Summary:
Killian seems confused for a moment, likely at the half-gibberish that's pouring out of her mouth, but then he smiles.
"Love," he says, gently pulling one of her hands from his hook so he can entangle his fingers with hers. "Just say the word. I'll follow you anywhere."
Notes: So seastarved (tumblr) and I have this headcanon that Killian Jones is actually incredibly intelligent, and would always come out on top in KJ vs. The Modern World. So I wrote this story for her. This started out as a CS at the airport ficlet, and evolved into a weird, post Season 5, CS goes on vacation angst/fluff fic. So spoilers through 5B. I'm not sure what this is, but I hope you enjoy! Title from the lyrics of Step Out by Jose Gonzales. Rated T for language and make outs.
Disclaimer: I own nothing recognizable.
It starts with onion rings.
Of course.
It's only been days – days – since Emma went through literal hell to rescue her pirate. A number of hours that she could have counted before she even went to kindergarten. As such, in the time that follows, she spends every moment, sleeping or awake, curled protectively around him. She hadn't noticed before –
"Death looks good on you," she snarks, eyeing his beautiful form as he fights alongside her. It distracts her from the oozing, screeching, things that crowd around them. Not enough that she can't chop their miserable heads off. Just enough that she manages not to vomit while she does it.
– but as she follows the contours of his cheeks with the back of her hand, the other buried forevermore, it seems, in his unruly hair, she notices he's looking a tad slight. Bones a bit more prominent, skin a bit more taught. She figures she's being paranoid, so she brushes it off in favor of clutching at his chest while he naps the day away.
But it comes to a head when she drags him down to Granny's for a decent meal.
"Killian Jones!" Granny shouts, before the door even shuts behind them. "Well, now, hell must really be empty."
"Ah, the Widow Lucas," he intones. "Ornery as ever, I see."
She hums in reply, but doesn't bite back, simply regarding him over the rims of her glasses. Emma figures everyone is giving him a break – which he deserves, absolutely, but which she's sure is helped by the fresh scars that creep up his neck, and the weariness weighing on his gait. But something about the way Granny eyes him top to bottom rubs her a bit raw. Emma guides them back to their booth. Killian quirks a brow, but thankfully doesn't comment on her decision to sit next to him, pressed together knee to shoulder. And based on the way he leans into her, anything he'd have had to say would have been encouraging anyway.
"You hungry?" Emma says as she flips through the menu. Which is moot, really, since she can already both hear and smell the grilled cheeses frying in the back.
"Famished, love," he answers.
Famished.
The word echoes again and again in her head. She looks at him, really looks at him. His jacket poofs at his back. He shirt appears to hang a bit lower. His eyes, while bright, appear sunken. He is smiling, and while she wouldn't say it's empty, it's certainly tired. His brow, typically spelling him out with every nigh-theatrical quirk and furrow, barely twitches as he speaks.
"Emma," he says. "What is it, love?"
Famished, famished, famished…
Granny is out a few moments later, bringing them a comically massive plate of onion rings. And Killian, typically mannered to the point of prim, attacks them, hand shaking as he does. Suddenly, the fatigue clinging to him as he eats looks an awful lot like death…
And this is what breaks her.
Onion rings. Fucking onion rings. And now she's sobbing, the force of them pitching her forward, her face falling in her hands. Killian makes a gruff noise, shuffling a bit as he turns towards her, meal suddenly forgotten, which only makes her cry harder. She can feel his hook smoothing over her jacket, his hand tangling in her hair. It's a bit awkward squished together in the booth, but he manages to bury his face in her shoulder. He takes a deep breath; after which she imagines he'll begin trying to comfort her, whispering impossibly genuine words directly into her ear. She's not sure she can take it.
But instead, "Emma. Gods, Emma. Love, I…"
He doesn't finish, no more able to speak through his tears than she is through hers. She thinks they must make quite the spectacle, wound up in one another in a booth in a diner, sobbing uncontrollably next to a plate of onion rings. Maybe they should have done this sooner, maybe they should have waited until they broke, really broke, before they tried to make the motions under the scrutiny of Storybrooke's public eye.
Then again, Emma thinks as her hands roam, alternately grasping fistfuls of his shirt and of his hair, maybe everyone else can fuck off.
