He'd been looking forward to and dreading this day. On the one hand - he was desperately in need of the support he usually gets from AA meetings. On the other - she'd be there.
More than once in the past week he'd almost sought the refuge of his poison of choice. He wanted to drown in the stormy seas of shame and guilt and never come up for air.
But, he knew with enough determination he could make it through - after all, he's been through worse. He absentmindedly rubbed at the stunted end of his left arm - the prosthetic hand laying on the nightstand next to his bed.
The doctors had done an excellent job all things considered, but there were angry red marks where the skin was marred by the intricate scars that crawled up his forearm.
Most of the time he was mindful to not use that hand much people didn't always notice something was wrong, and it helped that the traditional robes he wore so often were actually a little too long in the arms and covered a little more than they're meant to.
In fact, he's fairly certain Emma hasn't noticed yet. The first time they met, his fake hand was either under the table or in his pocket. The second time she couldn't see him at all - that being part of the point of the confessional. The third he was at the pulpit, and out of habit he mostly kept that hand at his side and out of sight while preaching.
After picking up a coffee from Granny's (he'd become rather fond of the local diner he walked by every morning on his way to the church) he checked in with Lucy about the schedule for the day. There were a few administrative tasks to sort out, and she said they were expecting about four people for tonight's meeting. Emma would be there 30 minutes early for set up.
There's the dread again. Determined not to let Lucy see his concern at Emma's name he excused himself and set about getting through his day. He did have a meeting to plan, after all.
She'd been looking forward to this for a while. Well, not the meeting - but the excuse to be around him.
Her latest idea had gone surprisingly well. The stunned look on his face when he got that first message - the way he went pale and rigid (likely in more ways than one) made her grin like the cheshire cat.
She told herself it was all about the game. She liked messing with him - toying with him - unsettling him. She liked the idea of corrupting someone who claimed to be pure and righteous - take them down a peg.
Of course the truth was much more complicated. It was something in his eyes, she thought to herself. There was the facade of how he knew he should look and act, but there was something profoundly sad and broken behind it.
She found herself wanting to know more about him, his past - what put that melancholy tinge in his gaze, why he became a priest, all of it.
There was a kind of connection there that she didn't understand yet, like they had more in common than she thought possible.
Tonight was her first night of community service, and she was looking forward to seeing him again - but this time would be different. This time, no teasing. She would just observe.
Work was easy that day - mostly just catching up on paperwork - and as soon as 5 p.m. rolled around she was up and out, happy for the excuse to be done with the monotony of the bureaucratic aspect of her job.
She came to the front entrance of the church, suddenly realizing she'd never asked exactly where she was supposed to go.
As it happened, Killian was coming down the stairs at that very moment.
She was taken aback by his appearance - he was wearing his usual black slacks and black shirt, but this time without the white collar, it was open at the neck. Her eyes were drawn to it - imagining pressing kisses along the exposed column of this throat, the rumble of the sigh he'd undoubtedly let out at the contact.
No. Just observing.
"Miss Swan. You're, uh," he dug his phone from his pocket to check the time, "10 minutes early."
"I can go wait in the car -" she started, pointing back to the doors.
"No, I didn't mean… It's fine, I was just surprised is all." He fumbled with his words awkwardly.
"Want to show me where the meeting will be?" She offered.
"Of course. Follow me."
He led the way to a little room off on the other side of the church - she didn't even know this was here. It was a kind of multipurpose room that looked like it was added many years later, the way it was kind of tacked onto the footprint of the rest of the building.
There was a basketball hoop (just the one since it was a half-court), and a storage room with dusty folding chairs and tables.
"We're only expecting a few people tonight," he was avoiding looking at her as he opened up the storage room door. "Probably 7 chairs will do - and a table for the coffee and cookies, which should be over on Lucy's desk back in the main building. I've got a few things to finish up, but I'll be back in a couple of minutes."
He gave her a quick smile and headed back toward the door.
"Oh, OK. I'll get on it." She said over her shoulder, heading into the storage room to grab the table.
She went to pick it up and realized it was a little difficult to do by herself.
"Actually," she popped her head out of the room. "Could I get a hand with this table before you go?"
He chuckled a little at the irony of that one.
"Of course." He said politely as he walked back into the storage room.
He gripped the near-side of the table with his good hand. "Ready there, lass?"
She nodded and picked up her end. "One-handed, huh? Feel the need to show off a little, Father?" She teased him.
So she really didn't notice, he thought to himself before lifting the stiff prosthetic into the air.
"Wouldn't do much good anyway, would it?" He deadpanned. Confusion flashed in her eyes for a split second before she noticed his hand was unnaturally stiff, and she understood what he meant.
How the hell didn't she notice THAT? And oh my God she must seem like the biggest asshole right now…
"Oh, God, I didn't - I'm sorry. I didn't know." She scrambled to apologize.
"Really, it's fine. I try not to make a show of it, so it's kind of a compliment that you hadn't noticed before now. It's quite believable isn't it? Until you notice that it doesn't move, of course."
