The hot shower is one of the best things he's experienced in a long time, and Killian lingers under the heavenly spray long after he's done using the pleasant-smelling soap and shampoo to wash all traces of sea, blood, sweat, and grime from his body. His fingers prune while he stands with his back to the water, relishing the warmth cascading over his skin and reflecting on his current situation. He has no idea how (or if) he'll ever get home or what will become of his ship if he doesn't, but he knows there are things to be grateful for. He's still alive, and his injuries are minor. The Sea Star is out of the Evil Queen's grasp, and she cannot cast her curse without it. And he's made new allies in Emma Swan and her son.
Emma. It's been ages since a woman intrigued him as much as she does. She's had his full attention since before they even exchanged words, the lass so much of a distraction that he didn't notice that bloody car when he walked across the street like an idiot, only focused on making a good first impression. Killian cringes, his embarrassment seizing him anew. He's a bloody buggering fool. He can only thank the gods that despite his inanity, she's been kind – kind and shrewd and witty and even charming (once she deigned to crack a smile). Fortune has, indeed, been in his favor.
He dries himself with the soft towel and finds that the sleep clothes fit nicely, the pants in particular the most comfortable things he thinks he's ever had the pleasure to wear next to his bare skin. He figures out how to open the toothpaste tube, studying the ingenious twist-off cap while he brushes his teeth, and then, finally feeling completely clean for the first time in recent (or even distant) memory, he leaves the bathroom, taking pleasure in flicking off the light switch.
He eyes the damp bandages wrapped around his hand and flexes his fingers with a smile. As much as the injury stings, having Emma help him with his wounds more than makes up for the inconvenience. And, he thinks, strapping his unadorned brace back on, as much as he dislikes not being allowed to wear his hook in their home, getting to stay here with her and Henry makes up for that too.
He climbs the staircase with anticipation and raps on the door with his brace. He hears muffled movement in the distance, and a couple seconds later, quiet footsteps approach. There's the slide of a heavy bolt lock, and the doorknob jiggles a little before it turns and swings open to reveal Emma standing on the other side.
She's changed her clothes too, having traded the alluring black dress for her own sleep ensemble. Loose, flowing pants in a pink and gray tartan peek out from underneath an overlarge, gray long-sleeved shirt with a wide neckline that sits fetchingly askew on her slender frame and gives him a tempting glimpse of her bare shoulder beneath an errant lock of blonde hair. There's something very pretty and soft and domestic about her appearance as she offers him an almost shy smile. "Hi."
He grins. "Hello, Swan."
Her gaze sweeps down over him, taking in his wet hair and pajamas, and she appears pleasantly satisfied. "Um, feel better after your shower?" she asks, taking a step back to let him through.
Killian chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully. "The shower rivals actual magic, love. I feel a bit like a new man."
She concurs with a hum and closes the door while he gets his first look around her home. They're standing in another kitchen, larger and airier than the one down in the apartment. A white marble counter runs along the left wall, interrupted by a wide white basin ("sink" was the term she'd used downstairs) with a faucet and some sort of metal cooking apparatus topped with four iron grates. White painted cabinets flank the counter above and below. Tiny green tiles that look like sea glass cover the wall between the counter and the upper cabinets, and in the center of the kitchen is a freestanding, rectangular counter bearing a bowl of fruit and equipped with two tall barstools that mark it as an eating area.
A window and a back door sit along the far wall, and the kitchen opens to his right to a larger dining area set with a long wood table and an overhanging light that resembles a giant glowing drum. An assortment of papers and a hinged, rectangular device the size of book sit next Emma's purse on the far side of the table, and the wall on the right features a fireplace with a painted white mantle.
Emma motions for him to follow as she retreats to the rear corner of the kitchen to get wound care supplies out of an upper cabinet. Killian pulls up close beside her and holds his hand out, gratified by the way his unexpected proximity causes her cheeks to wash pink. She glances, wide-eyed, up into his face like an awestruck angel for a full second before she manages to recover, blinking rapidly and forcing her attention down to his wound. She clears her throat and begins to unwind the bandage, stealing a glance at his forearm. "Who's Milah, in the tattoo?" she asks.
Milah's name is like a shower of ice upon him, extinguishing his smile instantaneously. Killian feels his shoulders tense, and he looks away, pretending to gaze out the window, though he can see little of the darkened backyard beyond. He swallows hard. "Someone from long ago," he answers grimly.
He can feel Emma's eyes back upon his face. She considers him in silence as she removes the old dressing and sets it aside. "She's gone?" she says at last. It's more an observation than a question.
