely worse somehow when they're heard over the phone, seeping through his teasing.
-/-
These days, the dock seems to be his only reprieve in a town that is this close to putting his photo on their official website under Attractions. (He'd swiftly replied with a "No way," to that email, deleting the few curses he'd added in his haste before he sent it.) It's quiet most mornings, but especially when the weather starts getting colder. He sits on the bench in his trench coat, boots resting on the railing in front of him, and tilts his head just right so he can feel the breeze and smell the sea, and if he concentrates hard enough, he can convince himself for a few seconds that he's on a boat.
It's early – perhaps too early in the day to be lamenting his lack of a sailing vessel – and the last thing he expects is someone tapping on his shoulder, a clearing of a throat following after.
With very little grace, he drops his legs and twists himself in his seat to find Emma Swan blinking at him, a grey beanie on her head keeping her hair from flying in a hundred directions and a small tilt to her head. He hears the opening bars of some love song begin to play in his head and bloody hell, he needs to stop thinking he's in some kind of romance novel.
"Fancy seeing you here, Swan." He ignores the way his heart picks up when the corner of her mouth ticks up for a second.
"Was just taking a walk." She opens her mouth as if to say more but changes her mind and punctuates her sentence with a shrug that he finds ridiculously endearing.
"This early on a Saturday morning?"
"I could ask you the same thing."
"Ah, but mine is a force of habit. Growing up with a brother like mine tends to drill some things into you that you just can't shake."
"Hardass?" she asks.
He smirks, thinks he'll text that to Liam later. "Navy man," he amends. And then, "And also a real hardass."
Her smile is a full one this time.
"Well, I always have room for you if you'd like some company, Swan." If he flashes her his most charming smile, well, that's his business.
She eyes him for a second but she makes up her mind, and goes around the bench to plop down next to him. She keeps her fingers intertwined, in her lap, rubbing her thumbs over her skin as if to ward off the cold.
He fills the silence with words, because it's easier that way. "I would normally work at this time. But I prefer the sea to Shakespeare. There's only so many essays on Macbeth one can read through before murder starts feeling like a logical and viable option."
She scoffs, "I thought you liked Shakespeare."
"Liked? Swan, the man is a connoisseur of language, he practically shaped modern literature, both in tragedy and humour. The man is—" he cuts himself off at the hidden smile sparkling in her eyes.
"Is this what your classes are like? You getting all riled up about this dead guy?"
He smirks. "If you're interested in seeing me all riled up, that can be arranged."
Emma rolls her eyes, lips curving at the edge in a half smile.
"So," he chances after staring at her profile for a few seconds longer than necessary, "what are you really avoiding?"
"What?"
"Come now, it's seven in the morning and I've known you to gulp down two cups of coffee, minimum, to keep your eyes from shutting during morning meetings. You must be avoiding something."
Emma is intent on staring at her hands, thumbs going around in slow circles over her skin, but she eventually replies, "It's Mary Margaret. She's just been on my back and I can't deal with it right now."
"Your roommate?" He knows they live together, have been since Emma drove into town and Mary Margaret took her in. Small town, word gets around.
"Yeah. I mean, don't get me wrong, she's great. Really great. I'd be living in my car if it wasn't for her, and I know she means well. But she gets really pushy really quickly, and now David's around, too. And the two of them just amplify each other's' parenting habits and I–" she sighs, "I'm rambling, sorry."
"On your case about what, Swan?"
She shakes her head. "She keeps trying to set me up with these guys, who she says are friends but I know all her friends, these aren't them. I think she's just trying to set me up with any single guy she meets and, surprise, they're all jackasses." A roll of her eyes. "I'm sick of it."
He ignores the little needling at the back of his head and pulls at the collar of his coat to keep from fidgeting too much. "My brother, Liam, he did the same thing to me after my fiancée passed." She looks at him, not with sympathy – thank the gods – but with a touch of sadness in her eyes that confirms that she's known enough loss in her life. "It's their way of helping, no matter how bloody annoying it is. We fought over it a lot and gradually, he understood. Though, that still doesn't stop him from trying every now and then." He shakes his head with a fond smile.