She met the calm gray-blue depths of his eyes as they set the table down and saw in them the prologue of what was bound to be a fascinating story - and there it was again, this glimpse into the man behind the robes and tradition. It was a surprisingly intimate moment.
"How did it happen?" The words fell out before she could think better of it, and she realized she'd been staring at it.
He turned abruptly, and headed for the door. She cursed herself, thinking she'd overstepped.
He stopped at the door frame, but didn't turn around.
"Are you staying for the meeting?" He asked. She furrowed her brow before he clarified, "I don't exactly enjoy telling the story, and I was planning on sharing at the meeting. So if you're sticking around I'll only have to tell it the once."
"I'm staying." She said quietly.
"Good." He replied before stepping out the door.
It's funny, really, that for all of her boldness with him thus far, she's nervous to get to know him. In some ways it's easier for it to just be a game, not knowing anything about him, not caring to know anything about him.
But she's just so damn curious that she can't help it. He's different, and she just has to find out why.
It only takes a few minutes for her to pull the cookies out and get the coffee brewing. She set up a few chairs and settled into one of them before a few other people found their way in. There was Leroy (no surprise there - her dad had thrown him in the drunk tank so many times she'd lost count), and a few other people she vaguely recognized - but she was sure all of them knew her. Small town and all.
He came in just as it was time to start - and she couldn't take her eyes off of him. He seemed … at ease as he settled into one of the chairs in the circle.
"Hello, everyone. I'm glad you all made it out tonight. I'll be leading us from now on - my name is Killian Jones, but you might know me as Father Jones." He was strangely confident in this role - looking each of them in the eye as he spoke.
Emma found herself struggling to reconcile the prim and slightly nervous priest she was so accustomed to with this easy-going Killian.
"I figured tonight I'll take a few minutes to introduce myself, and tell you about my addiction, and then we'll do the same around the room if that works for you all?"
Everyone nodded silently in response.
"Fantastic. Well, as I said, my name is Killian Jones, and I'm an alcoholic. I've been sober for 3 years 6 months and 12 days." A few claps broke out around the circle at that. "Thank you. Really, it means a lot. I've been desperately missing these meetings. As you probably all know, I'm new here, and there have been many… temptations." His eyes fell squarely on her at the word.
"I've been struggling with many of my old demons in the past few weeks. Honestly, in other areas, I've slipped - and in that I've lost a part of myself that I've held quite dearly." His eyes are hollow as he says it, and by the faraway gaze it's apparent he's deep in thoughts unsaid.
"But I suppose I should start at the beginning. My father was an alcoholic, and a mean one at that. I have an older brother who used to help keep him in check, but he joined the Navy and was killed in action only a year later. One night my father had gotten rough with my mum, and I stepped in. Trouble was, she didn't want me to rock the boat - she didn't want to leave. So, I got this" he pointed to the sweeping scar on his cheek, "and I got kicked out."
There was a deep ache in her chest hearing him talk about his past, which was so strange because she hardly knew him. It shouldn't make her feel so desperately sad, but it did.
"For a while I lived on the streets. There were many nights when I really didn't think I was going to make it - I hadn't eaten in days, I'd dump out trash bags and use them as makeshift sleeping bags, but it wasn't always enough to stay warm."
He paused and took a sip of his coffee - suddenly a little self-conscious that his story was so long.
"Anyway, long story short, Father Brannan helped me piece together odd jobs until I was regularly employed at the docks and going to church regularly. I finally felt like I had my life together. There was an accident…" his voice slowed, clearly struggling to say the words, "and my hand was caught - and, well it was - crushed." He lifted the prosthetic a little as he said it.
"The doctors couldn't save it. There was nothing left to save, really. I was devastated. I felt like I was cursed. Like if there was a God, he certainly hated me. Even though I'd sworn off alcohol to avoid becoming anything like my father - in my despair I went to the rum. For a while it helped take the edge off. But then it just… didn't. One night I decided to try and drink myself to death - but when I woke up on the steps of the local church with a blanket around me I took it as a sign."
The anguish in his voice cut to her core - she squirmed in her seat hearing his voice rough with emotion at the memory. It was too much.
He stole a glance at Emma, curious how she'd respond to his history - and frankly a little nervous that he'd only see pity written into her features. Like she'd see him how he'd always seen himself; small, flawed and broken, and she would want nothing to do with him - especially since he knew deep down that she was just using him as an outlet for her rebellious nature. It was never about him - it was about his job making him taboo. After this… he'd be too real now. The game is over.
What he saw was empathy. Not pity, exactly, though it was clear she was affected - but there was an intensity to the way she listened to him - like he really mattered, and that was a curious feeling.
"Father Brannan had saved my life," he continued. "He encouraged me to go to seminary, lean on God. And here I am, 3 and a half years sober - and a priest." He smiled genuinely at what he considered to be his "happy ending."
"So," he huffed out a clearing breath. "Who else would like to share?"