His jaw twitches sideways, and he licks his lips, looking back down at his hand. "Aye."
Emma begins to apply fresh ointment and gauze. "I'm sorry," she says softly.
Something in her voice draws his gaze back up to meet hers, and he's surprised to see, not only sympathy, but some of his own pain reflected back at him in her expression.
Now it's her turn to look away. Emma reaches for the self-adhesive wrap. She takes a breath as if to say something, but hesitates, conflicted. "Did you lose her at the same time you lost your hand?" she finally asks.
It's the second question from her to catch him off-guard. Killian's frown deepens. "What makes you think that?" he asks somberly.
"It's nothing," she says quickly, looking slightly embarrassed and giving a little apologetic shake of her head. She begins to apply the new bandage. "It's just… You got the same look on your face in the car when Henry asked you about your hand."
Her answer fills him with mixed emotions, and he narrows his eyes. "You're quite perceptive, aren't you?"
Her lips pull into a weak smile, and she shrugs, tearing the wrap off the roll. "Helps in my line of work," she replies.
Killian cocks his head, grateful for the opportunity to change the subject. "And what's that, Swan?"
Emma reaches up to return the wound care supplies to the cabinet. "I find people," she says simply, closing the cabinet door. "I do private investigations and a lot of bail bonds work." She notes his blank expression. "It's, um, like bounty hunting," she explains, balling up the used bandages and sliding past him to toss them into a refuse bin in the cabinet beneath the sink.
He arches an eyebrow. He's known a few bounty hunters in his time, cutthroat men of dubious morals, but Emma strikes him as having very little in common with any of them… apart from intense stubbornness, he supposes wryly.
She washes her hands, glancing over her shoulder and picking up on his skepticism. "Um, here. Like this," she says, drying hastily on a small towel. She walks over to the dining table and whisks a piece of paper off the surface, holding up a picture of a thickset, middle-aged, bald man with heavy black eyebrows, dull brown eyes, a hawkish nose, and a square jaw. "This guy? Joe Rathburn. History of gun trafficking and armed robbery. Went to prison this time around for repeatedly assaulting his ex-wife," she tells him. "He got out on parole in the spring but stopped checking in with his parole officer about a month ago. The ex-wife is scared that he's going to come after her and the kids, and the police haven't had much luck, so she hired me to help find him." She sets the picture back on the table and gestures at the papers. "I've been trying to track him down for two weeks."
Killian hums thoughtfully. "That sounds like dangerous work, Swan."
"Really?" She snorts. "You're going to give me that story about pirating and Peter Pan and the sea hag and the Evil Queen and then tell me that what I do is dangerous?" She crosses her arms expectantly and leans back against the table.
A small smile parts his lips. "Point taken."
"It's not as bad as it sounds," she says. "I only have to find the guy. If things look like they're going to get dicey, I just tip off the police and let them handle it. No one has to take any stupid risks." He relaxes a bit, and she shrugs dismissively. "Besides, most of my cases just involve petty crooks or cheating spouses or deadbeat parents. Occasionally I have to literally run a target down, and sometimes someone will try to throw a punch, but most of the time it's not too messy." She straightens and gives a small toss of her head. "I can take care of myself."
He nods. The idea of Emma tangling with the dead-eyed man in the picture still doesn't sit comfortably with him, but he tries to push the thought aside. As attracted as he is to her, he barely knows her, and it's none of his business, he tells himself. That thought doesn't quite sit well with him either.
Emma pushes away from the dining table and heads back toward the kitchen. "That, um, that bruise on your side looked pretty bad," she comments. "Do you want to ice it?" She walks over to a tall metal cabinet in the corner of the kitchen adjacent to the basement door and pulls open a drawer on the bottom. A light glows brightly from the inside, as though a sunny world exists within this strange box, and she reaches down and pulls out a funny-looking packet of blue jelly before sliding the drawer shut.
His bewildered expression makes her chuckle. "Um, we'll cover refrigerators later," she promises, summoning him with a sideways tip of her head. "Come here." From a small basket atop the mysterious refrigerator, she retrieves what looks like a wide black sash, and she shows him how the pack of jelly slides easily into a pouch sewn into the middle. She then demonstrates how the ends of the sash stick to one another when pressed together. "See?" she asks, pulling them apart again with a terrific ripping sound. "Velcro."
