The year before
They had only moved in together recently, and it was surprisingly easy—not least because Killian was a neat freak. He offered his company freely without crowding her. Knowing she was moved from house to house as a teen, never having personal space, a nook to call her own, they lived in tandem but in freedom.
He'd let her personalize the common spaces, an insanely comfortable worn-out couch in the living room, strings of lights threading the rails of the small balcony, even accepting Walsh's peculiar coffee table, the only surface he allowed to be used coaster-free.
After living alone for years after college, she didn't think she'd ever go back to roommates. Having discovered the joy of singing along naked after a shower, nothing was worth the trade-off. But she found this apartment and fell for its proximity to the Rabbit Hole, her work and subway, and Killian offered to split the cost. He would only stay for six months, anyway, returning to Dublin after finishing his masters. But Killian didn't leave, he integrated himself in the community and with the success of his thesis, he secured a contract in the Biochem Facility. A perk of said contract: academic conferences. Like the one he's returning from, hands full of swag as he makes his way inside.
"How was it?" she asks, sipping wine in the living room, the sun casting a warm orange glow across the space.
He shuffles out of his leather jacket –he's the bad boy of the lab alright– in a way that suggests his limbs haven't recovered from their confinement during the flight. Still he rolls the carry-on to its designated space, the Amazon corner, where they put packages, bags and recycling, and offers her a tired smile. His stubble is a little rougher, showing the hint of ginger she always knew to be there.
When he doesn't straighten his shoes on the mat, she knows it's bad.
"Should I break out your emergency rum?"
The corner of his lips itches up and he puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezing affectionately before deflating to the couch beside her.
"No, it wasn't that bad. But I could help you finish that though," he inspects the weirdly tall bottle sitting –coasterless– on the coffee table.
"It's champagne. Though legally it can't be called that. Besides, you think anything less than rum is for babies or breakfast," she teases back, kicking his leg out of her space.
"I wouldn't hold your abysmal taste in alcohol against you, Swan. Pour that pink bastard," he counters, and they clink glasses before taking a sip. He makes a funny face at the fizziness.
They fill the next hour with idle chatter, and she regales him with the story of her latest skip, Cunty Cora, an old beauty queen who gets down with the youth. Gets down to sell them oxy, it turns out.
"Quite the characters, your skips, Swan. What was the other one, Uma from Uthrect?"
"Ursula. She had amazing hair." Plus the confidence to wear a black leather corset at 11am on a meeting, where a certain bail-bondsperson was cramming in her Bug, waiting for her. Caught like a fish, ironically.
"I'm glad they skew toward the amusing side, and not the dangerous," he says softly.
"Me too." She meets his eyes in understanding, she accepts his concern and his belief that she could handle it.
The moment is broken when the notification for takeout beeps.
"I see you waited for me to do the cleaning," he remarks, his eyebrows doing their petulant dance.
"I can't handle another lecture on specialized sanitizer products. Plus, it's more fun to do it together," she says with a smirk reserved for mild bullshitting. They often tackle cleaning on Sunday. Or go to the farmer's market, Killian has a guy specifically for cherry tomatoes. Dork.
"How was your fancy conference? Schmoozed and boozed? Dazzled the ladies? Did you impress someone with your lecture so much they offered you a position in Paris, daily baked goods included?" she quips, settling further on the couch.
"Keep this up, and you're not getting the extra special airport chocolate. Yes, nuts and berries, woman," he teases her before delving into a bit about the lectures and the activities of the conference. "But seeing these people day and night is taxing."
"Ugh," she feigns exasperation. "They pay you to travel to a beautiful city, talk ad nauseum about your passion to interested parties, and have fancy dinners after. Tell me again why you're happy to be back?"
He grins. "No loud roommates there."
"I'm not loud!" she protests, loudly.
"Come with me next time," he suggests, leaning forward, these toned biceps catching her eyes. She huffs, it's his propensity to invite everyone he meets to things. "I'm serious. We each get one guest, and you could do sightseeing in the morning, or just lounge around the hotel room and pool. Then, when I finish, we can explore the nightlife—or the pathetic lack of."
