He wakes slowly.
Sunlight filters in through the window, bathing him in light and searing his closed eyelids red, which confuses him because the last time he checked, he didn't have windows in his bedroom.
And much like the way he wakes, the memories from the night before come to him sluggishly too – bits and pieces flash before his mind till it settles on his last recollection.
Falling asleep with Emma in his arms.
Emma.
Her name rings in his ears like a beacon calling him to consciousness and his hands scramble for her form when he finds his arms bare and her side of the bed cold.
He sits up in bed in a panic, voice garbled when he manages to rasp, "Emma?"
"Hey."
Relief floods through him at the sound of her voice and he turns towards it, towards her where she sits upon the armchair situated by her window.
All the air leaves him because he's relieved, yes. But it's also just Emma and the way the sunshine covers her form, makes her eyes glimmer and her hair shine like it's a halo wrapped around her, as if the light can't help but feel drawn to her.
He feels the same.
(Waxing poetic first thing in the day, huh, Jones? He shakes his head. He can't help it, not when it comes to her.)
He eases himself down into the mattress, covers his face with his hands and takes deep breaths, for just a moment, to calm his racing heart and the way it seems to want to fly out of his chest and right into her palms.
(Tries not to think too hard about how it's already there to begin with.)
The bed dips with Emma's weight as she sits, cross-legged, by his hip. He lowers both his hands, places one flat upon the bed while he brings the other to her knee.
"Morning, beautiful," he murmurs softly and with not a hint of innuendo or playful banter, purely because it's true and she is.
She smiles, equally gentle.
He smiles back genuinely because, in all honestly, he expected her to be gone by morning, not to be seen till later that night when she's had ample time to process and shove the memory, no doubt, far from the forefront of her mind. Emma has always needed space after emotionally charged encounters, to piece her walls together again and add another layer to boot if only to reinforce them.
And he's always let her do that, grateful at all to have dug a chunk in her wall in the first place for a glimpse of her heart (which he knows even better than his own) and so is content to let her retreat because he's got a piece of her with him. But last night was different, Emma's walls weren't just down, they were crumbled and she was crushed and pained and hurting–
–and he needs to calm down, he needs to get his head straight because last night needs to be addressed but without making Emma shut down.
He rubs his thumb against the skin uncovered by her tights in a reassuring motion, not wanting to scare her when he asks, "So, about last night–"
"You wanna go somewhere?"
It doesn't escape him, how she's quick to interrupt and eager to evade.
Then again, he looks at her, truly looks at her and she seems tired, if the sag in her shoulders and the shadows under her eyes are any indication.
And she could have made her getaway the moment she woke up, or during the middle of the night – she's resourceful like that.
Except that she didn't. She waited for him to rouse from slumber and now she's here, looking him in the eye despite what transpired last night.
She's calm and she's present so maybe, maybe…
"What, like, alone?" He retorts teasingly.
She rolls her eyes but otherwise, says seriously, "No. With me."
They need to talk about what happened, of course. And she's so still, so quiet and that needs to be addressed too.
But she's here and she's not running away, wants to go someplace with him.
And the answer is glaringly simple.
"Yeah."
Somewhere turns out to be lunch in their favorite diner, Granny's.
(They slept through the entire morning. Rather, he slept through the morning because when he passed the hall, all evidence of Emma's devastation was tidied, unmistakably by her, and it disturbed him a bit, how like nothing happened at all.)
(He can't forget, is the thing, and a clean loft doesn't deviate from that.)
They both order a stack of pancakes then a vanilla milkshake and a chocolate milkshake because Emma couldn't decide between the two and so he told her to order both and they could share.
Ruby gives them teasing grins when she comes to serve their meals and can't help herself when she asks playfully, "Awfully serious over here. You two on a date?"
Killian gives her a pointed glare and barely resists making an 'abort, abort!' gesture because this is the worst possible time to be mentioning words like 'dating' when Emma's just come home in near-catastrophic proportions from her trip visiting her (current? Previous? Asshole?) boyfriend.
He's about to bring a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, thinking this is the moment Emma will shut down and retreat or make a sarcastic comment about how they're never going to happen, at the very least.