"Remark…able," he says, the last part of the word trailing off when she suddenly comes toward him, moving in to stand so close that her toes threaten to brush his. He looks down at the mere inches between them and then back up at her with an exhilarated grin. "Well hello, Swan," he rumbles, arching an eyebrow suggestively. "I rather like where this is going."
She rolls her green eyes yet again. "Relax, Casanova," she retorts, holding the sash up demonstratively with an end in each hand. "I'm helping you put it on."
"Mm-hmm. Whatever excuse you need to—" His sentence ends in a strangled little grunt as Emma narrows her eyes, abruptly palms the squishy pack, and slaps it none-too-gently up against his tender bruise. The discomfort shocks him as much as the sudden cold, and he gives her a hard glare, but she merely smirks back at him, the devil in her gloriously smug smile. Killian huffs, a glint of admiration in his eye. She'd make a hell of a pirate, indeed.
Satisfied with her retaliation, she continues to press the ice pack to his side patiently while the chill seeps straight through his shirt and to his flank. His posture relaxes a little as the constant ache he's had since the underground tunnel begins to fade, and a small sigh sneaks past his lips.
She chuckles knowingly. "Better?"
He nods.
Emma looks back down at the pack. "Okay. Um…" She pulls it away in order to take up the ends of the straps in her hands again and then closes what little distance remains between them, her breath warm on the base of his neck when she reaches around to fasten the sash snugly around his waist. She chances to glance up, and Killian's heart pounds as their eyes meet. A flicker of something passes between them, something he cannot immediately name, and when Emma hastily ducks her head and retreats, the only evidence that it was anything other than a figment of his imagination is the color that rises in her cheeks.
She clears her throat. "There you go."
Killian tears his eyes away from her beautiful blush in order to look down at the ice pack. He rotates back and forth at the waist to admire how it moves with him. "That's, um, that's extraordinary, love," he says. "Thank you."
Emma bobs her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and crossing her arms tight in front of her chest. "That should stay cold for maybe twenty minutes. You, uh, you can even wear it to bed if you want," she suggests.
A chime comes from the direction of the dining table, and she turns her head toward the sound.
He takes his cue. "I suppose I should get some rest," he says quietly, angling toward the basement stair.
She turns back to him and nods, chewing on her lip. "Right. You've, uh, you've had quite the day."
Killian opens the door and takes the first step down. He rotates his shoulders to look back up at her, a fond smile playing on his mouth. "Goodnight, Milady."
Emma's long lashes flutter as she chuffs, meeting his eyes again with a soft little grin. "'Night, Killian."
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Emma watches Killian descend back down into the apartment before she closes the door behind him. She rotates slowly and leans her back against it, her eyes staring blankly at the floor as she tries to figure out what just happened. Earlier this evening she'd have sworn she was a smart woman who knew better than to engage a delusional stranger. Yet here she is, a soft-hearted sucker who brought said stranger home, gave him Walsh's pajamas (which, admittedly, he makes look really good), fussed over his wound, and then offered him a wearable ice pack she should have realized he would need help putting on. She clamps her eyes shut, her head falling into her hands while she suppresses a frustrated groan. She's such an idiot. And now all she can think of is how he smells of soap, how his laughter reverberates low in his chest, how his graceful fingers are covered with calluses, how appealing and disarming he looks when he's wearing soft, touchable cotton with his damp hair draped in locks over his forehead, and how his blue-gray eyes can be tumultuous one moment and charm a smile from her the next. Emma rubs her temples. She can't do this. She has a boyfriend - a great boyfriend. What is she doing getting weak in the knees over a random charity case with a nice smile?
Her phone chimes again, and Emma raises her head wearily, sighing. Right. Work. She should get back to work. It's nearly ten-thirty, but she still has some time to look into that new lead from Will before she needs to turn in for the night. And frankly, she thinks, she needs to work just to clear her head.
She half-heartedly locks the basement door and goes to the dining table to fish her phone out of her purse. There's a new text waiting from her friend Detective Hurley down at the Thirteenth telling her that there haven't been any recent reports of missing mental health patients, or missing persons in general, that match Killian's description. Emma texts back a thanks and a follow-up request to search the criminal database too, if he'd be so kind, before relocking her phone.
She eyes the other contents of her purse hesitantly before pulling out Killian's bag of gold coins and Walsh's engagement ring box. The items sit next to one another on her table like a succinct summation of the absolutely preposterous day she's just had, and she wonders for perhaps the tenth time tonight whether this whole evening isn't just one ridiculous dream. Emma stares at the objects helplessly, at a loss for what to do about the man who gave her either one, before she gruffly gathers them up and goes to secure them in the wall safe which sits in the living room, concealed behind a large framed picture of the city skyline. She punches in the pass code and yanks the safe open, shoveling the valuables onto the upper shelf next to her gun and pushing the weighty metal door shut again without a second look, the mechanism locking while she swings the picture frame back into place.
