SUMMARY: Emma has been in love with Killian for a long time, but it takes a pandemic and eighteen hours of panic when he’s not answering his phone for her to realise it. Now they’re quarantined together and sharing a bed and she needs him to know how she feels. If only she could find a way to tell him.
Killian has been in love with Emma for as long as he’s known her, but he knows the quickest way to send her running would be to tell her how he feels. Now he’s waking up every morning with her in his arms and all he wants is for this to be his life forever. If only he could find a way to tell her.
SO here it is, the AND THEY WERE QUARANTINED fic. I realise this is a sensitive subject for some people, so please do be forewarned that there is some discussion of the coronavirus here, though it is primarily a soft and fluffy idiots-in-love story with much emoting and sharing of beds and very little angst. If you choose to read it I hope it brightens your day and helps get you thorough these challenging times.
Copious love to @ohmightydevviepuu for stopping me from banging my head against the wall ❤️❤️❤️
Rating: a soft M
Words: 4.7k
Killian pulled up in front of the tall brick building, slipping neatly into a parking spot he could barely believe he was lucky enough to find. Normally he had to park several blocks away from Emma’s place—his old place—and drag his loaded satchel or his groceries or now his suitcase through the streets of the neighbourhood trying not to feel self-conscious as curtains twitched in the windows as he passed.
He whistled a little tune as he took his suitcase out of the trunk, his heart racing in anticipation of seeing Emma again. It had been far too long. Just over a year ago he’d moved to Chicago for a job opportunity far too good to turn down, and since then he’d only managed to see her twice. The last time was Christmas, when they’d both been so busy with the rest of their friends and their family obligations that they’d barely had an hour together to catch up.
Killian wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than it had been before, when they’d lived across the hall and had seen each other every day, spending most evenings at one or the other of their apartments cooking together and watching TV. As much as he missed just hanging out with Emma—as much as he missed her—he didn’t miss the ache of longing that had pretty much permanently taken up residence just below his heart. It was less acute in Chicago, or maybe it was just different—an ache born more of missing than of wishing—wishing for things he knew could never be his.
He dragged his suitcase up the steps to her door and rang the bell. It swung open immediately and he barely had time to catch a glimpse of Emma’s pale face before she was in his arms, her own wrapping tightly around his neck as she buried her face in his shoulder.
“Oh my God, Killian,” she whispered. “I was so worried.”
“What?” His arms had come around her automatically and now his hand stroked her back soothingly as she began to tremble. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” she snapped, pulling away and punching him in the arm. “What’s wrong? Haven’t you been watching the news? Why aren’t you answering your damn phone?”
“I’ve been driving for the past eighteen hours!” he protested, rubbing his arm. “You know I always turn my phone off in the car. Safety—”
“Don’t you dare say ‘safety first,’” she hissed. “Not when I’ve spent the past eighteen hours wondering if you were dead!”
“Why would you wonder that?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Look, would you come inside?” She grabbed his arm—the one she’d punched—and pulled him into the apartment. He barely had time to snag his suitcase and haul it in behind him before she’d slammed the door and locked it.
“Go wash your hands,” she said. “I’ll be in the living room. Leave that!” She scowled as he reached for the suitcase handle again. “We’ll disinfect it later.”
“Hands, Killian. Living room.” She turned on her heel and stalked away.
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