She doesn't hear the bell above Granny's door – she can't hear anything above the rush of blood in her ears and the rustle of his leather against hers – so she startles when she hears her mother's voice by her ear.
"Oh, Emma," she says. Emma and Killian both look up, pulling back only enough to see her parents looking down at them. If anything, Emma would have expected pity, but all she sees is hope, rimmed with unshed tears. Mary Margaret reaches out, thumbing at her cheek. Emma flashes a watery smile at her, then at her father. But when her mother does the same to Killian, it sets her burrowing back into his chest, a fresh wave of tears tracking down her face, her chin, down the lapels of his jacket.
Neither her mother nor her father say anything, thank God, because Emma is bordering on hysterical now, and all she needs is to bask in warmth and pressure and the faint smell of the sea. But they do wiggle their way behind them and around them.
It's probably the most awkward group hug of all time, limited as it is by the table in front of them and the booth behind. But she can feel her father's hand on her back. She cracks an eye open, and she can see her mother squeezing Killian's shoulder with an affectionate smile.
Her mind has been ruthless as of late, forcibly cataloging every horrible thing she's done since she'd unequivocally decided that Killian was hers, Goddammit. But now, here in this moment, it quiets, and the barrage of anger and shame and guilt melt into melancholy contentment.
She'll take it.
It's another half hour, at least, before the lot of them manage to untangle themselves – which becomes another spectacle in and of itself when they discover that eyeliner is everywhere, and dissolve into a fit of hysterics. That alone gives her the courage to let him out of her sight –
"I really ought to bathe, love."
She attempts a brow waggle of her own, met with a disbelieving bark of laughter.
"As much as I would enjoy your company, I think your parents have gone without long enough."
– and to follow her parents back to the loft ahead of him.
Where the crazy talk begins, almost as soon as they walk through the door.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
"We're serious, Emma," David says, his hands on his hips. "You've been through a lot. Both of you. It's time to take stock of the little moments."
Emma looks between them, searching for the joke she must be missing. "I just cried all over my boyfriend for like an hour. In public. And you think we should go on a…a vacation?"
Her mother smiles, reaching out to take hold of her hands. "Emma, honey, listen to yourself. A vacation shouldn't sound so absurd."
"But what if – "
"Emma." Her father's voice is stern, but his eyes are kind. He moves to stand by her side, arm around her shoulder, hand squeezing her arm. "Don't do that. You don't have to go if you don't want to. Obviously. But don't let fear stop you. Not anymore."
God, has it become everyone's goal in life to make her shed all the post-darkness tears? She bites the inside of her lip and counts to three before she replies. "But what about Henry? And you guys?"
Mary Margaret laughs, brightly. "A week without you, maybe two…we'll miss you, of course. But I think we'll manage."
Emma smiles. The idea sounds less and less absurd as she rolls it around in her mind. But it's just too soon… "Not right now. But I'll think about it. We'll think about it."
This answer seems to satisfy them. And Emma does consider it, she really does. At least until Killian returns, and she's too busy touching his face to even think about touching the mess that comes with planning a vacation with a ten-foot pole.
Weeks later, and she finds herself considering it once more. The desperation to cling to one another has all but faded, leaving behind the simple joy that comes with just being together. On this particular evening, it's long since been dark, and they're walking arm in arm on the edge of town, the veil of nightfall allowing them plain sight of the stars. The darkness, Hades, the business with his father – she can tell it stills weighs heavily on his soul, both their souls. But he's not looked so lighthearted since…since he gave her the ring in Camelot, maybe?
God, that's depressing.
"What are you thinking, love?"
Emma turns to look at him, studying his profile as he gazes up at the stars. He glances at her from the corner of his eyes, but his head is still tilted back, no doubt drinking in the fresh air and lack of impending danger.
"Well…"
Now he does look at her, urging her on with a quirk of his brow.
She sighs. "What would you say to a…vacation?"
"A vacation?"
She stops walking, and he follows suit, turning towards her. She reaches for his hook, pulling it up to her chest. She taps a muted rhythm against the chilled metal, considering for a moment how out-of-context-strange it is that she's basically snuggling the damn thing. But fuck, if it doesn't feel amazing, to just reach out and touch him whenever she wants…
Killian reaches up, fingers pressing gently at the skin of her cheek. "Emma?"