Another sigh escapes her as Emma sinks into the dining chair in front of her open laptop. Okay. Focus. She rereads the text from her informant.
Friend at Rikers says your guy likes chess. Used to talk about the Central Park chess house sometimes. You're welcome. Tell the cops where to send my commendation.
Emma smirks. Will always was a smartass. She Googles the visitor's information for the Central Park Chess and Checkers House. People play at the outdoor tables at all times of day, but she makes a note of the House's opening hours in order to question the staff before double-checking the location on a map. Then she opens her email. Her friend, Tom Riley, volunteers for the auxiliary branch of the Parks Enforcement Patrol, and she sends him a note, attaching Rathburn's headshot and asking him and his fellow officers to be on the lookout, particularly in the area of the park around the chess house. If there's one thing she knows about finding people in New York, it's the value of a few extra sets of eyes and ears.
Emma sits back, pursing her lips with mild satisfaction. It's not a lot to go on, but it's the first fresh lead she's had in the better part of a week, and it'll have to be enough for now.
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Killian trudges toward his bed, weariness from the day's events finally beginning to catch up to him. He runs his hand over the linens appreciatively and pulls back the poofy, quilted cloud of a blanket. The mattress is soft and the sheets smooth; where he's from, a luxury like this would be reserved for royalty. He switches off the bedside light and lays himself down carefully. The ice pack continues to soothe his flank, but many of his other muscles still pull and ache, and he gives a little groan as he reclines, savoring the perfect cushion of the pillow beneath his head. He closes his eyes. Bloody hell. What a day.
His thoughts wander back to the Enchanted Forest. No doubt his crew is still enjoying their shore leave, apt to remain blissfully unaware, until he fails to return the day after tomorrow, that anything unexpected has happened to him. He clenches his jaw, wondering how long it will be before they give up on waiting and choose to take the Jolly back out to sea without him. Smee is loyal but pragmatic, and without a way to locate his captain, even hewould not maintain an endless vigil, especially once the coffers ran low.
A far more disturbing thought occurs to Killian: What if the Queen has a way to find him? Does she have the power to locate him across realms? She certainly has more magic beans at her disposal. Would she come this far to reclaim the opal and exact her revenge? Has he put Emma and Henry in danger by harboring himself in their home? The last thought gnaws at him the most. It's been a very long time since he had to worry about anyone other than himself. He's always looked after his crew, to be sure, but those are men who have chosen to life live at the mercy of the sea and on the edge of a sword. Emma and Henry, on the other hand, are just decent folk who haven't signed up for this kind of danger – not knowingly, anyway.
Killian opens his eyes and stares blindly up into the darkness. He should try to destroy the stone. If the Evil Queen has a way to see him across realms, then perhaps finding out her prize no longer exists will dissuade her from trying to follow. He resolves to speak to Emma about all this in the morning, though the idea of disclosing the potential danger to her makes his stomach clench. If he can convince her to believe him, she might abandon him right then. But the possibility that she or Henry might come to harm on his account is worse, and Killian's chest tightens as he decides something else: If they cannot find a way to destroy the Sea Star soon, he'll leave them of his own accord to try to keep them safe. He shifts gingerly in the bed and closes his eyes, feeling aggrieved at the prospect. He should rest while he can, he tells himself. He might not get to sleep under this roof again tomorrow.
Even with the comfort of the bed and the physical exhaustion he feels, Killian sleeps fitfully, and when he wakes again, the glowing device Emma told him was a clock (despite its lack of a face or hands) reads 1:18 A.M. He stares blearily at the luminescent green numbers until the digits change to 1:19, when the creak of floorboards above his head catches his attention. He holds his breath and listens more intently. Again come the sounds of someone moving about upstairs. He frowns. Emma? Henry? Why would either of them be awake at this hour? Is it possible the Queen has already come for him?
He swings his legs out of bed, ignoring the continued protests of his battered body, and switches on the bedside light. He moves quickly to collect his brace, grimly clicking his hook into place, and reaches for his sword before silently climbing the stairs and laying his ear to the door.
Soft music plays in the background, and he hears running water fill a metal container followed by what he recognizes as the sound of Emma clearing her throat. His shoulders fall with a relieved sigh, and curiosity replaces his apprehension. He stares at the knob for a minute, his hand faltering twice before he finally risks knocking on the door, setting his hook and sword to the side on the staircase.