"We'll get sick of each other. We are spending a lot of time together as it is."
"I know," he agrees, pouting. And then –that dazzling smile. "It's the best."
His boyish grin sends tingles to her heart, reaching into the crevices formed by seismic changes, raw and charred. He fills them with syrupy beads of affection, soothing her wounds with his gentle presence.
His simple acknowledgement of enjoying spending time with her awakens her dormant crush from its protective cocoon. As a rule, she doesn't fuck where she eats, and given her history, she is most likely to fuck up. This isn't When Harry Met Sally; this is adulthood, with a common social circle and rent on the line. She can't pretend to be the white-picket fence woman, while Killian hopes for something in that vein. He hopes, and she doesn't dare to.
"Black Sails?" She pulls herself out of the rabbit hole of dangerous emotions. A movie is safe. "I waited to watch the latest episode together."
"I am honored. And choose to believe it was self control and not you being busy."
"Take the win, Jones."
They settle in, her favorite blanket, pink fuzzy one with little swans, draped over their legs.
He sleeps halfway through, exhausted and brain heavy with all the new science he acquired. She finishes the episode, Anne Bonny laying some sort of trap she'll find out next week. , she gets ready for bed, before returning to the sleeping Irishman.
"Don't sleep here," she rouses him gently. "Go to your bed; a man of your age shouldn't be sleeping on deflated sofas." She pulls at his shoulder, but he doesn't budge.
"I'm younger than you," he mumbles without opening his eyes.
"Have you told your knees?"
"Five more minutes, you blonde tyrant," he murmurs, sinking deeper into the cushions. She tugs at him, but his fingers close around her wrist, and with deceptive strength, he pulls her down. She lands next to him, and he wraps his arms around her, pulling her close. He hums a low sigh of contentment as her head finds its place on his chest. One wouldn't expect Killian to be so cuddly, but he exudes a spice-scented warmth that makes her linger in his embrace after movie nights.
She's helpless, really. The soft flannel under her cheek moves with every rhythmic inhale.
His hand is warm on her waist, splayed instinctively. She could purr. When she cranes her neck to check if he's falling asleep, her forehead brushes his chin and—
—he's not asleep. At all.
His eyes are on her face, and he must see all the laughably suppressed affection she holds in the curve of her lips, because he leans in to taste it.
She doesn't have time to think. His lips are on hers, soft yet insistent. His other hand slips to the back of her neck, pulling her closer, and she opens her mouth to him. He groans, a deep, resonant sound muffled by their kiss. He tastes of sparkling drink, and before she knows it, she's gripping the collar of his flannel as if she could possibly draw him any closer.
It's so easy to fall. His fingers trace her shoulder, and she wants more, she wants—
She pushes him back. He doesn't resist, always following her pace. There's an air of surprise in his parted lips, the remnants of passion still lingering in his rumpled shirt. He cocks his head to see her. Whatever he sees—finality, fear—it makes him wince.
She won't ruin this perfect thing they have by screwing him drunk on the couch of the house they share. These things only end in pain, and she's had enough for a lifetime.
It's the selfless thing to do, but the hurt in his eyes makes it feel selfish.
"Emma," he says, but she scrambles to her room.
They never speak of it again.
Present Day
After years of meticulously avoiding her feelings with only a single slip-up of the couch makeout variety, Emma won't stifle them anymore. Killian practically dragged them out and forced them beneath a microscope like the ones in his lab. The worst part is, he probably had no idea he'd done it because Emma is conducting the examination alone.
She floors the pedal of her Bug, racing to get home before she completely loses her nerve. A meltdown on the road isn't an option, especially in a car that's one cheap service away from becoming a smoking wreck.
Besides, she can't die now, guts splattered on a stop sign, sans her red leather jacket, unloved.
She honks.
"Move it, grandma!" she yells to the monstrously big truck in front of her. "Some of us have confessions to make!"