"How long?"
She doesn't have to frame a whole sentence for him to understand. "Almost five years. Car accident." He clenches and unclenches his left hand, the jagged scar running down his palm a reminder of his loss. "They said I was lucky, that the physio would bring back at least seventy to eighty percent of the feeling in my hand. And it did. Can barely feel anything with my last two fingers, but it worked. Still, I didn't feel very lucky then, or for a long time after that."
He still has days where the self loathing crashes over him, pulls him under until he can't think straight, can't breathe. Those moments don't ever really go away.
Although, the memory seems farther away now; he's come a long way since that night he sat outside her hospital door, distraught and scared and shattering from the inside out.
"The first man I ever loved set me up to take the fall for a crime he committed," Emma says, eyes set on the horizon. "It was a stint in juvie with community service. Ever since then, my luck with guys has been shit." She exhales sharply, says quickly, "I mean, it's not the same as what you went through, but—"
"But," he cuts in, "pain is pain, Emma. Yours or mine, it still pierces the heart."
"And it makes us who we are."
"Right. And something tells me there's more to who you are. You've known more than your fair share of loss."
When she looks at him, it's with an expression he can't read. If he were to try and describe it, it would be a cross between fear and curiousity. Perhaps some longing, but that could simply be his own face mirrored in her eyes.
"We're not that different," he adds, "you and I."
"Maybe," she breathes out. She says it so distractedly that he thinks she doesn't mean to say it at all. That it's simply a way to fill the silence, the small space that's left between them, because somehow they've managed to inch their faces closer without him noticing.
There's that conflicting argument again. If he blinks, he misses it. If he blinks, he feels every single inhale of hers as though it were his own.
And bloody hell, if he could blink now and kiss her— if he could just do that, then—
"Jones!" It cuts through the air so harshly, his ears start ringing, and the two of them spring apart like they were doing something wrong. He doesn't want to analyse exactly what they were doing. Not now, not when Leroy is hovering over them like a rather annoying pest. "Didn't recognise you without a book in your hand," he laughs.
Killian clenches his jaw. Leroy is someone he'd put at number one on the suspect list, despite the fact that he doesn't even work at the school. Still, the man somehow manages to squeeze himself into everyone else's business. Number five it is, Killian decides.
"Bloody hell," he mumbles under his breath. And then louder, to Leroy, "A pleasure, as always."
"No Shakespeare today?" Leroy's grinning, but he's walking past them. And in an instant, he's on his way down the docks, still laughing to himself. Killian only ever sees the man smile when he thinks he's made a particularly funny joke. Which is, in fact, never funny.
He's so busy squinting at Leroy's back that he only barely notices Emma get up. "I should get going."
He rushes, like a fool, to think of a way to keep her here, next to him. "I was planning on heading to Granny's to get some coffee, if you'd like to join?"
"Actually," she says with a tug at the back of her beanie and her lips in a thin line, "I have to get some work done, run some errands." He practically sees her guard go up right then.
"Of course," he replies, trying his hardest not to let his disappointment show. He smiles quickly, hoping to cover up any painful expressions that may have found their way onto his face for her to see. "I won't keep you."
It's an awkward thing, standing in front of her, not knowing whether to shake her hand or hug her goodbye. They've never hugged before, but it seems like the best way to depart from a heavy conversation. Emma, to his growing disappointment, makes up his mind for him, and simply nods before stepping backwards.
"Have a good weekend," she says in parting, turning away from him and walking towards Main Street.
He watches her go, trying his hardest to keep her golden hair in his line of vision for as long as possible, a heavy feeling settling uncomfortably in his gut.
-/-
He doesn't think about the almost kiss.
Or, well, he tries not to.
