Chapter Eight: Confidences in the Darkness
Killian Jones sits awake long into the night, brooding over his thoughts hours after the others have gone upstairs to bed. He hates the way his announcement had ruined Emma and Ruby's ease and joyous mood when they first returned home. Despite the fact that he has no desire to be anything but open with them, he couldn't have put off the news anyway. Both his partner and the woman they are meant to be guarding deserve to be made aware when anything about their situation changes; all of this is for Emma's protection after all. Still, that doesn't make being the bearer of unwelcome news any more pleasant.
Sighing, Killian stares darkly into the crackling flames of the den's fireplace, hoping that watching the blaze will soothe his frazzled nerves and ease frustration in a way that late night infomercials and syndicated sitcoms never can. Though he values a clear head and alert reflexes at all times, the very nature of what he is called to do depending on it, the clock has long since inched past one a.m. as he sits mulling over the day's events, the tumbler held in his hand holds more rum than he generally allows himself for a rare nightcap. He nurses the warm liquor, savoring its spiced taste, enjoying the burn of each leisurely swallow, and Killian cannot help wishing that it will eventually dull the gnawing guilt and anger churning in his gut and help ease him to sleep. Though that is quite possibly a pipe dream; he know the feeling well enough to sense a sleepless night of tossing, turning, and vague nightmares laced with regret if he does manage to doze, ahead of him.
The agent has just pulled his glass from his lips once more, leaned forward to place the tumbler on the coffee table in front of him, and sunk back into the couch cushions wearily, swiping a hand haphazardly back through his already-mussed dark hair, when he hears the pad of bare feet on the hardwood floor behind him. Hanging his head, a bit embarrassed but chuckling at his odd sort of luck all the same, that she has managed to find him in such a low moment of self-doubt, Killian knows who has joined him without needing confirmation. Still, he turns to see Emma Swan standing framed in the entryway of the den, an almost ethereal angel vision in the dim light, backlit only by the gentle glow of the nightlight plugged into the hall socket for when Henry might need it, her blonde hair practically luminescent and taking his breath away.
"Room for another on your couch?" she asks in soft greeting, pausing only a moment until he nods, and then crossing the room to settle beside him on the couch.
"Aye," Killian adds hoarsely, giving his charge, the woman he has come to see as a friend and confidant as well as the one he's meant to protect, a tiny half-smile of welcome. The situation is not suddenly better, but he doesn't want to make her feel unwelcome, nor do anything to shatter this quiet time of calm companionship he has come to savor when she joins him here like this in the middle of the night. If he were free to act on his feelings, if her safety and his duty were not involved, Killian knows that his feelings went beyond even friendly affection long ago, sometime before he realized it. Yet, the possible repercussions are too steep; he knows he will not say or do anything about the attraction and longing Emma brings out in him, in a degree he has not experienced for a long, long time.
She burrows into the couch, settling cozily, and the silence between them stretches, peaceful and familiar. It looks as though this will be another night like the many they have spent together before, easing each other through sleeplessness, worry, and the impending upset of everything changing again soon.
After a time, Killian breaks the quiet, asking if Emma wants to watch a movie. They have been slowly making their way through the old classics during their late nights, from My Fair Lady to Barefoot in the Park, and he suggests they start the one queued up next. Emma giggles, playful teasing in her eyes, saying she'd prefer mindless drivel tonight. Soon they're fighting over the remote, with hissed arguments and silent scuffling on the couch so as not to wake Ruby and Henry. She grabs onto his arm and in the process accidentally pulls back the sleeve of his flannel button down, exposing the inside of his right forearm. There, emblazoned permanently, is a picture of a heart with some sort of knife or dagger through it, a woman's name etched there as well.
She isn't quite sure why, but Emma's breath catches in surprise, just as Killian hurries to pull the sleeve back over the inked memorial. The words are out before she can stop herself, even though he clearly wishes to avoid the subject. "Who's Milah?" she breathes, forcing him to meet her eyes.