She takes the steps two at a time, giving herself no time to panic further until she reaches the front door, when it swings open.
"Emma" is said in a perfect accent dripping out these full lips and Emma's carefully planned speech dies in her throat.
She swallows. "Belle." The other woman's smile deepens, revealing dimples framing her mouth. "Where are you going?" she manages to leave the now that I'm about to confess my undying love to your boyfriend part unsaid.
"Home," she gestures at her minimal but perfectly packed luggage. Moving or not, she's dressed in a tweed minidress with sky-high vinyl heels, striking the perfect balance of bookish and cultured. "The pipes are fixed, sorry it took longer than anticipated. But you've both been stellar roommates. Maybe there's a surprise to thank you," she leans over her maroon suitcase, whispering, "of the cupcake variety."
Emma takes an embarrassingly long time to process this. She should exhale in relief, if not for the guilt of the things she left unsaid. Maybe if Belle stayed more, Emma would be forced to keep a lid on her feelings, though this train has left the station and honked at slow drivers. Guilt, because she had also been new to town years ago, coming with nothing and having people effortlessly embrace her, thorns and all. Killian's words hit her chest, she should have offered friendship. He–
"Where's Killian?" She curses her crassness inwardly.
"Weekend seminar, he'll be back Sunday evening." That means Emma has two days to get her mind straight, or, quite possibly, freak out some more. "He left a note."
Of course he did, with his anal tendencies to use the fridge notepad for calendar purposes.
"Didn't see it." She's been studiously avoiding the kitchen area altogether. "Don't you wanna wait for him?"
She needs to shut her mouth, Belle's sunny face is making her play against herself.
"I missed my shower," she confesses sneakily. Curls like hers can't be maintained in Emma's small unequipped bathroom. "I'll see him around" she adds with a hint of purpose.
"Great." Emma puts her hands on her jean pockets awkwardly.
Belle pulls the strap of her oversized bag, and suddenly, Emma feels like the worst person.
"Hey, I haven't been the most welcoming. Or social. it's not you-"
"I know," the other woman interrupts with surprising kindness. "Killian said it takes time for you to warm up to people."
"It's the polite way of saying I have the emotional maturity of these first-graders you teach."
"Good thing I'm an amazing teacher." The easy confidence and warmth in Belle's voice bring a smile to Emma's face. She realizes she should have given Belle a chance, despite her own tangled feelings. "Hey, I don't expect us to be instant besties after barging into your home. But if you want to hang out, come to the opening of the bookstore I organized. I left Killian your invite. It's a feminist initiative with a special interest in fairytales. Kickass ladies and an open bar."
She can't help but smile, a genuine exhale of relief. "Sold."
"It's next Friday. You two better make up before then," she says as she goes down the stairs and off the gate, leaving Emma newly dumbfounded.
The apartment is totally empty, a rare sight. Haunting. She's greeted by the sound of silence and red velvet cupcakes on the cleaned-up counter, because, as established, Belle is the best.
She gets drunk; this is how she's spending her Saturday night. She picks a new-ish romantic movie to subdue her pain. Fresh tears are in order—Bridget Jones and her forgotten diary won't cut it this time.
The Charlize Theron-led Long Shot isn't helping either; they made it work while she became the damn president. It may as well be science fiction.
She blows a goodnight kiss to her battered laptop, then stumbles towards her room. In a move that can only be described as desperate, she passes her door and goes straight to Killian's. Taking in the annoyingly tidy space, she creates a small mess with her discarded clothes and cocoons herself in his bed.
The first thing she registers is something wet touching her cheek. The second, a weight near her legs.
Her eyes fly open, and she instantly wishes it was a dream. She shuts them again, but that only brings the alcohol-induced haze to the forefront of her senses.
"You're drooling on my pillow."
If she pulls the blanket over her head, who's to say she can't disappear from under it? Certainly worth a shot.
She tries to do just that, but he blocks easily, pulling the comforter down to her shoulders.
"You're at the conference," she croaks, ignoring the situation.