His mind is a cruel thing that reminds him of the moment at the most inopportune times. Like in the middle of class, while he's explaining symbolism, and has to scramble to get back to the point he was trying to make. Like while he's pouring coffee and misses the mug and nearly scalds his hand. Like when he catches a glimpse of her down the hall, going into her office, and trips over his own feet like a bloody git.
He wonders what kind of effect a real kiss would have on him, and then he admonishes the thought, is close pinching himself to get the thoughts of thatout of his head because who the bloody hell knows how badly he'll hurt himself with that swimming around in his consciousness.
Gods, he's a mess.
He doesn't see Emma for a while; she's not around for their usual conversations over coffee. And although he's busier than he was with the run up to midterms, he still notices her absence. Notices how she hovers near the door during morning meetings and slips out as soon as they end. Notices her busying herself the minute he enters a room, ducking out at the first possible chance with barely a nod in acknowledgement. He texts her a few times, and is met with either short replies or none at all, but he still tries to reach out to her, his determination getting the better of him.
He stays in his class far longer than necessary on Friday, with the weekend stretching on to include a week off right before midterms, there's a part of him that doesn't want to go home to the loneliness of his apartment. Killian shuffles between grading papers and scrolling through emails on his phone, working at a pace slower than his usual.
It's the light he sees down the corridor, as he's on his trek to find a snack from the lounge, that sends a small jolt through him and simultaneously hits him somewhere in the chest. It's streaming from below Emma's office door. His fingers curl unbidden as he focuses on the low beam of light, and standing in the darkened hallway, he makes up his mind.
It takes twenty minutes for the takeout to arrive (Chinese, as she'd once mentioned that she preferred) and a few seconds of a determined stride to get him to her door. He knocks, and when he hears a questioning hum, cracks it open.
The first thing his eyes settle on is her hair pulled back into a ponytail, loose strands falling over her face. She's on the carpeted floor, laptop beside her, elbows resting on the couch where she has piles of papers spread out. He doesn't know what it is – perhaps it's everything all at once – but he feels a fierce sense of longing that nearly knocks him over.
"Jones?"
"I saw your light on," he explains and raises the bag in his hand. "Figured you wouldn't have had any food besides those atrocious jellies from the vending machine."
She blinks at him. "I'm not really hungry," she says, intent on shuffling a few papers around.
"You shouldn't work on an empty stomach, love."
She stops her fidgeting for a brief second, but then takes the stack and pushes herself up off the floor and deposits them on her desk. Briefly, he notes that she's taken off her knee high boots, her socks a navy blue with small anchors on them. Her back to him, voice as hard as steel, she says, "Thanks for your concern, but I can take care of myself."
He steps into her office, a mixture of annoyance and disbelief propelling him forward. "Have I done something wrong, Swan?"
"I'm just really busy right now."
"No, what you are is avoiding me. And don't say you aren't, because I'm quite perceptive. You've been avoiding me for days."
She turns to him, her hard expression no doubt mirroring his own. His jaw clenches when she remains silent.
"Emma, if I've done something to upset you, all I ask–"
"You haven't done anything."
He scoffs. "I find that rather hard to believe considering your effort to avoid being in the same room as me." She crosses her arms, and it hits him. His voice lowers, loses most of its severity, "I think you're afraid."
"Of what? You?"
"I think you're shutting me out because you're afraid of opening up, of letting someone see you without all your armour. You're an open book to me, Swan, despite all your walls."
He doesn't know what he wants, perhaps an admission or at least an acknowledgement. But he doesn't get either. What he gets is a subtle shake of her head and a dismissal void of any emotion.
"I've got work college applications to go through and letters to finish writing, so if you'd close the door on your way out, that would be great."
She turns away from him and he has no strength left in him to do anything other than exit her office. The anger mixes with hurt mixes with sadness, and he's simply left feeling empty.
He tosses the takeout the minute he gets to the parking lot.
His apartment feels far more lonely that night than it has ever felt before.
-/-
"You're moping," Belle says to him, pointing her spoon at his face as though to make a point.