"Someone from long ago," Killian answers tightly, his voice clipped and expression closed. He cannot keep his gaze even with hers, no matter how hard he tries, and he glances down instead at his own tightly clenched fingers.
It is clear that Emma wants to bite off her own tongue; Killian can see the regret in her expression before she is the one to glance away and let him off the hook. He knows without her speaking that Emma didn't mean to pry, already wishes she hadn't asked, and he can see from the changes flitting rapidly across her face that she is already sifting through her mind, looking for something to fix the awkward silence hanging between them. The moment those words comes to her is clear in the way her eyes widen, then she squares her shoulders determinedly and swallows hard, clearly resolute on putting things right. Tentatively, she holds her own arm out to him, her inner wrist turned up for his perusal, bearing her own small tattoo, usually covered by her watch.
It draws Killian's attention, just as she had hoped it would. Her breath catches raggedly; Emma forces herself to take his hand and wordlessly bring it up to trace over the inked-on flower and feel the raised scar tissue hidden by the simple design. Forcing herself to keep still as his fingers ghost lightly over the roughly healed flesh, she seems to expect the question in his eyes when he raises them to hers.
Wetting her lips, Emma nervously offers one of the many scars on her psyche up to him willingly. "I was sixteen, in the last foster home I stayed at, before I left the system. The wife of the family was an ICU nurse, gone all the time, exhausted and sleeping when she was there. We all had chores to help her out, and my job was to clear the table and do the dishes…"
She gathers another shaky breath as he lets his roughened fingertips trace the outline of the tattooed flower petals, trying to soothe the pain he already senses in her tale. She swallows hard and continues. "The husband was obviously resentful of his wife's exhaustion and busyness. I could feel his eyes on me, and it made my skin crawl, but it had never gone any further than that, so I just tried to ignore it. This one night though… he was on his third beer by the time everyone else left the table. I …I went to get his plate, to take it to the sink, and he grabbed my wrist. The way he ran his fingers up my arm, the look in his eyes…I knew where things were headed. He- he tried to pull me into his lap, and – and – I must have panicked, shoved away from him too hard. He still had that grip on my wrist…and he held his lit cigarette right there…before he backhanded me. When I came to… I was still lying on the kitchen floor. That was the night I finally ran away and left the system for good." She sniffs back the residual tears, forcing her strong determination back into her expression. "It never healed quite right," she shrugs, "so I got the daisy to cover it. I didn't want to see it anymore."
Killian holds himself silent several long, aching moments, taking the story in, sympathetic hurt in his eyes for her, forcing himself to swallow the anger that swells within him at the thought of anyone hurting her so callously. "Oh Swan," he whispers at last and then pulls her into the cradle of his arms, not questioning why with him she will allow herself the weakness, where she will usually do anything to appear strong. He has no way of knowing that the way he says her name with such aching kindness gives her back a piece of her real self, breaking the dam she usually holds her emotions behind. Soon, Emma is sobbing it all out, coming apart and shaking in his arms. Though she loves the way he has taken to calling her "Maggie" or "Mags" or "Magpie" as sweet nicknames for her new identity, the battering ram is hearing her true name in that lilting brogue, as if it matters and is infinitely precious.
Killian doesn't rush her, doesn't hurry her grief; he simply shelters her in the storm that has engulfed her, stroking a soothing hand repeatedly through the shortened strands of her hair. He murmurs low, gravelly words of comfort at her ear and rocks them carefully from side to side, until Emma is able to feel the tumult inside of her easing, the worst of it finally past.