"Yeah, uh," she clears her throat, looking up at him. "You know. Just a week, maybe. Or less, whatever. We could fly somewhere, bitch about the TSA, eat questionable food, spend a stupid amount of time watching TV in a hotel room – " She's babbling, she realizes, but as she speaks, it all begins to sound so pleasantly normal that she leans forward on her toes, her smile answered by of his own. " – and just…be."
Killian seems confused for a moment, likely at the half-gibberish that's pouring out of her mouth, but then he smiles.
"Love," he says, gently pulling one of her hands from his hook so he can entangle his fingers with hers. "Just say the word. I'll follow you anywhere."
She grins, the force of it making her cheeks ache. Her fingers itch to stroke the nape of his neck. But his hook is warming in her grasp, and his hand is playing with her fingers just so. So she takes a step forward instead, leaning her body into his.
"I know," she says.
And he does.
Although, as it turns out, vacation or not, Killian Jones takes any and all journeys of appreciable length a great deal of thought. She's seen him ready on the fly, flipping the switch from amiable to ruthless, playful to sinister, goofy to serious – all as needed.
But, if he's given time, he prefers to learn quite literally everything about what it is he's about to do.
It's tedious.
It's adorable.
The only thing – the most important thing, she had thought – he did not fuss over was the location. Her parents, on the other hand…
"What about LA?" says Mary Margaret. "Or Florida? Or, ooh! Europe."
David laughs. "They're only gone for a week. They'd spend the whole time at the airport."
Emma's about to quip about the troubles of long distance traveling – and how maybe they're not the ones that need a vacation, considering how Mary Margaret is practically frothing at the mouth with vicarious glee – when Killian pipes in.
"I'm sorry," he says, turning from where he and Henry are bent over some ratty travel book. "The what?"
"The airport," David says, waving his hand around while he appears to wrack his brain for an explanation. "You know, with air…planes."
Killian gives him a look. "Yes, thank you, Dave, that's very helpful."
"Wait," Henry says. "You've never heard of the airport?"
Killian shrugs – although Emma can see the glint in his eyes, that almost maddening flicker of intensity he shoulders before he sets himself on a quest to learn everything about everything. "I may have heard of it in passing on the streets of your New York. But I was a bit preoccupied wading through a sea of blonde women and unfortunate odors."
Henry laughs. "Well, wherever you're going, you'll probably fly. Airports are where you take off and where you land."
Killian perks up, visibly brightening. "Is that so? Tell me more."
Tell me more quickly becomes Mom we need to buy a flight simulator because of reasons.
Both Emma and Regina draw the line at expensive software. But that doesn't stop Henry and Killian from spending their evenings devouring every airport documentary known to mankind in every obscure, oftentimes shady corner of the internet. It's an odd fixation, surely, but Emma knows what this is. She recognizes it all to well. Weeks and weeks of uncertainty and torment, followed by sudden, and almost disconcerting peace. Emma herself has taken to running early in the morning. Turns out Killian – aside from taking her and Henry sailing, of course – calms a howling mind by sponging up a ludicrous amount of information.
"Swan, were you aware that eighty million passengers flew last year alone?"
She smiles. "No, Killian."
"And that this, if I might say, astonishing figure accounts only for your nation?"
Wider now. "No, Killian."
No, Killian. She never knows. And honestly, everything outside of being somewhere new and interesting is more than a little laborious. Luckily, it takes all of eight seconds to convince Killian and Henry to take care of the logistics from start to finish.
"Don't worry, Mom," Henry says. "We've got this covered."
"Aye," Killian says. "We'll take care of you, love."
"Where you're going, it can be a surprise!"
Killian smiles, nudging Henry with his hook. "What do you say, Swan?"
Emma laughs. "I don't see why not."
"We can even pack for you," Henry offers helpfully.
"Well, now, lad…"
Killian and Henry drift off into the front room, bending over what Killian still stubbornly refers to as The Google Machine and Godammit she's tearing up again. She rubs at her eyes and beelines for the hot chocolate.
Another two weeks and she's standing in JFK International Airport with her literal-fairytale pirate boyfriend, on their way to Portland, Oregon, as it turns out.