"I am not," he denies, and shoves another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth.
"I've never seen anyone look sadder while eating Rum Raisin."
"Ice cream is the ultimate sad food, lass, you've clearly not been meeting the right people. Besides," he adds, "I am not sad."
He is not sad, he tells himself for the fiftieth time today. He had a coupon burning a hole in his wallet and he has Belle as something of a best friend, and all those fit together on this chilly Thursday evening. It seemed logical.
"Is this about Emma?"
Everything these days, it seems, comes back to Emma. He thinks maybe Emma and him were never really friends, just acquaintances that met a few times and then didn't. Killian's eyes dart around the ice cream shop, and fixate on the corner light near the back room that doesn't work. He knows, for a fact, that it stopped working during an evening shift, and that no one has touched the damn thing because at first they all were too busy, and then they weren't bothered. He knows this because Emma told him so, told him that she worked a few shifts for a month when she first moved to town and was looking for a job.
Killian can't get anything she's mentioned to him out of his head; it follows him around like a haunting ghost, wrapping itself around his head and covering his eyes until he squeezes them shut and all he can see is Emma.
"No," he tells Belle.
Her expression tells him that she doesn't believe him. Fair enough. He doesn't believe his words either.
He doesn't tell Belle any of it. Mainly because he's still trying to understand it himself. Trying to come to grips with their argument that started from nothing and ended in the same place. Killian thinks he's right, though, her flight instincts kicked in and she lashed out. Forget not feeling what he felt that day on the docks (what he feels most always), but she doesn't even want a friendship. She's shut him out now and he isn't deserving of someone as fierce and radiant as her, he knows, but it still doesn't make his sour mood any better.
He shifts his attention to his little investigation instead, hoping to get Belle off his back. "I was thinking, perhaps it was Will who sent in that photo. Technically assistant coaches do have access to the teacher's lounge."
"I don't think so."
"And why not?"
"I just think he wouldn't do something of that sort," she says, straightening in her seat.
"Ah, ah, ah," he chastises with a smirk. "You can't be biased in an investigation."
"I'm not biased."
"Having a crush is being biased, darling."
"You're the one with the crush, Killian," she says and then immediately takes in a deep breath. Circling back to Swan. Even when he doesn't do it himself, the universe is hell bent on doing it for him.
"You're deflecting," he replies simply, a raise of his eyebrow thrown in for good measure to make her feel better.
"We were talking about your internet fame," she reminds him.
He's been focusing on his "internet fame" quite a lot lately, funnily enough. He'd rather not think about the other things. Thus, it's the better option, even if he still doesn't like the idea of it. The world (dear gods, the whole bloody world), he's found, has only started to pay more attention to him in the time that he's stopped thinking about it.
Just a few days ago, Liam sent him a link to an article detailing the page as one of the "Top Ten Instagram Feeds You Should Be Following" and used his photo as the featured post for the account. There are apparently several blogging platforms that redistribute the images. And then, of course, there's the comments under his photo that just keep growing.
(idk where this storybrooke place is but if everyone there looks like this i'm moving)
(maybe I'd have paid attention in high school if my teacher looked like THAT)
(but never doubt I love this dude)
(That last one, he must admit, he has to give points to for the Hamlet reference.)
"I'm not famous." He takes a spoonful of his melting ice cream.
Belle uses the time to pull out her phone and inform him that he has close to seventy thousand likes on his photo, and he swallows much harder than necessary.
"Anyway, it wasn't Will," she resolves.
"Arthur?" he suggests.
"Can you actually see him taking pictures of anything that isn't his face?"
"Too true, lass. I've still got my money on Cruella." He swirls around the now liquid ice cream in his cup, trying to find one aspect of his life to focus on that doesn't make him want to sigh heavily. Even Shakespeare is tainted.
He's surely moping, but Belle doesn't comment. Instead, she suggests, "We should go out on Saturday. Drinks on me."
"Is this an optional event?"
