Chapter Ten: In the Light of Day
It doesn't take Killian Jones long to note enough details of the room to understand what has happened. Emma is still clad in her skin-tight jeans, which he has to admit he has appreciated on more than one occasion. However, she must have begun to ready herself for bed, as she is also wearing a thin camisole tank and a sort of silky kimono-type robe. Once he has her supported, mostly sitting upright against his side, Killian glimpses the real culprits for the state he has found her in.
Scattered across the floor on her other side are pictures of Henry, one also depicting a kind-faced, dirty blonde, bearded man smiling as he swings Henry into the air, whom Killian recognizes from the case files as Emma's deceased paramour. Mixed in with the photographs are a child's drawing – labeled in red crayon scrawl "Me and Papa Graham" – and what looks suspiciously like a birth certificate with no parents listed and only the first name "Emma", last name "Unknown". He is struck again by how shaken she must have been to hide away and break down, that one movie night – and even then only a single tumbler – and now are the only times he has known Emma to try drinking as a way to forget her problems. Moving the nearly empty bottle from her grasp before trying to move her, his stomach twinges, thinking of how sick she is apt to feel in the morning.
Once assured that she has emptied her stomach and won't have anything more to expel, Killian eases Emma up with him as he stands to his feet again, then lifts to set her on the edge of the tub, run cold water on a cloth, and gently wash her face and neck, knowing the cool water will feel better after the perspiration and heaving. He then finds a glass in the medicine cabinet, fills it up with cold water, making sure all the while to keep one hand on her arm, seeing that she stays upright. Crouching before Emma again, he coaxes her to drink the whole glass, tilting it at her lips until she hazily complies, somewhat looking at him through eyes scarcely open more than slits. "Drink up, Swan," he urges, trying to put some cheer into his concerned voice. "We wouldn't want you pickling your liver like a true Irishwoman."
She releases a breath of air and, still leaning against him, barely murmurs a lazy, "Shut up, Jones," that lacks any sort of venom on the end of the sigh.
Killian picks her up again, savoring just a moment of cradling her in his arms, despite the situation, and then wondering in surprise at the thought. He knows now that though she had seemed calm and controlled once Henry was found, Emma had obviously not really been that stoic on the inside. He hadn't realized she was this distressed, certainly. If he had known she was hurting like this, he would never have left her alone earlier. Henry's disappearance was the final straw, so to speak, but he was a smart enough man to see that the once the dam broke, it let the many other things Emma has been holding back flood over her.
Setting Emma down on the edge of her bed, handling her with delicate care, Killian tilts her face up to meet his gaze with fingers under her chin, tapping her cheeks to get a reaction until she looks back. Mostly, he wants to gauge just how glassy her eyes are and if it is safe to let her sleep uninterrupted without fear of alcohol poisoning. Finally, mostly satisfied that she should be alright to sleep it off, though already resolved to spend the night in the chair against the far wall where he can watch over her, Killian releases her chin and moves to back away.
Surprisingly, Emma doesn't let her head fall or drop her gaze from his. Instead, she leans in, bringing their faces closer together, until their noses are almost brushing, and catches his hand in hers with a grip much stronger than he would have expected. "Stay with me," she murmurs thickly, so low and muddled that if he weren't as close to her as he is and as attuned to her, he wouldn't have caught her plea at all.
Blinking owlishly up at him, Emma holds his stare, and pain lances in his chest at the expression. He wants to pull her in, to hold her in his arms, to taste those fully pink lips she suddenly seems to be offering up to him gladly, to love and cherish her as she deserves, as well as strive to protect her. The good Lord knows it has been so long since he's had anyone to hold, since anyone trusted him enough to lay her head on his chest and sleep soundly, knowing he would protect her. As soon as that warm sentiment curls pleasantly in his chest, a vicious image of Milah's body at the morgue where he had been the one to identify her flashes in his mind cruelly, disturbing the moment of almost contentment. The last person who had trusted him to protect her had died when he couldn't.