"Henry's idea, love," Killian had explained. "It is, and I quote, a chill city with a lot of waterfront property."
They didn't pack for her, but she did get a nifty little list, so all she's done thus far is mindlessly toss some things in a bag and drive the bug while he regaled her with stories of his days at sea – intermixed, as they were, with outrageous aeronautical facts and statistics.
And now here she is, admiring the clash of Killian Jones against the chaos of the modern world. It would be even more jarring, she imagines, if they'd not elected to leave his hook behind –
"But Emma…"
"They freak out if you walk through the thing with a belt, Killian. You can't bring something you can clearly stab someone with. I'll poof it there later, okay?"
– fake hand snugly in place.
Still, she watches him, gauging his reaction as he takes in the scene before him: the lines, the shops, the faint note of panic as people toss valuable items in questionably hygienic bins. It's never failed to impress her, how he takes her world for what it is, how he navigates it with minimal difficulty…
"This is bloody ridiculous."
…with no small number of complaints, that is. Clearly, he's done his research – with the aid of the computers, Swan, seems there's no excuse not to know quite literally everything – but he still eyes the spectacle with a frown, chewing the inside of his lower lip.
Emma sighs, reaching out to take his hand. "Just do everything they say, and it should be fine."
If anything, he seems more affronted. "I'm the Captain of the finest and fastest ship in the realms. I'll be damned if I'm taking their orders."
She rolls her eyes. "Well, then, next time, I'll figure out how to make the Jolly Roger invisible, and we can just pixie dust our way over there."
"Brilliant. Let's do that."
"Killian, for fuck's sake, flying commercial was all you could talk about up until like forty-seven seconds ago. Suck it up and take your shoes off."
He looks down at her, expression quickly turning to delight. Mischief twinkles in his eyes – which, for some entirely unfair reason, are even more beautiful in the glare of fluorescents – and it gives her a sore case of emotional whiplash.
"Oh, that won't be necessary," he says. "Like I said, I won't be taking their orders. I've already been approved for Pre-Check."
At that, he saunters straight up to the front of some non-line, and breezes right through. After which it becomes clear he believes she'll do the same, obviously trusting she'd had the foresight to do the same some years ago. But she's not approved for whatever the hell that is. Is anyone besides him?
"You're joking," he shouts, when she hops in line behind like a million people.
"No," she shouts back. "I didn't spend the last week watching eighty-nine hours of weird airport videos!"
He rolls his eyes, but he waits patiently, smiling at her when she emerges on the other side with one sock half-off and her hair mussed from yanking off her hat in a hurry. He reaches into the bin, placing it gently atop her head, electing to ignore the strange, slightly annoyed looks they're receiving from fellow travelers as they linger.
"I'll join you in the plebeian's line on the way home, love."
Emma huffs all the way down the concourse after they gather their things, caught somewhere between annoyance and, well, arousal, if she's honest with herself. In fact, as she watches him prance easily down the moving sidewalk from behind, it's all arousal. The same tingling heat that settles in her belly when she watches him obsess over books on boat motors and modern astronomy. As the frustration with having to half-strip wears off, she settles into a feeling of complacency. She can almost feel the scars healing in these simple moments.
"So you're one of those people that walks on the moving sidewalk, huh?" she says when they finally reach their gate.
He grins and damn if it isn't the most beautiful thing she's ever seen. "Reminds me of a magic carpet. Wonderful bit of sorcery, that."
She's caught surprised by her own laughter. "Magic carpets, really?"
His face grows a bit grim, and Emma worries that she's summoned some sort of demon. Not that it's hard, these days. Still, she ought to know better, she thinks, than to pry, especially when they're trying to enjoy a vacation –
"Aye, love," he interrupts her train of thought. "Fluffy tossers will buck you right off. Gave me this scar." He taps at his left shoulder. Emma knows the one he means. She's traced it many times over, knows the way it dips and curls, down to the mole above his left shoulder blade…
She bites her lip, chuffing, and takes his hand. "Well, tell me the story while we wait to board for the rest of our lives."
They're buckling their seatbelts just as he finishes, gesticulating wildly as he reaches the climax of the tale of a dastardly demon-child that had stolen his hook. She would shush him – he is, after all, describing how he'd skirted death by hanging onto the tassels of an airborne rug – but he and this story both are precious, and she'll be hearing the rest of it, everyone else be damned.