He stops himself when Emma lets out a tiny giggle, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips and he stares at her in confusion and wonder because, and he's not being self-deprecating or anything, Emma is usually quick to shut down the notion of the two of them together romantically when people make such assumptions.
(There is something to be said, that people always assume they're together that she even has a usual reaction to that.)
(But he doesn't say it.)
This time though, Emma blushes and merely thanks Ruby for bringing over their milkshakes before proceeding to eat.
He stares, dumbfounded at her, for a few more beats and nearly pinches his arm to check if he's awake at all.
Because, surely, he must be dreaming, for isn't it only in his dreams that Emma smiles earnestly at him as she offers to share her milkshake and shyly asks if she could sip some of his, flushing prettily as she does so?
That she insists on paying the bill because she was the one to take him there?
And that she hadn't denied it when Ruby asked if they were on a date?
He thinks that after Granny's is when she will begin to shut down. Perhaps, now that she's more awake, she'll realize his intentions and turn him away.
He's starting to wonder if he ever knew her at all because she does none of that, merely smiles that mysterious smile that keeps popping up and asks him to accompany her to Central Park when he begins to bring up the topic of last night.
And because he's putty when she looks at him like that, open and genuine, he nods and follows her lead.
They don't really say anything as the walk along the paths of the park. It's beautiful in the fall with the way the leaves blanket the earth in shades of oranges, yellows and red but none compare to the way Emma glows pink from the cold and how the beanie shaping her head makes her look so young and innocent and free from the burdens of her soul.
He'd have her like this for always, if he could, because she deserves better than a life that did nothing but take from her.
But then again, it's what shaped her into the strong and capable woman she is today and she is, she's so capable, not just of surviving but of the love she so often denies for herself.
Their shoulders brush and their hands graze and were it a true date, he would take this opportunity to intertwine their fingers.
The opportunity passes, for him at least, because Emma beats him to it – lets their knuckles linger a few more moments before turning their palms towards each other and lacing their fingers together.
He tries not to react.
He fails.
Because his palms start to sweat (the gloves don't help his case) and his hold on her is tight, like he doesn't want her to ever let go (he doesn't), and his heart rate accelerates (which she'll probably feel with their hands so closely entwined).
Emma doesn't seem to mind, especially when she tugs him towards an empty bench near the water and he feels his heart ease at the sight of it.
They both breathe identical sighs of relief when they sit and they look at each other, before bursting into laughter.
Their hands are still joined and their foreheads are almost touching once they've calmed down and he hates to dash the easy way the smile comes to Emma's lips despite what happened. But he fears the worse if he lets things remain unspoken for too long, couldn't bear it if something like that happened again, what more, Emma?
And he can feel himself shattering when he starts, "Emma, love–"
She sighs. She knows exactly where his conversation is leading and her shoulders hunch as she lets out a shuddering breath.
"I know you want to talk about last night."
"Aye, love, I do."
"And we will," she reassures, her free hand coming up to run soothingly down the length of his cheek, till her fingers are splayed across it and her thumb rests on his chin, right beneath his bottom lip.
He feels himself tremble with the tenderness Emma's touching him and gazing at him and it's everything he's ever wanted but it feels wrong too, it feels shrouded in shadows in the wake of how he can't forget the way Emma ran about their apartment hysterically or the way she balled her fists and tried to, to…
Her thumb brushes his bottom lip as she worries her own by biting on it.
"Hey, where'd you go?"
"Nowhere, love, I'm right here."
He shakes the vestiges of the image away, covers her hand with his and gives it a squeeze.
"Yeah. Yeah you are."
She smiles and there's so much affection there and he could kiss her, he could kiss her and taste what that affection might feel like on his tongue.
"You're my best friend."
The reminder is both a cold wake up call and a warm asseveration (any position is better than none in Emma's life. He's just so grateful she chose to view him in such high esteem).
"I was wondering if just for today, we could pretend."
"Pretend?" Pretend what? he wonders in bafflement.
"To be something more," she admits and he feels floored.
"Emma," he whispers because this is wrong, he knows this is. No matter what happened last night, for all intents and purposes, she has a boyfriend and it feels all too much like he's taking advantage of her even if she's asking and he thinks, no he's certain, he'll say yes because he's weak like that.