It physically pains him that he cannot be sure Emma isn't acting out of desperation brought on by fear and hurt, even how aware she is of what she is doing and saying after the amount of drink she's had, or how much she will remember. Pushing the rest of his jumbled emotions away and reminding himself of his duty, Killian tries to ignore the longing in her eyes and put some emotional distance between them. He needs to make sure Emma is comfortable, see to her well-being through the night, and forget these last few minutes ever happened come morning light. Shaking his head sadly, he brushes a hand through her long, silky hair, bright as the dawning sun, all the bliss he will allow himself, and she tilts her head, leaning her cheek into his palm. He can barely pull his hand away again and step back to gain some clarity.
Finding the pajama shorts she must have intended to wear tossed on the bedside table, Killian takes Emma's hands and pulls her to stand before him. Biting into his lip, hoping the sharp pain will help to strengthen his control, Killian determinedly avoids her eyes as he undoes the button of her jeans and eases down the zipper. Slowly, carefully, trying desperately not to let his gaze linger on the lovely, pale expanse of her long, slim legs, he eases the denim to the floor, guiding her hands to rest on his shoulders for balance, as a parent would a small child when helping them get ready for bed. Then, he has Emma lift first one foot and then the other to put them through the leg holes of the sleep shorts he's found and pulls them up to her waist, breathing a sigh of strained relief when he has once more covered the ridiculously tiny bikini panties in black, all that had kept her from being completely bare before him.
Taking a step back, Killian attempts a lighthearted smile at his charge, hoping she won't hate him in the morning when she realizes how vulnerable she has been. "Well, Swan, let's tuck you into bed, shall we?" His voice comes out sounding choked and much huskier than normal, but there is nothing for it at the moment.
Emma, apparently, has other ideas and seems to come out of her stupor enough to act on them and catch him by surprise. Clasping the collar of his button-down in each hand, she stands on her tiptoes to reach him just as she jerks him back toward her with enough force to throw Killian off balance and in the direction she intends. Next thing he knows, their lips are fused and Emma is snaking her hand up through his hair and letting out a pleased little moan that nearly sinks him.
He falls into the kiss – can't help it – and for several blissful moments, Killian loses himself in the sensation, pulling her willing form against his body, angling his mouth over hers to delve more actively into the kiss. When she giggles woozily and begins nipping at his lower lip though, a shudder runs through him and every nerve and sinew flares to life with awareness of Emma's proximity and how very much he wants her. He has to pull back now, before he goes blind to all reason.
Catching both of Emma's wrists in his hands, he untangles them from where one is carding through his hair and the other has wrapped around his shoulder. Killian holds her at arm's length, shaking his head to clear it and gather enough of his wits to speak.
"Emma," he starts, beseeching her to understand. He cannot take advantage of her pain, her intoxication, and her moment of vulnerability. First and foremost, his job is to guard her, to keep her alive, becoming too emotionally attached compromises his ability to stay sharp, to do his duty to the best of his ability. He hates to realize that he has let himself lose sight of that. Secondly, this woman standing before him is usually so strong and so guarded. After months, she has let down her walls around him, let him begin to know her; he cannot bear to think that she will hate her moment of weakness – and him – once her mind clears. "I can't…" he manages. "We shouldn't do something you might regret…"
The lovely clear jade of her eyes clouds with hurt, and Emma slumps, falling back as if he has struck her. Her arms wrap around herself protectively, and her gaze falls from his to the floor, refusing to rise again. "Of course, you're right," she mumbles almost inaudibly, turning her back on him and moving to get into bed.
As she does, he sees a tear run down her cheek and it stabs at him, knowing he has hurt her, made her feel rejected once more…but he cannot in good conscience let them continue what they started. Emma pulls the covers up until she is nearly hidden beneath them, then mumbles, "It's fine, Jones. I understand. You can go."