"Am I now? Is my presentation good, cause I think it put you to sleep." He looks fresh, perched on her –his– bed, the blue t-shirt snug around his shoulders. She, on the other hand, must look exactly how she feels; moderately hungover, embarrassed as hell, sporting a pillow crease and, as she discovers in horror, a drool stain on her cheek.
"What are you doing here?" She sits up, discretely rubbing the smudge off her face.
"In my room?" She only manages half an eyeroll. "I left after the compulsory attendance. I can't take a full day of bioinformatics, these people are AI-alien-hybrids. And you can't be trusted with Sunday cleaning. So I left early." She moves to get up but he stops with two fingers on her elbow. "Now you answer."
It's unfair, really. It's not only that his eyes are the shade of blue old Disney reserved to depict magic with, framed by an inverse hallo of thick eyelashes. Nor that his stubble is barely covering the sharp angles of his jaw, a tone lighter than his jet-black hair. She's not even mad he smells clean after hours on the train. It's the pull he has on her, that has her chasing the mere leftover warmth on his bed.
"Your sheets are softer," she whispers.
He cranes his neck, and his look conveys both I know and cut the bullshit.
"I missed you."
He searches her eyes. "Emma, I've been right here all this time."
The accusation slices the air between them; I tried last year and you ran away .
"I know, I'm sorry, I fucked this up. I should have told you, all this time. But you're too important to me I didn't want to fuck it up. Ha ," she laughs bitterly, as the irony hits. "And then you are making eggs for Belle and she's actually pretty awesome, in a way that makes me wanna punch you if not for understanding you completely. Now I'm the asshole who wants to tell you how I feel about you, even if you have a girlfriend."
Killian is silent.
"How do you feel about me?"
She huffs. "I love you. So much I sleep in your bed to feel the remnants of your warmth. So much I spend my one day-off cleaning. I know I'm too late, but I couldn't– "
He looks at her like he can't see anything else—like, if he tried to shift his gaze even a half inch to the right to stare at the brick, it physically wouldn't work.
"You're bloody impossible," he puts a hand around her neck pulls her for a–
"No." She stops him with a hand on his chest. "Belle," she explains. "I'm not that person." Not the person who'd kiss a taken man, some lines if crossed are hard to regain yourself. She's no saint, she is confessing to him, but she won't let it progress until he makes his choice.
He huffs in response, tongue darting out to his frustratingly pink lips. "If you had exchanged more than two words with us, you'd know we decided to just stay friends."
"What. When?" She's not sleepy anymore to forget such things. Her mind traces over the instances she'd seen them together and they seemed–
Fine. Friendly.
"Two weeks ago. A few days after you met her. She was in a bad place after a breakup and soon after we both realized she needed a friend more than a boyfriend." He cups her face, and without seeing his eyes she knows he's looking at the curve of her nose. Dork. "Especially one who wouldn't stop talking about his infuriating roommate."
"You bastard!" She punches his hand meekly, as her chest fills with perilous hope.
"Oy!" He catches her hand and laces their fingers together. "I would have gladly told you, if you didn't avoid me like syphilis."
"Ew." She squints but immediately mellows. "So you promise you and Belle, you've over, a thousand percent."
He nods. "We were never even properly together. I slept on the floor for god's sake. And you know why?"
She squeezes his fingers, feeling the craic ring he keeps on his index. "Cause you wanna prove you're not an old man trapped in a younger man's–"
He snorts and pulls her hand, pressing a kiss between the second and third knuckle. That special bit of skin, as if connected to her heart.
"Because," he says, fighting a grin that spreads out his face, "I am unfathomably, ridiculously in love with you and have been for bloody years."
There's a sob lodged in her throat, or maybe it's a scream. Her compact reality crumbles under his confession, everything she hoped for lies in his clear blue eyes. It's unfathomable, and a tad unreal, how easy she exhales and he's still in front of her, looking at her as if she's a sunset. Drinking in the colors of the sunset before they dissolve in the sea.
She searches her heart, and finds the one clear thing.