She sighs and lets herself sink into his embrace as Killian places his thumb and forefinger beneath her chin, tipping her head up to meet his eyes. Then, slowly, he draws his sleeve back, letting his own tattoo show once more and bringing her hand forward, entwined with his, so that she can touch his marked skin. His tone sounds rough and hoarse when he begins, and Emma knows that his story – much like her own – has not been told before. "Milah was my fiancé," he begins, searching her expression before pressing on. "We met not long after I lost Liam, and it took almost no time before she was my whole world. She was an artist – very gifted – and so charming and impetuous; I couldn't wait to make her my wife and build a home for her, start a family, all of it. Unfortunately, I was also still tracking the men who attacked my brother, determined to make them pay and avenge his death. Eventually, I found out that they had been connected to the Gold-Mills ring. I was part of the FBI by then, which gave me the resources to continue my search with more success. But …as I got closer…I became known to them as well. I didn't heed the warnings I received to back off…and Milah paid the price. She lost her life because of my mistake. At least it was quick, painless, not like what Liam suffered… Their grievance was not with her. She was an – an innocent pawn, meant to serve as a caution to me… "
When his words run out, Killian's face contorts and his head bows, forehead resting against Emma's shoulder as he draws several shuddering breaths. When she touches his cheek and urges him to meet her eyes, as he had done for her, his are glassy with unshed tears. She tries to give him the best smile she can muster, aching for the pain and loss he has suffered. His voice is harsh and raw when he finally pushes words out again, but he adds, "These monsters have taken the two people I loved most in the world from me. They won't hurt you or Henry. I won't let them… I'd die first," he vows finally upon regaining his voice.
Emma's breath catches in her lungs, her body freezing at his words. She shakes her head vehemently, feeling more tears start that she doesn't want to shed. "Don't say that," she croaks. "Please. I don't want anyone else I – I care about dying. Please."
He reaches out a steadying hand to brush chestnut brown hair off her face and tuck it behind her ear. His eyes are apologetic, but firm too. "I'm sorry, but it can't be helped, Darling. I meant what I said."
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After that night, there is a closeness between Killian and Emma. It had been building, steady if slow, for some time, but the bond forged when they finally share some of their deepest secrets and scars cements them together somehow. Their bond is more than friendship, balancing on the edge of more than either of them can admit to or afford to risk. They don't avoid each other, but the knowledge is unspoken; both aware it's there as they go about their day. Each drawing strength from the other's presence and trying not to dwell on the fact that the other's support is only with them for a limited time, within the very nature of their acquaintance is a time limit. As the days tick by, drawing them closer to heading back for the trial, neither want to acknowledge how hard it will be when they have to part ways, or just why that is so.
Even though they will not have the huge Thanksgiving she had begun to plan, Emma is still trying her hand at cooking. There are a few weeks left before they must pack up for Boston, and she hasn't given up hope that she will concoct something promisingly edible by then. She has made several only moderately successful attempts at meals for the four of them, and so her efforts today are concentrated on simple cookies. She is just thinking that the first batch should be ready to come out of the oven when the smoke alarm begins blaring incessantly.
Coughing as she opens the oven door to be bombarded with smoke that stings her eyes and the smell of hopelessly burnt dough, Emma laughs at her own utter kitchen ineptitude, especially when Killian comes running from where he has been reading out on the porch, a look of half-concern and half mocking amusement on his face. "Trying to burn the place down, Magpie?" he asks with playful derision and a quirk of his brow. She notices he uses that moniker most, and wonders with some humor if it's because it is also a bird, like the "Swan" nickname he had preferred to call her before the new identities.
"Only trying to make cookies and appease your rampant sweet tooth," she sasses right back with a purposefully over-bright smile. "You're still welcome to eat one and make yourself sick," she adds, holding out a blackened excuse for a sugar cookie.
"Oi, Lass, you wound me! Trying to poison your faithful protector!"
She actually giggles, not knowing when the youthful sound she never had much chance to indulge has become normal for her in his presence. Emma is still chuckling at his reaction and her own baking disaster as she turns to dump the pan full of burnt morsels in the kitchen trash and hears Killian's phone go off.
His posture immediately stiffens in concern, his face paling and voice going deadly serious. "Are you sure?" he asks, voice taut and low, then, "We'll meet you."
He hangs up and turns to Emma, her lighthearted humor forgotten as ice runs through her veins at the look on his face. He meets her eyes steadily; remorse and dread are already writ across his rugged features, even before he finally speaks. "That was Ruby… Henry didn't meet her at their spot when school let out. She's still looking, but there's no sign of him anywhere."