As before, the shuffle of feet approach and he hears the bolt being thrown back before Emma answers, appearing perplexed. "Killian?"
He scratches behind his ear and gives her a weak smile. "Apologies, love. I heard movement up here and wanted to be sure everything was alright. I didn't expect you to still be awake at this hour."
She looks moved by his concern. "Oh. Yeah. Everything's fine. I, um, I just came back downstairs for something." She frowns. "Why are you awake?"
He offers her a sheepish shrug. "It's been an eventful few days. Too much on my mind, I suppose." He considers divulging his concerns about the Evil Queen right now, but he hasn't the energy or the heart. Morning, he tells himself. It can keep until morning.
Her eyes become colored with sympathy and unexplained melancholy, and she chews on her lip and takes a step back. "I, um, I'm making hot cocoa," she says, pulling the door open wider for him. "Do you want some? I mean, it's not rum, but it also won't give you a hangover."
He grins genuinely this time and accepts her offer with a bow of his head as he climbs the step into the kitchen. He can hear her music better now, emanating from that device of hers on the dining room table. It's a haunting melody being sung by a woman with a soaring, silky voice.†
Spend all your time waiting
For that second chance
For a break that would make it okay
There's always some reason
To feel not good enough
And it's hard at the end of the day
Emma motions toward the kitchen stools, and he notes, as he sits, that the device with iron grates is a stove, an intense-looking blue flame flickering as it sears the bottom of a silver kettle. She hauls a large glass jar of chalky brown powder labeled "Hot Cocoa Mix" in a child's handwriting out of an upper cabinet and spoons equal portions into two ceramic mugs, and when the kettle whistles a few moments later, she pulls it off the stove and dismisses the flame with the turn of a knob. Killian remains quiet, content to simply watch her move about, the two of them wordlessly agreeing to a silence that is, oddly, not uncomfortable.
So tired of the straight line
And everywhere you turn
There's vultures and thieves at your back
The storm keeps on twisting
Keep on building the lies
That you make up for all that you lack
She pours steaming water into the cups, replacing the kettle on the stove and stirring the drinks with a spoon before going to the refrigerator for a red, cylindrical container with a funny, white pointed top. There's a hollow rattling noise when she gives it an aggressive shake, and Killian's expression is one part horrified, one part fascinated as Emma inverts it over the cups and, with an odd hissing sound, creamy white foam pours forth. A glance at his face causes her to burst into quiet laughter, her smile illuminating the room. "It's okay," she assures him, "It's just whipped cream." After sprinkling both drinks with a dash of reddish-brown spice from a tin box, she slides one gently across the counter to him. "Trust me, it's delicious."
Killian lifts the cup by the handle and peers at the concoction with a raised eyebrow. "My life is in your hands, Swan," he deadpans, lifting the cup to his lips and sipping cautiously. Warm liquid chocolate meets his tongue, and he's pleasantly surprised by the smooth sweetness that is played up to full effect by the cool cream and the sharp bite of the spice. "Bloody hell, that's excellent."
She smiles knowingly. "Hot cocoa with cinnamon," she comments. "Always good for what ails you."
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It feels deceptively normal to be standing in her kitchen in the wee hours sharing hot cocoa with the man who claims to be Captain Hook. Normal and… kind of nice. And as much as that makes her question her own sanity, there's something so comforting about it in the face of the emotional roller coaster that was this evening that she's willing to go with it. Just for a little while. Emma leans up against the counter and takes a long, slow sip of her cocoa, her lashes fluttering closed for a brief moment as she swallows and feels the warmth of it blossom in her chest. She licks a dab of cream off her upper lip, eyeing the pack still strapped to Killian's side. "Do you want a fresh ice pack?" she asks, gesturing toward it and setting her cup down. She moves toward the refrigerator.
Killian hums with amusement. "Fancy another chance to hug me, Swan?" He smirks and reaches toward his right side to tug on the Velcro.
Emma pauses, trying to look affronted. "I wasn't trying to hug you," she huffs, "I was helping you put it on." She pulls a new ice pack from the freezer drawer and lobs it at his head, and he catches it with ease, laughing at her brazenness.
"If you say so, love." Killian lays the Neoprene belt across the marble counter and switches out the ice packs before standing. His eyes twinkle, never leaving her face as he maneuvers the belt around his middle and secures it with an annoying lack of difficulty before sitting back down.