"This isn't fair, I get that. But I need to know something and I–" her eyes and her smile are watery but so, so bright, "I trust you not to break me. I trust you."
So. fucking. weak.
So he presses a kiss to her forehead before resting his own against hers.
"Okay," he breathes. "Okay."
And she nods as she releases a puff of relieved air, like she was afraid he'd turn her down, like he could ever turn her down.
She raises his arm with the hand holding his and brings it over her head so that she's tucked into him without having to let go. She fits herself under his chin and he sighs contentedly, even with the worry and the expiration (just for today, he reminds himself) creeping into the corners of his mind, because this is everything he's ever wanted with Emma but was too cautious, for him and for her, to ever hope for it and now he's here and she's here and she trusts him not to break her.
"Read to me?" she requests, her breath ghosting along the skin of his neck, bringing a flush to his cheeks.
And from his satchel–
("I love your man purse," she'd tease.
He'd sigh exasperatedly. "It's a satchel, Swan."
"It's a man purse, Jones."
But he wears it proudly all the same, if it means getting to see the poorly hidden admiration in Emma's eyes.)
–he produces The Princess Bride, as per her entreat to bring it before their sojourn to Granny's. He cracks the book open with his free hand and it's slow going but he doesn't want to let go, gets the feeling she doesn't either.
"As you wish."
He reads till it's too dark to see, till the cold seeps in through their clothes and the hunger for food is too evident to avoid.
They have a dinner of hotdogs and bearclaws from the stall a block from their complex, letting go just long enough to pay for their food and get it situated in one hand, before they're finding each other again, huddling together and lessening the space between them.
When they reach home, releasing the clasp of their hands to shed coats and hats and gloves as they enter, there's a moment of silence before she comments, "It's cold."
"Aye, winter is coming," he jokes and she rolls her eyes but again, uncharacteristically passes up the opportunity to mock him back.
"My blankets are still in the wash, right?" is what she says instead.
He nods, regretfully and she must notice because she steps closer to him and cups his cheek. She's been doing that a lot today and he finds he can't complain. "And I have your one extra blanket."
Lie. He knows and she knows that there are more of his blankets in the linen closet, but he doesn't correct her.
"It would be a shame if you freeze to death, all cause I hogged your blankets."
He laughs, albeit a nervous one. "Indeed."
"Come to bed?" She holds out her hand.
He doesn't even hesitate. He takes it.
They get ready for bed, brushing their teeth side by side and changing into their sleep wear and it's all so achingly domestic that he wonders how he'll ever find the strength to go back to the way things were before.
He wonders what it is she needed to know, and if that will determine where they go from here.
They fall into bed, utterly exhausted still, despite the little activity.
They're facing each other, a hand folded under their heads while he plays with the fingers on her free hands.
His eyes droop, but he fights it.
She notices and pulls away from his touch to trace the lines underneath his eye.
"You're tired," she says, voice low in concern. "Why are you fighting it… fighting sleep?"
He shakes his head. "You said just for today," and he feels like he shouldn't say whatever it is he's about to say but there's something about the night that makes him feel fragile and vulnerable so he confesses, "I want more days like this." He sighs. "But you said it… just for today. If I sleep then it'll end and I fear that I never want it to."
She says nothing and he doesn't expect her to. But she does move closer to him, tangles their legs and has him put his arms around her so that she's completely wrapped up in him.
"You're warm, always so warm," she hums, "will you be my blanket instead?"
He laughs. "Don't let go, then."
He means it to come out jestingly but his tone is too low, too sincere to be interpreted as anything but sincere.
And he's dreaming, he has to be, because the way Emma runs her hand down his back feels too tender to be real and if it is, then he doesn't ever want to wake up, – feels his eyes slipping shut, even when he tries so hard to fight it.
"I don't want this to end."
But he loses the battle, exhaustion takes over and he falls into slumber, which is why he misses the way Emma whispers brokenly,
"Maybe it doesn't have to."
AN: It's official. I don't know where the hell this story is going, it has completely run away from me but, I am just letting Killian and Emma write themselves.