He shakes his head, seeing clearly from her face, even in the dim light, that things are anything but fine. "No, Lass, you don't understand. I do not know when I last did something as hard as stopping just now…but that has to be a one-time thing. I cannot lose my focus in keeping you safe. But I won't have you be alone tonight either. I'll be staying right here in this chair, to keep watch over you."
"Suit yourself," she replies, seeming to completely miss or ignore the rest of his heartfelt plea, trying to shrug her shoulders in unconcern, but the movement is lethargic and falls flat halfway through.
Killian drops into the chair, bending his long legs and settling in for the night. Unfortunately, he can't help hearing the whisper she releases into the dark. "I should have known you didn't want me either…I'm never enough to make anyone stay…"
He sighs, rubbing a hand roughly over his weary face, trying to think of some response, anything he can say to make it better. He is not sure she is aware that she's spoken out loud, but she is hurting regardless. No fitting reassurances come to him, but he clears his throat to attempt them anyway, until he sees that Emma has either passed out or finally fallen asleep, and lets it pass. The morning will be soon enough to face whatever damage has been done. He can only hope that in the light of day, he will be able to repair the rift that seems to have suddenly opened wide between them. If that kiss is as seared in Emma's consciousness as Killian knows it is in his, then he can only hope she will forgive him, and treasure it, but understand come morning why it could not go any further. Emma's life – and Henry's – are the most important things to him now, even more so than they were before. He may sacrifice a second chance at love for the cause, but to see her safe and well, Killian Jones realizes, he will give that and more.
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The next day, sunlight streaming through the blinds wakes Emma most unpleasantly to the headache pounding through her skull. Squinting to avoid the pain those brilliant rays cause, she lets out a disgruntled groan while levering herself up on her elbows, rubbing her eyes and stifling a yawn. Glancing blearily around her, her gaze is arrested by the sight of Killian Jones dozing heavily in the chair at her bedside. He's still in his jeans and boots, head fallen to rest awkwardly on his chest in a way that will no doubt leave him with a stiff neck upon waking.
An unpleasant lurching in her stomach at the little movement she's made quickly interrupts her enjoyment of seeing Jones vulnerably rumpled and off his guard, sprawled out in sleep. It is only very gingerly that she eases herself up to sit fully and tries to remember why he is sitting vigil at her bedside. After another minute, snatches of the evening before flash back through her mind and a shameful blush rises on her cheeks. Gingerly sliding her legs out of the sheets, Emma crawls from her warm cocoon and puts bare feet to the floor. Looking down at the short pajama shorts and skimpy tank, she briefly sees Killian finding her on the floor after she had thrown up, sees herself falling into his arms and kissing him, only to have him pull away rather than continue with her. Suddenly, Emma doesn't know how to proceed or how she will look him in the eye from now on.
Yet, in spite of the position she has put him in, Jones has stayed with her through the night, watching over her like the scruffy, rough-hewn guardian angel he has been ever since he took on their case. Wistful regret fills her at what could have been if their meeting and relationship were different. That one kiss, the heat of it spreading through her veins like molten fire, the comfort and security she felt in his arms like she has never experienced before, is obviously all she is meant to have – however much, now that she knows what it's like, she might wish for more. His concern for her and protective instinct is clear beyond the other complications and awkwardness she has created. Affection for Jones swells within her, and Emma takes the top blanket off her bed and carries it over to cover him warmly. Pressing a feather-light kiss of gratitude to his temple, she retreats quickly before she rouses him and makes the situation any more strained.
Almost as if he is aware of her touch, or has been dreaming of her, a breathy sigh escapes Jones' lips as he relaxes more comfortably into his slumber. With a bittersweet smile, she imprints this one and only intimate picture of him on her mind, if she is never to be granted another. He deserves justice, retribution for all he has lost, a chance to find peace…and someday, she hopes, happiness. If they aren't meant to be together beyond his assignment as her guard, she won't hold him to her.
Swiping at a few errant tears, Emma exits the room and steals barefoot down the stairs to start a pot of coffee and face the day. The sooner she forgets the night before, and the moment they shared, the better it may be for all of them…