"No. You're coming. We'll call a few others, too. Please?" He's loathe to deny her anything when she looks at him with such care and concern.
"Fine," he caves. "But only if you call Will."
-/-
"Tink says they're thinking about naming a drink after you," Robin announces, dropping the tray of shots on to the table. "She said your face is really putting the town's name out there."
Killian groans, takes a shot, says, "They have my blessing if I get my drinks for free."
"You're finally looking at the bright side of all of this," Belle says happily.
"You're not the one dodging calls from parents asking about how appropriate it is to have a public face under my employ," Merlin notes.
"Sorry, mate." Killian winces but Merlin waves it off, passing him another shot.
"How are you not using your fame? If I had your power, mate, I'd be king of this town," Will declares, passing back his phone that he and Merlin were huddled over, going through the likes on the photo and loudly reading out the message requests he's been receiving after some commenter did their digging and tagged his personal account under the post.
Killian shoots Belle an amused look and says to Will, "I don't think this town can technically have a king."
"Besides, you'd be more of a jester, don't you think?" Robin adds, chuckling. They all burst into laughter, the dim lighting of The Rabbit Hole and the warmth of the people around him washing over him. And alright, maybe he's feeling a bit better already.
The feeling, unfortunately, only lasts so long. The flash of blonde he sees, he marks down to his imagination at first. (It wouldn't be the first time his brain played tricks on him in this regard.) But as the lights change for the next live set, he knows it's Emma one table across, her back to him but still within earshot.
His theory is confirmed when he spots Ruby sitting in front of her, recognising her instantly from the diner.
He's definitely staring because Belle notes it, elbows his arm to get his attention.
"Go talk to her," she whispers as softly as one can in a loud bar.
He shakes his head. "She doesn't want to talk to me."
Belle says something to him but he doesn't hear her over the music. Besides, he's too busy focusing on Emma and Ruby. He rises from his seat just as Ruby leans over to say something to Emma. Killian makes a mumbled excuse and escapes to the bathroom where he stares at himself in the mirror long and hard, and then washes his face, hoping the frown will wipe right off somehow. It's maddening, the effect this woman can have on him.
He's still lost in his thoughts as he exits into the bar and he bumps into Ruby, quite literally, needing to steady her with his hands on her arms. She laughs off his apologies and instead grins up at him, wolfish and a little tipsy.
"You're coming to the wedding, right?" she asks after they get their pleasantries out of the way. "Dorothy and Granny are so frenzied, they're making it into this huge thing. But I love them, so you know, it's really just kind of cute."
"I'll try and make it, lass," he says. He doesn't know if he could stand seeing Emma in a bridesmaid dress, her soft smile directed at anyone and everyone but him.
"You really are all kinds of good looking, you look good even in this terrible light." He opens his mouth to thank her, perhaps make a quip, but she adds, "Emma was right to send that photo in, the world needed to see this face."
He doesn't catch her meaning for a second. He's misheard her over the music, he thinks, because it definitely sounded like–
"Oh, fuck," she breathes out, eyes wide. "Wasn't supposed to say that."
Fuck, indeed.
Killian doesn't exactly know what he says to either Ruby or his group of friends, but he's out of the bar and into the chill outside, his mind jumping from one thing to another, leaving him all sorts of wired. It's strange and crazy and he doesn't know what to do with any of it.
What is he meant to do?
Because, Emma? Emma? His least likely suspect?
At the back of his mind he knows it's always the one you don't suspect, but he doesn't have the space in his thoughts for subtle ironies right now. He curls his hands into fists and shoves them into the pockets of his leather jacket because he doesn't understand.
Doesn't know why'd she'd take a photo of him, put it up online, and then proceed to become friends with him, and then decide against it. He's pulled in all sorts of directions with theories, but his feet take him to the docks. He isn't nearly drunk enough for this so he takes a few heavy pulls from his flask of rum when he's seated on a table right next to the railing overlooking the horizon.