Her cheeks burn at how badly she underestimated him. Emma crosses her arms over her chest, flustered. "Does this shameless flirting work on all the girls?" she asks, waving an irritated hand in his general direction.
He grins cheekily and leans forward. "What makes you think I'd act this way around anyone but you?"
She blinks at the implication and turns away to retrieve her mug from the counter. "I thought that was a pirate thing," she says, "You know, a girl in every port or whatever."
His sits back and shrugs. "I can't help the attention, love. I'm a successful pirate captain, after all, not to mention devilishly handsome." She rolls her eyes again, and Killian gives a quiet chuckle. He tilts his head, his blue eyes studying her so intently she almost feels naked, and drums his fingers on the counter thoughtfully. "That said, it's been a very long time since I've met a woman as interesting as you," he says, reaching for his mug and lifting the cocoa to his lips.
Emma blushes, but she angles her head and eyes him cautiously, unsure whether he's being truthful or just upping his game. A guarded smile pulls at her lips, and she turns to put the cocoa mix away. "Thanks. I think."
Killian sets his cup back down and shifts it back and forth on the countertop between his fingers, looking a little dissatisfied with her response. "Why are you awake, Swan?" he asks quietly. "A woman doesn't rise from bed in the middle of the night to make a hot drink and listen to a sad song for no reason."
She stares at him for a long moment before folding her lips and giving him an enigmatic little smile. She has no intention of telling him about how she spent the last few hours tossing and turning while her mind refused to quiet. She's not going to tell him about her messed up past, about the foster homes and the petty crimes and the deeply ingrained sense of being adrift. She's not going to tell him about getting set up to take the fall by the first man she ever loved and going to prison only to find out he'd left her with a broken heart and a child. She's not going to tell him about fighting tooth and nail for ten years to build a life for herself and Henry only to find out tonight that she's still so broken she can't even accept a marriage proposal from the world's nicest guy. And she's certainly not going to tell him about how confused and conflicted she's letting him, a head case she didn't even know five hours ago, make her feel.
Emma resumes straightening up. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
He continues to stare at her, undeterred. "Perhaps I would," he answers softly.
Emma colors again, daring to shoot him a questioning look before she turns away and busies herself with rinsing her mug out and setting it in the sink. She clears her throat. "That's a tale for another day."
Killian sighs, acknowledging his own words with a small nod. He lifts his drink. "To another day, then," he toasts, draining his cup and rising to his feet.
She doesn't move as he approaches, somehow rooted to the spot as he draws close and reaches past her to set his mug in the sink next to hers. They stand facing one another, and he gives her with a doleful little smile before lowering his head so his breath dusts her eyelids and her heart rises to her throat. "Sweet dreams, Swan."
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The clock reads 2:00 A.M. when Killian turns out the light and returns to bed. He closes his eyes, unable to rid himself of the images of Emma running through his mind. Gods, but she's a beautiful creature – a bloody brilliant woman with a stubborn streak, fierce and posturing one moment, generous and caring and funny the next, and, it seems, a fellow victim of loss and loneliness.
He chews on his lip, recalling the way it felt to have her breath on his skin and her arms wrapped around him, even for half a second. He swallows. Emma is right that he's frequently sought the company of beautiful women in the decades upon decades since losing Milah, whether to distract himself from his overwhelming sorrow, to scratch an itch, or, when he was being particularly masochistic, to try to remember what being with his love felt like. He's well versed in lust, certainly. But this… whatever this is… with Emma – this feels different. He finds himself wanting to understand her, to coax out her secrets, to break down her walls, to find ways to make her smile. She's the kind of woman who could convince him to stay in port longer with just a look, the kind of woman he'd invite to come away with him, maybe even the kind of woman he'd go on an adventure for. Deep wrinkles appear in his forehead as he realizes, Heaven help him, that she's the kind of woman he's going to miss, and the thought plagues him until he finally succumbs to exhaustion and passes into a mercifully dreamless sleep.
When he knocks on the door in the morning, Henry is the one to answer, the boy's smile just as broad as it had been the night before. "Hi, Killian!" He glances down. "Nice pajamas."
Killian grins back. "Good morning, Henry." He steps into the kitchen. Daylight allows him to see out the kitchen window properly now, and he spies a small, square porch bordered by a metal railing on the other side of the back door. A long, gray flagstone courtyard stretches out below beneath the boughs of a tall shade tree.
He glances around the kitchen and the dining room. "Is your mum awake?" he asks.