Luckily, though, he's just finished by the time the in flight safety video begins – "Bloody fucking carpet. It's no coincidence our house is all wood flooring." – to which he pays dutiful respect and attention.
"This is quite pleasant, Swan," he says, delighted, as they taxi about the runway.
She laughs. "Well, hold onto your hook." He shoots her a look, clearly lamenting the lack of said attachment. "We haven't even taken off yet."
He hums, thoughtful. "I've heard aviophobia is quite prevalent in this realm. I don't see why."
Aviophobia, what the hell… "Oh, yeah, fear of flying. Well, I mean – "
It's at this very moment that the plane accelerates suddenly, as they do, and the force of it pushes them into their seats, even more so once they're actually in the air, a few gusts of wind rocking them back and forth.
Killian, meanwhile, lets out a strangled noise, staring aghast out the window.
Emma throws her head back at his horrified expression, laughing heartily. She takes pity on him, though, patting his arm. "Honestly, that's the worst part. And it's over, so relax."
"Seven hells, Emma," he says, hand grasping the cuff of her jacket as another wave of turbulence shutters down the body of the plane. "Take me back to the underworld."
Her smile vanishes.
"Are you serious," she deadpans, eyeing a passenger across the way that gives them both a curious look. "Don't even joke about that. Especially not in public."
He scoffs, even as he shrinks down into his seat. "Please. I could gut a man with my hook at this very moment, and still no one would believe me if I told them my name. This is a cynical world, Swan."
"Oh my God, shut up."
A woman in the row beside them gives them both a serious side-eye. The guy from earlier is starting to look pale. She figures she could use a bit of magic to give them both a nice nap or something but, God, "Killian, if you get us kicked off this plane, I will go to Portland without you, I am not even joking."
Killian chuckles, taking hold of her hand. His is a bit clammy, but he seems to unwind as they gain altitude. He smiles at her, but appears to be distracted by the scene out the window. Again, she finds herself enamored with how he takes things in stride. Honestly, flying is not her favorite. And while, seconds ago, she'd been practically babying him through takeoff, he settles, reaching down to press nonsense into her thigh.
"You know," Emma says. "At the beginning, this trip was meant to make you feel better. I mean, both of us, sure, but you in particular."
He smiles, tearing his gaze away from the window. "Well, then, I'd consider it a success, love."
She smiles back, rolling her eyes. "Then how has it turned out that you and Henry orchestrated like this entire thing trying to make me feel better?"
"I should think that's obvious." He reaches up, fiddling with the hairs that have fallen from behind her ear. "I love you."
The passenger, the very same that had eyed Killian suspiciously as he joked about literally murdering someone, glances at them yet again. But now he seems rather charmed. Of course.
Emma reaches down to grasp his fake hand as she kisses him. And sloppily, she might add, because she can't tone down the smile long enough for anything more graceful. Killian doesn't seem to mind, though, content just to brush his lips against hers before he turns and slumps onto her shoulder, the soft hairs atop his head tickling her nose and her cheek. Please-Don't-Murder-Me guy looks like he's going to burst into happy flames. Emma chuckles, reaching up to pat his cheek, then further still to pull at the long, curling hairs at the nape of his neck.
"Everyone on this plane just fell in love with you," she says, quietly.
He hums, pressing his nose into her neck, clearly suddenly overtaken with the desire to nap. His words are muted, slightly slurred, "And you, Swan?"
"Don't be ridiculous," she says. And adds, if only for dramatic effect – they've apparently become the same person – that, "I fall in love with you every day."
He's asleep before he can reply, after which Side-Eye-Lady gives her a smile and a nod. Emma blushes, but smiles back before she settles into her seat for the remainder of the flight.
They touch down what would be late evening in Storybrooke. Which means everyone here is eating or thinking about eating dinner. Which means Emma is somehow both ravenous and sickened at the thought of food.
"I don't even know what day it is," she jokes, jumping up and down in place a bit to loosen her muscles. Her ass, she figures, is now permanently squished into the shape of the plane's seat cushions.
Killian laughs, but he reaches into his pocket for his phone, "May twelfth, six oh-eight, Pacific Standard Time, my love. Past due for dinner, I imagine."