He doesn't know how long he spends drawing up ridiculous notions in his head, and staring at the photo she'd taken (Emma had taken his photo), zooming in and out to see if he could catch her reflection or her shadow or something. Killian wakes up to the sun, his back on the bench, the biting cold freezing his nose and ears, and his phone clutched to his chest.
He also wakes up to a sneeze. And is once again hit with the events from last night once he unlocks his phone to find it still open on the page. He sneezes again.
"Could this get any bloody worse?" he mutters to himself.
He rubs his hands over his face and decides that he just needs a fucking break.
-/-
He stays in bed for three days, covered in blankets and surviving on takeout soup. His sickness takes away from the tangled mess of his thoughts, the almost physical hurt of his feelings, and the constant pull of longing that makes his chest ache.
Now, his chest simply aches because he can't stop coughing.
What had Belle said? At least he's looking at the bright side? She'd be proud to see him now.
He doesn't mention any of it to anyone, simply staying holed up with his sick leave and catching up on Netflix while a substitute administers his classes and their midterms. Killian keeps his emails open, his students know that if they need him, they can reach him.
He's just managed to drag himself out of bed after his third nap of the day when his doorbell rings. Chalking up not remembering if he ordered any food or not to his hazy state of mind, he runs a hand through his hair to look at least somewhat presentable and pulls open the front door.
When he sees Emma standing in front of him, he runs through whether or not hallucinations are a side effect of the painkillers he's on. It'd be a bit of a stretch, surely. Emma's arms are crossed and she has a hard set to her brows, but the fact that she's worrying her bottom lip gives her away instantly. She's nervous. Killian doesn't know how he feels, all things considered, only that she's still terribly beautiful.
"Where have you been?" It's more of a demand than a question.
"Here," he answers after a brief moment of studying her. "Shouldn't you be at school?"
"I took a half day, you haven't been around and I was…," she trails off.
"Worried about me?" he asks with a quirk of his eyebrow. And then, more soberly, "Or did you come by to take more photos of me for the fans?"
She winces. Physically recoils in on herself, and he should feel some kind of joy to see it but he doesn't. He wants to wrap his arms around her. Consciously, he crosses his arms so he doesn't reach out for her.
"Killian, I didn't mean for any of it to happen. I took the photo to send to Ruby because you looked so peaceful and when we were out that night at her bachelorette party, she told me about this account. I got drunk and it happened. It's my fault."
"Why play out this charade? All you've done is left me out of my wits. If Ruby hadn't accidentally mentioned it to me, I'm sure you would have never said anything, would you?"
He's met with a deeper frown, a subtle shake of her head.
"Why didn't you just tell me?" To his tired self, it sounds like he's begging, and maybe he is.
"You were right," Emma says. "I was scared."
"What does that have anything to do with this?"
She takes a breath and shakes her head. "I was scared of letting you in. But that's not why I shut you out. I shut you out because I felt guilty. I didn't tell you in the beginning because we weren't friends and that would've sounded creepy as hell, and besides, I figured 'What the hell, he'll probably love the attention,' but you didn't. I saw how it really made you feel, and then I got to know you and I just couldn't. I thought you'd be mad or something at least, I don't know. And that day at the docks, when Leroy mentioned it–"
"It hit you then, didn't it?"
"Whenever I was with you, I wasn't thinking about how you're that hot guy I took a photo of that's famous online. I was just with you. I forgot I did something so stupid."
His exhale is shaky at best. "You were perhaps the only person who made me forget about the madness it brought upon me."
"I fucked up your life."
"You did no such thing, Swan," he tells her fiercely, hoping she'll believe him. "Having you around, getting to know you, it made me the happiest I had been in a while. I'd always hoped, since the time we started working together, that perhaps you'd let me in." He shakes his head at the thought, not knowing if hope is a luxury he can have anymore.
Her voice is small when she asks, "And now?"
He doesn't even have to think about it. "Now, I don't feel any different than I did before."
She takes a very small step forward, and when he doesn't move, another. And another. Until she's toe to toe with him, neck craned up to look at him. "I'm sorry," she tells him.