"I love you," she says, stupidly. She wishes she had his posh vocabulary, to express what she knows in her drumming, slow-witted heart. But he sees through it.
"I'm glad we established that," and he captures her lips in a kiss, tasting hotel toothpaste and dreams. The sensation isn't unfamiliar; it carries the shadow of their only other kiss, a memory stitched onto her lips, coloring their every interaction with a tinge of promise.
She moves with him, surrendering to the sensation. One of his thumbs stroking the top of her right ear, always touching her. She curses herself for staying away, for building walls that keep enemies out, but also halt love. Killian was always there, throwing axes and rocks and screaming to be let in.
"You're impossible," he repeats between her lips. She's been called that before, in accusation; impossible to love, to put up with. But there's only fondness in his voice, and maybe a challenge.
They spend the rest of the morning in bed, Killian showering her with conference swag and her favorite candy, which he complains is too sweet until he tastes it on her lips. He breaks their long-standing Sunday cleaning tradition, opting to stay in bed instead. "I'd rather stay here, tasting something even sweeter," he murmurs into her neck.
"I could live here." Killian murmurs as they take it all in.
When Belle mentioned the opening of the bookstore, she failed to convey the magnitude. Shelves of exposed wood, shaped like tree branches, hug the walls of the store, leading to a garden where the most comfortable chairs and swings are set up for reading. Twinkling lights in the shape of wings add to the folklore theme, while a coffee maker dispenses the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and cinnamon, captivating patrons absorbed in books.
People mingle, some authors lounge around the cozy space, discussing their writing, fairytales, and peculiar hobbies with readers. Champagne is voted down in favor of mulled wine – 'tis the season – and Belle has had so many toasts in her honor, her cheeks are already flushed. People are constantly stealing her for conversations, and she glows while talking about what she loved: books and friends, preferably in one place.
Emma owes her a conversation, if not for Killian then for her coldness towards her, but she wouldn't burden her hopefully future friend on her special day. She would buy a pile of books to support the collective and invite her for pancakes at Granny's.
"I would offer to pick you up Sunday, but these croissants aren't gonna eat themselves."
"What an image," he chuckles, snaking his arm around her and peering at her chosen book, a leather-bound tome with a black and gold cover. "Dark Swan? A little too on the nose?"
"Hey! The heroine slays the lake dragon and… I wanna say she brings down the monarchy and establishes a more fair tax system in the enchanted forest?" The bookstore specializes in stories inspired by fairytales, giving them a twisted, more adult turn.
"A worthy pursuit, of course." He skims the spines on his eye level, tracing one with his fingers; appreciating the calligraphy. They've spent all their time together these days, seeing how their bodies fit and challenge each other, and this is their first outing as a couple; a couple of dorks who just removed their head out of their ass. Killian is in his element, among books and showered by her teasing. "Does it say anything about a dashing pirate swiping her off her feet?"
"She's more into naval officers, sweet and proper."
She buries her laugh in the book and in so misses his abrupt turn and the hot palm on her ribs, cornering her between the shelves and his body. He smirks, pink tongue darting between his lips; unhurried, sly.
"Liar," his breath skims her ear before she blindly puts the book down and pulls him by the lapels in a searing kiss.
"Ruby will be so smug," she says way later, when they're on the couch for this new, more romantic version of their movie night. There's fondness in her voice, threatening to make it crack.
"As she should," Killian says, utterly surprised to hear Ruby's take. "Who do you think called me to leave the conference early?"
"That meddling f–"
"–Friend. She said it was a matter of 'love or death' and I, my beautiful Swan, agree."
"Me too, you dramatic dork. I love you." Fondness dissolves in her heart like warm honey. She buries her head in Killian's chest, smelling of books, freshly washed flannel and hope. Warmth cascades over her, lighting the parts of her that she had kept locked. Like blowing the dust off a piano, letting music fill the air. "She'll demand our firstborn be named after her," she sniffs, a tear fighting its way out of her eye, mascara be damned.
Killian laughs, the sound bubbling in deep his chest and pulls her closer, pressing a kiss on her hair.