Henry scrambles back into one of the stools at the kitchen counter. "She went upstairs to get dressed," he reports. "She'll be back down in a minute." He takes a bite out of a rectangular biscuit covered in dull chocolate glaze. "What are you going to do today?" he asks, his mouth full.
Killian sits next to him. "That's what I need to discuss with her," he replies. He eyes the remainder of the biscuit on the boy's plate warily. "What is that?"
Henry makes a happy little sound and holds it up, allowing Killian a glimpse of the layer of dark brown goo nestled inside. "Chocolate Pop-Tart. Want one?"
Killian grimaces. "Your mother lets you eat sweets like this for breakfast?" he asks skeptically. When Henry hums the affirmative, Killian shakes his head. "Well, I suppose no one is perfect," he mutters. He gestures toward the bowl of fruit on the counter. "May I?"
Henry affably slides it over and watches with interest as Killian breaks a banana off the bunch and proceeds to peel it from the bottom using his one hand. "Wow, you're really good at that," he says with awe.
Killian grins and swallows the first bite. "Let's just say I've spent my fair share of time on tropical islands." He surveys a sheet of paper printed with numerical figures that sits next to Henry's plate and gestures with his brace. "Is this your homework?"
The lad nods, his expression turning less enthusiastic. "Yeah. We're doing fractions. It's the worst," he says melodramatically. "I still can't get number nine, but Mom's going to help me when she comes back down."
Killian takes another bite and cranes his head to get a better look. "Allow me."
Henry lifts his eyebrows. "You know how to do fractions?" he asks incredulously, sliding the paper over.
Killian chuckles. "Lad, do you have any idea how much arithmetic it takes to be a pirate captain?" When Henry shakes his head, he carefully lays his half-eaten banana down on the peel, flips the paper over to the blank side, and reaches for Henry's pencil. He jots numbers as he talks. "Say we capture a merchant ship carrying 200 pieces of gold," he says, "100 pieces go into the ship's coffers to pay for food and supplies and whatnot. The rest is divided amongst the crew," he explains. "I have sixteen men aboard the Jolly right now, not including meself, so how many portions is that?"
"Seventeen."
He smiles and waves a finger. "Ah, but the captain gets a double share, lad."
Henry narrows one eye. "So… eighteen?"
"Correct." He beams at the boy and writes in the denominator, "18," below "100," holding the pencil out to Henry. "Now tell me how many pieces I give to each of my men." He resumes eating his banana and waits patiently as Henry works the problem, his eyes glinting with amusement at the way Henry's forehead furrows in concentration while he scratches out his calculations slowly.
"So… everyone gets… five pieces," Henry concludes at last. "With ten left over."
"Excellent work, lad." Killian favors him with a broad smile and an approving nod. "And a take like that will have the crew in a good mood for a week."
Henry taps his pencil on the paper. "What happens to the other ten pieces?" he asks.
Killian gets up and tosses the banana peel in the bin beneath the sink. "Well, Mr. Smee gets a bit extra for being first mate," he explains, brushing his hand off on his shirt, "And the rest goes to further shore up the ship's coffers. We might also buy an extra cask of ale to celebrate our good fortune." He winks, resuming his seat. "Now," he says, flipping Henry's homework sheet back over. "Let's see about problem number nine, shall we?"
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Emma sighs as she pulls her gray sweater over her head and straightens it. The sun shines through her east-facing bedroom window, and a glimpse outside suggests it's a normal October morning on their little street, the occasional car or neighbor with a dog or jogger passing by. Her problem is that she can hear the muffled voices of her son and their wayward guest filtering up from the kitchen, and she knows that this is likely to be anything but a normal day. She frowns as she pulls her hair free of her collar and studies her appearance in the mirror critically, dabbing away a stray smudge of eye makeup with a dissatisfied little noise in the back of her throat and turning her face this way and that to give herself a last once-over. She takes a deep breath and reaches for her caramel leather jacket before heading downstairs, praying to all the powers that be that things will start making sense again in the very near future.
The sight that greets her in the kitchen stops her dead in her tracks, her jaw slack as her eyes fall upon Killian, still in his pajamas, huddled with Henry over a math worksheet at the center island. Emma stares dumbly, unsure which is more improbable – that Killian, the overblown flirt who claims to be a pirate, is walking her son through his homework like it's the most natural thing in the world or that Henry is actually engaged, hunched forward on his elbows and thinking his way through a fractions question out loud without any reluctance in his voice.
It's official. Her whole world has turned on its ear.
Killian looks up and sees her standing there, his unfairly handsome face splitting into a brilliant smile. "Well good morning, love."