"I'm not mad at you, love."
"You sure?"
"As long as you promise not to distribute any more of my photos without my consent," he jokes.
She leans in, nose nearly touching his, and softly but surely presses her lips against his in the most featherlight of kisses. It's dizzying.
"I'll take that as a yes?" he asks, a huff of laughter following.
Emma hums. She moves closer to kiss him once more but he pulls back, a hand on her arm.
"I'm sick," he explains immediately. "I don't want you to catch this."
Before he can protest, she rises on her tiptoes and kisses him chastely, a smile spreading across her face as she drops back down to her feet. He can't believe it, surely needs to pinch himself awake.
He pulls her inside with a promise of hot chocolate, and she tells him she doesn't need to be bribed to be around him. Her openness takes him by surprise but he isn't one to question small miracles.
She takes over when he coughs one too many times and he finds he doesn't mind because seeing her move around in his kitchen is a true wonder.
He leans back against the fridge and simply watches her as she shuts the stove to let the liquid cool. "So, you took my photo to send to Ruby?"
"I was complaining," she shoots back.
"Complaining?"
"Yep. I was telling Ruby you shouldn't be allowed to look that good when you're so cocky." He gestures for her to continue and she sighs good naturedly. "I didn't know you but I knew you looked like, well, that. You were always flirting and joking around. And part of me believed there was more to you, but just because you believe something, that doesn't make it true. I would know. I couldn't take the chance that I was wrong about you."
"Did you have the hots for me, Swan?" he teases.
"Shut up."
He laughs as she avoids his line of questioning, saunters up to where she's perusing his spice rack. "Well, I do hope that your opinion of me has sincerely changed."
She turns to face him, and he keeps his expression as open as he can manage, wanting her to see how much he wants this, her, them. Perhaps he's getting ahead of himself, but then again, she is in his home, she did just leave her work to check on him and kiss him in his doorway.
She steps into his space and says in a bare whisper, "It changed a while ago, it just took me a bit to catch up."
Ever so gently, she curls her fingers around the last two of his left hand, intertwining them with hers as much as she can manage. He can't feel her touch, but he does feel something, and it halts his breath for a good few seconds as he stares at their joined hands. When he looks up, she's smiling so softly at him that he can't help but cradle her cheek in his other hand, surge forward and kiss her.
It's deeper this time, but he keeps it slow, languid. He wants to cherish this for as long as he can, wants to learn the way she breathes into him and remember each tug of her hand on the back of his neck to pull him closer. It's not physically possible to get any closer to her but still, he tries. He'll always try.
He has her pushed against the counter, both her hands in his hair, and his wandering from her neck to waist to back because gods, he doesn't know what to do.
It's only when his phone chimes several times consecutively in his pocket that he breaks the kiss. They're both breathing hard and he can't knock the bloody smile off his face.
"Don't tell me again that you're sick, because what the hell does that matter," she warns him, and he simply chuckles.
His phone chimes several more times, and he finally digs it out of his pocket. He's got notifications upon notifications of follow requests and direct message requests.
"Apologies, love. Will turned my notifications on for Instagram and I can't seem to figure out how to shut the sodding thing off." He scrunches his face at his screen as though that will help.
"I'll do it for you," she tells him, grinning.
She reaches a hand out, but he shakes his head, puts his phone on vibrate and slides it onto the countertop. "Later." He pulls her closer by the waist and practically sways in place. It might be the sickness making him lightheaded, but a large part of him thinks it's simply Emma's effect on him.
"Guess I'm going to have to share you with all your fans."
"What can I say?" he says, leaning his forehead against hers, "Some gorgeous lass made me famous because she decided I was worth all this fuss."
"She's a smart one."
"Yes," he says, leaning in to press his nose to hers, "that she is."
a/n: hope you guys enjoyed this little story, your thoughts and feelings are always appreciated.
I am also on tumblr under piratesails if you want to drop by and say hi!