Emma stares at him. She's no stranger to his intelligence. After all, only recently, he'd practically dragged her around JFK. Captain Hook in JF-fucking-K, and he didn't miss a step, pausing only to engage in lively diatribes against the less than appealing peculiarities of travel in the land without magic. And, if she thinks about it, this guy navigated New York City, what, not even hours after he returned from the Enchanted Forest? He can fire off texts nearly as quickly as Henry. In between crises, he's somehow managed to learn everything about motors, boat and otherwise. It's just, it's ridiculous.
Ridiculously hot, she thinks. Food can wait.
She gives him a look – the look, to which he quirks a devious brow, suddenly disinterested in the muted bustle of the Portland International Airport – and drags him to the nearest taxi.
Two hours later, and they're tangled helplessly in heinously low thread count sheets, clothed in nothing but the chains they both wear around their necks. Those too are tangled, and she knows it will be a chore to drag themselves out of the bed. It's only one of the many dozens of times Emma's been wrapped around Killian in the past few weeks. But it feels different. Peaceful. Somehow, it feels like the first time she's really breathed since she watched him cross the water to the Underworld. Hell, since she first told him she loved him, even.
"What are you thinking now, Swan?" His blunted arm presses gently into her side, drawing nonsense into the skin at her waist. His other arm serves as just one of the pillows she's claimed, his fingers skipping a disjointed path along her back.
"I'm thinking you probably love me."
He laughs, brightly, his eyes damn near glittering in the faint, evening light drifting in through the window. "Whatever gave you that idea?"
She smiles, reaching up to drag her fingers over the scruff on his chin, over his ears, up into his hair. "I love you too."
His expression turns serious, and he presses his body into hers, as hard as he can manage, sliding a leg up her calf just as his hand burns a path down to the small of her back. "I love you, Emma."
She kisses him, her mouth against his even as her name still falls from his lips. He tastes different now. Or maybe it's her. Even as she presses him into the mattress, breathing his name into the skin above his heart, she can't help but think they must be fundamentally changed. Never again to look at this world, or any world, in the same way.
Then again, as she loses herself in him, reading the story in his eyes as she comes undone, maybe it's not so bad.
The next morning, they're standing on a bridge, watching the river run, the stone pressed against their bellies slick with a warm, summer rain. The city spans out before them, buildings of all sorts of curious shapes and sizes jutting into the sky. The North Steel Bridge hulks ahead of them, the Morrison Bridge behind. There is a park across the way, and as the sun begins to set, the clouds part, and brilliant sunshine sets the scene aflame.
She knows these things – the bridges, the parks – because Killian knows these things. He's already a map in his head. Emma simply holds onto his hand, content to let him lead as she basks in the urban atmosphere.
The darkness feels like it's a million miles away. As if it were a different life. And – she realizes this as she leans on Killian's shoulder, just another pair of lovers in the crowd – it really was. The Dark One is far behind, in all the ways that matter.
"Not bad, eh, Swan?"
His voice rumbles against her ear, skittering down into her chest, warming her down to her toes. "It's alright," she jokes. Then, "How are you doing with all of this?"
"All of what?"
"You know. Strange, giant city in a strange land. Flying around in tin cans. Going back home to who knows what…"
She trails off. Killian turns to face her, leaning his hip, now, into the stone railing, and gathering her into his arms. He's smiling, but there is a serious bent to his brow. "My love, I've told you. The future is nothing to be afraid of."
She studies his face. One eye, then the other, down to his mouth, then back up again. "You also told me our future is now."
He hums, reaching for her neck, gently pulling Liam's ring from under her shirt. It glints between his fingers, casting the waning light of sun against the stone around them in muted shades of pink. "Aye, love. The future is always now."
Sometimes she forgets. This man has lived for centuries. And they leak into the words he says, the wisdom he holds. Emma gazes up at him, caught between the desire to just look at him until it's too dark to see and to press her face into his chest.
The latter wins out, and she watches the sun set over the river with one eye cracked open. He hums a disjointed tune as the stars peek out from behind the last shards of day, the sound of it fitting just so between who she feels she is and who she intends to be.
The future is always now.
Maybe there isn't anything to be afraid of, after all.