Emma shakes herself out of her stunned stupor. "Hey," she manages weakly. She eyes her ready pot of coffee and makes straight for it, desperately hoping some caffeine might help her understand the illogical jumble that has become her life. "What's going on?"
"We're doing fractions," Henry reports cheerfully. "Did you know that pirates have to be good at math, Mom?"
Emma raises an eyebrow as she pulls a mug down from the cabinet. "Is that so?"
"Yeah," Henry says authoritatively. "For dividing up treasure and budgeting and navigation and repairing the ship and all sorts of stuff."
Emma clears her throat as she pours a generous cup. "I can honestly say I've never thought about it." She reaches for the sugar bowl and throws Killian a glance over her shoulder, her stomach fluttering at the proud look he's giving Henry. "Do, uh, do pirates also drink coffee?"
Killian looks up at her, blue eyes crinkled at the corners, and gives her a wholesome grin that only unsettles her more. "Indeed we do, Swan."
She nods and reaches for another cup. "Sugar? There's also cream in the fridge."
"Sugar would be brilliant, lass. Thank you. We haven't had any on my ship in months."
Right. Of course. Emma tries not to let the extreme details of his delusions bother her as she preps his mug and slides it over. She turns away to look out the back window, cradling her own coffee in her hands while Henry and Killian continue to chat numbers.
No sooner has the warmth and comfort of the drink started to take the edge off her nerves when the doorbell rings, and she nearly jumps. Emma whirls around, sharing a curious look with Henry and setting her mug down. "I got it." She glances at the clock. "Pack up, kiddo, or you're gonna be late for the bus."
A look through the peephole shows Walsh standing on the front step with a big bouquet of brightly-colored gerbera daisies in his hand. Emma gasps and winces. She hasn't even begun to think about how to explain the situation with Killian to Walsh. Panic rises in her chest, and she curses his thoughtfulness as she forces herself to open the door. "Hi!" she says, trying her best at a bright smile. "What are you doing here?"
Her boyfriend grins and offers her the bouquet with a flourish. "Being lovable."
She chuckles nervously and accepts the flowers. "They're very pretty. Thanks." She plants a hasty kiss on his cheek. "Um, shouldn't you be getting ready to open the store right now?"
He shrugs. "I've got that new assistant manager, remember? She can handle it." He steps forward, and Emma automatically backs up to allow him in, more expletives running through her head. "I thought I'd say hi to Henry before he goes to school and see if you had time for a cup of coffee before you have to run off after whatever shady character you're chasing today."
She grins anxiously. "That's, um, that's really sweet."
Henry comes bounding around the corner, backpack slung over his shoulder. "Gotta go, Mom." He looks up. "Oh. Hi Walsh."
"Hey pal," Walsh says, his smile fading as he looks up and notices the man who's just emerged from the kitchen right behind Henry. Killian walks up, barefoot and in pajamas, with coffee mug in hand and a polite little smile curving his lips as he surveys them. Walsh's eyebrows pinch together. "Um, hi."
Emma freezes, her brain registering the suspicious look on both men's faces as they size each other up. Ohhhh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God…
"Oh, Walsh, this is Killian. Killian, Walsh," Henry volunteers happily as he grabs his coat off the hook by the door and throws it on.
Emma snatches her son's scarf and tosses it over his head. "Get to the bus, kid. You're late," she says, trying to bustle him toward the door before he can say anything else. "I'll see you after school."
"'Kay." Henry opens the door and turns back to wave. "Bye, Killian! Thanks for helping me with my homework!"
Killian's flat smile momentarily warms as he nods and gestures with his mug. "Have a good day, lad."
And like that, Henry disappears out the door, leaving Emma with her boyfriend, a fairytale pirate, and a very awkward silence.
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†Angel (Sarah McLachlan)
Spend all your time waiting
For that second chance
For a break that would make it okay
There's always some reason
To feel not good enough
And it's hard at the end of the day
I need some distraction
Oh, beautiful release
Memories seep from my veins
Let me be empty
And weightless and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight
In the arms of the angel
Fly away from here
From this dark cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie
You're in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort here
So tired of the straight line
And everywhere you turn
There's vultures and thieves at your back
The storm keeps on twisting
Keep on building the lies
That you make up for all that you lack
It don't make no difference
Escaping one last time
It's easier to believe in this sweet madness, oh
This glorious sadness that brings me to my knees
In the arms of the angel
Fly away from here
From this dark cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie
You're in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort here
You're in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort here
